The Persistence of Dog

Our dog Maisy is my dog.

She is supposed to be my son's dog.  He picked her out.  He begged and begged us to get her.   He even picked her name.  We  brought her home thinking that Zane and Maisy would grow up together and be the best of friends. 

Nobody asked Maisy.

Maisy picked me to be her person.  She likely picked me because I'm the one who feeds her, but there is no denying that she is my dog. Where ever I happen to be, there she is.  She gets up with me at the crack of dawn, and falls asleep at my feet every night. She takes great pains to make sure that she is near me; if I step outside the front door to put the trash in the container, she yowls and barks until I come back inside. 

When I come home, Maisy comes to me first.  She parks herself right in front of me and sits rather patiently, waiting for me to acknowledge her existence.  She will wait while I put my things down, and then I pet her and tell her what a good girl she is.  I'm certainly not the only one in the family who does these things, but Maisy only seems to have eyes for me.

Maisy sleeps on my comfy chair, right on the pillow that forms the back of the chair.  She has been doing this since she was a tiny puppy, curled warmly in slumber around my shoulders.   These days, however, that tiny puppy weighs sixty pounds, and produces enough body heat to give me hot flashes. The cushion that she lays on is now mashed hopelessly out of shape, and no longer offers any support to my back. 

I don't care about these little personality quirks. Everyone has them, dogs included. And Maisy is polite about most things...except when she wants to be petted.  Then she is very persistent.  Downright stubborn about it.  She will put her paw on my knee. She will climb into my lap.  She will whine. She will "talk" to me with her growls and barks.  Maisy refuses to take 'no' for an answer, either.

I rarely get in that zone where I don't hear anything or see anything anymore, but now that Zane is older, it happens.  I am occasionally able to hyperfocus on a task, such as reading.  Until Maisy shows up, that is.  She starts off quietly with good intentions.  Maisy will approach, she will sit, sure that her devotion and politeness will be immediately rewarded. She will wait.

And wait.

She gets tired of waiting, of course,  her eyes on me, her attitude respectful.  So she inches closer. And closer.  And closer.  Suddenly whatever I'm doing is blocked by the darkness that is Maisy's head, her large skull obliterating whatever I was focused on completely. 

It's time to pet the dog.

The Mystery Biscuit

"Honey...why is there a biscuit in the middle of the living room floor?"

My journalistic instinct is such that when I heard my husband's question, I had to get up from the breakfast table and immediately go to where the action was. Larry might have been mistaken; it's happened before. On this occasion, however, he was correct--there was indeed a biscuit in the middle of the living room floor.  It was quietly laying there, minding its own business, possibly waiting for butter to fall from the skies.

I kicked at it with my foot, to make sure there were no bugs attached to the biscuit, before picking it up.  It was as hard as a rock. After some discussion, we chalked the incident up to random weirdness, which is a normal occurrence at our house. Opening the back door, I threw the biscuit on the grass for the birds to eat, letting our dog Maisy outside as well. I closed the door, and forgot all about it.

Two hours later, the same biscuit was back, right in the middle of the living room floor. I kicked it with my foot when I was carrying a basket of laundry to the laundry room.  It made some noise as it hit the kitchen floor. I put the basket down, and said my usual "WTF?" (Cursing in initials was okay, I decided, at least until Zane starts figuring out what WTF stands for.)

I squatted down next to the biscuit and checked to make sure that there were no tiny legs underneath.  I picked it up.  I shook it.  I looked for holes that would indicate worms or other tiny critters.  It was a stale biscuit, nothing more.  My legs had fallen asleep from squatting by this point, so I just sat on the floor and pondered the situation.

How did the biscuit get back inside the house? 

We hadn't had biscuits for breakfast in several days.  I had thrown the leftover biscuits out into the back yard at least two days ago.  The biscuit did not just walk back into the house all by itself. There had to be an explanation.

I wasn't usually that inattentive to my housework--I am sure that I would have spotted a random biscuit if I had dropped one.  There was a possibility that my son had been kicking the biscuit around like a tiny soccer ball, except that I had threatened him with a noogie if I caught him kicking soccer balls in the house again. Larry would have eaten the biscuit, not thrown it on the floor.

That left the animals in the house.  The cats were immediately eliminated as suspects. Pounce never leaves the upstairs, and Zena is all about living, squeaking things. Cats aren't big on carbs.

Maisy, however...

I took the biscuit and walked to the door. Maisy followed me, tail wagging.  I opened the back door, and Maisy ran outside.  I tossed the biscuit out in the middle of the back yard, closed the door and waited.  Maisy ran over to the biscuit, sniffed at it, and then picked it up in her mouth.  She marched proudly back to the door, head held high.   The biscuit in her mouth was practically invisible.  I opened the door, and Maisy happily brought her prize back into the house...dropping it in the middle of the living room.  She gave the biscuit a lick, and then lay down next to it. 

