tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38464452478962735022024-03-13T10:38:28.345-06:00The Eentsy Weentsy DogMongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.comBlogger234125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-50660189903879483212013-03-29T20:15:00.002-06:002013-03-29T20:15:35.350-06:00Did I just get had?<div align=justify>In the new house in Winnipeg, we have stairs. And Her Majesty refuses to do the stairs. I know she can, because she's done them once each way, but she doesn't. She does the stairs going in and out of the house, but not the stairs to and from the second floor. Instead I have to carry her.<br />
<br />
Oh no my poor little dog she's so disabled!!!!!! Here, let me carry you, Your Majesty.<br />
<br />
Fine. But I do insist she has to jump on the bed at bed time. I know she can, because she does it very easily whenever she wants. So I'm NOT going to lift her up on the bed. Even supposing it's a challenge (and there is no appearance of struggling when she does it), I still think she needs to do it to keep up her mobility. She has arthritis in her back end and I suspect neurological distemper, so I can expect her to be increasingly challenged, but the less she tries, the faster it's gonna get worse. Am I right?<br />
<br />
Still, tonight, she was just NOT jumping on the bed. Just not. I asked her several times, and she looked at it and seemed to brace herself to jump several times, but then she decided to rest her chin on the edge of the bed and look at me mournfully instead of jumping.<br />
<br />
No, dog. I am NOT lifting you on the bed. You have to keep working at it.<br />
<br />
Staring contest.<br />
<br />
.<br />
<br />
.<br />
<br />
.<br />
<br />
.<br />
<br />
.<br />
<br />
Then I got out of bed and lifted her up.<br />
<br />
Now I'd like to know, is there something unusually wrong with her hind end today, or did I just get totally manipulated yet again?<br />
<br />
Or maybe I don't really want to know.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-7313231966122560432013-03-10T21:12:00.002-06:002013-03-10T21:12:34.016-06:00Negotiating: we're doing it right<div align=justify>Our new V-E-T, Dr. Zheng, sold me some expensive glucosamine cookies for Her Majesty's arthritis. "They're liver-flavoured," he said. "Dogs love them."<br />
<br />
Ha.<br />
<br />
Her Majesty is not "dogs". She is Her Majesty. And she does NOT, as a rule, like dog biscuits. So sure enough, she didn't want the expensive glucosamine cookies. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh! I mean, bad enough that they cost a fortune, but I really want her to not be in pain. Sigh...<br />
<br />
After several days of her refusing to eat the glucosamine cookies, I hit upon a potentially brilliant idea. Here in Winnipeg, I've found a brand of cookies that she <em>does</em> like. I call them "wolf cookies" because I can't remember the brand, I'm too lazy to look it up, and they have a picture of a wolf on the packaging. Cause allegedly they're made of what wolves would eat in the wild... or more accurately, they're made of what romantic city folk imagine a wolf would eat in the wild. But the important thing is, they cost a fortune too, and Her Majesty loves them. She's a dog of taste and wealth... at least she assumes the wealth is there. Cause she can't read my bank statement. But oh well.<br />
<br />
So anyway, I took a wolf cookie and a glucosamine cookie, held them both in my hand, and offered them to Her Majesty, but with my thumb on the wolf cookie so she couldn't take it from me. Which she tried many, many times, of course. And every time I would move my hand to put the glucosamine under her nose instead of the wolf cookie. So finally she ate the glucosamine, and then I gave her the wolf cookie.<br />
<br />
<em>OMG I can't believe it worked!!!!!!</em><br />
<br />
Totally. And I repeated this success every day thereafter. Which shows that a) she understood that I was offering the wolf cookie as a reward if she did something for me, i.e. eat the glucosamine cookie; and b) she was actually willing to compromise. Victory!<br />
<br />
But then yesterday, I had been unpacking a box of stuff, and I stopped to give her her glucosamine. But she hates it when I move things around, so she wouldn't come into the room to eat her cookies. Oh well. I have things to do. I put both cookies on the floor and went back to unpacking. And while I wasn't looking, she crept silently (probably not, we have laminate floors and her nails click like mad) up behind me and ate... the wolf cookie.<br />
<br />
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh!!!!! You treacherous animal! You KNEW you're supposed to eat the glucosamine! Woe is me!<br />
<br />
Ok, so I took out another wolf cookie, and offered her the glucosamine. And she ate the glucosamine and... didn't eat the wolf cookie.<br />
<br />
<em><strong>OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!</strong></em><br />
<br />
See what she did there? She did her part of the deal <em>even though she already had her reward.</em> She has a sense of owing me something! After all these years she <em>finally</em> feels like she ought to do something for me once in a while!<br />
<br />
I love you, little mutt. I really do. Please don't ever die.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-30404284929555950402013-03-02T15:11:00.000-07:002013-03-02T15:16:07.112-07:00I hate people<div align=justify>I got some stories to tell you when I feel less lazy, but for now, I'm a' bitch about my roommates' dog.<br />
<br />
At the house here in Winnipeg, there are three dogs: Her Majesty, a two-year-old Jack Russel named Spencer, and a five-year-old shih-tzu named Fluffy. Of course Her Majesty is practically perfect in all respects. Spencer is a nice little dog, though he does pee when excited. (Well then don't get him worked up. Duh.) Fluffy is a problem.<br />
<br />
But to make one thing clear: Fluffy is a problem because his people are a problem. His nominal owner is a 16-year-old girl who acts like a toddler. And she's babysat by her 19-year-old boyfriend, who seems like a fairly decent, responsible young man, but he has never had a dog and I don't think he particularly wants a dog. But since he was fool enough to shack up with this chick, he gets to clean up the dog's shit over and over in the living room while she does nothing. Ever. Once in a while she turns the dog out the back door, contrary to City by-laws of course, and lets him shit wherever and does not pick it up OF COURSE and also contrary to City by-laws. So now the back of the property is disgusting. And that doesn't really help the dog because he has no idea when he might next be let out. One time I told her the dog wanted out and she said "he ALWAYS asks to go out" and stayed in bed. So I took him out. But most of the time he doesn't even bother anymore. If he has to go, he craps in the living room. Poor thing.<br />
<br />
