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January 25 Happy Birthday, Ginger!!!Well, it's certainly hard to believe, but my fur-kid Ginger is 10 years old today. Oh, and don't believe any of that old chestnut about 1 year equalling 7 dog years. It's really a lot more complicated, and a number of factors including breed, size, sex, and overall health must be calculated. So in human years, Ginger is about the same age as I am--so I guess that makes us a pair of spayed middle-aged bitches, har har! Anyway, she seems utterly oblivious to the fact that she is no longer a puppy. She wouldn't believe you if you tried to tell her. That child can bounce and play and run like the wind tirelessly. Not to mention a truely astonishing ability to leap straight up into the air as if powered by jet-propelled springs. And, Goddess bless her, I wouldn't have it any other way.
I treated her to an early morning trip to the dog park today where she got to bask in the praise from her many, many canine and human admirers, and then home for a a bit of extra food treats mixed in with her regular kibble. Hey, a girl only turns 10 once after all, and Ginger (unlike her mommy, SIGH!) has no trouble keeping her girlish figure.
I have been Ginger's Mum now for almost 4 years and they have been glorious. She came to me while I was still mourning the loss of my beloved dachshund companion of 16 years,Beatrice. I wasn't sure at all that I was ready for a new dog yet, but when my neighbor forwarded an email from a friend of hers that fostered dogs for the local animal contol shelter and I saw Ginger's adorable face....well, the rest is history and I simply cannot imagine not having her lively joyous presence in my life. She was well and truly a gift from my Goddess who knew exactly what I needed and and blessed me.
So, to my sweet and intensely cute baby-dog Ginger: Happy Birthday, my precious! May you live many more delightfully long and blessed years. June 13 "Oh Mommy, PLEEEEEASE...."Ginger: I want to go out and play NOW!
Self: Sweetie, it's 2 o'clock in the afternoon and 105 degrees out.....can't you find something to do indoors where it's cool?
Ginger: I WANNA GO OUT ! NOW.
Self: Well, I'm the mom and you're the kid, er... dog,.... er... whatever... and I say no.
Ginger: It's not fair! You're a mean mommy! I'm going to call CPS on you.
Self: Honey, you can't; you're a dog.
Ginger: Then I'll call the ASPCA.
Self: Good luck dialing the phone.
Ginger: Good luck explaining that you're talking to a dachshund.
Self: You are still not going to the dog park now.
Ginger: No more Ms. Nice Diva, Ma, I'm out for revenge. (MUUUHAHAHAHA!)
Self: Oh quit! The melodrama is killing me!
Ginger: Hmmmm, I'm thinking you need new carpet.....or at least, YOU WILL! I will pee on every spot not covered by furniture or things that you've been too lazy to pick up. I will make your bathmat soggy and it will squish between your toes when you get out of the shower. I will become a veritable torrent of pee. You will have to build an ark to stay above it. And all because you refused to let me out to play. Such a shame! It doesn't have to be this way.....
Self: Yeah, I know.....submit to the power of the wiener dog and all will be well. I've heard that before. You are still not going out.
Ginger: (HUMPHH!) I will pout until you obey.
Self: You will pout until I rub your tummy and make you squiggle with joy.
Ginger: That is NOT fair!
Self: Get over it. Now.....come and get a butt scratch and be a good girl. I may take you out later when the sun goes down.
Ginger: (Sob....sniff..) Really? Will you toss the tennis ball for me ?
Self: Absolutely.
Ginger: OK, so maybe you're not such an awful mommy after all. Soooooo, can I have a treat??
Self: (SIGH!) Here we go again....... April 22 Dachshunds I have known part V: OsricAt this point let me backtrack a bit and fill you in on my sister Lisa, AKA the patron saint of needy dachshunds. All but two of Lisa's six dogs have been adopted as special needs fur-kids. And, as it turned out, ALL of them turned out to need a fair amount of (very expensive) medical care. It's fortunate that Lisa is a very well-paid air traffic controller and has very simple tastes, because not very many people could afford to take care their animal companions, either with the cash or the time, as well as Lisa does. It seems as if the Goddess knows to whom to send her neediest wayward wiener-dogs. There was Sam, gentle and angelic, who was neglected so badly nearly every tooth was rotton and had to be pulled, and because of that and the resultant infection had off and on problems the rest of his life (he lived to be 15). And Heidi (AKA The Heidi-Monster, who although very dignified, could be SUCH a brat) who was abused and had epilepsy due to being kicked in the head. And Otto ( better known as Prince Otto of the Otto-Man Empire, and that pretty much says it all, folks) who was a stray with a major heartworm infestation and was facing euthanasia because he hadn't been adopted and there was no room. That little twit is doing just fine, thank you very much, and might just live to be twenty. Oh, and poor Galan! He was Lisa's only non-longhaired dachshund (he was a Heinz 57 mutt who may have been a corgi-Australian shepherd mix) who originally belonged to a next-door neighbor who neglected him and was leaving him behind when he moved. Unfortunately, that didn't turn out so well. Poor Galen was about three or four years old and never had any sort of socialization and was a VERY high alpha-type dog who wasn't nuetered to boot. By the time Lisa got him, he was simply unable to trust anyone, not even Lisa, and had severe behavior problems that included biting. She finally had to make the heart-breaking decision to have him put down because he was just too dangerous, At least the last months of his life were with someone who loved and cared for him. Even the two dogs Lisa adopted as puppies from breeders had some problems: Oskar had back problems, which is not uncommon with dachshunds due to the long back-short legs thing, and needed extensive surgery. Fortunately, he is doing fine now and seems to be recovered 100%, except for missing his little play-buddy, Osric. And that brings me to my original subject; I DO keep getting side-tracked, don't I?
When Lisa came out here to pick up Osric from Nancy, we were told he was the runt of the litter. HA! Some runt: he was four months old and already weighed about fifteen pounds, which is more than Ginger. But the truth is, he WAS the runt. Nancy breeds some truly massive dachshunds, which sounds weird, but still. A dachshund that weighs more than thirty pounds (and some of her dogs do) is no wiener-dog.....that's a Polish sausage! And there he was, with paws as big as pancakes and this thick luxurious coat, black with lovely tan markings. And sweet. Did I mention sweet? He sat with Lisa and me while we chatted with Nancy and seemed perfectly at ease with us. When we drove him back to my place he sat in my lap, just as calm and trusting as as if he'd done it a thousand times already. When we got back to my place, we did notice how he did seem a bit too loose-jointed in the back legs, which made him rather clumsy and wobbly, but I suppose we figured he'd outgrow it. Besides, we were having too much fun watching Osric play grabby-butt with Ginger. Those two would roll and tumble and wrestle until they were both exhausted. Well, maybe Osric was tired.....I've NEVER seem Ginger really exhausted. That dog is a bloody Energizer Bunny: going and going and going......Anyway, it was such a delight to watch them play and I'm so glad I got lots of good pictures. Lisa and Osric bedded down together in my spare room and by morning, they were bonded tight as superglue and he followed her, well, like a puppy dog.
And that's the way it stayed. When Lisa got back to Wichita, our Mum fell in love with the little guy as well. You just couldn't help it. He stayed a puppy his whole short life with a sweet affectionate nature mixed with a puckish sense of playfulness. He liked to go and grab a sock or a pair of knickers from the laundry basket and run down the hall with it, daring you to chase him. He decided he was The Scourge of the Squirrels and chased them gleefully all over the back yard. He loved playing the snow, he loved playing in the rain. Osric was impervious to weather. He and Lisa's other dogs got along as if they were born together, and he and Oskar in particular were good buddies; Lisa always said they were in love, and so they were.