Mystery solved.

Somewhere, in Maisy's doggy brain, the biscuit was a play toy, not food. Not just a play toy; her ALL TIME FAVORITE play toy!  We kept waiting for her to forget the toy, or to move on to another toy. Every time we tried to get rid of the biscuit, either by throwing it outside or dropping it into the trash, Maisy would find it again and bring it back to her spot on the rug. I guess she thought that we were playing an elaborate game of Fetch? 

Dogs are weird.

P.S. We were finally able to replace the biscuit with a new ball. After two days.

Nobody In, Nobody Out

Every morning before we leave the house, no matter how rushed we are, Zane and I stand in the doorway and tell our dog Maisy and cats Zena and Pounce something very important, if not profound: 

"Nobody in,
Nobody out,
Stay off the phone.
No parties,
No boys."

We cannot turn the key in the door to begin our day unless we have said the words.  When I've forgotten, the rest of the day feels 'off', as if I'd left the stove on or something.  Our words are not just  a brief reminder of the rules of the house, but a benediction of sorts.   It's our way of telling our critters, and the house, that we will be back at some point.

Where did those words come from?  The first three lines came from my parents.  Each and every time they went out and left us at home by ourselves, they'd give us these three rules.  At the time, they were most particular about us staying off the phone; call waiting didn't exist, and if they needed to call us, they did not want the phone line to be busy.  Hearing those words each time my parents left became a little comforting after awhile, even if we didn't always follow their warning about staying off the phone or not leaving the house.  Even when my brother and I left home, I know that my parents continued to give their concise instructions to the dog. 

The last two lines became attached to the first three because my friend Evil Laura* would say them to HER dog Emily before we left the house.  Evil Laura's parents would say those words to her, and her sisters, before they went out for the evening.   I was happy to find out that my family wasn't completely weird after all, and Evil Laura's ritual was added to mine.

And the ritual was complete. 

My husband thinks I'm crazy for giving instructions to the pets, and maybe he is right.  It's not as though they can understand what Zane and I say, but maybe our tone is all they need.  I've thought about my need to say my little bit before I leave the house.  Does my little compulsion mean that I'm loopy in some way?  Probably.  Do my neighbors think I'm odd?  Most likely.

But there are quite a few instances of similar rituals in the many cultures of our world.  There are the rituals that people do before hunting, in order to assure that food is brought home.  There are the rituals that people do before going on spirit quests, or long journeys.  There are the rituals that signal births, deaths, and everything in between. And we all seem to have our rituals that ensure "luck", such as blowing on dice before they are thrown, or kissing a chicken foot before pulling the arm on the slot machine. Don't even get me started on all the rituals that are alive and well in sports.

So why not a little discussion with the family pets? 







*Evil Laura is not actually evil.  It's just that I have two friends named Laura, and the other one is really, really, really good. Yes, alcohol was involved. 

Randomly Yakking

Things have been just whirling by this month--next week it's AUGUST!!!  I am of course, not ready for summer to be gone.  Most of my summer was spent recuperating, but I swear I had intended to clean out the house and take a bunch of stuff to Goodwill.  Now I will be happy if I finish cleaning out my old desk at work.   I would really love to have a cleaning lady to help me, but right now that is out of the budget.  I do intend to revisit the idea--my sister-in-law and mother-in-law both have people come in to clean up the house, and neither of them work outside the home.  Why not me?

One should be careful when opening a case of Gatorade:

Cats just love boxes and small containers that they can squeeze themselves into, and Zena is no exception.  I suppose that she was attracted to the sound of the plastic, and it was nice and cozy in there.  She does the same thing with the television receiver, even though it is behind glass. But I can't get mad at that face, and she knows it.  So as long as she doesn't start chewing through electrical wiring, I don't make her move. 

Ooh!  The royal baby has arrived!  I'd feel sorry for the new parents, and sympathize with how little sleep they will be getting, except that this baby comes with a nanny, among other employees, to help out.  I am sure that a number of us would give our right arms to be able to get a few hours of shut eye, let alone watch our child while we enjoy a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep?  I wonder if there is a Royal Diaper Changer, and if so, how much does it pay?  I expect it might be a bit more than minimum wage.  That certainly would be an interesting note on one's resume. 

My mom hands me a stretchy bracelet the other day.  It has pink and white beads. Turns out that the beads were made from flowers.  The flowers that were at my grandmother's funeral.  A memento mori, certainly. I'd rather have had something else, but I guess that everyone grieves in their own way.  I don't even know if my grandmother liked the color pink.  I suspect that she did; the entire outside of the house was painted pink.  I do know that I am not fond of pink.  When I see someone wearing all pink or driving a pink car, I automatically think of Mary Kay.  Weird, I know! 