After being spoken to repeatedly (I think it was after the sixth time he crapped in the house in eight days), the girl came up with the idea of turning him out in the little fenced area out front, which I was hoping to use for flowers in the summer. So much for that. And once he's in the pen, she figures she doesn't have to think about it anymore, so she leaves him for half an hour, an hour, as long as it takes her to remember. Then brings him back in without cleaning up, OF COURSE. But he, the dog, doesn't like that, so he's found a way to get out of there, and he simply runs around to the back door and asks to be let in. Earlier today he either was attacked by one of the neighbours' cats or fell on the icy stairs, because he was squealing and crying like a lost soul. Did anyone even notice but me? No. And the little bitch won't speak to me so much as to say hello, so unless I want to be constantly chasing her down to list the things I had to do because she won't look after her dog, I don't get a chance to talk to her. Let me tell you, I do NOT like her.<br />
<br />
The other day, I think it was Tuesday, the boy and I had a long conversation, wherein I explained repeatedly that if they would take the dog out <em>on leash</em> at least every four hours, and walk him <em>on leash</em> until he craps at least once a day, the problem would not exist. So he, the boy, suggested we share the dog-walking. Ummmmmmmm... So how would that work? I take your dog out when I walk mine, and you take my dog out when you walk yours? Great, except you NEVER walk your dog so what this really means is "can you just walk our dog in addition to yours so we don't have to be responsible?"<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
Ok. So the boy has made some attempts to walk Fluffy, about once every two or three days. But he "walks" for about 45 seconds and comes home, which is hardly helpful either. Then, Friday, he sees I'm about to take Her Majesty for a walk, so he's like "can you take Fluffy?" Yeah, I guess... Of course I don't particularly like Fluffy and Her Majesty REALLY doesn't like Fluffy because he's not fixed and his goal in life right now is to lick her ass every time he sees her, so we're not too happy, but it wouldn't be charitable to say no. So I said "sure, where is his leash?"<br />
<br />
Er...<br />
<br />
He doesn't have a leash.<br />
<br />
<em>Dafuq?????</eM> How can you own a dog and no leash? Then again, the dog isn't fixed, vaccinated, licensed, trained or liked, and they never take him out, so why am I surprised? So, the boy and the dog tagged along. Dog crapped on the sidewalk. No attempt whatsoever to pick it up. Then it occurred to me: this guy doesn't even know that you just don't leave dog shit on the ground. Sigh...<br />
<br />
So anyway. We COULD lock up the dog in their room when they're away so he would crap where it doesn't become <em>my</em> problem to clean it up, but then he freaks out and makes an insane amount of noise. He can carry on for hours. And it upsets Her Majesty. Sigh...<br />
<br />
Today, they all got up late and with a sore head after a late night (that's another problem, but not dog-related). The girl went out in her skivvies to put the dog out, but he suspected they were going out so he ran right around and came back in, without relieving himself. And then as everyone was getting ready to go out, he remembered that he had to go and started begging to be let out. Little bitch kicked him away, and everyone left. Hmmmmmmm... Now I can either take him out myself, or wait till he shits in the living room, clean it up, and report it to the landlady. The first solution is kind, the other is better for me. So, I took him out. No surprise, he pulls on the leash.<br />
<br />
And did that solve the problem? HELL NO! Now he knows he can get me to let him out, so he keeps annoying me for more. Fuuuuuuuuuh...<br />
<br />
My consolation in all this is that he has shit sticking to his fur (that's not good) and... he lies on their bed when they're not home. Baaaaaaaaahahahaha! But then again they don't seem to mind dog shit, so maybe they're ok with that.<br />
<br />
Also, I should mention the little bitch kicks Fluffy, yells at him, and when she's home, mostly demands that he stay in his kennel, which is not a pen but a small travel carrier not big enough for him. She had a ferret for about a month and didn't clean the cage once. And she has three hamsters and is always yelling at them to shut up. And that's nothing to how she treats the boy. If it weren't illegal, I'd lay the mother of all beatings on her.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-17560348327445570842012-12-05T14:17:00.001-07:002012-12-05T14:18:16.659-07:00Another day, another dog fight<div align=justify>Her Majesty and I were in the elevator yesterday, going out to pee. We go out to pee very frequently these days, on account of her new obsession with pissing on her bed.<br />
<br />
Anyway. The elevator stops on an intermediate floor, and a guy gets in. Then, Thor gets in.<br />
<br />
Thor is an SPCA dog, I'm not sure if he's still being fostered or if his foster human adopted him. In any case, the SPCA identified him as a "pitbull cross". Because the SPCA here knows a total of five breeds: pitbull, shepherd, lab, shitzu and bichon. In reality Thor looks absolutely nothing like any of the above. He looks exactly like a Brittany spaniel, though a little larger. Like maybe 60 lbs instead of 40. But then, many dogs grow way larger than their breed standards. In any case, Thor looks like a big burly Brittany spaniel. And he's quite a personable creature, but he must have got into a dog fight before because every time his human sees another dog, she freaks out and wrestles Thor away. I don't think that's the best way to socialise him, really, but nobody asked for my opinion.<br />
<br />
In any case, Thor was loose in the hallway while his human did who knows what, and he ran into the elevator and straight to Her Majesty, and pinned her in the corner. I don't think he had any hostile intentions, but Tinky-Winky freaked out on him, of course, so immediately it sounds like a major dog fight is going on. And I don't care for dogs freaking out Her Majesty, so I immediately grabbed him by the scruff with both hands (good thing there was no room for him to maneuver in the elevator) and yanked him away. The guy who had just got in the elevator took over, and between the two of us, we got him out of the elevator just as fast as he got in.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is, Her Majesty obviously didn't see that we humans manhandled Thor out the door, so she figured she had scared him away with her Mighty Jaws of Death, and she was thoroughly pleased with the whole adventure. I don't think he even touched her, really, much less did her any harm.<br />
<br />
But the moral is, if you get a dog, you should learn to break up a dog fight. Once upon a time when I used to read other dog owners' blogs, before I got aggravated with the Carebear ignorance of it all, all the dog owners who read each other's blogs freaked out over some dog fight that got in the news, and tried to brainstorm what to do in case your dog is attacked. One of them had once scared a dog off by waving a clipboard, but the others had no idea whatsoever. So again, here is how you break up a dog fight: use your prehensile hands to grab one or both dogs, and separate them. Seriously. Don't stand there screaming. Don't pull on the losing dog's leash. Just grab the dogs and separate them. Typically the safest place to grab a fighting dog is the tail or a hind leg, away from the toothy end. But if one dog has locked his jaw on the other, then you grab the jaws and pry them open. Srsly. Never mind freaking out and waving your clipboard.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-6084191567615236642012-11-14T21:37:00.000-07:002012-12-05T14:03:53.876-07:00Throw me a bone here, dog<div align=justify>Her Majesty and I are moving to Winnipeg in the new year. The decision was made October 15, but it's been a long time in the making, and part of the reason why is specifically because Her Majesty loves it here. But there are no jobs, so we have to get out of here.<br />
