It's Raining, It's Pouring

When it decides to rain around these parts, it can solid rain. The storms here are violent and don't fit the pattern we all knew back in Maryland. The first time we had thunder and lightening in January, the two oldest dogs, now both gone, cried "No fair!" Gracious and Caruso had each independently become severely thunderphobic in their dotage. I don't know who detested distant rumbling more: oh how it tore my heart to see my darling, dignified seniors shaking violently, tongues curled in panic panting, eyes wild with terror. It was so bad that I got drugs for them from the vet, after trying the diffusers with mom's pheromones, and the herbal stuff which had no effect on anything but my purse. Even the drugs from the vet were a wash. So great was their fright, that the dose had to be enough to render them wobbly and incoherent, which brought on its own set of fears.

Now Very Old Dog, who will be fourteen next month has become a thunder hater. Thank goodness, Maria, just turned thirteen, does not mind the boomers in the least. The dogs - all nine - and I took Bill to Paducah's little airport yesterday. The storm warnings were dire, but his flight was on. Barkley International (that cracks me up) Airport has two or three commercial flights in and out per day. The sky above our farm in Maryland was always host to multiple planes, their trailing stripes criss crossing in some nonsensical Tic Tac Toe of the gods. Here, a plane in the sky is something to make everyone, even the dogs, pause and notice.

We dropped Bill off, and then went on to the Kennel Club for Tuesday practice. I had to move some equipment and tidy a bit in preparation, and as I was outside shaking a throw rug, I saw Bill's plane fly over. I jumped up and down and waved like a wife at a returning World War II sailor. Only instead of waving a hanky, I was waving a big hairy throw rug with dirt and dog hair forming a cloud around me. "Bye Bill! Here I am, honey! Here! Here!" Jump, jump. Silly, but there you go.

As soon as the first person and dog arrived for practice, the skies opened. The Kennel Club building has a metal roof, and there are overhangs on each side under which you can park. The rain crashed down, and the noise obliterated all other sounds. I ran out to check on Very Old Dog in the van. He was mildly concerned, but not the least frantic. I gave them each two biscuits and brought Swede William in to practice.

It poured the entire two hours, making our informal conformation and obedience practice pretty much an individual thing between folks and their dogs. If we tried to help each other or compliment something, it went like this:

"Wow, she looks great tonight!"

"Are you talking to me?"

"Pardon?"

"I didn't hear you?"

"Oh, she looks really good!"

"What crook's in the 'hood?"

"No, I said she is doing great!"

"Well, of course she's chewing bate, I just gave it to her!"

"Never mind."

So we mostly communicated with smiles and nods and thumbs up.

If you want to see nine disgusted dogs, come witness mine after a trip to the Kennel Club which did not involve running in the fenced area. Add to that being dragged out of their warm, dry van in a torrential downpour and being pushed through the gate into our little yard, and you've seen the worst. Oh they were not happy campers. They do love the attacks of the sillies that come with being inside and wet, though, and soon we were all a chaotic crash of towels and toys and woo-wooing. Maria squeaking the purple monkey at a maddening rate of six squeaks per second, Sammy was shaking the life out of the platypus sending her egg babies flying, and Looch was pouncing from one flying egg to the next. Swede William was overwrought and thought he could hump Lindy Loo who was trying to run laps around the kitchen island, but not getting very far with her Swede William anchor. Delia felt the need to chastise Swede William for such an inappropriate display, and stalked him with her head, tail, ears and dander up. Looking at me to say, "Fix this, or I will! Stop the little pervert!" Fat Charlie was hip checking me for more toweling, Mama Pajama was emptying the entire water bowl while I was distracted. And now Very Old Dog was having a tug of war with Maria over the purple monkey. Dear merciful heavens! Two necks with bulging discs tugging and shaking and oh Lord don't do that, sweet hearts!

The thunder didn't start until one in the morning. I awoke to a distant rumble and thanked all that is good for Very Old Dog's very diminished hearing. He hadn't noticed. The next lightening was bright and long and his head popped up. I started the thunder routine. The lightning flashes, I start gently rubbing Very Old Dog's ears to blot out the sound of the thunder. It works really well, as long as I don't miss a flash. I ended up sleeping sideways across the bed, so that my hand was already on his neck. Fat Charlie was in Bill's spot in his absence, and spread out onto my pillow as well. By three the thunder had stopped, though the rain hadn't noticed, and we slept soundly the rest of the night.

It is still raining, so in lieu of walks, we're having individual play, or training play, or rubs and cuddles. As long as the thunder stays away, and leaves my Very Old Dog be, this rainy storm is feeling cozy. The daffodils are in full bloom, and that helps.

Hug your hounds

[Oh and do read the next entry down and enter the drawing for the give away!]

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.

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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