Poop!

OH my ever-pooping goodness.

I tried a new dog food. Paid $60 for this premium bag of wild bison and elk or something which had no grain. The dogs ate it, but weren't entirely thrilled. In two weeks they got F.A.T. and I halved their portions. And their poops quadrupled, quintupled, multiplied exponentially.

I mentioned this to Bill one day. It was 110 with 200% humidity and I crawled in on my belly after having picked up the yard. "This new food makes too much poop," I panted, just before passing out from heat prostration.

Well, yesterday while I was at work, Bill picked up the yard. Then he drove to the dog food store and bought a 40 pound bag of the old dog food. The kind that produces little poops. He took the half-bag of mega poop food ($30 worth) and put it in the back corner of the pantry.

I love Bill.

Yesterday was a marathon at work. I left the house at 6:35 AM and got home at 8:30 PM. I live 20 blocks from the hospital, so the 'commute' is 5 minutes. The rest is work. It is so nice to come home to Bill and the dogs and the latex mattress topper. Oh how I looked forward to sleep. I had decided it would be a wonderful idea to have an anxiety attack at four in the morning before going to work. I haven't done that since the winter. Some chirping beeping noise from my computer plug in thingy woke me up and my brain went wacko.

You know, you wake up and your brain starts rapid firing bombardment of everything you've done wrong in your life since you were four and you scooped out a big chunk of your sister's birthday cake and ruined the whole party? It was all your fault and you should be ashamed of yourself. And the more you freak out about getting back to sleep because you are facing a Very Long Day, the more you can't fall asleep and then you remember the time...

So last night I was soooo looking forward to sleep. Only as I brushed my teeth and tucked the dogs in, I heard an unmistakable chirp. The dreaded smoke detector chirp. I said a Very Bad Word. Bill got the ladder (we have stinkin' 11 foot ceilings) and got the smoke detector down, setting off the whole house ear piercing alarms only twice - a new record! Oh thank you honey, I said.

Bill went to his study to read. Chirp.

It's still chirping, I said.

He took it into the guest room at the other end of the house. Chirp.

The room is still chirping, I said. Chirp.

We examined all of the possibilities. The attic? No way, there isn't any attic above our room. I, the Queen of Acrophobia, climbed the ladder to see if the bald wires were somehow chirping. No.

We listened. Chirp.

Ah! It seemed to be coming from the corner where Bill's out of season clothes were stored in Tupperware bins. We tore through every bin, every pants pocket. Chirp.

Nothing.

Chirp.

We went into his dresser drawers. Finally. Finally. Finally!!!! In the back of his junk drawer was an old smoke detector. Chirp.

Bill calmly removed the old battery from the thing. I really wanted to stomp it, hit it with a hammer, throw it through the bedroom window, smashing it to bits. I actually wanted to bite it.

Instead I climbed in bed. I had a little trouble falling to sleep because I was so enjoying the sounds of the dogs' quiet breathing, feeling the extraordinary comfort of lying down, my legs and feet and shoulders on fire, most of all the sweet nearness of Bill.

hug your hounds

I *should* have said...

ARRRGH!

I was asked to appear before the Mayor and the City Commissioners last night, to remind the good folks of Paducah about the dog ordinance already in place. I had it all thought out: I'd be ever so witty, and I'd touch on several points that are of vital importance to Paducah's dogs and dog owners.

But lordy it's hard in front of God and TV cameras and the American Flag to remember what you were going to say. Especially when I left my notes in the bag at my feet. Could I have just bent down and retrieved them? Apparently, that was too much for my addled brain to accomplish.

The ordinance says, among other things that at City sponsored events, dogs must be on a leash no longer than three feet, and they must be muzzled. Now before you all get your tails stuck in a fan, let me explain, since I served on the committee which drafted said ordinance. We're talking about downtown events, with thousands of people, food, and loud music. Local dogs aren't used to big crowds on city streets. Paducah hosts Downtown After Dinner a fantabulous program where every Saturday night from May through October, the streets are closed to car traffic and live entertainment is on every block. The streets and sidewalks are jammed with people.

Before the ordinance, a Bad Thing was happening. Some Irresponsible Dog Owners (boooooo, hisss, wrinkle nose and spit) were bringing sad dogs on heavy chains to Downtown After Dinner, with the sole purpose of intimidation. Yuck and poor dogs and I've already said boo hiss spit.

But a greyhound rescue group also came to advocate for the sweet greyhounds looking for homes. (YAY!! HOORAY!!! GOOD HUMANS!!!)

The ordinance committee didn't want to ban all dogs, so we made a compromise. Dogs would be muzzled and on short leads.

During last night's commission meeting, Commissioner Kaler asked if I would be willing to bring one of my dogs to Downtown After Dinner and talk to folks about the proper muzzles, etc. (People have been using groomer's muzzles which clamp the dogs' mouths shut. OH this is dangerous as the dog can't pant. The appropriate muzzle is a basket muzzle, pictured above.)

Now, Dear Readers, this is where I missed a wonderful opportunity. I should have answered, "Commissioner Kaler, thank you for the chance to make this point. I don't think Downtown After Dinner is a particularly fun thing for most dogs. They are on the pavement which is at least ten degrees hotter. They are surrounded by a claustrophobic ocean of humans. The bands are loud for us; imagine what it would feel like to ears that are exponentially more sensitive than ours. I personally feel that my dogs would be happier at home."

But no. I did not say that. I looked like a deer in headlights for a moment, and then my mouth said, "Yes. Yes I would." (Sam I Am is going to kill me.) Somewhere my brain was flashing "WRONG ANSWER" but I couldn't get the right answer to my mouth in time.

My mouth was busy saying other clever things. I had given each commissioner an unlit poop candle and a poop baggie. Commissioners Gault and Abraham gamely did on-camera demonstrations of proper poop bagging technique. I said, "I'm sure City Commissioners must become adept at dealing with poop on a regular basis. Not dog poop, but, you know Commissioner poop."

That didn't come out quite right!

hug your hounds

Preaching to the Choir about Poop

(this originally appeared on http://www.ilistpaducah.com/ - you should subscribe so you don't miss out!)

