DOG EATS MAN! ALL IN FUN!

DON'T TRUST THIS DOG! PRETTY SOON THOSE BODY PARTS WILL BE MISSING FROM THE HUMANS!

SO, you and your spouse are lying helpless, dying perhaps, or already dead due to bad mushrooms, or human-specific carbon monoxide poisoning (does that exist, no?) or whatever else. Perhaps, an zombie infection has come upon your dog or dogs, (cats too?) and human meat is the only thing they crave. Whatever the situation is, your dogs either have no regular food (good God, install a doggy door!) and you and your spouse or significant other are dinner for them. Who do they eat first? You or your spouse. Which one? The one who feeds them gets eaten last, or do they picture you as a source of nutrition?

ANOTHER WONDERFUL POEM BY LINDA BULLOCK

Ava

Linda BullockConsultant

Notwithstanding,
my obvious feelings...significant sniff...
and a spirited campaign,
promoting
the benefits of canine companionship
including,
but not limited to,
hounding
my husband of 43 years,
seconding
my daughters, who litigate for a living,
to badger their father,
attending
mass on St. Francis Sunday,
although deplorably dogless, never mind
lacking
any connection to the Catholic church,
wearing
tasteless T shirts festooned with
all manner of magnificent tail wagers,
and emblazoned with poignantly pithy,
poochy sayings like,
"Dogs are not our whole life,
but they make our lives whole..."
said husband of 43 years, who invented
stonewalling ,
stuck his nose nearer the New York Times,
muttering
almost inaudibly, “sorry...just not ready”

Conceding,
defeat after 5 long years,
I’d called off the dogs,
eschewing
even a faint hope clause,
when my husband came home carrying Ava,
a 6 pound, 5 year old poodle with
achingly
soft, downy white fuzz ,
Imploring,
liquid black eyes,
oozing
earnestness in a tiny, white face,
searching
for an inside pocket exactly her size

Donning
a somewhat hang dog expression,
my husband introduces Ava
as “my wife’s dog...”
Resembling,
the princess of powder puffs,
she prissily prances beside
this largish man, well over 6 feet,
causing
even committed curmudgeons,
to crack a smile.
Upon hearing her name,
the usual comment is,
“Ava? You mean Ava as in Ava Gardner?
Deadpanning,
my husband responds:
“No...It’s Ava as in Ava Maria.”

Watching,
my husband of 43 years,
holding
wee Ava in a particular way;
co-mingling
complete confidence with exquisite gentleness,
opens a window to
remembering
why I fell in love with this man.

Thanks to Linda Bullock for this fine poem about a rescue dog. We love them. My family has four and my daughter and granddaughter have been fostering them for several years now. 

For Mollie

Linda BullockConsultant

Mollie is a rescue dog,
a Golden Retriever
with PTSD.
If I close the bathroom door
she parks her bum outside,
whimpers loudly
and head butts the door.
When I asked her
to cease and desist
she looked injured,
then advised,
“I’m just doing my job
Have you not heard of
Dogs Without Borders?”

Mollie is shamelessly
addicted to crotches,
but to her credit,
has no gender preference.
If you find it offensive
and shoo her away,
she’ll jump up in apology
and cover your face
with slobbery kisses.
I used to chastise her,
but now I go with
a choreographed response
taught to me by my mother-
First I raise my eyebrows,
as if somewhat astonished
and then furrow my brow
as I turn down my mouth.
These actions are followed by
a barely perceptible but significant sniff,
an exaggerated shoulder shrug
with head turned to the side
and a deliberate obfuscation like:
“Who knew?...problem with boundaries...
must take after me”
Thank God only I know
she drinks from the toilet.

She sleeps on the floor
right beside my bed,
with her front paws tucked into
my preferably unwashed ,
tattered pink slippers;
parfum de sweaty feet
with strong notes of damp dog
co-mingle to produce
her signature scent.
When it’s time to wake up
she buries her nose
into my arm pit.

She likes nothing more
than to swim in the ocean,
repeatedly retrieving,
a bright orange kong.
One very hot day
I decided to go with her.
As soon as I took
my very first stroke,
she set up a frenzy of barking,
frantically paddling
in tight circles around me.
In the end, I gave up,
grabbed on to her collar
and allowed her
to tow me to shore.

How perfect is that?
My rescue dog acts out
the inner reality
of who rescued who.

DOG HEAVEN

Heaven has gone to the dogs

Frank Criscenti


Heaven
has gone to the dogs
God brought them in
because angels thought them cute
and now
a nasty little terrier
sits on a special
puffy throne
at the right hand of God
(He feeds it pate
with a golden spoon)
Now the mutts fly around
and don't clean up after themselves
The little ones yap
whenever a new pilgrim comes in
and some of them howl
when the angels strum their harps.

Blaming the Wrong Mutt

So Sophie, our little ten-pound mostly Maltese mutt took the heat for Lulu. Someone of the canine persuasion was busy crapping about the house, leaving little brown apples about in the most inappropriate places.

So, new dog Sophie took the heat for this. We started putting her out very first thing in the morning, then breakfast, and then out again. Out, out, damn spot.

Several weeks of this until we discovered that 12-year-old Lulu was the culprit. Well, now, we have a baby gate at night confining the dogs in our dressing room/closet area. There have been no disasters again. Sorry Sophie.