When we found out about Osric's brain lesion, it was such a hard blow. I suppose we should have seen signs that he wasn't quite normal; that whole runt of the litter thing, the clumsiness that never really disappeared, even after he wasn't a puppy anymore. But still, we never had any idea that anything was seriously wrong. The sad truth is that Osric just wasn't meant to have a long life. But in that all too short life, he touched the hearts and souls of all he met. On the 9th, when he began having seizures and Lisa knew she had to let him go, she brought him to the vet hospital so they could control his seizures until morning when she was off work. She assumed he would be monitored and cared for by the vet techs there, but the doctor (not even her regular vet!) brought Osric to his own home where he had a small clinic and he and his wife and daughter took turns staying up with him. Osric just had that effect on people. When Lisa and my Mom came to the hospital in the morning, he was medicated but alert and aware. They fed him some of his favorite treats, wrapped him in towels that had Otto and Oskar's scent on them, and cuddled him for an hour or so, and finally he went quietly off to the Rainbow Bridge to wait for his beloved Mommy, Lisa.
I keep thinking how very unfair it all is, that he should have such a short time (hey, ALL of our animal companions have far too short a time!), that such a sweet loving creature needed to brighten this Earth longer. How unfair that Lisa (WHO IS A GOOD MOMMY!!) should have to suffer through so much loss so unexpectedly. Only the Goddess has the wisdom to understand those things; I, in my limited sight, cannot. But I do see a lesson, even if it is a sad one: that sometimes the candle that burns the brightest, burns the shortest time. And Osric had a truly bright and shining life, and we were all made richer by it. This is the lesson taught to me by dear precious Osric, one of the special dachshunds I have known.
December 14 The 12 Days of (Dachshund) ChristmasI was just doodling about and came up with what I thought was fairly clever at the time: a variation on an old favorite Christmas carol featuring my favorite canine, the ever-amusing dachshund. Now, of course my dearest Ginger-Baby would never do any of the stuff I wrote. Never. Really. And besides, though we don't speak of it, Ginger's parentage is a bit dubious, she's only mostly dachsund. Nonetheless, hope you enjoy my little Yuletide whimsey. (And NO, I'm not going to write out all the repeats. Sheesh!)
The 12 Days of Dachshund Christmas
On the first day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me: a poopy under my Yule tree.
On the second day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me: two dog toys
On the third day of Christmas my dachshund gave to me: three vet bills
On the fourth day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me: four sloppy kisses
On the fifth day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me: FIVE PILES OF BARF
On the sixth day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me: six tons of dog hair
On the seventh day of Christmas my Dachsund gave to me: seven cats a chasing
On the eighth day of christmas my Dachsund gave to me: eight hours of howling
On the nineth day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me: nine times escaping
On the tenth day of Christmas my Dachsund gave to me: ten fences leaping
On the eleventh day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me: eleven torn cushions
On the twelveth day of Christmas my Dachshund gave to me; (here we go, folks!)
Twelve trips to potty
Eleven torn cushions
Ten fences leaping
Nine times escaping
Eight hours of howling
Seven cats a chasing
Six tons of dog hair
FIVE PILES OF BARF
Four sloppy kisses
Three vet bills
Two dog toys
AND A POOPY UNDER MY YULE TREE!
Merry Yule, folks! Don't let the craziness spoil your fun! June 05 "......and God created Dachshund"My Dad sent me this yesterday, and I could NOT resist sharing. All you owners of Wiener Dogs know exactly what I mean of course. For the rest of the Unenlightened, read on and learn:
On the first day, God created the dachshund and He saw that he was good.
On the second day, God created man, and well, God was not impressed. On the third day, God and the dachshund met to decide what to do with the man and they determined he should be the dachshund's servant. On the fourth day, God and the dachshund trained the man to get food, get water and to make a fuss over the dachshund. On the fifth day, the dachshund said to God, "Hey, Big Guy, this is kind of fun to be waited on foot and foot, but what's next? " So God created woman. That same day, God and the dachshund began the woman's training. She was trained to tell the man exactly when to get water and when exactly to get food so that God and the dachshund would not have to be bothered. On the sixth day, the woman found some apples and told the man to take them to the dachshund. The dachshund, on seeing the apples said, "Hey! Those are God's apples off His tree, we are not supposed to eat them!" The man said, "OK, I will eat them myself!" And he did and shared them with the woman. Well, God got pretty ticked and He threw the man and woman out of the area. And God was left alone with the dachshund. On the seventh day, God thought about taking a rest, but the dachshund was hungry and thirsty and God had to get up early to take care of the dachshund ,because the man and the woman were gone. Once God got used to getting up really early to tend to the dachshund's needs, things settled into a sort of routine. God would get up, dig the dachshund out of its warm burrow in the clouds and take the dachshund to an area to take care of business. This is where hail comes from. Later, God would find the dachshund food and feed it from His own hand and give the dachshund over to the angels with which to play. The dachshund would race back and forth over the clouds with the angels in tow, racing here and there and tearing up the sky. This is where tornadoes come from; from dachshunds running back and forth over the tops of the clouds. In the evening, after the dachshund was really tired after playing with the angels, God would take it back into His bed, burrowed in the clouds. But the dachshund always wanted a night light on. This is where sunsets come from; the dachshund night light. And God has been looking after little dachshunds ever since. And so it is and shall always be. Amen! May 28 It's supernatural! It's doggy mind control!It's eerie, I tell you. I can be sitting here at the old CRT, merrily typing away and then......the burning sensation in the middle of my back. My dear little Ginger's lazar-beam eyeballs are staring a smoldering hole between my shoulder blades. And then......the VOICE! Think me mad if you will, but it is as real as I am. Which is weird anyway, since all I am to you out there is little bytes streaming through cyberspace.....but I digress. A tiny, squeaky little voice: "Pleeeeeeeease Mommy! Don't you want to get your butt up off that computer and play with MEEEEEE??"
I turn and see a tiny brown wiener-ish body practically quivering in intensity, and then just a brown blur as she launches herself at my lap. We are now eyeball to eyeball, and the real Svengali thing begins:
Self: Ginger, dear, Mommy has to finish balancing her checkbook....we'll play in a bit, OK?
Ginger: Balancing the checkbook, my adorable furry ass! You're playing Luxor 2! I heard you cussing at "Wallow of the Hippo God"!
Self: Er....uh...
Ginger: Aha! I knew it! You love that game more than meeeeeee! (sob!)
Self: (Totally wracked by guilt) No, no! Of course not......here, let me make it up to you: How about a nice trip to the dog park....and then maybe a back scratch....and....and....new rawhide chew! Anything! Just don't cry like that, please!
Ginger: (sniff, sniff) Ok......and could I have a can of the beef cuts in gravy for dinner?
Self: I don't know about that....remember how it upsets your little tum-tum?
Ginger: (Sob!) You're a BAD MOMMY!!
Self: OK, OK! Beef and Gravy it is!
Ginger: Oh, and on the nice china too. Eating out of a bowl is sooooooo demeaning.
Self: (The last shreds of my self-respect eroding into dust) Your wish is my command.......
And so, I bow to the wishes of a tiny little wiener-dog. She doesn't have an owner, she has a minion. Who is a bad mommy. And who STILL has to balance the damn checkbook. SIGH! April 01 Dachshunds I Have Known Part IV: BeatriceIn 1991, for reasons now completely beyond my understanding, I got married. But I'm not going to bore you with that grim story, for which I'm sure I hear a collective sigh of relief out there. But one of the few good things that came out of that sad mesalliance was the fact that Todd The Drunk encouraged me to get my own dog. We lived in a place that allowed dogs (for a higher rent and a hefty deposit), so I asked my Mum to ask around her dog club cohorts to see if they had any dogs they wanted to go to good homes. Breeders always have some "pet quality" dogs available for adoption because the standards are strict and not all puppies make the cut, not even the offspring of champions. Reputable breeders will frequently waive payment for non-show dogs, as long as they are spayed or nuetered and go to loving forever-homes. Well, did I ever luck out!
