As featured March 11, 2011 on cnjonline.com
“My dog saves me a fortune in therapy bills,” a man told me last week.
He went on to explain his pup Genesis has heard enough of his problems to more than earn his keep in the year or more since they adopted him.
And I have to say it’s got to be working, because Genesis’ dad has to be one of the happiest and most consistently pleasant people I’ve ever met, so good job little dude!
My Gilligan serves a similar role. Every evening without fail when he comes in, I hear him tearing through the house on a collision course for yours truly and I know I have about 30 seconds to secure my beverage, laptop or anything else I happen to be holding.
In the minutes that follow, he asks me how my day was and leans against me, just happy to be there.
But Gilligan isn’t my only fury de-stressor.
Whether it’s the cat in the alley behind the office, the birds that coo as they settle in to roost every night in the trees beside my house, or the rabbit in my yard that no longer runs when it sees me — all have a soothing presence, even on the worst of days.
Sometimes I probably take it for granted because I have always had animals around and can’t imagine a life without them, but the reality of it is — no slight intended to mental health professionals of course — animals are among the top therapists in existence.
So for Genesis’ dad, who suggested this as a potential column, I did a little Internet reading and found:
• English researchers documented a significant reduction in minor ailments within a month of introducing a pet into homes that had none.
• An Australian study revealed that patients with pets had lower blood pressure and cholesterol levels, reducing their risk for a heart attack.
• American research has established that coronary patients who own pets are more likely than those without to be alive one year after a heart attack.
Of course there are dozens and dozens more studies which emphasize the positive impact of pets on trauma, psychiatric, geriatric and other patients.
Everything from dolphins, horses, dogs, cats and more are used in programs designed to help people overcome the things they face. Nursing homes have made accommodations so people can bring their pets and even employers allow them in the workplace, seeing the benefit to both personnel and customers.
Once I had the pleasure of doing a story on a therapy dog that was being used at the local hospital to help cheer up patients.
It so happens the day I went to interview Casper, I was having a very rough day and though I successfully hid it from his handler and managed the interview, Casper wasn’t fooled a bit.
Casper’s owner explained the akita was so very good at his job because he was remarkably intuitive and always knew where he was needed most, even in a crowd of people.
Casper made a believer of me that day, though his owner, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice that the entire time we were talking, he sat beside me with his head across my lap and even when we toured the hospital, he would go off to greet people and get rubs and kisses, then zoom back to me.
The dog made quite an impact on me, so much in fact, I still remember him years later, and I have little doubt mine is just one of the lives he has touched in his work.
So while I listened to Genesis’ dad talking of the wonderful contribution the pooch makes to his life, I had no doubt about its validity.
Now on occasion I have had people question the financial investment that caring for animals takes, from the money for food to medical care to the difficulties involved in taking vacations and so forth.
And I can’t deny, it is a sacrifice of hard earned dollars.
But I prefer to side with Genesis’ dad on this one — trust me when I say for every penny they’ve cost, they’ve saved me a fortune.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Chickens on wheels merit research
As featured March 4, 2011 on cnjonline.com
Why didn’t the rooster cross the road?
I don’t know the answer, but when the call went out over the police scanner this week, you can bet your bottom dollar I grabbed a camera and hurried for the scene.
The call that went out came from a sheriff’s deputy who asked dispatch to summon animal control.
Apparently a rooster was standing firm in the middle of the road at Fifth and Main streets and was disrupting traffic.
I can’t tell you how much I was hoping to get a photo for the paper of the chicken that wouldn’t cross the road, stopping traffic and attracting law enforcement.
But alas, by the time I arrived on scene animal control was leaving, I can only assume with an angry rooster in the back of the truck.
And absent a photo, all we ended up with in the office was a couple hours of chicken jokes.
But that wasn’t the only chicken I crossed paths with this week.
During small talk at the beginning to a scheduled interview for an unrelated story, an official, (who I won’t expressly identify) told me he enjoys my pet column and he confessed that he relates in part, because he has an unusual hobby.
He keeps pet chickens in his back yard — 10 hens to be exact.
And every day they produce about 8 eggs.
While he loves the fresh eggs and said they are much healthier than store bought, he admitted that 8 eggs a day is more than his family can use so they give eggs away, “like zucchini.”
I have to admit I found this to be a novel idea and have even considered looking into it myself, thinking with the amount of eggs consumed at my house, it might be a healthy and economical idea to just have chickens.
“Is it worth it?” I asked.
I think he said “not really,” but to be honest I can’t remember because of what he told me next.
Turns out he keeps them in a “rolling coop.”
I accept I may be the only person who didn’t know what this is but on the off chance there’s someone else out there who shares my ignorance, I’ll explain as he did...
A rolling chicken coop is literally a chicken coop on wheels that you fill with chickens then push around in your yard.
I guess by rolling it around it helps keep down the damage to your yard.
But he said the biggest benefit is that the chickens fertilize your grass and keep the insect population down at the same time.
