The Smile Maker

This is Mama Pajama, of Mama Pajama Tells A Story fame. I am but her humble servant, so I do not dare attempt to speak for her. She is amazingly capable of speaking for herself. This talent literally saved her life four and a half years ago. So many of my dear readers know Mama Pajama's story so well that I hate to abuse them by re-telling it here. But if you don't know it, and if you love miracles, you can read it here: http://www.dogwalkers.net/twoyrsago.htm . It is just a page on my website, no spam or spyware or evilness, no ads or anything for sale, and it tells the brief story of this amazing little dog.

Mama Pajama is one of those souls who makes everyone she meets feel special. I had a customer call me yesterday, who knows Mama Pajama only through the book and the Internet. But this wonderful customer just NAILED everything about this awe-inspiring sweetheart when she said, "Mama Pajama is a smile maker."

Her disease is in remission enough that I had slowly been weaning down the steroids. I got her down to 2 mg a day and I was excited about the prospect that maybe, just maybe she could stop them altogether. But late last week I saw a new sore starting on her back and that was that. She's back on her regular dose, and there she'll stay, I suppose.

She's had a fun time this week. Because of the Stupid City Squirrels, I've been driving some of the dogs out to the kennel club property to run. Now Mama Pajama and her brother Fat Charlie are ten years old but I took them for some fun. Mama Pajama was grinning from ear to ear. Her Very Good Human Friends Lee and Dee were there and she wagged and smiled and high-fived them a great good morning greeting. The young 'uns went in the fenced area and chased the skunker:

Mama Pajama sat with Miss Lee on her golf cart making smiles all over the place, pretending not to be the least bit interested in the ginormous stinker toy. I put the young 'uns up to catch their breath, and let Fat Charlie have a turn. Mama Pajama jumped down from her golf cart perch to give her brother a happy hump which she loves to do, only to her best beloved Fat Charlie bro. Still no interest in the squawking squeaking skunker, not one bit. Then Fat Charlie needed a breather, so he went back to the van for a little rest up.

Mama Pajama allowed as how she just might enjoy a little look-see in the fenced area where the others had been running and playing, just to see if there was something squishy to roll in or to see if there was any poop to eat. I opened the gate for her and she couldn't stand it any more. She zoomed over to that squawkin' furry skunktoy and bit it up and shook the beejesus out of it and squawked it to death and back. She wagged and spun and jumped and acted just like a young 'un and finally looked up and smiled a mountain full of joy my way.

Mama Pajama. Smile maker. My hero.

Entirely Too Nice Out

... to be inside writing on the computer.

WE'RE OUT OF HERE!

the dogs

I love my kennel club and day two alone with dogs

working together, enjoying each other's company


When you've been into dogs for a while, I mean when they really start taking up a big chunk of your life and your passion, eventually you become one of the millions of people all around the globe who belong to some sort of a dog club. When you go to a kennel club meeting, and you say I have nine dogs, people don't look at you like you grew an extra nose, they just ask you what kind of dogs they are.

Now, back when I had fourteen horses and was hauling myself and a horse or two to events all over the east coast, if you had sauntered up to me and said, "Hey one day you'll live in Western Kentucky on a corner lot in Paducah and have nine dogs and belong to the Paducah Kennel Club," I would have laughed so hard that I would have woken up from what ever weird dream I was having.

But here I am and here we are and there you go and I belong to the Best Dog Club In The World.

Ok, I spent twenty minutes writing how great the Paducah Kennel Club is, and erased it, and re-wrote it, and ditched it. I can't make it not sound sappy. I added photos and then deleted them and looks like you're just going to have to take my word. The people are the best. We work well together and we laugh and we congratulate each other and I love my kennel club.




the President out mowin' the lovely property



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And now Day Two Alone With Dogs


We did ok on our day two without Bill. I got everyone up and out and walked without incident. I walked the last three one at a time. And the little stinkers! One on one, they behave like little angels when faced with vermin of all sorts. Swede William had two squirrels run down a tree right at him, and boy was I ready to do some serious training. Delicious treats in pocket, death grip on his leash, cortisone injections working on my shoulders. I was ready.

