Last night I lost Yogi

I let the dogs out about 11:30 for a bedtime pee and when I let them back in and counted heads I only counted five dog heads swooshing under my hand. I counted again. No Yogi. I looked in the main part of the house where I thought he had been tucked up under the table where I was reading. Hmmm. Yogi has a bad habit of jumping the fence and going walkabout, but he hasn't done that since June, so I have gotten lax about keeping a keen eye on him.

For the next two hours I walked around the neighborhood, waited and looked and tried to read and worried and fussed. It was late at night, therefore the neighbors probably wouldn't notice him and get mad. It was late at night and I couldn't walk down the sidewalk yelling his name. It was late at night and traffic was light, so chances are he wouldn't get hit by a car. It was late at night and Yogi loves to sleep with me on the bed, surely he will come home to his bed. What if he doesn't come home by morning? What if he comes home mid-morning while I'm at work and he sits on the porch and the mailman comes and Yogi jumps up and chases him? Then we'll get in trouble.

Finally about 1:30 a.m. I gave up trying to worry him home and went to my bedroom. I stumbled through the dark and changed into my pajamas, then I turned around and looked at the bed. There in the darkness, I saw something white glowing on the blanket. A large solid donut-shaped object. I reached out my fingers and touched warm fur. "Yogi?" He lifted his head a fraction as if to say, "Dude, it's 1:30 in the morning, let me sleep," then tucked his nose under his tail again.

I started to laugh and had to leave the bedroom lest I wake up my husband. I laughed for a good long time, snorting included, then I went back to bed, I had to work in the morning.

Beau : Chapter 2 : A Cat-Herding Dog

Late one night I let the dogs out for one last romp and pee in the back yard. The light was dim from the house and I could just make out their black shapes moving about in the darkness, except for Yogi of course, who is mostly white. Then I heard a meow behind me. I turned and there he was, Tommy the tubby gray tiger cat, strolling out of the basement door. At this time, the cats were restricted to the indoors. We had just moved to this house, on a busy highway, and we didn't want to risk losing our cats to tire treads.

Anyway, here I am in the dark back yard at midnight with 6 busy dogs and 1 loose cat. One wily loose cat. I scooted over to pick him up, but he darted away, with more speed and agility than his rotund body might suggest, his dainty paws scurrying under his fluffy round self. I called his name, hoping he'd come to me, but he just kept moving into the darkness, tail held high, rear end winking back at me.

I called the dogs in and they all came swooping by me and into the basement and I counted tails, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, while I tried to keep an eye on the cat in the yard. I would have to stumble out into the darkness and try to catch him. "Tommy!" I yelled, then remembered it was midnight, and I had neighbors who already disapproved of my menagerie. I would have to try to outstealth a cat. "Tommy," I sang, hoping to lure him to me. This was stupid, and I knew it, the cat would come or he would not come, but only the cat would decide. Stupid human. Beau had ambled back out of the basement and paused next to me while I called softly a few more times and grumbled to myself, "damn cat, stupid Tommy." At those words Beau looked straight up at me, then out into the dark yard, then back at me. "Oh, you want that cat? Why didn't you say so?" And off he loped into the darkness, heading straight for a murky gray shape at the base of a tree. "BEAU!" I yelled, then shut myself up. Shaking my head and picturing Beau chasing Tommy clear over the fence, I quickly closed the basement door before the rest of the pack came tumbling out, then turned to look for Beau and Tommy.

The yard was murky, I couldn't see anything. Then Beau's form took shape again, loping along the back fence, then stopping suddenly. I could just make out his fur gleaming in the dim light. He was standing still and pointing his nose at a fuzzy gray shape on the ground. The fuzzy gray shape bobbed away, and Beau bounded after it, made an end run around it, and stopped again, pointing. Then he swung his big head up toward me again and I could see his white teeth smiling. Beau was herding the cat! Holding him for me. Good Beau! I grinned.

