What Do They Think?

On a day like today, I wonder what my dogs think. Well, actually, I'm always wondering what my dogs think, but especially on a day like today.

I had too much to do. I have too much to do tomorrow and Saturday. And I have way, way, way too much to do on Monday and Tuesday. When I get too much to do, I get this buzzy thing that is constantly going off in my brain and my gut, and I feel a drummer in This Is Spinal Tap. Like I'm a potentially hazardous substance and sparks could actually and dangerously start flying out of my various body orifices.

Now I have these nine dogs who are pretty good at providing feedback when I'm acting like a human, or exhibiting other disappointing behavior. As I was running around getting ready to run out and do the too much I had to do today, the dogs gave me hints. I literally was running between the bathroom (turn the shower on) through the bedroom (strip off some jammies) into the computer room (answer two emails) back through the bedroom (down to my nekked self) and back into the bathroom (intending to jump in the shower). Only when I turned the corner of the bathroom doorway (at that literal run) I nearly knocked dear Very Old Dog off his rather shakey feet and into the shower stall. I pulled up at the very last second and scooped him into my arms, to prevent bouncing him under the spray.

He was rather taken aback by the unexpected explosion of his servant, and looked at me askance. "Excuse you?" I heard him say quite clearly.

Very Old Dog has been my shadow for fourteen years, only nowadays he doesn't move so fast, and I was flying madly around like a trapped bumble bee banging against an inside window pane. It's quite possible that he was following me into the bathroom on my first fly by to turn on the shower, and he had just arrived when I flew back around to hop in. I don't know. I know he was most displeased.

I had scooped poop before breakfast. Doing it then is so good for my attempts at dieting: breakfast loses its appeal. And I'm sure the commuters driving by feel better about themselves when they see me out in my red flannel jammies with paw prints and bones, which I won in the Kennel Club's Christmas Auction, at six-thirty in the morning with the pooper scooper walking slowly back and forth over the length and breadth of the yard. Pausing every so often to scoop, and then continuing. I used to wave to the commuters, but they were always too embarrassed for me to wave back. They would pretend they needed to turn away just at that second. I still wave to my neighbors; they know me and wave anyway.

After showering and dressing, I let the dogs out and then tucked them in their crates in the dog room with biscuits. There were looks: Oh, it's one of those days. I could just hear the "Hmmmphs" as they took the proffered treats. "Hmmmmph," times nine.

I ran around not getting enough done until three. "Hooray! You're home! Life is grand and we are glad!" Bill had let them out of their crates at lunch time. It was nice enough that the kitchen door could stay open, and his studio door, and they could go in between the house and the yard and the studio as they pleased. Bill had walked Delia after breakfast, so I did three walks of two, three, and three. Even these were not up to standard, as I was on the cell phone, and that detracts. Walking time is about enjoying life. It's about how is everything in dog land, and isn't it great to be out and about, and aren't we lucky to have each other. Not yack yack yack about ads in the Kennel Club Show catalog, or blah blah blah about the new city ordinance. Walk time is our time.

I got sideways looks from the dogs. They knew I was cheating.

And after the walks I had to put them back away. This is felonious behavior. I had gone way beyond misdemeanor. And, because I was out of dog food, I had to put them back away without having fed them. I swear, dear readers, I swear I heard clear as a bell three of them say, "Well, the nerve! The very nerve!" I gave them each two biscuits, trying to buy my way out of trouble.

When I returned from the post office, and the dog food store, and the office supplies store, and other boring places, it was with some trepidation. I took comfort in the forty pound bag of Iams around which my arms were wrapped. I used it like a shield. But I was off the hook. Bill was cooking Italian sausage and mushrooms and onions, The smell of which could make any dog forgive any sin. Our good friends Harvey and Jeanie were over for dinner, and they had been away for a while and the dogs were so happy to have them back. Each dog greeted me like I hadn't broken all the rules all day, and they ate their dinners without a grudge. Then they settled in to wait for the Italian sausage plate lickins and to enjoy our laughter with good friends.