Remember I mentioned Mum's dog Sarah had a litter? There were only two puppies, both female, one black and tan and one red. It was obvious immediately that the red was a show-quality puppy; the black and tan girl was a bit more iffy....not quite as long and her shoulders not quite laid back as they should be, but sometimes a bit of growing will cure those things. But the very fact that there were only two was a bit of a problem, because of some promises that are very common in the dog breeding world. Mum had promised a puppy from that litter to two people, and that left none for her. So the black girl, Sable, ended being sold as a pet a very wealthy lady in California who spoiled her rotten. The red girl, Doxington Princess Beatrice, went to one of my Mum's dearest friends, Patricia, who had originally bred Sarah. Pat was a character. In fact, I may make a separate entry someday just about her, because she was one interesting old lady. Suffice it to say she English and had married an American GI after WWII ( who, as weird fate would have it, turned out to be a distant cousin of my Mum's) but was widowed after only a few years and stayed here in the US. In 1992 when I got Bea, she was in her late 70's, and eccentric as hell. In fact, she had quit showing and breeding dachshunds because of some convoluted dog show politics. So as a result, Beatrice (now 3 years old) had been shown some, and and even won a 3-point major show, but had not been "finished", meaning she didn't have enough points to be a champion. Pat decided to retire from the whole dog show thing and when she heard that I was looking for a dog, she thought that letting Bea go to live with me was a grand idea. It seemed to fitting that Bea should live with the daughter of Sarah's owner, my Mum.
The truth was that I fell in love with Bea when she was only a few days old. I was at work when she was born, but the following weekend I came and visited and was completely amazed because : DAMN! they were so BIG! Sarah was not a large dachshund (yes, I KNOW that sounds like an oxymoron!), only about 22 lbs and very fine and elegant. And these pups were so well-developed they looked to be 2 weeks old almost. And strong! Apparantly when Sable was only a hour or so old, she almost climbed out of the whelping box while everyone was distracted by Beatrice being born. And at 4 days old, there she was, not even able to stand yet, doing donuts around the pen she and Bea were in. Just squiggling and dragging herself along at an alarming speed. Bea, on the other hand, was more passive, even though she just as strong as Sister Sable. She just wanted to cuddle. I picked her up, and she yawned and I could see just little bumps where her teeth would be. Her eyes weren't open yet, and she squirmed a bit because she wasn't sure of what was going on, so I put her up on my chest where she could hear and feel my heart beating, and then she gave this tiny little sigh of contentment and settled in for a nap. I almost melted. I loved her immediately, but I knew she had been promised to Pat, so I just tried to enjoy Sarah's pups and not get too attached.
So imagine my joy when I found out that Patricia wanted me to have her. It was is if my Goddess was handing me this wonderful gift, and so She was. Beatrice came to live us with just after her third birthday (March 6th, 1989) and perhaps that's why I'm thinking so much of my Beatrice lately, since it was all about this time of year. And good grief, 15 years ago! Anyway, the odd thing was that Pat was convinced that Bea was going to be a "daddy's girl" because when Todd and I came to pick her up, she did seem to respond to him first (remember, I hadn't seen her since she was a tiny puppy), but as soon as we got home she stuck to me like glue. And so it was for the next 13 years. I always think she may have recalled in some dim and distant part of her a heart that beat love for her when she was just a baby.
Bea was quite literally at my side the rest of her life. Remember that lovely bit in the Book of Ruth: "Wherever you go, I will go. And wherever you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God......nothing but death shall part us", well that was the story of my Beatice. My marriage ended in 1996, and not a moment too soon, but Bea and I were together for the rest of her long life.
Bea grew into a lovely girl, and in a way it was a shame she was spayed and never had puppies, because not only was she a fine example of the dachshund breed, I think she would have been a great mom. Lord knows she tended to mother me! She was always looking at me, monitoring my every move and mood. That dog took my mental/emotional temperature at least a thousand times a day and administered whatever she thought I needed. Cuddling, some playful antic to cheer me up, an all-purpose lick on whatever body part was available and needed tending.
And she was absolutely fearless, without the agression that made Rebekah such a loony. She would climb, or try to climb, on just about anything. And having achieved the lofty height to which she had aspired, would leap down, legs outstretched and ears flying like some long, short-legged flying squirrel. Now, this is not a good thing. Dachshunds have delicate backs and shouldn't do such arial feats, which I pointed out to her on many occasions, which earned me the dachshund equivalent of a teenage eye-roll. You know, the one usually accompanied by a bored, put-upon "Oh, Mother.....!" In short, Bea cheerfully ignored me and pretty much did as she pleased. But really, she was a good girl mostly. She never let me out of sight, and ALWAYS came when I called, and that, dear readers, is a rarity among dachshunds, for whom such commands as "come" or "no" are mere suggestions, to be ignored at will. She of course loved to go for walks, and I used to carry a piece a newspaper to pick up any "deposits" she had to make. I would stick the paper under her butt when she assumed "the position" and then just wrap up the mess to be tossed in the nearest dumpster. Recycling, ain't it grand? Bea thought I was nuts, of course, but she was tolerent of my oddities. In fact, she only had one little problem: she simply HATED other dogs, and would bark and snarl even if the most harmless of doddering elderly pooches had the audacity to try to sniff her butt, or even glance in her direction. She was never properly socialized when she was young (Pat didn't take her out at all after she quit showing her), and I didn't realize she wasn't going to outgrow it until it was too late and she was older and very set in her ways. She was always rather afraid of children and would bark at them angerly, although I could see her little tail clamped to her fanny, backing away from them in fear, not rage. I regret I never got her over that one either. SIGH! (I swore my next dog was going to be socialized properly, and so Ginger learned to be much more accepting)
Beatrice loved to bark at almost anything, sometimes, I think, just for the sheer joy of hearing her own voice. She was born with her mother Sarah's trait of "talking". She had this weird bark-howl-growl-grumble that is hard to describe and would follow me all over the house and carry on a fairly intelligent conversation. She did not hesitate to scold me if she thought I needed it, and by her lights, I needed a lot. I could never: A) get dinner to her fast enough, B) Keep leaving for hours to work or shop or something , C) Move fast enough when we were walking, D)....oh, you get the idea! She felt it was her duty to keep me in line, and she told me so frequently. Ye gods, it was like having two Mums!
Bea lived to be almost 16. She just ever so slowly quit leaping through the air, slept longer because she didn't hear so well anymore, and had trouble seeing where the doggy door was. But two things never changed: lordy, did she ever love her dinner; her apetite was ravenous until the day she died, and she loved to be next to me. All her life she was literally stuck to me, (I'd just sit on the couch and she would paste herself onto my side so I'd joke about my dachshund-shaped tumor attached to me) and I just got her several doggy beds so she could be comfy where ever I was. One next to me bed, one next to my desk, and her favorite in front the fireplace. I would sometimes build a fire even if it wasn't very cold, just because Bea liked to toast her old bones in front of the fire. She was my comfort and my refuge when I was going through all that nasty chemo and radiation. In fact, I think she stayed with me on this Earth probably longer than she wanted, because she would not leave me until I was well again. But I did get well, and one cold January night in 2005 she finally had a stroke, and I took her to the vet, knowing she wasn't coming home. They made her comfortable, and I stayed with her and held her in my arms and whispered in her ear how much I loved her, and thanked her for her love and loyalty and all the sweet lovely years we had together. Mum always liked to say how Bea had come into the world in her hands, and so on January 15th 2005, she left this world in my arms. She had love form begining to end, and that is not such a bad way to have lived.
