Learning Curve

     Scout and King were a pair of German shepherds who were still maturing when we met.  I'd guess they were about a year and one-half old.  I had met and worked with a third shepherd in this family,
but he passed on during the couple of years I was employed with them.
     Shepherds are strongly opinionated and when they keep secrets from the pet sitter, all heck can break loose.  These pups were mischief with a capital M! There would be evidence of SOME BODY'S bad habits, but I couldn't discover who to blame.  Of course, the antics would occur during the times I was NOT there.
     Clean up was constant and because they were gated in the kitchen overnight, any mess would belong equally to both dogs. They took reprimands in stride and were proud that I had stopped to notice their efforts.  Mostly outside habits greeted my arrival. Not that I was delayed in my morning schedule, they just decided to un-train themselves in my absence.
     They loved to get into the kitchen cabinetry and upend the silverware drawer. Perhaps they liked the sound of cascading spoons onto the tile floor.
      Equally entertaining, apparently, was the bottom drawer of dish towels.  The game of tug of war kept them busy sometime in the dead of night.
      After multiple text messages to the homeowners, it was suggested that I buy a camera, have it installed and report back.  Six weeks was a huge chunk of time to trust the care of their dogs to a virtual stranger.  I wasn't exactly a stranger, but not living on the property, gave me a decided disadvantage.
      I had the equipment set up, learned to access the video through their home computer and spent the several weeks watching the best YouTube ever!
     Of course, there was the alpha male and after just one video clip, I deduced it was Scout. He was just bored, could get out of his kennel, tug the toggle on King's kennel and busy himself with a follow the leader - let's get into trouble - game that lasted ALL NIGHT LONG.
     How they avoided the relatively no brainer escape over the baby gate, I'll never know. I mean, if I could straddle it and I'm only five ft. four in. -  a fifty-pound dog could easily hurdle it, but they stayed in the kitchen. It was nearer to whatever smelled so good behind the closed refrigerator door.
      Once a daughter joined the family, Scout decided her baby things were his baby things. His owners were much too trusting. They would leave baby rattles and pacifiers on the kitchen counter.
They would leave the diaper genie on the floor in a bathroom and pack up the car, leaving the tempting contents readily available.  I know parents of a newborn are never in their right mind, and this couple hadn't even accomplished puppy training or perhaps they THOUGHT they had.
     "My" two handsome dogs, had the upper paw. I knew it and I gave in. I am a quick study and realized that I'd never win an argument let alone succeed with basic training.  Even if I had,
there was no guarantee that the owners would have followed through.
      On our walks, I know ONE of us got more exercise than the other two. I developed matching biceps over the six-week job. We seemed to attract more than our share of attention and the additional
well-meaning compliments caused interruption to our routine.  It never failed that within five minutes of our leaving the house, someone would come out just to say hello.  That greeting caused the dogs to forget any sense of order and they would wiggle over to the person. I would have to wiggle over as well. Can you imagine three jello cubes sliding down a cookie sheet? Well, that would be us. King would start over and his leash would demand I follow him which in turn pulled Scout to a new direction. Once the greeting committee retreated, we would reassemble and begin again. A thirty-minute walk became fifty minutes of stop and go. I tried to be gracious, "parking" the pair
every few minutes to chat with a total stranger. I began to keep my business cards in a pocket for a
quick retreat. I didn't work. That maneuver extended the conversation. The delay made the dogs anxious and they would head back to the middle of the street, pulling me between them as I added a hasty, "I'll be speaking with youSOOOOOooooon," with my voice trailing behind me.
      Depending on the time of the afternoon, we would pass a corner lot with an invisible fence and a very visible and audible small white terrier. She would yap, yap and taunt the boys, running the perimeter of her yard.  We got even just once. We stood at the "fence line" and barked back.  I had a few choice words to add.  She backed up and shaking her head retreated to the safety of the front porch.
     She had a full day to consider her attitude and the very next day, as we rounded the corner, she just sat on the porch and let us pass. I don't know what the dogs told her the previous day, but I praised them, "good boys", patted their heads and we kept to our path.
     Throughout my time caring for King and Scout,  nothing changed, the pranks and attention seeking activities continued. As the baby grew from pacifiers into teething rings,  I noticed an increase in dog toys. Jealousy is common in a home with babies and pets. It can be comical, it can cause concern.  Thankfully, I was never tasked with babysitting for this family. I belonged to the dogs.
      The month and one half I spent with them taught me immeasurable patience. Patience is the foundation of empathy which is the basis for compassion - and it's all good when shared with
two rambunctious German shepherds.
   
