A Major Milestone

Today is a special anniversary. One year ago today, I adopted Major.

My perfect, pudgy pillow.

Major is, as far as we can tell, part Chihuahua, part Corgi. Probably. He looks a lot like the love child between Yoda and a loaf of bread.

Was I looking to add to my pack o' dogs? No, I was not. As people informed me, I needed another dog like I needed a hole in my head. I had lost Robert only a few short weeks earlier. Christmas, New Year's, and Cassandra's birthday had passed in a grey blur. I already had a menagerie of dogs, cats, horses, chickens, and sundry other animals to care for. Plus, I'm not a fan of little dogs.

Correction.

I *was not* a fan of little dogs.

Major helped me see the error of my ways.

On New Year's Day, 2017, I went to the animal shelter with my neighbor. Her elderly cat had died and she wanted to try to fill the hole in the house he'd left behind. (I went, warning her that if she expected me to talk her out of adopting a furry creature, I was the wrong person for the job.) She came home with Bowser, an adorable tuxedo cat. And I, perusing the kennels, discovered Major.

My mom lived in an elder care facility owned and operated by one of my longest, dearest friends. Some time earlier, I'd broached the idea of having a companion dog at the facility. "Let me know if you ever find the right dog," she told me. Which is the equivalent of a divine quest, you understand.

When I got home, I called her and told her about the little dog I'd seen at the shelter. She consulted with the main nurse at the home. The nurse agreed that a little dog might be a good thing. So the next day, I went back to Animal Control and hung out with Major. He was perfect for a companion dog:

Self-assured without being snippy.

Small but solid.

Mature.

Dignified.

Quiet but alert.

Housebroken.

... All good things.

I sent my friend pictures from the pound, got the greenlight, and came home with the boy.

"You got a new dog!?" people said, doing little to hide their incredulity, because everyone knew acquiring a new mouth to feed was NOT one of my priorities.

"No, no, no," I assured them. "Just fostering him a little while. Going to take him to the vet. Make sure he's going to work out at Mom's elder care. Probably take a few weeks to get him completely introduced and assimilated. But we're not keeping him."

"mmm-hmmm," they said, unconvinced.

Couch potato.

I had the best of intentions. Really, I did. So when I took Major to Mom's home for the first time and he acted as if he'd lived there forever, I basked in the glow. Then the nurse saw him. And the glow faded.

"Ohhhh...," she said, backing away when Major went to say hello. "I didn't know he'd be so big."

...

Now, Ten-Pound Tiny Boy is many things. But "big" is not one of them. His ears are literally the biggest part of him.

This was when I discovered that the nurse in charge had not only never owned a dog before, but she was also legitimately terrified of them. And while this information would have been good to know before adoption, there was no way in the world I was taking Major back to the pound.

"I knew you'd never give him up!" friends crowed.

Meh. Let 'em crow.

Major is made of awesome. He literally made 2017 bearable. Plus, I love what happens when I look at the world from Major's point of view:

*  Every time I look at him, I laugh. Every time. He's so compact, so dignified, so utterly self-possessed. Yet he's got these novelty-store ears that crack me up whenever I see them. He is not trying to be funny. He's not particularly playful, and he's long past the puppy stage. But he is still freaking hilarious. Whenever I need a laugh, I can count on Major to make it happen.

*  He is a fraction of the size of my other dogs, who are between 50 and 60 pounds. Yet he doesn't shy away from hanging out with them.  He will wait till the girls are all asleep, then crawl on top of one of them for his nap. Through his filter, everything in the house exists for his comfort and convenience.

*  Major loves to be with people, but he isn't always thrilled about hands reaching out to pet him. He's especially not a fan of being picked up. When a someone reaches for him, he'll back away, the giant ears melt, and his entire body droops. I have no idea what happened in the little dog's past. He likes people -- on his own terms. His favorite thing to do (he's doing it now, in fact) is to curl up beside you on the couch so you can use him as an armrest. But he prefers to be the one to decide how the physical contact happens.

Watching the road for intruders.

