To the Victor Goes the Slimy Spoils

See this famblee of squirrels?

After we finished the pool two summers ago, they moved themselves in to a tony little spot under our decking. Mom, dad, a passel o' chillruns. Dad's in insurance and travels. Mom drinks and wanders the pool deck in inappropriately sized bikinis. The children are lil' punks to the core.

Of course, Snow White's Freakin' Wilderness Camp has not been the same since.

The squirrels, they completely took over the neighborhood. They knock over the bird baths. They steal my fifty million dollar a pound sunflower chips directly from the feeder. They chase the bluebirds. They titter and chitter from the tree tops, making me think I'm hearing voices. And they drive Ivan nuts.

Ivan, he'll chase or tree anything that moves: cats, squirrels, chipmunks, horny toads, rabbits, crows. Once, at our old house, he treed a bobcat. So intent was he on killing that thing, S.B. and I had to drag him off the hilltop back to the house and lock him inside for eight full hours so he could get his mind off the kitty. Fuggedaboutit. Later that day when we finally let him out, he bee-lined himself for that tree and sat sentry for another hour, whining the whole time for the bobcat.

I've written before about Ivan' love of killing all manner of creatures. All that's changed since is that he's a little bit slower.




Still, if he's patient enough and works the program, he can still get his man:

VICTORY!

Canis Lupus Fidelis

This post is inspired by a recent photo taken by She as part of her Mute Monday theme, All About Me. In that post, she includes a marvelous photo of her dog, Trout, that elicited in Moi a host of responses – not only an appreciation for the evocative power of art and its own particular "language," but also an appreciation for all that canines have come to mean to us humans.

If I haven't already made it clear here, I'm a dog nut. I spend part of my life working with them, studying their behavior, and talking to other dog nuts about that behavior. As a result of this experience, I have come to form certain conclusions that have led me to shy away from anthropomorphizing our canine friends except when it serves as a kind of short hand to get a point across. As in, yeah, lady, your pit bull is eating your sofa because he's basically at the level of an 18 year old frat boy. Give him something to DO. But, by and large, I agree with the great dog trainer/behaviorist Jean Donaldson (read her, not Cesar Milan) who believes that today's Disney-ification of canines does them no damn good.

But that doesn't mean I don't recognize that something special does exist between humans and canines, something that transcends the working relationships we have with other domesticated animals. A kind of fidelity that is difficult to explain, but which has existed between man and dog throughout history. For instance, the ancient Greeks write of the value of domesticated dogs as aides in physical and mental therapy. And the Chippewa Indians are one of several native tribes who include them in their Creation Myth - when given a chance to remain in paradise or stay on earth with man, the dog chose to stay with us. As Max Depree says: "We are alone, absolutely alone, on this chance planet; and amid all the forms of life that surround us, not one, excepting the dog, has made an alliance with us."

I'd like to hear about your relationship with your dog(s). Not about how much you love them or how cute they are but a brief illustration of your own experience of this alliance.

Mute Monday: Year In Review

In 2007, over 3,000 pit bulls and pit bull mixes were euthanized
at the City of Albuquerque municipal shelters.

But not these dogs:

BLUE & SAMSON:

CARMEN:

DIEGO & STEVIE RAE:

JUSTICE:

MADDIE:


MAEVE:

MALIBU:

PETE:

SANDY:

SUGAR:

ZEUS

A Rose By Any Other Name

If I'mbuh soundinguh widdle fuddy, dat's becauf I'm writing dis post wid a cloze pid on Moi's nodz.

Becauf at exactly 6:47 dis morning, while od our walk wid Ibin, duh widdle fudcker decided to tangle wid dis cweature:






Dat would be Mephitis mephitis (get it?), or duh common striped skunk. Who wud ambwin down duh paf sniffing duh trail of a nest of wobin's eggs dat had bwown from a twee. Sure nuf, whed Ibin spotted it he wed bwalistic and chawged. And got spwayed bout ted bazillion times.