The baby gate may come in handy. We have another grand daughter due in May. This we are looking forward to, though we have not had two young children running about the house since our children were little. Our oldest grand daughter, the amazing Anika, is attending college in the fall. We are not sure yet where she is bound. She got accepted to Colorado State University—nonetheless, she prefers to go to a college in her home state of California. Going to totally miss our number one grand daughter and traveling companion.

Wishing all of you well. FC

A HOLIDAY DOG POEM

Maurice the Dog
FC 12/9/13


Remember when we took the puppy
to the snow?
His black nose
black fur
amongst the white
romping
He'd nibble on my bearded chin
I was handsome then
You,
so young and beautiful
(no, you haven't changed much)
We threw snowballs
that Maurice the dog would chase
We tried to slide on disks down the hill
bogging down more than sliding
We've rescued more than one
puppy in our time
And you rescued me
from years full of winters
Now,
all the snow's gone to my hair
and I've been bogged down
for as long as I remember
but for those days
when I felt the cold
when I nibbled at your ears.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

MOVING WITH YOUR DOG

There are lots of important things to remember when moving—including the health and welfare of your pets.

While I am happy to share tips from personal experience, I’m not an expert on moving—one move in thirty years does not an expert make. But I do know that some pets are extremely vulnerable to the stress of moving. One of my dogs gets crazy with a car ride of even a few minutes. If your dog (or cat) is similar to my dog, moving any distance can be a nightmare. So, plan, plan, plan in advance. A move across town will be difficult. A move across country could be near disaster.

As far as relocation goes, moving companies do not take pets. You will either have to fly your pets to their destination, or drive them out. If you drive them, remember to check on pet-friendly hotels. There are lists of them on the internet. Plan for lots of potty breaks for your pet. Remember to bring water, perhaps a favorite pet toy, and confine your pet to a carrier. While your dog may be used to riding in the car, surely most cats are not. And imagine having your cat freaking out and sinking its claws into you while you’re driving across country.

Make sure your animal has its tags with a contact number that will find you—no sense having your old phone on the tag—or better yet, micro-chip your pet. Keep health certificates near and available. Some states require health certificates for your pets. There are a bunch of other tips available on the web. Check out the SPCA website (see link at the bottom of the page.) Also, no one is as in tune with bizarre pet behavior as Allie from Hyperbole and a Half, the hilarious web-comic. I also included that link.

This blog originally appeared on the Junk King website in a different form. (More of a Junk King-centric blog, but thanks to them for allowing me to use this subject.)

http://www.junk-king.com/

http://www.americanhumane.org/animals/adoption-pet-care/caring-for-your-pet/moving-with-your-pet.html

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/11/dogs-dont-understand-basic-concepts.html

I LOVE--I MEAN MY DOGS LOVE DOG TOYS

I admit. I love dog toys. No, it isn't like I sit about chewing dog toys. My dogs love them. We have two dogs. Lulu, pictured, and little Sophie. Lulu shows such unconditional joy with new dog toys. It doesn't matter what the toy is. She loves it to death. She destroys any squeaky toy immediately. She still plays with it, after death so to speak. Squeaker gone, no matter, though that is the point of it right? To remove the squeaker.

Sophie too finds the squeaker objectionable, but not because of the noise. It matters not if the squeaker works. She is a dog that wants the squeaker out. Another destroyer--Sophie the destroyer. A soon-to-be Hindu (no offense intended) goddess. All fuzz inside also must be removed by Sophie.

Now Sophie has little interest in anything unfuzzy, unless of course, Lulu happens to be playing with it. But Lulu loves any new dog toy. Anything that resembles a dog toy. She pulls down the basket in the bedroom that contains her toys, and chooses one. While both dogs shake the daylights out of any fuzzy toys, Lulu cares little of their make-up. She checks the grocery bags when they come into the house. "Anything for me?" she seems to say. (Take a metal bolt and give it to her as her own, she will love it.) Sophie, even though new to us, came into our home with her peculiarities. She has her own choice of toys.

Some weeks, we bring home new dog toys two or three times. We seek inexpensive toys for sure, with an occasional splurge. I want to cringe when I say that. Dog toys, six new ones per week! Yes, we occasionally cull through them and get rid of a few. That we babysit our grand-dogs, Xena and sometimes Moo, gives us further "justification" for our purchases, but I admit, it feels almost like the practice of dressing our pets in doggy outfits, something I don't like.

But dog "coats" are a yes. We keep our house cool, and sometimes our dogs get cold. Moo, our youngest daughter's chihuahua/terrier mix, especially gets cold. So dog coats are okay.

Doggy Halloween costumes are barely a no. Yes, barely. Really, come on. Not necessary. (Gosh, so cute!) Doggy jingle bells? An unqualified yes.

So, what is the story with me? Am I becoming senile in my early-seniorhood? Not exactly. But, we love our dogs and so...

Look, it's not like we don't give money to charity, or slip the homeless guys a couple of bucks now and again. I don't read book after book about cute dogs or cats. I don't have six cats and five dogs. No, there is nothing wrong with such multiple pets as long as the animals are cared for well. I think people are more important than animals, though animals are more moral. It's just that I like to watch the dogs play. So sue me.

