Had a ball -

A snowball, that is. What a day! We drove to Tahoe's south shore on Saturday afternoon in a precautiously but unnecessarily rented AWD Subaru. No arm rests, so not as comfy for a dog on a lap, which is where he ALWAYS is in the car, until we get a wagon, but it did the trick. And speaking of tricks, not only can we play fetch on sand and in water...but we've added a great new surface to the repertoire: snow! Sort of. Balls get buried, lose their scent, and the humans do a lot of fetching themselves. But it's fun nonetheless. So, last night we enjoyed a little introductory meadow-romping at dusk, followed by some pretty great sushi at Naked Fish. [Excuse me, I've been corrected by a glance from some glossy amber eyes. I meant "followed by some pretty boring dog food at the house."] Then today we enjoyed a long and lovely trek through Hope Valley - with two humans on snow shoes and two on x-country skis and three dogs on twelve paws. Our friends' dogs were used to this; ours wasn't. But it didn't seem to matter. For 4+ hours he ran with the pack, mostly trying to chase a ball he couldn't smell in the snow. Racing against the skis was fun, too. [Though the latest theory is that he ran along not to race, but to try and "save" us from careening into trees and breaking our necks.] Now he sleeps, all three dogs are pooped, and - frankly - so am I. Time for dinner!

By the way: snow crusts on fuzzy paws MUCH more slowly if you smear Crisco on 'em before heading out...thanks Emily!!!!

It's not funny!

Okay, I hate to laugh, but his face plant on the patio was pretty funny - I have to admit. Here's the deal: He was barking at the back door because there was a cat out in the yard. (This used to be the daily case, but after HE joined our household...the cats started staying away. I guess this one was feeling brave.) So, against my better judgment, I opened the door - but not before knocking on it kinda loudly to give the cat a head start. (I could only picture it running to the fence, leaping over it, and leaving my darling dog with a flattened face - kinda like something that might happen to Wylie E. Coyote.) Okay, so the cat is out of sight by the time the door opens, but that doesn't stop a certain somebody from flying out. And I mean flying! The little guy missed all four stairs and landed face-first, absolutely flat on the bricks below. I mean, his legs were splayed out in all sorts of directions. And what I love most was this: he forgot the cat completely and came running to his mommy! Dang, I can't wait to have a kid...

P.S. He even scraped his knee

Beauty School Dropout

Just got back from an Intermediate level dog training class in which the two of us, canine and handler, barely pulled off any of the things from his puppy or beginner classes classes. Worst of all, my Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever refused to....retrieve! We're supposed to get our dogs interested in their toy before we throw it, but even then - how is any toy (a toy which he retrieves every single night at home for hours and hours and hours) going to be more interesting than the other doggies and their toys? Not that I'm worried about his abilities; we can remain in a holding pattern and take this class a gazillion times if we want. But I was ashamed at myself for feeling so damn defensive. Instead of thinking about the challenge, I felt myself seething at the teacher - wondering why on earth it's important for a dog to retrieve on command. And then it hit me: it's not important. [Note: I'll probably laugh at that notion next time we're retrieving on the beach and he refuses to come back to me] Rather, it's all about him bending to my every whim (no matter how ridiculous that whim might be). It's like I need to have a killer instinct to be a successful dog owner! I wish there was a cuddling class where you could teach your dog to be loving all of the time. Or an eating class where he'd learn to stop the begging and be happy with whatever is in his bowl. Or a being quiet class, that'd be great! And he wishes I'd take a turn-off-the-computer-and-let-me-retrieve-that-toy-I-rejected-at-class class.

Woof!

Okay, this is really cute. He's lying down a few rooms away, with a clear view of my at my desk. I can feel his eyes drilling into me, without even looking. But this is much, much more preferable than the alternative: barking every five seconds. I thought he'd learned that a bark would land him "outside" to "hurry up," but I was wrong. Now, barks might mean "toss my toy for me" or "I'd like to know what's inside that tupperware container on the counter." It happens so often that I think of him as the Little Boy Who Cried Wolf. Though that might leave me with an "accident" to deal with one of these days. Now I trust my judgement. Gosh, he "hurried up" only forty-five minutes ago, and the dog book says he should only need to do such things every few hours...

The other day he was barking because his water dish was empty - my fault - but I thought it was a bark of the "I'd like to know what's inside that tupperware container on the counter" variety. I only figured it out when he started barking AT the bathroom door and, when I opened it, he looked at the closed toilet like he'd just discovered King Tut's tomb. I filled his water bowls. Instead of thanking me - know what he did? He barked.

Now he's no longer being cute; he's barking at the vacuum cleaner. It's not on; it's just sitting there - a reminder that I need to clean up a few stray pine needles from the floor. I'll go do that now, then I'll put away the threat. Then he can bark at my shoes. Yay.

The Year of the Dog

January 11th 2004 was the day we met. A mere 363 days ago. Sure, it's not like having a baby, but life certainly did change. The first few months were the "overprotective" ones - we didn't let the little boy out of our sight, or out of our yard. We'd been taught to be afraid of germs. (Of course as soon as he grew up enough to visit the beach, we saw countless itty-bitty puppies. First we'd look at each other and say "They'll be sorry when their dog gets Parvo..." but now it's more like "Think of all that fun we missed out on by being so overprotective.")

By his fifth month of life, our third month together, our world together grew immensely. We started to measure time by things that happened on the beach: from his first hole, to his first off-leash ball-chasing session, to his first wave. (We quickly learned that a quiet pond beats the ocean when it comes to getting any more than paws wet.) We also found that a weekend at home with the dog is pretty great, and barely flinched when every party invitation we received got the same rejection: "Sorry, we just can't leave home for that long."

When the world became our playground, just like our social life, our control went downhill. Virtually every command he knows now, he knew better when he was sixteen weeks old! But we keep trying, and as of the end of 2004 - we'd logged 27 weeks of obedience classes. Nevertheless, I sometimes think we've learned more tricks than the dog. Like 'how to get out the back door without being followed' or 'how to watch a movie in peace and quiet.'

It feels pretty routine, now, even though at least once a day I'm struck by the beauty of our pet. The fact that two species can co-exist with such harmony (except when he steals stuff) is heart-warmingly incredible. Thinking of getting a dog? Do it!

Christmas 2004 - Family Photo 

Dog People

For the past three weeks, life with a dog has also been life with knitting needles. Now I share the chair with a ball of fur AND a ball of yarn! So far I've been able to restrain myself. As in, I haven't knitted anything that even resembles a dog sweater. If I do, I might have to seek therapy. Because I refuse to become "Dog People." That's what the other people at his obedience classes are, to me: "Dog People." But I always have to wonder: how many of them show up at class and consider themselves outside of the "Dog People" category...a category in which they include me!?!?!? I might buy the trendy collar, now and then, and the best of foods, but that hardly makes me a dog person, does it?