*  He is small, but he is mighty. He has no idea how insignificant he is. When he's outside, he will stand up to anything. Doesn't matter if it's a tractor, or my Percheron gelding, or the UPS truck -- Major will stand his ground and bark to alert the world of the intruder's presence. While the other dogs are frivolously wasting their energy chasing squirrels into trees, Major is watching the road for trespassing vehicles. (His definition of a trespasser is anything he can see that moves and is big enough to crush him.)

*  Here's how to ruin Major's day: raise your voice and yell at him. Or sharply reprimand any of the other creatures in the house -- he'll take it personally. Then the whole-body-droop will be in evidence, and he will do his best "bread loaf" impression as he attempts to become invisible.

* Major celebrates every meal. Food of any kind is the highlight of his day. He will literally bounce off the walls. Then, in anticipation of eating, he will spin in circles. (Always counter clockwise... I don't know why. His tail hooks permanently to the left...) Sometimes the Dining Dance is accompanied by yips of sheer delight. The ears flap. The eyes sparkle. He derives such joy and such pleasure from a basic daily event.

Those are just some of the reasons why I'm celebrating the anniversary of having the little guy in my family. I cannot fathom the reason that made his former owners dump him at the pound. But I'm glad we found each other. I'm glad we had this year together. With any luck, I'm looking forward to many more.

10 Gifts For The Dog Lover Who Has Everything

Sooo... It's holiday shopping time. Which means stores are outdoing themselves to cram stuff on their shelves in the hopes that people will buy it without first questioning "Is this necessary?" "Is this meaningful?" or "Good heavens, what sociopath created *this?*"

Chances are, you have a few dog-lovers on your list. If you're scratching your head over what to gift them with, look no further. I present...

1. The "Fuzzy Butts" Sweater

Not only will this give you the opportunity to say "You have a Spot on your shoulder" with zero irony every time the recipient wears this item of apparel...

 

... but if you invite said sweater-wearer to sit upon the flat surfaces of your house, you'll never have to dust again.

Source: https://www.etsy.com/listing/201487548

2. Alien Facehugger Dog Leash

Because nothing says "I love my dog" like a leash designed to resemble a life-sucking science-fiction parasite. If truth-in-advertising is to be believed, the leash may also render the pooch... er... stuffed.

Source: http://creepbay.com/alien-facehugger-dog-leash/

3. The Trippin' Wolf / Dove / Electric Shock Therapy Bird Shirt

Add a kaleidoscope, an olive branch, and some bath salts, and you've got the gift that keeps on giving...

Source: https://www.etsy.com/listing/160768705/siberian-husky-wolf-shirt-dog-bird

4. The "Feelin' Horny as a Hound-Dog" Sweater

For that special someone who needs a special something. Rest assured that all eyes -- even those of the dog on the torso -- will be on whoever wears this puppy.

Source: http://www.amazon.com/Jingleballz-Mens-Antler-Sweater-White/dp/B00GTXAPE8

5.  "My Dog Has Fleas" Game

For the littlest dog-lovers on your list. Brought to you by the same people who make "Mr. Ed Broke His Leg" and "Rover's Ringworms."

Teaches children not one, but two valuable life skills: how to put fleas ON a dog and how to crank a dog's tail. Fun for the whole family.

Source: http://www.stupid.com/my-dog-has-fleas-game.html

6. The "Welcome Santa" Doormat

Because, really, if nothing sniffs your crotch when you enter the front door, there's no point in visiting, is there?

Source: http://bit.ly/11BS0tX

7. "Mouldy Dog" Topiary

It's like Chia Dog, only outside!

Source: http://bit.ly/1rBwp1d

8. Dog-Themed Toilet Paper Dispensers

Novelty toilet tissue dispensers are neither necessary nor meaningful, but -- given the right circumstances -- they can be interesting. Presenting Exhibits A, B, and C...

Exhibit A: The Minimalist

Source: http://amzn.to/1uSSUZY

Exhibit B: The Realist

Source: http://amzn.to/1Cpu3XJ

Exhibit C: The Humorist

Source: http://amzn.to/1HLzwbl

9. Giant Dog Nose Wallcovering

I *promise* you they don't already have this. For extra fun, hand-tint the edges red and name the wall "Clifford.

