No, No. Bad Dogs.

Two stories.

First, a delightful visit by some fellow dog bloggers.

The Barkalotz Boys, Just Harry and Jake, are great good blogging friends of the whippets, and I was eager to meet them and their humans in real life.

There was a problem. I've mentioned the whippets' extreme breedism on numerous occasions. We have had frequent whippet guests, and even an Italian Greyhound or two, and the whippets are quite gracious hosts. They share toys and wag tails and get along just fine. But Harry and Jake are Wire Fox Terriers.

(I hear the whippet owners among you dear readers gasping in horror!)

The whippets have a dog room just off our kitchen. They eat there (when they're not mooching from our guests) and they stay in crates there when we go out. (They sleep up in our bedroom; the dog room is just for short periods when we're not home.) They will also go in there if we have a large number of guests, (like an open house or a gallery show) and the front door and yard gates are going to be open, to avoid escapees. So they weren't surprised when I gave them biscuits in their crates: the table was set and the pasta sauce had been cooking all day.

Then our guests came in.

It was loud. It was not polite. It was ugly.

"Hairy Dogs!!! Sound the Hairy Dog ALARM!!!"

"Idiot Servant do you not see? There are Hairy Dogs in our HOUSE!!!"

I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that the tornado siren could not compare. And that can be heard for 50 miles.

The Wire Fox Terriers were charming, beautifully behaved little visitors. The whippets... well they did finally settle - and quiet - down.

Second story. I used to walk all of the whippets at once, back when we lived at the farm. We walked through crop fields on tractor roads. I frequently ended up on my butt or my belly, when we encountered deer, fox, groundhogs, squirrels, and bunnies. I only walk three at a time, here in the city. Being dragged into oncoming traffic wouldn't be prudent. And I don't want a whippet to get loose. I quickly learned that it was a Bad Idea to walk large groups of whippets in the city, even with extra walkers. Bill would go his way with two, I would go mine in batches.

The whippets behave remarkably well in groups of three. But get six whippets together, and there's a pack mentality. One seventeen year old boy can be charming. Three can be productive. Six are a mob, egging each other on. Like that.

I ignored my own Rule, and accepted Bill's invitation to walk together. It was a holiday. We were enjoying High Spirits.

I walked Very Old Dog and Mama Pajama around their one block, and when I got back, Bill had coats on the remaining six. Off we set, Fat Charlie, Luciano and Delia with Bill. Sam, Swede William and Lindy Loo with me.

It was a lovely walk! I admitted to having Ungrounded Fears. Clearly, the whippets were used to walking in the city now, and we could walk together.

We repeated the whole thing the next day. We were joined by two little Yorkies on their walk, no problem. Good Dogs! Treats all around! And then, just a half a block from home, disaster.

Our neighbor, Keyth, (of Nekked Neighbor fame) was struggling with a large piece of artwork ahead of us down the sidewalk. I called out to him, "Keyth, do you need some help?"

Apparently, this translated into dogspeak as, "Dogs, find something to attack!!!"

And at that very moment, Swede William spied a C.A.T.

It wasn't pretty, dear readers.

I tried. Six years of training dogs to ignore what a thousand years of selective breeding has programmed into their brains. In groups of three, I can say "Look!" and focus their attention on treats in my pocket and away from vermin. In groups of three.

Not, dear readers, not in groups of six.

In their defense, this was a particularly heinous C.A.T. An evil C.A.T. which delights in sauntering just outside the whippets' yard. Loitering just out of reach. Blowing raspberries at them with impunity and pooping in our corner garden, in plain sight.

And there he was. No fence to hide behind.

Down I went.

The whippets' motto is if you can't bite the one you want, bite the ones you're with. So Sammy bit Lindy, Looch bit Charlie, Delia bit Looch.

I said, "Ow."

And then I spewed a long string of Bad Words. Loudly.

Keyth called later to see if I was okay. He's a good neighbor.