My favorite tee shirt. Available at the Market @ 315, or online from me!

Last week, the dogs gave us the scoop: if they're out in public, they're going to poop.

Back in the Middle Ages, there weren't all that many people, and even fewer dogs. A dog could find a private, out of the way field or forest and leave a deposit before rejoining his knight and carrying on with the business of hunting his stag. Or hoisting his petard or whatever. No harm, no foul.

Nowadays, people and dogs abound. Dogs love us, guard us, depend on us, help us heal, lead us, keep us company, make us laugh, and make sure we get enough exercise. And did I mention how perfectly they love us?

All we have to do in return is love them back.

And pick up after them.

I had a shocking conversation recently with a clever writer whom I admire. "I don't believe in picking up after my dogs," quoth the clever writer. "You know, nature's fertilizer, ecology, all that."

My ass.

You go to a friend's house for dinner. You realize the chili dog you had for lunch was a mistake. You excuse yourself to use the powder room. You flush. You don't leave it there because it's Nature.

NEWS FLASH: no one enjoys your dog's poops either! And there's that whole mysterious magnetic quality of dog poop. If there is a human foot within 300 yards of a virgin field with one little dog turd in it, that foot will land in that turd. There's a Law of Nature for you.

And another NEWS FLASH: folks in a neighborhood KNOW who's not picking up after their dogs.

So here's a cool/not cool list to use as an easy reference tool.

Cool: Always pick up after your dog. Always. If you walk in the dark, carry a flashlight. Some retractable leads have a light built into the handle.

Not cool: Throwing away your last baggy. (The dogs must then poop again, according to The Rules)

Cool: As soon as your dog assumes the position, whip out your baggie with a flourish, Oh yeah, you got it goin' on. And if the baggie is color coordinated with your outfit? Hot.

Not cool: Your dog is taking a dump and suddenly you must examine a fascinating freckle on your finger, or identify that bird on the wire. You la la la don't happen to notice the steaming pile and you 'innocently' walk on. People hate you. Dog people especially. Like a good kindergarten teacher hates a pedophile. You cast aspersions on us all.

Commissioner Gayle Kaler

Cool: You're a City Commissioner who is willing to address the Poop Problem. Rock on, Commissioner Kaler, I'm at your service!

Not cool: Forgetting which hand you are carrying the full baggie in, and waving with the wrong hand to passersby.Holding the poop bag in the same hand as your cell phone, water bottle, etc. That's just gross.

Cool: If you're worried about being green, you can recycle plastic shopping bags, or buy biodegradable pooh bags. Leaving brown all over town is NOT green.

Not cool: Thinking that since I pick up after all of my dogs, I wouldn't mind picking up after yours. What kind of crack are you smoking?

Paducah Mayor Bill Paxton flexes some political muscle for a clean city

Definitely cool: Respecting your city, your neighborhood and your neighbors by cleaning up after your dog.

I would never advocate bagging up your neighbor's dog poop and returning it to their yard. Or porch. Or getting fed up enough to hurl it in their open car window as they drive by.

But I have been known to run screaming across a park, waving a poop bag overhead, yelling "HEY! YOUR DOG JUST TOOK A DUMP. DO YOU NEED TO BORROW A BAGGIE?"

hug your sweet poopin' hounds

The Rules of Public Poopage

**

I have studied my dogs' behavior closely for oh these seven years that we've lived in the city.

I've noticed they have Rules of Public Poopage. The Rules are followed religiously, and are added to, or expanded when needed for wondrous effect.

I may be missing some, due to my human limitations, but here's what I've recorded so far:



1. Never waste a public poop. Plan wisely.

2. If your human speaks on the cell phone during your walk, poop. The human will enjoy holding a fresh bag of poop in the same hand as the phone, right up there by their face.

3. If you are walking with human and dog friends, save your poop. They won't be impressed. Keep your buttocks squeezed tight. Instead, you can sniff a spot, and when your dog friends sniff to see what you were sniffing you can pee, and oops there you go peeing right on your dog friend's head!

4. If you are joined on your walk by a non-dog-person, show them what they are missing by giving them a kiss, and then if they secretly wipe off your slobber, quick find a big cat pooh in some mulch and snarf it down. It's really fun to watch the non-dog-person change color when they realize they've been licked by the same mouth that eats cat pooh.

5. If your human has just picked up all the poop in your yard before your walk, then BY ALL MEANS do not poop on your walk. Save it for the moment you step back into your yard. Your human loves having a Purpose in Life.

6. If it is rainy out, and your human refuses to make it stop, you have every right to poop in the dining room. This is especially true if the human has been cooking all day, is upstairs taking a shower not paying attention to your needs, and thirty humans are about to arrive at your house for dinner. This actually calls for a 'walking poop'. Make it a little liquidy and spread it all over.


7. If your walk happens to take you Downtown, don't take advantage of the landscaped areas; the humans expect this. Surprise and delight them by pooping right in the middle of the sidewalk. In front of a restaurant or a fancy boutique is a nice touch. This must be a stealth poop. No warning sniffing or positioning, or they will try to move you. Just stop, hunch and let 'er rip!

8. A full school bus of middle school children is a Must Poop Opportunity. This even calls for Simulpoops. Every dog on the walk is required to produce. You won't believe the shrieks!

9. The Important Human Rule states that if you encounter a human big shot on your walk, you must show said human that your poop does smell, just like theirs or probably even more! This includes, but is not limited to, Mayors, Governors, City Commissioners, Movie or Television Stars, CEO's (especially CEO's), and People Who Think They Are Important For Any Reason. Exempt are artists and writers because they are poor and riddled with self-doubt and most of them are dog people anyway. If they are Uppity, then the exemption is null and void.

10. For a festive occasion, like a charity run, or a ribbon cutting, festive poop is called for. Ingestion of crayons, tin foil, antique pearl necklaces, and/or brightly colored vinyl dog toys will do fine. Use your imagination! Make that poop sparkle!