But they all fell asleep a little too quickly tonight. They were pooped. And I wonder. When I'm being so stressed and so unsatisfactorily human, what do my nine little consciences think?





hug your hounds

Dog Angst

How amazingly strange.
The word angst is not in my 1984 Webster's New World Dictionary, nor is it to be found in my 1992 New Webster's Dictionary. (Note to self: maybe it's time for a new dictionary?) On Mirriam-Webster online dictionary, the word is defined as a feeling of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity and is said to have appeared circa 1942, a result of Freud's reign.
American Heritage dictionary defines angst as a feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression.
WordNet gives us an acute but unspecific feeling of anxiety; usually reserved for philosophical anxiety about the world or about personal freedom.
And the Cambridge Dictionaries Online goes a little farther: strong anxiety and unhappiness, especially about personal problems.

So. Do dogs experience angst? We like to think of our carefree companions as experiencing life as it comes, loving the moment and making the wagging best of any situation. After all, they don't have to worry about a mortgage or the rent. Their food appears magically before them, usually on time. Certainly all of you who are reading this have dogs who are warm and safe at night. How could a dog experience philosophical anxiety about the world?

Ha. One look at Delia during the past week and you could have no doubt about the existence of doggy angst. Her world was turned upside down. Her Bill was poorly. No heading out to the studio with him at 8:30 each morning, to lie in her special bed, or on his chair, breathing in the familiar art smells. Sneezy pastel dust, benign acrylics, pungent oil paint, turpentine. No singing along to Johnny Cash or Pavarotti. No standing at the glass front door to the gallery, scanning for squirrels and feral cats, or dogs walking by with their owners to bark at. No treats and loves from Bill's friend and studio-mate, Harvey. And it got worse.

She had to go on her walks with me. Angst, all over her being. Dripping from her like tears from a widow. She would don her coat and leash and then run to Bill's side. Yay! A walk! No, she couldn't leave her Bill. This was so wrong. Deeply, personally, philosophically wrong. Now, Delia is a polite dog. She would wag and wiggle and show the proper exuberance to me for taking her. But she would cast worried glances back at the house, and once the walk had turned itself towards home, her step was just a little more lively, and her pace was quickened.

Visit any veterinarian's waiting room. Doggy angst in spades. Observe the wide eyes, the panting tongues curled in concern. What did those definitions say? Oh, yes, there are feelings of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity thick in the air in the waiting room. There are always some youngsters who don't know better. But keep looking. Look at the face of that boxer and imagine the word bubble above his bugging eyes. "Hello? This was a mistake! We were going on a fun ride in the car, and you got confused and brought me here? Last time you brought me here, you forgot me and they cut off my boy parts! Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?"

And the little rotund dachshund pacing between the the laps of the elderly couple. His lap, her lap, his lap, her lap. Pant, pant, pant. "There is the door. Right there. Out the door, people, out the door! They are going to poke me if we don't leave now. They are going to cut off my toes. There could be blood. Out the door, let's go. OUT. THE. DOOR." This is a dog experiencing strong anxiety and unhappiness, especially about personal problems. Angst.

I think what we humans call Separation Anxiety, a term that appeared only after the practice of long term crating became popular, could fall right into the angst category. Of course crates, used properly, are a great boon to modern dog owners. I have nothing against crates and my dogs happily jump into theirs. But, I wonder about the six month old puppy, whose owner pops him into a crate at seven in the morning and returns at six at night. The puppy goes out to do his business and then goes back in the crate while the owner goes out to dinner. Day after day. An acute but unspecific feeling of anxiety; usually reserved for philosophical anxiety about the world or about personal freedom. Angst.

Delia's troubles, I am happy to report, are fading. Her Bill is feeling better. A little studio time with him today will make her walk with me much more tolerable.

And I have a confession to make, dear readers. I am right there with Delia on this one.

Hug your hounds.

And hug your special humans, too.

Bed Time

My dogs love bed time.

They lobby for it. Maria - Little Miss Mouth of the South - starts reminding me at least a half an hour early that bed time is coming. I can't say as I blame her, as I have sure been forgetting things lately. I support my nine dogs by making and selling fancy collars. I had an order for a collar and I knew I had enough of that particular trim to make one collar. I looked in the drawer for the trim. Couldn't find it. Huh? I knew I had enough of that trim; I was certain I had just recently had my hands on it. I searched. I tore my little sewing/computer room to shreds. That was when I noticed the package addressed to my customer. With the collar I had already made in it. So you see, you can't blame Maria for thinking she needs to remind me about bed time.