So, what to do? Okay, more to charity, less to dog toys. I get it, but darn, one of my charities is the SPCA, so there.

Darn, I love dog toys.

 

Our Dog's Celebrity Look-alike

Been awhile since I posted. This one will be short. For those of you counter-culture geeks, near my age perhaps, or film buffs, perhaps you will remember David Lynch's Eraserhead. Well, in case you don't, it is a typical Lynch vision of a very odd future, haunting and weird--very weird. The film may be one of the most disturbing I have ever viewed. One recurring scene is of the "Girl in the radiator." Well, my newish dog Sophie is the almost spitting image of this girl. If you haven't seen this film, well, this post may make little sense. If so, well, God knows, if this blog had relevancy it might be more popular. It doesn't, so it's not.

So A Blind Dog Walked Into A Bar Leading a Man

So I admit, I always wanted someone to come along and write my blog for me. Now I can do nothing but lie around, like my own dogs, slobbering on the carpet, awaiting dinner, trying to avoid going outside… Oh, wait, I already do that. Thanks to New Zealand's Amanda Edwards for the use of this beautiful poem. Visit her at her website. http://wwwjustwritewithmandy.blogspot.co.nz/

Blind Devotion

Along the river bank one day
I met a man and dog at play

the dog carried in his mouth
a rubber ring
an awkward thing

but that was not the strangest sight
his faithful eyes were milky white

“How can he find the ring?” I asked
And his master softly laughed

“I make sure he knows,” he said

bent down to point his blind dog’s head
toward the way that he would throw

and with tail wagging off he sped

the ring jostled by his side
then tumbled to the ground to hide

at first the dog walked round and round
sniffed and sniffed ‘til it was found

then headed off in joyful glee
you would not know he could not see

back eventually he came
sat back down – “more … more … the same”

every muscle was a quiver
he knew his master would deliver

And I?
I cried inside as I stood there
watching this devoted pair

For love that binds a man with dog
is surely love that comes from God.

Mandy Edwards 2013 ©

 

New Dog, Different Attitude.

So Sophie has settled in. We got Sophie from the Peninsula Animal Shelter on June 1. I admit, her attitude seemed a little "bitchy" at first. We did not properly introduce her to Lulu, pictured on the masthead of this blog. Lulu is 11, Sophie is but four. Immediately, Sophie tried to assert dominance over Lulu. She plays one-on-one,, but not fetch or with other dogs.

At a recent outing at my daughter Kirsten's house, Sophie had to be "prey" to Xena. Admittedly, it was on Xena's home turf, but Xena attacked Sophie, and Sophie got into it with Moo, my other daughter's dog, but not Lulu. Now, there are no more wars, or few wars anyway, between Lulu and Sophie. It is toleration for now. Lulu is pretty sweet. She waits for Sophie when she goes outside. Maybe I am kidding myself, maybe Lulu is just making sure that both dogs have to go outside.

The other day Lulu, and we think it was Lulu, peed on the bed when I had carried Sophie outside without her to meet the neighbor. Lulu didn't pee on her bed, she peed on our bed. She is making her point about being ignored.

You know, introducing a dog, not a puppy into the house with another dog isn't all that easy. It isn't a slam dunk. It wouldn't be that easy to introduce one dog into a household without a second. Dogs have personalities. Sophie is devoted to Lynn, my wife. She would follow her to the ends of the earth. Lynn has started to teach Sophie to back off and not follow. Sophie is lovable. She does this thing where she lies on the ground, rolls on her back, and moves her front paws back and forth, like "rub my belly." She will stand up and do this as well. After the 330th time, it isn't as cute, but hell... Look folks, dogs aren't interchangeable. Lynn hopes to make Sophie a visiting, therapy dog. If Sophie the dog doesn't work out, we aren't going to return her. She's mostly housebroken, but still makes a mistake now and again. She does her business on our back patio, which is frowned upon. No problem. We will deal with it.

But thousands and thousands of dog people dump their dogs every year, either at a shelter or worse. Pit bull people dump their dogs because they don't understand what they have gotten themselves into, or chihuahua owners dump their dogs because they think they are cute and don't poop or eat or need care. I mention these two breeds, or more accurately mixed breeds because I seem lots of them at the shelter every time. Dogs are not something that should be dumped if they don't live up to one's expectations. They are noble beasts, who would give their very lives for their owners. 

So, in regards to the pit bull attack and death of a six-year-old within the last few days in the Bay Area--surely you will not expect what I am going to say next. I admire people who adopt pit bulls and raise them. Kristen Johnson has a pit bull that she loves. Many people have pit bulls that are fine dogs and they trust them. On the other hand, I think a lot of people have no idea what they are getting into when they get these dogs. The child in this case was riding the pit bull like a horse. The father and mother were not present. This is bad parenting, not necessarily bad dog raising. Nonetheless, the dog was put down as one would expect. The owner was a police officer. What an idiot. I admit, I don't entirely trust pits. I think pits and children are a bad idea. Nevertheless, if you have a pit that is a great dog, bless your trust, your humanity, and your luck.

OLD DOG--NO NEW TRICKS.