Source (because you know you want this...): http://www.jwwalls.com/animals-dogs/nose

10. The Demon-Dog Sweater

Those eyes that bore right through your soul! That nose that rivals Rudolph's!

Yours will be the only gift that brings with it the dual dangers of potential electrocution and immolation.

Source: http://www.rustyzipper.com/shop.cfm?viewpartnum=289641

Fa-la-la-la-la, La La La Laaaaaa!

Going to the Dogs: Meet My Muses

Today, my blog is going to the dogs.

In a wild departure from the norm, I'm not going to talk about writing at all. I'm going to yammer on about the dogs that make my life worthwhile.

I'm only half joking when I say my dogs are my muses. Their quiet energy (they sleep most of the time while I'm writing) and their tangible warmth (at any given time, at least one of them is laying on my feet) stokes the creative coals. I create better, plot better, and write better when they are around.

And if, perchance, the Muse should prescribe a nap -- you know, for story purposes -- well, they're more than happy to crawl up on the couch with me for a little snooze.

WunderGuy & I & our first 2 Dals.

When WunderGuy and I were first married, we lived in a house that had the approximate square footage of a midsize Buick. No dogs allowed. I found a way to get a horse, which I kept at the neighboring farm across the street. I found a way to get a cat. (It followed me home and I kept it. Ssshhh!) But a dog was verboten. I believe my desire for a dog was one of the fundamental reasons we bought our own place. That and wanting a living room larger than a postage stamp.

We had Dalmatians for years. Our first was a 4-year old that needed re-homed NOW! Within a few months of getting him, we also had a Dal puppy whose first owners had quickly realized they were not equipped to raise anything that wasn't stuffed.

In addition to our Dals, we acquired a beautifully bred, show-quality Whippet whose owner died and whose inheriting people gave him to us when we attended the estate sale. Oh, he was lovely! His favorite place to sleep was on his back in the bathtub, with all four legs waving in the air.

Our daughter at 11 months & Bogie at 13 years.

For years the back door to our house didn't have a lock. (We live in the country. Door locks are optional.) For years, it didn't need one. We had something better: we had Barney.

Barney was a full-grown Akita when we got him. He'd lost his family to divorce. His original owner was a fireman who worked 36-hour shifts. He didn't think it was right to leave the dog alone for days, so he came to our place.

Barney was a gentle giant. He weighed well over 120 pounds in his prime.  I had never owned a Northern breed before. I was used to dogs that would actually pay attention to me when I called their names. Not Barney. He was very much his own dog. For the first 3 weeks we had him, I thought he was deaf.

Somehow, we ended up on a Dalmatian rescue list and for years we'd get calls about every spotted dog within 50 miles that needed a home. Our final Dal was Digory, a special needs case. We had 3 dogs at the time, but got a phone call from our vet the day before Thanksgiving that went something like this:

Vet: I've got a stray Dalmatian pup here about 6 months old. Found in a ditch. The person who found him thought he was dead. He's not. Yet. Animal Aid [a local rescue agency] will pay for his vet care, but he needs a home with someone who knows these dogs. Will you take him if he lives?

Me: Uh... N--

Vet: He's a rack of bones. At least 70% underweight, with a bad case of heartworm and road rash. I don't think he's going to live. But if he does--?

And that's how we got Digory. He spent weeks in the vet's office before he could come home. He was a good boy, but had deep seated aggression issues toward other animals. He was fine with the dogs and cats we had when he came, but we were never able to successfully introduce other animals afterward.

Digory lived 12 years. By then, we had a child. I thought "Dalmatians have so much energy. I'm not sure I'm up to handling both a kid and another Dal..."

So, in our infinite wisdom, we acquired a stray part-Pit who showed up at a friend's house. Pits, we discovered, have all the energy of Dalmatians, just without the spots.

River the WunderPit is a lovely 50 lb., brown brindle bundle of energy who never met a plushy squeaky toy she didn't disembowel. She's obsessive to the point of self-destruction. She can play soccer with a horse toy - literally - for hours, and sometimes must have the ball taken away in order to rediscover her brain.