I was of course devastated. I was sooooo lonely.....no happy woo-woo when I came home; hell, I even missed cleaning up her occasional "accidents" when she couldn't make it out the doggy door. I didn't even wash the dog hairs out of my sheets for a while. But she was there in spirit, I know. More than once I was absolutely certain I felt her nose nudging my ankles as I walked down the hall toward the kitchen, which she always used to do to hurry me up. I woke up certain I felt a warm presence next to me, and I knew she was watching over me. Luckily, I didn't stay dog-less for long because in 6 weeks Ginger and I found each other. And I'm sure Bea-Bea had a hand in that as well, as I will explain later. As I've said before, I've learned so much from The Dachshunds I Have Known: from Gwendolyn, I learned to love dachshunds. From Rebekah, I learned courage and that attitude is everything. From Max and Sarah I learned the true meaning of companionship and devotion. And from my dearest Beatrice, I learned to love myself and that I was indeed worth loving. So to my most beloved girl Doxington Princess Beatrice, Blessed be. Mommy will be with you again and for always and forever. March 09 Dachshunds I have Known Part III: Max and SarahIt's now 1987 and my Mum has been dog-less for over a year since Rebekah died. This was not a completely bad thing, because she had a lot going on. My folks had split in 1985 ( a long story which has NO place here; suffice it to say it ended up being an amicable parting of the ways and they are still very close in a family sort of way) and Mum had gone back to get a college degree (which she finished in 1988, BTW. Way to go, Mum!) and was working part time and actually found time for a social life as well. But yet......something was definitely missing. No little black nose poked under the gate as she drove up onto the carport. No four-footed Happy Dance to greet her when she came home. Finally a friend from the dog club, John, who used to handle Rebekah when she was showing, talked her into adopting Max. His theory was that Max was very different from Rebekah, and so wouldn't seem like a replacement for the VERY irreplacable Bad Black Bitch From Hell.
Hey, different doesn't even begin to cover it. Ch. Moondox Maxwell Q, as it said on his AKC registration (the "Ch." stands for champion, for all you non-dog show people, and is an actual part of a dog's official name once they earn championship status) was a SWEETIE. He was huge, almost 40 lbs when he was showing, and not an ounce of fat on him. He was a red longhair Dachshund with a lovely coat and a truely noble head. And such a cuddler! He loved to be petted and hugged and had one of the most laid-back and good-natured temperments ever seen in a canine. He had only two things in this world he hated: and cats were were number 1 on the shit list. Max was incredibly powerful and could launch that long body of his into the air like an Atlas rocket on takeoff, which meant that a cat trying to outrun him to the fence would tend to misjudge when he was at a safe distance from Max the Cat Destroyer. The cat might make it to the fence OK, but if he wasn't over in a hurry Max could take him clean out of the air, as at least two cats learned to their fatal tragedy. One of the cats in Mum's neighborhood ran around with half a tail because he underestimated the jumping power of Mad Max. Aside note: When the neighbor who owned said stumpy-tailed feline came over to bitch about the "vicious" dog, Mum had only to point out that Max was in his own back yard behind a 6 1/2 foot fence, and was, besides, a Dachshund with legs only 4 inches long. The fool shut up pretty fast and kept the poor moggy closer to home in the future.
The only thing that got Max in a lather faster than a cat in HIS territory was another male dog. As sweet and good natured as he was, he was still a very high alpha male and simply would NOT tolerate another male in his time zone. In fact, this is what led directly to the fact that he needed to be adopted. In his last home he had apparantly mauled two male Shelties. At the same time. Very badly. So poor Max was booted (and variations on this theme had occured before.....my Mum was his third or fourth placement) and needed a home yet again. Well, Mum met him and fell in love. And all was well until Mum found out that Max was howling while she was out in class or at work. Turns out that he had a serious need for companionship. Well, what to do now? Obvious! Get Max a girlfriend. After a some thought and some negotiations with some dog club friends ( yes, I'm skipping some dull stuff at this point!), Mum ended up adopting a lovely little black and tan smooth coat bitch: Ch.Doxington Princess Sarah.
Poor Sarah had had a rough time. Her breeder had discovered she had sold Sarah to a neglectful and abusive asshole, and had bought her back from said prick, but only after Sarah had been there for some months. As a result Sarah was a bit skittish, especially around men. She got over some of it as time went on, but was always a shy girl.
To make a long story a tiny bit shorter, Max and Sarah fell in love and were totally devoted to each other for the rest of their lives. Max, with his easy trusting happy-go-lucky nature was a good influence on Sarah. And Sarah got to do all the thinking in this relationship. Max, for all his sweetness, was on the bone-headed side. Or maybe for him life just wasn't very complicated. But Sarah was smart. She figured out how to undo the latches on her wire crate (yes, they had to be crated or confined to the kitchen while Mum was out of the house. No doggie door.) and was in the process of springing Max from his when Mum came home one day.
Sarah was always LOOKING at you with this penetrating gaze, trying to figure out what to do, or go or beg for next. You could always see wheels turning in that elegant head of hers. Oh, and she was a big talker too. She would talk in these odd doggie vocalizations: part howl, part bark, part growl....it's kinda hard to describe, but you always knew exactly what she was saying. Mostly it was "Gimme dinner NOW!" sorts of stuff, but sometimes she just "sang" for sheer joy to see you. She passed this trait to her daughter Beatrice, whom we will meet later. Max on the other hand rarely barked at all. He just didn't get too worked up about much, especially after he retired from showing and Mum had him, uh, altered. No more females in season to pine for! Oh, and he did pine! If there was a bitch in season within a radius of 1000 square miles or so, he would mope and not eat and his glorious red coat would get all ratty and thin and he just made a general restless nuisence of himself. And no, he and Sarah didn't get to do the Doggie Nasty (at least not officially), because they were of two different coat varieties. Such is the harsh way of the dog breeding world. Unofficially, after Max had been neutered, Mum caught them going at it like bunnies once. But, alas! Max was shooting blanks so no harm done.
But really what I remember most was how much they were in L*O*V*E*. They were always together, napping or playing or begging for treats. They groomed each other constantly, especially the ears. Sarah would bedevil Max, lying belly-up and pleading until he would lick her ears. They would eat, and then allow each other to check the other's bowl for a molecule or two of food still remaining. When one went into the vet, the other had to go too to keep them calm. When Max had some lesions removed from his lip and had to spend the night at the vet hospital, they put Sarah in his crate with him to keep him company and comfort him.
Sadly, in 1997, at the age of 12 Sarah died after a sudden illness. We thought we were going to lose Max too. He was no youngster himself, by this time he was 14. He mourned her loss deeply. He was never really the same; he didn't bark again for over a year. Then one night, on October 3th of 1998, which would have been Sarah's 13th birthday, he sat out on the patio barking at seemingly nothing. But Mum and I like to think that his beloved Sarah came to visit him one more time, just to let him know it was OK.
Max lived to be almost 17 years old, gracefully aging and ever so slowly winding down until on St. Patrick's Day of 2000, he had a stroke and my Dad and Mum took him into the vet and let him go to Heaven to be with his Sarah. I learned a great deal from those two: lessons of loyalty and devotion, of how two beings who had such amazingly different personalities could find common ground, could find love. So to Ch. Moondox Maxwell Q and Ch. Doxington Princess Sarah, blessed be. For once and for always, together.
February 11 Take me out to the Dog Park....Since I seem to do all the talking, er, writing in my little kingdom here, I thought it might be nice to hear from my roomie, AKA Ginger AKA "She Who Must Be Obeyed". Believe me folks, it's hard to tell who is running things around here sometimes. I suspect she has cooked up a plot for world domination using only her intense cuteness. People just roll over and give up when she rolls those huge brown eyes up, cocks her little head and just radiates Cuteness Power. Can't you just see Osama bin Laden: "Kill all the Great Satan infidels!......Except for that little dog over in Chandler, she's cute". Hey, it could happen!
So here is a trip to the dog park, as seen through the eyes of Ginger the Wonder Wiener:
GINGER:
Well finally! I thought she would never hush up and let me get a word in edgewise. I mean, Mum is sweet and all, but she does have a tendency to go on and ON! And we are here to pay attention to ME after all, aren't we? So it begins: A nice nap......ah, what's that I hear? [one ear rising antenna style] Mom is finally getting her butt away from that computer? Where? The kitchen? FOOD??, Naw.....just down the hall to the bedroom. Hmmmm, might be worth the trip. I might get to stare while she does her business in the big white drinking bowl. Ugh! Humans, wonderful as they are, are rather disgusting, as well as hard to train. I have been staring my disapproval of this defiling of good drinking water forever, it seems. But still she doesn't get it. I've even tried showing her all the nice spots under the tree, complete with demonstrations, but no. The things dogs have to tolerate....!
