Tag: dogs

Inter-Species Competition

There are whole days when I feel as if I’m engaged in an inter-species competition. That’s not to say that I don’t absolutely adore my two canine companions. They are my world. I have moments when my heart is so full just from watching them. They don’t even need to be doing anything. Just standing there watching me is enough to cause my chest to tighten with love. Sometimes I want to FaceTime my daughter and show her the cuteness of Mona or Bowie doing. . . well, nothing, mostly. But just look how “hopeful” Bowie is! (Bowie, meanwhile, is “hopeful” that I’ll sling his rope toy the length of the house so he can have throw rugs and chairs skitter out of his path as he sprints across the kitchen and into the living room, usually coming to an abrupt stop only by slamming into the couch. It is pointless to remind him each time of the predictable outcome of open-throttle indoor racing. The thrill of the chase exacts what to him seems an acceptable degree of indemnification.)

Recently (after three successful escapes — two by Bowie and one by Mona), I’ve altered our twilight and late night “potty runs”. No longer do we exit via the front door, which necessitates skillful navigation of stairs. Instead, we all traipse downstairs and exit through the basement, eliminating the risk that I will face-plant into the bushes or at the base of the front steps. And, obviously, I stand a better chance of remaining tethered to my end of the leash. It’s early, but the results are promising, even if Bowie still is inclined to charge out the door full speed. (I can hear the trainer’s voice reminding me, Be always in command. “With me, Bowie”. “Leave it, Bowie.”)

While the outcome of the daily smackdown is never a foregone conclusion, the win goes in my column tonight. As I’ve taken to doing, because I don’t like surprises (unless it’s one that involves Chocolate Town Special Cake made by Megan on my birthday), I push the curtain aside on the basement door and scan the backyard. No deer or rabbits within view. I open the door, Bowie charges and Mona prances. We make our way around the garden, heading further into the backyard, but I decide to glance behind us, toward the street. I catch movement on the other side of the line of pine trees. Yup, deer. And where there’s one, there are likely three more. As they do every night, they’re making their leisurely way along the ancient and invisible pathway.

I’ve seen them, but Mona and Bowie haven’t yet. I alter our own route so that I can be reasonably sure they won’t see the four deer when they emerge on their northward progression. Oh, but those canine noses don’t lie. The two little heads spring up at the same time, and two little noses lift. They’ve scented the deer, but can’t fix their location. Till they figure that out, Mona and Bowie stand still, but with noses twitching. I know I only have a couple minutes before the deer will be seen from our location. Before my charges have succeeded in triangulating the location of the deer, I tug on their leashes and coax them, promising a treat (because I’ve made a total mess of our boot camp gains, and achieve compliance using the path of least resistance.)

We take it one day at a time. Some days I win, some days they’re the ones giving each other high-fives. Can’t wait to see what tomorrow’s contest will be like.

But, just look at how stinkin’ cute they are!

Battle Over the Trash Barrel

Sure, a second dog is a good idea. Gives the first one a companion. I bought that. . . and, so, there’s Bowie.

That no one ever consulted the pet with the most seniority — Sonny, of the feline sort — has led to a fair degree of resentment, as well as pee and poo deposited in undesirable locations. It hasn’t been so long a time that I don’t remember Sonny’s deviousness where it concerned my sweet Scout. He used to lie in wait around a corner, crouched and ready to ambush my gentle little kitty. She had no use for him, but from her current vantage point on high, she must be smiling and thinking about the beauty and rightness of poetic justice.

Bowie builds in quality time every day — multiple times a day — so that Sonny should never feel neglected. He appreciates Sonny in ways that are unrecognizable to him, that make him anxious. Because of the said level of “appreciation”, Sonny has taken to over-grooming his tail. You should see what that looks like these days!

It all has me thinking about the pecking order that establishes itself, quite naturally. No amount of cajoling, psychologizing, gating, or sweet-talking seems to alter the course of domestic history. At present, Bowie is enjoying an outsized degree of supremacy. He drubs little Mona, he corners and harasses Sonny, and his general swagger — both in home and out in public — suggests that, despite the yearned-for results of bootcamp, I am at the end of his leash, not the other way around.

Admittedly, I haven’t been as consistent as I should be in order to make the usual commands stick; things like sit, stay, leave it, off, come, get-out-of-the-trash, drop-the-poop. Outside of the home, progress is more discernible, but the signs inside are discouraging. I have an improvised gate at the bottom of the stairs on the main level (with a heavy tool bag wedged against it), my deck has another gate, one that is free-standing. (It is only a matter of time before Bowie discovers that if he paws at the edge or noses it, he will gain blissful admission to the free world.)