<br />
Ok.<br />
<br />
So first of all I had to dismantle our garden before it froze solid, which caused Tinky-Winky to have a meltdown and pee on everything she normally sleeps on. It was weird. But yeah, the garden was a major thing for both of us. It hurt me to have to do it, but I did it quickly and turned my back on it. Tinky-Winky took it a lot harder.<br />
<br />
After that, I've been hesitant to make any further preparations. Tinky-Winky has never liked me opening the storage room door to begin with, because I make all sorts of loud noises that make her nervous. Now as soon as I touch that door, or try to move anything bigger than a book from one side of the room to the other (we have a bachelor apartment, you'll recall), she goes into a dark corner and shakes like a leaf until I pick her up, sit down on the couch with her, and do nothing but pet her or brush her for half an hour. And that's kind of a problem, because I need to empty the storage room completely, mark out the amount of space that's available in the car, and then refill the storage room with boxed things, ready to load in the car the day before we leave. And I can't do anything without her freaking out.<br />
<br />
Sigh...<br />
<br />
You know, dog, I realise that you don't know where we're going, or why, or how things are gonna work out when we get there. I realise that we've moved lots of places together and you never know how long we're gonna be anywhere, and you can't tell when we're never coming back to a place you like. I realise that you don't get to speak your mind or ask questions. I realise that you have no way of knowing how much your well-being and happiness have been at the centre of my decisions all along. I realise that you know we're gonna go for a long, long drive in a tightly packed car, again. Ok, so it is stressful. You're not in control and you never know what's coming. And yeah, we've lived here a long time, we're comfortable, and it breaks my heart too to leave it. But you're not the one who has to find us a place in Winnipeg. You're not the one who has to find a job and make this move work out, one way or another. You're not the one driving that damn car 2500 km. You're not the one who has to pack, and to leave behind the things you can't pack - yet again. None of <em>your</em> stuff is getting thrown out or left behind, I can guarantee you that. You're all worried, but you're not the one who has to do any of the worrying.<br />
<br />
Ok, so I don't expect you to hold my hand and be supportive and ask how you can help today. But it would be nice if after seven years together when I've never let you down or let you want for anything, you could at least trust that I'm taking good care of you, and I always will, and if there is a little thumping and banging here and there, you don't need to make me drop everything to address your little prima donna act.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I think I'm gonna try to send her to Otis's people a few hours a week so I can get something done here.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-3363820825880164952012-10-27T16:11:00.001-06:002012-10-27T16:11:24.607-06:00You know it.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5HZLhcYNDUo7UzyPDAPN5MZtQ34D_srcQD_2k55sYLTTiGinJKlPod_DXk5Y9AIiEqXE6BvUWsaEdIgQ6dFprYugSWtWczaG6KLUHdPBc2CMF_M76wZpYCTBxDLyaz85OO88mShKPP8R/s1600/sissi-hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5HZLhcYNDUo7UzyPDAPN5MZtQ34D_srcQD_2k55sYLTTiGinJKlPod_DXk5Y9AIiEqXE6BvUWsaEdIgQ6dFprYugSWtWczaG6KLUHdPBc2CMF_M76wZpYCTBxDLyaz85OO88mShKPP8R/s400/sissi-hat.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-86022088698218399202012-10-17T12:24:00.002-06:002012-10-17T12:24:54.947-06:00The dog who cried wolf<div align=justify>Her Majesty likes to lie right behind the front door. Which doesn't mean she's waiting faithfully for me to come home, because she also does it when I'm at home. Anyway. Yesterday she was a little slow in moving away when I opened the door, so the door hit her toes.<br />
<br />
Tragedy!<br />
<br />
Of course she first let out a blood-curdling scream, and then since I had my arms full of groceries and couldn't attend to her immediately, she followed me to the kitchen, hopping on three legs and crying piteously all the way. So I put the groceries down, pick up the dog and go sit on the couch. There was nothing wrong with her foot, so I kissed it better. Then she squirmed free and carried on with her day with no further evidence of having just survived a near-fatal injury.<br />
<br />
Ok, I know I said that physical contact with loved ones releases oxytocin which is a very effective painkiller, but still. Kissing doesn't cure injuries on little kids, much less on hard-hearted little dogs. She just totally faked it to make me grovel.<br />
<br />
And I totally fell for it. Sigh...</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-50646869591071893902012-09-26T12:39:00.002-06:002012-09-26T12:39:27.770-06:00That can't be a real shiba<div align=justify>I don't know how to include <a href="http://cheezburger.com/6610944768">this video</a> in a post so you'll have to click on it like in the 90's... but that's not the point.<br />
<br />
You know what, I can believe that someone would manage to teach a shiba to do this. Some people have that kind of patience. But if they really have a shiba in their house, <em>where is all the dog hair?</em></div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-12849984851059697532012-09-11T21:49:00.001-06:002013-03-02T15:24:20.006-07:00Maybe I spoil my dog<div align=justify>I always say that I don't spoil my dog in that I give her everything that is good for her but I expect a standard of behaviour from her.<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
So now that I'm not working full-time, I've been staying up rather later than usual, and I notice Her Majesty will stare at me. The other day she was particularly pointed, standing in the middle of the living room staring at me for a rather long time. Not lying down and lost in thought, which would be one thing. She was definitely wide awake, full of intention, and staring at me. I asked if she needed food, water, a chewy, a walk, nothing interested her. Hmmmmm...<br />
<br />