He was very enthusiastic about the concept and even told me about a local source for the rolling coop.
Now I have to admit, I am still pondering this and am enamored by the idea.
Some of you may recall my complaints of a huge toad population last summer, which obviously means there were enough bugs in my yard to feed them — so a little insect control that doesn’t need electricity or result in nasty smelling vapors is a novel idea.
But a big part of me wonders if it wouldn’t be like the time I decided to make my own bread to save money and be more health conscious.
About seven hours later as I watched my family slather butter and honey on and then devour the two measly loaves I spent all day making, I concluded there was no way the supply could meet the demand unless all I did was make bread all day and it was worth two bucks to just bring home an evenly sliced loaf.
So maybe I’ll do a little more research...
Regardless of what I decide, I have to say the concept of a rolling, egg-laying, bug eating machine is pretty amazing ingenuity, perhaps even besting the all in one printer-fax-scanner.
My hats off to the fella that thought of that one and happy rolling to the lucky chicks that get to cruise in that ride.
Why didn’t the rooster cross the road?
I don’t know the answer, but when the call went out over the police scanner this week, you can bet your bottom dollar I grabbed a camera and hurried for the scene.
The call that went out came from a sheriff’s deputy who asked dispatch to summon animal control.
Apparently a rooster was standing firm in the middle of the road at Fifth and Main streets and was disrupting traffic.
I can’t tell you how much I was hoping to get a photo for the paper of the chicken that wouldn’t cross the road, stopping traffic and attracting law enforcement.
But alas, by the time I arrived on scene animal control was leaving, I can only assume with an angry rooster in the back of the truck.
And absent a photo, all we ended up with in the office was a couple hours of chicken jokes.
But that wasn’t the only chicken I crossed paths with this week.
During small talk at the beginning to a scheduled interview for an unrelated story, an official, (who I won’t expressly identify) told me he enjoys my pet column and he confessed that he relates in part, because he has an unusual hobby.
He keeps pet chickens in his back yard — 10 hens to be exact.
And every day they produce about 8 eggs.
While he loves the fresh eggs and said they are much healthier than store bought, he admitted that 8 eggs a day is more than his family can use so they give eggs away, “like zucchini.”
I have to admit I found this to be a novel idea and have even considered looking into it myself, thinking with the amount of eggs consumed at my house, it might be a healthy and economical idea to just have chickens.
“Is it worth it?” I asked.
I think he said “not really,” but to be honest I can’t remember because of what he told me next.
Turns out he keeps them in a “rolling coop.”
I accept I may be the only person who didn’t know what this is but on the off chance there’s someone else out there who shares my ignorance, I’ll explain as he did...
A rolling chicken coop is literally a chicken coop on wheels that you fill with chickens then push around in your yard.
I guess by rolling it around it helps keep down the damage to your yard.
But he said the biggest benefit is that the chickens fertilize your grass and keep the insect population down at the same time.
He was very enthusiastic about the concept and even told me about a local source for the rolling coop.
Now I have to admit, I am still pondering this and am enamored by the idea.
Some of you may recall my complaints of a huge toad population last summer, which obviously means there were enough bugs in my yard to feed them — so a little insect control that doesn’t need electricity or result in nasty smelling vapors is a novel idea.
But a big part of me wonders if it wouldn’t be like the time I decided to make my own bread to save money and be more health conscious.
About seven hours later as I watched my family slather butter and honey on and then devour the two measly loaves I spent all day making, I concluded there was no way the supply could meet the demand unless all I did was make bread all day and it was worth two bucks to just bring home an evenly sliced loaf.
So maybe I’ll do a little more research...
Regardless of what I decide, I have to say the concept of a rolling, egg-laying, bug eating machine is pretty amazing ingenuity, perhaps even besting the all in one printer-fax-scanner.
My hats off to the fella that thought of that one and happy rolling to the lucky chicks that get to cruise in that ride.
The name game
As featured Feb. 25, 2011 on cnjonline.com
I don’t know about anyone else, but after years of having pets it can get a little challenging to come up with original names for them.
In fact, I think the names must have started running out when I was a kid. Aside from the brown dog named Brownie, we had a succession of shepherd-type dogs that I guess because they shared similar black and tan markings, got variations of the same name — Star, Golden Star and so on and so forth.
Even now, every time there’s a new addition to the family, it’s a struggle and they sometimes go nameless until the heavens open up and the perfect name falls from the clouds.
So it begs the question, what do you when you have hundreds of animals?
From working on a dairy many moons ago I know nobody got named, for obvious reasons, although an occasional bull would pick up a nickname if he was particularly mean or even playful, but otherwise it was a black and white blur.
And I’ve noticed that most working horses have simple names, most often tied to their color.
During a conversation with zookeepers this week, the subject drifted to the topic of names for the animals on exhibit and I have to admit I found it interesting.
Each keeper is assigned to a type of animal, for instance primates, reptiles or hoofed.
And one of the first things most keepers do is start adopting names for their charges —I’m told most of the more than 350 occupants of the zoo do have names.