Hey......Mom is putting on shoes.....could this possibly mean (oh please oh please!) I get to GO OUT???? I signal my desire with ecstatic leaps into the air. LOOK AT ME, DAMMIT! I'm soooo very cute! I WANNA GO OUT! Omygod, I think it's working. Good, because all this spring-butt activity is getting repetitious. Oh jeez, she's getting the leash! Hurry up, willya? I'm so excited I could go ballistic at any moment. For pity's sake, FORGET about the side trip to the trash dumpster and the mail box, it's not like you're getting anything but bills.
Finally, on the way. Better not be to the vet: Mom has pulled that little trick before. She does it again and I may pee on the bathmat. Step out of the the shower, and SURPRISE! Hmmmm, seems like we really are going to the park. I guess she escapes squishy toes this time. Ok, just park the damn thing so we can get the really important stuff, namely my fun and amusement.
A good crowd here today......perhaps some sucker, er, nice person with dog biscuits? But first the social niceties. I am feeling rather magnanimous today, so I suppose I'll let that big-footed lab puppy sniff my butt. Now you'd think he would be satisfied with my tolerence, but noooooo, he wants to play NOW. Hey, you adolescent oaf, I'm not done doing my sniffing, do ya mind???
Maybe, just maybe I'll allow you to chase me later.....when I'm good and ready. In the mean time, I'm going to find a proper place to "go". Let's see.......perhaps way over at the edge of the fence: I mean, a girl needs her privacy, right? Besides, it's so much fun to watch Mom follow me around with that plastic bag. And that's another thing: just how am I supposed to leave a proper calling card if Mom keeps picking it up? So I'm going to make her work for this. I might just take my sweet time before I find the perfect place to offload. Ha Ha, fooled you! Just peed this time. Later, when she's off guard I'll take care of business. I may be cute, but never doubt my cleverness.
OK, now it's time to RUN! I don't have a clue why or to where, it just feels good. And if that klutzy lab puppy thinks he can catch me, he's been huffing catnip or something. Baby, I am the wind......I am a rocket! I am.....OH SHIT ! That damn whippet is here. Now that dude is fast! And I really don't like anyone showing me up like that. I will be snooty and forbid him to sniff my butt. That will teach that twit. I'll ignore the slight to my greatness and chase the tennis ball that Mom so obligingly tosses for me. I may even bring it back, ha ha! Or maybe just carry it around like a trophy and shake it until it's dead. So many fun things to do, so little time.
Oh, and let's not forget all those people to shmooze up to. You never know who may have a treat tucked in a pocket. Or just impress that with my incredible adorable self. One can never have too many worshippers, I say. All it takes is a tail wag, perhaps with charmingly cocked ears....or maybe a little dance on my hind legs. That's all it takes, and they are mine. Their will is putty in my delicate little paws.
All too soon it's time to go home, but that's OK. Now for supper (and some of that canned food, if you please. I'm bored to tears with that nasty dry crap) and a nice nap. Ah, life is good. Now, where was I? Chasing that rabbit.......ZZZZZZZZZ.
January 30 Ways to know you are a dog personThey say that dogs and their owners start to look alike after a while. Ha! If that were true, I would weigh 12 pounds with a trim little waist and have a serious need for depilatories. But I admit that dog ownership does change a person, and it is very easy to spot one. Here are a few clues that you may be a dog person:
1) You consider dog hair on your clothes and furniture a fashion statement.
2) You feel that lifting your lips and showing your fangs is an appropriate response to most social situations.
3) That dog bisquit starts to look yummy, and you confirm this with good sniff.
4) Your dog gets more Christmas cards than you do.
5) You realize that in dog years, you would be dead.
6) Your vet bill exceeds the GNP of several small third world countries.
7) Your dog's gormet canned beef and gravy looks a whole lot more tasty that that nasty diet crap you're having for dinner.
8) You get embarrassed if your dog sees you naked.
9) You really do get too old to learn new tricks.
10) You spend more at PetSmart than you do at Wal-Mart.
11) Your dog's pedigree is more distinguished than yours.
12) Your favorite thing to do on your days off is roll over and play dead.
13) You break up with your girl/boyfriend because your little Cujo doesn't like him/her.
14) Your nickname is "Sleeps With Dogs".
15) You realize there is nothing wrong with a good roll in something stinky.
16) Your friends and co-workers avoid you because of # 15.
17) You find yourself reading a blog by a woman who is more than just a wee bit odd who lives alone with her dog......Ha! Gotcha, didn't I??
So to all out there in Blog Land: blessed be, dog lover or no. January 12 I'm Baaaaack!Sorry I've been MIA the last couple of weeks. My sister Lisa made a rather sudden trip out to visit and pick up a new puppy and since she was staying at my place, I figured she might appriciate clean sheets and a toilet seat that you can actually sit on without worrying about the germs reaching up to grab your ass. OK, it wasn't that bad, but still, a major top to bottom house-cleaning was way way over due. So I hied me thence to pick up all these weird chemicals in squirt bottles that promise to make the old homestead sparkle. Problem was, I had to actually spray and wipe to make them work. Oh, where is that Mr. Clean dude when you really want him?? Or all those Scubbing Bubble things who just whisk away the grime with nary a finger lifted by Yours Truely? Suffice it to say I had my work cut out for me. In the end I was rather pleased with the results though. And Lisa seemed comfy enough, so I suppose I done good.
I haven't seen Lisa in a couple of years so we had lots of stuff to catch up on, which seems odd because we can talk for literally hours on the phone. We sat down for some popcorn and DVDs (personal note: I have to write about "Kingdom of Heaven" some time; it's excelllent.) and of course there was The Puppy. Lisa adopted a standard longhair dachshund from a breeder out here that she had adopted from before. Her one fur-kid, Otto, is getting up there in years and she wanted to have a companion for her other dog Oskar before.....the inevitable happens. So let's say welcome to the newest addition, Osric. Yes, Lisa has a thing for Germanic names the begin with "O". Anyway, Osic is about 4 months old and he is HUGE ( although he was the runt of the litter, if you can believe it: this lady breeds truely massive dachshunds). He weighs more than Ginger does now and he has feet the size of pancakes. He has a beautifully marked black and tan coat and has the sweetest most calm and laid-back nature. Osric LOVES to be picked up and cuddled. Heck, he pretty much stays where you put him and just chills.
At first I wondered how Ginger was going to take the visitor, but no worries there. The first day she mostly ignored him and kept needing reassuance from me that she was still Mommy's little #1. Once that was settled, it was play time! And they had so much fun doing that puppy wrestling thing. Ginger even shared her toys so we had two furries running around sqeaking like mad. A great time was had by all. I just wish Lisa and the New Kid could have stayed longer. I found myself moping around a bit today because I was missing the company. SIGH!
But I"m glad she headed home to Kansas when she did, because a huge winter ice-storm swept into the whole central plains area. Do you believe Lisa drove from Chndler AZ to Wichita in one day? That's about 18 hours of driving at bat-out-of-hell speeds. Damn! My butt is numb just thinking about it! Anyway, I'm back to my old chatty self now and I promise to stop by and visit my blog buddies ASAP. In the mean time, enjoy the new pics of my new doggy-nephew Osric. Blessed be one and all. December 07 Dachshunds I have known: RebekahI do seem to be on a wiener dog kick lately. And if you haven't had quite enough of my blathering about the little dears I highly recommend you check out Miss Doxie: http://missdoxie.com. The lady is hysterical. DO NOT be drinking liquids (especially hot coffee--ouch!) when you read her blog, unless you want your nearest and dearest to find you dead on the floor from choking, clutching the fatal beverage container and with an insane grin pasted on your face. People, the lady is funny. So check out her adventures with her four (Ye gods, FOUR!) dachshunds, especially Bo, AKA "Mommy's Little Antichrist", her boyfriend El Dukay and her extensive liquor supply. She somehow has time to design and sell neat-o craft stuff on her http://shopdoxie.com website. Ok, so there's my plug for the day; hope you enjoy.