We're going back to separate walks, no more than three at a time.

hug your hounds. Even the naughty ones who do what they were bred to do.

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

Drawing today!!!

Oh NO!!! Yesterday was supposed to be the reader appreciation give-away drawing. But, and this will surprise not one person who knows me - I forgot.

OH GOOD GRIEF!

Let's see. Here are my excuses, in no particular order:

1. Bill's been gone for a week and gets home tonight!!! Yipppeeeee!! I like to think of myself as a strong, independent woman hear me roar, but without Bill as a daily presence in my life I'm a bit untethered. OK, so I am more than a bit untethered to begin with. The fact is, that Bill is my life. He is my breath and my pulse, the essence of my me-ness. He makes me laugh and he makes me think and he makes me better.
2. I am doing a book reading today! Fifty-three people have signed up to hear me at the Library. I'm more than a little nervous. I wish I could take Sam I Am with me for courage and inspiration! If you, dear readers, could send mesmerizing, powerful, irresistible "Buy... her... book..." thoughts to the unsuspecting fifty-three in the audience, I would be most beholden to you! And while you are at it, you could send me a thought of "you can do it" and "ha ha ha you are just so entertaining ho ho he he he!" Oh Lordy, I am just going to stand up there and bore fifty-three people into a deep coma and they won't have enough ambulances to handle them all and we'll have to call in the National Guard and it will make the national news and forever I'll be known as the most boring human alive and I'll be in the Guinness book of records and we'll starve.
3. It got cold again. My brain, that itty bitty piece of it that is still rattling around in the hollow space in my head where the whole thing used to live, is frozen. (It's supposed to warm up today.)
4. Since Bill has been gone, there are many more dogs sleeping in my bed. They rob me of my oxygen and dig toenails into my eye sockets and emit noxious gasses which drug my brain into a forgetful state so that right after I give them biscuits, my gassed brain thinks, "Hey! I need to give the dogs their biscuits!"
5. Forgetfulness is a sign and symptom of pasta withdrawal. (So is the five pounds I've lost this week!)

Those are my excuses, and I'm sticking to them. I'll go print up all the entries and do the drawing and post results.

hug your inspirational hounds

Hormones and happiness

Lindy Loo is now at day eleven of her season. Meaning that from here on out, no, from last Sunday on out, there can be not a nanosecond of Swede William and Lindy Loo occupying the same air space without strong physical barriers separating them. Neither of them is particularly pleased with this turn of events, most of all Swede William. But they are both most gracious good sports. So far.





Here is how we manage. Downstairs, just off the kitchen is the dog room, with crates for when we go out of the house without dogs. In these special horny times, when we are downstairs for meals, either Lindy Loo Enticing Butt or Swede William Hornus Toadus is in a crate with a special chewie. They take turns. When we are upstairs working or writing, I have brought in a crate from the van and plunked it in the TV room. This view is from my computer chair.



They take turns in that crate as well, again always with a special delight. A peanut butter filled kong, for example. My dogs are crated only for short periods normally, so a peanut butter filled kong is an extreme delicacy. I feel a little sad, because Lindy Loo Who Must Now Be Denied and Swede William Who Would Like to Accommodate Her usually spend their mornings tearing around the yard and barking at hapless passersby (Lindy Loo, not William), and sunning on the papasan chairs on the porch and curling up and snuggling when they come in on the couches. They are the best of best of friends, and what must they think of my sudden reversal of their fortunes?



Hormones being what they are, Lindy Loo the Brazen Booty Bong Girl is shining all of her light on darling Very Old Dog. His Necessary Bits were donated to science years and years ago, but he still can sniff out a Chance of a Lifetime when it is flaunted before him, don't you worry about that! Recognising the opportunity is one thing; doing anything about it is quite another. Thankfully, aside from a long snuffle of Parfume de Youth and Heaven, the clever old boy doesn't try.