It seems as if for the zookeepers, naming the animals is a way of establishing investment and a sense of ownership and part of the bonding process.
Often when keepers leave or rotate to another type of animal, the animals often get new names from their new keepers but some have stuck with the animals over the years.
Take for instance “Popcorn,” the yellow Burmese python. How the name came to be is history, but the name is still around.
But then there’s “Gumby D” an African pygmy goat who has also been known as “Stinky” and “Blackie” and the wolves have been named so many times zoo keepers have lost count. At the present, they’re known as “Skinny” “Minny” “Fatty” “Patty” and “Tacoma.”
The names selected are often a reflection of the keeper’s personalities or sometimes are chosen by themes.
One keeper told me she likes people names for instance, naming the donkeys Lucy and Ethel, while another goes for biblical names, Jael the giraffe’s name being an example of one of his selections.
“Stinker” the camel was named by one keeper’s son because, their family had to bottle feed the camel and, well, it stunk.
The bobcats are named after the Osbourne family — Ozzy, Kelly and Sharon —with the exception of “Bobby” who arrived at the zoo pre-named.
Occasionally a keeper will get upset when their animals are renamed as a result of rotation, but for most it’s just understood, the zoo curator told me.
Do the animals ever get confused?
Zookeepers say no, they don’t seem to care who calls them what as long as the food keeps coming.
Now some of the animals have been named by community members or school groups and those names stick for the most part, except in the case of “Freedom” the eagle.
While Freedom is her official name, given by a group of elementary students, her keeper said he respects the childrens’ sentiments but has never been able to adopt the name in private because in her case it’s just too close to an oxymoron.
“I call her Gabby because she’s always talking,” he said. “How can you call a bird with one wing, that’s stuck in a cage ‘Freedom’?”
I also asked about the worst-ever name a keeper has come up with and it turns out a keeper was told to change these... A trio of rheas was named “Pizza,” “Dia” and “Gono.”
I’m not going to touch those other than to say I’d probably go for another theme on them, too.
I don’t know about anyone else, but after years of having pets it can get a little challenging to come up with original names for them.
In fact, I think the names must have started running out when I was a kid. Aside from the brown dog named Brownie, we had a succession of shepherd-type dogs that I guess because they shared similar black and tan markings, got variations of the same name — Star, Golden Star and so on and so forth.
Even now, every time there’s a new addition to the family, it’s a struggle and they sometimes go nameless until the heavens open up and the perfect name falls from the clouds.
So it begs the question, what do you when you have hundreds of animals?
From working on a dairy many moons ago I know nobody got named, for obvious reasons, although an occasional bull would pick up a nickname if he was particularly mean or even playful, but otherwise it was a black and white blur.
And I’ve noticed that most working horses have simple names, most often tied to their color.
During a conversation with zookeepers this week, the subject drifted to the topic of names for the animals on exhibit and I have to admit I found it interesting.
Each keeper is assigned to a type of animal, for instance primates, reptiles or hoofed.
And one of the first things most keepers do is start adopting names for their charges —I’m told most of the more than 350 occupants of the zoo do have names.
It seems as if for the zookeepers, naming the animals is a way of establishing investment and a sense of ownership and part of the bonding process.
Often when keepers leave or rotate to another type of animal, the animals often get new names from their new keepers but some have stuck with the animals over the years.
Take for instance “Popcorn,” the yellow Burmese python. How the name came to be is history, but the name is still around.
But then there’s “Gumby D” an African pygmy goat who has also been known as “Stinky” and “Blackie” and the wolves have been named so many times zoo keepers have lost count. At the present, they’re known as “Skinny” “Minny” “Fatty” “Patty” and “Tacoma.”
The names selected are often a reflection of the keeper’s personalities or sometimes are chosen by themes.
One keeper told me she likes people names for instance, naming the donkeys Lucy and Ethel, while another goes for biblical names, Jael the giraffe’s name being an example of one of his selections.
“Stinker” the camel was named by one keeper’s son because, their family had to bottle feed the camel and, well, it stunk.
The bobcats are named after the Osbourne family — Ozzy, Kelly and Sharon —with the exception of “Bobby” who arrived at the zoo pre-named.
Occasionally a keeper will get upset when their animals are renamed as a result of rotation, but for most it’s just understood, the zoo curator told me.
Do the animals ever get confused?
Zookeepers say no, they don’t seem to care who calls them what as long as the food keeps coming.
Now some of the animals have been named by community members or school groups and those names stick for the most part, except in the case of “Freedom” the eagle.
While Freedom is her official name, given by a group of elementary students, her keeper said he respects the childrens’ sentiments but has never been able to adopt the name in private because in her case it’s just too close to an oxymoron.
“I call her Gabby because she’s always talking,” he said. “How can you call a bird with one wing, that’s stuck in a cage ‘Freedom’?”
I also asked about the worst-ever name a keeper has come up with and it turns out a keeper was told to change these... A trio of rheas was named “Pizza,” “Dia” and “Gono.”
