Category Archives: Pets

It’s really crowded in this head of mine

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I had a super, terrible, bad week.  It was just one of those weeks that kicked me six ways to Sunday.  (I just looked up what that phrase meant, by the way, and it still doesn’t make sense, but it rolls off the tongue well.)  Regardless, there was much crying and gnashing of teeth.

I wanted to do this:

photo-41

This is what I felt I actually accomplished:

Home P2

I feel lucky that I realized my error.

In truth, I am sure that I was more and accomplished more than I actually feel like I did.  My problem is that I get caught up in my own head.   If it is possible to think too much, I do it.  Some thoughts are on a perpetual loop, playing over and over in my head; some thoughts are like boomerangs, they come in, fly around, then leave, and their trajectory is a little wild.  Some thoughts are like flocks of geese — they have their own seasonal pattern and can be counted on to show up on a recurring basis.  And some are like fire crackers — they are just popping off randomly — boom!  Boom, boom!  BOOM!  Boom, boom, boom!  BOOOOOOM!  It’s madness up there.

I have mentioned before that I have fought (and won) battles with depression in the past, involving some therapy.  During therapy I learned that some of my depression is caused by this conflagration of thoughts in my head.  I’ve tried lots of exercises to calm my mind, to strive for mindfulness, to concentrate on one thing.  It’s difficult, but it can be done.

That’s one reason why reading is so relaxing to me — I can turn my own thoughts off while I read.  It’s soothing.

Matt and I recently had a conversation that highlighted how differently we approached our surroundings:

me:  I’ve been thinking about finding another lawyer to do our wills.  I need to find someone to take Louie [my dog] if something happens to me.

Matt:  ok

me:  I talked to Mom and she said that she was sure that you would keep him if I died, but I know that you wouldn’t really want to.  And I don’t want you to be burdened and he shouldn’t be a burden to someone.  So I need to find a lawyer.

Matt:  this is what you have been thinking about?  Worrying about dying and what would happen with your dog if you did?  It must be hell being in your head.

me:  it is!  It is hell worrying about all this stuff.  Don’t you worry about stuff like this?

Matt:  no.

me:  well, what do you think about?

Matt:  kayaks.

I love that about Matt.  He helps keep me stable.  It would be awful around here if there were two of us all caught up in our heads.

Now, next week, I’m going to do some Epic Shit.  It’s a promise to myself and all my pesky thoughts.

I’ve read it all….

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I just read something that I think is pretty silly.

As background, this is what has been taking up a lot of my time for the last two months:

Louie

Louie

Louie was my Christmas present to myself.  He’s a little ball of love.  And a little ball of work.  My schedule has changed, I had to hire a dog trainer to come to the house to help with housebreaking, we’re visiting a doggie day care tomorrow to see about him staying there two times a week so that I don’t have to get up and leave meetings every day of the week to go and let him out….

He’s worth it.

One of his little idiosyncracies is that he shakes a lot.  As in starts at the head and shakes all the way down (I would say from his head to his tail but French bulldogs don’t have tails).

So, I did what anyone would do:  I looked up “Why do dogs shake?” on Google.

The first article that came back was from Modern Dog magazine.  The article proposes that dogs shake because humans are showing them love in ways that their canine brains can’t process.

Emotion is energy-in-motion, which is why the more emotional we feel the more animated we become and want to move. And as energy emotion has an internal dynamic of movement that works quite like the tides in that there is a rising and an ebbing effect. When emotion sweeps over us, we can feel it surge as if we’re a tidal basin being flooded with a wave, and then these effects slowly subside and in fact can linger for a very long time. So in the animal mind, when there is an input of love that falls outside this natural rhythm, the canine mind doesn’t necessarily process it as love, but rather as social pressure, which to a dog is equivalent to pain and since the emotional circuitry piggybacks on the most basic systems of physiology, the dog shakes it off.

WTF?  The dog mind can’t process love, but it can process social pressure?  PUH-LEEZE!  Glad I haven’t subscribed to Modern Dog.

Then I went to the other most visited site for information:  YouTube.

Another WTF moment.  There has actually been scientific work on dog shaking water off its coat.

If you have time to watch this video — DO!  The scientists involved actually videoed (in slow-mo, no less) a rat shaking so that you and I can see its skeleton during the process.

Conclusion:

Screen Shot 2013-02-20 at 8.29.48 PM

AWESOME.