11. Always save a little poop. When the human throws away the poop bag, go again. They feel useless and empty without a putrid poop bag in hand.



** poop candle available for purchase, email us!

hug your wonderful hounds

Poopouflage

That's my word for poop-camouflage. It happens every year in the autumn. It's a little early this year, because we are parched. And we had that pesky little wind storm, when Ike met a cold front right over Paducah.

It's about time I wrote a poop story for this blog. This is the dog poop story headquarters after all.

The dogs and I get up around 6:00 to 6:30 in the morning. In the blessed summertime (my time of year, and the dogs agree) I let the dogs out first thing, and then I walk around with my pooper scooper and do the First Scooping. The early morning sunlight is at a steep angle, casting poop shadows long and far. Everything twinkles. while whippets tinkle in the sparkly 'shine, life is grand and I wave to my friend Carol as she drives by on her way to work. I tend to eat a significantly smaller breakfast after being up close and personal with the dog's last meal, digestified, and the morning chore is done before I'm fully awake.

Alas, now it is much too dark to dare de-poopage at such an early hour. So the dogs go out and do their dooty, come in and eat breakfast, and then we start our walkies routine. After two hours of walking in shifts of two and three per walk, now I have to scoop. This is more of a chore. I am awake. I have to pee. I am eaten alive by desperate blood thirsty it's now or never end of season mosquitoes. And then, the ultimate frustration: poopouflage.

There are two trees around these parts that I hadn't heard of back east. The Hackberry (also known as "widow maker" and the Piss Elm (pronounced 'peeis elum'). One or both of those trees drop leaves which look exactly like little whippet poohs. And in the morning, shiny with dew, to my old, tri-focalled eyes these leaves are indistinguishable.

For instance, is this poop?

No! It is a leaf, masquerading as such

How about this?

Or this?

Is it one of Luciano's famous poop sculptures? Looch has an amazing gift, an unsurpassed talent at vertical pooh towers.

No, if you click to enlarge, you will see that they are all leaves. Tricky duplicitous Hackberry or Piss Elm deciduosities. You would think that I would have learned my lesson, but I don't think so well in the morning. In fact, I don't have a single articulate thought until after eleven. (Do note the time of publication of this blog entry! That explains it. Remember I am on USA central time.) So you would think that by now I would have figured that it is not the best plan to nudge the leaf with my Kroc to make sure it is a leaf. It never is. It is a mushy pooh and now I am gagging and retching because even after 54 years of stepping in pooh, oft times barefoot, I still can't stand it.

That's probably news to my neighbors, but there it is. I am fanatic about cleaning the stuff up, but I do not like it. I gag. So to the few of you who persist in leaving YOUR DOG's pooh on our property? I spew on you!!!! Stop it!!! I have quite enough of my own dogs' fecal gifts to gag over.

Sorry. I digressed.

So there you have it. Poopouflage. I did end up getting myself one of these:

It is my new very favorite article of clothing. I wore it to the Critter K walk. I came home from that and washed it and dried it and ironed it. I have never ironed a tee shirt in my life. Not once. But I ironed my Walks With Poop shirt and paired it up with black linen slacks and jewelry and wore it to our Dinner Club dinner. And then I wore it to the Neighborhood Pot Luck Cook Out last night and to the movies to see Bottle Shock.

I like it more than either of my wedding dresses.

hug your hounds

Thoughtless Thursday - Random Ramblings

We had two days of hard rain. Yesterday I picked up the yard. For those of you with scant numbers of dogs, skipping two days of pooper scooping wouldn't sound bad. I normally scoop twice a day, or more. Missing two days when you have nine dogs is like missing eighteen days of scooping if you have one dog. There you go. And the rain added a delightful unscoopability to the whole process.

Good thing I really love dogs.

To my neighbors who think I need more scooping to do and let their dogs poop with impunity outside our fence and leave it there as a special treat for me:

Let me imagine your stupid, lazy, irresponsible, ignorant redneck, innocent thought process. "Oh," you think. "Patience picks up all that poop everyday, she must love it and I am doing her a favor by leaving her some extra. What a good, considerate neighbor I am."

Oh you are so wrong. I pick up enough damn poop and I don't want yours. I am setting up infra-red heat-seeking missiles motion activated video cameras to catch you in the act. I am taking the evidence two places. The video will go to the police where you will then be eligible for a fine up to $1000. Ha ha ha ha!!! Cool beans!!! And I'm taking the other evidence and I'm putting it in your mailbox. Without the benefit of a baggie! HA HA HA HA HA HA I LOVE IT!!!! OH YEAH!!!!

I left Sammy in the bedroom this morning. We go downstairs in the morning in two groups, to avoid bottle necks and mayhem and trampling of Very Old Dogs. Sam I Am is in the second group. I had let everyone out to do their business and was putting down the breakfast bowls. No Sammy. "Where's Sam? Oh criminy, did I forget to open his crate?" Saint Bill ran upstairs, and soon I heard Sam I Am galloping down the hall above my head. I had opened his crate, but he was dawdling apparently and I closed the bedroom door before he exited. I doubt that he'll dawdle tomorrow.

We surprised Aynex (pronounced Eye Necks, you'll remember) on her way to the airport yesterday. Her neighbors gathered on her way out of Lowertown to wave goodbye.

(I had to edit the sign since this is a family friendly blog.)

Charter members of the Aynex fan club (Don't they just look like artistes!)

Pilates interruptus. (The construction workers driving by during the down dogs were highly appreciative!)

We made her laugh and cry.

Oh how we will miss her.