Lulu, our dog, is 11-years-old now, Shelley Baker Bridgman, a high school friend, has a dog 18-years-old--wow! I can notice Lulu's age catching up with her. Her face is a little whiter, she tires more quickly, and doesn't chase balls with much gusto.
As our pets age, they begin acting a little goofy sometimes. We had a cat that became impossible. Her habits became so anti-social that we had to transfer her to the garage. She died not long after. It was a shame, but her behavior no longer suited the inside spaces.
Pearl, a good-natured lab mix, got so gimpy, she couldn't stay clean. She was covered with feces and urine. I think about the day we took her into be put down... My wife was crying, I was distraught, and instead of staying with her, we just dropped her off. If I had it to do over, I'd change that.
Poor Geoffrey, a two-year-old Scottie we got to be with Pearl, only harassed that poor old dear with his constant nipping. He reached his end due to the loss of use of his back legs. He could drag himself about--that was it. I took him in and sat with him when they put an end to his life.
Now, our first dog we owned as a couple, Maurice, took his death in stride. A sufferer of heart disease, he strolled down our long driveway at a slow pace as if to run away. I think I called him, startled him perhaps, and he dropped dead on the spot.
We have suffered the deaths of rabbits--this rabbit chased the cat--Lucky, the unluckiest parakeet in the world, turtles, hamsters, and a finch, in our years as a couple and parents.

Now Lulu is 11, but she seems to be holding up pretty well. I don't think her eyesight is very good anymore, she seems to be underfoot a lot. And she won't hang out in the kitchen when people are cooking lest we set off the smoke alarms--yeah, no cracks about our cooking... She is very attentive to us, and to her home--guarding it. We don't take Lulu for walks much anymore. She tires and sometimes gets gimpy, but could her nails just need clipping? We've never had to cut dogs nails before, so this is on my list of things to do, get her nails clipped. She still chases about our fairly large yard without much of a slow down. There are squirrels, rats, birds, lizards, gophers, frogs or toads, etc. to chase.
Lulu has probably slowed down as much as I have slowed down. We are both kind of gimpy after a hard day. My wife is going to take another crack at getting Xena (our daughter's dog) into a therapy dog program. We make noises about adding another animal to our little extended pet family.
Maybe I have one dog left after this one. In other words, our next dog can easily outlive me. Perhaps, I have two dogs left in me. But let's face it, our pets are wonderful friends, family members, and like our stories about how old, deceased Uncle Charley used to say "Cheerio" before when he said goodbye, we will remember how Maurice once stole a stick of butter and ate it,  how the kids would sit on Pearl, or how Geoffrey was impossible to catch when he ran off.

Enjoy your pets while you can.

When I Squeak, People Listen!

Xena

No one seemed interested in my squeaker blog. How was I to know that large breasts, squeakers, breast inserts, squeaky inserts, etc. etc. were passe? Come on. I'm old and not up on current trends. I had no idea large breasts were of no interest to animal lovers, well except for maybe cow lovers. Oh, this is udderly ridiculous.

Anyway, since last I wrote, I truly am retired...and old. We have grandpets. Pictured is Xena. We watch her sometimes. She is my oldest daughter's dog. Sometimes Xena comes with my actual granddaughter, Anika. This is great fun. We've watched Moo as well. Moo is my youngest daughter's dog. And sometimes, Moo comes with Holly, our other granddaughter.

Watching dogs and grandkids is great. You can walk them both. Buy them things.

Here's the deal, sometimes all I've really got is grandkids and granddogs. I'm happy as heck to sit around the house, petting the dog, or watching the dog, or the grandkids. Life isn't all that complicated,

I got to stop overthinking.

MAJOR PROBLEM PLAGUES THE DOG WORLD! Your dogs are being cheated by poorly-made squeakers.

Squeakers!

Breast implants!

FACE IT, YOUR DOGS ARE BEING RIPPED OFF BY NON-FUNCTIONING SQUEAKERS IN MODERN SQUEAKY TOYS!

So, you bring home a dog toy for your best friend, little Rover, and before you know it, the squeaker in the toy is broken. How is this fair? The booming dog toy industry is making a fortune off you and your pet by placing poorly-made squeakers in dog squeaky toys. 
Is this your dog after his hard-earned squeaky toy breaks?

Ms. Van Peltz.

A victim of greedy dog toy makers.

Fight back! Mona Van Peltz, a former victim of poorly-made inflatable breast inserts, has started the group, Keep Our Squeakies Squeaking (KOSS) to fight this crippling problem.

Ms. Van Peltz is tried of being ripped off for dog toys and think you should be too. Please join her by sending in your donations, any amount is welcome, to the author of this blog. Remember, make your check out to KOSS--Frank Criscenti. Someday we will no longer be afflicted by non-operational squeakers. Do it today so we can end this problem ASAP.

BEEN LOOKING FOR US? DOG IS COMING--DOG GOING IS GOD?

I've been gone awhile. So, I want to post something. You will get gripes, kudos, maybe something humorous, and perhaps an almost unrelated dream or two.

We had granddaughter and grand-dog care this last week. Always fun. The pictures here are Lulu. Xena, a black, long-haired retriever, a large medium-sized dog if you will (50 or 60 lbs) was staying here. She is cuddly, friendly, and really wants to be a lap dog. She is pretty gentle if a tad clumsy. 

