Canine Mafia

Ah, here we are in the glorious waning days of Indian Summer--toasty hot and the perfect time to give the dogs a bath before cold weather arrives and I have to resort to costly indoor facilities. 

Plus, I had just uber-cleaned my home, complete with moving furniture, beating rugs, and crawling on my hands and knees to use a toothbrush on the baseboards. Yes, I go clean-crazy every now and then, and clean dogs would be the final touch 

And so, I started with Hazel. Brought her into the like-a-sauna-courtyard outside my garage, soaped her up, washed her down, and finished her off with a nice towel rubdown. 

Now it was Olivia's turn. I swapped dogs, placing Hazel back in the house and bringing Olivia outside.

But this arrangement was apparently not acceptable to Hazel. She whined like she was being skinned alive. 

"You're having so much fun out there without me," she howled. "Nobody loves me, I've been abandoned!"  Then, her mournful cry morphed into a demanding bark. Bark bark bark barkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkBARKBARKBARK!

And then, blessed silence. But only for 30 seconds before the barking resumed.

I rushed soaping up Olivia, cognizant of the fact that I've never met a neighbor who appreciates a barking dog. I wasn't outside more than eight minutes before my girl was freshly bathed and smelled like her "sister," of lavender and oatmeal.  We returned back to the house where Hazel greeted us as if we were long-lost loved ones she hadn't seen since the last full moon. What a drama queen.

Not to mention a vengeful one. Because there, on the oriental area rug that was just professionally cleaned last month, was the ominous dark sign of urine. Which, by the way, was discovered only after I stepped in it and noticed my tracks across the freshly polished hardwood floors.  

I looked for Hazel and found her quietly slinking on her belly toward her pillow, ears flat, furtively peeking at me out of the corner of her eye. This wasn't a "couldn't hold it" accident, mind you. My naughty girl had delivered a message as obvious as the horse's head on the bed from The Godfather, the man who was also known for the saying, "revenge is a dish best served cold."

As opposed to the Dogfather's world where revenge, it would seem, is a dish best served wet.

The Real Olivia

It was with bated breath that I took Olivia to the vet yesterday for the third time in three weeks. She's had this persistent limp and, as any greyhound owner knows, a limping greyhound is a very scary thing because of the breed's predisposition to bone cancer.Gulp.

But, thank God, x-rays didn't show anything ominous or even suspicious. Dr. Arnott suspects the culprit is a slightly compressed disk on her spine that's pressing against a nerve.  Very short walks, lots of rest, and anti-inflammatories should help relieve her distress. Hopefully, in a couple weeks, the nerve will settle down and my girl will be back in fine form.

Of course, Hazel was with me. Can't take one without bringing the other is the Rule of Dog, even if it's a visit to the vet. As Dr. Arnott sat on the floor, playing and cuddling with both dogs, he made the observation that my feisty Hazel appears to be asserting herself as the alpha dog in our household. He asked how Olivia is with this young upstart trying to dethrone her.

She seems fine, I replied, probably because I still treat her as the alpha dog: I greet her first, feed her first, leash her first, and, every evening, always cuddle with her before moving on to Hazel. I then added my own observation that Olivia had really mellowed over the three years that I've had her. Dr. Arnott and I both recalled those unsettling first few months when my spirited girl lunged at other dogs, growled at people passing by, and even snapped at me on more than one occasion.  While I didn't miss her aggressive attitude, it saddened me to think that Olivia, now six, might be losing her edge due to age. 

But Dr. Arnott had another take, one that I hadn't considered.

"Olivia's not slowing down because of age," he said. "She was aggressive only because she didn't know any other way to be. Who knows how she was treated at the track?" I agreed, citing that to this day she still bolts and hides whenever she sees a fly swatter. He continued.

"Now, with you, she feels loved. Safe. What you see today--this mellow, sweet, affectionate dog--this is the real Olivia, not that scared dog you first adopted.  Olivia doesn't need to be the alpha dog because she trusts you. She's happy."

Olivia was still limping when we left Dr. Arnott's office, but I knew, with time, love, and care, she would heal. Just as she had on the inside, a thought that warmed my heart beyond measure. And I took my girls home.

Under the Full Moon

I was in my pajamas, standing on my bedroom balcony and looking over my backyard, admiring its tranquil beauty in the moonlight, when I saw the two skunks on my patio. I wasn’t concerned since they were climbing the fence and appeared to be leaving.

But then—oh no!  I heard the “clack” of the doggie door and realized that my greyhound, Olivia, wasn’t at my side. I rushed downstairs, but it was too late.

