Category Archives: Pets
Cupid is coming to live with me. This is happening sooner than I expected, but not sooner than I wanted.
I think I’m ready for a puppy, but I guess I’ll find out.
Cupid is the sixth puppy in a litter of eight born on December 23rd. How many of you can name his brothers and sisters? Let me just leave that for a moment.
After Darby died, one of my fellow kennel club members (the one who matched me up with Darby to begin with) told me that if I was interested in another Spinone in the future, she might let me co-own a puppy with her and I could train and show it and we’d see how it turned out. I said that would be great, but let me wait a while.
I was more or less planning on waiting through this year so I could “get some stuff done.” Some of that stuff included getting some better-paying writing jobs, which I’m actually already getting. And one of those writing jobs involved doing some research on Irish Wolfhounds, and I learned that they make really good therapy dogs because of their gentle natures.
Of course I thought, “A Spinone would make a great therapy dog, too,” because they’re so loving and loveable (when they’re not being spastic goof-balls). And then I didn’t really want to wait for a puppy.
Fast-forward to last Friday, when Bonnie called to ask if I might like to have Cupid come live with me so he could get some extra attention while she dealt with her other dogs and possible surgery for her husband (her kennel help).
Even though her husband won’t need surgery after all, which is great news, Cupid is coming home with me this Friday, and Ramses will have a playmate almost his size (for a week or so), and my life will be in uproar. Bliss.
Now about those names. Dasher is staying with Bonnie. Need any more hints?
My writer’s block has been getting worse. I know why. It’s because I am hesitant to write the one thing that will set me free. I tend to avoid controversial topics because I like to avoid fights, arguments, even heated discussions. I get overwhelmed by anxiety and very uncomfortable. I don’t like feeling attacked. I tend to take it personally. Head down, mouth shut is how I have always operated.
But I’m old enough now to not really give a rat’s ass if people don’t like what I think and say. And over the years, I’ve learned to express myself better, even under pressure.
Okay, okay. Get to the point, already.
I hear a lot of passionate, well meaning folks telling everyone within earshot that they got their dog from a rescue or shelter and how wonderful the dog is and how no-one should ever feel the need to buy a dog from a pet shop or a breeder because if you get a dog from the shelter you are really saving two dogs, the one you take home, and the one who can have that space in the shelter.
I know people who are like this. They want everyone to get their pets through rescue, and no pet should ever be left intact (with respect to reproductive organs only. Stay away from ears and tails). And by “pets” they mean all dogs, all cats. I just want to be clear on that. And on one other thing. These people are almost always pet owners or want to be pet owners.
I just always want to ask, “and then what? What happens when your fondest dream is realized and there are no more pet animals capable of reproducing. In ten, fifteen years…POOF! No more pets. At. All. None for you, none for your kids, none for their kids.” As unlikely as that is to happen in the immediate future, it is still a possibility.
Did you even realize that was your goal? Did you realize it’s the goal of some who are trying to legislate pet breeding out of existence? Because that is what will happen if they get their way. They lump all dog breeders into the “puppy mill” category to vilify anyone who would force a poor, innocent dog to mate and produce even a single litter of puppies. And they write laws to that effect. They write laws making it illegal in some cities to own a dog that is not surgically sterilized.
If some of the people in those cities dump their animals because they don’t want to comply with the ordinance, how will that “fix” the stray pet situation? If others who can afford to do so move outside the city limits to avoid the ordinance, they will no longer be paying for typical city services, and how will the city pay for enforcement of the ordinance? If some people move to another state, how is that good for the city?
The sad thing is that if all the laws are enacted that these people want, the people with the actual puppy mills will just find better places to hide and carry on. People who don’t care about their dogs certainly aren’t going to care about laws telling them how to behave. Many honest dog fanciers will simply stop breeding their dogs rather than deal with the expense of getting and maintaining a license while always looking over their shoulder for finger-pointers eager to find them guilty of the slightest infraction.