We have a decent sized back yard for a dog or two. There's a gentle hill behind us, critters, and bushes to run through and dirt to dig in. The dogs run up the hill to bark at the dogs on the other side of the fence, run back down the hill to bark at the people who are irresponsible enough to walk on the public street, and back up the hill to bark at any squirrel, blue jay, or chickadee that dares enter their yard.

Inside, our house is long. Running from our back bedroom to the front window to bark is a mad dash, running down the hall, a slide on our poor hard wood floors and either a look under the picture windows at the side of the living room, or as you see here, a look, bark, and whine at the walkers. I might mention, there are a lot a dog things to stare at out the windows. Those dog walkers, joggers and walkers, bicycle riders, an occasional horse and rider, cats, birds, skunks, and possums.

You know what, I love the sound of the galloping through the house. I love yard patrol those dogs put in. In no way am I a fan of the digging, but well, they are dogs.

I will tackle pit bulls once again. For any fans of these dogs, I have caved a little. You want a pit bull, feel free. They are not my particular favorites. They are overbred. Too many get sent to the pounds. And, while I see pit bulls and interact with them personally fine, professionally they are a pain in the ass. Let me explain this. I was a mailman for a good many years. I did not tolerate loose pits. I don't trust them. Don't now. Never will. And a pit bull that gets loose, whether it is when the owner opens his front door, or when the dog escapes a fenced yard or garage, they are not under an owner's control. I hate that, and whether anyone wants to admit it or not, pit owners have a duty to protect the public from their dogs from really injuring someone. Many pit bull owners think they can allow their dogs to roam without controls. Technically that is true as long as the dog is in a fenced yard or in the house, but hey, pit bull owners, once you open your door, once that dog jumps or digs out under a fence, you are not in control of the dog.

I will guarantee you that every day this happens to a mail carrier in the U.S. He or she comes to the door with a package or letter to be signed. The customer brings their barking dog to the door (it's worse if the dog doesn't bark, much scarier) the door opens and there is a dog going crazy right at the carrier's feet, The carrier changes first white, then red, and then he or she starts chewing out the customer. If it is a pit bull that charges out the door, the carrier could be in trouble. If it is a girl scout selling cookies...

Sorry guys, I will never be a fan of these dogs. I feel sorry that any dog suffers mistreatment. In this situation though, I fear people still don't care to understand the danger. If you are one of those great pit owners, sorry to offend. You are doing a great job, but realize, no matter what, the best dog is still at heart an animal with instincts. 

Again, if your pit is sweet as pie and would not hurt a flea, God bless your great work. But I would never have a pit or pit mix around my grandchildren.

Finally, through the years I have had this dream several times. I think I had it just the other night. We raised chickens for awhile when the kids were little. The raccoons got them I think. Anyway, I dream that we are keeping chickens again, or other birds, and sometimes other small animals. I dream that either I, or some other person has not fed these birds for months at a time. They are living in a big coop, and while sometimes in the dream I find some dead creatures, most are living still--kept going by poking around through the scattered seeds they make such a mess with during the good times, when they were being fed.

Most of the time I get my dreams. When I used to dream I was crawling on a path in Yosemite, I knew it was because of my back injury and my fear that it might cripple me. 

Now, last night I dreamed I lost a very personal piece of human equipment. Yes, I mean personal, like it had been cut off and it was in my pocket. Freud would have a field day with that one I suppose. I sure as hell hope that will not be a recurring dream.

Peace all. Remember, area shelters have a lot of dogs. If they don't have the one you want one day, try going a different day. Try going to a different shelter. Also there are great organizations like Baja S.A.F.E. run by great people like Isabelle Ann Tiberghien. 

If you see a dog you like on her site, you may be able to adopt that dog and have it sent on to you.
They can always use donations as well. It is safe and easy to donate to these guys.
http://www.bajasafe.com/index.html

TWO DOGS--ONE NOT NAMED DAISY

This is our dog, Lulu. She's older now, about 11 and she has taken to peeing in the wrong places to note her disapproval of us locking her in the bedroom if we go away--she pees on our bed. She's apparently fed up with car rides--she pees in the car. And, most recently, when her "cousin" Xena showed up for us to keep this week, she peed on Xena's dog bed. Xena is my daughter's dog.

So we have a rotating pack of three mutts racing around this house at any time. Xena, Moo my other daughter's dog, and Lulu. Our backyard is larger than the kids. We have critters--squirrels, skunks, raccoons, rats, mice, birds, and possums. They chase up our hill, then down to the gate by the front yard and back, perhaps to check the gate at the other side of our house. They run behind the bushes, and sometimes they come out smelling like rosemary or lavender, two herbs growing in our yard.

They race and bark as they run through the house to look out the front window at any passing human walking their dog. This demands barking, whining, running to the backroom, only to come charging back to the front for another grumble. It can be canine chaos whenever two dogs gather at Grandma and Grandpa's. (I admit, my own dog leads the others in this behavior.)

I'd like to say this noisy behavior bothers me, but in general, it doesn't. While Lulu is not a particularly social animal, she reluctantly suffers her company, and even can be caught joining in a game of tug of war with Xena. Sometimes, Xena will put her black furry face in mine in the middle of the night to check my wakefulness. A warm tongue in the face usually does the trick. Yes, I was awake.