And I still don’t know why Louie shakes except that he just feels like it.  Good enough.

Cross-country chronicles

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As a lifetime resident of the same state, I just spent my second Thanksgiving away from home.  The first time was during my semester abroad when I had a good excuse for not flying home for Thanksgiving.  This year, Matt and I decided to fly across country to visit my sister and her family.

I have only heard tales, urban legends, about holiday travel.  The lines, the delays, the crowds, oh my.  It wasn’t that bad, but I am very grateful that we got to see my sister and her family with relatively minor incidents.  Some, though, are just worth repeating.

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Scene:  Flight from Charlotte to Salt Lake City; 7:30AM

I am reading my SkyMall magazine, doing what I always do–wondering if people actually order things from the SkyMall magazine, like the $300 Star Wars chess set.

Matt:  They are taking us back to the terminal because there is a medical emergency on board.

me:  Really?  What’s going on?

Matt:  See the guy two rows behind us?  He’s unresponsive.

Flight attendants are standing around the guy, asking him, “Sir, sir!  Can you hear me?”  The guy said something that I couldn’t hear, but then I heard the attendant say, “How much did you have to drink?”  It became clear that the guy was just stinking-ass drunk.

Drunk guy:  I need to get to Seattle.  I’m going to Seattle.

Attendant:  No, we’re taking you back.  You shouldn’t be on a long flight.

We waited and waited to go back to the terminal.  Then they had to pull us to a gate and people with a wheelchair came on board to get the Drunk guy.

Attendant:  Sir!  Sir!  Can you hear us?  We need to get you off the plane.

Drunk guy:  Where are we?

Attendant:  We’re in Salt Lake City.  You took quite a nap.

Drunk guy:  I gotta get to Seattle.

Captain (of the plane, y’all):  No, you gotta get off this plane.  (You could almost hear the ominous music).

Attendant:  Come on sir!  (Pulling him up.)

Drunk guy:  DON’T touch me!  I’ll go with you, but don’t touch me.

It was the Perfect response.  Have you ever noticed when someone is drunk and someone gets too close to them (in a non-sexual way), everyone always pulls out the “Don’t touch me!” line?  Like, “hey, everyone….I’m being all reasonable and stuff and it’s this asshole who is touching me that is crossing the line.”

After they got the Drunk guy off the plane, they had to put more fuel in the plane because turning back to the terminal used so much fuel that we might not have made it to Salt Lake City.  Wha?  Isn’t that cutting it a bit close?  I could have totally lived the rest of my life without that bit of information.

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On my flight from Salt Lake City to Seattle, I sat beside an extremely gawky and large 12-year boy.  He picked his nose a lot.  Matt asked me what he did with his “findings” — I had to admit that I didn’t know because I was trying to avoid looking.  I hope that he wasn’t flicking them my way.

Then the little girl sitting behind me threw up.  A couple of times.  It was righteous.

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It was very wet in Seattle.  A lot of rain.  Did you know that they just voted to legalize marijuana?  But I still had to go to the pharmacy to get my Advil Cold and Sinus with pseudoephedrine.

I’m a fickle dog person.  Ashleigh and Dan have a French bulldog, Lola, and she was a sweetie pie.  So, now I want a Frenchie.  A bulldog, people.  I’m too tired to be thinking about anything else.

Lola, the Showgirl

Cat vs dog

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I posted this picture of my cat earlier this week, happy as can be relaxing in the garbage.

Thelma Lou in the Trash

Then I found this picture of a dog, happy in his relaxed position.

How Happy Am I?

Source:  http://www.aplacetolovedogs.com/2012/03/how-happy-am-i/1486629767/

 Cats are weird.  But they kill rodents, so I love them.  Dogs are awesome, so I love them.  I am a cat and a dog person.  Yay, me!

(How did this blog end up about me?  I may be a little self-centered.)

Does it stink around here, or is it just me?

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We have a cat named Thelma Lou.  We got her and her sister at the same time.  In an homage to Andy Griffith, they were named after Barney Fife’s two girlfriends, Thelma Lou and Juanita.

A couple of years ago, while we were doing a lot of remodeling on our house, I came outside one morning and found Thelma Lou in the trash where all the construction workers left their daily garbage.

Having a hard time seeing her?  She is a wily thing–she hunts everything so camouflage is her middle name (after Lou).  See if this helps.