Olivia had caught one of the skunks and was tearing into it, chunks of skin and fur flying everywhere, blood spraying the patio floor and sliding glass door. I managed to drag Olivia inside when I saw the skunk’s partner re-entering the yard, looking for his mate. I tried closing the doggie door but the angry skunk was forcing his head through the door, snarling and trying to bite my bare heels as I used them to push his head backward. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the skunk was joined by two equally rabid rabbits that were also growling, biting, and shoving their heads through the doggie door trying to enter my home.

Then the skunk lifted his tail and a flume of white spray shot out, covering my entire patio in a putrid veil of white mist like a fog machine at a concert. The foul fog started creeping through the doggie door, violating my beautiful home, my peaceful sanctuary. It burned my eyes, my throat, my nostrils, and I realized I’d lost the battle….

I woke up with a start, gasping for air, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. The symbolism of the dream did not escape me.

Just a few weeks ago my neighbor had told me about the excruciating pain she was experiencing from her sciatica. But earlier this day, when I asked her husband how she was doing, he told me the pain turned out to be, not her sciatica, but stage 4 breast cancer that had metastasized.  She was now under the care of Hope Hospice.

A few days prior I had visited a family member fading away from inoperable pancreatic cancer. And this Friday marks my beloved mother’s five year anniversary. She died just three weeks after being diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

Cancer. Damned fucking cancer. Insidious, invasive, and quietly aggressive, snaking into homes, destroying lives, shattering hearts.

Eventually I fell back into an uneasy sleep. But the malodorous stench of that dream haunted me for days. 

The Secret's in the Sod

There’s always a ramp up period with any new dog, right? 

With sweet, shy Elvis it was mastering the scary stairs and conquering Kilimanjaro. When Mom passed away in 2009 and I adopted her greyhound, Lucy, it was months before the little white hound got over her fear of the dreaded doggie door. 

And with Olivia, well she had a slight issue with trust. All now in the past, of course. These days, as we spoon on her pillow and I pepper her needle nose with kisses, I tell her, “Remember that time you snapped at me and almost shaved the peach fuzz off my cheek?” And we both laugh over the silly misunderstanding as she nuzzles her head deeper under my chin and nudges me for more kisses.

Now there’s Hazel. Funny, goofy, affectionate Hazel, an instant love bug who mastered the stairs and doggie door in record time. When I began the housebreaking process, I noticed that aside from that first night, she wasn't having accidents in the house, which was good. But she also wasn't going in the backyard, which was not so good. Instead, she was holding it and going only when we went on walks, which could sometimes be 12 hours apart. This dog had to learn to do her business in the backyard when I was at work. 

I called Golden State Greyhound Adoption for advice and was told to take her out and stand in the yard with her throughout the day in 10 minute cycles.  Morning, noon and night. Never give her the opportunity to pee in the house. Eventually she would go in the backyard. 

Sounds easy enough, right?

Except it wasn't. She simply wouldn't go. Would. Not. Go. There I was, every morning at 5:15 am, in my pajamas, half asleep and standing in my backyard waiting for Hazel to do her business,begging her to do her business, but nothing.She'd just look at me with her big doe eyes and then fall asleep on the welcome mat near the sliding glass door.  At that hour I wanted to join her.  A couple times she'd hunch over the rocks that border my fence, like she was about to do something, and I'd get so excited and hold my breath and think, "yes, yes!" But then she'd stop. Circle. Paw the ground quickly, like she was touching a hot iron, and then go back to the welcome mat and lay down. 

And so, I'd take her for a quick walk and then crate her while I was at the office. I hated doing this after she'd already lived the first four years of her life in a crate, but I had no choice: she had to learn to pee outside before I could give her free rein of my home.  

Finally, when no progress was made after two weeks, I called a trainer for advice. Janis said this was a common problem with dogs that had a preference for particular substrates, like grass or (GULP) carpet. "Try a couple rolls of sod," she suggested. "When she produces, lavish her with praise like she's just done the most brilliant thing in the history of dogdom."

Okay. So I bought some sod, which was pretty darn cheap thanks to California's drought because hey, no one's planting sod these days, right?  Laid it in the area where I wanted Hazel to go, just like the trainer said. 

Then watched. Waited.Prayed.

It was all of 10 minutes before Hazel came sniffing around with Olivia at her side. Helloooo, what was this?  And maybe another minute or two before the sod was baptized. My neighbors must have thought I'd gone nuts because allelujia!  I lavished praise upon my little girl as if she'd just done the most brilliant thing in the history of dogdom. 

And don'tcha know it? She had.  

Week Two with Hazel

Judging from this photo, I'd say Hazel is feeling right at home, wouldn't you? 

Our first two weeks together have gone incredibly smooth...oh, except for that sea of urine, in the center of my living room, that was so large I swear it had waves. The "accident" occurred after I turned my back on her for one minute. Okay, maybe two.

