Forgive my Absence

The last several days I have been remiss--not posting to my blog, barely getting around to read other blogs. Please believe me, it is not for lack of interest. No, the thing I am missing is . . .TIME.

The past two weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. Seemingly simultaneously, my father and aunt needed medical care. My father fell off his motorized scooter and, after delaying seeking treatment, ended up in the hospital with a deep leg bruise with a hematoma. He is now home, and recuperating. Around the same time, word came that my dear aunt had fallen and broken her hip. She had surgery and a hip replacement. She is in rehab, recovering, but longer term arrangements are needed for where she goes to live after she leaves rehab.

These two events have meant I need to devote my time and attention to things other than visiting blog friends.

And then, this past Friday, we had a guest come to stay with us for a week. Our son and daughter-in-law's dog Sonnet is visiting. She is being treated quite royally, as you can see.

Sonnet's visit has set up a most interesting dynamic between her and Ziva. Sonnet was great doggie friends with our sweet (now departed) Tipper. They had bonded, even though they sometimes fought.

Tipper was a definite alpha dog. She thought it her duty to police Sonnet in all things. Sonnet loves nothing more than grabbing a squeaky toy in her month and squeaking away--actually SQUEAKING away. When Sonnet ran to chase after a thrown toy, Tipper would race after her, barking like crazy.

Ziva, on the other hand, is most definitely NOT an alpha dog. She is all the way an omega dog. She instantly shows belly to any dog that challenges her. So, here's Sonnet--first of all, obviously remembering Tipper and disapproving of Ziva. Secondly, Sonnet has discovered that Ziva actually defers to her. So Sonnet has decided to take full advantage, and occasionally growl at Ziva.

I took the dogs to the dog park today. Ziva has only just begun to get the idea of the dog park. First number of times we took her, she stood there seeming to say--what? what should I do? Today, as soon as she got in the park, she raced off. After a bit, Sonnet ran after her. For once, the roles were reversed--Ziva in full command, Sonnet a bit bewildered. The time did seem to help even the balance between them.

And, of course, the best part--both dogs are wiped out sleeping tonight.

The Graduate

When we got Ziva, our new dog, we determined to "do things right" with this sweet puppy. We vowed to be good people parents, not succumbing to some of the bad habits we had previously given in to with Tipper.

Among other things, we thought it would be a good idea to take her to obedience class. So, we signed up at our local P*t Sm*rt store for classes. The instructor was a kindly older German woman named (Re)gina. She told us to call her Gina. She spoke with something of an accent, which only gave her instructions the sound of COMMAND as she put us through our paces.

The first week, there were about ten dogs and owners in attendance. One dog was a small pit bull who could not/would not stop barking. Gina took a metal water dish and kept dropping it next to the dog--clang, clang. The dog would startle, stop barking for a bit, then resume barking. There was a sweet looking border collie named Dakota that was so shy and freaked by all the people that she would not look at anyone. She kept her head tucked in next to her person.

Then there were Murphy, a labradoodle who looked for all the world like a big doofy puppy, and Brook, a sweet retriever mix. And of course Ziva. These three dogs were the "big" dogs of the group.

Brook and Murphy

The second week of class we missed because of Ziva's little medical episode. When I called Gina to tell her we would not be there, she said, no problem. Also, she was dividing the class into two groups; would we come next week at 8 p.m. Sure.

So the third week, we went, and found that it was just the three big dogs. Actually, the pit bull was supposed to be there too, but the owner never came back. Maybe he liked having recalcitrant perpetually barking dog.

Each week, the class would begin with a mad tumble of dogs. All three mixing it up, with Brook and Ziva especially liking (and licking) each other. Ziva and Brook seemed to be best friends. Then it was down to business--sort of.

The training focused on SIT, DOWN, STAY, COME, puppy push ups (sit, down, sit again), and WAIT. The difference between "stay" and "wait" is basically that "stay" requires duration, distance, and distraction. You get your dog to sit or lie, you back up to put some distance between you; then you hold for 15 seconds or so, then go back and release the dog. Distraction means you should be able to have the dog stay, even if you walk around it or some other distraction. "Wait" is you walking away from the dog, then calling her to come to you. Frankly, a fine distinction, but maybe there is a point to it.

Finally, there was one magic command that Gina wanted everyone to learn and practice. TOUCH. When you are some distance from the dog, and you want her to come to you, raise your hand overhead, waving, and yell ZIVA, TOUCH. The dog comes running, you grab her collar or leash, say "good touch" and give a food reward. If you imprint this sequence enough, you should be able to use it to bring your dog back to you, if for some reason she is getting away from you, or about to be in danger.