I contend that River was the inspiration for Toothless the Dragon in "How To Train Your Dragon." To press my case, I present Exhibit A:

River & Toothless: Separated at Birth?

While River is "technically" my husband's dog, Kestrel is all mine. We had a lovely, sweet English Mastiff who died of lymphoma when she was only 1 year old. I was distraught. I went to the Humane Society, where Kestrel immediately claimed me as if she'd been waiting for me to get there.

Kestrel: Always ready for something...

Kestrel is like me: very Type A. After the Dalmatian years, I generally prefer my dogs to be bigger and more laid back. Kestrel, and Fate, didn't give a rat's patootie what I preferred. Kestrel is mine. Within a few days of getting her, I did the 3-Day Novel Writing Contest. While recovering from the Swine Flu. (No, I'm not kidding.) She endured it all with me.

There you have it: the dogs that keep me sane, workout with me, are ready for a play break at a moment's notice, and inspire me. They don't care if my writing is great or shoddy. They don't care if people know who I am or like what I write. They are unconditionally accepting; fuzzy purveyors of several of life's critically important Real Deals.

-- Do you have an animal muse that makes your writing time even more enjoyable? If so, contribute your own Ode to them below! 

On the Third Day of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me: 3 Fuzzy Dogs

"On the third day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me:
3 fuzzy dogs,
2 flightless birds,
and an old farm in the country."

My dogs are members of my family. There's Type A Kestrel, who if she were a horse would be a warmblood -- leggy, athletic, with legendary endurance. After we lost our English Mastiff to systemic lymphoma, Kestrel crawled into my lap at the Humane Society, stared into my eyes and refused to budge.

"My person left me here," she said more clearly than audible words. "I have no idea why, but I'm expecting you to remedy the situation."

She came home with us before the ink on the paperwork was dry. Shortly after adopting her, I came down with Swine Flu (which sounds a lot funnier than it really is), then participated in the I-Can't-Believe-I'm-Actually-Crazy-Enough-To-Do-This 3-Day Novel Contest. The new dog and I literally spent an entire week of concentrated time together. This resulted in significant separation anxiety on her part when I was attempting to sleep for the first time in days.

Kestrel's not really into sleeping. She is the kind of dog who sleeps with one eye open. It's difficult to get a picture of her really gone. Only once have I been successful:

Usually, however, I end up with something like this:

River, the unfortunate example of what happens with an pit bull gets intimate with a Shar-Pei, has no such compunction. She's like a racing Quarter Horse: all the energy in the universe crammed into a compact brown-brindle body. She expends it in a primal burst -- POW!!  Then she's done. She's either "ON," obsessively playing with her Jolly Ball (see video below), or "OFF" (see photo above).

And last, but in no way least, there's Barkley. The only male. The only purebred. The only dog who outweighs me. The only laid-back, Type B Zen-master. Barkley has mastered the art of living in the moment. His role in life is to hold the floor down and act as a back door draft deterrent. He does these jobs well.

Barkley loves all creatures great and small. He's not nearly as fond of laying in front of the fireplace as Kestrel and River. Instead, he prefers to park himself in front of the Magic Box that displays moving pictures accompanied by realistic sounds. He's quite myopic and we speculate on how real he thinks the things inside the TV actually are. In any case, he knows the moment we pop a DVD in and hurries to his spot so he can watch along with us.

These three dearhearts make every day warmer and more wonderful. They are all "rescues." River was an unspayed stray who wandered into a good friend's front yard. Kestrel and Barkley were adopted after being dumped at the Humane Society. Someone else's loss is my inestimable gain.

I often say that my dogs help keep me sane. People laugh as if I've made a joke, but I fear I'm far more serious than they suspect. Every day, my dogs provide me with the priceless gifts of genuine enthusiasm, adoration, and unvarnished love. I am forever in their debt.

Kestrel

or, "What's in a Name?"

Yesterday the Hendrickson family (including River the Wonder Pit) jumped in the car and headed to the Humane Society for a meet-and-greet with "Crystal," an 8-or-so month old golden female of indeterminate breeding with an "I don't know why I'm here" look on her face.

