Tired Dog = Happy Dog

After adopting Elvis in 2002, I wanted to make sure that my boy, an "only dog," wasn't lacking for canine companionship. And so, twice a week, en-route to work, I dropped him off at my retired mom's house so he could spend the day romping around with her two dogs. On weekends, if I had a full day planned, I'd take him to hang with Ellen, my friend with two greyhounds, BJ and Champ, and a backyard the size of a Walmart parking lot that I dubbed "Doggie Disneyland." Elvis enjoyed quite the canine social life.

But then I lost my beloved Mom in 2009, and last year Ellen left costly California for a more affordable retirement in South Carolina. And I suddenly found myself without any dog sitters for my new greyhound, Olivia. Oh, I know there are many excellent doggie day-camps and sitting services out there, but I'm not comfortable leaving my girl just anywhere or with just anyone.

Yeah, I'm paranoid. Sue me.

But I am comfortable with fellow-greyhound guardians since they've been already been carefully screened by Golden State Greyhound Adoption (GSGA), not to mention one other simple fact: greyhounds love being with other greyhounds. From the time they're pups at the track greyhounds are packed together in tight proximity with dozens of other hounds. Greyhounds are the only breed they're ever exposed to. The only breed they know. Dogs are pack animals by nature and greyhounds, in particular love being with other greyhounds. All I want is for Olivia to enjoy the same canine companionship that Elvis once did.

This is why I was thrilled when Dean responded to my GSGA listserve email requesting an occasional dog-sitter. Not only does he have a huge backyard and two hounds of his own, but he's minutes from my own home. On Saturday, I had a reunion luncheon planned with former co-workers, so I crossed my fingers and asked Dean if we could do a trial run? Sure, he replied. Yippee!

And so, this morning I took Olivia to his house. Of course, I first had to rattle off reminders to her new sitter, such as, be careful opening the front door! Don't feed her people food! Hide the rat poison! Like the guy has never been around a dog and isn't a designated foster for GSGA. He just smiled and nodded, humoring my "new-mom" paranoia.

She's a good dog, I assured him, listing her attributes like that gal hawking her clients on Millionare MatchMaker. I wanted Dean to like us. I wanted Dean to invite us back. Olivia loves to give kisses, I carried on, plus she's totally house trained and knows how to use the doggie door.

And I swear, the molecules from those very words were still drifting out my mouth and dissipating in the air when Olivia chose that precise moment to urinate on his dog's pillow. Immediately, I saw future invitations evaporating as quickly as my credibility.

But Dean was unfazed. She's just nervous, he said. Happens all the time. And without batting an eye, he unzipped the pillow cover and threw it in the wash. Piece of cake.

When I went to pick up Olivia four hours later, Dean assured me she'd been a good girl and there hadn't been any more accidents (whew). All three hounds got along beautifully and had spent much of the unseasonably hot day using each other as chin-rests and pillows. Then came the music to my ears, the words that any proud mama longs to hear about her child, be they two-legged or four:

She's welcome back anytime.

Tonight Olivia is conked out on her pillow, snoring like an exhausted kid after spending The Best Day Ever at Disneyland. In a way, that's just what she did.

And alleluia, she's welcome back! Because hey, Dean said so.

Tiger Mom, Porkchop Dog

Throughout my years with Elvis, his diet consisted of a low-residue dog food that seemed to be the only kibble to agree with his sensitive stomach. A kibble that, unfortunately, was just slightly cheaper than a car payment.

And let me tell you, that boy could eat. He chowed down five cups a day and never gained an ounce. Occasionally, I tried gradually switching him to well-reputed, less expensive foods, but within hours his diarrhea and gas would return. After a few failed attempts, I realized I had no choice. I had to keep paying the big bucks to keep him healthy.

Olivia, however, appears to have a sturdier stomach than her predecessor. In our five months together, she's never had a single bout of diarrhea, gas or vomiting. Which is why I wondered if I could switch her from the pricey stuff she shared with Elvis to one of the other foods I'd previously researched. Like that inviting salmon and lamb-flavored one?

So I made the switch, following the usual instructions to introduce a new food gradually over the course of two weeks. Olivia polished off her five cups a day with an enthusiasm that told me she liked the new stuff and I was encouraged. However, my delight was short-lived when I noticed her "output" had increased from two to up to five stools a day, dotting my patio like a minefield in Bosnia. Then...oh no... I became aware of a lingering aroma that would waft through the air shortly after each meal:

The dreaded eau de gas.