Ziva receiving instructions

Let's just say that Ziva was an easily distracted pupil. Oh, look, there are bunnies in the cage over there. Oh, there's a customer, maybe he wants to pet me. Oh, another dog, I should go say hello. She reminded me of the dog in the movie UP--squirrel! If you have seen it, you know what I mean.

We would go through the paces, she would sort of do each step. She got very good at SIT, and DOWN. OK with puppy push-ups. STAY--well, sort of. For a few seconds. COME--no problem. WAIT--forget it. TOUCH--she was great with that, and we have even used it a few times at home.

The next to last class, when she was supposed to go through ALL the steps, she would not do it. She basically refused every command. Gina was very understanding. Oh, it's the border collie in her. RIGHT. All I see in Ziva is retriever. Her mother was reputed to be a golden retriever., But my suspicion is her mother was a yellow labrador retriever. And, labs can be rascals--loving, yes, but rascals.

So this week was graduation. But, first, there was the final exam. Gina walked around dropping a label on the floor with each step. My heart sank--she (Ziva) had been so bad the previous week. But, like some human students I have known, Ziva seemed to be absorbing even when she wasn't performing.

The final exam

She went from SIT, to DOWN,STAY, and COME. She even did puppy push-ups. Then WAIT--a bit of trouble with that. But she enthusiastically ran to me for TOUCH. In fact, as each dog owner would say TOUCH, Ziva was ready to run to them.

She passed. And got her certificate to prove it. I don't think she's a natural student, but at least we both survived our training.

The graduate!

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P. S. Dakota, the sweet border collie, completely came out of her shell, and was very friendly. Another successful graduate.

Revelation

When I first wrote about our new dog, someone commented requesting regular Ziva updates. Well, I can't promise "regular" ones, but here is at least "one."

We have had our first crisis with Ziva. It did not involve sleeping--that would be the first two nights with her in our house, sleeping in her crate, only crying and yipping until I got up and slept in the same room with her. It did not involve obedience school--we have enrolled her in training classes taught by a no-nonsense, but caring, German woman named Gina. It did not involve meeting other dogs--Ziva is the opposite of the alpha dog that Tipper was. Ziva seems ready to submit to any dog or person. She is an omega dog if anything.

So, what did it involve? Well, delicate reader, it involved a gastrointestinal upset, and the consequences thereof. Whether she had a reaction to a chew bone (one of those commercially made ones--not a real bone), or picked up something while walking that we did not see, whatever the cause, the effects are those most all dog owners know too well.

For a day, we kept making trips to get her outside to empty her intestines. Then suddenly, yesterday afternoon, Ziva also threw up. My immediate reaction--uh oh. Make that UH OH. I know enough to be very cautious about that.

So, we called our vet. My husband relayed the symptoms and the duration, indicating we thought this was an emergency and Ziva should be seen by a vet immediately. PAUSE. In fact, a long pause, while the vet's office put him on hold. For what seemed like 10 minutes. When they came back on the line, they agreed--this is an emergency. But we have no openings, so take her to the emergency vet hospital.

Mind, this all happened around 1 p.m. yesterday. The emergency hospital did not open until 7 p.m. But, the vet office suggested we could drive her to another one not quite an hour away.

We scrambled, and began calling local vets. After about 4 turn-downs, one office agreed to see her in a couple hours. Thus began our revelatory adventure.

The new vet office is as close to where we live, if not closer than our current vet office. It seems very well-organized, with friendly helpful staff. We waited in the outer area about 5 minutes before we were called in (our usual wait is NEVER less than 15 minutes). The vet was young, and wonderfully friendly.

First revelation--there is a better vet office nearby.

She did the usual initial diagnostic things--taking Ziva's temperature, listening to her heart and lungs, checking her mouth, eyes, and giving her a general once-over. She laid out the possibilities of what might be a problem. Of course, she listed the one thing we were most concerned about--some kind of blockage. She suggested doing an X-ray, and we agreed.

Here comes the second revelation.

When the vet and Ziva came back in the room, the vet said--well, we found no blockage but we found something else really unusual. She went to the office computer, and pulled up the two X-ray images she had taken. She showed us the side view of Ziva's innards--her small intestine, her stomach, her colon (full of gas), and then she showed us two bright spots above the small intestine. She repeated this viewing with the top view. Same bright spots.

Then she said--did you know that Ziva has been shot at some point in her life. Those are two BBs or pellets or maybe even bird shot.

Oh my. I think I stood there for a moment with my mouth open. Then, I told the vet the brief history of Ziva, including her provenance from Kentucky. (I think I detected a slight knowing look in the vet's eyes--as if all dogs in Kentucky are shot at one time or another.)