I’m not going to touch those other than to say I’d probably go for another theme on them, too.
Dogs have habit of running away
As featured Feb. 18, 2011 on cnjonline.com
Why do they do it?
I mean, come on. We’re nice to them, we give them treats, food, a warm spot to sleep and affection.
So what is it that compels a dog to charge out the door like the devil’s after him?
I found myself pondering this on the heels of learning Friday that the prodigal pooch “Bailey” was located and has been returned home after almost two weeks on the lam.
Bailey took off the night of Feb. 7 during a bathroom break. So committed was he to whatever this mission of his was, he even escaped the home of a Samaritan who took him in — probably delaying his return home by about a week or more.
While Bailey was out having a good old time, his family spent countless hours driving, knocking on doors, making phone calls, visiting the shelter and getting the word out.
And throughout it all, his boy pined, asking several times a day, “Where’s Bailey? When’s Bailey coming home?”
Now here’s a dog with everything going for him. He gets to sleep at the foot of the bed, he has a family who cares — including a boy who loves him — and a canine chum named Haas to play with. He has pretty much anything else he wants or needs, with the possible exceptions of access to girlfriends and birds to chase.
So why would he just up and run off?
It occurs to me, whether the naming was intended or not, he has some things in common with the jazz myth “Bill Bailey” who the greats have been crooning to and begging to come home for more than 130 years now.
There is also some speculation that perhaps he caught wind of the fact he was scheduled for “The Procedure” and that was the key in his ignition.
But that’s doubtful since it’s wasn’t his first rodeo.
In all reality, he’s just a pooch with an inner dog to amuse, for as it was so aptly put into a dog’s anthem by John Keats, “Ever let thy Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.”
Canine understanding aside, I have to say I’m a sympathizer to his family’s plight.
It’s always easy to armchair quarterback these situations, but I know all to well that there are some dogs that refuse to be stopped by any and all reasonable measures to keep them near their food bowl.
Lord knows I’ve had my share with Gilligan, who can climb, burrow, chew, jump, sneak and charge his way out of the best home he’s ever had without a second thought.
So much in fact that the times I have gotten calls from someone who has collared the mutt, I am quick to say, “I know he looks cute and sweet, but trust me, I need you to tie him to something until I get there.”
And even with the warning, there have been several times I’ve gotten a second call saying, “Sorry, he got away from me.”
Oh I have so envied the owners of those dogs who patiently wait in the truck while they shop or those who laze around on the front porch all day seemingly unfazed by the wide open world at the tip of their paws.
But alas, the dog of my heart just wasn’t built that way and it sounds like Bailey wasn’t either.
And you just can’t hold it against them anymore than they hold it against us.
Every time I have gone to collect my buddy he has wagged and jumped in the car happy as can be, the look on his face saying nothing more accusatory than, “What took you so long? You found me in 30 minutes last time ...”
I wish Bailey all the best, because I happen to know he’s destined for new tags, a microchip and some amputated parts.
And while those things will help — even if only in bringing him home sooner next time — If my Gilligan is any indication, Bailey’s family probably has a couple more adventures in their future.
That in mind, the only advice I have, is for Bailey ...
If you’re going to keep it up, get really good at the puppy eyes because while we’re out combing the streets for you, the last thing you want your people thinking about are those chewed up favorite slippers.
One vice per dog please...
Why do they do it?
I mean, come on. We’re nice to them, we give them treats, food, a warm spot to sleep and affection.
So what is it that compels a dog to charge out the door like the devil’s after him?
I found myself pondering this on the heels of learning Friday that the prodigal pooch “Bailey” was located and has been returned home after almost two weeks on the lam.
Bailey took off the night of Feb. 7 during a bathroom break. So committed was he to whatever this mission of his was, he even escaped the home of a Samaritan who took him in — probably delaying his return home by about a week or more.
While Bailey was out having a good old time, his family spent countless hours driving, knocking on doors, making phone calls, visiting the shelter and getting the word out.
And throughout it all, his boy pined, asking several times a day, “Where’s Bailey? When’s Bailey coming home?”
Now here’s a dog with everything going for him. He gets to sleep at the foot of the bed, he has a family who cares — including a boy who loves him — and a canine chum named Haas to play with. He has pretty much anything else he wants or needs, with the possible exceptions of access to girlfriends and birds to chase.
So why would he just up and run off?
It occurs to me, whether the naming was intended or not, he has some things in common with the jazz myth “Bill Bailey” who the greats have been crooning to and begging to come home for more than 130 years now.
There is also some speculation that perhaps he caught wind of the fact he was scheduled for “The Procedure” and that was the key in his ignition.
But that’s doubtful since it’s wasn’t his first rodeo.
In all reality, he’s just a pooch with an inner dog to amuse, for as it was so aptly put into a dog’s anthem by John Keats, “Ever let thy Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.”
Canine understanding aside, I have to say I’m a sympathizer to his family’s plight.