Cassandra, Isaac (a friend's 6-year old) and I had made the initial foray to the H.S. on Friday after school, where we met Crystal and about 10 other dogs I could have taken home in a heartbeat. She's the one that really clicked, though.

Moments after we met, I was sitting on the floor with all 40 pounds of her in my lap. She never left my side the entire visit.

Her story is an increasingly common one, but that doesn't make it any less sad. Her owner (described by the H.S. people as "a large man, covered in tattoos") couldn't afford to keep her any more. He broke down sobbing at the Humane Society, and Crystal joined him. Many heartwrenching tears later, he finally left her. Of course, she didn't know why. She kept looking for him, expecting him to return and take her home...

She scored the highest possible score on their assessment tests. She loves kids, other dogs, men, women, cats, etc. She has (very) basic obedience, is house trained, isn't yippy, is past the puppy chewing phase...

She'd been there over a week.

I would have taken her home on Friday (softie that I am), but in the interests of keeping my happy home, felt it important that my Wonderful husband have a say in the matter. He didn't mind: he understands the vital importance of my having a dog. Some things in life are essential: Food. Coffee. Horses. Dogs.

At one point at the H.S., I said, "Ok, let's go home!" And the dog perked right up. Made me feel terrible: that word no longer means what she thinks it means.

On the way home, we figured that we should give her a new name to go with her new situation. But she already knew and answered to "Crystal." We tried variations of several similar-sounding names before we hit on "Kestrel." (A small windhovering falcon .)

It fits perfectly. She recognizes it, and I like the imagery.

Some writers (J.K. Rowling springs immediately to mind) are brilliant at naming characters. Others just phone it in, and it shows. I approach naming my animals much like I approach naming my characters. I like names that describe and define, that are unusual and occasionally evocative. The right name can add great depth and weight to a character. In reality, the name must fit the bearer for life...

Kestrel's still a little depressed. That's understandable. I am too, after just losing Sera. We get along great. I have yet to see her tail wag, but know that it will just take time. I've got that. And now that she's in our home, so does she...

Those Who Can, Do -- Part 2

or, "The Ellen Tweet"

Earlier this month, I wrote about the great work that horsemen and dog lovers Danny Robertshaw and Ron Danta are doing to rescue unwanted and abused dogs. I was honored to work with Danny and Ron as part of my involvement with the USHJA Trainer Certification Program. The ASPCA has recognized their efforts. And literally thousands of mistreated and abandoned animals have found new homes, thanks to them.

(If you can read the story of Oogy on their site without tearing up, I'm not sure I want to ever meet you...)

Now,Ellen Degeneres has taken note of what Ron and Danny are doing. These days, who knows? A single "tweet" from a dynamo like Ellen (whom I just love...) might be enough to encourage hundreds -- or thousands -- of people to get involved in rescuing, fostering, or adopting an animal that, up to now, has led a life of misery.

Think about it.

In this media saturated world, it's easy for we writers to wonder if words have the power to truly move people anymore. But sometimes it only takes 140 characters to make a difference. They can bump people out of their comfort zone, challenge complacency, and provide the impetus for action.

So often I hear people tell me that their dream is to write a bestselling book or celebrity crush-starring screenplay. But when I inquire as to the progress of their pet project, too often, all they can talk about are the obstacles they have allowed to get in their way. It is always easier NOT to do a thing.

Those who can, do. Even if it's uncomfortable, or difficult, or inconvenient. Books don't write themselves. Movies don't film themselves. Abused animals and children can't save themselves. From the creative process to humanitarian efforts, in order for anything to exist, someone must first do something.

Of course it's easier to watch TV than to write a screenplay. It's easier to read a book than to create a story. It's easier to "tsk" sadly when we see mistreatment than to get our hands dirty and remedy the situation. But think of the great works of art and literature, not to mention the countless lives that "ease" has cost our world.

I look at River, once unloved, who is now an integral part of our family. She adores us all, especially my daughter, who plays with her and reads her stories for hours on end. It would have probably been easier to get a dog I didn't have to explain to people. But we would have missed out on so much: her eternal energy, happiness, and love of life infuse the entire house.