So, there you have it. We have a shot dog. The pellets are likely lodged somewhere in tissue and could not be found easily if at all with surgery. They are seemingly not the cause at all of the digestive distress. For that, the vet gave us two prescriptions and some sensitive stomach food for a couple of days.

Ziva is doing fine, a day after her emergency vet visit. And we are convinced that it's time to switch which vet practice we take our pets to.

Nothing like an emergency to reveal things to you, is there?

We Interrupt This Blog

I have a couple more blogs on our trip to Utah planned, but I must interrupt this blog to make an announcement.

WE HAVE A NEW DOG!

Following the death of our beloved Tipper, my husband and I immediately agreed we wanted another dog. Actually, we have had dogs for almost 40 years. Our first dog, a sweet white dog with black eyes and ears (who our son appropriately named Peek-a-boo) was a mixed breed. No idea what his lineage was. Our second dog was a short-lived failed attempt--we adopted a Welsh terrier from the local humane society, only to have the dog run away every time we opened the front door. Back to the humane society he went.

Then we had two English setters (bench type, not field) in succession. Shannon was 7 years old when we got her, and she lived 6 more years. We loved the placidness of the setters, so we rescued a year old setter named Wanda. She was the dog preceding Tipper. English setters are a wonderful breed, especially if you want a laid-back calm gentle dog.

You know the story of Tipper, and how she came to us. Her death left us bereft, stunned, and deeply saddened. And, it leads to the next chapter in our lives with dogs.

Enter Ziva.

We don't know her whole story, but we do know some of it. I began looking at local dog rescue websites. I usually selected "border collie" or "Australian shepherd" as the breed. I also looked at local humane society listings. Most of the latter had only pit bulls. I know these dogs can be sweet, but I am cautious when the dogs have already been surrendered at least once. I don't know what may have happened to them in their formative puppy months. Anyway, I came upon this dog.

She wasn't named Ziva when we got her. Her name was a frou-frou wimpy name. When we got her home, we could tell she was going to be a character. A sassy, black-haired lively character. So, Ziva popped into my mind (NCIS fans, anyone?) and Ziva she is. (Besides, Ziva means "Illustrious Splendor" in Hebrew--sounds like an apt named for a dog to begin her new life.)

The dog rescue group we got her from had transported her and her litter mates from somewhere in Kentucky. Her mother was a golden retriever, who was allowed to run loose, unspayed. Not surprisingly, she got pregnant, apparently by at least two different fathers. The puppies in litter are too dissimilar. Ziva's father may have been an Australian shepherd or a border collie.

The woman who owned the golden retriever allowed the puppies to run in a pack for almost a year, then called local dog authorities in Kentucky complaining of a wild pack of dogs. Ahem. Of course, she knew the truth was different, and finally owned up that in fact these puppies were from her dog. They landed in a kill shelter, where our local dog rescue group found them and transported them to Pennsylvania.

The rescue people were thrilled that we wanted her. They told us that frequently black dogs are the first to be killed in a kill shelter. I was shocked. Here was something of which I had not ever heard--but there is apparently a known issue among dog rescue people: the black dog syndrome.

Well, Ziva is now safe with us. She has much to learn. She has not lived in a house, so stairs were a puzzlement to her. She had apparently not seen television, as she took one look at our set, and began barking. She appears to be mostly house-trained. However, she seems to want company for sleeping. Her first night with us, she entered her crate just fine, but after about 15 minutes began whining louder and louder, until she finally burst into yipping barks. After two tries to calm her down, I gave in and slept in the same room with her.

I think we would to well to enroll her in obedience school, and maybe find some other outlet for her high energy.

OK--resume your blog reading. . .

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Photos of Ziva come from the dog rescue site.

Just Can't Help Myself

A day after the thunderstorm night, I was walking Tipper the dog around the block. A car pulled up next to us, and a man asked if we had seen a small dog. He went on to relate how he had been walking his two pound brown chihuahua in a nearby cemetery when the dog got away from him. He wondered if we had seen his lost dog in our neighborhood.

Well, I got to thinking, actually worrying. A poor little two pound dog, lost, and spending a night outside in a crashing thunderstorm. Poor poor thing. Frightened. Wet. Lost. Poor baby. You can tell, perhaps, that the image worked on me.

This morning, I was reading our local newspaper. And then I spotted it. . .a "found dog" ad. The description--brown chihuahua--rang a bell. And the location was very near where we live.

It was THAT lost dog. It just had to be. When the man had driven through our neighborhood asking for his dog, the natural question was--if we see your dog, how do we contact you. Oh, he said, just call the township police--they have all the information.

