tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307631842024-03-13T20:55:54.666-07:00Scruffy DogsJoys and challenges of life in the company of dogs.ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.comBlogger334125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-45969982757595867552023-11-26T11:11:00.000-08:002023-11-26T11:11:15.356-08:00<p> This is a test of the ScruffyDog blogging technology</p>ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-30066913576817277962021-08-22T17:13:00.005-07:002021-08-22T19:01:42.765-07:00RIP Remy: 29 September 2012 – 09 July 2021<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v8klGU2buAA/YSGubrlWXPI/AAAAAAAAB7A/aTfI8tEpliAnDiuqpFZrB7LCtBG71RkNACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4118.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1534" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v8klGU2buAA/YSGubrlWXPI/AAAAAAAAB7A/aTfI8tEpliAnDiuqpFZrB7LCtBG71RkNACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4118.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remy</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-08569264-7fff-8034-5cdf-27d54bc95911"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not long ago I wrote a tribute to our sweet little </span><a href="https://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2021/04/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #0563c1; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kirby</span></a><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> who passed in January 2021. It took me months to muster up the ability to write about him without completely breaking down into tears. I finally came to terms with my grief by realizing that it is a gift: to grieve the loss of someone – human or animal – means you have loved deeply. And to love deeply is the ultimate blessing of life.</span></p><p style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: times;">Now, as I sit here with a blank page in front of me, a million thoughts, images, pictures and memories swimming in my head in a sea of emotions that ceaselessly rise and fall, I am faced with grief yet again and writing yet another tribute – this time for our younger dog, Remy. He was a middle-aged dog. About the same age as me, in dog years. Too young to die. </span></span></p><p style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></p></span><span style="font-family: times;"><span><span id="docs-internal-guid-b0e2f769-7fff-7c9e-7c0c-6b3017aff97d"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I didn’t think I’d be writing another one of these for at least five years. And here I am, barely able to type the words, even though I earn my living as a writer. This isn’t work. This is about love. About devotion. About respect. About how dogs are family in our household and how their loss leaves a space in our hearts that constantly reminds us of what pure love is. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span></span><span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remy was my birthday puppy.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Well, almost. In late summer, a few months after the devastating loss of our wonderful Wirehaired Pointing Griffon Baxter, who passed away in April 2012, we cautiously decided we were ready for another dog. Kirby, our little rescue terrier mix, was getting all of our love and attention, but he seemed as lost as we did without his big, scruffy lifelong companion. Baxter had been such an amazing dog, on so many levels, we decided to get another Griff (it’s what Griffologists call the Wirehaired Pointing Griffon in common parlance). No, we didn’t expect the dog to be another Baxter (he was one of a kind), but there were a number of aspects about the breed we found extremely unique, quirky and special and we wanted that energy around again.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span></span></span><span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We did some research and ended up connecting with Lisa, a veterinarian/breeder in California who had a litter of Wirehaired Pointing Griffon puppies due to whelp at the end of September, and we got on her list. Because Griffs are so unique – they are wicked smart, extremely emotionally connected to their people (think Velcro dog), very goofy AND they’re also completely gonzo as puppies and require a lot of training and exercise – breeders are </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">very </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">selective about who gets to adopt one. Having already had a Griff for 13 years, we were quickly approved. I distinctly remember her saying we could get a pup because, “Well, you </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">know</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> how they are, and you can obviously handle it.” </span></span></p></span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QS4A4jZRES8/YSGu7Z6GiMI/AAAAAAAAB7I/QZkmDLZgMIgyQVogUE0iVIeOXYH8DxmigCNcBGAsYHQ/s1024/5CA1D9E6-D1BF-4A79-BFF2-AABF97B88AD3_1_105_c.