Hab you all eber sbelled skunk? Id mudst be duh worst sbell knowd to Gawd ad man in duh ubiverse. An' you eber try to get it oud a dawg fur? Da forbula: 1 quart hydrogen peroxide, 1/4 cup baking soda, 1 Tablespoon dish washing liquid. Mix up. Chase dawg dowd. Catch dawg. Howd dawg. Rub in fur. Rinse ab repeat. Sdiff dawg to see if sbell gone. Throw up cause id not. Repeat.

Gib up.

Fidally let dawg id house. Boil ciddamon in water and burd ebry caddle in da house. Throw up again.

Seribously consider puddin a bading suit and some flid flops in ad obernight bag and takin duh first flight oud of here to St. Bart's. Decide against it becauf dat wud leab S.B. all alodne with Ibin and hid funk. Bud S.B. says he can't smbell it at all. Moi, I neber not sbell it. I sbell it all day. Id sbell it all night. I sbell it until duh day I die.

Fudkin' hell. Dat's what I get for puddin a bow od duh dawg's hed.

Someone Let the Dogs Out; They'll Show You Where the Truth Is

The old man’s got a set of wrinkles on his face from living a life most of us will never expose ourselves to: one spent largely outdoors, coaxing subsistence from a patch of land along the river that’s been in his family over 300 years. A two-pack-a-day life spent worrying, figuring, calculating, gauging – everything from the weather to a neighbor’s intent. It all has weight. He doesn't know from SPF, from lung cancer, from the health benefits of green tea or the cholesterol-fighting properties of red wine. So he most certainly isn’t going to know why this spay/neuter business is so important.

But he’s brought his dog in anyway. A six month old Shepherd mix wrapped in an over sized towel that he carries in his arms like a baby.

“Is it gonna hurt him?” he asks me, nodding down at the bundle in his arms. The dog blinks its big brown eyes at me but otherwise keeps still in his owner’s arms. “He’s a good dog, you know? I’d hate to lose him.”

I understand how he feels. I spent part of my childhood on a ranch we rented from a local cattle baron. When my father was on break from teaching high school science, he helped our landlord with the herd – everything from castrating the bulls to branding, birthing, and herding. So I know just how valuable a good dog can be.

But that was a long time ago. Today, I’m just a middle class white chick trying to explain to someone from another universe about why we need to stem the flow of unwanted animals into our city’s shelters.

Once upon a time, I didn’t know from spay or neuter. Growing up, we pretty much let our animals do their thing. When our dogs had pups, what the coyotes and hawks didn’t get, we kept or gave away. There was always need for a good dog – to herd, to guard, to hunt, to retrieve. They didn’t go to waste.

But what of dogs today? Many people are indifferent to them. Many purport to love them. But in my experience, few understand them. That many of them languish, woefully unused and misunderstood, crosses all socio-economic barriers, from the short-chained backyard barrio pit bull to the over nurtured poodle whose upper crust owner invests it with a bus load of unmet needs but who has never taken it on a hike, thrown it a ball, run it on an agility course.

Witness the call I received early this year from a woman desperate to figure out why her pit bull/Labrador retriever cross was tearing up her home when she was gone. She told me she'd consulted a pet psychic who said her dog was "stuck" emotionally. Refraining from calling her a complete nut job, I instead firmly suggested she try some hard physical exercise. You know, give the dog something to do. The woman was a distance runner but for some bizarre reason had never thought of taking her dog with her. Duh!

You know there's a big disconnect between how we feel about our pets and how we truly meet their needs when even Wayne Pacelle, president of the world’s biggest so-called animal welfare organization, the Humane Society of the United States, admits he has no real understanding of or connection to animals.

In Ted Kerasote’s marvelous book Bloodties Pacelle admits: "I don't have a hands-on fondness for animals. To this day, I don't feel bonded to any particular nonhuman animal. I like them and I pet them and I'm kind to them, but there's no special bond between me and other animals. . . . It's more of an intellectual/philosophical motivation than it is hands-on."

WTF?

Remember those words, the next time you’re tempted to donate to the Humane Society. It’s an organization that, along with the domestic terrorist group PETA, operates not one single animal shelter anywhere in the world. Yet these are organizations that control bank accounts totaling over $100 million each. Where does all that money go? Certainly NOT to the frightened animal toughing it out on a cold concrete floor at your local pound.