Anyway, for the next in my series about the wonderful wiener dogs in my life I present to you Rebekah, the baddest dachshund bitch to ever terrorize the planet. We are now in 1980, and Gwendolyn is about 12 years old and for some reason which will forever remain a mystery, my family thought it would be a good idea to get a new puppy. I suppose theory was that getting a new dog before Gwen went to Heaven would be easier, and that a puppy might energize our slowing dowager duchess. Truth is, there were things we did not know---like most dachshunds are perfectly happy being only children, and Gwen was one of them. A puppy was just nuisence to her; not that she was hostile or agressive, she just wanted to be left in peace in her golden years.
But this is all hindsight. My folks had started attending dog shows and got to know some dachshund breeders, because of course there was no question of getting anything other than a dachshund by this time. They met a lady named Ruth Theiss who was showing a handsome male named Jeremiah, better known as JR. As it so happened, Mrs. Theiss had bred Jr's parents again and were expecting a litter soon. Well, in the fullness of time on April 20th 1980, into the world came "Theiss's Rebekah von Coppermax" and I'm sure there were swords rattling in Valhalla that day, because that dog was the canine version of Xena the Warrior Princess. We were blissfully ignorant of this fact as yet. We just thought she was the cutest little puppy-wuppy. Well, she was cute, and indeed grew into a magnificent show dog and in fact became an AKC champion, but that was later.
At 3 or 4 months old she came to live with my parents and my brother. By this time I had moved into my own apartment, but I was came home often to eat some actual food that wasn't delivered in cardboard containers. Bekah was just as sweet and playful as any puppy, but there were warning signs we failed to heed. For one, she didn't really have much use for people outside her family. As a puppy, she would just shy away, but this grew into out and out agressive behavior like growling and snarling as she got older. She was VERY alpha-dominant, and when she was about a year old or thereabouts, decided she'd had about enough of old Gwendolyn pushing her around and trying to maintain her position as top dog. After some nasty attacks on poor old Gwen that ended up with several family members (me included) getting bitten trying to break things up, we realized we would have to keep them separated for the rest of Gwen's life. The thing was, Rebekah would go absolutely insane; one minute she was friendly family doggy and the next she was Cujo on crystal meth. You did not want to piss that dog off. And lots of things pissed her off: the doorbell ringing, cats, most persons of the male persuasion, hats and motorcycle helmets, and most of all, anyone who showed any fear towards her. Bekah was a major bully.
We realized we were in over our heads, but a few things helped. Mum walked her literally for miles and got a lot of her energy diffused, plus we entered in in dog shows with a handler who was a very big and tall man who was used to showing Rhodesian Ridgebacks, and could show Bekah who was boss. And she liked him and performed beautifully for him. Rebekah was beautiful too: a sleek black and tan smooth dachshund who was very large for a standard female. But even though she weighed in at 28 lbs, she wasn't clunky or bulky at all: she was long and elegant and could move with the grace of a black panther.
And she was afraid of literally nothing. Most dogs, if not actually terrified of the vacuum, go to great lengths to avoid the noisy thing. Not Rebekah. She reacted toward that vacuum as she did with most things that pissed her off: she attacked it. She radiated so much raw attitude, I saw dogs many times her size quiver in abject terror and instantly roll over in submission to her. And that was hysterical, especially to see some gigantic rottweiller grovelng at the feet of a mere dachshund.
And good grief, was she strong. My brother would play tug-o-war with her using this old ratty shirt. Bekah would latch onto the damn thing and absolutely refuse to let go and give in. Pat could pick up the shirt and lift her off the ground, Rebekah's jaws in a death grip that would put a pit bull to shame. Oh, and did I mention she had a healthy dose of OCD as well? Most dachshunds won't retrieve balls, but Bekah liked chasing and retrieving handballs (she tended to crush and destroy tennis balls), and she would keep doing it quite literally all day or until she dropped. And she could jump for that ball like an outfielder going for a high fly and snatch it about 90% of the time. Dad would be trying to mow the grass and Rebekah would drop the damn ball in front of the mower to make him stop and throw it again. And again. And again. Finally we would have to pick the ball up and hide it from her.
Sadly, Rebekah did not live long. She had a condition called Cushing's disease which affects the pituitary gland. In fact, some of her psycho rage thing might have been related to hormonal and glandular imbalance. My folks tried for two years with the vet to keep her stabilized with medication. It would work for a while, but sooner or later Bekah's system would go haywire again. Finally her immune system began to fail and she became suseptible to staff infections and other nasty stuff. On a warm spring day in 1986, just past Rebekah's 6th birthday, Mum called me to drive her and Bekah to the vet for that last merciful shot. Here's a weird thing: Bekah always behaved well at the vet and this day was no exception. She slipped gently away, calmly and as brave as she always was. Say what you want about Crazy Psycho Dog From Hell, Rebekah had heart. And that's what dachshunds are all about. So here's to you, Theiss's Rebekah von Coppermax, have fun partying with Thor and the gang there in Valhalla until we meet again. December 03 Dachshunds I have known: GwendolynI suppose it's no secret that I am a true dachshund afficionado: I do love those wiener doggies! So I decided to begin a series of posts about the amazing doxis that have touched my life and my heart. Let's drift back down memory lane to 1972. You young twits that weren't born then, too bad; follow along anyway, OK? As I have mentioned many a time, my Dad was a career Marine and that meant we moved hither and yon a great deal, usually every 2-3 years or so. Lots of times we had to wait for quarters on base and rented cruddy little apartments or other less than ideal housing. The upshot was that we never had a dog because of all the domestic uncertainty. Finally we moved here in 1971; Dad was going to finish up his last duty assignment and retire in good old sunny AZ, because after serving in Korea he swore he would never settle where it was cold and snowy again. Anyway, we lived here in Arizona and he was stationed in San Diego and commuted back on weekends. That sucked, but it was only for 2 years and it sure beat the overseas thing hands down, believe me. While he was there he met a Marine captian who had several dogs, and for some reason I have forgotten, needed to find a home for one of them, a four year old female dachsund named Gwendolyn. Well, hey, there we were all settled in suburbia and all we needed was a dog. Dad came home and told us he was bringing her home the following weekend. My Mum was not thrilled about this at all. She was already grumbling about how she would end up taking care of the dog,etc. I think she was a little afraid of dogs as well. But Dad prevailed and next Friday night we got our first glimpse of our new family member. Actually I heard her long before I saw her, because when Dad came in with her she saw my Mum, she immediately began to make this god-awful racket: not quite howling, but this LOUD yelping-crying and then rolled over on her back and peed herself. My Mum was horrified. "She HATES me!" Dad just laughed his ass off and said, "No, she loves you; just watch". And sure enough, Gwen scoodled up on her belly and rolled over in front of my mother with her tail a wagging blur and did this little gesture with both paws that we came know meant "please please pleeeeeeese rub my tummy!" And that was it. we were all in love, even Mum. Oh, and did I mention the poor dear was terribly fat? What a sight!
And Mum was wrong about another thing as well, we all pitched in to take care of her. Not once did we have to be reminded to feed her ( HA! Like she would ever let us forget THAT!) or walk her or clean up the back yard. Anyway, Gwen moved right in and became a total princess. She was just so darn cute it was hard not to bow down to her every whim. Through Gwen I learned what odd and wonderful companions dachshunds can be. I used to think they looked downright weird, all body and no legs. But I soon found out how athletic and even graceful (OK, maybe that's pushing it) the little dears can be. From Gwen I learned:
Dachshunds will eat anything any time and in any amount. Greed, thy name is Wiener Dog! Left to themselves, they would eat until they blew up like hairy little balloons.