   

Yours and Mine

 There have been three exceptions to my pet sitting AT YOUR HOME rule. Over the ears and because of the relationships I had with the pet owners, their dogs stayed with me and my dogs and my cats and my children...
     Ellie Mae was a Bichon Frise, owned by a co-worker.  I don't remember the circumstances other than my friend had NEVER had a pet sitter and didn't feel comfortable with scheduled daily visits. I can not recall how many dogs I had at the time, but there were no issues. The meet and greet of the woman and Ellie Mae went smoothly. My dogs are always expecting the pack to grow, so introducing just one relatively well behaved dog to them didn't cause any aggressive behavior or feelings of jealousy.
     My reputation for not putting up with ANYTHING preceded me as I was a secretary in a middle school Attendance office. My job was to interview the students needing to go to the principal's office.  While they squirmed at my desk, I typed the discipline referrals or suspension letters which would be hand delivered to parents or guardians that same day. I had a wonderful pair of eyeglasses, which when slid halfway down my nose, gave me the appearance of The Terminator. Kids just didn't like me.
      Dogs, on the other hand, loved me and took it for granted that when the glasses slid, they needed to correct whatever behavior had preceded my glare.  Once in a while, that glare would be accompanied by my outside voice.  Enough said.
      In my house and I'm fairly certain that in yours, there are designated rooms for meal time.  The kitchen is not always the best place to feed a pack. When you have dogs that gulp their food and dogs that do not, you are inviting turf wars. I was always well aware of my dog's personalities, their eating habits, and territories. When having a guest animal in, I would always default feeding them in a bathroom behind a closed door, with me in it. My dogs would eat when the guest was fed and outside in the yard.
      Phoenix, a black and white coated spaniel, came to stay just once. The owners were having remodeling done while they vacationed.  Their cat stayed home and I traveled to visit her daily.
She was pent up in the master suite and unhappy, I'm guessing by the frantic mews which greeted
my arrivals.
     The dog was typical spaniel, needing huge chunks of time and exercise which I could not
accommodate. There was no way I would take her walking and bring the herd as well. So, no one went walking. This interruption to her routine gave her an excuse to teach my dogs how to jump over the sofa in route to see who was passing the house on the sidewalk. She could hurdle the chunky piece of furniture without a second thought about it.  My dogs, on the other hand, completed the maneuver in stages, especially the cairns.  Funny, it was always a one way kind of game. Never did I observe any of them reverse the effort, clearing the back first and land squarely on either of the seat cushions!
     Phoenix wanted to sleep with me. I think she did a couple of nights as evidenced by the flattened warm spaniel sized divots in the bedding. She never did thank me.
     Dallas who is a Yorkie-Poo began having sleepovers a couple of years ago. I used to sleep over at her house, but driving half hour in morning congestion to get back to my house to care for everyone here became a headache. So, I asked her owner if she could stay here. It has worked out well and as she is quite senior, my husband's honey-do list is getting shorter as he has installed motion detecting flood lamps in the yard for her low vision challenges. He also clears the lawn of debris, especially the pine cones which are quite painful to old dog paws.
     She sleeps on our king size bed, always at the precarious far edge, which causes both of us to sleep with one eye opened. Dallas assumes she can jump down on her own. The last time she did that at her house, she had a back leg fracture and shortly after that mishap, she was back here for a week. Her splint had to be waterproofed before she could use the yard.  It's wonderful that our newspaper's plastic sleeve was just Dallas splint size. All I needed to do was to trim the length so that it would cover foot to hip joint, tie with a pretty pink ribbon and she was good to explore the wet grass at first light.
     I have her in my care frequently, sometimes just for a playdate when her owner has exceedingly long days at work. I think her mental health benefits, having a change of scenery and plenty of playmates to keep her active. As a matter of fact, she's here now, on guard duty at my front glass storm door. Her companions are napping, scattered about on chairs, rugs, and under my makeshift card table work station.
      I am thankful that my dogs have the generosity of heart. There is definitely a lesson to be learned
from observing how they treat every guest with respect. There's no discrimination. Everyone is equal. Maybe if people were just more like their dogs.....
 