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="846" height="283" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QS4A4jZRES8/YSGu7Z6GiMI/AAAAAAAAB7I/QZkmDLZgMIgyQVogUE0iVIeOXYH8DxmigCNcBGAsYHQ/w234-h283/5CA1D9E6-D1BF-4A79-BFF2-AABF97B88AD3_1_105_c.jpeg" width="234" /></a><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I followed the progression of the pregnancy and birth and documented it in this </span><a href="https://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2012/11/a-brief-history-of-remy.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #0563c1; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">blog</span></a><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, starting in September 2012. I was hoping for a puppy on my birthday, when the mama whelped all but two of her large litter, and our guy missed it by just a few hours. I still considered him my birthday boy. I think it was still September 28 somewhere in the world when he was born. Maybe Hawaii. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We drove down to the Sacramento area to meet the litter of pups when they were about seven weeks old – we smothered ourselves in puppy kisses and sweetness and marveled that while some puppies were all over us and some were all over each other, one of them seemed to just be looking for trouble somewhere. As it happens, that was our boy. We went down again two weeks later to pick him up and </span><a href="https://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2012/12/remy-comes-home.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #0563c1; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thus began</span></a><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> our wonderful life together.<br /></span></span><span><br /></span><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jUeTYMxbJis/YSLVZ_DsiuI/AAAAAAAAB9E/mSk0pptqf5IJ5gQVDQ3cgjU9GX6EY5LDACNcBGAsYHQ/s879/8F45171F-078E-4E68-8588-B03E2505B91A_1_105_c.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="695" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jUeTYMxbJis/YSLVZ_DsiuI/AAAAAAAAB9E/mSk0pptqf5IJ5gQVDQ3cgjU9GX6EY5LDACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/8F45171F-078E-4E68-8588-B03E2505B91A_1_105_c.jpeg" width="253" /></a><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was a spirited pup from the beginning.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Clearly not the bottom-of-the-pack, roll-over immediately type of Griff our Baxter was as a puppy. While Remy was a much more assertive and strong-willed pup than Baxter ever was, he was also extremely well socialized and loved absolutely everyone he met, particularly children, and particularly little girls. (That’s a testament to the breeder, who ensured he was socialized around dogs of different sizes, got along well with cats and had regular encounters with her daughter’s brownie troop.)</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Initially Kirby enjoyed being the grownup. He lorded his seniority over Remy and it almost worked at times, until Remy got to be about the same size (which was a matter of about two weeks, Remy being a big dog). When Kirby was a puppy, he was relentless in his pestering of poor Baxter, who, at age seven, really didn’t want a little brother. Now the tables were turned. This </span><a href="https://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2012/12/mouthfuls-of-hair.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #0563c1; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">blog and picture</span></a><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> capture it well. <br /></span></span><span><br /></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--_ydvUWSlBI/YSGvmPl_PGI/AAAAAAAAB7Q/YzPvrHNH_EA7WtFYegVw3YqKNI0AYcjgACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/BFA9A9AC-267D-4180-AEC6-5056293162C4.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--_ydvUWSlBI/YSGvmPl_PGI/AAAAAAAAB7Q/YzPvrHNH_EA7WtFYegVw3YqKNI0AYcjgACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/BFA9A9AC-267D-4180-AEC6-5056293162C4.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite the wrestling, Remy and Kirby were fast friends. They continued to enjoy “wrestling” all their lives together, thanks to Remy getting down on his belly to make it a fairer fight. In a remarkable feat of selflessness, Remy always let Kirby think he was “winning.” They cuddled up together at naps, used each other for pillows and frequently spooned on the dog bed at night. They were best buddies in a way that Baxter and Kirby never managed to be.</span></span><span><br /></span></p><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In case you wonder what people mean when they say that Griffs are clowns, </span><a href="https://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-duck-tape-dance.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #0563c1; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this</span></a><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> pretty much tells it all...