Well, after a while I got up to go to the bathroom, and immediately she jumped up on the couch and settled herself for the night in my spot. Because you see, that's one of her top three night-time sleeping spots, and she had made up her mind that it was past our bedtime, and she wanted me out of her spot. And the worst of it is, instead of moving her two cushions over, I tiptoed around her, put my reading materials away, and went to bed.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I do spoil my dog a little after all.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-56302038175236275932012-09-05T08:06:00.001-06:002012-09-05T11:29:00.944-06:00Diesel, part II<div align=justify>Diesel and his people moved out of the building. How sad... I like Diesel. Anyway, while he was waiting patiently in the back of the truck, I went to pet him. At first he started to growl when I intruded in his home space, but he was wagging his tail at the same time. Strange. Anyway, he recognized me, then we socialized for a while and I got some better photos of him, thusly:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZWGuNSsNvyA5oUi2tv1IBnmVOv7PJ-AZqKtEDYi6YU0qDwN0vn_6W4OffP-lUasO8wBRF0YhmP_8uct45Q-6DJ2Buf6KWhe6AOF_xKgU-BJ_WZ0LU_thyphenhyphenoIdhpMYSd56y1iWvvGQwHUD/s1600/2012-09-05+066.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZWGuNSsNvyA5oUi2tv1IBnmVOv7PJ-AZqKtEDYi6YU0qDwN0vn_6W4OffP-lUasO8wBRF0YhmP_8uct45Q-6DJ2Buf6KWhe6AOF_xKgU-BJ_WZ0LU_thyphenhyphenoIdhpMYSd56y1iWvvGQwHUD/s400/2012-09-05+066.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5784745222735969138" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwJj0ve8SSorrZWmK6RqnUWfEMIeyrkoFpYOb5SRBRI0sqRuNgoQB9mzF72sh5fP9vJ59BAVy9aGtKwh7TAWxS1gTzWWrRfbDu9D-EZMHe1Lw66q1KnZixoT0Z-QV8tc38A6GPlQ15WTm/s1600/2012-09-05+068.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwJj0ve8SSorrZWmK6RqnUWfEMIeyrkoFpYOb5SRBRI0sqRuNgoQB9mzF72sh5fP9vJ59BAVy9aGtKwh7TAWxS1gTzWWrRfbDu9D-EZMHe1Lw66q1KnZixoT0Z-QV8tc38A6GPlQ15WTm/s400/2012-09-05+068.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5784745212057963858" /></a><br />What a handsome devil!</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-59770212275731413982012-08-09T12:53:00.003-06:002012-08-09T12:56:48.908-06:00Let's settle this once and for all!<div align=justify><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPWgmyKnF5PQHebXg1YrLw3_DSrg71lHrdAXV_3XF-Bmp0bfFVW0pk4nE07Pii4692i_3gjshZ5f_l06cxGfrEu2IbNhCHkdLQmIghitAs33Kj1yKUEtXgdiW-cs7WLthLKGOw8IA5OHY/s1600/DINGO%252520C%252520Heller.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPWgmyKnF5PQHebXg1YrLw3_DSrg71lHrdAXV_3XF-Bmp0bfFVW0pk4nE07Pii4692i_3gjshZ5f_l06cxGfrEu2IbNhCHkdLQmIghitAs33Kj1yKUEtXgdiW-cs7WLthLKGOw8IA5OHY/s400/DINGO%252520C%252520Heller.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5774748827529870114" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu-pTyBpLdpVCrQiHQfOlvXmEx64zfcbCs-7PL-0CZgeNYAJHSEujUXopV5n563G3cl2bFCxzQGLyQY6y6VMKtqKid8iaUyJWWPvEFwdInzT4P8aLShTh26HvWHjpWAmgKCRkTD2aFq40M/s1600/Dingo%252520westaust.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu-pTyBpLdpVCrQiHQfOlvXmEx64zfcbCs-7PL-0CZgeNYAJHSEujUXopV5n563G3cl2bFCxzQGLyQY6y6VMKtqKid8iaUyJWWPvEFwdInzT4P8aLShTh26HvWHjpWAmgKCRkTD2aFq40M/s400/Dingo%252520westaust.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5774748825274891090" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQViO1FSnxiPy-ykbBe4o_9RENl9ZgXrAADJcdmATjw2wRKUGvgq-wWbnIYpwMTT6naCAKkFbTBYfk_uzaoFfWknceITttp1MPO6Rb8mgfuutrJiY6YXgyasE1ZJXZT39zKEj9hiZueDBC/s1600/DingoAR1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 390px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQViO1FSnxiPy-ykbBe4o_9RENl9ZgXrAADJcdmATjw2wRKUGvgq-wWbnIYpwMTT6naCAKkFbTBYfk_uzaoFfWknceITttp1MPO6Rb8mgfuutrJiY6YXgyasE1ZJXZT39zKEj9hiZueDBC/s400/DingoAR1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5774748820989523106" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Pl1olyI8hhyN0E9WZH0oN_YyJ1Jo2ZQ4K5EqaialbPUwIK9_K-g2cO-ieWzURF3C_YKsPKcMoOKHhzyp6ZmJKdGUJSyHvZJw79xZgZ8QHk5E8Iif8wsrOLAi6Xhaz-ObT78V6XmtjYRW/s1600/DingoAR9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Pl1olyI8hhyN0E9WZH0oN_YyJ1Jo2ZQ4K5EqaialbPUwIK9_K-g2cO-ieWzURF3C_YKsPKcMoOKHhzyp6ZmJKdGUJSyHvZJw79xZgZ8QHk5E8Iif8wsrOLAi6Xhaz-ObT78V6XmtjYRW/s400/DingoAR9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5774748814137310690" /></a><br />See these?<br /><br />They look like shibas, don't they?<br /><br />Yes. Yes, they do. And you know <em>why</em> they look like shibas?<br /><br /><em>Because they're not foxes.</em> They're Australian dingos. I got the photos from <a href="http://australian-animals.net/dingo.htm">here</a>.<br /><br />So next time you see a shiba, you can sound erudite by saying "wow, your dog looks just like a little dingo!"</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-20344715472765164582012-08-08T16:21:00.002-06:002012-08-08T16:22:04.502-06:00I keep telling you...<div align=justify><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnssbKHl-gpxMJrkN43bGcKvAfKo81r5AB9fcWzG9H0BRoJ7VjHbXrw1ouNxDUnnzQjnChSHP5I6enl_rJUkTuv1PmGa1fJOLB8qYGJUt5Otjtyj5nnFH8Hrh2nmKqxU13u41bsqRD7k/s1600/2012-08-08+013.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnssbKHl-gpxMJrkN43bGcKvAfKo81r5AB9fcWzG9H0BRoJ7VjHbXrw1ouNxDUnnzQjnChSHP5I6enl_rJUkTuv1PmGa1fJOLB8qYGJUt5Otjtyj5nnFH8Hrh2nmKqxU13u41bsqRD7k/s400/2012-08-08+013.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5774356431915198610" /></a><br />A fox looks <em>nothing</em> like a shiba.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-58733946326731444722012-08-04T19:45:00.003-06:002012-08-05T13:42:33.791-06:00I am not amused<div align=justify><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrw00qofmd6KQbNrx96pVQq82Yj7jOLe2V3FAfCCnzoKdw-Qu4b6f3mdP5nk4HjjioGUtJGuiad9sU4u4dTeuqA0tDzMeTC5g3w1CHyuJtNyUyNqZE50d_sBYAyRgDByDkABT7w3QJRo7/s1600/2012-08-04+031.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrw00qofmd6KQbNrx96pVQq82Yj7jOLe2V3FAfCCnzoKdw-Qu4b6f3mdP5nk4HjjioGUtJGuiad9sU4u4dTeuqA0tDzMeTC5g3w1CHyuJtNyUyNqZE50d_sBYAyRgDByDkABT7w3QJRo7/s400/2012-08-04+031.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5773276446162636194" /></a><br />A dog bit me.<br /><br />Her Majesty and I were in the Community Garden. I was chatting with a friend, and Her Majesty was lying in the shadow of the car, keeping cool. Then, two people approached with a loose dog, and they came into the garden to look at something. The dog saw Her Majesty and approached her with an aggressive posture, so I went to intervene. Her Majesty didn't get up but was visibly tense and on her guard. I put my hand on her back and tried to push the other dog away. Instead it went around me to go sniff Tinky-Winky's butt.<br /><br />Tinky-Winky got up and started growling while I kept pushing the dog and telling it to slag off. It continued to stand aggressively and refused to move away. Finally Tinky-Winky gave a warning snap and that ugly cur laid into her. Luckily (I guess), since they were right in my feet, I was able to pick up Her Majesty fairly quickly and get her out of the other dog's reach before she got bitten. But as I was doing that, the nasty creature turned and bit me on the leg. And even after that, it kept refusing to move away, but stood pushing back as I tried to push it away with my leg, and stared at me menacingly. While its idiot owner (who happens to be an offspring of the idiot boss of the job I just quit) simply called it a couple of times, making no effort whatsoever to come and control her mutt despite the fact that obviously it doesn't come when called and it just got into a fight. Bitch... and I don't mean the dog.<br /><br />Seriously, what the fuck? Your dog started a fight and bit someone and you don't even bother to come over and control it? I know I've been guilty of letting my dog off-leash when she couldn't be trusted not to get into a fight, but a) my dog has never bitten a person and b) if a fight starts I run to break it up. What a rotten family...<br /><br />The more I know people, the more I love my dog.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-87021406764779584642012-07-21T12:56:00.000-06:002012-07-21T14:48:05.855-06:00Actually, LOVE is the best medicine<div align=justify>Last Friday, while we were hanging out in the Community Garden, Tinky-Winky started walking funny. I didn't see what happened. In fact, at first I thought I was imagining it, until somebody else noticed it too. Then I thought maybe the heat was getting to her.