Seeing Double

This is a personal story. The animals are mine. The memories are mine.

The process of getting through it is a personal journey - grief. Some would rather not experience the devastation and near-death of their soul through the loss of a loved one. Some are afraid and some, like me, understand the need to go there, where it's agonizing to awaken each day realizing we really are alone. Or are we?

Notice that I have chosen "alone" rather than "lonely", for my experience during the grieving process is that I am alone with my memories. I am alone with my loss, it's not possible to have a shared experience because the relationship was exclusive; one on one, me with her and me with him. For me, the process repeats every year when one of my pets dies. I didn't plan for them to all pass within such a short window of time. I was not prepared to begin the final countdown so frequently. .preparation for the death of a companion is as much a part of the grieving as the physical final breath. Whether assisted or natural, the loss is permanent.

Loss consumes me; my five senses atrophy and my memories do not provide sustenance. I am not the same woman, I am less. I exist as a lesser being for part of me vanished when he or she died. Eventually, I believe that I will cease to exist. I won't recognize my reflection. It is a frightening eventuality.

It happened again, just months ago and it is most likely an approaching reality before the year ends.  So the total losses this year will be two. One year it was four. I didn't think I could recover. I'm no better at getting through now even though there have been a dozen dress rehearsals in recent years.

There is something strong and resilient within me and I am grateful. I do not choose to seek out this refuge from the storm. I can't share it. I cannot explain why it happens, but I can share that it sustains and nourishes my soul - constantly. I open my heart. I ask for possibilities and expect "yes" from the universal voices. Yesterday, "yes" came twice. "Yes" came as a pair. I am bringing two home from the animal shelter.

I didn't know I was going to that place; wasn't on my schedule. Following a morning Tai Chi class, we were going to junk around town.  My neighbor and I had been attending a three day per week course through the continuing education division of the state college. I always drove as she preferred it and she always bought lunch as I preferred it.  We've recently reconnected, strange really, because she lives right next door. We see each other every day, but my life has been void of social entanglements for man years in favor of raising two kids and community volunteer opportunities. I'm just not that into neighborhood gossip and we don't have many shared interests. Maybe that will change, it's up to me.

The animal shelter wasn't EXACTLY on the way home, but she's also a pet owner and I just chanced the opportunity to do something nice for someone. Thought I would leave a donation or maybe give a couple of the dogs a well-deserved bath.

That's how it started with Sam, my companion of seventeen years. Sam is gone now and I'm down to two. Unrelated - one with bone cancer and allergic to everything that blooms here. The other is aging gracefully with a temperament matching her breed description. Both were rescues. At the time they joined the herd, there were probably three or four other dogs and a couple of cats already comfortable and very much in charge of my house.

We arrived at the shelter and my neighbor didn't want to go in. Her option was to wait in the car and I said I would be awhile. She followed me through the door marked "adoptions", and down the hall to the kennels. Pretty soon, she was way ahead of me, on the way back down the aisle ready to go.  "I want to visit with this one," I said. She sighed. We went back through the main building and I signed in with my name and name of the canine inmates. You may feel that description harsh, but what else would you call a life in a cage. Within minutes we were in a small room with a single curtained window concrete floors, a locked cabinet, and three orange plastic chairs with chrome legs. On top the cabinet was a jar of varied doggie treats and a basket of squeaky toys was on the floor opposite the row of chairs.

In came the inmate, a young female Labrador. She was bouncy and bounded repeatedly high enough to clear the top of the door. Not a good match. I didn't want to visit any other and we got ready to leave and then...

I noticed a bulletin board with photos and "captured or surrendered" dates on them; all of lap size breeds. I looked behind me to discover a room with rows on top of rows of cages. The diminutive inmates noticed me noticing them and began conversations all at once.  The iron swing gate at the door of this room was guarded by a much larger pit bull named "Ranger." He was not ready for adoption yet as he was recovering from heartworm. He was on the urgent list.

