Another Dog-Sitting Adventure

John was in his mid-eighties and spending a lot of time alone while Ginny was overseeing house repairs, yard-work, and finances. John's children from his first marriage worried their dad was spending too much time on the La-Z-Boy and suggested John and Ginny get a dog.

"Why don't you do a test run with our Oliver?" neighbor Barbara suggested. "We're going away and he would certainly enjoy having company. You've met him at our house, but I'll be happy to bring him over so you can reacquaint yourselves. He's already housebroken."

Barbara's dog was a four-month-old male Airedale Terrier with floppy ears, sad eyes, and insatiable curiosity. Ginny's recollection of Oliver when she'd stopped at their house was a demolition derby masquerading as a brown and black irresistible smarty-pants. Barbara brought him on a leash to Ginny's back yard to say "Hello."

"If you decide to dog-sit for us, you should keep him on the leash," Barbara advised. "Airedales were bred to hunt, so he'll take off after squirrels or birds or anything that moves." While Barbara was explaining this, Oliver had dug a hole in Barbara's impatiens about six inches deep. "And they love to dig...forgot to mention that. No, Oliver!" she said, yanking the dog's leash away from the flower bed  and onto the grass. "Sorry for the hole. Just keep him on the street when you walk. We should only be gone four days."

Ginny bent down to pet Oliver, who jumped up to meet her, covering the shoulders of her tee with dirt.  Barbara got him into a sitting position by tightening the collar and commanding, "Sit, Oliver!" Ginny shook the muddy paw, and was rewarded by a licking tongue on her face.

"He's got a nice personality, doesn't he? OK. Let me know what time you're leaving Sunday. I'm going inside to wash up. Please bring everything he'll need. Bye, Oliver!" Ginny detoured to the garage for a shovel to fill in the hole. "Those kids of John's better keep their mouths shut after this. I just hope it works out," Ginny said to herself.

On Sunday Barbara arrived with stuffed toys, a comfortable bed, a leash, and Oliver's menu, which consisted of designer dog food mixed with warm chicken broth for dinner (Barbara provided both). The breakfast menu was a special order: shredded chicken breast and cubed sweet potato (provided by Ginny, after John hit the supermarket).

Barbara also  provided a "reminder" list for Ginny:

     - Oliver sleeps in our bed at night.
     - You will need to remove any medications from end tables and night stands.
       Oliver is tall when he stands, and very curious.
     - Oliver is house-broken but will need a walk twice a day and before bed.

The first night Oliver had the run of the house, sleeping on the sofa and sharpening his little claws on the soft leather. That led Ginny to write her own "reminder" list for Barbara, when Barbara appeared to pick Oliver up AT 10 P.M. ON THE SEVENTH day:

     - Oliver did not sleep in our bed.
     - Oliver did not ingest John's meds, which stayed on his nightstand
       with our bedroom door closed.
     - Housebroken?? Not!! Even with walks (?) four times/day,
       he peed on the Oriental carpet in the living room.
     - John didn't have the strength to walk Oliver, so I tried,
       but on the leash Oliver refused to go in the direction I wanted.
       I ended up carrying him in and out of the house to the weed                   
       patch to do his "duty" with leash attached to my waist.
       My back will never be the same.
     - Interior doors will have to be refinished.
     - We will have to replace John's hearing aids,
       since Oliver mistook them for his bites of chicken!

Ginny and John did not get a dog and have not spoken to Barbara and her husband in two years.

   

   
     
     


   

A Dog-Sitting Adventure

Photos courtesy of www.freephotosBeagles

Linda didn't know much about Beagles, but she wanted to please her step-daughter to keep the peace. "How long will you be away?" she asked Susan.

"Just five days, and we'll be in Key West. So in case of an emergency, we won't be far."

"Is Sargent trained?" Linda asked. "You said he's only a puppy."

"Well, mostly. He's pretty good at night till early morning. We've done some impulse control training with him and relationship-building exercises. I'd keep him on a leash, though, since we didn't finish the focus training without a leash. We never got to where he'd come back on command."

"You know I love dogs, so we'll give it a try. When do you leave?"

"Next Sunday. You won't be able to resist him! We'll call you Sunday morning before we drop him off. Thanks so much!"

