The cringe-inducing yelp

I was minding my own business this morning, pulling weeds in the back yard.  The dogs were playing in the grass.  I noticed that the patio concrete appears to be the safe zone.  When Angel runs behind the table, Bogie doesn't pursue.  So safe play, right?

I was bent over a large weed when I heard an agonized yelp.

Angel came hobbling over to me holding her right rear leg up near her torso.  Crap.  This is the leg that had the knee surgery two years ago this month and it has been touchy ever since.  I massaged it standing where I was until she was able to put it back on the ground.    

I moved to the patio with her hobbling after me, sat down, and massaged it several minutes more.  She followed me into the house and I gave her a Tramadol pain pill.  I have these on hand for just such occasions.  As well as Rimadyl, which is doggy ibuprofen.  I had already given her a Rimadyl this morning because she had had a slight limp last night.

I massaged her some more, then got her to lay down on the throw rug. I went outside and weeded the front. When I came back inside, Angel had moved to the tile.  I sat by her and massaged her some more.  I hit one particular spot and she jerked.  I had to maneuver her into position so I could massage her some more.

All that massaging stirred up a lot of loose hair.  I gave her another Tramadol, then I brushed her for a bit, which she likes.  When I gave her the post-brush treat, she hobbled outside with it.  So I felt okay asking her to come upstairs with me while I checked e-mail, Facebook, etc.

Angel plays hard.  And she initiates the play at least half of the time.  The last time she got hurt was playing with a dog close to her size.  So this is not Bogie's fault.  Still, I am sure it doesn't help that he is 2 years old to her 5.    

At the moment, she is crashed out on the floor behind my chair.  She will be zonked out for most of the day. 

She'll be better tomorrow.  Now I have to keep her from playing so hard until it's completely healed. 

Dogging my footsteps

After doing my household chores this morning, I now have first-hand experience with the phrase "dogging my footsteps."

I vacuumed the downstairs and Bogie followed behind me every step I took, frequently standing on the electrical cord.

I mopped the floor to remove the muddy footprints and dirt clods left behind by Angel when she dug up a cherished rawhide.  Bogie watched every swipe of the mop, from in front of me.  I kept asking him to move out of the way.  He followed me to the sink every time I rinsed the mop.

I sanded a new window sill on the family room window.  This involved moving the end table and easy chair from in front of the windows.  Not once, but twice, Bogie followed me behind the furniture, getting tangled up in the cords and knocking the stereo speaker off the table.  (To be honest, I knocked it off once myself, whereupon I left it on the floor until I was done.)

Upstairs to mop the bathroom floor.  I rinsed the mop in the bathtub and he stuck his face in the tub to watch.  I tried to open the closet door and he was standing in front of it.  But he moved when prompted.

Every step I took, he was right beside me.  Which is sweet.

And a little annoying.

Side by Side

Bogie laid down first.  Angel went over to lay next to him.  She has quickly become very attached to him.

The tiles are one foot square, so you can get an idea of the size of the dogs.

Bogie chillin' in the armchair

My family room set includes an armchair that has gotten no use since my Peanut died.  She was the only one who sat in it unless I had company.  And even then, if the weather permitted, company and I usually sit out on the patio.

So I was pleased when Bogie claimed the chair as his own.

Doggy play date

So my Angel has been understandably depressed since Peanut died.  Steve brought his dog, Lexi over for a play date.  I'm sure the visit helped Angel's mood, but it didn't help the leg that had had the knee surgery.  Although the surgery was over a year ago, she over-played and strained it. 

Angel, in the back, is chewing on a rawhide bone.  Lexi abandoned hers.

Dogs and squirrels, enemies or playmates?

I have a bird seed block sitting on top of a wooden platform about 3 1/2 feet off the ground.  The intended recipients are the Gambol quail that live behind my house.  The platform is to keep the dogs from eating the seed.

Now, I don’t really care if the squirrel eats the bird block, but Angel likes to chase it.  And I am sure the squirrel gets plenty to eat when Angel isn’t looking.  Yesterday, Angel went outside and saw it.

She chased it.  It jumped the 2 feet from the platform to the top of the wall.

And laid there, with its tail hanging down a block width, just out of Angel’s reach.  Angel woofed and jumped a couple times, then gave up.

Only then did the squirrel slip out of sight on the other side of the wall.

Cheeky creature.  Reminded me of Otto and the squirrel.

When I was growing up, the first dog I remember having was a full-sized dachshund named Otto.  He had the run of the neighborhood, so when he saw a squirrel in the neighbor's yard, he chased it.