It’s always easy to armchair quarterback these situations, but I know all to well that there are some dogs that refuse to be stopped by any and all reasonable measures to keep them near their food bowl.
Lord knows I’ve had my share with Gilligan, who can climb, burrow, chew, jump, sneak and charge his way out of the best home he’s ever had without a second thought.
So much in fact that the times I have gotten calls from someone who has collared the mutt, I am quick to say, “I know he looks cute and sweet, but trust me, I need you to tie him to something until I get there.”
And even with the warning, there have been several times I’ve gotten a second call saying, “Sorry, he got away from me.”
Oh I have so envied the owners of those dogs who patiently wait in the truck while they shop or those who laze around on the front porch all day seemingly unfazed by the wide open world at the tip of their paws.
But alas, the dog of my heart just wasn’t built that way and it sounds like Bailey wasn’t either.
And you just can’t hold it against them anymore than they hold it against us.
Every time I have gone to collect my buddy he has wagged and jumped in the car happy as can be, the look on his face saying nothing more accusatory than, “What took you so long? You found me in 30 minutes last time ...”
I wish Bailey all the best, because I happen to know he’s destined for new tags, a microchip and some amputated parts.
And while those things will help — even if only in bringing him home sooner next time — If my Gilligan is any indication, Bailey’s family probably has a couple more adventures in their future.
That in mind, the only advice I have, is for Bailey ...
If you’re going to keep it up, get really good at the puppy eyes because while we’re out combing the streets for you, the last thing you want your people thinking about are those chewed up favorite slippers.
One vice per dog please...
'You go Gilligan'
As featured Feb. 11, 2011 on cnjonline.com
Yeah, he likes the turtle neck... and the cardigan too.
And the brighter the color, the bouncier his step.
Poor Gilligan, yes, I’m outing him.
I’d like to think he just appreciates the extra warmth, but it’s pretty obvious it’s not that simple.
And no, I don’t think it has anything to do with leaving his “treasures” at the vets office in Lubbock in October, but who knows.
I’ve alluded to the possibility that I might, maybe, could possibly have put a sweater on my dog last week during the Arctic blast we suffered, and now I admit, yes, I did.
Not just a sweater; more like three.
They were on sale — Oh come on, who can pass up $1.50 for vivacious orange and red or demure blue and gray, really... — and it was so cold out.
I rationalized it as a completely practical life-saving measure on my part, after all, it wasn’t his choice to be shaved a few months back.
I was trying to let him go au naturale, but he’s just too scrappy to carry the look and the Rasta locks had to go.
His sculpted metro-look was all fine and well for 50-degree days, but when the cold moved in, so did my sympathy.
I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have spent more than $1.50 on a sweater because I fully expected it would start with a fight, and in the event I got it on him, I would find it later, muddy and trampled in a snow pile in the yard.
Reminiscent of the days when my kids were little and stubborn, I stretched the neck and had my hand through the opening, ready to grab his face, and push the sweater from my forearm, over his head and around his neck before he knew what hit him.
As it turned out, none of that was necessary.
The spinning, hopping, panting dervish of a dog stood quiet as a church mouse with his little chin jutting out almost proudly as I ceremoniously slipped it over his head and fed his front legs into the sleeves.
And for the rest of the week, I swear he strutted like he was working the catwalk, parading in front of the other dogs with his back straight and head high, even when one of the sweaters gave him a royal dog-wedgie that would have backed anyone else into a corner.
He even stood still for a couple happy-snappys, taken to document the occasion.
And the truly strange thing is he DID look good — not silly or overly doted upon, just rough and tumble, normal-dog good.
Now in my curiosity about this strange phenomenon, I tried one of the sweaters on Sadie, who also has a short coat and was the next most likely to suffer in the cold.
Always a good girl, she acquiesced and let me put it on her, but I really do think I saw her roll her eyes when she thought I wasn’t looking. And her first order of business once outside was to roll around and flop on the ground like some parasite was eating her whole.
It wasn’t long before she met me at the back door, the sweater hanging off one shoulder like some 80’s fashion nightmare.
Clearly she was not capable of taking care of a sweater, even if it did cost less than $2.
But my goofy boy, now he appreciated them.
Maybe the reason for their varied reactions is rooted in the difference between coming from a life of hardship on the streets as he did and living a more pampered life like she has.
Or it could be Gilligan just has flair and in her case, no self-respecting herding type pooch would ever be caught dead in a sweater, even if it did make her eyes stand out...
Regardless, I felt a shift between he and I after he got his sweaters, because ever since, he has leaned into me more when he sits beside me and he snuggles closer at night, as if to say “Gee mom, I knew you loved me...”
And you know what? I can accept my boy sporting the sweaters because I know underneath it, he’s still the same wonderful, crazy bundle of contradictions he always was.
And as the illustrious Oscar Wilde said, “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken,” or in other words, “You go Gilligan...”
Yeah, he likes the turtle neck... and the cardigan too.
And the brighter the color, the bouncier his step.