I picked two, stranded my friend in the hallway and went to inquire about them. Dachshunds and most likely siblings as they were strays brought in by animal control. The date of capture was two weeks earlier. Maybe they weren't available. My heart sank. I asked anyway.  My friend was right where I had abandoned her.  Taking her by an elbow, I led her into that same room with three orange plastic chairs and we sat. She

didn't utter a syllable.  

I knew we would be waiting a couple of minutes because a quick criminal background check was in progress. If I wanted to adopt one, additional screening would follow. They will not adopt out any animal to a person who has relinquished one and their records go back to 1957.

In came one. "Yes." In came the other. It was another "yes". 

Barbara and I each held them. I trusted her opinion. The senior adoption counselor came in and asked if I wanted to visit with any other.  I had made up my mind and with my friend's blessing, and most probably an accompanying sign of the cross, I knew the next step would be having my husband meet them.

I didn't want to leave because it was possible someone else could come in and adopt them during the time I drove home, delivered my neighbor safely to her front door, run in to get my husband (who had to change out of his at home wardrobe) and return. There were many more details including apologizing to my two senior dogs that they had to get into the car and meet the dachshund pair. 

The ending of this tale is written in the voice of my Weimaraner, Abbey in "Through the Eyes of Love" in A Kiss on the Nose and yes, it has a happy ending. . .

In and Out

     Heading to the home of a new client is always exciting.  I play out all the possible scenarios in my head while driving.  This time I had been told, "...and the Chihuahua does NOT stay outside". Okay,
I wondered why not? Was there a Chihuahua-sized hole in the fence?  Birds of prey? Did it have an allergy to grass? Had an alligator been reported? Of course, I had not proposed the list of burning questions during the phone interview. Thought it best to leave my curiosity in the car.
     Nice home, high-end furnishings. Three dogs - two terriers and the Chihuahua - the very smallest variety Chihuahua. The Terriers were male. The one with glitter nail polish, a Swarovski crystal collar and a bow in her hair would be the girl. The client was equally decked out at the interview.  Who wears heels in the house? That would be the Mrs.
     A screened porch with doggie door extended beyond the main room. There were about a half dozen steps down to the neatly manicured lawn where an old plastic swimming pool kept company with an equally old sago palm. Two ratty looking terriers greeted me; one with a neon pink tennis ball. I stooped to initiate play and the other one retreated back into the covered porch. Open feeding
dog dishes and a few aluminum water bowls were neatly arranged on one side. Opposite from them were dog beds and blankets, which in my opinion would be the first items to the washer.
     Back inside the interview continued until she said: "Oh, and my son will be here."  "Son?"
Yes, he's thirteen and I decided that he needs to stay in school. So, he won't be traveling with me," she said in a firm tone which was his cue to enter the room. "Oh great," I thought, now I am a baby sitter to a teenage boy. This should go over well."
    What did she need with a dog sitter? So, I inquired. The reply was that he was not good with dogs.  He would take care of himself. I didn't need to do anything. The man-child returned to the shadows and the interview progressed until I was given the security code. "And, by the way, the Chihuahua has a weekly grooming appointment. Here is the address and I will reimburse, so make sure you leave me a detailed invoice," were her last words and she escorted me to the front door with her precious little one in her arms.
    I was muttering, "I am definitely going to have to raise my rates." I headed back to my life and ticked off the calendar days until my new job. This daily schedule would take more effort than most as my time with the dogs would be divided into a few categories. Feeding - hers and theirs; playtime - hers and theirs. Walks - hers. Grooming - hers. Oh, and did I mention medications? Well - theirs.
I didn't find the routine too difficult. I've VERY detail oriented so I organized everything into a visual
accounting: using columns and hash marks every time I accomplished one of the scheduled activities.
     It came time for little miss's grooming and I drove her there where I was greeted by name and told to come back in two hours?  What?  How much time could a four pound practically hairless dog
need? Apparently, I'm no expert. She'd had this schedule for quite a while. I left, went about my day and reappeared at the salon at the suggested time. There she was, new nail polish color and coordinating bow. The rest of her looked exactly the same as when I dropped her off.
    The next day was Saturday and I didn't know what to expect. Was the boy home? Did he have friends over?  I put on my "Mom" hat, just in case. Walking in and calling her name expecting she would trot out from the master bedroom, I headed out to the screened room to greet the boys. They were eager for some attention and scooted out to the yard. I followed them, but sat on the stairs
and watched them in a game of tag and tumble. Happy and hungry, they bolted right past me and plunged their muzzles halfway down into the overflowing dog dishes.
     Returning back into the main room, the little dog was nowhere; not at the placemat on the kitchen floor, not on the leather sofa, not snuggled down into the embroidered duvet cover. I went upstairs.
That was not an easy accomplishment. The homeowner had replaced the stair runner with travertine tiles and they were slippery underneath my somewhat moist tennis shoe soles.
     Knocking on the child's door, I heard nothing. I opened it. There they were both not looking forward to getting out of bed. The dog jumped down, the boy mumbled and rolled over. I closed the door and carried her downstairs to breakfast. She wanted to go to the back yard and not seeing the harm in it, I accompanied her through the sliding glass door and stayed outside with all three of them.
     Letting her back in, I noticed muddy paws and knew I would have to give her a bath. But where?
Surely not in a bathtub. Surely not in the sink. Well, maybe in the dishpan IN the sink and that's what happened. It took me all of one minute to clean her paws. It took her all of thirty seconds to dry.
When I say that she could swim in the dishpan, I'm not exaggerating!
     We went on our morning walk. I felt silly following a hamster-sized dog up the street, but because I was paid to do it, I did.
      My employment with them lasted until the Misses inquired if I could schedule my time as her dog's chauffeur. I said yes and priced the transportation around forty dollars per day. She declined.
I don't appreciate pedigree. I don't think it should matter. Every soul deserves respect and that's the in and out of it!