<br /><br />But then, it was getting worse, so she couldn't even walk around the school for her bathroom breaks. And she was holding her head funny. So I thought maybe she had a pinched nerve. Then I thought, what if she had a stroke? But I dismissed this theory on the grounds that I'm paranoid because she's my littly-wittly-kins and I'm always worried that she's going to die.<br /><br />Monday morning, however, as I carried her into the elevator, a neighbour asked me why I had been carrying her for days. So I says "I think she has a pinched nerve" and he says "what if she had a stroke?"<br /><br />Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh!<br /><br />An impartial observer thinks she had a stroke! Oh no! She had a stroke! She's going to die! The horror! The horror!<br /><br />Well. We'll see about that.<br /><br />Of course the V-E-T is not here and won't be here until the 27th, but I have a trick up my sleeve. I made Tinky-Winky lie down with me, and held her close for a couple of hours, until I had to work. Then in the evening I did the same, and the next day. Immediately, there was a marked improvement, whereas previously she had been declining. By Thursday, she was able to trot and to jump up to lick my nose when I come home.<br /><br />Now you might think it's a coincidence, or a superstition, but it's not. I tried it before when she had hemorrhagic gastritis, and since then I have read the real medical reason why it works. I'm Tinky-Winky's major attachment figure, and dogs are much more attached to their people than people are ever attached to anyone. Engaging in any attachment behaviour releases oxytocin, which is a strong pain-killer. And the best attachment behaviour is physical contact. So, by holding her close to me for several hours, I know that I'm giving her a very effective way to deal with the pain of whatever it was. And as the pain lessened, she was able to move more, which helped restore function that was impaired, whether the impairment was due to a stroke or a pinched nerve or a pulled muscle or any of the other theories that were proposed.<br /><br />This morning, for the first time since last Friday, when we got to the Community Garden she went off running. I watched how she ran and there is still something funny about it, but she's running, she's smiling, she seems free of pain, and she's NOT DEAD. Praise be to God, the Compassionate, the Merciful! And also, thanks to Dr. Gabor Mate, who wrote the book in which I read about this oxytocin deal.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-85674357310750914122012-07-21T11:53:00.002-06:002012-07-21T14:44:14.357-06:00Tinky-Winky's new best friend<div align=justify>Ever since Carter died, I figured Otis would be Tinky-Winky's new best friend, since he was her second-best friend before. Otis lives in our building and is a really sweet, quite large dog. Everybody loves him... except, of course, Her Majesty. When we first met Otis, the Creature was in her snapping-at-noses phase, so she would snap at his nose. Otis would leap out of the way, and then try again. So over time, this became a game. Otis pokes his nose at her, she makes a show of snapping, he makes a show of leaping out of the way. They find this hilarious. Now that Tinky-Winky is in a new phase of saying hello like a polite dog, Otis is rather disappointed that she won't play his game anymore.<br /><br />But as it turns out, Tinky-Winky's new favourite dog is not Otis, but this handsome fellow:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLp_qsVUGqqs2Rf73cXTdrNy7jbog46ZF7hgK8ehWHXseBa5Vh9zMXx5mZ01Ak1ASYDLQ8MzFL9PqjgwxDOY3ifW3pFv6q4Ca7QrUHNGOeiAkWdMLvbNF0wwzpGGoKfK9O81ARPBhCbE7/s1600/2012-07-21+039.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLp_qsVUGqqs2Rf73cXTdrNy7jbog46ZF7hgK8ehWHXseBa5Vh9zMXx5mZ01Ak1ASYDLQ8MzFL9PqjgwxDOY3ifW3pFv6q4Ca7QrUHNGOeiAkWdMLvbNF0wwzpGGoKfK9O81ARPBhCbE7/s400/2012-07-21+039.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5767725991280081330" /></a><br />Too bad he looked away, but oh well. You can see he's a quite large male pitbull. Intact, at that. His name is Diesel.<br /><br />Now if you're very obsessive about reading this blog, you may remember that the first time we met Diesel, he was being handled by a small girl who had no control over him, and I found the whole thing alarming. Since then, I've heard many anecdotes of Diesel being aggressive to other dogs in the building. Now I'm not saying that aggression is ok when a small dog like Tinky-Winky does it, but the redeeming quality of Her Majesty is that you can overpower her easily, and she has less capacity to inflict serious damage than a 100-lb dog. A dog like Diesel can't afford to be aggressive, or he's gonna meet an untimely demise. (For the record, there came a time in my early days with Tinky-Winky when I wondered whether she wasn't heading towards euthanasia herself.)<br /><br />All this to say, when Her Majesty and I came face to face with Diesel and his human in the woods, I thought there might be trouble. The other human (the alpha male in Diesel's pack, who does in fact control him and does obedience work with him) and I each restrained our mutts, and then we let them have a look at each other.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFvHZXkPlgoFt2gk68Kw-bC5Kl8IeAuLa7xd0G8HTdAfxcN1BkX-rriyGA0r4F-bSXCQjit_00dZSqsaN6u9pXjaz0kt_1XORIf6TjErvjonacM8y1qU04ApiFXIWt8YqAONLOturhYYXZ/s1600/2012-07-21+040.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFvHZXkPlgoFt2gk68Kw-bC5Kl8IeAuLa7xd0G8HTdAfxcN1BkX-rriyGA0r4F-bSXCQjit_00dZSqsaN6u9pXjaz0kt_1XORIf6TjErvjonacM8y1qU04ApiFXIWt8YqAONLOturhYYXZ/s400/2012-07-21+040.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5767725971923493810" /></a><br />This is not the first thing that happened. What happened first, of all things, is that Tinky-Winky <em>wagged her tail</em> and went to sniff Diesel's butt.<br /><br />???????????<br /><br />That has <em>never</em> happened. She's learned to tolerate being sniffed, and she's even taken, quite recently, to wagging her tail at other dogs, but I had never, ever, to that point, seen her make friendly overtures and take the initiative for butt-sniffing. And here, of course, Diesel returns the compliment.<br /><br />Then:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQjoRpLwtsD4JTh2IJxUgHpic8stP-FmubHQHAq7RWnupK1cPit5PqC7grLdqgiClcIc4-e3TJf7gW1VOCf1h5eKujs8ZUtZyjPpBqs6plhKDUEQLwJrGSpeBssgtDsHJxL5kATMH7PDt/s1600/2012-07-21+041.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQjoRpLwtsD4JTh2IJxUgHpic8stP-FmubHQHAq7RWnupK1cPit5PqC7grLdqgiClcIc4-e3TJf7gW1VOCf1h5eKujs8ZUtZyjPpBqs6plhKDUEQLwJrGSpeBssgtDsHJxL5kATMH7PDt/s400/2012-07-21+041.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5767725967789475970" /></a><br />They're perfectly friendly. No snapping took place at any point. No growling. No aggression. Somehow, the two fightingest dogs in the building immediately hit it off as Best Friends Forever. I tells ya, you could have knocked me down with a feather.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-72541317884074745072012-07-18T12:13:00.002-06:002012-07-18T12:14:36.303-06:00Hello, world!<div align=justify><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSe2RkOhgOp4rXBQGR8K7KOOVoSDdF1mFgOsZTs-wurxlHXeKBhhMO8odKMCS2efTPfnCrZikUACE3Bhg4suT_SKX7Nxo5l-2ZZJlX52nTOGCD1UtPWbwtp2uhU_iAtlI_SO_Xw0vEGEK/s1600/fbprofile.