Who's Trained Whom? Hmmmm?

This is going to be a bit hard, because the majority of my dear readers know sweet Mama Pajama so well, she could easily be one of their own. But my new friends from blogland barely know her at all. I don't want to bore the former, nor mystify the latter, so here's the skinny.

Mama Pajama is living proof of miracles. At least to me. She was a brilliant little lure courser, and was actually the number one whippet in the country in AKC lure coursing. She was always one of the smallest, but zoom she would dust the big boys, including her brother Fat Charlie. She got her obedience title (just to humor me) and had a magical way of communicating with her special people.

And she charmed everyone who met her.

Then she got sick. She got a horrible disease, called neutrophilic vasculitis. A wacko reaction by her body to a wasp sting, where she started attacking her own microscopic blood vessels, choking off the oxygen supply to the surrounding tissues. She rotted. Her ears died, and she had deep abcesses in her feet, and she lost a lung. Her kidneys stopped working and we made an appointment to have her put down.

But as clear as a bell, she told me, "Not yet."

And then she got better.

She's been on prednisone for six years. She'll be eleven in June. She appears to be in complete remission, and other than her raggedy ears and some places where her hair never grew back, you couldn't tell she was ever sick. She has had a little problem with bladder control ever since she became ill, though, which has persisted. OK, she leaks like a sieve. She simply doesn't seem to feel when her bladder is full, and will wake up sopping wet, and I do mean sopping.

So I decided to teach her to pee on command. When she would go out, I would say "go pee" and when she did, I'd give her a treat. Often, she would squeeze out a little unnecessary turd and expect a cookie, but no, I held firm. Only pee got treats. It took a long time, but after six months she pretty reliably peed on command, even though she didn't feel any urge. As long as I remembered to get her out in a timely fashion - every couple of hours - I didn't have to wash slip covers and bedding and her.

Yesterday when we went on our walk, Mama Pajama peed and I gave her a treat. It was a particularly good treat. We walked on, and Mama Pajama peed again. That was unusual. We walked another thirty feet and down she squatted. This concerned me. And she continued to strain to pee every ten to thirty paces throughout the walk. I called the vet.

"I think Mama Pajama has a bladder infection," I told them, hoping and praying that it wasn't something much more ominous. "Yes, I can have her there at 2:45 tomorrow. Thank you."

I expected to spend a long and sleepless night, taking Mama Pajama out repeatedly. Giacomino got cystitis once and he had to go out every half hour all night long; it was horrible. But I woke up a couple of times and peered in her crate to make sure she was still breathing, and she was, and she wondered why I was disturbing her rest. I let her out and collected her normal looking pee in the morning, and went about my business with Mama Pajama as happy as a clam. I started to wonder if... Nah.

Mama Pajama was thrilled to go for a ride in the van, but frankly disappointed with my choice of destinations. But she was happy to see her vet tech friend Robin, and polite, if a bit reserved, in greeting Ol' Poke 'n Stick himself. Doc, in contrast, was thrilled to see his little miracle, and went on and on about how great she looks. Before Doc came into the room, I admitted to Robin my silly theory that I might have created a peeing monster, but I said I thought that was pretty far fetched. Robin went out to test the urine I brought.

She came back in smiling. Mama Pajama was still spilling some protein in her urine, but she didn't have any infection. "So, do you think I've trained her to pee every ten feet?"

Robin said, "I think she enjoys you as her own personal Pez Dispenser!" I laughed at that. Robin always makes me laugh.

Doc pronounced her "Great, just great," and I celebrated.

And when we left the clinic, Mama Pajama didn't squat. But I gave her a special treat anyway.

Hug your hounds

Saturday

I got a comment on this post which made me happy. (All of your comments make me happy.) Here it is:

• May I say too that as Star's birthday gift to me, I received your terrific book.... I ordered it through Barnes and Noble so they know people are interested in it.
  I was worried that you are giving away too much on your entries. Not true! I am delighted to find the book is packed full of much more than can be imagined. I'm looking forward to hours of chuckles and tears. Thank you for tempting me into its purchase.
  Hugging my hound,Kathy (and Star the Wonder Dog)

Thank you for your kind words, Kathy! You made my day.

It is cold, for Western Kentucky. Too cold for walks on cement. So I loaded up Fat Charlie, Luciano, Delia, Sam I Am, Swede William, and Lindy Loo and we drove out to the Kennel Club property. I didn't take Very Old Dog, or Maria whose thirteenth birthday is in a few short weeks, or Mama Pajama; it was just too cold. We met our friend Heather (Baby Ben too, but he was sacked out in his toasty car seat with the engine running) and Lindy Loo's brother Emmett and his big adoptive brother, Edgar.