So, the point? These three former pound puppies are always welcome. They join us here, all, for holidays and functions. They're family after all.

Perhaps the one of the things my wife and I can be proud of creating in our children and hopefully our grandchildren, is the love of dogs. It couldn't hurt.

Dogs at the Gate. A Christmas Dog Ghost Tale. (Repost)

Christmas is a time for ghost stories. It is an English tradition and some of the most famous English/Irish writers engaged in Christmas ghost tales--including of course Dickens, MR James, RL Stevenson. This is my dog ghost story, written (perhaps) in the old style--reposted. Hope you enjoy it and Happy Holidays.

I am not a man who is easily misled. Never have I believed in creatures of the night, nor specters, nor ghoulies, nor goblins. As a God-fearing man, even if I were a sort who believed in the preternatural, I trust in the Lord to protect me.

Now, I have walked the road leading from The Golden Friars public house to my own home a thousand times. The trip is little more than a mile. It leads past no place of notoriety. No sites of ancient scaffolding line the road. There is neither church yard nor graves. Whether I have had my fill of ale, or none; whether darkness or twilight, I had never so much as stumbled upon that road.

That is, until Bindon Babel returned.

Bindon was the eldest child of Silas Babel, a villain already old when I was born. Silas married his young second cousin, and she was more beast of burden than mate. Those who remembered him better than I, said he lost his wife from fever soon after the birth of the last child. Many felt Silas' mistreatment led to his poor wife's death. The elder Babel had two sons and a daughter. His daughter, who had taken her mother's place as workhorse, died of consumption at 15; and some six months after, the youngest son died when a tree he'd attempted to fell, fell upon him--or so Silas swore.

Silas Babel lived on a rocky plot of land with an unkempt orchard surrounding it. This land joined the road I spoke of earlier by way of a broken gate. The Babel home was little more than a hovel. Here Silas drank and rarely ventured outside. Villagers called him Godless. They said he'd never darkened the door of a church except when he enslaved his wife.

The son Bindon left to travel and find fortune for the sake of his family. When his sister and brother died, the surviving brother attended neither funeral. Some 15 years later, Silas Babel also died. If not for a black dog howling outside the door, Silas might not have been found for weeks. As it was, in death, the pale, wrinkled Silas looked little changed from his living self. Again, the son failed to return for services. In all the years of his absence, neither sister, brother, father, nor anyone from the village heard from or about Bindon Babel.

Then, some dozen years after the death of his father, the remaining Babel from the village, returned.

Rumors at the Golden Friars spread for weeks. Some said Bindon had been a mercenary on the continent, and amassed a small fortune in loot. Others swore he'd been aboard a coastal raider prowling the waters of West Africa. A third rumor put Bindon in America at the head of a gang of thieves and murderers. No one, frequenters of the public house, or the wags who passed tales at the back fence, figured Bindon had acquired his money by legal means. But make no mistake, it seemed as if this Babel at least had a surplus of money.

This money, ill-gotten or no, Bindon Babel hurriedly spent. First he married. Like his father, he found a girl much younger than himself. And, like his father, he mistreated the poor thing. Then, he gambled on cards and the races. He drank too much. He travelled with men with shady pasts. In a matter of months, he gambled, misplaced, or invested without return most all his funds. Soon, his wife, misused always, caught a chill and died. Bindon Babel disappeared into the same hovel as his father, broken and mad.

Then, I witnessed the odd events that began along the road from Golden Friars. First, every night for some weeks, I saw a small black dog I'd never seen before at the gate to Babel's land. The dog sat without seeming to notice me as I passed. Then, one twilight, Bindon, weaving, held onto the gate, staring out at the road. Perhaps I wanted talk for the public house, or perhaps I felt neighborly, even with a man such as this, so I greeted Babel.

"Good evening, sir," I said. "Where is your dog this evening?"

"I have no dog," he said, "and this evening has nothing to recommend it."

Taken aback, I bid the man farewell.

The very next night, a black dog stood at Babel's gate. It seemed odd, but the dog had grown considerably, as if it had shot up in stature in just a day. Also, while it again seemed to take little notice of me, something in its demeanor struck me as more aggressive.

A week later after this second sighting of the dog, Bindon again appeared at his gate. He stood some way out into the road, looking in one direction then the other. This time he addressed me.

"Have you seen anything strange around here?" he asked.

"There is a stray or perhaps two stray black dogs who sit at your gate in the evenings. This is all I can report."

Bindon Babel cursed then, and without another word, dashed through the gate.

The next evening, yet a larger black dog, very similar to the first two--so similar that they must have come from the same family--appeared at the gate. This animal's fur stood up along the top of his spine and neck. Though it took little notice of me, I put as much distance as the road allowed between it and me.

As I walked along the road toward my house, behind me I heard the panting of a dog. Afraid, I turned, but saw nothing. I looked about, to each side of the road but saw nothing. I retraced my steps, and found no dog. Naturally, I thought of the black dogs from Babel's, but I saw nothing. Yet, when I resumed my way home, again I heard the panting of a dog following me. Again I stopped. The panting stopped, but I saw nothing. I started home again, and the panting started again. I ran then, alarmed.