Anyway.

The fact remains that in this country alone, we slaughter between 6 and 8 million cats and dogs, puppies and kittens in municipal animal shelters each year. Your tax dollars pay for that slaughter, Party People. Even worse, think of the terrible, sickening waste. Of creatures we plucked from the wild and domesticated to work side-by-side with us – to hunt our food, keep our pests at bay, protect our children, offer us companionship during and after a hard day’s work. Think of the awful betrayal of that contract.

Turning my attention back to the old man, I assure him his dog is going to be just fine. All he has to do is limit its activity for about a week. Oh, and bring him in these next couple nights. It’s critical the dog remain warm and dry.

For the first time, the old man relaxes his face and smiles. “Oh, that’s no problem. He sleeps on the bed anyway.”

For Three Strange Days

I didn't have to explain.
I didn't have to apologize.
I didn't have to acquiesce.

Instead, I got to be around the best dogs I've ever met, handled by the best owners, trainers, and advocates I've ever met, behave in the best ways I've ever seen dogs behave. I got to speak the language not just of dog, but of justice. Justice for an animal that for some reason cannot be taken on its individual merits and has become instead the repository for all our medieval fears and hatreds and hysteria.

You should have seen us: tattooed and business suited. Black and white. Old and young. Lawyers and stock brokers and artists and welders. Animal control officers and policemen and politicians. A melting pot, that's for sure, and maybe none of us would have gotten along at a dinner party, but for three days, we were united in one clear cut, unequivocal belief: this is America, fer cryin' out loud, and the last time we all checked, we have the right to our property. We have the right to pursue our happiness. And we're doing it responsibly, so leave us the hell alone.

The atmosphere was rareified, indeed.

Because when it all ended, and I was sitting in the airport waiting to go home, forgetting that I was still wearing my "My Best Friend is a Pit Bull" button (we pit bull people, we're all about the bling) and a woman sat down next to me and read it and then said, "Pit bulls ought to be outlawed." and stormed off in a huff, I was reminded all over again of where I really live.

In the really real world, where ignorance and fear creep in on jack-booted feet.

And right now, the only thing I can say in defense is:

Get over it.

Helen Keller with one of her beloved pit bulls.

You Can Make Me Go to Berkeley But You Can't Make Me Wear Birkenstocks

It's only because there are going to be oodles and oodles of squishable pit bulls there, not to mention a rockin' venue in which to hang my hat for 2.5 days, that I am entering this former bastion of all things hippified. But wearing boots, Party People, boots (I hear it's cold there.)

Oh, and Brooks running shoes. Because one of my favorite things to do when I travel is explore my new environs on foot, albeit it at a lame-o pace of about 11 mph. Oh, but that's right. I'll be at sea level. Bonus! That should be good for bumping me up at least another half second.

Most important of all, of course, will be the fact that I get to spend 2.5 whole days perseverating on my favorite breed o' dawg.


Who bring a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Will Smile For Treats."

Bye, Bye Dog

I tried to be a foster mom. And I failed miserably. Not the dogs' fault, by any means. Just things I didn't do correctly, things I didn't anticipate. So Ivan got hurt and a perfectly wonderful dog had to leave this small chunk of paradise and go back to a rescue home that's already splitting at the seams.

To wait and see if someone, somewhere, will give Malibu a chance at the forever home she so rightly deserves.

The fault, really, is Malibu's first home, the one that wanted her killed because of an allergy that required about ten dollars more a month for special food to remedy the problem. Where does it all start to break down – the contract we made a long, long time ago to honor our relationship with dog, the wolf we decided to domesticate for our own ends? We can't just undo that contract.

But I see dogs thrown away every day. Perfectly good dogs, just like this one, this great little four year old pistol with her melty eyes, huge heart, and tenacious grip on life.

Knowing all this, I should have been better prepared to accommodate her nature and Ivan's, so that the fight would never have started in the first place.

Unfortunately, this gal came to me too suddenly, as a desperate emergency. And I, a planner and preparer, had no time to do either. Next time, though. Painful as it was, this lesson has shown me what I need to do.