The most frustrating signal that I’m losing the battle concerns the trash barrel. Once upon a time I was able to have a tall kitchen trash barrel, no lid, open to the elements. In my stubbornness, I have failed (thus far) to concede that a small barrel under the sink is my only remaining option. Instead, I have a lidded stainless steel one to which Bowie recently learned how to gain access. At first he would tug on the plastic liner, which would bring the goods up and into the lid, causing the lid to lift. In answer, I readjusted the liner so that it wouldn’t extend outside the barrel. From my standpoint, it made for a messier affair internally. However, Bowie’s determination led him to re-think his mission and come up with a more creative mode of access. Hence, the “flick and dive”, meaning he would flick the lid with his nose and thrust his head in with one smooth move. My counter-move has been to place a hand weight on top of the barrel. Obviously, he’s going to figure out how to nose it off, and I’ll be confronting what I know must be done: place a small barrel under the sink. . . and then rig a fail-proof lock system on the doors.

This is where I fall on my own sword, my friends.

Canine Boot Camp: Prelude

It occurs to me that I haven’t supplied my followers with any canine updates of late. One can safely assume the reason for that is that the critters have been up to no good. Or, at least that statement applies to wonder dog #2 — Bowie.

Here’s how things stand with my vertically challenged bundles of vexation. Recently, I decided to sort out my problem of dog walking. If I were to distill their unruliness down to its most basic, it stems from their awareness that I’m not the one in charge, and the problem manifests most obviously when I walk them together.

It plays out this way: a moving speck in the distance is determined to be a clear and present danger. Typically, Mona will be the first to observe its presence, and announce by bouncing up and down and woofing. Bowie, before he has even processed this impending peril, lunges at Mona as if to say, Goddammit, can’t you just once let ME be the one who notices it first and I’ve got this — I don’t need your help in guarding my family. Mona responds by snapping back at him, and it all devolves quite quickly. I tighten up the leashes and with arms outstretched to the side, pull the whirling dervishes apart. I walk by the typically well-behaved (large) dog and its owner with an embarrassed sorry, and pick up my pace to distance myself from yet another example of my ineptitude.

“They need to understand that they don’t get to call the shots — you do,” the trainer Katie pointed out to me when I brought them for an “assessment” about a month ago, shortly after I took out an equity line of credit to pay for a two-week boot camp. . . for both of them. . . so that they can learn to behave in a socially-acceptable manner when out in public. Or when there’s a Door Dash delivery. Or when the FedEx truck barrels down our street. Or when Beverly (my new 82-year old Historical Society friend) knocks on the door (because her eyesight is so poor she can’t see the doorbell, which is entirely fine with me so I don’t point it out to her because. . . well. . . that would just be way worse.)

As part of my pups’ boot camp package, I was subjected to my own mini-training, and I must say that I derived great benefit from the experience. I arrived on a rainy morning with both dogs and was instantly agog at the facility’s luxurious accommodations. For starters, as I rolled along the undulating driveway past the various fenced sections (including what appeared to be residual evidence of an orchard or just pleasantly positioned apple trees), the upscale arrangement of living quarters and training yards cleared up any lingering questions I had about the eye-popping cost of the program. Bowie, Mona and I then spent close to two hours learning the new rules — namely, that I am the new sheriff in town.

I can’t speak for my shaggy trainees — I suspect that the under-breath mutterings emanating from the back seat as we rode home were comments such as WTF and Shit, the party’s over, but I left that day with renewed confidence. I was excited to try out my new skills.

For the past few weeks I have dutifully honored the recommendations that the trainer made at our collective pre-boot camp training session. The biggest change to our routine is that I walk Bowie and Mona separately. It creates two very tense moments each morning, given that I have to leave one dog behind when I head out the door for the daily walk. I feel awful. . . TWICE! But the huge upside is that I have been able to walk by other dogs without incident. No barking. No lunging. No need for an embarrassed sorry. It is a blessed phenomenon. I hope it lasts.

And now, as I contemplate all the ways I can enjoy my two-week stretch of freedom — travel down the coast to visit family and/or old friends, book a flight to Oregon to see my daughter, take several day trips (to museums, antique shops, libraries, and historical sites), take walks alone — I’m strangely battling feelings of guilt. When Katie explained that they have a no-nonsense “no contact” policy for the entire two weeks of boot camp, I reacted with a pssshhh, no problem. But I find that I’m already dreading that moment when I drop them off; I know I’m going to feel lonely without the constant annoyance of Bowie’s stealing my books and chewing on the corners, his streaking from one end of the house to the other when the FedEx truck arrives. I’m also worried about Mona’s timid demeanor — what if they take too heavy a hand with her when they “correct” her? She’s delicate. I imagine I’ll be overly “clear” with the staff when I deposit them at the beginning of their stint. In the end, this is what I can offer: I may be a perennial novitiate as a dog owner — I don’t always know how to behave when I take them among other people or dogs, but I won’t be faulted for my understanding of their personalities. As a dog owner, with me there’s a long learning curve. Please be patient.