This would be a sad outcome indeed for those of us who have an interest in pure bred, carefully and consciously bred, lovingly and healthily bred dogs. I’m proud to say that my Basenjis were all bred that way, by a breeder interested in the health of the dogs and the improvement of the breed.
If we legislate away our rights to keep non-human animals as pets, there will be people who will find ways to be cruel to animals, or will simply transfer their cruelty to their own family members. There will be other people, like me, whose lives will grow dim from having all the joy and color sucked out of it. No antidepressant drug can compensate for that one creature you can always rely on to be there for you when life seems incomprehensibly bleak.
I’m all for rescue dogs. I’ve had rescued dogs and I’ve had shelter dogs, and I’ve loved them all. But I don’t want anyone telling me I can’t plan to get another Spinone Italiano puppy from a breeder some day.
You can’t legislate away the dark side of human behavior. And I suspect some of the very ones who think laws can do that have a deep, deep well of that very darkness within.
I’ve been stalling on writing this post. After I made optimistic plans for Darby’s future, it turned out that she had no future. The x-ray she was scheduled for that same week I wrote the last post showed some suspicious looking spots on her lungs, but also an enlarged heart. The vet also confirmed my suspicion that she already had another mammary tumor. On the phone, we talked about having an ultrasound done, both to get a better idea what was going on with her heart and a better look at those spots on her lungs.
That Saturday afternoon Darby collapsed while trying to hop up on the couch after I brought her and Ramses in from their yard. It was hot out, and although I didn’t have them outside very long (I was out there with them, and when I was ready to come in I decided they were, too.), I hoped Darby was just suffering from a little overheating. Except she never really recovered.
I got her to the vet Monday morning, and after another chest x-ray, the vet called to say her lungs were filling with fluid — they’d been clear on Thursday. She told me that there was no way to do anything about Darby’s cancer because of the congestive heart failure, and that her heart was already too damaged to fix. She said Darby might have as long as six months, but she would not be the same dog. She also said how shocked everyone at the clinic was by how much Darby had changed in the few days since they’d last seen her.
Darby came home in “hospice care,” with medication to get the fluid out of her lungs. One of the vet techs had to carry her to the car. One of my neighbors had to come across the road and help carry her into the house.
She died in her sleep that night.
In her previous home, Darby led the good life. She had other dogs her size to play with and got to go running on the beach every day. She also, apparently, didn’t have to do much of anything she didn’t like. Take grooming, for starters. “Oh, no. That pulls my hair. Hurts. Don’t do don’t do don’t do!” Head jerking this way and that to keep me from getting anywhere near her face with a TOWEL! Comb? Scissors? Forget it.
Same with her feet. Trim toenails? NNOOOoooooooooooooooo! Thankfully, I’m persistent. To the point of stubborn. If she wants to pull her foot away, I’ll just grab it again. It came down to me just holding her foot until she relaxed, then bringing the clippers closer, and waiting her out again until the new panic attack subsided. Over and over and over.
A few times I had to just practically sit on her to pin her long enough to get one foot “done,” as in toenails trimmed, mats clipped out from between toes, etc. When I was successful, she would sometimes go through a sea change and let me comb that foot a few days later without all the histrionics. Oh, she can be a drama queen.
I was told I needed to “get tough with her,” but I figured that would just make matters worse. I decided good old quiet, calm, dogged, pig-headed persistence was the answer.
Did I mention that Darby is a sensitive flower? She cowers at a harsh tone of voice, drops to her belly in a boneless, seventy-five-pound heap of unhappy if she gets confused about what I’m trying to get her to do. Not optimal when trying to teach “Stand,” so I could comb her belly.
I never let her decide when it was time to quit, but when I did stop “torturing” her (usually because my back was killing me from leaning over), I gave her lots of praise and special treats, then put her in her crate with a few more special treats and gave her time to calm down.