Not that that matters much to Malibu. Another home failed her. Where does this poor dog go from here?

Lonesome Dog

From her spot at our feet, Ivy the dog hears the grumble of a truck engine in the driveway. Suddenly, she forgets just who it is who has left her behind – who always leaves her behind – and charges out across the living room floor, her nails click click clicking on the ancient wooden floor as she bolts impatiently through the screen door and out onto the porch. The door slams back in place with a hard, defiant smack.

Truck doors echo with their own slamming sounds. A child shouts. There is a flurry of conversation, elated voices rising to greet waiting neighbors. I listen hard for the sound of someone greeting Ivy. Her name would be good. Or even just that high-pitched lilt that creeps into our voices when we greet small creatures that are beloved to us.

I wait.

No one greets Ivy.

Within a minute she is back in front of the screen door, whining. I let her in. She settles at my feet, but upright, her back to me, her head turned full to the door.

Surely, I think, our hosts will drop in and say hello to us on this, our last day? And surely then, I think, they will see Ivy at my feet and break out into an elated grin and pat their thigh and bend down to greet her, sighing softly into her, "Ivy."

But no one comes to greet us. Minutes go by. S.B. continues to read peacefully, but I can only seethe.

Outside the flurry of voices, of activity, waxes and wanes. Ivy cocks an ear at certain sounds. She remains alert, but doesn't move.

I run a hand along the top of her head and around her ears. She likes this. While I pet her, I remember the words of the woman who comes to put her up at night: Ivy is eight years old. She fends for herself because her owners are gone a lot. They’re really not very attached to her. She can be kind of cranky, kind of standoffish.

But while we've been here, she's been here for us. Yesterday, she and S.B. even played a little along the porch, she racing back and forth, back and forth, barking and hopping as S.B. egged her on in an excited voice. And later, we gave her an entire steak for dinner.

I sure do wish Ivy wasn't the dog who always gets left behind. I sure do wish I could bury my face in her fur. I sure do wish I could take her home, give her a purpose and a place beside me in the mornings up in the hills.

But she stinks from multiple daily swims in the ditch along the road, so I can’t bury my face in her fur. And she doesn’t belong to me, so I can’t take her home.

So there remains the problem of Ivy. She has owners, but she belongs to no one.

What Ivan Wants

There is something both funny and kind of sad about this. Kind of sad because it's so typically American, that way we have of mixing righteous indignation with the giddy opportunity to score some cash.

And of course funny because, well, who wouldn't want to turn the tables on this lowlife, scumbag piece of shit by chewing his head off?

Aw, what the hell . . . Ivan's not catching them squirrels anyway.

Quote for the Day

The worst form of tyranny the world has ever known
the tyranny of the weak over the strong.

– Oscar Wilde

Dog in a Box

An old friend of mine from junior high school and I have a long-standing joke between us. Like me and S.B. she and her husband are child-free but dog-loaded.

The joke is this: when we die and some stranger from the bank enters our homes to hold an estate sale ('cause, you know, we have no children upon whom to foist, uh, pass along all our stuff), they will find a mantel filled not with family photos, but with the urns containing the ashes of our various dogs.

Of course, we could always put it in our final wills and testaments that the urns and their contents be disposed of prior to said official from the bank coming in to assess our stuff, but I think it would be much more fun to just leave them intact and present. Little testaments to our Cloud Cuckoo Land tendencies to collect not only shoes and expensive kitchen gadgetry, but also the remains of our beloved pets.

With the cool amusement of the newly departed, we will observe from on high as said officials (and perhaps the few friends and family left to us) wind themselves into knots of worry and guilt about what to do with not only our dearly departed selves, but with the half dozen others as well. Naturally, we will have no say in the matter as we have happily moved on to an eternity sipping margaritas and reading crap celebrity gossip magazines while Antonio Banderas and Gerard Butler administer our pedicures.

Presently, we're getting a good start on our collections.

This here is our good buddy, Beaux.