So, here I am. Good neighbor Sam(antha)--I just can't help myself. I HAVE to call the police and tell them, the dog has been found.

So, I call our township police. Right about now, you, the reader, are probably thinking--what is she thinking? I just can't help myself. If I see a problem, and think I know how to fix it, I have to try to help.

Herewith the conversation.

Hello, ____ Township Police.

Hello, I am calling about a lost dog.

Is it your dog?

No, there was an ad in the newspaper that someone found a dog. And, a man drove through our neighborhood a couple of days ago looking for his dog. It is the same dog. He said you have all the information.

(Pause. . .long pause) I will have the county dispatcher call you.

OK. (Hang up)

About 15 minutes later, the phone rings.

ME: Hello.

Is Donna there? This is Officer B*ll.

ME: This is Donna.

You called about a missing dog.

(Break away here to relate that after I called the township, I decided to call the found dog number--the conversation was short. ME: I am calling about the missing dog you found. DOG FINDER: Oh, the owner has been found. ME: OK.)

Back to me and Officer B*ll.

Me: Oh, a man was driving through our neighborhood, looking for his lost dog, and he said the police had all the information about him. I was reading the newspaper and saw an ad for a "found dog" and when I called that number, they said the owner had been found. I am really sorry to bother you, but I was trying to put all the pieces together, and I think everything is OK. Sorry you had to call back.

Officer B*ll: No problem, ma'am. Thank you for doing your civic duty.

End of conversation.

Even though I am greatly relieved the two pound chihuahua is not out in the rain and thunderstorms anymore, I am muttering to myself. Just can't help myself. Why not just leave such a situation alone?

Well, it's my nature. I see a problem. I think I have a solution. I just can't NOT try to put the pieces together.

Scaredy Dog. . .

No great insights in this post, my friends. I have just spent the second night in a week with a dog scared out of her wits due to middle-of-the-night thunderstorms.

Last Thursday, we picked up our daughter at the airport, drove home, had a nice evening, then headed off to bed. Transatlantic flight requires some adjusting to a new time zone! In the middle of the night, thunderstorms rolled through central Pennsylvania, and the dog--who HATES thunder--began her frantic whining.

So, I took her downstairs to our family room, barricaded her way back upstairs--so other family members could sleep. The dog was so upset, pacing, panting and whining, that I got her leash and put it on, so I could hold on to her.

After two hours of brilliant flashes of lightning followed by claps of thunder, the storm suddenly moved away. Just like that. The dog calmed down, and I finally fell asleep.

Well, the scene was virtually repeated last night. (This time, our daughter had safely returned to London.) But in the middle of the night, again--thunder and a frantic dog.

So, I gathered her up, went into the study, and finally fell asleep on the couch there. The dog managed to wedge herself into an impossibly small niche that seemed to help calm her.

I do wonder why some dogs are so afraid of thunder storms. I suspect her hearing is far more acute than mine, so maybe the sound of thunder not only terrifies her but may also hurt her ears. Whatever the cause, thunderstorms seriously disrupt her normal calm demeanor. Here she is in her "normal" thunderstorm hiding place--under my desk.

I can't recall a series of thunderstorms so close together in the middle of the night.

Well, by morning, all has returned to normal.

And I am back in the world of blogging.

Let's Hear it for the Old Dog

Every year, I get sucked into watching the Westminster Dog Show. I cheer wildly and enthusiastically for my favorite breeds.

First, dachshunds--the dog of my teen years. My parents had a dog named Willie who was my baby. He slept at my feet. Then one day he wandered out on a busy highway next to my parents' house--and that was the end of Willie.

Then, boxers--the dog of my husband's teen years. He had a lovely boxer named Ginger. She mostly didn't like outsiders to the family, but she loved me. I would stroke the bridge of her nose, and she would go all gooey eyed and lean against me.

Then, English setters--our family has had two English setters, both rescue dogs. The first, Shannon, came to us after I answered a newspaper ad for a free dog. The owner brought her to our house, where I saw an over-weight 7 year old dog who drooled--and my husband and son saw a wonderful pet. And she was--she lived another 6 years with us.

And Wanda, our second setter--was just great. As with many show setters, she had reserves of great patience with our children. She tended to be somewhat--shall we say--stationary. Mostly she liked to lie around, except when she played with our neighbor's dog--a Rottweiler named Jagger. They would chase around our yard, as she always outran him.

Finally, border collies. Our current dog--Tipper--is only half border, but all the breed traits are there.

So, the last two nights--I cheered for these dogs.

