Have you seen a basenji?

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?

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."

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.)

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.

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.

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.

So long, old friend

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.

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.

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.

Whoa.

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.

So, that was Carter.

Was.

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.

Tuesday, Carter was his usual self.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

Goodbye, old friend. You did good.

We want to play

Tinky-Winky brought me a rawhide.

OMG!!!!!!!

Really. My dog brought me a rawhide.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I loves you, mutt-mutt.

Albert the Optimist

Albert is one of Tinky-Winky's habitual victims. He brings it on himself.

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.

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.

The second time we met Albert, he ran up to us, stuck his nose in Tinky-Winky's face, and got a licking.

The third time we met Albert, he ran up to us, stuck his nose in Tinky-Winky's face, and got a licking.

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.

It's too bad people aren't more like dogs.

A shiba is a good walk spoiled

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.

Right.

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.

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.

Shiba: 2, autism: 0

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.

Naturally, the dog took the middle of the bed. As always.

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.

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.

Hmmmmm...

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.

See, even TWO autistic kids can't win against the orneriness of a shiba.

Tinky-Winky vs. the pigs' ears

Carter's human brought us some pigs' ear strips to thank us for housesitting. That's nice.

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.

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.

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.