She’s been here over a year, now, and things have changed. She still doesn’t love having me comb her face and trim her nails, but she tolerates those things better all the time. The shorter hair-cut helped keep her hair from matting as quickly. Fewer mats mean less hair-pulling and pain. She’s about due for another trip to the groomer, by the way.
Now it’s time for “big dog” training. Learning to heel and stay, sit without me having to push her butt to the floor, answering reliably to her name, walking on leash like a respectable individual. Yeah, this is going to take a while.
It won’t be the kind of good life she had before, but it will be a good life with me.
Darby’s surgery went well. The tumor was entirely contained in the superficial layers, so the vet only had to remove a big patch of skin. Sewing up the incision involved pulling edges of skin together that had previously been much farther apart and leaving some baggy extra folds at either end. No beauty contests in Darby’s future. Oh, well.
First day back from surgery, she lulled me into a false sense of security. “Oh, yeah. She’s fine. Acting like nothing in the world has happened to her.” Silly me. That was before all the anesthesia wore off.
Her surgery was on a Thursday. I had to take her back for stitches repair on Friday. Then I got a “cone collar” for her. She managed to pull it apart Saturday afternoon, so my brother and I put it back on and fastened it with zip-ties. Then took her back to the vet to have more stitches replaced.
Everything seemed fine for a few days until I noticed that the skin around the incision looked kind of red. Oh, great. Infection. On closer inspection, I discovered a gap in the middle of the incision where the skin had been pulled the tightest. Darby had apparently gotten her hind foot up to scratch the itch and pulled loose some of the staples the vet had used to replace the other lost stitches.
Back to the vet. This time they had to anesthetise her again and re-suture most of the incision. They sent her home with antibiotics and pain pills. Yay! pain pills. They had a bit of a sedative effect on her, so she didn’t seem as crazy to scratch. I’m sure having the infection knocked down helped, too.
In the meantime, she learned how to use the cone as a weapon. She’d catch it on a door frame and jerk her head sideways to free it — right into my leg. She got me with the edge of it several times daily. I had bruise lines across both legs from her trying to walk up to bump me with her nose (or wipe her wet face on me after a drink of water).
Yesterday, finally, she got all her stitches out after a couple of extra weeks in the “cone of shame.” What a relief.
There’s only one fly in the ointment. The pathology lab finished the analysis of the tumor and reported that it is one of the more aggressive cancers. It tends to metastasize into the lungs. Which means chest X-rays once or twice a year.
At least she doesn’t have to get mammograms.
Darby is having surgery on Thursday. I found a lump a few weeks ago and took her to the vet to have it checked out. She did not enjoy the needle biopsy process, although she’s generally golden at the vet’s office because everyone pets her and dotes on her.
So the vet looked at the cells through a microscope and said they had the characteristics of a malignancy. I told her I was relatively sure that lump had not been there six weeks earlier or was small enough that I could miss it. But I’d been examining her regularly, knowing that having her spayed at age six plus years put her at higher risk for mammary tumors. I thought I was prepared for that eventuality. I was not prepared for the immediacy.Today, I took her to a groomer and fellow kennel club member to have her clipped down a bit. I wanted her to look more like a Spinone puppy with short, lower maintenance hair. She’ll be miserable enough wearing the “Cone of Shame” after her surgery. I don’t want to add to her discomfort by trying to keep her luxurious “feathers” all tidy. I’m wondering why I didn’t do this sooner. I do intend to keep her close to this look from now on.
I’m also going to make some changes to her diet to get more natural protein into it while she recovers. She likes cottage cheese and raw chicken wings, so far. Oh, and trying to find cottage cheese that is not low-fat… not easy.
The prognosis for this type of cancer is all over the place. It may or may not recur. It may or may not spread. It may or may not lead to more serious problems. Etc. The treatment of choice is surgery, so Darby’s is scheduled for Thursday. I’m sure I’ll spend a lot of time with Ramses, and doing things to distract myself. And I’ll have my phone with me all day.