Thelma Lou Curled Up in the Trash

I thought of this picture today because I felt like Thelma Lou.  Because it felt like everyone was just dumping their garbage on me.  Here I am, minding my own business, when this bag of garbage came raining down.  Oops, here came a cup full of someone’s crap.  And, watch your head, here comes someone’s empty container of refuse.

“Hey, Jackasses!  Take care of your own trash!”

 

And then,in a moment of brutal honesty, I have to do a little self-evaluation…there is no cage on top of me, nothing to stop me from crawling out from these burdens.  Like Thelma Lou, who chose this spot, I let myself get buried with other people’s rubbish.  I, however, am not as comfortable curled up next to an empty McDonald’s bag.  I’m outta here; the cat can take care of herself.

Don’t Bite the Hand That Feeds You. Seriously. Don’t Do It.

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I learned something new over the past several days:  dog bites hurt.

How did I learn this?  My damn dog bit me!
More than once.
There are a lot of things that I accept from having a dog, including peeing in the house, digging in the yard, lots of dirt on the floor, etc.  What I don’t accept is my own dog biting me, of being afraid of my dog.
Ray, that little cutie patootie, had aggression issues, specifically with me.  While he never reacted badly with Matt, on more than one occasion, I only had to move towards him to send him into attack mode.
Ray, the little shit that bit me
He would charge across the room at me, like a lion hunting a wildebeest.  And like a lion, he aimed for the knees in an attempt to bring me down.  I hate to think what would have happened had he succeeded….
I am, of course, falling back on humor to defend against the fact that my heart is broken by the way that events have played out.  Because he stayed on such high alert with me, and I stayed on such high alert with him, it became very evident that this was not the right home for him.  And since he and Reynolds were a pair, we made the choice to return them both to the shelter (which was in the contract that we signed when we adopted them, that if there were any problems, we would return them to the shelter rather than give them away).
They were ecstatic to return to the shelter, which has become their home.  One of the volunteers at the shelter has basically adopted them herself, so we know that they are well loved and taken care of.  We are very sad that things did not work out with them, but my knees and my nerves are thankful that they are not under attack every day.
I miss the little guys.

Dog Tales

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Hey!  My name is Ray.

This is my friend, Reynolds.

Some assholes kicked us out of their truck in front of the Humane Society of Catawba County.  On the asshole scale, I guess they ranked somewhere below 10 because the Humane Society is a no-kill shelter, but still, they were assholes.  Reynolds and I are 8 years old, that’s 56 of your human years, so we were these losers’ elders.  They treated us with no respect.

Anyway, the people at the Humane Society were righteous.  They took us in, cleaned us up, fed us, had the doc look over our old bones and put our pics out there on the internets for people to see.  No one came by for a long time.  I think it’s because they said that I had these things called “cat-racts” which means I can’t see.  I think that what they call it is must be wrong, because I’m a DOG, people, not a stupid cat.

That’s where our personal heroes come into the story.  Matt Elder (whose last name means that he understands how to respect us senior dogs) is a solid guy.  He saw my picture and showed it to his woman.  Said he thought I would be a good guy to have around the house (me and that dude get each other).

She finally caved.  Called the Humane Society and found out that I don’t go anywhere without my main guy, Reynolds.  Matt continued to show how he’s the kinda guy you want to be around — told Cristy that two dogs around the house would be just fine.  She and Matt visited us at our home at the shelter and realized just how cool R-man and I are.  And just like that, we’re now at home with M & C.

So, here’s the current sitch–C took us to get groomed and our new looks are fine.  My guess is that if we had had such awesome looking hair cuts while at the shelter, we would have been out of there a lot sooner.  (Women love a well-groomed man.)  Lucky for C & M, we were still around so that we could help them not be so lonely.

It’s a good thing we came along.  C & M needed us.

"My Dog" Movie Review

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I just finished watching and crying over the sweetest documentary on Netflix.  The name of the documentary was My Dog: An Unconditional Love Story and was about just that — the love between a dog and its human.  (I hate to call us “owners” as we don’t really own a dog — we just get to love them and live in their space for a while.)

The documentary makers interviewed a lot of different celebrities about their dogs and asked them the question:  “Why do people love their dogs?”  And the stories proceeded from there.