Fine. I knew defeat when I smelled it. And so, on Saturday, I swung by Dr. Arnott's office to purchase a bag of the "slightly cheaper than a car-payment" food, and brought Olivia with me. Dr. Arnott took one look at her and raised an eyebrow. "She's gained weight," he observed. Nah, I said.

Or had she?

Last November, when I brought Olivia home, she was a skeletal 58 pounds, not surprising since most racers are kept underweight. Her skin was streeeetched across her rippling spine and ribcage, and brushing her felt like raking bones. I knew she needed to gain weight, but with Dr. Arnott's words, it occurred to me that lately, when brushing her I hadn't felt any bones. Far from it, in fact.

Uh oh.

Still, I wasn't quite prepared to see those numbers when we put Olivia on the scale. My little tiger, so nicknamed for her brindle coat, was now, it appeared, my little porkchop at a generous 71 pounds! As someone who has always been very careful about what I feed my dogs, shunning people food and carefully doling out healthy treats, I was stunned. I know the health repercussions of extra weight on a dog.

"Is she f..f..f.." I could barely utter the word. "Is she...(gulp) fat?"

Dr. Arnott assured me that she wasn't...yet. "But it won't hurt her to drop a pound or two," he advised. When he learned of her new diet, he blamed that as the culprit. Turned out the tasty salmon-lamb stuff was more caloric than the "slightly cheaper than a car payment" food, yet I had continued giving her five cups a day when three would have sufficed. Oops.

So Olivia is back on the old food and I'm back to paying the big bucks. Anything to keep my girl healthy. And hey, the house smells a lot nicer, too.

Missing Loved Ones

"Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy."

~Eskimo proverb

When a Cigar is Just a Cigar

This one got me thinking, a comment posted online in response to today's Pet Tales column.

The essay was a nostalgic look at the writer's first pet 54 years ago, a wild blue belly lizard caught by her father. The person who posted the comment noted their disappointment that the lack of editorializing made it appear as if, by using this essay, I had condoned this act of "animal cruelty." She/he wrote:
"The immoral removal of an animal from the wild ....and keeping it in a tiny box with a string around its neck...not wholesome good values to imbue in a child or to share in print. Very sad."
Here's the thing: I had the identical reaction when I first read the essay. I was saddened to think of little Charlie the lizard confined to a cigar box with a string around his neck. But my secondary response was to recognize the story for what it was: a fond recollection of a child's first pet framed by the zeitgeist of the 50s.

Because in 1958 animals were treated differently. Dogs slept outside, cats roamed the neighborhood, and words like "spay and neuter, guardian, adoption" and "animal rescue" were foreign concepts. Not that people didn't love their pets, but back then most weren't as educated as guardians are today.

Were I to write about my first pet, I'd have to reveal that Torty, a tortoise, was buried alive because Mom didn't have the Internet to inform her that his lack of response was due to hibernation. And if I mentioned my childhood German Shepard, Lisa, I'd probably let it slip that my parents purchased her from a breeder, she ate table scraps, shared my Hershey Bars, and loved sneaking licks from Dad's vodka tonic.
In the process, would I be wrong to not encourage adoption versus breeders? Endorse healthy diets versus table scraps or mention that chocolate and alcohol are toxic to dogs? Does the 1960s-based "Mad Men" accompany each episode with a disclaimer that pregnant women shouldn't drink and people shouldn't smoke?
Pet Tale readers are passionate animal lovers who know that the column promotes education, rescue and welfare. And I get that reader's concern, really I do. But occasionally, I think the context of a story might negate the need for a lecture only because, in the light of day, we're smart enough to recognize the erroneous act.

Aren't we?And so, right or wrong, that was my reason for not editorializing this memory from 1958; a time when nobody wore seat belts, everybody smoked, and lizards lived in cigar boxes.

Beauty in a Box

So there I was, perusing the make-up counter at Nordstrom, touching this, sniffing that, puttering along with all the time in the world. Thoroughly enjoying my week-long "staycation" during which I had nothing planned. Absolutely nothing. Delicious.

So many creams, gadgets, pencils and powders. I was checking out a pricey electric face brush called the Clarisonic, wondering what miracles it performed to justify the $119 price tag, when a salesclerk approached me.