</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YLLOIWxELVs" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-c2aa3ad8-7fff-f29f-21eb-1ea7c07bd4ab"></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"></p></span><span><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We had a little scare -- ok a BIG scare -- when Remy was nine months old. He had been a very good boy around the house, very trustworthy, not getting into things, until he wasn’t. One day he rather suddenly became ill -- wouldn’t eat or drink, trouble with the bowels. An evening trip to the veterinary ER led to an X-ray and an emergency surgery in which the vet removed an 18” long unbraided rope toy that was lodged in his intestines. We had thrown that toy away a few days before because it was getting too chewed up…and he managed to gingerly fish it out of the waste basket without disturbing anything else in there. After all, it </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">his toy (a toy we never let him play with while unattended, by the way). Being young, he healed quickly and was none the worse for the wear, but we thought we might lose him and it was awful. Remy never raided the garbage or swallowed anything troublesome again.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He would NOT wear a cone. As in he completely freaked out. So we got him an inflatable donut collar. He LOVED it. In fact, he walked around with what appeared to be a sense of pride and specialness. We couldn't help thinking he looked like a Renaissance portrait... This is a later picture from after his neuter surgery, but you get the idea...</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mqSxJcXjunE/YSLOJ2ax2fI/AAAAAAAAB8M/HY5M6740M5M0Jhf2iBzTaaFS9idtjuuzACNcBGAsYHQ/s1024/C49E69BE-83EA-4372-BF76-0B6FD2B63956_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mqSxJcXjunE/YSLOJ2ax2fI/AAAAAAAAB8M/HY5M6740M5M0Jhf2iBzTaaFS9idtjuuzACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/C49E69BE-83EA-4372-BF76-0B6FD2B63956_1_105_c.jpeg" width="281" /></a></span></span></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We lived in a townhome at the time, but it was our dream to purchase a little piece of property somewhere in the country where the dogs could run with abandon. Until then, it was leash training. Again, Remy decided he needed to be in front at all times, and our training skills were not up to the task of taming Remy’s sheer will. He never did manage to walk perfectly at heel or comfortably on a leash. I take that back. In obedience class he was </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">perfect. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was a perfect teacher’s pet, and when it was in front of the class and the instructor, he was a model pupil. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But at home, outside, on walks, with distractions everywhere, his pointer instincts took over and he felt compelled to be out in front, sniffing out every bird (or cat or squirrel) hiding in the bushes. The Gentle Leader, while annoying to him, helped. But the pulling was largely our fault. Because we lived in a townhome the only place he got to really run was at the dog park, and for that we felt a bit guilty and wanted to let him have his walks with enthusiasm. With more work and copious amounts of treats, he got a bit better. Not a lot.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The dog park was a whole other thing. Initially it was fun and he played very well with others. Then, one day, out of the blue, a couple of huskies ganged up on him and attacked him and he screamed until we pulled the dogs off him. He wasn’t physically bleeding anywhere, but the injuries were psychological, and he was never the same after that. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thinking (wrongly) that it would be good for him to “get back on the horse,” we tried the dog park again. After all, it was usually a nice dog park with friendly dogs. It happened again. Different dogs (also husky mixes) ganged up on him. Some of this was probably due to hormones, as I described here in my blog “</span><a href="https://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2014/06/my-dogs-nuts.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #0563c1; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My Dog’s Nuts</span></a><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We didn’t want him to be fear-aggressive, so we engaged in some training and socialization to get him back to the point where he trusted other dogs again. After all, we wanted to take him to the beach, and having him cower and fear-growl every time he saw another dog just wasn’t going to work.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was finally feeling pretty comfortable around other dogs, so we enrolled him in the aforementioned obedience class, which he loved. He was a star pupil. One night, in the waiting area, he saw his friend, the trainer who had helped him get over his fear of other dogs. He greeted her with his usual waggly enthusiasm when, out of nowhere, a big, white husky (what is it with huskies?) blindsided him and clamped onto his muzzle. Blood. Stitches. The woman who lost control of her husky apologized profusely, was asked to withdraw from the class and, to her credit, she paid the vet bills. A few more positive encounters with friendly dogs helped a lot, but, for the rest of his life, Remy always approached other dogs with extreme caution. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zZdzroyFEvY/YSLO6nyhbEI/AAAAAAAAB8U/k_thEdDGeQ8TIjeT3nVqtkO3GbieCxvbgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1224/8AF88A90-E00E-4665-AB30-6F59590BB45E_1_201_a.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zZdzroyFEvY/YSLO6nyhbEI/AAAAAAAAB8U/k_thEdDGeQ8TIjeT3nVqtkO3GbieCxvbgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/8AF88A90-E00E-4665-AB30-6F59590BB45E_1_201_a.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we moved to the country in 2014,</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Remy and Kirby finally had a big yard to run around in, and Remy was as happy as a dog can be. He didn’t have to interact with other dogs – just Kirby. And trips to the beach were almost like neutral territory where he could just avoid confrontation and run and wrestle with Kirby and swim and body surf (yes, once he discovered he could swim out and ride the waves in, he did it over and over and over).</span></span><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The beach was our happy vacation place. We were never sure if Remy couldn’t hear us yelling in the wind and mist (the Oregon Coast is a windy and misty place much of the time) or if he simply </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">chose</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> not to hear us, but early on, he had a penchant for just running off. This surprised us. Griffs are usually close working dogs, and Baxter was never out of our sight. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FR-fO5iw_uY/YSGw8TP7y7I/AAAAAAAAB7g/-PoyD6N5gUY5LxHmwoPySB2F02gSCmnHQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1440/57A8B07C-FEAE-466C-ADA8-EEA4A7E6E76C.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="1440" height="270" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FR-fO5iw_uY/YSGw8TP7y7I/AAAAAAAAB7g/-PoyD6N5gUY5LxHmwoPySB2F02gSCmnHQCNcBGAsYHQ/w342-h270/57A8B07C-FEAE-466C-ADA8-EEA4A7E6E76C.jpeg" width="342" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Remy, however, had a mind to do what pleased him, and on one of our first couple of trips, he took off heading southward, toward some seagulls, and he just kept going. We thought we might have to drive to California to retrieve him. He did eventually turn around and notice that we were tiny specks in the distance, screaming and frantically waving our arms. He decided he’d better come back. </span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a Velcro dog who followed us </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">everywhere </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in the house – even so far as wanting to come into the bathroom with us – a he had a whole new gear when he was outside, particularly if birds were involved. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a couple of years in our new little farmstead, we were fortunate to adopt three adult hens and a lovely coop from a friend who was getting out of the Portland backyard chicken thing and wanted to rehome her little flock. The birds didn’t think much of the dog, but Remy was absolutely </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">obsessed </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">with them.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chicken watching ended up being one of his favorite pastimes. He was, after all, a bird dog, even if we had never trained him to hunt. Every time he went outside he had to do a few passes by the chicken pen, and he’d usually stop and point and quiver, as if to tell us “Hey, there are big, fat birds over there, why isn’t someone </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">doing </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">something with them?” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The chickens have a pretty big pen, but we like to let them out to forage for grubs and worms in our yard. Trying to avert disaster, we kept strict rules on who got to occupy the yard at a given time, making sure the bird dog and the birds kept their distance. Remy did manage to get outside at the same time the chickens were roaming the yard on a few occasions (human error). He absolutely reveled in chasing them and flushing them. The hens were not amused. A couple of times he even managed to corner a chicken, but he never laid a tooth or claw on any of them. He just quivered and held them there, excited and proud. What a good pointer!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While he was a gonzo boy outside, in the house Remy was a totally chill couch potato with one exception: If we were outside and he was in the house and could see us through the window, he would bark and whine and lick the glass and jump up and down (I have dog nose smears on the sliding glass door of my office that reach at least five feet high) incessantly until we either let him out or put him in a room without a view. Then he’d just lie down and nap. It was a sort of separation anxiety. He never exhibited separation anxiety when we left the house, but the thing with Remy was, </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">if we were around, he had to be with us. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nta_LBreElQ/YSLbzwd4FnI/AAAAAAAAB9U/4ydatgEiQ10XGaMdVXT5tliqgP6pPvygACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/CCB85B6F-BACB-4EDC-8936-88D578171913.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nta_LBreElQ/YSLbzwd4FnI/AAAAAAAAB9U/4ydatgEiQ10XGaMdVXT5tliqgP6pPvygACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/CCB85B6F-BACB-4EDC-8936-88D578171913.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This closeness was part of what made Remy so special to us. Griffs are known for being extremely connected and communicative with their people. That’s why they make excellent medical alert dogs (a friend of mine has one and trains others). </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remy relished gazing into our eyes. When he was in the same room with one of us (which was pretty much all the time) he was usually touching us – sitting on a foot, leaning against the chair, lying down with a leg stretched out to touch whatever part of us was closest. Remy knew that my elderly mother, who lived with us, was frail and moved slowly. So while he would sometimes get the playful zoomies or run smack dab into Jamie or me while racing for the ringing doorbell, he would always come to a screeching halt and gently saunter around Mom, giving her hand a gentle nuzzle as he went by.</span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lojYHvLyj2w/YSLRDb0O2GI/AAAAAAAAB8k/LLv_pWxlpHcxc51OiTPfEkFDEBm5EfJqwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/DB82AB8D-A89C-4F50-B1CE-27A35AF65B7F.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="204" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lojYHvLyj2w/YSLRDb0O2GI/AAAAAAAAB8k/LLv_pWxlpHcxc51OiTPfEkFDEBm5EfJqwCNcBGAsYHQ/w271-h204/DB82AB8D-A89C-4F50-B1CE-27A35AF65B7F.jpeg" width="271" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how I watched the World Cup.</td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While little, lap-sized Kirby preferred to lie on the floor next to us, Remy was a 75-pound lapdog. He liked to join me on the sofa in the evening, as we watched movies. He’d stretch out over my lap and lie there with his butt hanging off one side and his head draped over my knees or on my chest. Whenever I didn’t feel well, he would put his paws on my stomach or my chest and look me straight in the eyes, as if to say “I’m here for you.” </span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">One of his quirkier habits was to pull his favorite towel (yes, a bath towel was one of his most beloved toys) between his front paws, and suck on the corner. We called this “nucking.” He could do it for remarkably long periods of time, always seeming to be in his own little world of comfort. Sometimes he would sit on my lap and nuck at the same time. If he ever felt anxious, for any reason, a few minutes of nucking would calm him right down.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like most every dog, Remy loved routine. Every morning, after breakfast, he would follow me into my office in the back bedroom, stationing himself in front of the sliding glass doors to watch the goings on in the yard and orchard while I worked at my desk. Once he had taken in the landscape, he’d pad over to my chair – a ball – and lean against it, snoring away while I typed on the computer.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When Kirby passed away, Remy was out of sorts. He would go and lie down on Kirby’s favorite spots. It seemed like he was waiting for Kirby to come home. We were sad, and Remy was a constant comfort, coming to us often for reassurance (which wasn’t exactly unusual). There was a Kirby-sized hole in our lives and in his – he had never been an only-dog. He got extra hugs and extra car rides. (Kirby never liked to go in the car, so we’d leave them home together to keep each other company when we ran errands.) Remy LOVED riding in the car, so, in the cooler months of winter and spring, we’d take him with us pretty much everywhere. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then it began.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> One beautiful late spring day in mid-March we were sitting outside under the maple trees and Remy was running his rounds of the yard, looking for ground squirrels and pointing at the chickens. When he came to me to check in, I noticed that his lower eyelid on one eye looked inflamed. I figured he’d gotten into something, but on examination I couldn’t find anything. Maybe allergies. We decided to watch it for a day or two and if it didn’t get better, we’d take him to the vet.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It didn’t get better. And we soon found out that getting into a vet during the pandemic was a surprisingly long and complicated process due to special precautions and all those newly adopted “pandemic puppies” needing care. When we finally did get an appointment, the vet wasn’t exactly sure what was causing the problem, but she also noted his lymph glands were a bit swollen and wanted to do a biopsy. The biopsy was inconclusive, but showed some abnormal cells. She wanted to run another test. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the meantime, she said, try to get an appointment with an oncologist, just in case, as specialists were running weeks out on getting appointments. Oncologist? Our hearts sank. The “inconclusive” gave us hope that it was something else, anything other than cancer. After all, he was his normal, energetic self.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It took us a couple of weeks to get Remy into an oncologist. At the first visit (remote for us, due to Covid-19) we waited in the car and the oncologist called us on my cell phone to deliver the news -- the additional test confirmed that Remy had lymphoma. Not just lymphoma, but Stage 5, B-cell lymphoma. How could this be? He was </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">so normal </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in every other way?! With Lymphoma, days and weeks make the difference between going into remission with treatment and not. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We broke down – it just...wasn’t...possible. Our beautiful, energetic, vibrant, athletic dog couldn’t be </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that sick. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But he was. Within one week his blood work had shown significant decline in his red and white blood cells – it was in his bone marrow. They recommended we start chemo immediately, but they gave us choices – levels of treatment (or not) and walked through all of the scenarios with us, prognosis for survival 1 month, 3 months, 6 months, a hope of remission. Some dogs went into remission for a year, even two years. It would be expensive. It would give us hope. It would allow him to be with us longer and to make sure his last months of life were filled with joy and play and love. Chemo was our best hope. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In dogs, the objective of chemo is to prolong </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">quality of life </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span>not just life. So, unlike humans who can make such choices for themselves, with dogs they give lower doses of chemo, enough to try to get the cancer into remission without making the dog severely ill and miserable. We opted for the gold standard: the CHOP protocol.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iJErqGo9BnE/YSLkq2HHgfI/AAAAAAAAB9w/2zQOdrzqV2I74KsemXT8qGl0aAn4vJ-lACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/90A73327-3845-4D0E-977D-A2B87AA25196.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iJErqGo9BnE/YSLkq2HHgfI/AAAAAAAAB9w/2zQOdrzqV2I74KsemXT8qGl0aAn4vJ-lACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/90A73327-3845-4D0E-977D-A2B87AA25196.heic" width="240" /></a>I won’t go into the entire thing here. It’s just too hard. But it was a roller coaster. Some drugs worked really well for him. Others did not. He went into temporary remission. Then it came back. After chemo he would be fine – then suddenly sick for a day or two, not eating or drinking, then he’d bounce back and be his normal self again. But throughout, he aged. He weakened. He lost his beard and moustache and looked like a different, but still handsome, dog. We commented that it was as if he had aged years in a matter of weeks.</span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One morning something just wasn’t right. He didn’t want to eat or drink (nausea, we figured) and only wanted to lie outside and look into the orchard and smell the wind. We called the vet and took him in just to check his vital signs – they were OK, so we took him home and gave him lots of love and time out sitting in the yard, smelling the wind. Instead of getting better as the day wore on, as he usually did, his condition worsened, so we decided to take him to the ER. Remy passed before we got there. It felt like a nightmare.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We knew cancer was a terminal illness, but lymphoma is one that carries some hope of remission. And we’d held on to that hope. We’d become used to him bouncing back and we’d stopped assuming the worst. Then the worst happened </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">so incredibly fast</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. We were devastated. In shock. To this day I still can’t quite believe how quickly a vibrant, healthy, energetic dog can be completely ravaged by cancer. And while I know we can’t change the past or second-guess any choices based on hindsight – because it does absolutely NO GOOD – I still think if I’d known it was his last day, we would have just continued to sit with him in the orchard, smelling the wind. </span></p><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOy2sQTm_0I/YSGx4OCmLVI/AAAAAAAAB7w/jEsTptUBbGIzwwexh5zmK1ZHRvXluuvXACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_8747.JPG" style="clear: right; display: inline; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="234" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOy2sQTm_0I/YSGx4OCmLVI/AAAAAAAAB7w/jEsTptUBbGIzwwexh5zmK1ZHRvXluuvXACNcBGAsYHQ/w311-h234/IMG_8747.JPG" width="311" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the beach, early in his treatment.