Poor Gilligan, yes, I’m outing him.
I’d like to think he just appreciates the extra warmth, but it’s pretty obvious it’s not that simple.
And no, I don’t think it has anything to do with leaving his “treasures” at the vets office in Lubbock in October, but who knows.
I’ve alluded to the possibility that I might, maybe, could possibly have put a sweater on my dog last week during the Arctic blast we suffered, and now I admit, yes, I did.
Not just a sweater; more like three.
They were on sale — Oh come on, who can pass up $1.50 for vivacious orange and red or demure blue and gray, really... — and it was so cold out.
I rationalized it as a completely practical life-saving measure on my part, after all, it wasn’t his choice to be shaved a few months back.
I was trying to let him go au naturale, but he’s just too scrappy to carry the look and the Rasta locks had to go.
His sculpted metro-look was all fine and well for 50-degree days, but when the cold moved in, so did my sympathy.
I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have spent more than $1.50 on a sweater because I fully expected it would start with a fight, and in the event I got it on him, I would find it later, muddy and trampled in a snow pile in the yard.
Reminiscent of the days when my kids were little and stubborn, I stretched the neck and had my hand through the opening, ready to grab his face, and push the sweater from my forearm, over his head and around his neck before he knew what hit him.
As it turned out, none of that was necessary.
The spinning, hopping, panting dervish of a dog stood quiet as a church mouse with his little chin jutting out almost proudly as I ceremoniously slipped it over his head and fed his front legs into the sleeves.
And for the rest of the week, I swear he strutted like he was working the catwalk, parading in front of the other dogs with his back straight and head high, even when one of the sweaters gave him a royal dog-wedgie that would have backed anyone else into a corner.
He even stood still for a couple happy-snappys, taken to document the occasion.
And the truly strange thing is he DID look good — not silly or overly doted upon, just rough and tumble, normal-dog good.
Now in my curiosity about this strange phenomenon, I tried one of the sweaters on Sadie, who also has a short coat and was the next most likely to suffer in the cold.
Always a good girl, she acquiesced and let me put it on her, but I really do think I saw her roll her eyes when she thought I wasn’t looking. And her first order of business once outside was to roll around and flop on the ground like some parasite was eating her whole.
It wasn’t long before she met me at the back door, the sweater hanging off one shoulder like some 80’s fashion nightmare.
Clearly she was not capable of taking care of a sweater, even if it did cost less than $2.
But my goofy boy, now he appreciated them.
Maybe the reason for their varied reactions is rooted in the difference between coming from a life of hardship on the streets as he did and living a more pampered life like she has.
Or it could be Gilligan just has flair and in her case, no self-respecting herding type pooch would ever be caught dead in a sweater, even if it did make her eyes stand out...
Regardless, I felt a shift between he and I after he got his sweaters, because ever since, he has leaned into me more when he sits beside me and he snuggles closer at night, as if to say “Gee mom, I knew you loved me...”
And you know what? I can accept my boy sporting the sweaters because I know underneath it, he’s still the same wonderful, crazy bundle of contradictions he always was.
And as the illustrious Oscar Wilde said, “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken,” or in other words, “You go Gilligan...”
Big freeze brings pet care lessons
As featured Feb. 4, 2011 on cnjonline.com
Earlier this week, while heading out the door for work, I noticed a frenzy of bird activity on my back porch. The flock was centered around the dogs’ bowls of half-eaten food, abandoned when they gladly traded their 20-below breakfast time for the warmth of their kennels inside.
I noticed one of the birds, a dove, was lying on its back with curled feet pointed to the sky.
Knowing he hadn’t been there when I passed by a few minutes earlier, I ran outside and grabbed the bird, hoping there was still a window of time to warm and revive it.
While I rubbed him in a towel, then tried warm water, looking for signs of life behind the ice crystals covering his eyes, I was reminded of holding a small puppy in the same condition decades ago.
Brownie, the beloved family mutt, had sneaked off and given birth in the midst of an eastern mountain snowstorm.
My brother and I discovered the puppies too late — curled together for warmth and frozen like little statues.
Wednesday, the bird in my hands didn’t seem that far gone, but he wasn’t responding either.
Out of ideas, I wrapped him in a towel, set him in a warm spot and left the kids with instructions to let him outside if he came to, and well, to put him outside if he didn't.
A text message a couple of hours later let me know he wouldn’t be flying out.
I’m sure he wasn’t the only creature who didn’t survive the temperatures this week, but knowing the extreme possibilities, a majority of my time this past week went to making sure the furry folks in my care didn’t meet similar fates.
Between double feedings, cleaning up messes, breaking ice and playing musical dogs, it seems like that was all I did.
And from talking with friends and seeing their venting and lamenting online, I gather I was not alone in having an arduous week in the interest of making sure my pets didn’t.
In winters past, I have made mental notes of things to remember for the next winter and I always seem to forget after 12 months and warm summer days, so this year, I think I’ll put my list in writing.