"It shouldn't be too bad," Roger said, trying to convince himself. "Beagles are pretty small and they have a happy-go-lucky temperament, don't they? Their tails are always wagging."

"I guess we'll soon find out!" Susan replied. Over the course of the week, Linda removed small carpets and doggie-height accessories and stored them in a closet. She bought a $44.97 machine-washable, faux fur "Calming Dog Bed," sure she'd convince Rog to get a puppy if Sargent was a compatible house guest. She also purchased a collapsible gate, several chewable toys, a special training pad, a chow bowl, doggie treats, and the food Susan had suggested.

The following Sunday morning Susan appeared at the door with Sargent in her arms. Linda and Roger invited them in and closed the door behind them. Susan gave Sargent a kiss on his ear and a last hug while Sargent licked her neck. Then she deposited him and a bag of Sargent's "necessaries" on the floor.

Like a lightning bolt, Sargent was gone. Linda and Roger caught glimpses of his tail as he turned corners, racing from room to room down the hall. "Thanks again," Susan said. "We'll see you on Friday. Call if you have any issues." And then she, too, was gone.

"Sargent! Sargent! Come get a treat," Linda yelled on her way down the hall, as Sargent streaked past toward the kitchen in the opposite direction. "Rog, grab the gate and keep him in there! His bed's in there."

But Roger wasn't fast enough. Sargent skidded on the glossy kitchen floor and escaped past Roger into the living room where Linda stood watching. There, right in front of her, he lifted his leg and squirted against the base of the coffee table.

"Bad dog!" Linda yelled, cradling the dripping Sargent and carrying him to the training pad in the kitchen. "Rog, for God's sake, put up that gate! I'll get the leash and take him outside."

On the leash, Sargent took off after a squirrel and yanked Linda's neck so hard she couldn't turn it back to the right.  Under his belly he began to dig in the soft earth where Linda had planted daffodil bulbs. "No, Sargent!" she yelled, yanking him as hard as he'd yanked her. Not only didn't she want her bulbs disturbed, but God forbid if Sargent chewed them and got sick, or worse, poisoned himself!

She got him back into the kitchen and closed the gate Rog had installed. "I need some Aleve and a glass of wine," Linda announced.

"But it's only 11:00," Rog said.

"It could be 7:00 a.m. for all I care! I'm already exhausted and they just left." While Linda gulped down a couple of pain relievers and poured both of them a glass of wine, Sargent nipped at her ankles. 

"After I get the mess in the living room cleaned up, let's sit down to talk. I don't know what we've gotten ourselves into! Could you get the heating pad for my neck? Sargent yanked me so hard I can't turn it."

On her hands and knees Linda used a cleaning product for urine. She retrieved her glass and plopped down on the sofa next to Rog, who had already plugged in the heating pad. "What's that noise?" she said.

"What noise?" Rog couldn't hear a thing and refused to get hearing aids.

"That scratching noise." Linda dumped the cleaning product and heating pad onto the sofa and headed for the kitchen, wine in one hand.

"Oh no!!! Rog, come here!" When Roger arrived, Linda was inspecting new scratches on the hardwood floor. "I knew I heard scratching. Look at this! We've got to get this puppy off the hardwood. It will have to be refinished! I'm going to put him in the laundry room with his bed and training pad. He can't do any damage to the tiles in there. Please bring some of his toys in."

Linda laid newspapers from the laundry room to the back door and took Sargent for another walk before securing him in the laundry room. Then she and Rog collapsed onto their bed for a nap. Barking awakened them. "Let him bark!" Rog said. "It's like a toddler having a tantrum." Linda got up.

"We're going to get calls from the neighbors." She went down the hall and cracked the laundry room door open.

"I don't believe it! Rog, come look at this!"

"What now?" Not only had Sargent chewed his training pad, he had ripped the clothing into shreds that had been waiting for a wash.

"He must be teething," Roger said.

"No kidding!" Linda said with venom in her voice. "I can't take much more of this. Please get on the phone to Susan and tell her what's happened."

"They're probably in Key West by now," Roger said.

"I don't care. Ask her what she wants us to do."

Roger knew better than to argue. He dialed his daughter. "Honey, it's dad. We have a problem. We can't control Sargent. He's already peed in the house, scratched the floor in the kitchen, torn the laundry to shreds, and yanked Linda's neck so bad on the leash she needs a heating pad. What should we do?"