Dearly departed from doggie bloat last July. We miss him terribly. He was a big dog in body, a bouncing baby puppy in spirit. He loved everyone and everything, especially his ball and S.B. He would have given his life for that man, I swear. My favorite memory of Beaux is taking him to the Pecos one summer for a long hike through the wilderness, complete with ball playing sessions in a beaver pond. On the way home, we stopped at a Dairy Queen and I bought Beaux a big ol' soft serve ice cream cone. The expression on his face when he realized that he wasn't just getting a taste or two, but the whole cone!, and I was going to hold it for him while he licked away! was one of pure unadulterated joy. That was the happiest moment I've ever shared with a dog.

At any rate, I think Beaux's inhabiting quite a tasteful little urn, don't you think? We currently have him tucked into one of the two nichoes that flank the kiva fireplace in our bedroom. Nichoes (I guess the rest of the country would call them "nooks") are just one of the many unique design elements that distinguish our region's particular architecture. They certainly come in handy at times like this.

So, I picked JoJo up on Friday evening, anticipating a matching urn to balance out the space in the nicho at the other side of the fireplace, but no. What I got instead was something more in keeping with a Montana hunting lodge.


Now, I appreciate the care and thought Best Friends Pet Cemetery obviously puts into their work, finding unique and attractive containers to house the remains of their clients' beloved pets. And while this cedar box is certainly very pretty, it just doesn't say "JoJo" to me . No, girlfriend had much more flair than that.

So in keeping with her unique personal style, I do believe I'm just going to have to create for her a shrine that encompasses not only her remains, but also some flowers, Mardi Gras beads, my mom's funeral rosary, and Black Jesus brought in from the guest bathroom. Black Jesus doesn't get out much, so he may appreciate the company.


We certainly spent a lot of time worshiping JoJo while she was alive. I think it only fitting we pay her the same tribute in death.

Foolin' With Mother Nature

This morning Wicked Thistle sent me a You Tube video of a cat “nurturing” some baby bunnies. In it, the cat’s owner piles a mess o’ barely legal bunnies onto a big ol’ fluffy cat’s belly and urges it to, “take care of your puppies.”

So my first reaction – beyond wondering why the owner called the bunnies puppies – was utter amazement over said feline's self control. Looking at it, you could tell, just tell, that what it really wanted to do was not nurture the bunnies, but bite their little heads off and nibble on their tiny feet. It is, after all, what cats do. Yes, there are many instances where cats who have recently lost litters redirect their nurturing instincts to orphans of an entirely different species. But most often, the basic instinct is to stomp and chomp.

Which got me to thinking about all the ways in which we humans move about the world, assigning with merry abandon a whole host of anthropomorphic tendencies to all and sundry. Including our very own house pets. While I think it’s a natural tendency and part of our own nurturing natures, I also think it can get us into trouble.

For instance, we make much ado about what we regard as the canine ability to give “unconditional” love. Many studies have been done about whether or not dogs feel love for us. I have read a lot of these studies and have come to the conclusion that they do not. At least not in the way we feel love, like that for a spouse, child, or parent.

What I do think dogs “feel” for us is high regard. Unless it has been severely abused, most dogs quickly come to realize two important things about humans: we are the givers of food and the givers of fun, and therein lies our value. If you doubt me, just watch any reasonably competent dog trainer at work.

Dogs are, after all, pack animals. It is through the pack, and their place in it, that they survive. And also experience something else besides. Because while I remain unconvinced that dogs love us like we want them to, I do believe they crave, like us, a purposeful and enjoyable life – and they crave it with humans. It’s why we’ve been able over the centuries to domesticate them, to redirect their wolfish instincts into serving us as hunters, retrievers, herders, pullers, and, most recently, ball players, Frisbee chasers, jogging companions, fly ballers, sofa surfers.

All this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t love our dogs. We should, as deeply and widely as we love anything. But also, please, with some temperate regard for their true natures. Recently, I have been taking some lessons from poet Mary Oliver, one of our keenest observers of the natural world. Give your dog – and cat! – on occasion a break from being your end all and be all and instead, just let it be:

The Dog Has Run Off Again

and I should start shouting his name
and clapping my hands,
but it has been raining all night
and the narrow creek has risen
is a tawny turbulence is rushing along
over the mossy stones
is surging forward
with a sweet loopy music
and therefore I don’t want to entangle it
with my own voice
calling summoning
my little dog to hurry back
look the sunlight and shadows are chasing each other
listen how the wind swirls and leaps and dives up and down
who am I to summon his hard and happy body
his four white feet that love to wheel and pedal
through the dark leaves
to come back to walk by my side, obedient.