Thank you to all who have ordered from my website! I'll post photos of happy customers on the website and here as they arrive. Thanks to Aynex's last minute tutelage, I've made some minor changes to the web pages!!! Aynex said it all when she was talking to a friend on her cell phone. "It's going quicker than I thought it would," she said. (Translation: "Patience is not the GIANT IDIOT I thought she was.") It's quite gratifying, but I am still way out of my element. I would like to get a new page up for special sales, but we didn't get to the new page part... Plus I have LOTS of non-collar goodies for all kinds of dogs from my gift store, A Dog In the Garden, to upload. We'll see what I can figure out.

hug your hounds

Fun Monday # 10

Our host for this week's Fun Monday is a Southern Doll

Here is what she wants to know:

• What have you done in your life that was worth doing? I want to know the moments in your life that you hope will be the ones to pass through your mind when your time comes. I hope that doesn't sound too morbid. This doesn't necessarily have to be items you have checked off your Bucket List, it can be those small moments that made you smile, or the time you got that huge promotion you deserved, or the first time your baby smiled at you out of pure joy. I want to know all the moments, big and small, that make life sweet! If you don't already have a running list of these in your mind, you should! These moments help you remember how much your life is worth living, and we all deserve to enjoy it.
  

Oh, ugh. I don't mean ugh to the idea or assignment. Just, oh, ugh.

I used to ride horses. I used to live and breathe horses. The moment that the first foal that was born into my excited, frightened, incredulous arms will be with me always. I named her Naughty Marietta for my mom, who had died years before. (And for Gilbert and Sullivan, of course.) Actually, thinking about it now, I realize that I can close my eyes and bring back the birth of every foal. The smell of the deep nights after the nervous, exhausted, repeated walk out to the barn alone. Every two hours for a week or more. And sometimes I would wrap up in a cooler - a type of thick wool horse blanket - and sleep the rest of the night in the stall. The sounds, the same in every stable in the world, and the heart scents, and the expectant peace. I will take that all with me. I had some fun wins in competition, but when I remember what I loved, it's those quiet times in the barns.

[Stay with me.]

What I value most in my life are the friendships. My most intimate friendship is with Bill. That he values me, knowing all he knows about my shortcomings, doesn't make a lick of sense to me, but he does and oh Lordy am I lucky! I invest a great deal in my friendships. My adult son is a terrific friend. I've enjoyed the transformation of the parental role into less of a see-saw relationship. When I had to move away from my friends - Bill's daughters, Jake's old ponies, and the women who were closer to me than siblings - I floundered. See? Now this is already getting all maudlin; I knew it would.

Ugh.

OK. What I'm really proud of is the mastery I've accomplished at the wielding of the pooper scooper. This was not always so. Until Jim and Sue visited in the fall of '06, I owned no such instrument. I picked up my yard via the Baggie Method. Jim said this would not do, and trundled me down to the pet supply store and found me just the right rake and scoop. And two white five gallon buckets with lids. And I was set. Only for months I flicked poop everywhere but in the scoop. "It's all in the wrist," Jim tutored. I watched him deftly flick a turd, plink, right in the dead center of the scoop. I watched me flick one over the scoop and bonk down my pants leg. And they would get stuck between the tines of the rake. It would take me six, seven, ten flicks per poop, and there I'd be, in my city yard, in my red flannel paws and bones print jammies for all the world and folks driving to work to see, flicking turds here, there and everywhere but the damned thing at which I uselessly aimed.

No more, dear readers, no more! I now can execute ca-ca cleanup with my eyes closed. I've added flourishes for fun. I twirl around my scoop, clicking my heels, a Gene Kelly, singing in the shit and sometimes in the rain, too! Then I use my rake as a jaunty Three Musketeers type of sword. (Why did the Three Musketeers have sword fights, anyway? Shouldn't they have had musket fights?) Take that, poo poo! Into the scooper with you! "What a glorious feeling, I'm happy as spit!"

In one smooth motion, I do an overhead double back spin, catching the crap with the scoop behind my back, and wave to the stupified Trolley driver with the rake as he pulls away from the stop at our corner. Then, wanting to top that for the Mail Lady, I do a flying camel followed by a triple toe loop and plop goes the poop in the scooper. I scoop in evening gowns, just because I can. When I smile as I scoop, a sparkle flies off my tooth, like in a cartoon, and you hear a little "ding!" People come from miles around, to marvel at the poop free yard which houses nine whippet feces factories. Occasionally, I fly out of the back door, crying "Hi Ho, Scooper, away!" and zoom the poop is scooped, and bewildered passersby cry, "Who was that masked dooer of good deeds?"

I am the Queen of Poo.

Top that.

(See if anyone did at Southern Doll's blog.)

hug your hounds

Oh, DEAR!

I was so excited to be asked to write a story for our local most wonderful community events website. It is a wonderful wonderful wonderful site, the brainchild of two great gals who send out a weekly email directing everyone to the site to see what is going on in Western Kentucky, attracting folks from all over the region, including eastern Missouri, southern Illinois and Indiana, and western Tennessee. They have over 4000 subscribers and even more viewers. So I was beyond thrilled to get the chance to educate folks on the bad idea of puppies as Christmas presents, and the horrors of puppy mills.

In this endeavor, I asked you, dear readers, to supply me with photographic documentation of doggy disasters, and you, dear readers came through! I had chosen this shot ("Welcome Home!") for the feature image, as I'm sure you'll agree it is just wonderful:



And here are the rest of the "winners":


(Such helpful dogs to charm us with their collective creativity.)


Imagine my dismay when I jumped on my computer this morning, full of such excitement I could hardly stand myself, only to find my nightmare come to life. Instead of my photo of canine catastrophe, there, big as life was a photo of a darling little maltipoo, sitting vacantly under a Christmas tree, sporting a Santa hat and coat.

The very, exact image I was striving to erase from the puppy-buying public's consciousness.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

My eyeballs flew out of their bloody sockets and landed on my keyboard. My heart just stopped beating entirely, exploded out of my chest, and plopped into my oatmeal with a thud. Great chunks of my hair fell out in my fists. I fainted. I wailed. I imagined iList readers, clicking on the headline, seeing the maltipoo and thinking, "Oh yeah! Great idea! I can get the kids a puppy for Christmas! Maybe I can find one on the Internet."

AAAARRRRGHHHHHH!!!!!

I had to do something.

Did I mention that the iList owners/creators are just the most wonderful, smart, kind, fantastic saints on the whole of the Earth? I fired off an email thanking them for running the story and begging them to please, please, please change that image! And within seconds, not only was the Christmas tree puppy gone, it was indeed replaced by the Definition of Doggy Destruction. And they even took down the adorable photo of the doodle puppies they had put at the end of the article.