This is an artist's rendition of my dog.  If it is stinky and in the trash, she has to have it.  Especially if it is embarrassing, like one of those --ahem--feminine products. Yeah, those items are her very favorite.  Maisy will get her nose into the can and pull the offensive item right out, which isn't the bad part.  No, the bad part is that she takes the wad to the living room and quickly proceeds to tear it into shreds.  Tiny, tiny shreds.  Did I mention that the pieces are tiny?  Try cleaning all that up in less than five minutes, when your parents have just texted that they are on the way. 



Go visit Stacy--help her stay sane while she packs!

Also, go check out these fine ladies--Shawn and Impulsive Addict for Talk To Us Tuesday!

Every Dog Deserves A Day

Ever since we got our current pup, I've been falling in love with dogs again.  Not that I have ever disliked dogs, it's just that I embarked upon a love affair with cats.  Cats and I share many qualities, after all.  We both like to sleep a lot, we tend to pounce on things for no obvious reason, and we are quick to bring out the claws when we get annoyed.  Also, cats are most comfortable around a select few individuals that they trust, which is the very definition of an introvert.  Which would also be me. I was chosen by my first cat in the late 90s; Isobel(RIP) was sitting on my balcony one morning.  Then came Morris the Irascible(RIP), then Tiger(RIP), then Pip(RIP), then Pounce, and finally Zena.  Along the way we also acquired Lalo and Smoky Bear, who live in the bushes in the backyard.  I never get tired of watching the cats. 

When I was a small child I remember a couple of dogs being around.  We had a basset hound at one point when I was four-ish.  When next we had a dog, it was a daschund named TJ.  (My mother found the minor skirmishes fought by my brother and I over the slightest issue abhorent, and instead of letting us fight over the names of our pets, she issued a decree that we would take the first initial from each of us and that was that.  Over the years, a succession of horses, dogs, and guinea pigs were all named TJ.  Even a turtle or two, and possibly a crayfish.)  When I met my husband, I had Isobel and Morris, and he had Sandy the Wonder Dog, a feisty yellow Lab.  Sandy was used to ruling the roost; I remember several nights when Sandy would literally push me out of the bed.  I had taken "her" spot.  The entire household mourned Sandy's passing; even the cats. 

And now we have this little critter.  She's not so little anymore, although she is still officially a puppy.  She is pretty smart, and except for a few issues, she's been fun.  Dogs are more obvious about their responses to you. and I love watching them, too.  Maisy scans our faces constantly for the slightest micro expression, eager to please.  At least, eager to please if you have food or are willing to scratch her behind the ears.  Cats are willing to take the food and the scratching, but they aren't watching you constantly for signs of approval.  So which is better?  That's an age old question, but really, it's apples and oranges.  I like apples and oranges, and I don't have to choose between my fruit, right?  Same with my pets; I love my cats and my dog, and hope that they are all around for a long time.

All your treats are belong to us

How about you?  Are you a cat person or a dog person?  Or do you swing both ways, at least as far as owning pets?

The Top Breed

Mamakat's Mellifluous Prompt:  2.) If humans were a dog breed, what would your mother be and why?

Source: dogster.com via Tina on Pinterest

Hmmmm...my mom as a German Shepherd...Nope.

Over the years I have spent quite a lot of time thinking of my mother and why she is the way she is.  It may be that every child does this, or I may just have been a weird kid who spent way too much time alone in her room.   My mother was my first role model, after all.  I was supposed to learn lots of important mother-daughter things from her, habits that would help me become an independent person able to manage my own household some day.  At least that is what the books, magazines, and television shows all said.  Nobody told my mother any of what she was supposed to do, of course.

My mom was supposed to teach me how to sew, for example. All the older television shows displayed women sitting on the couch mending socks or pinning up patterns. I learned to sew on a button and other minor mending chores from a library book that had a lot of pictures. While my mother did sew, she wasn't really interested in teaching me. And after I broke three of her sewing machine needles, I was not allowed to use her sewing machine anymore.   My mom was supposed to teach me how to cook, according to all the tv shows.  Except that my mother doesn't like messy things.  She's a neat freak, and I am not.  After one time too many of having to clean the ceiling, my mother banned me from the kitchen.   I also never really learned how to do laundry from my mother.  I was only allowed to put items in the dryer, take them out of the dryer, and fold them.  The washer was always off limits.

We won't even discuss the whole "power tools" incident.

Source: britannica.com via Tina on Pinterest

My mom as a Weimarinara--Weimarnerier--Weimaraner?  Nope. 