Dog Gone

Yesterday morning, Friday, May 25th, 2007, at approximately 6:53 a.m., I ran over my dog JoJo, the geriatric Beagle/German shepherd cross who had up until that very time been alive on this planet for almost fifteen years.

I would like to say the blame is shared – part senior moment on my end, part senior moment on hers (she was, after all, extremely old for a dog, half blind, almost completely deaf, arthritic, and suffering from “doggie dementia”). I couldn’t have been doing more than a couple miles an hour, trudging up the steep hill that is our driveway. Perhaps JoJo simply tripped and fell in front of the wheel. But really, I’m fully at fault. I’m the human. It is my job to look out for her, not the other way around.

I cannot fully express just how dark and horrible an event this was. And still is. I still feel sick to my stomach. I still feel like I committed murder. I still feel like someone stuck their hand right through my chest and ripped out my heart.

But there’s nothing that can be done. All I can do is remember that prior to my senior moment, JoJo had lived not only a long life, but also a good one, filled with fun and love.

We always said that JoJo was really a person in a dog suit, hoping her entire life that NEXT time around she would get to come back as a simply fabulous human being. I’m certain that she will. S.B. and I will be on the lookout . . .

The Hills Are Alive

As soon as I got up I knew it was going one be one of those mornings.

It has been raining on and off for the past several days, but dawn burst cool and clear, with a cap of unblemished turquoise-colored sky above, fat tendrils of mist winding themselves through the valleys below.

The kind of morning whose air crackles with wild excitement, drawing creatures out into the open to do their wild creature thing. You live long enough in the woods, you get to know what that crackle sounds like, what it feels like. For humans, it means to be on the alert as well.

Sure enough, we weren’t but two minutes into the walk, when I heard a rustle off to my left and a coyote charged across our path. Slinky, low slung, an adolescent near as I could guess, and of indeterminate sex. Naturally, Ivan charged after it. From what I could see through the trees, not in an aggressive way. In fact, I was surprised to see him lurch down into a play bow, a move reciprocated by the coyote, before both took off deeper into the brush, and I could no longer see them.

But I could hear them. The coyote at least. Chitter-chattering away in that nerve-singing way they have. Ivan made no sound, but he’s always been silent – both in play and in fight mode.

I had no choice but to continue down the trail. Me and Ivan against one adolescent coyote? No problem. Me and Ivan against whatever of the coyote’s relatives decided to show up and join in the fun? Big problem.

Minutes later, I heard the tinkling of Ivan’s collar tags and there he was, tromping down the trail, muddy and limping slightly, but with no discernable gashes or puncture wounds.

Poor Ivan. He always looks so happy, out there in the woods, doing what his canine genes impel him to do. There was a time, when S.B. and I lived even further out, that the dogs did wander happily. Never got into trouble, never hurt a soul. In fact, they had friends throughout our area, homes to which they’d show up at certain times of day to say hello or hang for a bit. One late afternoon, I got a call from a gal who lived three miles away, to tell me Ivan had just showed up in time for happy hour on the patio, was it okay if he stayed? Once I got over the shock of just how far my dog’s territory stretched, I said, sure, so long as he’s no bother. When you're ready to go inside just tell him, “Ivan, go home.” He’ll know what that means.

We can’t let the dogs do that here. Despite the National Forest at our backs, this is a true neighborhood. But I’m thankful that for a few years of their lives, our dogs lived unfettered by fences and fretting, that they got to answer the call of their wild genetics and move through the world with freedom and ease.

Baby Killer

This is Howie. Howie is a four-week-old pit bull puppy one of my RAAPers, Jami, rescued from a dumpster outside where she works (RAAP stands for Responsibly Adopting Albuquerque's Pit Bulls, a pit bull advocacy, foster, and education organization I founded in January 2006).