The very next day Bindon again stood by his gate, in obvious distress. He asked me if I had seen anything odd that night. I told him a family of strays must have adopted his land as home and that one had followed me last night. In truth, I thought these animals must be Babel's.

"I am worried I may be mauled along the road some evening," I said. "Someone should get the sheriff to remove these brutes."

I thought Babel might admit that this family of animals belonged to him, and that he'd curse me for my comment. Instead, he agreed with me.

"Yes. The sheriff is a good idea. These devils roam my property late at night. I can't sleep. They scratch at my door. They whine. Sometimes I hear them growling near the windows. Fetch the sheriff. They're devils." He then spit out another string of profanities.

The next evening, as I approached Babel's gate with trepidation, another even larger dog stood. It took no notice of me, but I dashed past it, wishing I had a club for protection. Again, I heard an invisible dog of some great size panting behind me all the way home. When I mentioned this to my wife, she suggested that the dog probably followed me behind a hedge and that in the dusk, I would not necessarily have seen him.

"But I never saw him hedge or not, yet I heard him still."

My wife shrugged, but seemed unconcerned.

The next evening, and it was early evening this time, on my way from the Golden Friars, Babel sat in the dirt in the road, in front of his gate, crying.

"I'm not a bad man," he said. "My poor mother. My poor wife. I should have come home. Brother, sister. I should have come home. There was enough for all. Did you know them?"

"I had seen your wife several times," I said.

"Poor girl. She deserved better. She never did no wrong. Not to a living soul. It's all my fault. I deserve it. I surely deserve it. They'll never let me rest." With that, he rose, and trudged through his gate.

The next day, an even larger black dog stood at the gate. This time the animal eyed me every step. It seemed ready to pounce on me, and seemed to be guarding the entrance to Babel's property. I sprinted past the gate. All the way home, I ran. Behind me, unseen, some great hound chased me, panting and growling.

It took nearly a week for me to recover from my fright. The next time I went to the Golden Friars, I asked a few of the lads to accompany me home. A couple of ales each at my expense gained me this gang. We all carried sticks. All the way to Babel's the younger men bragged what they would do to any dog that dared to molest me or them. Then, at Babel's gate, five black dogs of various size stood near the road.

At the sight of us, the dogs began to howl. They crowded through the gate then, still howling, and somehow, they disappeared. The bunch of us heard nothing from them. None of us had been to Babel's since he'd returned. As soon as we came within sight of the dilapidated house, we noticed the door standing open, and the windows broken through.

"Bindon!" we cried. "Babel. Bindon Babel!"

No answer came from the house. As a group, we decided to enter. Perhaps the dogs were inside the house.

Inside, we found no dogs. We did find Bindon Babel on the floor. It looked as if he'd been attacked by wolves. His clothes were shredded. His entire body was covered with blood and in some places one could see the bites. Upon a table sat a sheet of paper. "The dogs are walking on two legs," it read.

Whew! So I Saw This Dog...repost of a dog adverture

So I saw this dog in a pet store window the other day who even knew there were pet stores anymore, but I saw this dog in this pet store

window and I had to go into the place and tell them it was too damn hot for the dog out in the window and what the hell did they think they were doing torturing a little dog like that, especially one that cost $650 for a little dog I could see if a big dog cost that much but this dog was little and not even that cute and it was burning up in the heat of the window so I told this dumb-ass woman in the store that it was too damn hot in the window and I didn't even know they had pet stores anymore and she said well they do and I said well this is why they don't have them anymore because some dumb idiot like you leaves an expensive dog that isn't even that cute in the window to burn up and the lady said mind your own business the dog is just fine it's not that hot, so I said get the damn dog out of the window or I will do it myself and she said get the hell out before she calls the cops and I said call the damn cops I dare you because they will arrest you for animal cruelty and she ignored me and started for the phone while I started for the window and so this damn woman comes over and lays her hands on me SHE LAYS HER HAND ON ME I said don't you lay your hands on me I'm going to get this damn too expensive mutt out of the window before he or she burns the hell up you stupid dog-hating bitch and she runs over to the phone and I can't figure out how to open the blasted window up to let the dog out so I'm looking around the store and they don't have anything in there to help open the door but fish tanks full of ugly little too expensive fish and a couple of fucking lizards that I swear are dead cause they don't move and I can't find a thing but I pick up this big leash and decide I am somehow going to attach it to the window and to the bumper of my car and in the meantime this animal hating little tramp is on the phone, yes she's stealing and threatening me and I say I'm not threatening you you fucking tramp ass little slut son of a heathen bitch and if you keep it up I'll really show you when you're being threatened but she just goes on and on with the police they say I should stay on the line they're coming right away and I said sure they are like the police don't have better things to do than to protect some dog hating little fucking tramp who is too stupid to know when she is killing an animal but the police come and I point out what the hell is happening she is murdering little fucking dog mill too expensive puppies and you should be talking to her and nonetheless NONETHELESS they take me to jail then to observation and then they let me out and the fucking psychiatrist tells me the day that I get out that maybe I should look into getting a companion animal maybe like a dog or something.