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSe2RkOhgOp4rXBQGR8K7KOOVoSDdF1mFgOsZTs-wurxlHXeKBhhMO8odKMCS2efTPfnCrZikUACE3Bhg4suT_SKX7Nxo5l-2ZZJlX52nTOGCD1UtPWbwtp2uhU_iAtlI_SO_Xw0vEGEK/s400/fbprofile.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5766574441105431490" /></a><br />I finally got the local newspaper to take a photo of Her Majesty. This is a crudely edited version since I don't have Photoshop. Maybe I can get someone to make it look really good... for free... One can hope.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-50957849802202021252012-07-07T22:00:00.000-06:002012-07-08T14:38:40.967-06:00Shiba: 4, chance of getting lucky: 0<div align=justify>Her Majesty dug up my peony.<br /><br />Boohoohoo I'm so sad!<br /><br />You see, peonies are good feng shui. They "activate your relationship luck." So I planted two peonies; one that I got in October and wintered inside, and one that I got in May. The October one was alive but not growing... until yesterday. Which is also the day that Her Majesty dug it up.<br /><br />I am Jack's complete lack of surprise. Her Majesty likes to look at men, but she doesn't like me to have any kind of life. If she had it her way, I wouldn't even go to work. And she didn't like my ex, or my male roommate in Yellowknife. She doesn't like anyone very much, and she very much doesn't like people taking up my time. I'm thinking she dug up the peony on purpose to ruin my relationship feng shui.<br /><br />Then again, if you want to be an optimist about it, she dug up the $13 peony, not the $40 one that's actually putting forth some shoots. So maybe she's not so much ruling out all relationships, as making sure we only activate rich-boyfriend luck and not cheap-ass-dude-with-no-job luck. That kind of guy seems to gravitate to me just fine without any peonies anyway.<br /><br />Oh well. She didn't dig up all the pansies (yet). Maybe pansies activate some kind of luck I could use.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-5193212559451984782012-07-01T14:14:00.000-06:002012-11-09T14:41:09.146-07:00Shiba: 3, autism: 0<div align=justify>It's gardening season again, and I now have two 4 x 4 foot flowerbeds on the balcony. My little autistic buddies, who have been visiting for months, are always careful with the plants, and with everything else in the house. One of them is naturally careful, the other is just motivated to be allowed back, because for some reason, coming to my house seems to entertain them immensely. So they follow directions to the letter and make sure to move anything fragile, like the guitar, out of their way before doing something crazy. That's rather amazing for any nine-year-old boy, let alone two, let alone two nine-year-old boys with a learning disability.<br />
<br />
So what does this have to do with Her Majesty?<br />
<br />
Well, when I first set up the flowerbeds, I let Her Majesty explore them, and waited for her to pick a spot where she'd like to lie. She picked, of course, one of the very best spots. The vast majority of the balcony is in part shade, with only a small portion in full sun. Her Majesty didn't quite pick the sunniest spot, but the one just on the shady side of the full sun / part shade boundary. How gracious of her. Because I really needed that full-sun spot for my roses. So then I seeded grass in the spot she chose, and put my flowers here and there in the space she left me.<br />
<br />
Now that everything is growing, however, Her Majesty doesn't want her spot. She seems aggravated that the grass doesn't uproot easily anymore. The last two years she had a 3 x 3 lawn with only 3.5" of soil, so she could rip up great swathes of grass easily. Now the soil is 15" deep, so the grass is solidly rooted and un-diggable. Apparently, this is not at all what Her Majesty wants out of a lawn. So instead of lying on the lawn I planted for her, she's made herself a comfy dug-out spot that allows her to lie simultaneously on a) my carefully selected collection of pansies, b) the three very expensive double oriental lilies, and c) the $40 peony that was supposed to "activate my relationship luck."<br />
<br />
After showing her several times where I'd like her to dig and lie down, I seem to have achieved an uneasy truce, wherein she's willing to lie mostly on the pansies, which are at least much cheaper than the lilies and peony, and not dig up the lilies. Subject to change at her convenience, of course.<br />
<br />
There you go. Yet another reason you should try doing respite for an autistic child before you try serving a shiba.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-65210139285620362192012-07-01T13:59:00.003-06:002012-07-02T14:23:23.157-06:00Have you seen a basenji?<div align=justify>Notice how people with purebred dogs will ask for the breed when their dog is lost? "Have you seen a basset hound? Have you seen a corgi? Have you seen a Chesapeake Bay retriever?" Friend, I could see a whole herd of Chesapeake Bay retrievers and I wouldn't even know it. Can you describe it?<br /><br />Get this: the guy looking for the Chesapeake Bay retriever described it as "a brown dog." That's all. No size, no coat description, no ears or face... Goes from very specifically "Chesapeake Bay retriever" to just "brown dog."<br /><br />As it happened, I hadn't seen a brown dog. But if ever your dog is lost, I rather recommend describing it rather than counting on the average citizen's knowledge of dog breeds. When I'm looking for Her Majesty, I ask people if they've seen "a little orange dog with a pointy face". Because "shiba inu" means nothing to them, even after I've introduced Her Majesty many, many times. (I keep telling the paper to do a story about her, which would be vastly more interesting than half their other fluff pieces, but so far, no luck.)<br /><br />That being said, I don't have to ask people about my dog unless they're new to town. Everyone who lives here has seen me walking my dog. I know this, because total strangers will walk up to me and say "I saw you walking your dog." So in the unlikely event that Her Majesty would be lost, I can just ask people "have you seen my dog?" But most of the time I don't have to. First of all, because Her Majesty does not get lost. We've been all over this town for the last seven years; she knows exactly where she is and how to get back to her food dish. Second, when we do take separate walks, people will come find me and say "your dog is lost, she's at (such place)." Or they will look me up on Facebook. Or they will tell their friend who will find me on Facebook. In any case, I will be promptly informed of the whereabouts of The Creature. Which is very nice of everybody, of course, but I just thank them politely and don't bother going to look where they said, because by the time I get there, she'll have made her way back home. So I just stay right where I am and wait for her.<br /><br />Some people's dogs, when they get loose, roam the whole town for days. Carter once ran from town all the way to Paradise Gardens, which is at least 20 km. Her Majesty would never do that. Partly because she's never been to Paradise and has no reason to come up with such an idea, and partly because she's far too lazy.<br /><br />So the moral is, as it always is, walk your dog more. Then your dog is less likely to be lost, because 1) it will know the way home, 2) everyone else will recognise it as your dog, and 3) it won't be tempted to make the most of its scarce freedom.