Jami is always finding pit bulls. Or, rather, they find her. About once every couple months, I get an email from her with "Look Who Followed Me Home" in the subject line, along with a photo of some big ol' dorky pit bull smiling for all the world like Hollywood's calling. Which is one of the reasons I love the breed. They are so unabashedly full of themselves.

Over the years, Jami has rescued dozens of pit bulls. Currently, she shares her home with eight permanent residents and one RAAP foster dog. Howie makes the tenth. But that's okay, he's pretty little. I'm sure he doesn't take up much room.

Here's the other foster, a six-month-old white pit bull named Stevie Rae:



Stevie Rae is blind. But she doesn't know it. For all she knows, not only is she normal, she's also simply fabulous and deserving each and every day of tons of hugs and kisses. And treats. Another reason why I adore the breed. They bring new meaning to one of my favorite lines of poetry: I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.

So anyway, it's been two weeks since Jamie found Howie and she has been diligently hand-feeding and caring for him. Looks like the little fella is going to make it. I can't wait until he grows up because I think he's going to be a looker. But I have to admit, he is sorta cute as a puppy. Just look at that face. The baby, he kills me.

Tough Guy

My dog Ivan, he thinks he's Jake LaMotta. He just loves a good fight. Not with people, mind you. With people he's as sweet as apple pie. Most dogs, too. But if you're a cat, coyote, deer, bobcat, squirrel, or just about anything else, he wants to rumble. It's just in his genes.

Take this morning. It can be dicey, walking in the hills this early in the morning in spring. Coyote raise their young between March and May, and they get out just after dawn to hunt rabbit, who are likewise early risers. That's Mother Nature's logic for you. The rabbits feed off the lush, plump greens, the coyotes feed off the lush, plump rabbits. Everybody's happy (well, except a few rabbits). Then toss Ivan into the mix and things get interesting.

Sure enough, five minutes before the end of the walk, Ivan spotted a coyote and took off. Within seconds, I heard it, that high pitched warning chatter the pack makes when danger is near. It went on for what seemed like ages. Then silence. Then Ivan trotting up behind me, tongue lolling, legs limping, face bloody. But he was smiling. This is fun for him.


Ivan's cut up pretty badly around his right eye, but I know the vet can't patch it up so we'll just have to wait it out. He's also got about a half dozen puncture wounds around his neck and haunches. I washed him off best I could, gave him a couple antibiotics I have in store from his last tussle, along with his morning liver treat, and left it at that.



He looks a little pathetic in this photo, but believe me, that's just because I won't give him any of my breakfast. Soon, he'll commence to grooming his feet and then go patrol the property for intruders.







So the lesson for today, courtesy Ivan?

1. Dogs may be canis lupus familiaris, but they're still canis lupus.

2. Despite all our optimistic anthropomorphic urgings, canines remain blissfully free of moral judgment, shouldas, couldas, or wouldas. They can be trained, but they cannot, under any circumstance, be reasoned with.

3. Dog spelled backwards is God. Laughing.

Lions and Tigers & Bears, Oh My

You know, I think we're living in one of the most superstitious eras of any since the Dark Ages. Despite all our technology and scientific advancements we simply refuse to take a rational approach to any aspect of our lives. Instead, we want reality veiled. Reason dulled. Logic obfuscated. We want to believe in fairy tales rather than what's right in front of our faces. We don't want to think. We want answers pulled out of magician's hats.

And don't we just love our myths and cherish our hysterias? Don't we just believe the most ding dang gawd awfully stupid shit? My favorite? That the enemy is everywhere, lurking. Even in the eyes of an innocent dog.

It's a Poo Thing

I love my dogs. I really, really do. I just need to remember that they're getting old. JoJo has already tipped over into her teens. Not only is she geriatric, asthmatic, and terribly arthritic, but is also now totally incapable of holding her Number Two potties. Another fact I really need to remember when I go stumbling into the living room in the darkened a.m. hours. If I don't, I will most likely step in it.

Just like I did this morning.