I said, I was ready, William! William trotted along, Swedish Mr. Manners. La la la squirrels what squirrels?

And then on Lindy Loo's walk, as I was talking to a neighbor, their cat strolled up just as happy as you please. "He thinks he's a dog," said my neighbor. "She knows he's not," said I, steeling myself for the craziness that would surely begin any second now. "La la la cat what cat?" said Miss Innocence and Light.

Sam I Am got to meet Mr. Turn Off Your Electricity Man. Seems Bill got the payment dates mixed up - again. I am NOT complaining. Bill is willing to pay the bills and if it were up to me we'd be in jail . In fact the very same Mr. Turn Off Your Electricity Man came to visit us the very last time Bill went out of town. But I'm sure it's a coincidence and not a plan on Bill's part. So Sammy and I were just coming around the corner to head off on our walk when we saw Mr. Turn Off Your Electricity Man pounding on the front door. "Hi!" said Sammy. "I remember you; it's great to see you." Now, I personally think that if Sam I Am had been all growlly and horribly rude, Mr. Turn Off Your Electricity Man would have carried out his intentions. But with Sam being so very charming and welcoming? He did not. Which is why I can be telling you this story: I have electricity.


There you have it. Life is good. Delia is stuck like glue to me and I am delighting in her presence. I have electricity. I belong to the world's best kennel club.

It was a glorious day. Come home safe to me, Bill. Have a wonderful time and give everyone an extra hug for me. We're doing fine, but we miss you.




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Alone With the Dogs

Delia looking for Her Bill

Bill is going to his umptieth high school reunion. He is driving the fifteen hours to go "home" to the small town in South Jersey where he grew up. To reconnect. He is taking a week to visit daughters and grandchildren and cousins and friends in nearby Maryland and Pennsylvania while he's there.

I can't go. I am feeling plenty o'pity for my sorry little self, but there it is.

I just haven't found anyone here whom I would feel comfortable with leaving my nine dogs. Heck, with the absurd number of squirrels populating the sidewalks this autumn, I am not comfortable managing my nine dogs these days. And it's not just the squirrels. It's the steep twisting slippery staircase and the Very Old Dog. It's ancient Maria's delicate tummy. It's the canine "best buddy" status which can so quickly devolve into "get out of my space dog fight" status under times of stress. It's my not being willing to ask anyone to poop scoop after nine dogs, especially if they would be here long enough to have to empty the poop buckets. And I'm watching a dear friend's two dogs this weekend, so we'll actually be eleven.

When we lived at the farm, it was a different story. There were college kids who had grown up on farms who jumped at the opportunity to stay at our house while Bill and I travelled. They took care of the horses and the dogs. It helped that we had about two fenced acres for the dogs, accessible by opening the living room door. And there were no stairs from hell. And no one had to scoop. And, to be fair, none of the dogs were so geriatric and fragile.

So. It's me and the dogs. Of course there are some fun things when Bill's away. I can have cereal every night for dinner! Um. And... Um. Oh, and some sweet friends invited me out one night, to which I am really looking forward. And... Um... OK, so that's all that is fun about when Bill is away. I actually hate it. His poor Delia dog is beyond distraught. I've already had to let her in the studio to show her he's not in there twice and it's only ten-thirty and he didn't leave until eight-thirty and then I walked everyone. And she's on my lap now as I type. (I am a poor substitute for Her Bill, but I'm all there is.)

Getting the dogs out in the morning will be a good aerobic exercise for me. The normal routine is

• Bill goes down and makes coffee and writes in his journal


• I carry Very Old Dog down, along with fragile Maria, and Fat Charlie and Mama Pajama


• Bill opens the kitchen door for them and makes sure Very Old Dog doesn't come back upstairs to find me


• I go back upstairs and let bossy Delia and Luciano out, following them to the top of the stairs to make sure they go down and don't wait in ambush for the clueless youngsters. Bill calls them from the kitchen and shews them out.


• I go back to the bedroom and let Sam I Am and the yearlings, Swede William and Lindy Loo out and go downstairs with them.


• I pick up poop while the dogs hang with Bill.


• I feed the dogs their breakfast.