Bed time for the dogs is somewhere between nine and ten. Closer to nine on the nights where I'm home all evening. Maria will be lying on a couch in the TV room, completely snuggled under a lap quilt. I'm typing away on the computer in the next room. It's about eight-thirty, and I hear "rrruhrr" from the lap quilt. "Maria, it's not time yet," I say. Five minutes later the quilt says, "rraaahrrr rrrrr." "Hush, Maria." Four minutes later, the quilt lifts enough to reveal a darling little schnoz and I hear, "Rrahh, rrahr, rooooo." "Stop! It is not time for bed!"

Oh that really works, because "time for bed" are the magic words I say to get the whole gang to jump up and run downstairs and go out. So I've said, "time for bed" and even though it was preceded by "It's not" the contract states that if I say "time for bed" in any context what so ever it is damn well "time for bed." Consequently, eight of the nine dogs are now dancing around my tiny computer/sewing room celebrating the fact that it is, you know what time.

I would like to finish my little typing project, so I pat each one and try to put them off. "Good dogs, wonderful dogs. Oh aren't you lovely? Mmmm, would you like to lie down here on the new bed? Keep me company as I just take a moment to finish? Won't be a second, that's my sweet hearts."

Maria is having none of it. She stands facing me and shouts, "Woof. Woof. Ruff. Rrraahr, rrrrrrrr, rrrrraaah." Tail wagging like crazy, eyes bright as high beams and she's caught me in them. She bounces a little off the ground with every woof. The rest of her pack catch on to the game. They can see that she's wearing me down. Now I've got all eight of the dogs in the little sewing/computer room woofing and trying to jump on me and the two youngest start to wrestle, and I give up.

"Fine," I say. "Fine. Time for bed! Let's go out. Fat Charlie, come on!" You may have noticed that there were only eight dogs in my little room. Fat Charlie is the lone abstainer from the bed time follies. He's already curled up in his crate and he doesn't think he needs to go out, and he'd just the same stay put and wait for the snackie, thank you very much.

Yep, that's why bed time is so popular in this house: the bed time snackie. The dogs all zoom down the steep, twisting stairs and race - literally - to the kitchen door and tumble over the tops of each other to get out first. (There could be a cat or a critter of some kind outside, you never can tell.) Then they try to pee where someone else wants to pee, occasionally peeing on each other, sigh, and then they remember the whole snackie deal and now the race is on to see who can get into the house, up the same steep twisting stairs, down the hall, into our bedroom and into their crate first. And of course if poor Bill happens to be "reading" on our bed... Bill has a peculiar way of reading at night. He lies on his back, with the book face down on his stomach, his eyes closed and his mouth open, emitting a loud, operatic snore. He does a lot of "reading" in the evenings. So if he's "reading" when the dogs zoom up to our room, they are just beyond delighted to find him there, and they leap on his prostrate body (as well as his unfortunate prostate gland once in a while) and he turns a whopper snore into an "oooph" followed invariably by a Very Bad Word or twelve.

I yell, "Dogs, get off of Bill!" and they do and they each jump in their own crate. Except Very Old Dog who inhales his biscuit so he can follow me as I give each of the others their snackies just in case someone drops theirs, or my aim is off. Then he snarfs up an extra snackie for himself and is immensely satisfied at his bonus. I go to each crate after snackies are consumed and cover each dog up with their blanket, except Sam I Am and Delia who prefer to sleep nude. And I kiss every nose and tell each of them that they are ever so wonderful and I am the most fortunate human in the world.

I go back downstairs and get my laptop, and finish my little story in bed, so that Very Old Dog can settle in and not worry about where I am or if I've gotten lost.

Which is why, dear readers, it is nearly midnight and I am finally closing my laptop, kissing my sweet Old Dog on his peaceful forehead, rolling my snoring good husband onto his side, and going, at last to sleep.

Sweet dreams!

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