When everything becomes too much for Swede William Who is Being A Trooper So Far, he will get to go visit Lindy Loo's brother Emmett, and Edgar, and Heather and Baby Ben. This will be a Fun Adventure for him and we are so very grateful beyond words.

hugs your hounds, in a platonic, decidedly un-Swede William way, of course

Mr. Picasso Head was here!

The dogs are at a virtual Supper Bowl Party in Arizona, hosted jointly by their blog buddies Gussie and Teka, and Joe Stains and Tanner. I'm hearing that Lindy Loo was W.I.L.D. on the dance floor, and that the Very Old Dogs are soaking up the virtual sunshine and spa treatments.

With no poop to pick up and no walks to go on I had to find some way to fill my day. As you know, my husband is an artist, so I thought "How hard can that be?" I went to http://www.mrpicassohead.com/index.html and voila! Move over Bill, here I come!

Whippicasso

Whippet picasso head

(unsigned, but the provenence is conclusive)

Patience Picasso head

(Evidence that when I am separated from my dogs even in make believe land, I suffer mightily!)

Thanks to Aynex for the fun.

Even though you have a C-A-T.

For Dog Lovers Only

There are some things that only dog lovers can understand.

Now, that said, I do try to be socially acceptable, for the most part, in non doggy circles as well. I am a total NPR geek, listening during all my waking hours, which helps me to be marginally conversant with people who don't know a dew claw from a stop pad. And on the rare occasion when the television is on, it is usually turned to Antiques Road Show or Bill Moyers or American Masters on PBS. (Except I have this morbid fascination with the Biggest Loser, don't even ask me why, and I do like Law & Order and the Medium, so there's some hope for me.)

Yesterday, as the dear Very Old Dog hinted, Bill had surgery in Nashville. We left the house at 4:37 AM for the 8:00 AM surgery time. The dogs bounded downstairs at O-dark-thirty, in a high state of anticipation because usually an arising at such an hour spells a dog show or field trial and no one wants to be left home. Oh the sad faces when the realization struck that there would be no canine travellers!

Very Old Dog, I believe, could even get politicians and kings to behave with one of his looks of disappointment. (World Leader: "Send the Troops into harm's way to make me more powerful!" Very Old Dog, worry wrinkles in his dear brow: "I'm disappointed in you, World Leader. Perhaps you could work on a diplomatic solution and not make people die and lose their loved ones." World Leader, scratching Very Old Dog behind his ears: "Yes, well, um. Never mind. Let's schedule some peace talks.")

But much to the collective doggy delight, our dear friend and neighbor and wonderful canine artist Karen came to their rescue. And knowing I would be relieved to hear that all was well, she called me on my cell phone.

Want to get some attention in a crowded waiting room at a busy surgicenter of a major teaching hospital? Easy! Just have the following conversation:

Hi! Thanks so much for looking after the kids! I just hated leaving them alone so early. I bet they were happy to see you. Did they scream? What? Maria won't stop whining? Oh, she wants to be tucked in. Yes, there's an extra blanket there to cover her. Still? Did you cover her head? Yes, cover her whole body, head and all, so you can't even see her. She likes to feel like she's suffocating!

William and Lindy and Sammy can play outside for a while. No, don't worry about putting their coats on. [It was a record cold day.] I know, but if they want to stay warm, they can run! Oh and sometimes William pees on Lindy's head. Yup she is always putting her nose where it doesn't belong right at the wrong second. If you see yellow on her face could you wipe it off with a wet paper towel? I'm sorry to ask you to do that, but it gets really stinky if it stays on there.

No, you do NOT have to pick up! That was NOT part of the deal and I can do it when I get home. . No, don't worry about it! If William eats poop it won't be the first time and it won't be the last, just don't let him kiss you goodbye when you leave!