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-17370097034039648502012-06-09T19:38:00.004-06:002012-06-10T13:38:20.644-06:00So long, old friend<div align=justify><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDdBLhfy2qt9mkeiJg-0D8Q-Y6387eazQYHNjd0XncglVlzG0HWIK8QvqSRCGzoc7c0WKd9nNfLf2-FobuSy1X_o2cyKqtumhgmVSSW7M2g-dHlbAzh0eWymJQOw0BLSiXv7uJLhcNSh8/s1600/543010_10150864747086993_1818296164_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSDdBLhfy2qt9mkeiJg-0D8Q-Y6387eazQYHNjd0XncglVlzG0HWIK8QvqSRCGzoc7c0WKd9nNfLf2-FobuSy1X_o2cyKqtumhgmVSSW7M2g-dHlbAzh0eWymJQOw0BLSiXv7uJLhcNSh8/s400/543010_10150864747086993_1818296164_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5752493636264949282" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1jC7mPdMieJP2t80Sh0MvTjn_Rnp0wLHck6CKI3KHU5tbg-uuhNUxPWGNQDa9K1w9ZVFAiDAXWD8f2yFg4Mnj2L_srBWwBIc6q8HMlWbB1nqiUuwgPz_dO5qVG4UAuw4dbhh2hRgpktv/s1600/2012-03-25+002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE1jC7mPdMieJP2t80Sh0MvTjn_Rnp0wLHck6CKI3KHU5tbg-uuhNUxPWGNQDa9K1w9ZVFAiDAXWD8f2yFg4Mnj2L_srBWwBIc6q8HMlWbB1nqiUuwgPz_dO5qVG4UAuw4dbhh2hRgpktv/s400/2012-03-25+002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5752494093741951986" /></a><br />You may remember Carter, Tinky-Winky's best friend. Carter was born 17 February 2003 and only ever had one human. In 2006, his human's then-boyfriend was working with my then-boyfriend, and sometimes the two of them would bring "their" respective dogs to work. That's how Tinky-Winky and Carter met. Back then, she was still psychotically aggressive, but she got used to Carter. I don't think they ever had a real fight, although Tinky-Winky snapped at him a fair number of times.<br /><br />On the other hand, the guys didn't introduce myself and Carter's human. We only met years later, when we had each broken up with the then-boyfriend. And we recognised each other by our dogs. Then we became friends. Recently, Carter's human had to be out of town a lot, and one time she couldn't get her usual dog-sitter, so she asked me. So Tinky-Winky and I spent a couple of days at Carter's house. Then we ended up dog-sitting him every time his human was out of time, because we all got along so well.<br /><br />Finally, after we had spent many days as a pack of three, something amazing happened: Tinky-Winky played with Carter. They were running loose in the off-leash area (we have official off-leash areas in town, though you can't really tell the difference with the rest of town), and Carter ran up to Tinky-Winky and balled her over. I thought she'd freak and try to rip his throat out, but she just rolled over, got back up and ran after him.<br /><br /><em>Whoa.</em><br /><br />I never thought I'd see the day when my dog would let another dog approach her casually, let alone participate in any kind of playful behaviour. And after that, she'd actually let him sniff her butt and not snap at him. Another thing she absolutely doesn't allow. Her second-best friend, Otis, who is almost as big as Carter and fascinated by Tinky-Winky, loves to get her to snap at him so he can make a big show of leaping out of reach. Then he does it again. They both seem to find this game hilarious. But anyway, even Otis does not get to sniff Her Majesty's butt. He has to do a kind of drive-by sniffing and get out of reach before she can turn on him.<br /><br />So, that was Carter.<br /><br /><em>Was.</em><br /><br />Carter saw the vet for his annual check-up on Monday, June 4. They said he was well enough though obviously declining, which seemed normal for his age. Of late he had been unable to jump into the car, but what can you do. Dogs age. His labs were a little off, but nothing serious.<br /><br />Tuesday, Carter was his usual self.<br /><br />Wednesday morning, Carter couldn't get up. He had to be carried out to relieve himself, then helped back up the steps, and then he lay down and didn't move all day. His human called the vet, who by then had left town. (The vet lives three hours away and comes here a few days a month with his portable clinic.) The vet was alarmed. Plans began to be made to transport Carter to Edmonton the next day.<br /><br />In the evening, Carter started shaking, and then he started to have seizures. I wasn't there, but I hear it was very traumatic. The decision was made to put him down. Unfortunately, when the vet isn't here, we have no mainstream way of euthanising dogs, so we have the choice of shooting them or trying to overdose them on whatever prescription drugs are at hand. Yes, yes, it's barbaric. What can you do. That's the price we pay for the freedom our dogs get. I've often said the best part of this town is the dog-walking. But anyway, the problem is, it's very difficult to obtain any prescription drug in a quantity that can kill a 100-lb dog. Most drugs aren't even strong enough to kill a rat. So Carter was given something, which didn't kill him, but mercifully stopped the seizures.<br /><br />After a while, his human, who had been holding his hand the whole time, left the room for some reason. Immediately his breathing shallowed. The other people who were there called the human back, but before she could get back to him he was gone. I guess he was holding on to her all that time. It was Thursday morning, June 7. The vet thinks it may have been a toxin, or a tumour in the spine (boxers are prone to them), or perhaps one small thing that precipitated a cascade of failure due to his age and declining condition.<br /><br />We buried Carter that evening in one of his favourite spots. He got a four-car motorcade and five pall bearers. There were eight people at his funeral, plus Tinky-Winky. At first Her Majesty wanted to participate in the grave-digging, but she got aggravated with the five-year-old girl who kept chasing her everywhere. As you know, little girls love Her Majesty, and the feeling is extremely not mutual. So after a while she absconded, then the kid lost interest, then Her Majesty came back and lay on the beach watching us work with her smug shiba grin. She was clearly having a grand old time. I wasn't watching her when we took Carter out of the car and put him in the grave, so I don't know if she ever clued in. Certainly she was completely indifferent to the fact that half the humans, myself included, were crying. She's never been the kind of dog that "knows exactly what you're feeling".<br /><br />After the family had left and I had captured Her Majesty, I carried her to the grave to say goodbye. She still had no reaction. I still don't know if she's aware that her best friend for the least six years has died.<br /><br />Carter leaves behind his very sad human, her two daughters, and her two step-daughters. And a hard-hearted little shiba. And me. He wasn't always what you'd call a "good dog." He was insanely strong in his prime and would take off after squirrels on a regular basis. He'd escape and roam the town all night. He ate the family garbage, and the baby-proofing locks that were installed to keep him out of the garbage. He also made an annual tradition of eating the littlest girl's gingerbread house. He got into an awful lot of dog fights. He was famous for his drooling. But he was extremely devoted to his family and a staunch protector, and a genuinely good person. He liked people and wanted to be liked. He was affectionate and funny and had infinite patience with the children. He was even good to cats. He wasn't even my dog and I miss him terribly.<br /><br />Goodbye, old friend. You did good.