When the Heart Speaks

     I had a client with multiple four-legged companions which was not unusual in and of itself. One of her dogs had extrasensory perception when it came to her housemates and one very special friend.
       I seem to remember names as I can visualize the personalized food bowls which would be
placed specifically about the kitchen floor at meal times. Mya, Jack, and Gizmo were the names given their dogs and Harley and Annabelle were the cats.
     Not that all five animals weren't remarkable but this tale is dedicated to Mya.
     She was black, big boned, stubborn, long-haired with eyes that pierced the air and the soul. I thought at first introduction, that she might be a wolf hybrid. I don't remember if I asked about it. She really didn't look like a wolf to me but her body language told a different story. She was constantly on the prowl with her head down. Her owner did tell me that when she was on the scent, I might as well just follow as best I could.  If I couldn't keep the pace, it would be all right. She always stayed within an earshot! Didn't sit much. Didn't obey much. It wasn't that the other animals avoided her, she just was a loner among the pack.
     Walking all three became a challenge and I elicited the help of my daughter to join me at the house after dinner.  Managing Mya took considerable effort and her breakaway collar caused panic a couple of times. Thankfully, she didn't go far.  In the beginning, it was a matter of trust. It was a matter of listening to her; not woman to dog, but spirit to spirit.  I would give my daughter two to keep her balanced, one on each side.  Jack had a "gentle leader" harness and the little one was rather well behaved. I would walk with Mya.
     They lived in an older part of the city and you could tell that the land had been parceled off
acre by acre from farmers and ranchers. There were no city blocks, hardly any sidewalks or street lights on the far east side of the neighborhood. Farmhouses with rickety wooden roofs and falling down porches were dimly lit by a few low wattage light bulbs.  Brand new brick homes with cramped yards and single car garages were squeezed onto narrow parcels, just wide enough to drive one way, park in some one's driveway, reverse and head out again.
     A private equestrian training facility and pasture greeted us at the end of civilization. Our walks generally followed the same route. Mya didn't like cul de sacs or for that matter, any enclosed outdoor space. She preferred to walk on the grass, and didn't like concrete or asphalt. If another dog was out, I would have to straddle over her and hold her collar.  She would become tense which would set off the other two.
    Mya was a horse whisperer. It happened quite unexpectedly on our first walk. When we had passed the last house and approached the ditch separating the pasture from the dirt road, she sat; her choice, not mine. The remaining two ignored her and continued on their walk. Thankfully on that night's outing, having two handlers for three dogs made it possible to separate the group. It was simply a matter of a majority vote.
     Not knowing what she was looking at (could have been a snake), I stopped walking and tried to
match the direction of my gaze to her intent stare. In less than a minute, an old swaybacked brown horse appeared from the horizon and at a slow gate, came to the three rail fence and stood. Mya lowered herself as if to honor him. The horse, in reply, nodded and gave a solitary paw to the ground as if he was tapping a response. His eyes were cloudy but his mane had been recently brushed and his hooves were neatly trimmed. He was enjoying his retirement in the "Sunshine State."
     I didn't move. Mya didn't move. My daughter had rejoined us and was excited to see the horse but couldn't stay to witness this ritual between friends. I reached in my pocket and passed the house key to her and whispered I would return soon. Being that she had been my helper for a few years, she turned and started for the house and I knew I would find the other dogs comfortable on the sofa when Mya and I got back.
     So we remained in the gentle slope of the ditch and the minutes passed between daylight and dusk. The horse backed up from the fence and turning his head towards the horizon, walked away until he was again part of the original landscape.
     Mya turned and looked at me. I patted her head and gave the command "Let's go". We continued to the end of the road and turning around, we were met by a man who had just passed through the main gate of the training center. He said, "Ain't it grand that God gave animals such wonderful friends? And I ain't talking about humans. I've watched that horse of mine converse with many a dog, but his favorite is Mya. That dog's got a bigger heart than most people I know. That horse has been through tough times. Don't know how long he'll be with me. But until he goes, I hope that Mya will continue to visit him. It's kinda like a horse version of an old folks home", he chuckled, but there was a catch in his throat.
     "I promise she'll be here when I am in charge," I said as I blinked the moist release of a solitary tear.