Things learned in the Great Freeze of 2011:
• Buy tougher toys. Even with multiple stretch breaks, a stir-crazy dog in a kennel can destroy more than one stuffed toy an hour and then move on to blankets.
• As long as no one actually sees you put a sweater on your dog it technically didn’t happen.
• Don’t cut across ice patches with a big mountain breed dog on a leash. You’re cold and slow, he’s not.
• Just because the snow seems dry and packed and the ground frozen, doesn’t mean anything. Dog + snow = mud.
• Cold dogs can still jump fences, it’s just a bigger pain getting them back.
• The backside of the ax works great for breaking ice on stock tanks as long as you don’t put your fingers between it and the ice. You won’t feel it immediately, but you will feel it.
• Don’t store your coveralls in the garage. Yes, you and a mouse can both fit in them, but cold chores are bad enough without all the screaming.
• Just because the dog doesn’t want to go out, doesn't mean he doesn’t need to go — and going on the carpet when it’s 24 below zero outside doesn’t make him dumb, it means he’s smarter than you are.
• Most importantly, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT change dog food brands when you run out the day before a big winter storm, even if you find another brand on sale and especially in the case of very large dogs with sensitive stomachs.
P.S. Don’t ask...
Earlier this week, while heading out the door for work, I noticed a frenzy of bird activity on my back porch. The flock was centered around the dogs’ bowls of half-eaten food, abandoned when they gladly traded their 20-below breakfast time for the warmth of their kennels inside.
I noticed one of the birds, a dove, was lying on its back with curled feet pointed to the sky.
Knowing he hadn’t been there when I passed by a few minutes earlier, I ran outside and grabbed the bird, hoping there was still a window of time to warm and revive it.
While I rubbed him in a towel, then tried warm water, looking for signs of life behind the ice crystals covering his eyes, I was reminded of holding a small puppy in the same condition decades ago.
Brownie, the beloved family mutt, had sneaked off and given birth in the midst of an eastern mountain snowstorm.
My brother and I discovered the puppies too late — curled together for warmth and frozen like little statues.
Wednesday, the bird in my hands didn’t seem that far gone, but he wasn’t responding either.
Out of ideas, I wrapped him in a towel, set him in a warm spot and left the kids with instructions to let him outside if he came to, and well, to put him outside if he didn't.
A text message a couple of hours later let me know he wouldn’t be flying out.
I’m sure he wasn’t the only creature who didn’t survive the temperatures this week, but knowing the extreme possibilities, a majority of my time this past week went to making sure the furry folks in my care didn’t meet similar fates.
Between double feedings, cleaning up messes, breaking ice and playing musical dogs, it seems like that was all I did.
And from talking with friends and seeing their venting and lamenting online, I gather I was not alone in having an arduous week in the interest of making sure my pets didn’t.
In winters past, I have made mental notes of things to remember for the next winter and I always seem to forget after 12 months and warm summer days, so this year, I think I’ll put my list in writing.
Things learned in the Great Freeze of 2011:
• Buy tougher toys. Even with multiple stretch breaks, a stir-crazy dog in a kennel can destroy more than one stuffed toy an hour and then move on to blankets.
• As long as no one actually sees you put a sweater on your dog it technically didn’t happen.
• Don’t cut across ice patches with a big mountain breed dog on a leash. You’re cold and slow, he’s not.
• Just because the snow seems dry and packed and the ground frozen, doesn’t mean anything. Dog + snow = mud.
• Cold dogs can still jump fences, it’s just a bigger pain getting them back.
• The backside of the ax works great for breaking ice on stock tanks as long as you don’t put your fingers between it and the ice. You won’t feel it immediately, but you will feel it.
• Don’t store your coveralls in the garage. Yes, you and a mouse can both fit in them, but cold chores are bad enough without all the screaming.
• Just because the dog doesn’t want to go out, doesn't mean he doesn’t need to go — and going on the carpet when it’s 24 below zero outside doesn’t make him dumb, it means he’s smarter than you are.
• Most importantly, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT change dog food brands when you run out the day before a big winter storm, even if you find another brand on sale and especially in the case of very large dogs with sensitive stomachs.
P.S. Don’t ask...
Good to be in the middle of the penguin pack
As featured Jan. 28, 2011 on cnjonline.com
“Did you know penguins push one of their own into the water to see if it's safe?” I asked a teen.
We were discussing social angst among teenagers and the evolutions he has been through in recent years.
“No,” he answered, a smile forming on his face as if he knew where I was going with it.
I set out to describe the flock, thousands of black and white winged bowling pins, bobbling and chattering at the edge of the ice, wondering if it's safe to go in the water.
When, “Plop!” — there goes Joe, into the water.
If he survives, the others know the water is free from predatory seals.
In the alternative, if Joe gets munched, well, it's clearly not a good place to dive in.
Actually, scientists aren’t really sure if the penguin collective intentionally sacrifices a martyr member, or if it's more of an accident.