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-42457548134968184812012-06-09T19:29:00.000-06:002012-06-10T13:25:44.872-06:00We want to play<div align=justify>Tinky-Winky brought me a rawhide.<br /><br /><em>OMG!!!!!!!</em><br /><br />Really. My dog brought me a rawhide.<br /><br />Most dog's people wouldn't notice such a thing. Except Her Majesty does not fetch things, nor does she play. In recent months, we have developed this little game where she starts kicking a rawhide around the floor, then she does a playbow, and then I kick the rawhide around the floor for her and she chases after it. That lasts a few seconds, then she sits down and has a good chew.<br /><br />This is important, because she's never played any other game. She doesn't fetch. She doesn't play with balls. She doesn't care for squeaky toys. She's never tried tug-of-war. She's the least playful dog I've ever met. Apparently, she wasn't even playful as a puppy. Weird little Asperger dog.<br /><br />So, the fact that she does playbows and plays with rawhides, even if it's only for a few seconds, strikes me as a very important developmental achievement. So what if she's twelve years old? Old dogs, apparently, do learn new tricks.<br /><br />Bringing me a rawhide, though, that's a whole 'nother achievement. Normally, if she wants something from me, she calls me over to where she is and points. Granted she can't very well drag the fridge over to the couch to signify she wants cheese, but still, it's always been how she works. She gives one bark, and I attend, and she points at what she wants and I do it. Bringing something to me is a whole new development. I don't know if it's a cognitive thing or an attachment thing or she's channelling Carter's spirit, but it's definitely a brand new thing.<br /><br />I loves you, mutt-mutt.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-24598200901580999462012-05-27T09:41:00.000-06:002012-06-03T16:02:20.563-06:00Albert the Optimist<div align=justify>Albert is one of Tinky-Winky's habitual victims. He brings it on himself.<br /><br />We first met Albert in the winter of 2010-11. He was a puppy and had been dumped at the pound, and taken home by a pound volunteer so he wouldn't freeze to death. (Due to financial constraints, the pound / SPCA does not have an indoor kennel.) So Albert was walking with his foster people, off leash. Albert is always off-leash, even during the Bylaw Guy's work hours.<br /><br />Albert looks like some sort of small retriever, black with a white chest. He's quite cute. And he's always been extremely enthusiastic about Tinky-Winky. The first time we met him, when he was tiny, he ran up to us, stuck his nose in Tinky-Winky's face, and got a licking.<br /><br />The second time we met Albert, he ran up to us, stuck his nose in Tinky-Winky's face, and got a licking.<br /><br />The third time we met Albert, he ran up to us, stuck his nose in Tinky-Winky's face, and got a licking.<br /><br />Now that he's about two years old, Albert is taller than Tinky-Winky. He still runs up to us every time he sees us, sticks his nose in Tinky-Winky's face, and gets a licking. His people always recognise her and try to warn him, but he never listens. And no matter how many times he gets a licking, he's still delighted to see her, every single time.<br /><br />It's too bad people aren't more like dogs.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-69388595709832581192012-05-20T08:21:00.000-06:002012-05-20T13:36:33.243-06:00A shiba is a good walk spoiled<div align=justify>I'm sick, and I'm tired of being surrounded by morons. But I woke up this morning around seven, and it was a gorgeous morning, and I thought The Creature and I would have a lovely off-leash walk.<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
On the way to the off-leashing point, we passed some garbage she wanted to eat. So as soon as the leash came off, she doubled back with all speed to find it. I followed her. She ran. I followed her again. She ran. And of course, being a dog, she has to go behind all the buildings, where all the garbage is likely to pile up. So instead of a lovely morning walk in the woods, I wasted twenty minutes following this little douchebag dog behind all the buildings downtown.<br />
<br />
It's bad enough having to deal with idiot humans. At least I can shut them out of my house. But it really gets to me sometimes having to put up with such a disagreeable creature as my dog.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-4101780461187683322012-05-16T08:17:00.000-06:002012-05-20T13:37:13.599-06:00Shiba: 2, autism: 0<div align=justify>On Saturday, my little autistic buddies slept at my house, so that their mother could sleep in on Mothers' Day. I have a twin bed and a queen-size hide-a-bed, so I put the kids in the hide-a-bed and myself as usual in the twin bed. With the dog.<br />
<br />
Naturally, the dog took the middle of the bed. As always.<br />
<br />
After maybe ten minutes, one of the kids crawled into my bed. I figured I'd let him stay, so he'd fall asleep faster. Good thing he's small and can work himself into the very small amount of space left by Her Majesty.<br />
<br />
After another ten minutes, the second kid crawled into my bed too. And actually found some space left over at the foot of the bed.<br />
<br />
Hmmmmm...<br />
<br />
At this point, only The Creature was still in her original, comfortable configuration. So I put both the kids back in the hide-a-bed and went to sleep with them. And the dog remained master of the field.<br />
<br />
See, even TWO autistic kids can't win against the orneriness of a shiba.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3846445247896273502.post-91754630518882860522012-05-06T15:36:00.001-06:002012-05-20T13:38:53.705-06:00Tinky-Winky vs. the pigs' ears<div align=justify><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnx19gMY77cbBjnobL-6emc0YbvcHbM2EggYL8WhknzggUaO7j1OVX2v-VzXiCC4cGlllDBrHKX1ej1YWnzHN8s2RXBe2Hae0Ax8S8c4m_8jJJ6WQY5T_5HcIGuDWE5Al5D-MjYIzoIMwb/s1600/2012-05-03+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnx19gMY77cbBjnobL-6emc0YbvcHbM2EggYL8WhknzggUaO7j1OVX2v-VzXiCC4cGlllDBrHKX1ej1YWnzHN8s2RXBe2Hae0Ax8S8c4m_8jJJ6WQY5T_5HcIGuDWE5Al5D-MjYIzoIMwb/s400/2012-05-03+032.JPG" /></a></div>Carter's human brought us some pigs' ear strips to thank us for housesitting. That's nice. <br />
<br />
Now as you may recall if you're a big fan of Her Majesty (and who isn't?), she and I previously had words over a bag of pigs' ears that she refused to eat. I put them by the garbage for later disposal, but then she was cross with me, and so she stole the bag, ripped it open, and ate some of the pigs' ears, all the while giving me dirty looks. So I put them back by the garbage, and every time she'd get pissy, she'd break into them and eat some more. And every time she gets this "what you gonna do about it?" look on her face. <br />
<br />
That was a long time ago, and pigs' ears are not readily available in this town, so there hadn't been a recurrence. So when Carter's human gave me this bag, I simply put it, unopened, on Her Majesty's stash of chews. Sure enough, she found the bag, slew it, and ate a whole bunch. Thus leaving crunchy bits of pigs' ears all over the freshly-Dysoned carpet. Of course. <br />
<br />
As much as I admire people whose dogs obey such fancy commands as "go lie down on the mat" or "come", I love my precious just as she is.</div>Mongoosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13545512692510569390noreply@blogger.com0