Clean up on aisle 7 and...

     I think I know what to expect when I have been employed by a family over the course of years.  There will always be exceptions, of course...
     Broadie was a beast of a German shepherd. Not in the disposition category but the size one.
He must have tipped the scale at well over one hundred pounds, even though the breed standard states eighty-eight is a maximum healthy weight for males.  He was healthy and had the thickest coat of any I've ever seen.
   For many years, he was the only dog in the family and was well mannered and highly trained as
a guard dog.  If you did not know his commands, you did not approach him. This was lesson number one on my first day. Having that knowledge was intimidating as his safety and my safety would have to coexist whenever we were out of the house.
    His playtime was usually a game of ball.  He simultaneously played the positions of batter, umpire, and center fielder. I would throw it, he would catch it, run the bases, return to the pitcher's mound, drop the ball behind me and sprint back to home plate. He could play for hours.  I could toss it for thirty minutes and then my shoulder would be talking to me.
    His cooling off exercise would be a walk. We'd tour his block and then cross the driveway of a local restaurant and explore the other neighborhood. He stayed right with me, stopping before we crossed a street and lying down if a stranger approached. This maneuver gave me time to
warn them that he was not to be petted. Considering his size, most people took the warning as just plain common sense.  Children were less understanding and I would have to command him to sit and once I introduced the child to the dog, it was all wiggles and happiness.
     On this particular job, I entered the home like I always did, though the front door and greeted him
heading into the kitchen to drop off my folder and found the biggest pool of vomit I've ever
seen. It was a mini lake, red and smelled of tomatoes.  I called the owner.  The owner said, "Oh yeah,
Broadie asked for leftovers - sorry!" "What exactly did you give him?", I countered. "Spaghetti", he said in a very nonchalant tone. "Do you want me to take him to the E.R?", I replied as I was putting his collar on him at the same time I was looking in the folder for veterinary contact info. "Nope, he
does this once and a while.  You know where the cleaning supplies are, right?"
      Yes, I knew where they were supposed to be and went there and found NO CLEANING SUPPLIES. I put the dog in the back yard and dispersed a layer of paper towels down to begin to absorb the liquid part of the mess.  I looked for another roll of paper towels.  Couldn't find one.  I needed more paper towels and I was not going to leave him, get back in my car and head to the store.
     So, I walked across the street and introduced myself and the ensuing drama to a neighbor.  She had paper towels and spray cleaners and mop and bucket. Most importantly of all, she knew Broadie and
came back to the house, leashed him and took him to her home for a visit.
     I was maybe twenty minutes cleaning and after that mess was a memory, returned to the neighbor, claimed "my" dog, went inside to open the windows and took him to the main room where we watched a little television.  No walk that visit.  I wasn't sure he wouldn't go after grass to ease his stomach cramps and vomit that as well.
     He was hungry later that day, and I gave him his USUAL food. I stayed late.  I returned early.
Nothing else happened. A couple of days later, I returned to that neighbor's house to give her a small bouquet and to thank her again.
     It wasn't very long after that fateful day, that he died.  'Twisted stomach" was the finding of the necropsy.  It is a common health threat to his breed. I didn't know.
     It is not my place to educate a pet owner.  I just fill in and do my very best, knowing that
while in my care, the animal companion was family. . . and I'd do ANYTHING for family.

