Tag Archives: pets

Like caged animals…

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In Memphis, the occasional leaving of the dogs at the kennel was pretty much unavoidable. Surprisingly, friends and neighbors are a little hesitant to take on two 70 pound dogs at a time. Since I made it back home I haven’t really had any reason to travel. When it has cropped up, I was going places where I could take them with. No problem there. I know I could theoretically take them up to the farm and they’d be more than welcome, but a three hour round trip drive in the wrong direction seems kinda dumb when I’m only going to be gone for 18 hours and the round trip travel time (assuming I go only in the correct direction) is less than three hours to begin with. Yeah, I think I confused myself with that math, too. The point is, turning a 3 hour drive into a 6 hour drive isn’t going to happen.

Anyway, tomorrow morning the kids are off for a 24-hour stay at one of the fabulous local kennels in Cecil County… and as usual, I’m guilt ridden at leaving them somewhere new. I don’t have much of a soft spot when it comes to people, but these dogs are a different story. If it weren’t for local health codes and army regulations, I’d pretty much keep them with me 24/7.

Even though I’m sure to be racked with guilt, I think I’ll still manage to enjoy some quality time in the land of Boardwalk Empire. I’m sure the my heathens will be in good hands while I’m gone… because if they aren’t, whoever’s responsible for the deficiency will find themselves without hands at all. That might be an exaggeration, but there’s a pretty good chance they could expect to receive a tire iron to the face if some ill fate befell the pups while I’m gone. Just thought I’d throw that out there.

Dog days…

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After a ridiculous amount of time in and out of the vet’s office, tests, retests, and the some more tests, the results are somewhat less conclusive than I would have hoped. The bottom line is this: Despite higher than normal protein levels in her urine, there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong with Maggie. She’s behaving normally and has no ill effects in terms of kidney, liver, or heart function. The phrase the vet used this morning was that it seemed likely that Maggie just has “an unusually high baseline on these tests.” I’m pretty sure that’s veterinary medicine’s way of saying the numbers aren’t right, but we have no idea why, but I let the nice vet off the hook without asking too many questions. As long as my pup is in good health and not from something causing long term damage, I’m content to leave well enough alone.

For now, I’m going to do some tinkering what her food and retry all these tests in six months to see if anything has changed. It’s not exactly the clean bill of health I usually look for from the vet, but at this point, but it seems like as good a negotiated settlement as I’m likely to get this time around. I’m mostly just pleased that we were able to rule out most of the worst case scenarios. Even so, this last week has been a bothersome reminder that I’m the single parent to two middle-aged children now. Neither one of them are pups anymore, regardless of how I still think of them in my own head. I’m not sure I like that at all.

Guilt…

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I’ve been feeling guilty lately. Because I’ve never really trusted them not to either pee all over everything or shred every rug in the house, Winston and Maggie have slept in their kennels at night since they were puppies. They seemed find with it and since dogs sleep about two-thirds of the day anyway, I sort of figured it was no harm/no foul. It was leaving work late the last two days that got me thinking, though… On a typical weekday, when I leave on time and get home on time, they’re in their crates about 17 hours a day. That leaves seven hours for wandering around, sniffing, pooping, barking, and doing dog stuff. When I leave early or get home late, of course, that number decreases dramatically. And that’s when the guilt started.

Intellectually, I’m convinced that both of them are perfectly happy snoozing in their crates as they are on the living room floor. Emotionally, though, I felt a compulsion to give them a shot at having the run of the house at night. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable enough to let them wander all day while I’m gone, but surely if I’m there at night there’s a limit to how much trouble they can get themselves into without waking me up, right?

Well, it’s so far so good. Last night was the first step in this grand experiment. When I went to bed, Maggie sprawled out taking up more space than seems possible for an 80 pound Labrador. I’m not sure how big a fan of that I am yet, but it seems that the precedent is already set. Winston, I’m fairly certain, slept in the basement until around 3AM, when he came upstairs wanting an early morning belly rub. I’m not sure I’m going to be a fan of that, either. Other than those relatively minor issues, the test run went well. Nothing got destroyed. Nothing (obvious) got peed on. And they both seemed perfectly happy to lay around the bedroom until I got ready to take them out this morning.

Like I said, I know it’s nothing but my own guilt at getting home late that’s driving this, but I secretly hope they’ll prove trustworthy enough to justify this new degree of freedom.