After profusely thanking my generous friend, I flipped my cell phone closed and looked up from my conversation to see every single horrified eye in the room fixed in abject revulsion on my face. Why do I have to give my dogs human names? Why could I not have been discussing "Spot" and "Fluffy"?

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I'll post a photo of dear Nurse Delia ministering to her manservant in just a bit. And here it is:

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hug your hounds, even the poop eaters

(Fortunately, Delia is not a poop eater!)

A Lovely Visit

It truly was a lovely visit.

I tend to get just a wee bit stressed before any overnight guests arrive. I'm not one of those Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, Martha Stewart, Home and Garden, Southern Living types. I would dearly love to be, and sometimes I try to fool myself into thinking that I am, but I am so not. If you had to correlate my housekeeping skills to a magazine, it would have to be Mad Magazine.

Amy and Bob were coming with our grandchildren, William and Abigail. Abigail is desperately allergic to dogs, but is such a good sport about it that I feel terrible. So I try to sterilize the house to lessen her symptoms. Floors, walls, slipcovers, window treatments, dogs - nothing escapes my crazed cleaning frenzy. But of course, if I do all that a week before they arrive, it's useless when there are nine dogs in the house. (It is really useless no matter what, but it makes me feel better, and the house needs cleaning anyway: there are nine dogs in the house.)

So Bill started on Sunday and Monday, tidying and cleaning out the junk drawers, while I finished up my orders and started laundering dog bedding. I bought two new dog beds for the kitchen/dining room, but didn't put them down yet. We bought new pillows for the guest rooms. Then on Tuesday, I went into Psycho Cleaning Woman mode. The dogs hate Psycho Cleaning Woman mode. First I dusted, vacuumed, and washed all the rooms which could be closed off from the beasties. Still doing load after load of dog blankets.

(You have to lie somewhere while the Crazy Woman washes the floor!)

On Wednesday, I bathed all nine dogs. I scrubbed them silly and even Very Old Dog was not exempt. It was rainy but warm outside in the morning. Substituting baths for walks was not a popular move. Then I began to sterilize the parts of the house which have unlimited doggy access. Bill came in to help and let Swede William and Lindy Loo out. Did I mention that it was warm and wet outside? I called them back in and re-bathed the little mudboggins, re-washed the floor where they had deposited their muddy footprints and mopped up the bucketful of dirt they sprayed the kitchen with when they shook. Then I went out in the yard with a shovel and did my best to fill in the three foot deep hole they had dug.

All the while, I was doing dog blanket laundering. I chucked the old dog beds and brought in the pretty new fresh ones. I noticed that the wind had really picked up and the temperature was dropping. I know I had heard the Emergency Alert going off on the radio every so often. Something about severe thunderstorms and hail. No time for that! I did notice that it wasn't north of us, so the travellers would be fine,

Mind you, I now have nine peeved dogs. Except dear Very Old Dog who is worried. I also do mega cleanings before leaving on a trip, and I know he was concerned about the possibility of a Dog Sitter in the near future. I took a moment to stroke his wrinkly brow. "I'm not going anywhere, Sweetheart. Lie down now and relax."

[Oh, yeah, Idiot Human! Just relax when you are firing up the Monsterous Evil Electrolux which has been known to suck up unsuspecting innocent sleeping whippets who have never been seen again. I think not.]

He stood, facing the vaccuum, one ear up all akimbo, worry wrinkles galore, pleading with me to stop the insanity. But I couldn't. So God did.

That pesky electrical storm knocked out the power. Want to see a post menopausal woman in full blown Psycho Cleaning Mode go crackers? Turn off her electricity. The vacuum went quiet (much to the relief and delight of a certain Very Old Dog). The washing machine, dryer, and dishwasher stopped. So did my heart. This was not good. I had already done all the dusting and counter top cleaning and things which didn't require electricity. I couldn't mop until I had vacuumed. I had more dog blankets to wash! Why, oh why were there so many infernal dog freaking blankets? Eight multiple-blanketed crates in the dog room, eight multiple-blanketed crates in our bedroom, blankets on every couch and chair in the house, blankets on the dog beds, we wouldn't want a whippet to suffer a chill, now would we?