I made my way carefully across the dark yard. I'm clumsy in the daylight, walking on smooth surfaces, walking across a sloping yard pitted with dog-dug holes and branches and dog toys was intimidating. But Tommy still squatted, obviously annoyed, and Beau still held the cat in his gaze. I approached Tommy, and he scooted quickly right by me. Just as quickly Beau loped around me and the cat, turned and held him with his eyes. The cat's ears pressed back against his skull and he turned and ran the other way, in his ridiculous little mincing steps, followed immediately by Beau, with his great long strides.

After a few more turns, Tommy gave up and allowed me to heft his fatness up into my arms.
"Good dog, Beau!" I whispered, "what a good boy!" Beau bounced merrily at my side, bounce, bounce, bounce! What a good dog, a cat herding dog.

Beau : Chapter 1: The Adoption

We already had two dogs, REO the black lab, and Rocky the lab mix. We didn't need another dog. We weren't looking for another dog. But we were volunteering at an animal shelter, walking and playing with dogs. And we met Beau, a rangy black lab, who looked remarkably like REO. He was two years old, had reached his full height, the tallest lab we'd ever seen, and he weighed 47 pounds. He was a skeleton covered with hide. Every bone stuck out, hips, ribs, cheekbones, eyesockets. My kids and I sucked in our breath. "Omigod, he looks just like REO! Omigod, he's been starved!"

Apparently his first owner, like many people who buy lab puppies, was astonished at how fast and how big he'd grown. And astonished at how much energy labradors exert. He was unmanageable, a jumping, bouncing, boisterous, enthusiastic, rambunctious puppy inside the body of a full grown, very large dog. On a leash, he bounded and dragged the human on the other end. He required copious amounts of food. Too much dog, not enough human sense. So he was shut inside a chain link kennel and ignored. He got just enough food to keep him alive. Someone noticed, and talked the owner into surrendering him to the shelter.

It didn't take us but a few minutes to considering adopting him. We brought REO and Rocky to the shelter to meet him - they wagged tails and sniffed hind ends. He was already neutered, so we paid our cash, signed the papers and took him home and began feeding him.

When I first brought him home, I tried to put him in our chain link kennel for a short period - he stood up on his hind legs and stretched his front legs out on either side of the kennel door and could not be pushed inside. He barked in desperation and even placed his jaws around my wrist, begging, threatening, "Please don't put me in here!" So I didn't.

That night inside he was disoriented and timid. He walked toward a toy and REO growled at him, " All the toys are mine." He walked toward the food dishes and REO growled again, "All the food is mine." He tried to climb on the couch next to me, and Rocky who was already there, growled at him, "The spot next to Mom is mine." For awhile Beau stood in the middle of the living room swinging his head from point to point looking cautiously around, not sure where he fit in.

Then REO picked up a tug toy and trotted over to Beau and dropped the toy in front of him. Beau glanced at the toy, then glanced back up at REO. REO wagged his tail. Beau gazed at him. REO barked. Beau stood still. REO nudged the toy with his nose, pushing it toward Beau, then swooped down into a play bow and barked again. This time Beau didn't hesitate, he scooped the toy up in his mouth and bounded away, REO hot on his trail. They played for several minutes then flopped down on the floor panting and smiling. Beau was part of the pack.

It's been two years now, and Beau is still tall and rangy, but he's filled out. I'm not sure how much he weighs, but it's probably around 90 pounds. He's not beautiful as his name suggests, but he's impressive in his size and bearing. He is unmanageable in many respects - walking him on a leash requires a bold, daring spirit, I've fallen and been dragged more than a couple of times, and that's after working hard to train him to walk politely. He's just so boisterous and strong. He still thinks he's a baby dog and will climb into my husband's lap and try to curl up - it's a sight to behold, his big front end and his big hind end hanging over on both sides. He still jumps on people - and he's so tall he can put his front paws on your shoulders and look you in the face. He often has muddy paws so many of my shirts are decorated with his paw prints. We have tried and tried to break him of this bad habit, but Beau can't contain himself. He must jump!