• Bill and I have coffee and discuss the news in the paper and the state of Our World.


• Bill walks Delia and Luciano while I eat.


• Bill eats while I walk the rest in twos.

We are a well-oiled machine. You can see how that machine gets its gears grinding wrong when a part goes all missing.

But we'll make do. We'll do great. And we'll all do happy dances when Our Bill gets home. And we'll tell him we were fine and we didn't miss him a bit. And then we'll tell him that was a big lie and we're so much better when we can hug him.

Speak!

(Taken from Mama Pajama Tells A Story)

Speak!

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

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

Bed Time

My dogs love bed time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet dreams!

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The Difference Between Dogs and Humans

Laurie Erickson photo

Dog people already know how much we have in common with our dogs. We do often start to look alike after years together. (Unfortunately, my older whippets are getting fatter, instead of me adopting the sleek svelte form of the younger ones.) But, lordy are there differences.


A dog won't say one thing and mean another. If you offer a dog the last piece of your home made coconut cream pie, there isn't a healthy dog in the world who would say, "Oh, no, really, I want you to have it." All that dog is going to say is "Gulp and thank you. Are you sure there's no more?"


Dogs will still love you when they can't trust you. Amazing. Human love is all about trust, because it is conditional love. But you can treat a dog very badly, you can be as unfair as all get out, you can raise your hand in anger, you can subject a dog to any number of miseries and humiliation and that dog will still love you. He might be cowed and wary, but he will still express unabashed delight at seeing your return. He will still take on your sadness as his own or try to share his joy with you. If allowed he will lick your feet. His devotion will not waver in the least.


This is not to say that a dog won't voice her displeasure at poor human conduct. When I have loaded up the dogs in the van, promising "Let's go for a ride!" only to have them discover that I have brought them to the vet, hooo boy do they let me know I've been a bad servant. They take a whiff of Ol' Poke and Stick's parking lot and they give me looks that could melt a cast iron skillet. But they'll still love me, and they'll still do a happy dance when we find our way home.


Dogs are unfailingly honest. A dog will not smile and wag and then bite you. She will warn you. If you don't understand the Language of Dogs you might miss the warning, but it was there. And if a dog is guilty of an indiscretion, she won't lie about it. If you come home to garbage on the floor, you can just look at your dog and she will smile, and roll around, and say, "Oh, yah, that was me. I got in the garbage. Oh, and look, I ate your shoe, too, see?" Some dogs will even take on a "collective" confession. If one of the puppies has acted as a paper shredder with the Sunday News all over the yard, sweet old Fat Charlie will tell me he is so sorry he didn't prevent it. He apologizes for being their distant relation. And if you set that sandwich unattended on the kitchen counter, Fat Charlie will tell me, whether or not I'm listening, that he will eat it. And he does.


The sense of smell. We humans rely on our eyes and our ears. We communicate with our eyes and words, both of which can lie masterfully. But dogs rely on their noses, first and foremost, so you can't lie to a dog. There is no covering the stink of dishonesty, the crackling odor of fear. The perfume of caring concern, the sweet fragrance of joy. The stench of anger. Now, I've got to tell you that I'm as grateful as can be that we humans can recognize each other by sight and greet with a handshake or a hug; smelling crotches and sniffing butts to see what my friends have been up to does not appeal in the least!


Dogs aren't proud. Please don't confuse being noble with being proud. Dogs can be the noblest creatures, even more so because it isn't all contaminated with pride. No vanity, no need to be right. We get so tangled up in our human need to win, half of the time we lose sight of what we were fighting for. So we make up something else. If a dog fights - not the perverted man made depravity of Michael Vick's ilk - it is for survival. Food, procreation, defending property or pack order, not over hurt feelings or because "she said I have a big butt."


So, let's see. Could I love someone who had treated me unfairly or with malice, someone who betrayed my trust, just as much as I had beforehand? Could I say what I want without concern about what others think? Could I readily admit to transgressions, knowing that there will be consequences? Could I share my joy contagiously, and deny myself any inklings of pride?





Nope. I'm human. But I'm trying to learn from my dogs, and they are constant, generous teachers.




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