I decided to let the dogs out, blocking their access to the mud pit formerly known as our yard, forcing them into the gravel potty area. Another most unpopular move. Humph they sighed, but their bladders were bursting. Then I went ahead and fed them which was met with unanimous canine approval. Early dinner - finally I had done something worthwhile.

OK, blah, blah, blah the power came back on and I mopped and polished and the whole house sparkled. (Except this little computer room, which can be closed off, and which was the repository for all the mess for which I couldn't find another place. There are now piles of stuff on every surface, and it is impossible to walk across the floor. Oh well.)

At nine o'clock I put the dogs to bed, and at 9:15 our guests arrived! Perfect timing. The dogs were so exhausted from watching my frenetic cleaning zoomies that they didn't make a peep from up in the bedroom. Oh how the kids had grown! They are our grandchildren, but I'm being completely objective when I say they are the most beautiful, charming, intelligent children ever born. We had a wonderful snack of prosciutto and Asiago cheese which Amy and Bob brought from Chicago, and bruschetta which Bill had prepared. Ah, heaven.

Abigail and William don't live with dogs. My dogs don't live with kids. Usually I keep them pretty well segregated, just to err on the side of safety. And then there's Luciano, who's special in his head because he didn't have quite enough oxygen during his birth. I kept him way separated. Except the time years ago during another visit when I came home from a walk with Amy, to find that Bill had thought I was being silly ("Oh, the dogs will be fine") and had let the dogs out loose with the kids, and five year old Abigail had backed Luciano into a corner, and Abigail was screaming with her hands waving in the air and Looch was backed as far as he could melt into the woodwork and every tooth in his head was showing. I have still not recovered from that and it was four years ago.

Abigail is a star!


But a miracle happened this visit. Nine year old Abigail and seven year old William were not seen as alien beings by the dogs. They were just little people! And Abigail had new prescription allergy medicine and wasn't sneezing, and William and his namesake Swede William became instant buddies. And we cooked together and we walked together and the neighborhood kids came over and it was just the best of visits ever.

Morning snuggle with William, Amy and Sam I Am

the two Williams

Bob and beautiful Abigail
I hope they can come for Christmas, too. The house will need another good cleaning by then anyway.

Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain

We need it desperately, we truly do.

I'm trying to be grateful.


I have nine dogs, bred for speed, who know I can turn lights on and off. Who are purely cognizant of the fact that I can make it warmer or cooler in the house. Nine dogs who expect more from me. Who sail down the stairs to go out first thing this morning, thinking nothing but lovely thoughts about me their Humble Servant, only to reach the edge of the breezeway and slam on their disappointed, highly disgusted brakes.


Tails helicopter to hasten the braking process. Imagine the sound of squealing tires. Toenails on concrete.


And then the heads turn my way.


"It is still raining."
"It is colder and wetter than ever."
"We are extremely disappointed in you."
"FIX THIS!"
"You want me to take my naked little self out into the cold wet stuff and poop? Are you daft?"
"I could melt! It's happened before, I've heard all about it."


Shake shiver droop slink. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

"Is it too much for a little whippet to ask for a little dryness and warmth in the morning? We notice that your potty area is plenty warm, and if you wouldn't go into the rain closet and make it rain on you on purpose it would be dry, as well. If you want to stand in a rain closet, good for you. We prefer our mornings dry, Stupid Human."
"Well, I am not going out there. Not not not. Oooph, well you don't have to push. Humans are so rude."


Of course all is immediately forgiven the instant the breakfast bowls are served. But now comes the walkies, and though each will wear a snugly waterproof coat, I will still have to endure their distaste.


I'm sorry dogs. Someday the sun will shine again. I promise.














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