If there is one word, really, to describe Beau's attitude it would be grateful. Everyday with him, he lets me know that he's grateful: grateful for his food, for his big yard to play in, grateful for affection, and a soft place to sleep near us. There's just an expression on his big face,
a way of his being, an aura, that glows with gratitude. When all the dogs are out in the yard, running and playing, it's Beau who is most likely to be by my side, gazing up at me with a grin on his face. When he sees me he bounds straight up in the air like Tigger - he just jumps for joy. He romps in circles around me, then comes quietly to my side and sits and gazes at me.

I love my Beau.

Too many friends, too much love

I was walking REO a few days ago and met a girl walking her cocker spaniel. The dogs greeted each other and the girl was very friendly and talkative. She asked me how many dogs I had, "two?" she guessed.

"No," I admitted, "I have six dogs. Too many. I don't recommend it."

"Well, why don't you just get rid of some of them," she said.

How can I? I tried to explain to her. How can I get rid of "some" of my dogs? They aren't just "dogs" to me, they're my friends, my buddies, my packmates, my kids. They trust me, they depend on me, they love me. What am I supposed to do? Say, Sorry Tipper, but there are too many of you, so you've got to go back to the cage at the shelter. Maybe someone else will want you. Or maybe not. Sorry, Beau, you too, back to the dog pound. You're awfully big and hyperactive, but maybe someone will want you. Maybe. Sorry Yogi, Mina, Rocky - you're too much to take care of, I just don't want to be bothered anymore. Off to the dog pound with you, maybe somebody will want you. Maybe. If not, at least you will be humanely killed. You'll be dead, you won't pee on my floor anymore. You won't chew my blankets or shoes. You won't eat my couch, or shed hair on my food. You won't drag me down the sidewalk, or run away, or play or romp, or lick my face, or wag your tail, or cuddle with anyone anymore.

How can I do that?

Lay down with dogs....

The other night I prepared for bed by washing my face and slathering on a lavender scented lotion, known for its light, sleep-inducing fragrance. I snuggled into the bed next to my husband, feeling all sweetly scented and sleepy. Mina, our pup, curled up in a ball between us. My husband rolled over and mumbled, "What's that smell? Did you put that flea goop on the dogs again?"

Urine in trouble now!

It’s morning, I’m late, as usual, and hopping around trying to brush my shoes and tie my teeth and round up the books I need to return to the library (where I work) when I notice something. A noise. Something drumming softly in another room. It’s an odd noise, and out of place in my morning routine. It sounds like...water running, no, splattering.

I cock my head trying to place the location of the noise. I creep from doorway to doorway and follow the sound into the dining room. Liquid is splashing onto the dining room table. From the table it bounces up and flies in thousands of tiny droplets out into the room, spraying the floor, the walls, the piano, me. My eyes follow the stream of liquid up, up, up to the ceiling where it is pouring through the exposed lath. My brain is exceedingly slow to puzzle this out. Why is there liquid up there? Above this area of the dining room, there is only the hallway and my bedroom door. No plumbing. No pipes.

A dog brushes against my legs. A lightbulb goes off in my head – it’s one of those jarring, noisy warning bulbs that lights up and honks when nuclear power plant protocol has been breached. Wonk! Wonk! Wonk!

I race up the stairs, all six dogs scrambling up with me, bumping into me, nearly knocking me all the way down the stairs again. I turn the corner at the hallway and slide to a stop in front of my bedroom door. Where there is a rapidly disappearing pool of dog pee. Rapidly disappearing because it is draining through the cracks of the old wood floor and through the broken plaster and exposed lath of the dining room ceiling and onto the dining room table (did I mention that this is a dining room table – people eat food from this table!)

Cursing at the dogs, I slosh a mop through the mess and finish it off with a towel – a towel, I might add, that I had just laundered the night before. A clean towel that has been folded on the bathroom shelf for a mere 8 hours, before being used to wipe up dog piss.