So: kudos to Ron and Danny... and to Ellen... and to everyone reading this who feels the Muse inspire them to do something. Here's to worthwhile endeavors that make life such a ride!

Bittersweet Goodbyes and Bright New Beginnings

So far, August has been a Season of Change. To begin with, we had to say good-bye to Digory, our 11-year old Dalmatian. (Here he is with Cassandra, Christmas of 2006 -- a happier, healthier time.)

Dig' developed a sodium imbalance and went into renal failure. After several hundred dollars in vet visits, we realized that there was really nothing that could be done for him. He was depressed and wouldn't eat. When he collapsed one morning while Robert took him for their daily walk, we knew the time had come. So we said our goodbyes, and he went on a "one-way trip to Disneyland," at the vet.

For nearly 20 years, there has been at least one dog in our home.

Dig' was a "special needs dog" when he came to us, emaciated, injured, malnourished, and abused at 6 months of age. He eventually grew accustomed to the other dogs and cats we had at the time, but we were never successful in introducing any new animals to him -- he became extremely territorial and aggressive.

So, by attrition, when our other dogs and cats passed away, we were unable to bring any more into the fold.

It was odd coming home for the first time without Digory there. The heartbeat of the house is very different without a dog inside. That, coupled with my feeling that losing him was the equivalent of disconnecting our burglar alarm, made getting another dog -- soon -- a priority.

Which is why we now have Sera. Sera (short for M'Lady's Seraphim) is a sweetheart of a girl. She's an English Mastiff puppy who "only" weighed 18 pounds at 11 weeks of age. What a little gem.

My friend Wendy says that Sera is God's way of blessing us for ever raising a Dalmatian puppy. She's referring to Bogie who, compared to the laid-back attitude of Lady Large-Bones here, looks like a hyperactive teenager on crack.

I can distinctly remember Bogie at this age. I'd just brought him in from outside. I thought, "He just peed. He'll be fine." So I left the puppy alone while I literally ran upstairs to the restroom, and returned to the livingroom.

In the short time I was gone, Bogie had eaten our recliner. Right down to the metal and wood.

Sera, on the other hand, is all dignity, composure, and grace. She needs lots of socializing, and she needs to learn to like the outdoors as well as the indoors. (She's spent the first part of her life inside, I gather. She's not terribly pleased when there is only sky over her head. She much prefers a ceiling. We're working on it.) But she's as sweet and willing to learn as they come. We're looking to a long, happy life together.

Earlier this week, I discovered a blog with a review of Dr. Warson's Pain-Free Back book. The writer has encountered some spinal issues, and had some very kind words to say about the book. It's always gratifying to learn that a project I've worked on has touched someone.

I've signed a contract to work on a new book. I'll be working with Ryan Gingerich, "the Behaviorist," of Connective Horsemanship. The book is due out sometime in 2010, and I've just begun to assemble Ryan's notes. Further bulletins as the project progresses.

And, in the mother of all "Bittersweet Endings" and "New Beginnings," my little girl starts kindergarten tomorrow. Words fail to describe how I feel. I'm so pleased, and proud, and full of love and admiration for the beautiful little person she is becoming. And I'm so worried, protective, and concerned for her at the same time.

So many questions arise at this time: Will she make good choices in friends? Will she be a follower or a leader? Will the other kids want to play with her? Will she continue to love learning as much as she does now?

Part of me just wants to keep her home and home school her. But the other part (the smarter part) knows that school isn't just about learning "book stuff." It's about developing important social skills. And making friends. And learning that the sun does not really rise and set on you. All of which are important for one to live as a contributing and balanced part of society.

So -- it's off to kindergarten. Her father and I will no longer be the only authority figures in her life. We will no longer be a part of everything that happens to her. We won't even know everything that she does in a day. It's the first baby step she'll take away from us -- and that step will instigate a gap that will never be closed again.

It's a good thing that our children grow up and live their own lives. As parents, its our job to equip them to be worthwhile, connected, empathetic human beings. We want them to be strong, resilient, and dependable. But that means leaving us behind while they grow into a person that is completely separated from us.

And so, tomorrow, I'll drop my little girl off at school as August's Season of Change continues...