Olivia just looked at the bright yellow puddle slowly seeping across the hardwood floors, and then at Hazel with this stunned expression that said, "Oh no you didn't." And then she looked at me like, "I didn't do it. Honest."

I couldn't get mad. Hazel was brand spankin' new, right off a Florida racetrack just last May. As far as she was concerned, any place outside her crate was fair game. This was how it worked at the track, right? But eventually, she would learn to go outside, as did Elvis, Lucy, and Olivia. I mopped up the floor, threw away the contaminated throw pillows, and dragged Olivia's bed into the yard for a good wash, followed with a spraying of Nature's Miracle. 

The ramp-up period with a new dog is always a challenge, I know. But I signed up for it because I also know that every puddle, every "NO!" and every chewed slipper will be worth its weight in gold when replaced with needle-nose nuzzles. Oh, there's nothing more rewarding, trust me.

Just ask me about Elvis, Lucy, and Olivia. And coming soon, Hazel.

Introducing Hazel

I wasn't planning on getting a second dog. Really. The day started out as an innocent play date for Olivia at the home of Tom and Susan. They have three greyhounds of their own and my girl always comes home dog-tired after a day of romping with her peeps. 

Only this time, Tom and Susan were fostering a little 4-year-old fawn straight off a Florida track. Better known as Miss Bessie in the 93 heats she ran as a race dog. Her final race was on May 21 before she was rescued by Golden State Greyhound Adoption. 

Anyway, you know that old Linda Ronstadt song, the one with the lyrics that go, "...just one look and I fell so hard in love, with you?"  Well....

Olivia now has a new sister, a sweet and affectionate little love bug I've named Hazel. Once again I'm a two-dog household.  

Oh, I know what this means, mind you. Double the work. Double the food. Double the vet bills, cleaning, and costs. 

And double the love.  

Pet Tails and the Rainbow Bridge

Yes, it's true. As you might have read in last Wednesday's San Francisco Chronicle, after 13 years, Pet Tales is crossing the Rainbow Bridge.  

I could hear the regret in my editor's voice when she called to break the news. She said that despite recognizing the popularity of the weekly column, "market research" shows that newspapers need to take a different direction. I'm guessing this is why sections of the paper keep getting revamped--they're still trying to identify what that "direction" may be. 

These days print media is doing their best to connect with a generation that simply doesn't read print anymore. If it ain't online, they ain't readin'.  Trying to reach this generation might be as hopeless an endeavor as trying to get my generation to convert solely to e-readers, smart phones, and iPads. Oh, I've got a Kindle and an iPhone. But I'll never use them for my news. Never.

I love newspapers. Always have. My affair with print started in 1967 when I was 9-years old and with my folks visiting Aunt Amelia and Uncle Frank in San Francisco one weekend. I was bored. Oh God, so bored. Theirs was not a kid-friendly house, and it was cold outside. And foggy. No yard to play in, no toys, no other kids. Bored bored bored. 

And so, when I came across their Sunday San Francisco Examiner/Chronicle, I started reading it out of sheer desperation. Anything to kill time.  But my interest in the paper suddenly spiked when I came across a photo of actor Tommy Steele in the entertainment section. Helloooo! I had just seen his new movie, Half a Sixpence, a few weeks earlier and had an enormous crush on the British singer/actor.  

I  must have been the only 9-year old in history to ever ask her parents for a subscription to the San Francisco Examiner. I got it and have never stopped reading. Even when I moved to Utah for a couple years, I continued my subscription to the weekend Examiner/Chronicle, although it would  arrive three days later.  No matter where I lived, no local rag could ever replace my beloved hometown newspaper.

Yes, I love print. The smell of the ink, the tactile feel of the paper, the peripheral news elsewhere on the page that catches my eye--maybe a word or a picture--and so I find myself reading an article or blurb that I had no intention of reading and as a result, I learn something new. It just doesn't work that way online. Sigh....

But Back to Pet Tales 
My main regret is losing this voice for the rescue community. It's been extremely rewarding to spotlight the joys of animal companionship and share the many wonderful resources we have throughout the Bay Area.  From bunnies and birds to chihuahuas and pit bulls, there's a rescue group for that one particular person looking for that one particular pet. Plus, I've met so many wonderful people, like-minded folk who love the creatures that share their lives.

But the good news is, I've been asked to write a pet "lifestyle" column in the 96 Hours section of the Chronicle, addressing trends, events, and quirky topics that appeal to pet owners. It'll be different, but fun and I'm looking forward to discovering what's out there. Because really, I don't get out much...what IS out there? I need readers to share their favorite pet tips and ideas with me.  

Thanks for reading Pet Tales all these years. I hope you'll follow me over to 96 Hours for the new column, which is yet to be named. I had suggested "Heavy Petting" which a few editors liked, but the Powers That Be nixed that one. Oh well. 

Can't win 'em all.