When Roger got off the phone several minutes later, he showed Linda a piece of paper. On it he'd written a website for training Beagles. "What's this?" Linda said.

"Susan said this website will help us reprogram Sargent's mind so he wants to please us. Then he won't be bored and destructive.  I guess they can't be trained like normal puppies. She already took out a subscription to this website."

"Lovely! We're supposed to spend OUR time finding out how to train HER puppy while she's enjoying herself. She could have told us all this before she dropped him off! I don't want any supper. Get your own!" With that, Linda stormed to the bedroom and slammed the door. A minute later she stuck her head out and yelled, "And don't forget to feed the mutt!"

Roger got on the internet. He learned Beagles' brains weren't wired the same as other dogs' brains. He read step-by-step instructions about when to give Sargent attention and when to ignore him; what tone of voice to use that didn't involve shouting; how to show Sargent who was boss by the way he held him; and how to reward Sargent's good behavior.

Roger fixed himself a sandwich and watched a little television. Linda still hadn't come out of the bedroom. Roger tried to apply some of the things he'd learned when he took Sargent for a walk after they both had supper. Somehow Sargent managed to pull 220-pound Roger to the neighbor's trash can, turn it over, and help himself to some of the contents.

Blood started to drip from Sargent's lip. "What the hell?" Roger said, bending down to examine.

"Got to take Sargent to that 24-hour vet," Roger yelled to Linda inside the house. "He must have cut himself on a tin can in the garbage. I need you to hold him in the car."

Linda's muscular arms that had earned blue ribbons for gardening cradled Sargent in the car. Covered in a knit throw blanket, the Beagle quieted. "Now we know what works!" Roger said. "We'll just keep driving around for five days."

Before bed, they gave Sargent another of the pills prescribed by the vet. Sargent never whimpered all night. They repeated the dose in the morning and got Sargent ready for his car ride. Their pill supply lasted five days. They had asked for a refill in case they needed it.

The Dog in the MIddle

We had an Airedale terrier for ten years before she passed away.  Our sons grew up using her belly as a pillow while they watched television from the floor or scratching her belly while she used one of their thighs as a pillow.

Our Airedale Sandy

One thing we wouldn't let her do, though, was sleep in one of our beds. Charley and I tried it once and the only one who got any sleep was Sandy.  I got so hot I had to throw all the covers off.  Then I got cold, when she went down by Charley's feet.  I guess he had more comfortable toes!

Airedales are hunters, and if Sandy got out of the yard, she chased Canadian geese on a pond two streets away.  One winter she fell through the ice chasing them and a boy had to rescue her in his rowboat.

Even after we'd wrapped her in blankets and warmed her by the fire till she was sound asleep, we didn't bring her into one of our beds.  She had a bed of her own in the kitchen.

The practice of sharing a bed with a dog was documented as far back as the ancient Greeks.  Approximately 42 to 45 percent of American dog owners today say their dogs share their bed with them, according to a survey by the American Kennel Club.

"The dog will think, 'This is my bed,' if you don't create that invisible boundary...by claiming it as yours...If one partner resents the dog being on the bed, the dog is going to sense that, so the bed won't feel like a safe place to the dog.  It has got to be a mutual and unanimous decision," said Cesar Millan, star of "The Dog Whisperer" on TV.

According to Clive Wynne, an Arizona State University psychology professor who studies canine comportment, "it doesn't do a dog any harm to ban it from the bed."  In other words, dogs can sleep anywhere without being psychologically damaged!

Not so for humans.  If the dog is getting all the affection in bed, that becomes the more intense emotional relationship.  Dogs can become a substitution for intimacy and sex.  Jealous of a dog?  It happens frequently, according to Donna Pall, an L.A. psychotherapist specializing in couples counseling.  Especially if it's the guy's dog and the woman came later.

Another reason for not bring Sandy into our bed?  Studies show an increased rate of Pasteurella infection, ringworm, and even plague (transmitted by fleas), according to Dr. Bruno Chomel, professor of veterinary medicine at UCDavis.  Sandy wore flea/tick collars and was bathed regularly, but did I want even one flea in our bed?  The Pasteurella bacteria exist in domestic dogs' and cats' respiratory tracts, so a scratch or bite might cause transmission, even a lick  And a lick would have been probable, if Sandy had had her head on our pillow.