Downstairs (where each dog is now cowering in its own corner, trying to look small and vulnerable and innocent), I rapidly clean up the table, chairs, floor, piano, then realize I need to change my clothes as well. I am late for work.

This is my morning. This is not an unusual morning.

I have six dogs, obviously untrained, and every morning when I wake up I have six dogs with full bladders. My own bladder is also full. I used to drag myself out of bed and to the back door to let dogs out to pee before I had used the bathroom myself. But since our yard is not fenced, and there is a leash law, I can only let one dog out at a time. Have you ever watched a dog choose a spot to pee? They can be interminably slow. Sniff the rock, hmm, no, maybe the garbage can, hmm, no, not there, oh, a stick of wood. Nope. “Just go potty, damn you!” I yell, startling some early morning joggers passing by the house. Times that by six, and you can see my problem. After I’d peed in my pajamas a few times, I made an executive decision: the one who buys the dog food gets to pee first.

But a dog whose bladder has been filling up all night long is a worried dog and an anxious dog. There are mornings I can hear the dogs milling about outside the bathroom door, almost hear their fretting, almost see them squeezing their furry legs together, pinching their doggy lips together in an attempt to tighten all bodily sphincter muscles. Some mornings, such as this one, somebody failed. Or, I suspect, somebody didn’t try hard enough.

My life is clearly out of control. I am not living up to my potential. And I am late to work again, thinking, how did I get here? Why do I have so many dogs? Why are there holes in my ceiling? How do I sanitize the dining room table? How do I get the odor of dog pee out of my unfinished wood floors? And how do I escape?? But then I arrive at work, and must think about other things, like earning enough money to feed my dogs, repair my ceiling, buy a new table, finish my floors and book a one way ticket to Tahiti.

Dog Scents

I swept and mopped my house today, no small feat, with six dogs insisting that the floor is their toilet. But finally, I had gotten ahead of the pee puddles. I started to make dinner, then had to stop to kick the dogs out of the kitchen, since they can't be trusted not to steal food from the counter every time I turn to another part of the kitchen. For some reason, I let Rocky stay in the kitchen with me. He was off in a corner on a dog bed, minding his own business and not bothering me.


I turned back to the pizza dough I was kneading, but soon became aware of a very non-bread like odor. Ewwwww. Smelled like cat musk. Ewwww. The odor was stronger next to the refrigerator. I stuck my nose in various places around the fridge, but couldn't figure it out. Had the cats peed on the floor? Guess I didn't mop very well, I told myself, and figured I'd be in for another bout of mopping after dinner.


Soon kids started wandering into the kitchen drawn by the lovely aroma of pizza dough on the griddle. Their noses quickly wrinkled after a couple of good sniffs. "Ewwww," they said, "why does it smell like cat piss?" My 18 year old daughter lit a coffee scented candle, but it just added coffee scent to the aroma of cat.


Eventually, overcome by hunger, we all ate. As she was putting her plate in the sink, my daughter stopped to pet Rocky, and then screeched, "It's him! It's Rocky!!
He stinks!! Aaaaaagggghhhh - my hands!! I touched him!! My hands stink!!!"


Ahhhhhh - the source of the stink. The famous dog roll in smelly stuff outside. Apparently Rocky had found an outdoor cat toilet and had enjoyed a good romp in it.


I gave Rocky a bath - a rare event in his life. My dogs don't usually stink. I stick my nose in their fur all the time, and honest, they don't stink. They smell like dogs, but a clean dog does not have an unpleasant smell. Which leads me to the question - why do dogs roll in disgusting, smelly junk? Donkey doo, cat mounds, dead birds and squirrels, rotting fish - it's all yummy and irresistible to a dog.