I have had to accept that my mother was just not a traditional mom.  She wasn't a hugger, or affectionate in the least, which took some getting used to.  Most of my memories of my mother involve her sitting with her nose in a book.  When she read, my brother and I could have lit the couch on fire before she would notice.  If reading is an escape, she escaped!  She wasn't very social, but she did make sure that we ate regular meals and that our clothes didn't stink.  She kept a fastidiously clean house without ever resorting to plastic seat covers, and she hardly ever freaked out at the sight of blood.

So, aloof, independent, not affectionate, likes to do her own thing...what sort of dog breed would that be? 

Source: scaredycatsvet.com via Tina on Pinterest

Ah.  Now I understand.

Random

Am I the only person who speaks to random wildlife?  I opened the door last night to call for Zena, spotted a raccoon in the bird seed, and all I said was "Hello, Mr. Racoon! How are you on this fine evening?"  I also routinely speak to squirrels, cats, possum, and a random skunk or two, even if it is just to say 'Hi!"  My neighbors must think that I am completely nuts.  That may not be a completely horrible thing.  If your neighbors think you are insane, they will be less likely to borrow your lawn mower and not return it. 

My husband's new school is wayyyyyy out in the boonies. As in, cow pastures as far as the eye can see.  Driving out there, down a two-lane road, Larry and I see lots of things that we never see in the city.  Like this bird, the Kara Kara:

Source: flickr.com via Tina on Pinterest

 I didn't even know these birds existed, but I saw one two days in a row on that country road, and I consider that pretty awesome. I've also seen hawks, turtles, cows, horses, donkeys, goats, and turkey buzzards.  It's a regular menagerie out there in the country. Except deer.  I have yet to see any deer out there, because they all seem to live in the city.  There are probably more deer within the city limits of New Braunfels than actual people.  Maybe they like the polka music they play at the Wurstfest. 

My son wants a dog for his birthday this Friday.  He wants a black dog.  Who is big.  Who is small.  Who is a puppy.  But who gets big.  We've talked about getting a dog, but not the particulars. There's quite a bit up for negotiations. A dog is a lot of responsibility for a boy, even if he will be five soon.  I don't know if he is ready for that responsibility.  After all, he doesn't even wipe his own rear end by himself yet. 

The Walking Dead just started it's third season, with a bang, I might add.  Of course, there's some huge questions as to the zombie apocalypse(all those corpses and nary a feasting bug?), but since the main point of the show is not that there are zombies, I'm cool.  I still wonder how we would handle an 'end of the world' scenario.  We would be fine for a week or so, then we would run out of toilet paper, and it would be catastrophe time.
 

Source: s3.amazonaws.com via Tina on Pinterest

I am over visiting the excellent Stacy at Stacy's Uncorked, checking out her wine list. Go visit!

The Big Dog

The other day I was talking to Zane about leaving all of his small toys all over the floor and how he needed to pick them up and put them away.

"No," Zane tells me.

"Yes," I respond. "If you don't put your toys away, I will put them into 'time-out'." Zane HATES for his toys to be put into 'time-out'.

"No! I tell Big Dog!"

I almost laughed out loud.

We have quite a few dogs on our street; Zane knows most of them by name. There's Pepper, and Mojo, and Nikki, and Jade, to name a few. The dogs know Zane, who has no problem running up to these friendly pups and playing with them.

But we also live next door to two Rottweilers. They are relatively friendly, if high spirited. Personally, I don't think that they get enough exercise, but they aren't my dogs. Zane has never actually seen these dogs. He has no idea what they look like. He does, however, know what the male dog, sounds like. This dog seems to always be in the garage(to be fair, he is in the garage because he keeps breaking out of the backyard), and he barks at everything. Zane calls him The Big Dog.

Zane is 'scared' of The Big Dog. He will tell you that he's scared, but sometimes he will just start screaming. There are days when we have to carry Zane from the car to the door because The Big Dog barked and Zane is afraid to walk. There are times when we are inside our house and Zane comes running to us because The Big Dog barked, and he's very terrified. (We've explained that dogs don't know how to ring the doorbell and that The Big Dog doesn't have opposable thumbs to turn the doorknob to get inside, but this somehow is not as comforting as you might think.)

We don't know why Zane is afraid. I am not afraid of dogs and neither is Larry. Zane's been around a large dog; our Lab Sandy just passed away last year and Zane climbed on her like she was Everest. But who knows why any of us become afraid of anything? There are lots of people afraid of snakes who have never even encountered one, for instance. And I don't want Zane to throw caution to the wind and approach strange dogs, because that's not smart, either. The important thing is to deal with the fear in a positive way instead of just running from it.

We've been working on this anxiety of Zane's, talking with him about it, modeling good responses, and just generally reassuring him about The Big Dog. It seems that our efforts are working, since now Zane is going to tell The Big Dog if I put his toys in 'time-out'. Good. Zane will most certainly encounter many things that are scarier than The Big Dog, and I want him to be at least a little prepared to face them and not frozen with fear.