I was so struck by how similar my thoughts and feelings about dogs were to these celebrities, people who live lives that are 180 degrees removed from the life that I live.  Yet, dogs seem to be one of the great equalizers, across geography, ethnicity, social strata and economic demographic.  Dogs are wonderful because they don’t care who their human is, what their human has succeeded or failed at that day, how much money their human makes, etc.  Dogs just want to be with us.  They are unconditional love in action.

copyright: Matt Elder
Nick, the winter before he passed

I lost my soul mate dog, Nick, last year to prostate cancer.  I miss him everyday.  I miss saying good-bye to him every morning as he would follow me to the front door to watch me leave.  I miss seeing him run to say “hello” to me each day as I would come home.  I miss his presence.

In the documentary, Greg Louganis talks about how some of his HIV treatments made him really sick.  Some days, the only reason that he got out of bed was to take care of his dog.  I can totally relate.  I went through a really bad depression not long after I adopted Nick from a rescue shelter.  There were days where I spent the majority of the day in bed, and if it weren’t for Nick, the necessity to feed him, to let him out, to take care of him, I wouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all.  And Nick seemed to know when he needed to put his head in my lap, and nudge me, as if to say, “Wanna talk?”  And I did.  I have told several people that Nick saved my life and I wasn’t exaggerating.

In the documentary, the crushing statistic is given that 6 to 8 million dogs are in shelters around the US (the movie was released in 2010, so it’s still fairly up-to-date), and nearly 50% of those dogs will be euthanized.  That was when I started to cry.

Let’s all go adopt a dog!  I don’t mean that we all collectively adopt one dog and share it, that wouldn’t really help, but each household go out and adopt one dog each.  And then spay or neuter it.  And then experience the uncomplicated love that comes from a dog.

I have to get Matt to agree to this plan for our house, but he doesn’t care about your house, so I’m really looking forward to hearing about all your new dogs!  Send me pictures.

Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

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Science has helped to solve one of the great mysteries of my life. Finally! I see the value in science. Antibiotics? MRIs? Wireless communications? The atom bomb? These are OK, but I just had the ultimate encounter with science. I got my results from the doggie DNA company — I know the breeds that are in Nick, my dog!!
Matt and I have the sweetest, gentlest, funniest, fastest, whiniest, humpiest dog ever. He is our boy, and we love him dearly. I rescued him 5 years ago. My sister and I walked into a PetSmart to look (and only look) at the puppies. There were all these precious little puppies, most of them mutts, all of them begging for attention. I spotted Nick, however, and it was love at first site (on my part). I picked him up and didn’t put him down again until we got home with him. He instantly became a large part of my life.
But I’ve always wondered “What is he?” Mutts are the best dogs, but you don’t know what you’re getting. With pure-breeds, you know that there are certain character traits that you can expect, but what do you do with a Heinz 57 dog? Does he have Labrador or German shepherd in him? I’ve had people stop me and say that he looked like a Rhodesian Ridgeback (had to look that one up). He’s thin and fast, so maybe he has some greyhound in him?
So, when I saw on TV that doggie DNA kits had been invented to help pet owners like me to identify the breeds in their mutts, I was all over it! Matt thought that I was crazy. Would knowing what he is change how I felt? (Like finding out that he had poodle in him was a deal breaker?) No, but curiosity was killing me! I had to wait to save some money (curiosity isn’t cheap), but I was able to buy my kit in early November.
The kit arrived, I swabbed Nick’s mouth, sent the kit back, and began to wait. And wait. And wait. And today, my patience was rewarded with Nick’s breed certificate.
I don’t think it unusual to want to know what Nick’s “made of”. Don’t we all want to know what we’re made of? Isn’t that why some people jump out of airplanes or try to climb Mount Everest? I know that for we humans finding out what we’re made of is more about our inner characteristics and qualities. Will we be brave in a scary situation? Will we make the right choice when faced with an ethical dilemma? We spend a lifetime figuring out these things about ourselves. We learn as situations test us, as we face happy times and tragedies, as people move in and out of our lives. It would be so much easier if we could take a DNA test and know that we are genetically programmed to be kind or to be cranky, like a Labrador is prone to chew. But alas, no test exists to figure out what we’re “made of”, so we continue to learn about ourselves as we go.
My feelings for Nick haven’t changed at all since I know his breeds. It does help explain why his nose stays irritated and explains where he got his muzzle, but Matt was right after all — he’s really made of sweetness and unconditional love and I knew that all along.
P.S. Collie, Australian Shepherd, Shetland Sheepdog