So, we had another rain last week. Almost four inches. Made one goofy dog quite happy. My brother, not so much…
There are times when you just have to step back, you know? Take a break, reassess, get grounded, or (insert your favorite catch phrase here)whatever, and hope that when you get back to the grind, something will have clicked into place, and life will progress more or less smoothly, and generally in a “forward” direction. Sometimes, there’s no noticeable click, but you realize you have to drag yourself back into the Twilight Zone (some prefer to call it reality), whether you’re comfortable there, or not.
And then there are times when you go walkabout and just get lost…
Or I could spin this past year as a sabbatical, and that I was doing serious research… yeah, maybe not.
What started off last summer as a break to “get off the planet” as it were, and immerse myself in rereading all the books in the Foreigner Series, by C.J. Cherryh, turned into one delay after another in getting back to work on my writing, and all the other stuff I put on this blog. But, oh, well, these things happen. Instead of boring you with all the details in one long blurt, I’ll just proceed like I’ve only been gone a week, instead of a year. That okay with everybody?
The biggest change to the Crazybasenji household is the addition of a non-basenji canine. I know. What a shock. She qualifies as completely crazy, though, so that should count for something. Darby is a Spinone Italiano, an Italian Pointer (or Setter, depending on how loosely you translate). She’s a big, shaggy thing, and goofy as hell. And if there’s one thing I do love, it’s a goofy dog.
Darby belonged to a man who was going through chemo and radiation therapy and just didn’t have the energy to care for her and his other big dogs any more. She came to live with me on a trial basis at first. I wasn’t sure if Ramses would warm up to her. He’d been getting peculiar around strange dogs on our walks, and I was hoping that constant exposure to a very different dog would be good for him. Turned out I was right – at least as far as Darby is concerned. She’s so mellow, that even when he’d snarl at her in the beginning, she’d just stand still – very non-threatening – until he chilled.
So I can get back to doing more writing, and painting, and spend less time enabling a spoiled rotten only-dog. Maybe…
It all started when that mouse ran across the floor. But let me start with a little back story.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it many more times before I’m through. A Basenji is not your father’s Labrador. (I don’t know how many of you may remember an advertising campaign some years ago when Oldsmobile introduced their new model, “Alero,” with the catch phrase: “It’s not your father’s Oldsmobile.” I don’t know if they sold more cars with that ad or not, but I co-opted the phrase for my own purposes.) There are a number of good reasons why Labrador Retrievers are the most popular American Kennel Club registered dog breed – and Basenjis are not. I would never presume to imply that one breed of dog is superior to another. I love them all. And “blended” breeds as well. But there’s a reason I have had my little dynasty of Basenjis, instead of any other breed.
A lot of people don’t realize what a contrary individual I can be – most days I’m not that bad, so I might not seem like such an anarchist. But doing what I’m told runs a little counter to my nature, and doing what’s expected of me…oh, forget that. Small wonder I choose dogs that don’t follow orders all that well, don’t engage in typical “doggy” behaviors (like barking), and tend to like to sit back and watch quietly while everyone around them is in uproar.
My second Basenji (and my first male of the breed) was like the uber Basenji. Boomer was the pick of his litter, (the breeder called him her “Clark Gable dog”) destined for great things in the show ring, which would have meant I never would have met him. But he was born insane, and at four months of age he was engaging in extremely risky behavior – leaping onto and off of the dog houses that belonged to his Gordon Setter kennel mates. He ended up with a broken humerus bone, and in a body cast for eight weeks. At the end of which he promptly repeated the behavior…and the injury. By the time the second cast came off, he had gotten so used to running around on three legs that he continued to do so. As a result, his left front leg was always about an inch and a half shorter that his right. He was one crooked little dog.
He was two years old when I met him. It was the first time I ever experienced love at first sight.