The squirrel scurried up the tree to escape.  Then came back down the trunk, stopped just out of the reach of Otto, and chittered at him, infuriating the dog into a frenzy of barking.  Only when we yelled at Otto to stop barking did the squirrel disappear into the leafy canopy of the tree.

From that point on, I realized that dog-baiting is a form of squirrel entertainment.

Peanut is doing great.

Well, we had our cardiology appointment last week and the vet said she has congestive heart failure.  This killed my father, so I knew the diagnosis was serious.

However, she didn't have a heart attack.  The vet believes it was something called syncope, a type of fainting.  I didn't see her lose consciousness, but maybe it was very brief.

The congestive heart failure is a worsening of the heart enlargement and arrhythmia.  Heart disease is a progressive condition.   The vet refused to quantify her life expectancy, but I read on-line that it averages about 6 months.  There are exceptions, of course.  And he put her on a new medication that supposedly doubles that.

Anyway, she is now on three pills twice a day and one pill three times a day.  One of the pills comes in a large, chewable pill. Which, of course, she won't eat without it being wrapped in a pill pocket.  I can combine some of the pills, but we are still going through 4 or 5 pill pockets a day. 

The very good news is, she is doing so much better I can hardly believe it.  She is eating again.  She is running down the stairs again.  She is anxious to go for walks.  Although I still try not to let her over exert. 

She is even starting to boss Angel around.  I never expected to be glad to hear Peanut snarl at Angel. 

For however long it lasts, I am grateful to have my princess back.

Did my dog just have a heart attack?

I was watching TV with Peanut, my 10-year-old shepherd mix, laying on the floor at my feet.  She jumped up suddenly and seemed agitated, turning a couple circles like she was going to throw up.  She sat down as I reached for her to comfort her and kind of hunched over.  Which is a normal puking position. 

She stood up abruptly, her legs buckled and straightened one at a time, making her totter and struggle to get her footing.  Then she collapsed to the floor. 

I wanted to freak out but tried to stay calm.  I laid down on the floor, shooed Angel away, and held Peanut until her breathing slowed down.  I looked into her eyes trying to decide if her pupils should be that large.  Were the pupils blown?  Had she suffered a brain trauma?  Then she sighed and  laid her head on my arm.  I laid on the floor for about 20 minutes just petting her. 

Angel lay near us on the floor, but not touching either of us. Which is very unusual.  Angel likes to be in contact with the members of her pack.

I was quite relieved then Peanut moved first one front leg, then the other to lay across my arm next to her nose.  I was terrified to find out if she could stand on her own or not. 

After a bit, the floor got too hard.  I stood and picked her up, giving her no opportunity to stand.  I put her on the couch. positioned her across my lap, and petted her more.  

Angel came up gently onto the couch and laid next to her, not bumping, pushing, or laying on Peanut.

After about 20 minutes, it was time to go upstairs to bed.  I was quite relieved when Peanut jumped down off the couch on her own and was steady on her legs.

Still, I am concerned.  She has an enlarged heart and arrhythmia.  Did she have a heart attack?  A stroke?  Is this a harbinger  of the end of my beloved princess? 

We already had a cardiology appointment scheduled for today.  I hope he has some answers.

Midnight visit in suburbia

At 11:45 pm Sunday, I wake up because I hear a dog barking outside.  My dog, Peanut.  Now I will admit she is a bit of a barker, warning anyone who dares to walk past our house to walk faster.  But that is during the day.  At night she is generally curled up on my bed with Angel and Rags. 

So I go downstairs to see what the problem is, Angel and Rags running ahead.  I flip the patio light on and see Angel and Peanut with their noses to the ground, following a circuitous route through the back yard. 

Great, I think.  There's been a cat in the yard.  I hope it isn't still here.

Moments later, Peanut makes a beeline for the back wall, barking loudly.  A raven is standing on the wall, unconcerned, looking at her.  I hush her and stand within a foot of the raven.  It is a small raven, probably one of the three babies that were born in the nest on the electrical tower behind my house.  I talk to it.

"Don't you think you should leave?  It isn't exactly safe here."  The raven blinks, but doesn't leave.  "Shoo."  It shifts its weight, nearly falling off the wall, and I see that it has an injury to its foot. 

Cat, I think again. 

Peanut won't take her eyes off the raven.  Rags is starting to growl, preparatory to barking, and I hear another noise near the front of the walled-in yard.  Not wanting any midnight barking, or any cat and dog fights, I hustle Angel and Rags into the house and close off the doggy door.  Peanut won't come, so I pick her up bodily.  The dogs stand at the patio door staring out at me. 