"That brush is aaaaawesome," she gushed. "It makes my skin glow!"

Of course her skin glowed. She was getting her driver's permit back when I was getting invitations to join AARP. She had spiky black hair, a pierced nose, star-studded lip, and electric blue eyeshadow that extended from the corners of her eyes to her partially shaved eyebrows. Oh yeah, she glowed all right; not from the Clarisonic, but with the enthusiasm and radiance of youth. She was comically adorable.

And I felt like Shrek. I was suffering from PTSD after recently seeing my skin in one of those frightening magnified mirrors. Pores the size of pot holes. Hairs that resembled tree trunks. Lines that looked like highways. When did my face become Google Earth? Ever since, I'd been driven by an inexplicable urge to exfoliate, extract, bleach, pluck and polish.

Or maybe buy the Clarisonic?

"This is a breakthrough in skin care," continued punk-rock Barbie. "The Clarisonic uses sonic technology and works with your skin's natural elasticity to remove impurities left behind by traditional methods."

I'd been thinking a sandblaster, but okay.

"Your skin will be softer," she added. "Smoother. More beautiful."

I bought it, the spiel and the product, in a pretty pink, no less. Knowing full well that the results will be no different from a washcloth, but what the heck? I wasn't really buying the Clarisonic. I was buying a dream.

And when a gal feels like Shrek, you can't put a price on that.

The Voice From On High

Talk about your demons versus angels.

There I was this afternoon, grocery shopping at Safeway. Leisurely picking up this and that, enjoying my "staycation" this week and not careening through the aisles like the crazed woman I normally am.

Soymilk, bananas, coffee, cereal. Check. A little hair dye to cover my "sparklies?" Sure, why not. How about these Crest 3D white strips to bleach any wine and coffee stains? I wince at the $40 price tag, on sale from $60 mind you, but then I envision a blinding-white Jessica Simpson smile and throw the box in my basket. I could use a little tune-up.
I pay for everything, return to my car and am ready to put the petal to the metal when it suddenly hits me: my bill was $40. This can't be right because the Crest product alone was $40. I turn off the engine, pull out the receipt and sure enough, the checker charged me twice for the hair dye, a measly $6.99, and didn't charge me for the whitening strips. Since both boxes were of a similar size and color, she probably thought they were the same product and, to save time, just scanned one box twice.
You know where this is going, don't you?
The angel on my right shoulder told me to return to the checker and point out her oversight. It's the right thing to do was the winged one's gentle reminder. But the demon on my left shoulder was providing an equally tempting argument.

Save yourself the $40, his hot breath whispered in my ear. It ain't exactly chump change--at least not to any member of the 99% club. And Safeway is a huge conglomerate that overcharges anyway--don't be a schmuck!
Then to my surprise, a third entity chimed in, an entity that a dutiful child of any age will instantly recognize: Mother.

That's not how I raised you, I heard her admonishment from the heavens. You march in there right now and pay for that product, you hear me young lady? NOW.
And so I did. Much to the surprise of the phelmy-voiced three-pack-a-day checker, whose jaw hit the ground when I pointed out her mistake. "And you came back?" she asked in disbelief. "Wow."

That was it. No thanks. No gratitude. Not even a smile. Just "wow," coupled with a look on her face that told me she thought I was a total idiot. Plus her request for the extra $40 plus tax.
Wow indeed. But at least my Jessica Simpson pearly whites won't be stained with guilt: Mom took care of that.

Changing of the Dog

Even in the midst of missing my beautiful boy Elvis and aching for our past, I catch a glimpse of Olivia doing something endearing. Something uniquely her. And I smile for our future.

Such as when I saw her pony up the courage to approach Elvis' beloved La-Z-Dog recliner. She knows this was his bed and respects his territory, even though he's been gone almost four weeks. It's okay now, girl, I told her. Really. With a little coaxing on my part, she tentatively laid on his pillow.

Now Olivia already has a La-Z-Dog recliner of her own, but her reaction to this bed was different. She smelled Elvis. And with unheralded joy, she lolled about on the pillow back and forth, back and forth, coating her fur with the familiar scent of her beloved companion.

Observing this canine display of unabashed happiness, it struck me that despite living with Elvis just three short months, my poor girl was mourning his absence as much as I was.

And through my tears, I watched Olivia's pure delight and felt a spark in my grieving heart. Because while Elvis' life has ended, hers is just beginning.