Sgt. Prestleton & His Wonder Dog Prince Return!

Sergeant Prestleton, his wonder dog Prince, and  his new partner, the lovely Private Fox sat around the campfire one fall evening, eating beans. The Sergeant sat watching the sparks float up from the fire, and disappear into the night sky.
Private Fox and Prince kept a steady eye on their companion. The Sergeant sighed.
"What's up, handsome," asked Private Fox. "Cat got your tongue?"
Prince shook his head. He disliked these "feline" expressions, especially from a female named Fox. Such nonsense was entirely uncalled for.
Sgt. Prestleton sighed.
"What's up, Tiger," Private Fox asked.
Prince had to turn his head. Such rot.
"Well," the female tried again.
"I don't know," said the sergeant. "I just can't explain it. Something has me down."
"Is it me honey?" she asked. "Is partnering up with me a disappointment."
"No, no," said the sergeant.
Private Fox looked up a the mantle of stars above her. She smiled, and looked at her partner. "Is it Prince? Is that old flea bag bothering you?"
Prince looked at the female with disbelief.
"No, no," said the sergeant.
"You worried about the case, Sugar?"
The sergeant, Private Fox, and Prince had spent days tracking that notorious female horse thief, Lil' Latin Loup Garou without success.
"No," he said. "You know, sometimes I just get kind of down. I can't really explain it."
Private Fox and Prince got up and sat next to their companion. Prince licked his master's hand.
Private Fox put her arm around the sergeant. "That's called life, sweetheart. Sometimes you take life by the short hairs, and other times, well, other times, it's got you. It's nothing to worry about. Prince and I are here."
Again, the dog licked his master's hand.
Private Fox kissed her man on the cheek. She brushed his jaw lightly with her fingers, as if rubbing the lipstick off his face.
The sergeant smiled for a moment, then hung his head again.
"It's okay, honey," she said. "I get it. I understand. Life is a marathon, not a sprint. We still love you. Don't give up."
He sighed, "Not me," he said. "Not me."
The sergeant thought for a moment, then he imagined the stars falling like rain onto his head, filling his brain with light.
Prince settled down next to the fire. Private Fox hummed a tune. There were plenty of beans left in the pot.

Maybe Cute, Not Too Amazing Dogs

I got up at my usually late hour this morning and danced with my dog. No, my dog can't do a series of involved dance steps. She puts her paws up on my legs and I dance her around until she looks like she is too embarrassed for words (which she is) and I let her down and then soon after make her do it again. We used Joni Mitchell's Court and Spark for dancing this morning.

I used to dance on Sunday mornings with my girls--wife included if I remember. XTC's Senses Working Overtime taught them to count to five. "1-2-3-4-5-senses working overtime..."

I hope they remember the routine as well as the dog does. We'd dance, then use the cd boxes to torture the cat by shining the reflection on the wall. Cats are tortured by things like that. Dancing too is torture to a cat not doubt. You can't get up on a weekend morning and dance with a cat. Dogs may be tortured or embarrassed by dancing with their human, but they are too damn nice to complain and bite you or something. A cat thinks nothing of scratching the person who feeds it if that person annoys him or her. Imagine if your dog scratched and bit you every time you made him feel silly. You'd be a mess.

Now I can turn this piece into whatever I want. I can go on about how fun dogs are and what a drag cats are. I can turn it into a nostalgia piece about dancing with my little girls when they were...little girls. I could go on about Joni Mitchell or XTC. Maybe we could talk about reflections... I write so damn well, I can pontificate about just about any subject including mornings.

Let me instead, go on about my favorite subject--me. Yes, I am one Narcissistic human as I have been told, diagnosed, and realize. I'm lucky as hell to get up this morning and dance with the dog. This last week has been holy hell for my state of mind. I battled doubt, confusion, and craziness and came out of it and danced with the dog. My dog went right along with the joke. No bites or scratches. Better yet, I never bit or scratched anyone either.

You know, I have been in this group for awhile and we have been talking about a self-soothing kit. Five cool things you can have around to take the edge off a bad day or bad few minutes. Well, I'm going  to do it. In a way, I want to be a little bit superstitious. In my bag will be a compass, so I will never be lost. Also I will include an old dime (silver) so I will never be broke. My wife asked me today if I ever worry about being broke, and I said only if she decided to "kick my sorry ass out." Also in my kit I will put a cd. No, not XTC, but Carey by Joni Mitchell will get on there--"The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn't sleep"--It's Just the Motion by Richard and Linda Thompson will be on there--"Don't worry..." I would like some kind piece of cool, smooth stone to run my fingers over. That's four items. The fifth item is either a picture of a woman or a tarot card. I am sure I will probably pick the picture of a woman. This may surprise you. I considered that the picture should be Marlene Dietrich from Blue Angel, but that seems nothing like soothing. I think the picture of a woman might be either Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, or my granddaughter Anika, I already have her picture with me always--Anika I mean. She soothes me no end since she is such a sweet child and pretty. I know she is all right. That is soothing.

You know the one thing that won't fit in my self-soothing kit? A dog that will dance with me on weekend mornings. Just won't fit, but dogs are the ultimate in soothing. They dance, you can pet them, and they always know how to get home.

Ah well. And now, my dog will dance the quickstep.