I hear another noise up front.  It doesn't sound cat-like and I wonder if one of the raven siblings is also stranded, maybe injured.  I walk up front, in my pajamas, the street light my only illumination.

At the front of the yard is a slatted double gate.  Where the block meets the house, I have a wheel barrow propped on its end.  The corner is completely in shadow.   As I near the gate, I hear a canine warning growl.  I stop cold, wondering whether it is safe to move away.  Will the canine in question follow me, attack me?  I slowly turn around and walk back to the house. 

Now, I can't leave the animal in my yard.  My dogs will need to go outside someday.  And I suspect, since it is a nocturnal canine capable of jumping a 6 foot fence, that my guest is a coyote.  This is both good and bad news.  Good because I haven't seen any coyotes recently.  I had worried they had all been chased from the area.  Bad because, well, because in a battle between a dog and a coyote, I think the coyote would win.

I grab a jacket to cover my pajamas and a flashlight and go to the front of the double gate.  I shine the flashlight into the yard and the coyote looks at me calmly through the gap.  I see an eye and a nose, but nothing else.  I am not willing to get close enough to see more.  I don't want to frighten it.  I need a way to get it out of my yard.

The padlock on the gate isn't latched.  It's just slipped through the hasp.  Keeping an eye on the spot where the coyote is, I reach my hand over the gate.  I have a vision of it leaping up and grabbing my hand, but it neither growls nor moves. 

I can't reach the padlock so I move a large decorative rock closer to the gate.  Standing on it, I can reach the lock.  I slip it from the hasp and loosen the latch. Since the coyote probably came from the retention basin side of the  property, I also go through the house to the back yard.  I unlock the gate to the basin and prop it open with a watering can. 

Then back to the front to make sure the gate had swung open, as it generally does. But didn't this time.  So I carefully walk over and open the gate about 6 inches.  Then I hightail it back into the house.  The dogs and I go back upstairs.  Looking out the front window, I half hope to see the coyote exit the yard, but I am sure it will wait until it feels safer.  I have trouble getting back to sleep, wondering what to do if it is still there in the morning.

Awake by 4, I dress quickly, grab a flashlight and do a complete survey of the back yard.  Thankfully, the coyote has departed.  I let the dogs out and get ready for work. 

Later, as it starts to get light out, I see Angel and Peanut leaping at the wall, trying to get the raven still perched there.  They can't reach it, but it is making an odd hissing sound at them.  That sound alerts mama raven and she starts cawing and circling overhead. 

Fearing mama will attack my dogs, I approach the small raven. Again it doesn't move.  I lightly touch the back feathers and it hobbles along the fence.  I encourage it across the property line onto my neighbor's wall, out of sight of the dogs.  When I leave for work fifteen minutes later, it is back on my side of the fence sheltered under an overhanging tree branch. 

I sigh and hope for the best. When I get home from work, the raven is gone. I can't tell whether or not it is back with its family in the nest.

The whole adventure reminds me of the beginning of a bad joke - A raven and a coyote walk into a yard …

Car ride to Wal-Mart

I went to Wal-Mart this morning at 6:30 to pick up Anacin and dog food.  I didn't 'need' either.  I have enough to last another week.  What I needed was an excuse to take the dogs for a car ride.

At some point, in some manner, I have trained my dogs to expect a car ride on the weekends.  I'm not even sure how they know it's not a work day..  But when I finish my breakfast, Angel starts spinning circles and bouncing up and down.  This inevitably results in her stepping on Rags.  He gives her a growling rebuke.  She does a  cowering apology.   In no way is her enthusiasm diminished.

When I pick up my purse, they rush to the back door and wait for me to provide entry to the garage, weight shifting from paw to paw in an excited little dance.   

Car entry has to be set up so that each dog get its 'correct' place in the back seat.  Peanut will only look out of the passenger window.  Angel is partial to the driver's side.  But Angel always enters first, so I have them enter from the passenger side.  Angel, then Peanut.  Lastly I pick up Rags and plop him on the seat.  He gravitates to the middle and stands with his forepaws on the console looking out the front window. Voila! Everyone where they should be.

Peanut will only put her head out of the window if I am driving 35 mph or under. I have plotted a course to and from Wal-Mart that maximizes the slower speed limits.  Angel doesn't care.  Twenty-five mph or 50, her nose is out in the wind smelling the wonders of the world. 