Saints, they are absolute Saints, I tell you.

Oh, if you want to read the article, it is HERE. I am going to walk my dogs in the rain and pick up poop.

The Christmas Party

The folks who do agility in my Kennel Club get together for some holiday cheer, and since this was my first year ever to enter an agility trial, they kindly invited me.

We met at a restaurant just down the street from my house, The Pork Peddler. It is a very popular “home-style” type of eatery with a huge buffet of southern delectables. I had skipped lunch in eager anticipation.

I should never be allowed at an “all you can eat” buffet. I have no restraint. Oh, I eat the salad to be healthy. The salad with the huge chunks of real, sugar cured bacon, and the thick goopy salad dressing, and a little lettuce. Then there was the southern food: “cooked down” green beans (more bacon, or ham hocks or something yummy), buttermilk biscuits, corn (sweetened and buttered) collard greens and more bacon and lard for flavor, mashed potatoes with home style gravy, deep fried okra, ham, turkey, dressing, barbequed pork and ribs. And then seconds because I hadn’t noticed the corn on the first round and I needed more cranberry for my turkey and then I needed more turkey and dressing for the cranberry. And then, while I was on a roll: dessert. Bread pudding with thick vanilla sauce, coconut cream pie, pecan pie, cherry cobbler and some other stuff that I can’t remember because I was in a sugar and fat induced ketoacidotic stupor.

Then we loaded up and headed to club member Cathy’s house for more merriment and a gift exchange. They play “Dirty Santa” which isn’t what it sounds like – no thongs for Mrs. Claus, much to my prudish relief. Everyone who wants to play brings a wrapped gift, and then each gift giver picks a number out of a hat. The picker of number one picks a gift and opens it. Number two may either steal number one’s gift, or open another one. If number seven steals number two’s gift, then number two can steal anyone else’s or open a new one. It’s really fun!

There was one problem. I got this party confused with another party, and I thought we were supposed to bring gag gifts. Now, dear readers, I ask you to put yourself in my unenviable place for a moment. I’m the only new face at the party. I have eaten approximately four pounds, six ounces more fat-and-sugar-laden food than my stomach could hold in my wildest dreams. People are opening artfully gift-wrapped presents and they are plush dog beds, luscious blankets, and gorgeous leashes with agility motifs. The gag present I brought, wrapped in black tissue paper, is still under the tree. My stomach started to churn.

It was my turn. Beginner’s luck, I had drawn a high number, third from last. I had little beads of sweat forming on my upper lip, though I was chilled to the bone. Cold sweat. What to do? I couldn’t think. My stomach was making alarming acrobatic tumbles. My dufus present was still under the tree. Maybe it would never be opened and no one would ever know. I wanted to be part of the gang, to play along, oh my God my gut, I can’t think. In a panic, I did what the last three players had done; I stole the biggest, most cushy dog bed. Well, it did match my dining room décor perfectly. The moment I sat back down, I realized my mistake. I should have picked my own lame present and refused to open it. Oh rats and rats, why hadn’t I thought of that in time?

The last person just happened to be a very kind person who has been so supportive and helpful to me. Please, oh please take this cushy dog bed from me! Please don’t take my lame-o gag gift from under the tree. The last gift to choose, thus ending the game and leaving you, kind person who has helped me so much, with my lame-o stink-o gag gift. Oh my stomach!

But this is a kind, polite, earnest person. She would not steal someone else’s lovely gift. No, with a trusting, sweet smile, she takes my gift from under the tree. I wanted to crawl under my beautifully upholstered antique Queen Ann’s chair and hurl barbeque and bread pudding all over myself. Instead, I blurted out, “I was confused! I thought we were supposed to bring gag gifts!” and then, I started to laugh hysterically.

This person is so nice, so dear, that after she opened the candle which looks just like life sized dog poo, she said, “Oh!” and then when she opened the calendar which has full color images of dog poo on every page, she said, “Well, I need a calendar! Oh my. Dog poop? Oh my!”

I gave her back the gorgeous chenille throw which I had dirtily stolen from her (I left that part out, too shamed to include it). My dear, kind friends returned the plush bed which they had stolen from me and took the poop candle and calendar, presumably for the Kennel Club Christmas Party Fund Raising Auction tomorrow night.

I will be bidding on the poo items at the auction. If I have to donate my whole Christmas budget to the good of the Kennel Club, I will do that. But that dog poop calendar and that dog poop candle is coming home with me.

The Magical Art of Pooper Scooping

Bunny Slippers, while amusing to bored dogs, are not proper poop-scooping attire

I am the self-ordained High Priestess of the Pooper Scooper. That's a fact. If this is your first visit, you do need to know that I have nine dogs and I live in a big old house on a small corner city lot. I am the Goddess of the Poop. Poop is my life. I am all about Poop.

And with nine dogs, it is indeed Poop. Not poop.

I was not always so talented. The fine art of Poopy Pickup is a learned skill. I am nothing if not generous, so I will share everything I have learned over the years with you, my Dear Readers.

There are two basic methods of Ca ca Compilation:

1. The Bag and Shag It, and
2. The Poop, Scoop, and Bucket.

I subscribed solely to the Baggy Method for years. This has its benefits, as each collection is self contained. If the bag du jour is a Ziplock sandwich bag, there is a markedly diminished cumulative olfactory effect. During the bagging process I would assiduously remove all blades of grass that had been in contact with every turd, thus ensuring a totally poop-free yard. Unfortunately, it also eventually ensures a totally grass-free yard owing to the diminutive dimensions of the yard and the generous proportions of the poop.

And it's not so ecologically responsible. I have graduated to using a corn-based, biodegradable, vanilla scented baggy. I don't know which genius thought that adding vanilla would improve the smell of dog poop. It doesn't. It does have the unexpected benefit of being a diet aid: I haven't had vanilla ice cream in months. No sirree, not going there.