Dachshunds fear almost nothing. Actually that is part of the breed standard. Dachshund is German for "badger dog" and badgers are mean mo' fo's. Dachshunds had to have major attitude to dive into a burrow and take on badgers, weasles, gophers, etc. Of course I said almost fearless. This excludes the vacuum cleaner and trips to the vet. They run from them like they would from nuclear waste. (Except for Rebekah, but that is another story)
Dachshunds are clever. They can figure out how to get at anything they want. They will jump from the floor to a chair to a table or counter top and baby, there go the leftovers!
If a dachshund likes you, she will flop over on her back like a 5 dollar hooker and beg for belly rubs. You are not permitted to stop until she says so, which could be a while. Most weiner dogs would get tummy-rubbed until the hair falls off.
Dachshunds generally live a LONG (Long..... get it?) time; 15 years is not unusual. Max, who we will meet later, lived to be 17.
Dachsunds are great travellers and love car rides. They would probably jump in with a serial killer if they offered a car ride.
Dachshunds tend to a "favorite person". With Gwen, it was my Dad. She loved all of us, but Dad was "it"......probably had something to do with the long car ride from San Diego.
Gwendolyn also had some little quirks all her own. I already mentioned the greetings with the yelping like she was being tortured to death and the piddling herself thing, but she also was the hands-down best begger we ever had. She could sit all the way up on with her back straight up and her little paws dangling like some demented kangaroo. And she would, well, look at you. And wait. And then start with these huge quivery sighs, complete with heaving little shoulders. If that didn't work, she would wait some more until she would actually start to nod off, swaying back in forth like the leaning Tower of Piza. She could stay in that "sit pretty" position for an astoundingly long time, maybe 20 minutes or so. Believe me, it was not easy to keep from succoming from that routine. Guests in the house would just cave in right away and feed her, pet her, sign over their life savings.....whatever. What Gwenny wanted, Gwenny got!
She loved the world: all people, even little kids (most dachshunds are not crazy about kids) was tolerant of other dogs, but being the princess she was, prefered other dachshunds. But boy, did she hate cats! She was the most obedient of dogs until a feline came on her radar, and then she turned into the raging attack dachshund, yanking on the leash and making a general ruckus. Hmmmm..maybe she thought they were badgers or something. Anyway, she also had great hunting instinct. She would catch any small thing that moved. We taught her to hunt down crickets after one year when more rain than usual made the cricket population go haywire. She wouldn't eat them, just bring them to one of us for a dog bisquit. Once in a while she would try to pull a slick one and bring some long-dead dried up cricket and drop it at our feet with this air of supreme satisfaction "See, look what I killed!" We gave her the damn bisquit anyway.
Gwen would never demean herself to fetch a ball or anything, heavens! that's what a Labrador does, but she would make a silly ass of her self sliding down the kiddy slide at the park (the kind with stair steps rather than rungs). I taught her that one. I climbed up and slid down with Gwen in my lap once or twice and after that she was hooked. All the kids in the park used to giggle when she took "cuts" in front of them, but I did mention she was a princess, didn't I?
Well, as the years went on, Gwendolyn became more of a dowager duchess than a princess. She did age very gracefully, though. She was in very good health her whole life and even when she started becoming somewhat deaf and her vision faded, she still did quite well. She kept that gargantuan apetite until the day she died, and could still sit pretty and beg as well as ever. She was a bright copper penny red in her youth and at the end she was almost pure grey, but still just as sweet and affectionate. She slowed down ever so gradually until just after Thanksging in 1983 she finally went Heaven. She was 15 years and 8 months old. That was 23 years ago and I miss her still and think about her a lot. She was the dog of my teenage years, and she shared all the misery with me that those years are way too full of, and lots of joy as well. And I learned to love those odd-looking wiener dogs forever. So thank you dearest Gwendolyn, for all the love and laughs and the long, long walks. Blessed be until the Goddess brings us together again at the Rainbow Bridge.
November 18 Why I don't try to clip Ginger's toenailsAs you can see from the pics, Ginger is definitely in the running for the World's Cutest Dog award. Oh what a little angel! So sweet and polite! Ha! Come with me to the realm of the weird as the perfect Mommy's Angel Puppy morphs into: The Dachshund From Hell! I kid you not. If even the stray thought of pulling out the clippers and trying reduce those talons of hers crosses my mind, her completely infallible antenna picks up the mental image floating through the ether and signals:" Danger, Will Robinson, danger!" and then I am so screwed, because she goes into immediate defense mode. First there is the "blend into the couch" method. Under the therory that if she can't see me then I can't see her, she compacts herself into an astoundingly tiny knot partially hidden under a couch cushion and freezes like a baby deer with the big bad wolf cruisin' the 'hood. I of course realize the jig is up and consider fortifying myself with copious amounts of alcohol. Instead, I grab the clippers and grit my teeth and try to sneak up on the motionless brown hairy lump that was once my beloved Ginger. She of course immediately switches to Plan B, the "run like hell" method. And ye gods and little fishes, the girl can run! I always said that she was part greyhound. Ginger can gear up to warp speed in a nanosecond.
The problem is, I live in a very tiny condo so her talent is severely inhibited since there are only so many place to run to in less than 1000 square feet. I corner her in the kitchen trying to become become one with the tiny space beside the fridge. Again, I think longingly of the lovely bottle of Meyers Rum in my cupboard. Again, I opt for pressing my so-called advantage. I grab her and then it's time for Plan C: "the limp dead dog ruse". Ginger is now 12 pounds of uncooperative dead weight just hanging from my arms. I wonder if my tooth enamel can withstand this much grinding as I carry her to the couch, grab the torture impliment, er.....nail clippers and try to wedge her down in the cuhions on her back and grab a paw. Ginger realizes Plan C is kaput so being the ever resourceful creature, goes to the plan of last resort, the " squiggle like a greased pig" method, combined for good measure with the "pathetic squeak and cry" routine, which includes the ever-popular "tremble with abject terror" extra.
By this time, I'm feeling like Torquemada trying to tie a heretic to the stake. Thing is, what I really need to be is a multi-armed Hindu deity. It is physicaly impossible to: A) restrain all four violently thrashing tiny limbs; B) clip her nails without drawing enough blood to look like the set of a slasher flick; C) quell the "you're a Baaaaad Mommy!" guilt feelings, and D) swill down shots of Meyers all at the same time. So here's the upshot of the whole thing , folks:
Fifth of Meyers dark rum: $25
Trip to the vet for a nail clip: $17
Having some other poor sod deal with whole mess: Priceless!
So here's to peace and quiet and short neat doggy nails: Cheers! Blessed be to all of you doggy parents out there, you know exactly where I'm coming from.
  October 01 Ginger updateFirst off, thanks to all the good folks out there who have sent me and Ginger all kinds of well-wishes and prayers. You know who you are: bless you one and all. Second off, the patient has no idea she is a patient. Ginger just plays and cuddles and is as happy as if she had good sense. To look at her, you could never tell she had any kind of a medical condition at all. And I'm doing everything I can to keep it that way. On Monday she goes in the vet to have a Ginger-size unit of blood drawn (what's that? about 4 or 5 tbsps??) and she will be starting on a drug to inhibit the production of red blood cells. If all goes well, she will only need to have the phebotomy thing done every 3 or 4 months and the meds should take care of the rest. Whew! I'm glad we're getting to a steady sort of schedule; all the testing and such had me doing a bit of nail-biting there for a while. Yep, my baby is officially a special needs child. And yes, it's been expensive.
I suppose the non-animal lovers wouldn't understand why I've spent so much on JUST A DOG. And to be sure, I doubt if any of the reasons I could give would make any sense to you. I could go on about how when one takes on a pet, you have to be in it for the long run, whatever that takes. I could go on about my duty as a responsible dog owner. But the simple truth is I do do because I CAN. And because I want to. And because I would do quite literally anything to keep my dear puppy-baby happy and healthy. As for you pet-parents out there, well, no explainations are necessary. You are out there nodding your heads and hugging your furry kids.