As the final judging proceeded, I noted--what an unusual combination of dogs. The only "predictable" one in the group was a poodle (not my favorite breed in showing--although they are great dogs as pets--I just hate the poofiness). In addition to the poodle, a Scottish deer hound, a Scottish terrier, a Puli (a PULI? as a herding dog--puh-lease), a Sussex spaniel, a Giant Schnauzer, and a Brussels Griffon. Compare that list to last year's winner--the all American dog: the beagle.

Anyway, a fun group. And the winner is. . .THE OLD DOG who just came out of retirement a week ago: the Sussex spaniel. This dog is ten years old, which I guess is sort of like someone aged 70 winning a major prize. Oh, there is hope for me. . .in several years, of course.

Let's hear it for the old dog!

Snubbed by a dog

Any animal owner will have stories about her pets--here is just another entry in the on-going pet tales that I have accumulated!

When we got our dog, Tipper, we knew we were signing on for walks every day. She is half border collie, and while she doesn’t seem to have the high drive to “work” that a typical border does, she loves to walk.

She is a very sociable dog. In fact, if she weren’t so sociable, we might not have her. Did I ever tell the story of how we got Tipper? In the summer of 2001, we were in upstate New York visiting some friends who have a cottage on Thousand Island Park (called TIP). We spent a day in the small town of Clayton, cruising around the charming shops and local galleries. As we exited one such place, I saw a mother and daughter walking a very cute puppy down the street. The puppy was very friendly, and I said—what a cute puppy. Without hesitation, the woman said—do you want her?

Since our old dog had died a bit more than a year before, we had debated getting another dog, but still hadn’t. I turned to my husband as he came out of the store, and said—this woman wants to know if we want this puppy. My husband, who is not typically given to spontaneous decisions, said—sure. Well, it was completely legitimate. The woman had to move from her house, and no place she looked at to move would take a dog. So she needed to find this puppy a home.

We ended up naming her Tipper (for the white tip on her nose and for TIP, the place we came to “find” her.)

Back to the walks. Tipper may not have sheep to herd, but she wants to interact with every person or other dog she meets. Some she likes, some she doesn’t. As a friend of mine once remarked of Tipper—she seems to think it is her job to tell everyone else what they should do. It’s true—when kids have come to swim, Tipper races around the pool barking at them. Then she runs to me and barks, as if to say—look, there are kids in the pool Are they allowed? Or when the cats fight, Tipper rushes into the fray and barks. She is taking up for Cassidy, with whom she has bonded. Allie, the new cat, can just bug off.

So the four times daily walks are a chance for Tipper to check out a bit more of the world. If she spots another walker, or a dog in the distance, she becomes fixated, and heads toward that potential friend.

One of our walking routes takes us under a row of trees, most welcome on summer days, and then around the corner. At this house, there lives a dalmatian and a beagle. The dalmatian, Maddy, was a great doggy friend of our old dog. Every day, Maddy waited for Wanda (our English setter in photo) and loved to see her.

After Wanda died, there were several months when I took few walks past Maddy's house. Then, the first time I walked along that road with Tipper, Maddy came rushing out to greet us. She took one look at Tipper, turned her back and walked away from me. Six years have now gone by and she still consistently does this.

She is snubbing us. It is as if she is saying—I don’t know what you did with that other dog, but I liked her. I don’t like this new dog, and I won’t look at you until you get the old dog back.

Sorry, Maddy—Wanda is long gone. And Tipper is here to stay with us. Dogs! Long memories.

Two Dog Day

Occasionally, we have our son's dog come to visit. When she does--her name is Sonnet--she and Tipper instantly bond. In fact, before she arrives, we can say to Tipper--Sonnet is coming--and Tipper perks up and actually seems to get excited.

Maybe I am anthropomorphizing. But I am convinced Tipper understands the word "Sonnet"--not as in "would you like me to read you a sonnet" but as in "Sonnet is coming to visit." (Tipper also understands "walk" and "biscuit" and "ride.")

This morning, Tipper awoke at 5:30 a.m. She does that many mornings, but since today is Saturday, I had human thoughts of sleeping a tad longer. Oh well.

I got up, dressed, and brought Tipper downstairs. Then, of course, I had to get Sonnet. I got each of the dogs leashed up, and away we went for a nice long walk.

My duty during this walk--keep moving, and wave my arms about managing just barely to keep the leashes from tangling. Each dog has her desires--go here, sniff there, etc.

Bodily processes seem to bring out the territoriality in each dog. Sonnet pees--so Tipper has to remark the territory. And so on, the whole way around the block.

I am now back at the house, exhausted from untangling dogs. And ready for a nap!