Another drawback to baggies. We had to summon a local law enforcement officer once to investigate an act of vandalism. As he was interviewing us, he spied a collection of Ziploc baggies in the flower bed. "Were those there before you were vandalised? Do you know about them? What are they? Exactly what do they contain?" He was quite excited with the notion that someone had planted a stash of something highly illegal in our day lilies. He was quite mortified when he learned the truth.

I use the Bag It and Shag It method exclusively for Nonresident Poopage now. The yard is patrolled with the Poop, Scoop, and Bucket method. I can thank Lindy Loo's granddaddyhuman for that. Jim and Sue came for a visit, and Jim watched me bending down bagging poop after poop, along with the few brave surviving blades of grass, and he grabbed me mid swipe and he and Sue drove me to the pet supply store and bought me a deluxe Scooper Set. Rake and flat scooper receiver device with sporty matching yellow handles. State of the Scooping Art.

"You were going to ruin your back with all that bending," kind Jim said. Deftly demonstrating the New Apparatus he said, "It's all in the wrist; you'll get the hang of it in no time."

I have no hand/eye coordination, Dear Readers. I cannot catch a baseball, and I have a very crooked, thrice broken finger to prove it. Do not ask me to hit a tennis ball with a tennis racket. (And duck if you do!) I eyed my New Implements with serious concern. How hard could it be? Into my brain flashed the image of x-pens set up outside of RV's at dog shows, with people leaning over, still in their jammies, deftly flicking turds into the scoop with the rake, all with a cigarette dangling from their lips, while simultaneously discussing the new best food supplement. Surely I could manage without all of that going on.

It took six flicks to get the first turd in the scoop. It flew over the scoop and rolled down my leg. It got stuck between the tines of the rake. It remained exactly where it originally sat. Twice. And then Bazooka! Scoooooore! I did a celebratory dance, which of course caused the poop to fly out of the scoop and I started all over again.

Practice does make perfect, and now, twelve months and three weeks later, I average only four flicks per poop. This would be less if I would dump the scoop into the bucket after every third or fourth turd. But I like the challenge of how many dumpers will stay on the scoop, and so we get many roller-offers. Little turdy avalanches. The grass has regrown, and I can't imagine going back to the old days.

Doo Doo Duty Do's and Dont's

Do wear proper footwear when scooping. Bunny slippers are NOT proper. They can provide much entertainment for bored dogs, but they will not do for poop patrole. Old worn out Krocs or any shoe without treads in the soul is appropriate. Mushed poo in shoe treads is just gross.

Do always carry baggies in your pocket when Out with Dogs.

Don't ever, ever, ever toss your last baggie when you are Out with Dogs. It doesn't matter if your dog has pooped 1000 times. The minute you toss that last bag, the dog will assume the position and produce. And the Animal Control Officer will happen by and write a citation.

Do carry extra baggies so that when you see a Ca Ca Criminal leaving the scene of a crime you can run down the block, frantically waving your extra baggie over your head, screaming, "Here! Here! Do you need a baggie? Or are you a bigger example of what your dog just deposited and you plan to leave it for the kids to play in and tourists to step in?"

Do scoop with panache. If you have to do it, do it with style!

Do not wave to passers by with the hand holding the full baggies. This is tacky. Same goes for gesticulating, and covering your mouth when you cough. Doing so with a full baggie can be off-putting even to a dog lover.

Well, Dear Readers, I hoped these little hints have helped. It's time for me to go... guess what!

*********************************************************

Oh I did forget something important! If you have a five year old neighbor, you can build just the best rapport with him while scooping. Five year olds love, love, love the word poop. Usually they are chastised for using the word in public. But my little neighbor would say to me, "Hi Miss Patience. Watcha doing?" "Hi Gavon! I'm Scooping Poop." [giggle] "Poop?" "Yup. I'm scooping Poop!" "Lots of Poop?" "Enormous amounts of Poop." "There's a Poop!" "Thanks, buddy, I would have missed that one."

A five year old boy's dream come true!

smiles-

Patience

When Nine Are Too Many

I am getting used to the reaction I get when I tell people that I have nine dogs.

"Nine dogs!" Followed by awkward sideways glances. Like I had just divulged the fact that, oh, I don't know, I had a summer home on Mars. Or that I was recently diagnosed with a flesh eating super bacteria. That I had a $5000 a day heroin habit which I supported by ... well, I guess you understand what I'm saying. I don't have any of those things. I just have nine dogs.

The reaction comes from dog-o-phobes, and surprisingly it also comes from some happy dog homes. The dog-o-phobes say "Peeooooweeee, are they outside dogs?" I say no, they live in the house and all sleep in our bedroom. "Oh, PEEEOOOOWEEEE! How very germy and nasty of you!" Well they don't say it so much as step back and wrinkle their noses and roll their eyes. This reaction makes me feel sad for them. I know that they are never greeted when they get home from the grocery store like there is no better human being in the Universe. I know that they never get to lower their finished dinner plate to a wagging happybody who is glad, no, ecstatic, to be offered their leftovers. They have no one who depends on them for everything, and is thrilled with everything they get. No warm heartbeat next to them with silky ears to absentmindedly finger, or those eyes which smooth away the most stubborn of life's wrinkles.

I feel bad for those people.

I do not like when I get the sideways glances from people who have one or two treasured dogs. "Oh," they say. "Do you have a kennel or something?" ("Are you a puppy mill? A for profit back yard breeder? A show person who feeds her own ego off her dogs' wins, and needs more, more, more?") I say no, they live in the house and all sleep in our bedroom. The worried people warm up a little, but remain skeptical. "Oh. How do you love nine dogs?" How do I? Are nine too many?

When it is raining and I have to pick up the yard? Nah, it takes me about fifteen minutes, tops, a couple of times a day. The idea of having to trudge out and scoop on a chilly November rainy morning is not so special, but then I come back in to nine shining faces, wagging for their breakfast, and it turns out it really wasn't so bad.