After he came to live with me, I discovered some of his other disarming behaviors. Once when I was sitting at my computer and he was sitting next to me (one of the rare times when he wasn’t getting “into something”) I popped a piece of chocolate into my mouth. As I chewed on my chocolate, I looked down and said something to the dog, as he leaned against my shin. He melted. That’s the only way I can describe it. The smell of chocolate on my breath undid him. He just slid to the floor. And then he rolled on my foot. It was the most bizarre thing I’d ever seen a dog do. When I was a kid, my dachshund used to roll on dead lizards. Boomer was more discriminating. If I put styling mousse in my hair, he’d try to roll on my head.
Basenjis, like most normal dogs, do the “play bow,” lowering their front ends to the floor while they keep their butts elevated. Most normal dogs wag their tails when they do this. Not so Basenjis. They are not big on tail-wagging. More on that later. Boomer had his own variation of the play bow. He would put his head down on the floor between his front legs, like he was hiding his eyes. Then he would flop over on one shoulder (with his butt still in the air), and rapidly “dig” with his front feet. Sometimes he would bite at the carpet at the same time. People who didn’t know better would sometimes ask if he was all right. “Of course he’s not all right! He’s a Basenji!” I never actually had to say that. I usually just shrugged.
Both of my female Basenjis did normal play bows, even to the point of wiggling their tails a bit. They were always more emotionally demonstrative than the boys, even though Boomer and Ramses were/are what you’d call “leaners,” leaning against my leg while I pet them. Ramses, however, does the bow exactly like his Great Uncle Boomer. (The Old Guy was too stiff and creaky by the time he came to live with us to do much bowing.)
That brings us back to the mouse.
There was a time when I was living in Kentucky in an old mobile home parked up a “holler” on a farm. Quite rustic. The place had sat vacant for a while before I moved in, with Boomer, and a whole community of mice had taken up residence. Boomer set out to decimate that population. We lived there less than a year, but he racked up six kills over the course of just a few months – when I was watching. He had the run of the house when I was at work, so I don’t know how many he may have dispatched while I was away.
I always knew when he was on the trail of a mouse, not just because he would suddenly try to wedge himself under the stove or between the refrigerator and the wall, but because he would start wagging his tail. It was the only time I ever saw him wag it. Hunting apparently made him twitchy. Or more twitchy than normal. I always found it amusing, although I was a little hurt that seeing me was never motivation enough to cause him to wag his tail.
Of course, he wanted to eat the mouse, once he caught it, and it was an increasing struggle for me to get the mangled body out of his mouth. (Mice carry all kinds of nasty diseases, in spite of being a good source of protein. I didn’t want him coming down with something bubonic.) But, of course, Boomer being Boomer, he came up with a way around me. He’d catch the mouse, one quick crunch, then swallow. A few days later he’d yak up the skeleton and a few other undigestible bits for me to clean up. Charming. I did so love living in the country.
Where I live now is every bit as rural, though not quite as wild as that place. The woods don’t come right up to my back door here, but the mice do still get in. One reason I adopted the “extra dog” was so she’d help keep the rodent population around the house under some sort of control. She’s apparently been slipping.
And these mice are bold. They charge straight across open spaces to get from point A to point B, instead of sticking close to the walls, like they’re “supposed” to. One morning last week as I sat at my computer, I saw motion out of the corner of my eye, and looked up in time to see one of the little bastards go streaking across the floor headed for the living room. Almost at the same time, I realized Ramses was no longer lying in his “spot” in front of the second couch – where I could keep an eye on him from my computer chair. I walked in the living room and saw his back end sticking out from under the end table closest to the end of my brother’s couch – underneath which had probably been the mouse’s destination.
Ramses had dived under the end table in hot pursuit, but the couch had an even lower clearance, and he couldn’t cram himself under that. He would not budge. I had to grab his back legs and drag him out from under the table, then confine him to his crate to keep him from going right back in. Absolutely channeling Uncle Boomer.
You want to know something else, friends and neighbors? That tail was a’waggin’.
That’s my boy!