Mission to Mars…

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Every time I start packing I’m reminded why I so often go out of my way to avoid trips that involve staying somewhere overnight. I’m easy enough to manage; a chance of clothes, a toothbrush, and a bag full of electronics and power cables. I can be packed and out the door in somewhere under 20 minutes. Throw the dogs into the equation and the logistical engineering required for even a one night trip is something that would make the planners of the manned mission to Mars feel inadequate. Food, crates, toys, water, dog-proofing the back seat, the dropcloth to catch massive amounts of travel-induced shedding and stray loss of cookies will get things started. Then it’s a matter of avoiding tripping over them while I get my own stuff backed and loaded since neither will get out of the line of sight once they’ve seen a suitcase come out. It’s even worse once I actually start putting things in the truck. Then there’s unpacking on the other end just to do it all in reverse order a day or two later. Lord knows I begrudge these dogs absolutely nothing, but sometimes they are a real pain in the ass. Still, for all the hassle I wouldn’t really dream of going away without the fuzzy little buggers. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to come up with an easier way of getting their 300 pounds of gear from Point A to Point B without dragging it up out of the basement and getting it into the truck. So yeah, if anyone needs me for the next couple of hours before it gets dark I’ll be spending more time getting the dog’s stuff ready to go than it will actually take to make the trip. Oy vey. The things we do for our kids.

Adding it up…

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Heavy rain + dogs = wet dogs + wood floor + shaking dry = skating rink + wet dogs banging into everything + dripping dry = entire house smelling like wet dog = not cool.

I always thought I’d like having wood floors, but I think I’ve been disabused of that notion. Carpet has its limitations, but in the end I can douse it with powder or Fabreze, run the Dyson over it and it’s good as new. Oddly, the wood floor only seems to encourage the wet dogs getting excited and sliding headlong into everything in the house. Letting the carpet suck up that wet dog funk and then covering it up seems much more practical, because let’s be honest, the chances of my mopping the entire house on a Tuesday night are slim to none. At least with carpet you can’t really see how bad things are. Ignorance is, indeed, bliss.

In appreciation of dogs…

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The more time I spend around people, the more I like my dogs. There are plenty of people I like well enough, but after a day at the office, there’s nothing better than coming home to these two. They’re not going to want to talk or ask questions. They’re not going to need a PowerPoint on short notice. And they’re not going to call an impromptu meeting. They’re mostly going to be happy with the same dinner they’ve had every day for two years, hanging out on the patio, and an occasional scratch behind the ears. Dogs are decidedly uncomplicated like that. When the world where you spend eight hours a day is doing its level best to go sailing off the rails, they’re an amazing bit of dependable normalcy… and possibly the last bulwark between me and bludgeoning people into a coma with a three hole punch.

The value of dogs…

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One of the biggest challenges I have at the moment is trying to keep things in perspective. It’s never been a personal strength. For the most part everything is a crisis or completely unimportant and the middle ground mostly doesn’t exist. That’s where the dogs come in. Mostly because they don’t care if it’s a crisis or if it’s completely unimportant. Every day they’re absolutely happy to see you come home. They’re happy to eat the same food for breakfast and dinner day in and day out. They’re happy to just sit and only really demand an occasional pat on the head or rub under the chin. No other expectations. And absolute, unquestioned loyalty beyond the shadow of a doubt.

No matter how stupid a day I’ve had, there’s something about a wet nose bumping into you, or a lick, or a battered and well-chewed ball dropped at your feet that makes most things better from the minute I walk in the door. That’s the simple value of dogs. They’re one small slice of sanity in a world that is otherwise mostly mad.

This isn’t as much of a tribute as I had hoped it would be, but for a post inspired by getting sprayed with half a cup of bulldog slobber, I guess it’s not bad!

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Petsmart…

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So if you ever find yourself needed a couple of dozen new friends, I highly recommend throwing a 6 month old bulldog in the truck and taking him to Petsmart. It’s like people come out of the frigging woodwork to come over and check him out. Being the ham that he is, Winston of course enjoyed every minute of it… racks of toys, a nice cool floor to lay on, and lots of attention. Life doesn’t get any better, right?

Appropriate areas of federal responsibility… or not so much.

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Beginning this year, the evacuation of pets during declared emergencies will be a national priority for the United States government. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, Fluffy, Fido, and Aunt Gurtie’s pet python Stretch will be evacuated right along with Ma and Pa Dipshit who were too stubborn to get out of the way of the next hurricane.

Evacuating people, of course, I’ll buy off on that as a legitimate responsibility of government. Preservation of life is precisely one of the major tenants of the social contract that makes government legitimate. And while I know Fluffy, Fido, and Stretch are “like members of the family,” a quick review of your high school biology (that’s right, the good old kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus and species definitions), you’ll quickly be able to determine that they are not, in fact, a member of your family. They are pets and some of them are even downright loveable, but getting them out of harm’s ways is not a legitimate responsibility of the federal government (i.e. your fellow citizens). Ensuring the safety of your family (and your pets) is by in large a personal responsibility. I’m not entirely sure where we lost the thread of individualism in this country, but those of you sitting back, waiting for big daddy government to drive with a horse trailer and travel kennels to do what you should have done are appalling… and downright un-American.