In the mean time, I'll keep trying to get some more pics of Ginger to post. This is not as easy as it sounds. She dislikes the camera flash I think, and ducks and hides as soon as she see the camera come out. And that's such a hoot because normally she is such a little show-off. As soon as she thinks she has an audience, she dances and leaps and rolls those big brown eyes up at her target ( and she always knows how to spot the sucker, especially if said sucker has a treat in his/her pcket) and beacuse she is so tiny and so damn CUTE, she gets whatever she wants in a hurry. She is probably the most petted dog at the dog park. EVERYBODY knows Ginger and thinks she's adorable. I'm just her proud Mum, thoroughly enjoying watching my baby perform. So it's soooooo frustrating when she does one of her cute stunts and I can't get it on camera. I'll just have get more sneaky I guess.
Anyway, thanks again to everyone for their prayers and thanks again to my Goddess for the gift of my precious little Ginger. And YES, I know I sound like a dotty old maid who has substituted a dog for a husband and kids. Like I care. Ha!I have a feeling I'm a whole lot more peaceful and content with my dog than most people who are in "relationships". Or maybe not, but I still don't care. I'm happy with the choices I made, and happy with being a doggy Mum. November 23 Ginger's Web PageI have created on special web page for my baby Ginger on Dogster.com. Here's the link: www.dogster.com/?226211
This site is for dog parents to show off their puppy baby's pics, create a doggy diary, view photos of other canine kids and lots of other cool dog stuff. Hey, they even have a companion site, Catster.com, for all you feline fans too. Check it out! I will be adding more stuff soon, so take a peek from time to time if you wish. I want to thank Brandon from Doggy Times for suggesting this site to me. In fact, Brandon's space is very cool to visit for all kinds of useful info about dogs and dog training. It's definitely worth a stop by, if only to see the pics of those adorable little Boston terriers of his.
BTW, I'm going to be tied up with work for the next few days, so I may not post until the weekend. I have to work on Thanksgiving Day, can you believe it? I work for slave drivers, I gotta tell ya! But the time and a half pay is very welcome, and my family is getting together on Sunday for our own little celebration. So happy Turkey Day to all my friends in blog land! May your table be bountiful and your tummies full! Blessed be one and all.
   November 03 Dances with dogsThere is a video floating around the internet that I believe was originally on Animal Planet showing a lady quite literally dancing with a gorgeous happy-looking Golden Retriever to a tune from "Grease". You really have to see this to believe it. http://www.StupidVideos.com/?VideoID=624 They look like they aree having soooooo much fun. Ok, now rewind to a couple of weeks ago when I was doing some housework, which I absolutely hate. To lighten my misery, I put some tunes on the old CD player and cranked that baby up. Pretty soon I found myself boogying to AC/DC when lo and behold, I find I have some company: my little Ginger is leaping and twirling next to me. I couldn't help but encourge her little spring-butt maneuvers. She actually seemed to be trying to imitate me, which is unusual, because dogs don't normally mimic human behavior. That's why you can't teach your dog to use the doggy door by squiggling through it yourself; they just don't get it. But here she was, watching me intently and trying to interact and maybe anticipate my moves.
Well! The light bulb clicked on for me. Let's learn to dance together! OK, so it's not as complicated and showy as the dancing Golden, but hey, it's loads of fun. I have been doing some clicker training with Ginger and have taught her a few things like rolling over and to walk a few steps on her hind legs. Some she did by herself, like a little pirouette while standing up. She really has no idea the dancing is training time, to her it's play and she loves it. Good excercise as well, for both of us.
So I guess I have officially crossed over into looney old maidhood, and you can now call me "Dances With Dogs". Who cares? We are both having a blast. So to all you doggy people out there: ROCK ON!
August 24 Dog trainingMy doggy-baby Ginger just cracks me up. As you can see from the pictures, she's a mostly dachshund mix, and I sometimes think the other bit in the mix is a greyhound who's channelling all three stooges, because she is such a clown and she can run like the wind. She just loves to play, especially with sqeaky toys or any kind of ball. She will grab a tennis ball by the fur and toss it and then chase after it, and then sort of do these soccer manuvers to kick it with her feet and chase it some more. She will lie on her back and squeak a toy in her mouth and kick at it like a kitten with her back feet. She does other puppyish things like bark at her reflection in the mirror.
Well, what to do with all that energy?
The answer: obedience training! The only thing is, I'm not sure who is training whom. When I respond to her leaps and twirls for attention, is she training me? Or when I give into her oh-so-cute-poor-little-me begging for a traet routine, am I the one exhibiting the Pavlovian stimulus respose ? Uhhhhh, maybe so. I wonder if any of this is offset by my teaching her to roll over or dance on her hind legs. She does a few tricks, but I'm the one with the conditioned response!
It does no good to remind her that I'm the human and I should be the one running things, she just grins and snuggles up in the middle of what used to be my bed and very noblely allows me to share a small corner of it with her. Do I care? Not really, although occasionally I wonder how such a little squirt could be so darn clever and cunning and adorable all at once. It's the love, you know. The frantic joy she feels when I come home, even if only after a short errend, the way she puts her little paws on my shoulders and buries her head in my neck to give me a hug, those big brown eyes focused on me with purest adoration, how could I not indulge the little dear a bit? She brightens my day and makes me smile.
OK, we still need to work on the "come" command (request??) and a few other minor details. And I can't leave my dirty laundry where she can get to it, because she has been known to chew small holes in socks and such, but hey, all in all, small stuff. Whats a few holey socks compared to unconditional love?
So today I give thanks to the Goddess in her guise as Hecate, the Greek goddess of the dark moon and hunting and who was associated with dogs, especially hounds. Her gift of my little Ginger was the best thing to happen to me in a long time. Blessed be one and all.
Here's an update on 8/27/05: Found a great site for issues with dog training and about dogs in gerneral. Brandon really knows his stuff! Go visit his space for good doggy tips. http://spaces.msn.com/members/flamingeagle/
August 07 More dog stuffNow I lay me down to sleep,
I've trapped her legs,
I sneak up slowly and it begins
So thank you, Lord, for giving me
- Author unknown
PS I stole this from the Bandit the Pug space. It seemed to describe my relationship with my Ginger-baby to a T. Ah, the joys of being owned by a wonderful pet! The laughs! The fun! The dog hair in the bed! Ok, just kidding with that last. I personally consider dog hair to be a fashion accessory. So here's to all you doggy moms and dads out there: you rock! Especially if you adopt from a shelter (and for goodness sake, spay or nueter your pet!) My baby was adopted from the local pound, and she was healthy, playful, already housebroken and very eager to adapt and learn. That's what I call the best $80 I ever spent. Well, not counting all the little necessities like kibble and toys, lots of toys. And the thing about having to get her nails clipped at the vet because she is 11 pounds of pure squiggly defiance when it comes to clipping. Ok, no matter. Who cares about money, when compared to love? Not I, said she. And with that, I wish you all a wonderful weekend. Blessed be. May 10 Dog ParkI have been taking Ginger to the local "bark park" for a few weeks now. IMHO, it's one of the best things invented lately. When I first got her, she was very shy and a little spooky. She would flinch if you moved too fast near her. She wouldn't let new people near her, even if they had a treat in hand. And she shivered during car rides. Since I started taking her to this wonderous land where dogs can just be dogs and sniff and run and play with other dogs/ people, she has blossomed. Now when we get in my truck, she is quivering all right, but from anticipation. And instead of sticking to my side like super glue, she will run and chase around with the other dogs there. She still doesn't just join in and tumble yet, but she doesn't run away either. She has learned that if she just RETURNS the ball when I throw it, it gets thrown again. She will exhaust herself with this, and dachshunds are not normally retrievers. And she is much more open to new people.( I hesitate to use the word "stranger", such sinister implications!) She has discovered that most people are ever so willing to scratch her ears and tell her she is SUCH a pretty girl. It has been such a treat watching my baby grow and have so much fun. Of course, she's still Ginger, and Ginger is just very shy and submissive by nature, that's the way she's wired up. But so much of the spookiness is gone. No more flinching at nothing. For socialization and confidence building for canines, your local dog park is the right place and I recommend it strongly. Blesssed be till later. |
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