When I get the vet bill? It is vital, whether you have one dog or you have nine dogs, that you have a vet whom you respect, and whom you trust unreservedly. I see my vet nine times more often than my friend who has one dog. Nine times more routine visits and heartworm medicine, nine times more emergencies. Nine times the bills. But every time I see my vet, I thank my lucky stars. For the vet - "Ol' Poke & Stick" the dogs call him, for the two other vets in the practice, and for the entire delightful staff. Nope, I always feel fortunate when we've been to the vet.

Are nine too many when it's time to do teeth and nails? No, but this old house is too big and Delia and Mama Pajama can play hide and seek way too well. At least they hide well. I swear, I can just think about getting the dremel to do toenails, and there goes Delia slinking up the stairs, or out the door if it's nice outside and the door is open. Silly Luciano begs to be next. And if I'm bathing every dog, Looch will rub and rub himself on the beds when another dog is done with a bath. Luciano won't have a drop of water on him, but he is drying himself for all he's worth! Mama Pajama loves the taste of the doggy toothpaste, but hates the toothbrush, so she butts in line and then bites down on the brush and stares innocently at me: "What?" Nope, these chores are fun.

Are nine dogs too many for me to love? I think that every dog in our house feels spoiled and special. I believe that I was created to enjoy animals; clearly I was that way from the earliest time I was becoming me. I've always understood them, and admired them. (When I was four, I stood outside with birdseed in my hand in the freezing, deep snow Massachusetts cold. I stood there from lunch time until nearly dusk, until a chickadee finally ate from my hand. No wonder I now hate the cold.) And I am blessed with a husband who shares my love of innocent souls, and openly accepts who I am. Encourages me. Helps. I must have been really good in a former life. Or he must have been horrible.

I know my limits, surprising as that sounds coming from a woman with nine dogs. And I know that nine is my limit. I know I can tuck nine dogs in at night. I know that I can walk all nine every day. I know that I can take care of nine, play with nine, cuddle all nine. I can feed them and train them and take them to the country to run.

I know that I love each one. And that for me, nine is not too many.

Some Days...

I woke to the sound of gentle rain.

This is a good thing, as our region is as dry as your Great Aunt Martha's fruitcake three bites after your last swallow of milk. Dry as the devil's laugh. Dry as dust. We need this slow, soaking rain.

This is a bad thing because the nine dogs believe that during times of slow, soaking rain, the Human Servant is responsible for providing (a) entertainment in an indoor venue, (b) two miles of dry outdoor area for walks, and (c) indoor bathroom facilities for Canine Americans. They swear it's in their contracts.

I take them downstairs from our bedroom in three shifts. (Trust me, otherwise it is a Great Whippet Race and the kitchen door becomes the starting gate/bottleneck/fighting pit, and I start swearing and when I do get the door open, at least three sets of accelerating Whippet toenails launch from the tender tops of my feet, and I screech obscenities while howling in pain, and right then my sweet neighbors are coming down from their second floor apartment with their first grader and pre-schooler, not fifteen feet from where I'm standing, and the first grader asks, "Daddy what does [insert that really bad word that I just shouted] mean?" and the pre-schooler practices the word outloud to herself all the way to the car.)

So I get the last shift of dogs downstairs, only to see all nine of them huddled up on the breezeway by the edge of the steps to their potty yard.

"Go out in the rain to poop? I think not!"

"It's raining. On us!"

"There is definitely a clause in the contract against this."

"Bad Servant. Awful Servant."

Fanny by fanny I push the disgusted dogs out in the drizzle to do their business.



Later, after dogs and humans break their fast, and I get enough coffee in me to pry one eye open, I decide to walk, rain or no. Bill gamely took his two regulars, sporting a large black plastic poncho which came in its own little pouch from the dollar store for ninety-nine cents and makes him look like a cross between Antonio Banderas and Grampa Smurf. I walk Giacomino and Maria around their one block and they are pretty darn good sports. They poop immediately as they had been holding out for the walk. If they have to "go" in the rain, there better damn well be a walk attached.

Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie are next, and the drizzle has devolved into a mild spit. I notice that all the critters and vermin - squirrels, evil cats bane of the earth, and loose dogs - have yet to emerge and our walk is down right pleasant.



The last walk is five year old Sam I Am and the two yearlings, William and Lindy Loo. The rain has for all intents and purposes stopped and the dogs are in high spirits. We walk the fifty feet from the side gate to my corner garden and all heck breaks loose. There is a cat in the garden. What sort of Darwinian flunky cat thinks my garden is a cool place to hang? Nine dogs bred to chase, catch, and kill small furry things live here, duh head!



Tra la the cat runs off down the sidewalk. Tra la the cortisone injections I got in both shoulders on Thursday are now a total waste of time and money. Actually, the dogs were really pretty good, after they got over their initial instinctual urge to chase. Sam and Lindy Loo turned to get their treats because they didn't bark (good dogs) and William thought about it for a moment, and decided it was more fun to bark. I tried to get my shoulders back in their sockets in order to render my hands useful enough to dig the treats out of my pocket. Oh, rats, I noticed I was swearing out loud. And then I see my brand new across the street neighbor on her porch.



"I hate loose cats, " I explain. "What a horrible way to start my walk." (In all fairness, my shoulders were still screaming in pain.)

"Oh, I hope it wasn't my cat."

(Wonderful. I forgot this neighbor has a cat or two that go outside. Now I've offended.) The dogs recognise the perfect opportunity to fulfill the bad-poop-timing contract clause, and all assume their individual but collective positions. I whip out my baggies, only to see two monsterous poops that some irresponsible citizen with two Very Large Dogs has left right next to my dogs' little gifts. So now I have to pick up after my three, plus the Creep who didn't's. I have sandwich sized baggies, not gallon. Yuck. But if I leave the Monster Piles, my newly offended neighbor will naturally think that it came from my dogs.



Who lets their dog dump and just walks away? It is exactly the same as if you pull your pants down and poop on your neighbor's yard and leave. And people do it next to church sidewalks! You can't change your shoes once you're in church. Some sermons can be long enough, but add the smell of dog poop.... glory be. It is so bad here that it was discussed in the last City Commissioners Meeting. There can be a $10 to $1000 fine for not cleaning up. I'm going to look into the cost of supplying the neighborhood with motion activated infra-red video recording devices. We should be able to pay for them with the fines levied. I think I'll bring it up at the next Commissioners meeting.