Size Matters

I want you to understand that when bringing a dog into your home as a permanent companion, you must consider more than what books publish veterinarians advise and shelters hope for.

Let's look closer at the bonding experiences you will encounter. . .

What goes in comes out. Visualize a potter's wheel and the lump of unformed clay. The clay represents what is being served in that favorite doggie's bowl. Now imagine reshaping that lump appropriately into pieces. So size matters.

When purchasing furniture to accommodate your exact measurements,  lumbar support, color scheme and durability, consider the probability that your companion will claim it as his own. You may scoff at my insistence, but I have decades of experience on this subject. If your animal sheds, you're going to have a longer list. Don't be fooled into thinking a big dog can't possibly fit into Grandma's petite antique rocking chair. I have a ninety four pound weimaraner who will easily disprove your theory. Beds a re a challenge for smaller breeds to navigate, but that's why doggie steps were invented.
If you have a man cave with generous size furnishings, you're going to be amazed how adaptable the fine leather sofa is to the dog. Leather, being a little slippery, will allow the paws to dangle just below the seam line. Again, size matters.

Now this is going to be a little personal, but consider it you must. If you are prone to immodesty in your bathroom, I caution you that dogs which stand thirty inches or taller will want to keep you company in there. While the shorter ones (the dachshund comes to mind) may sniff from knees on down, those on the other end of the spectrum will send you shrieking to find your bathrobe. Do you begin to sense a recurring there here?

The up close and personal does not stop with you. Be assured that anyone entering your space will receive the same generous greeting. Girl dogs are not more polite than their male counterparts.

Really big dogs like danes, wolfhounds and mastiffs will counter surf because they can. This talent is not limited to the long legged. . .if you keep chairs around the kitchen island, the little ones (not to be outdone) will manage to jump once for better viewing and then again, once they have targeted their prize, will jump to that final height and not until their curiosity has been sated will they consider the consequences of returning to the floor. Louver doors are no match for those who have a playful nature. Cabinets are not safe either. Laundry baskets, diaper pails and on the floor vegetable bins are irresistible.

Okay, you say, what about obedience training.  I respond "Good luck with that." Read the small print on that adoption agreement. Does it say "genetically bred to enhance your life without the mess"? And anyway, the smells and aromas in those commercial spaces or outdoor arenas where training ensues are vastly different from your personal home environment. Dogs have evolved from the wolf. The wolf hunts, it survives on its ability to smell, identify and conquer. What makes you think your piece of paper (framed and hung on that prominent wall in your home ) guarantees otherwise.

The examples are endless, really; even as far as accessorizing your car, moped, Spyder or bicycle basket. Size matters, personal space (inside and out) matters; yours and theirs. It's a challenge to share what was once yours and yours alone with a pair of twinkling eyes, a wet nose attached to four legs, and a tail. A dog changes everything. Be wise in listening to your heart or do what I do and get one in every size because the only thing where size does not matter is the heartfelt love between you. There is truly no measuring that.