It’s a good thing I had socks on. Gag reflex in full force, it was all I could do to remove the offensively coated sock and fling it, along with its thankfully pristine mate, out onto the back porch to remain there until such time it dries thoroughly enough for me to be able to . . . Gee, I dunno. I don’t see myself tossing it into the washer. Wouldn’t all that poo residue infect the other items? And if I wash it all by its lonesome, well that’s just wasteful. I think my only recourse is to throw it away and use its mate as a dust rag. See, I’m just that way about poo.

It’s one of the reasons I never wanted to have children.

With children, poo is what you put up with for, oh, I’d say the better part of 5 to 6 years. During which time I would quite likely go stark raving mad from changing poo-packed diapers and cleaning poo-smeared walls and wiping poo-filled bottoms. And would therefore be rendered incapable of carrying on parental duties from that point forward. Plus, children do not come with manuals and I, for one, do not task well without directions.

But that's just me. Feel perfectly free to shout from the rooftops – hell make a You Tube video out of it if you like – just how much you love being a parent and find it the most fulfilling work ever.

In spite of my love of all things canine, I have also never raised a dog from a pup. Neither do I bond with the puppies at the pound. Nope, there are plenty of other tender-hearted suckers to do that. The last time I ventured into the pound pup kennel I was greeted by no less than six wiggly bottomed Rottweiler cross puppies with wuv in their eyes and – you guessed it – poo on their paws. I did what I had to do (administer Frontline between their – thank God – poo-free shoulder blades) and then hightailed it over to the staff room where I batted my eyelashes at one of the few male staffers in existence and asked him in my best pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top-of-it-never-mind-the-braces voice if he could go clean up the mess in building one’s puppy cage because I had to rush back home to meet a deadline.

Nope, it’s adult dogs all the way for me. Because unless they happen to get hold of some particularly nasty varmint and not only kill said varmint but proceed to make it a mid day snack, then adult dog poo is perfectly manageable. Even geriatric poo emissions. Unless you do what I did and actually step in the stuff, it comes out in pretty decently solid chunks. To dispose, simply wad up half a roll of paper towels and then with a sort of duck-squat-reach maneuver just far enough away from the poo so as not to engage the gag reflex but still close enough to grab it with outstretched hand and wadded paper towel, enfold that sucker up safely in the wad and rush to the trashcan to deposit with nary a hacking sound. Voila, it’s now in the hands of Mora and Sons Trash Pick-Up.

Now, you show me a parent who can do that with their human children’s poo.

Spring Fling

I knew I wasn't going to be able to get through even the first quarter of this year without having to fling a carcass.

That's because we live on two acres in the country and own a couple of high prey drive doggies. How high? Ivan once treed a bobcat, is how high. JoJo, she's 14 but still gives our bunnies the what for. Don't be messin' with girlfriend's lawn. Only Beaux (RIP), our big black Lab, refrained from ever catching anything. Bless his big boofie heart, he was just in it for the chase.

But these other two, they're still all fired up in good old canis lupus (not-quite familiaris) fashion about chasing shit down and stomping its guts out. Last year, it was one squirrel, two mice, and a half chewed what-I-can-only-guess was a chipmunk. The year before that, Ivan got a kitty. That was a true joy, I tell, ya, scooping that poor thing up into the shovel and walking the few yards to the fence line before I flung its limp carcass over into the neighbor's yard (My neighbor has two acres, too, and the patch that abuts my property is what I like to call "no man's land." In other words, there's nothing there but some brush and a septic tank marker. I figure, he pisses me off, letting that poor dog of his bark all day and night, I'm flinging my carcasses on his Lower 40.) At any rate, too bad, so sad. It's survival of the fittest around here. RIP kitty dude.

So this morning I went out to check the dogs' water and what did I find floating in their trough? A mouse. For a moment, I thought it may have been a rat or a chipmunk, it was so big, but maybe that was just the water log. If there's nothing worse than scooping a carcass, it's fishing out a carcass. I had to do that once with a squirrel and I tell ya, those suckers get heavy if they soak a while. But then, that's what S.B.'s trout fishing net is for.

At any rate, it's still dark, so I haven't yet flung the carcass. It is currently residing inside the shovel, on top of S.B.'s work table in the garage. I'll fling it once the sun comes up.

RIP little mouse dude.