I will never have a blog.

Never. Why would I give away my writing for free? Of course I give it away in the local NPR commentaries that I write and record for the awesome WKMS. And I have given it away on the dog lists and groups for years on a daily basis. And I post stories on my store's website. (In fairness, it has been a couple of years since I put a new story there.) But blog? No way. No sirreee. It is so cliche' right now. Everyone has a blog. Blog, blog, blog: it's the new blah, blah, blah.

Mary says, "You really need to have a blog." Nah, not me. Jeannie asks, "Why don't you have a blog?" I'm so above blogging. Rhonda gently nudges, "Have you considered a blog?" I have, and I've soundly rejected the notion. Then husband Bill creates a blog. Well, that makes sense; he's kept a journal for years, and he is wise and quietly spiritual and funny. But I've never kept a diary for more than a hopeful week of Pollyanna enthusiasm, and I'm drowning in the middle of a novel. (Writing one, not reading one.) And besides, who do I think I am?

So stepdaughter Amy calls this morning. Seems there's an article in the Chicago papers about a new blog that created so much buzz that literary agents are knocking down the blogger's door. Literary agents? Oh I had heard about bloggers being discovered, but Amy made this sound so possible. She said wonderful flattering things about my writing, and when she heard my standard arguments, she smilingly ignored them all. I could hear the tone in her sweet voice, which subtly screamed, "Get with the program! Hellooooo? Just how stuck in the last decade are you?" I still don't get it because I don't see how people find blogs. I spent the whole morning, OK, an hour, OK, at least 3 minutes doing a search for "dog blog" and I got a whole bunch of nothing.

But I trust my friends and relations, so Mary, Jeannie, Rhonda, and Amy - this blog's for you.

Who cares???

I live in western Kentucky in an Arts Community with my husband and my nine dogs. Whippets. They look like small greyhounds, but aren't the tiny Italian Greyhounds. My husband is. Italian, I mean. We didn't always live here, but have since June of 2002. My husband moved to this town, Paducah, for the Artist Relocation Program. I moved here because I love my husband. He is a gifted artist. I am enormously talented and extremely well versed at picking up dog poop.

Today, when I was walking the dogs, which I do in shifts, the workers were already on the neighbors' house putting on a new roof. I take the two oldest dogs, thirteen and a half year old Giacomino and twelve and a half year old Maria only around one block because more than that would do them in. It's only seven-something and as I'm waving my pathetic good mornings to the roofers who just think I'm weird because they've seen me walking all these skinny dogs for hours every morning, I see Giacomino start to hunch.

Oh please don't poop right here. Why do the dogs choose to poop when I would least like them to? The rough hewn shirtless roofers are finally starting to offer half-hearted, begrudging waves back at me. And now Giacomino is going to poop right here and the roofers will be grossed out, and I don't know why but I care. The bad poop timing never fails. The dogs can be all de-pooped, but let the president of the bank be walking on the same sidewalk and have him stop to offer pleasant salutations and at least dog one will get a sudden urge to purge. And when the Mayor and his beautiful wife drive by, and stop to chat - that guarantees multiple simultaneous poopage. That's a conversation killer, you betcha. Three pooping canines and my whipping out baggies to scoop it up and carry it along? Yup, any non-dog-owner is out of there.

So I gently drag and cajole the evacuating Giacomino behind the next parked car, and we make it in time. Maybe it's going to be a good day. Maybe it's a good sign for my infant blog, I don't know, but we didn't gross out the roofers.

So. Now. Wasn't I right? Who wants to read a blog about dog poop? I suppose I might post some exerpts from my novel from time to time if there's any interest. Here's a paragraph:

She was lying in the sun next to her litter-brother Proper. They were lying in the grass next to the picket fence. Kind of a cliché that picket fence, but they couldn’t help it. And anyway, it fit. This was home – safe, comfortable, familiar. Everything a picket fence stood for. Home. The Woman was talking to someone over the fence. Their voices made a buzz that harmonized nicely with the summer bees and the background traffic from the Interstate. You had to listen for the traffic noise to notice it, otherwise it was just there, five miles or so away, just in the trunk of your consciousness, humming Interstate traffic background music. Proper stretched and curled his toes to deepen his appreciation of the lazy sun. She looked at the Woman, blabbing away with the person on the other side of the picket fence. She wondered if it was worth her energy to figure out what they were talking about. Listened for a moment, but didn’t hear the good words: “dinner”, "car”, ”walk”, ”Jake”, ”cookies”, or ”OK”, so she lay her head back down in the grass, worshipped the Sun God, closed her eyes and felt the soothing medicine of peace creep over her. She was running. Making a path through the wheat, which felt like whips beating, “faster, faster, go faster” and then disappearing into the rows of corn, the running lanes, cool and dark. Little cries of running joy crowding into her breathing in time with her strides. Run. For the sheer joy of feeling every muscle reaching to its absolute capacity. Fast oh my God she was going so fast. The corn stalks passing in a blur of insignificance. Go go go go there was nothing faster in this world. She was a heat-seeking missile, soaking up her speed. Chasing what? The illusion of some prey? Just chasing; that was for sure, not being chased. For the running was the joy. No fear. Just symmetry of perfect athleticism and grace and rhythm. Run. The cornfield ended abruptly and she dreamed she was back in the sun. Back with Proper in the grass by the picket fence. She felt that glory of pure physical exhaustion. She felt her heart beating so hard that it must be a foot in diameter. Felt her breathing so deep that it hurt in a great way. She felt it all, as she felt the comfort of her brother’s nearness and the warmth of the sun and the thirst. The good, honest thirst from the long run. And she felt the heat from her exertion. She thought she better find a shaded spot with a cooling breeze, where she could still see Proper. Still hear the Woman in the background buzz. She opened her eyes.

So that's it. And that's that. Lord help me, I started a blog.