What’s most likely is — with the group's high energy, en masse jostling at the waters edge trying to decide if it's a good launch spot — somebody gets bumped.
And “Joe” gets to test the waters.
Now there’s something to be said for Joe — if he survives — because he will have faced enormous risk and emerged triumphant from the cool blue, appearing to be a hero to his fellow fowls.
But probability tells us it could go the other way just as easily, and for the next guy in the Joe row, the outcome may be entirely different.
And the teen, he was relating to “Joe,” actually dozens of “Joes” that he has and continues to encounter in his daily life.
Positioned somewhere in the middle of the flock, he was watching the frenzy along the water's edge as his friends struggle with their experiences.
Swirling all around him were feelings of depression, melodrama, anger, identity, family problems, stress, fear.
And the outcome of those feelings were what was bothering him as he watched friends struggle with their problems, often turning to the wrong things as solutions.
Some of it he had already been through on his journey, some of it was shocking and some of it he just couldn't understand.
But in his desire to help them, he ran the risk of getting to close to the front row.
“Where do you think the best position is in the penguin flock?” I asked.
“... Right where you are now.”
I went on to tell him if I were a penguin, I would want to be somewhere in the middle, close enough to see Joe, but not close enough to be Joe.
I could gain from Joe's experience just from watching. If he survived, I’d know there was smooth swimming in my future, if he didn't make it, well, I would hate to see that but I have the opportunity to apply the lesson where he won't get to.
The guys in the back have no clue what's going on and will struggle to the front until one day they are Joe simply because they never knew.
But it is those penguins, who have a good view of what is happening at the front who will benefit most, even though they may have to see a little tragedy along the way.
And those who have had their turn along the ice's edge but were lucky enough not to get bumped in are sometimes even better off, as long as they realize their luck and learn to move back a little.
Sometimes we think we need to be out front, sometimes we think we need to be the ones making the waves so everyone else has to follow us — And sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
There’s a time to face risk and danger, but you do it on your own terms with wisdom and knowing without a doubt it’s right — not because you just happen to be the one that fell in or got bumped.
Knowing where you've been, knowing where you stand and knowing when there's a risk in front of you goes a long way.
If you're a penguin that is ...
“Did you know penguins push one of their own into the water to see if it's safe?” I asked a teen.
We were discussing social angst among teenagers and the evolutions he has been through in recent years.
“No,” he answered, a smile forming on his face as if he knew where I was going with it.
I set out to describe the flock, thousands of black and white winged bowling pins, bobbling and chattering at the edge of the ice, wondering if it's safe to go in the water.
When, “Plop!” — there goes Joe, into the water.
If he survives, the others know the water is free from predatory seals.
In the alternative, if Joe gets munched, well, it's clearly not a good place to dive in.
Actually, scientists aren’t really sure if the penguin collective intentionally sacrifices a martyr member, or if it's more of an accident.
What’s most likely is — with the group's high energy, en masse jostling at the waters edge trying to decide if it's a good launch spot — somebody gets bumped.
And “Joe” gets to test the waters.
Now there’s something to be said for Joe — if he survives — because he will have faced enormous risk and emerged triumphant from the cool blue, appearing to be a hero to his fellow fowls.
But probability tells us it could go the other way just as easily, and for the next guy in the Joe row, the outcome may be entirely different.
And the teen, he was relating to “Joe,” actually dozens of “Joes” that he has and continues to encounter in his daily life.
Positioned somewhere in the middle of the flock, he was watching the frenzy along the water's edge as his friends struggle with their experiences.
Swirling all around him were feelings of depression, melodrama, anger, identity, family problems, stress, fear.
And the outcome of those feelings were what was bothering him as he watched friends struggle with their problems, often turning to the wrong things as solutions.
Some of it he had already been through on his journey, some of it was shocking and some of it he just couldn't understand.
But in his desire to help them, he ran the risk of getting to close to the front row.
“Where do you think the best position is in the penguin flock?” I asked.
“... Right where you are now.”
I went on to tell him if I were a penguin, I would want to be somewhere in the middle, close enough to see Joe, but not close enough to be Joe.
I could gain from Joe's experience just from watching. If he survived, I’d know there was smooth swimming in my future, if he didn't make it, well, I would hate to see that but I have the opportunity to apply the lesson where he won't get to.
The guys in the back have no clue what's going on and will struggle to the front until one day they are Joe simply because they never knew.
But it is those penguins, who have a good view of what is happening at the front who will benefit most, even though they may have to see a little tragedy along the way.
And those who have had their turn along the ice's edge but were lucky enough not to get bumped in are sometimes even better off, as long as they realize their luck and learn to move back a little.
Sometimes we think we need to be out front, sometimes we think we need to be the ones making the waves so everyone else has to follow us — And sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
There’s a time to face risk and danger, but you do it on your own terms with wisdom and knowing without a doubt it’s right — not because you just happen to be the one that fell in or got bumped.
Knowing where you've been, knowing where you stand and knowing when there's a risk in front of you goes a long way.
If you're a penguin that is ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)