All quotes and statistics used in this post are from an article by Dan Crane in The NY Times, May 3, 2015, Sunday Styles, p. 12.

A Restaurant Encounter

We met a friend for drinks at a popular south Florida restaurant last week.  Maria had half a martini left when we arrived.  "Good thing I got here early," she said.  "It's Happy Hour!  I'm going to try to hold this seat for Steve, but I think Derek might come, too." 

Charley and I perched on high stools across from Maria in the middle of the room.  The bartender was hustling along the length of a granite slab behind us.  Two women sat across from each other on the right end of our island.  Someone whose head was barely visible over the granite top stood waiting next to them, with her husband.  Those end stools would be vacant for maybe thirty seconds after the two women had licked their last drops.

A couple nursed Margaritas to our left and another couple cut into their appetizers across from us, next to Maria.

Steve came in, leaned in to give Maria a peck, and claimed the empty chair she'd saved.

Derek came in, cradling his pekingese against him like a babe.  The two women at the end got up to leave and Derek moved in. 

"Oh no,"  said Bobblehead from somewhere near the floor.  "We've been waiting for these seats."

"But I'm with this group," Derek said.

"Too bad," Bobblehead said, raising her haunches toward the bottom rung of the stool.

Derek came behind us. "Guess they're in a rush," he said, while I searched Lily's long hair tied into  bows, trying to find ears to scratch.   She was swaddled in a green jacket.

"Oh my God, it's a dog!  Dogs aren't allowed in restaurants," the woman next to Maria yelled, spitting some of her appetizer toward us.

"Yes they are, if they're service dogs," Derek said.

"I'm allergic!  You've got to get that dog out of here," the Spitter said.

"I don't have to do any such thing!  It's a service dog.  See the green jacket?"

"What kind of service could that pipsqueak perform?" Spitter asked Maria.

"I really don't know.  But they're allowed.  If you don't like it, write the Governor."

Maria turned to speak to us but didn't get a word out.  "Get that f______ dog out of here!" yelled the Spitter's husband from the left end.

"There's no need for that kind of language," I said.

"Everyone calm down," Charley said, pushing his palms downward in slow motion.

"I'll go outside and see if there are any tables where we can finish our drinks," I said in an attempt at peacemaker.  I still had half a Bloody Mary to finish.  No seats outside.

Mr. Foul Mouth wasn't finished.  "My wife is allergic!  Get that f______ dog out of here!"

Steve found his way to the hostess.  He and Derek had a dinner reservation, and Steve motioned to Derek the table was ready. 

Lily went along for the ride, and maybe for leftovers.   Maria, Charley, and I drained our drinks and found a quieter place to eat, as three women jumped in to take our stools.

Airedale Mixup

     Our sons grew up with a docile female Airedale named Sandy.  She was small, so they'd often wrestle on the floor together till Sandy fell asleep with her head in one of their laps.  Airedales were bred for hunting, and she chased Canadian geese, among other things.  One winter she fell through the ice and had to be rescued in a rowboat.  After that we confined her to a very large area in the backyard, where she dug up every inch of the flower beds while chasing rodents and vermin.

     When we travelled, we took her to a boarding kennel closeby.  For a reason we couldn't fathom, she couldn't wait to get there.  She would actually wedge herself in the cracked car window when we pulled into the driveway.  The owner of the kennel was always there to greet us, and she practically jumped into his arms.

     This guy was W-E-I-R-D.  With long shaggy hair pulled into a pony tail, he was a throwback to the 60's.  In fact, he often left his sentences undone and our questions unanswered.  But he loved our Sandy, and she loved him.

     We joked that the owner's pupils weren't focusing and wondered what kind of brownies he'd been munching.  Or whether he'd made doggie treats for his boarders, which might explain why Sandy was always so excited to get there.

     She was certainly well cared for and never came home sick.  When she came home to us, that is!   After one trip we talked to a neighbor who also had a small female Airedale.  He told us that both dogs had been boarding at the kennel at the same time.  When he picked up his dog and took her home, she didn't respond to her name.  "I thought that was strange, and she certainly was playful," he said.  "Then I looked at her tag.  I'd been given your dog."

     We found another kennel after that.  Sandy hid on the floor of the car all the way over.