At Wal-Mart, I find a shady place to park.  I shop quickly while they wait patiently outside.  Rags is always the first to see me as evidenced by the wagging plume of his tail.  Angel faces her window, but she turns her head to the right like an owl to watch me put my purchases in the trunk.

I am required to pet each dog before starting the car back up and beginning our return trip.  Rags usually lays on the floor during this leg.  I pull the car into the garage, close the door, and let everyone out the driver's side. I gather up my purchases and we enter the house together.  Then they each get a treat for behaving so well.

I really hope all this isn't just about the treat.

Why people stare at my car

Sometimes I get paranoid and wonder why people are staring at my car.

Then I remember this.

And yes, I was stopped at a light, not driving.

Peanut - dainty princess

Peanut is my 9 year old German Shepherd-Dachshund mix. Which seemed possible because, at 3 months, she was small enough to lay diagonally in a 12 inch square tile.

She had tiny, dainty feet. Paw size is supposed to be an indicator of adult size. But her feet grew as she did. She topped out at 40 lbs and 21" high.

She had already had 3 owners. The last had gotten her from the Humane Society. When the large old dog in the household didn't take to her within a week, they decided to get rid of her. A week. My oldest dog wanted nothing to do with her for 3 years.

But Rags was thrilled to have someone to play with and take care of. They chased each other around and through the house, wrestled, and slept side by side. When she grew up, Peanut became dominant over him, but he doesn't seem to care.

I call her Princess because she has this royal, dignified attitude. She does not deign to pant eagerly for treats in the kitchen. She expects hers to be brought to her on the stair landing. Then she daintily takes it from your hand. When she sits, she looks like one of those statues of the Egyptian cats, tall, lean, regal.


Last year, she was diagnosed with a heart murmur, but it hasn't slowed her down. She continues to rule, currently preventing Angel from playing fetch with me.  Peanut growls and Angel stops cold.  And when Angel gets too rowdy, one growl from Peanut settles her down.

Peanut - canine royalty.

Rags - Sweet Survivor

Rags is my 12 year old Lhasa Apso. So many things have gone wrong with this poor dog, it's amazing that he's alive. That he is so lovable is a bonus.

I got him when he was 18 months old. We drove 40 miles to see him based on a newspaper ad. The house was unoccupied, the result of a divorce. The husband met us at the house. There was Rags, a female, and a puppy. Rags came right up to us, tail wagging.

Despite him being a dirty, matted bundle of fur, we bought him and took him home. He was thrilled to be in the car, looking out the window, tail still wagging. But he stank something awful.

First thing, we gave him a bath and cut the mats out of his long hair. That left him nearly bald and exposed not only that he was very underfed, but he had a hernia.

A trip to the vet solved the hernia, and neutering, issues. A trip to the groomer evened out the butchered hair. The underfeeding left him edgy around food and, at first, he put on too much weight to compensate. It took him over a year to realize the self-feeder would not run out.

When he was five, I took him to the vet because of a lump in his stomach. The vet figured it was a fatty tumor and operated to remove it. During the evening at home, the stitches began oozing some yellowish fluid. It was the only time I've ever heard him whine. That called for a trip to the emergency vet, who cleaned and bandaged him up and gave him a shot for the pain.

The tumor biopsy came back cancerous and I was referred to a veterinary oncologist. I didn't even know they existed. It was the 'best' kind of cancer: a MAST cell tumor in an easily removable location. But the first surgery hadn't been extensive enough. Rags had another surgery to remove the edges of the cancer. To this day you can feed the zipper-like scar tissue on his belly from the two surgeries. Surgery was followed by chemotherapy every quarter for a year.

Not long after he finished chemo, his urinary tract was blocked by bladder stones and he had to have emergency surgery. This was followed by a couple of uneventful years for him.

Since then there was the broken tooth that needed to be removed. And while they had him under anesthesia the vet was going to remove a harmless fatty tumor. But the dental x-ray machine broke. Since they had him under anyway, they removed the tumor, which was benign.

I had to take him to the dentist to have the tooth looked at. (Again, who knew there were dentists for dogs?) The dentist said he could cap the tooth instead of pulling it. So now both my dog and I have one crown.

Last year, another hurried trip to the vet when he suddenly shrieked and wouldn't put his back leg on the ground. The vet said it was muscular, like a footballer's knee injury, and prescribed muscle relaxants. I think perhaps Peanut wanted to play and caught Rags unprepared and he twisted his knee.

Next week, back to the dentist. He has more cracked teeth. I'm convinced it's a side effect of the chemo. The vet wanted to pull them, but I want to see if they can be saved like the last one.

No wonder Rags trembles violently when we get to the vet's.