It is strange. The sun is southern strength in Western Kentucky, but the wind comes from Canada. Straight on down that wind blows. Quite frankly, we wish the Canadians would be a little less generous this time of year. We wish they would keep their stinkin' cold old wind. Heather and Edgar and Emmett were all ready out in the fenced area when we arrived, and Heather said, "Oh, P-p-p-patience, it's c-c-cold out here." Only it came out as, "Euh, P-p-p-puhshunse, uht's c-c-c-uhld ewt heeew" because her lips were sort of frozen in place and weren't all that functional. The dogs were running zoomies and hardly even noticed.

I mixed and matched combinations of dogs, so that no one would get their shorts in an uproar and a grand time was had. I had to take off Swede William's and Lindy Loo's coats; they were zipping around so fast, that soon their tongues were hanging out, even without their coats. Fat Charlie chased Sam I Am, who grabbed the squeak toy and played the part of the "bunny". Around and around in dizzying huge circles the two flew. Fat Charlie grinned in disbelief. Used to be the time when no way could Sammy run faster than Fat Charlie. But he did today.

The timing was perfect; as Luciano and Delia were winding down, another club member arrived to use the fenced area. I said, "Hi! My guys are just finishing their run. Your guys will love it!" Only by then, my lips had frozen, so it came out, "Heuy! Meuy geuys ur juhst funshung thuhr run. Yuhr geuys wul luhve ut!"

I moved the van to a spot where the wind was blocked by the Kennel Club building, but it was still smack in the sun. Everyone had gotten their coats back on before getting in. I took Sammy into the building for a little practice in agility. Woo hoo, he was stupendous! For the first time ever, he did the weave poles without looking at me for direction. He put his head down and weaved on his own. This might not sound earth-shattering, but boy oh is it for me! I emptied my pockets of every delectable and proffered them up to him. I took out my squeaky frog and tossed it for him to grab mid air and squeak and zoom. I fell on my knees and thanked All that is Good. I let Sammy zoom through some tunnels and jumps because they are his favorites, and then we went home.

It was while I was picking up the yard at home that I realized how fortunate we are here. OK, there are a bazillion reasons, like Heather, and the Kennel Club, and Betsy who donated the fencing and Dee and her nephew who put it up, and my husband who is the best person in the world. But when I was picking up poop, I noticed that the ground in my yard was frozen like a rock. The very front, where the sun shines all day was soft, but the rest of the yard was like concrete. That's when it dawned on me; the ground wasn't even frozen out at the club. If the ground had been frozen, the dogs could not have run without hurting themselves.

And tonight my Minnesota friend, Laurie, mentioned that it -6 there, going down to -15. Not wind chill, which will be -35, but actual temperature. Yikes. I bet their ground is frozen everywhere. I bet I better stop whining. I am so grateful that we could go and run.

The dogs slept all evening. They all had expansive dreams of running, which proved contagious to the three who stayed home. They knew perfectly well where the others had been, having thoroughly sniffed each returning runner. Maybe the smell of the field would spark their memories. I hoped they were getting tons of running in their dreaming brains. I hoped they were running through warm fields of sunshine.

hug your hounds

Speak!

(Taken from Mama Pajama Tells A Story)

Speak!

Giacomino was my “quiet one”. (Please note accurate, intentional use of past tense.) He is, and has always been the worried one of the bunch, as well. He will get more wrinkles in his forehead than a Shar-pei when things cause him concern.
When he was a little guy, he was SO serious. He was a rescue, and was starved and sick and infected everywhere. Even though he was so young, it took him forever to have fun. The rest of the dogs and I have therapeutic “howls” periodically, as needed. (My first dog of my own was a Siberian Husky who taught me well.) I love to see dogs throw their heads back and make perfect little O’s out of their lips and sing to their wolf-y ancestors. [Note: if, by some quirk of cruel fate, you’ve never tried this, please do. Howling like a wolf, with total abandon, is better than an entire year of psychotherapy, or two quarts of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. It is, however, best practiced in the hearing of only lifelong friends, or people who are so intricately bound to you that extricating themselves from the relationship would be both emotionally and financially costly.]
But I digress... During these howls, Giacomino would run from me to dog to dog, looking all worried and more wrinkled than a California Raisin. But he would not sing along - with Mitch, or anyone else. Now I was on a mission: Giacomino would speak.

Fast-forward past six months of training “speak”. One day he could resist no longer, and as the filet mignon dangled in my hand, and I commanded “Sssssss”, he said “arf”. Yay! GOOOOD DOG! Filet mignon all around! Then he said, “Arf”. Then “AARF”. Then “AAARRRFFF, AAARRRRFFFF! “ Then YEEEOOOOWWWWAAAARRRRAAAARRRFFFFEEEEOOOWW rah, rah, whrrrrrrrrr ah-wooo!
He has not shut up in the last twelve years.
So you may want to think twice about enjoying your mute dog. Train him to fetch, sit, come, play dead, anything, but speak.