The popular wisdom is that the dog is trying to disguise his smell so he can sneak up on prey. And that makes sense, sort of, except when you remember that dogs don't generally stalk their prey, they run it down. I think it was dog trainer and writer Patricia McConnell who offered an alternative reason. Dogs immerse themselves in strong aromas for the same reason humans do - it's perfume to them. They simply like the way it smells. She goes on to write that most of the things that dogs roll in are food-like for a dog - rotten meat, and the feces of prey animals, which often smell like the animals themselves (after all, you are what you eat). We humans, she reminds us, use plant-based scents, fruity, flowery, herbal scents - also things we like to eat. When she encouraged one of her dogs to sniff her perfumed wrist, the dog wrinkled its nose and turned its head ---"Ewwwww, why does my human roll in such stinky stuff?!"


For whatever reason, dogs will occasionally shock our senses with fragrances repugnant to us. What's great about dogs is that they forgive us so readily after we have bathed them with a shampoo they find equally repugnant.

Woof!

Are you Hungary?

Recently my husband & I were relaxing in the living room with Reo the black lab nestled on the floor at my feet, and my daughter came in asking about Gypsies and Transylvania. "Where is Transylvania?" she wanted to know. "I think it's in Hungary," I said. All of a sudden Reo's big head popped up, his eyes huge with hope, his ears pricked up. We looked at Reo, wondering what had excited him so. He leapt to his feet and dashed off into the kitchen, prancing back a few seconds later carrying his food bowl in his mouth. We all started laughing - "oh, he heard the word Hungary!" (At every meal time I ask my dogs, "Are you hungry?") Reo danced around the living room, smacking each of us in turn with his happy tail, swaying like a shark, weaving his big, glossy black body around chairs and legs, & jerking the bowl away from us as we pretended to try to snatch it from him.

Reo knows several English words, but "hungry" is his favorite. "Walk" and "ride" are up high on his list too. "Sit", "down", "wait" and "bye-bye", are way down at the bottom, as shown by his drooping ears, head and tail. And the eyebrows - the expressive eyebrows- that twitch and rise and fall with his moods.


PS - since I posted this my 18 year old daughter has informed me that "Transylvania is in Romania" (rolling her eyes).

Being adopted by a dog

1974
I had wanted a dog for a while. I went to an animal shelter called Pets Unlimited, in San Francisco and walked past many kennels. All of the kennels contained big black dogs and all of the big black dogs were throwing themselves against the kennel doors and barking ferociously. I continued walking. Close to the end of my tour I stopped in front of a kennel with a quiet dog inside. He was sitting very politely and with very good posture, one ear up and one ear down. He was smiling. He was white with big brown patches, like a pinto pony. "Hello," I said. He wagged his tail. I looked at his info card. His name was Cisco. He was 9 months old. He was a Shepherd X. I started to walk on to look at the next dog, when something touched my arm. I looked back. Cisco had reached a paw through the chain link and placed it on my arm. He was still smiling, still wagging his tail. "All right," I said, "you've got me."

How did your dog choose you?

PS - Cynthia has left a comment about the needs of big black dogs. When I picked out Cisco in 1974 , I was a novice with dogs, and not aware of the bias against big black dogs. In recent years, especially after REO, our black lab, joined our family, I have learned a lot more. Five big black dogs now are part of our family (& one non-black dog, too!) Big black dogs are the least likely dogs to be adopted from a shelter - they need our help. Check out this very cool website about Big Black Dogs: http://www.blackpearldogs.com/ to learn what you can do.

Something smells good....

Our dog Rocky doesn't beg at the table. Instead, he just snatches the food from the fork as it travels from the plate to your mouth. It's like a frog or lizard snapping up a fly - zap!

What's the most spectacular act of food thievery your dog has committed?
(In dog-speak, that would be a "bold and clever survival tactic".)

Dog names

I once read a short story about a vicar who, when he was drunk, told stories about his previous life as a dog. He had a dog friend, and every night the two dogs would go roaming. The two dogs had names of course, names their humans had bestowed on them, but dogs have their own names, names they give themselves. These two dogs had named themselves Moon Chaser and Lion Hunter (or was it Moon Hunter and Lion Chaser?)

What name do you think your dog would call himself or herself, and why?

(and has anybody else ever read this story and remember the title or author?)