</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We don’t regret trying to prolong his life – had we not done chemo, given his diagnosis, we would have been lucky to have another month with him. We got three and a half. And while we hoped we’d get years more, we made sure we made the most of that time, knowing those last few months might be our last months together. It gave us time to do some of his favorite things, go to some of his favorite places and spend more time cherishing each moment. We did a lot of snuggling. A lot of napping together. A lot of extra love and treats and car rides and gazing into each other’s eyes. He adored the affection and we adored him. Those months were intense, and having that extra time with him was special. But losing him, even though anticipated, was not something I was at all ready for.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The roller coaster of emotions was now a flat, full-tilt grief.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The house was empty. We did the math, and we hadn’t been without a dog in 23 years. There was now a Remy-shaped hole in our lives, along with a Kirby-shaped hole that still had us keeping his dog bowls under the sink. Every pattern, every habit of every day involved Remy. We found ourselves hesitating at all the moments when we would have been doing something with him or for him – preparing his meals, giving him carrots as we made salads, saying “let’s go to work” as we headed down the hall to our offices or “we’ll be back, you be good” whenever we went out. I was missing the vibrant, breathing, loving being who nuzzled me and kept me going all day, reminding me that there is more to life than work. Suddenly, with him gone, I found it hard to focus on my work at all.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Having a dog for a shadow all day is a comforting thing, and it’s one of the things I miss the most. I miss the sound of his big, fuzzy feet padding around the house. I miss his huge sighs and the spinning around a half-dozen times before he laid down. Remy was ever-present, always available to give and receive unconditional love and affection. Every day his abundant, positive energy – even when he was sick – was a reminder to live life with joy. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_GnpDuHByp8/YSLR6rpxecI/AAAAAAAAB8s/Vs5AOGf5kcUIHkKAQxE_t_JikRZntV3hgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/3D18691D-5FE2-4D47-8A52-9CF4B0B01379.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_GnpDuHByp8/YSLR6rpxecI/AAAAAAAAB8s/Vs5AOGf5kcUIHkKAQxE_t_JikRZntV3hgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/3D18691D-5FE2-4D47-8A52-9CF4B0B01379.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For weeks we went through the motions of each day, constantly feeling like something huge was missing. Two dogs, with whom we shared our lives for many years, closer than most of our human family, gone – in a time when the loss of human life was also great (that’s another story I won’t go into here, because this is a dog blog). </span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We realized we were suffering two kinds of grieving – both the loss of our beloved dogs, Remy and Kirby, as unique and wonderful individuals, and the loss of our decades-long experience of living with canines. We had an overflowing abundance of dog love flying around us with nowhere to land. So it landed on every dog we met at the beach, passed on the street, saw under a patio table at a restaurant (we live in Oregon where people eat outside at restaurants with their dogs). It took me nearly a month and a half just to get to the point where I could write this. And, eventually, that loving energy led us to a serendipitous introduction to a dog rescue organization…more to come on that story.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remy was a unique soul.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Sweet, loving, the most needy and affectionate dog I have ever known (Baxter, also a Griff, was as affectionate, just a tad less needy). Like Baxter, Remy was a dog who seemed to have the unique ability to read our minds and see into our souls. He knew our intentions before we made them known overtly. Remy was a complete clown who kept us laughing with his antics for eight-and-a-half years and reminded us to live every day with joy.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remy was special. And I consider myself fortunate to have known him, to have loved him, and to have been the recipient of his constant, unwavering affection.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remy, we will miss you for all of our days.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sMmHda0O2YU/YSLmE8Ia1fI/AAAAAAAAB-A/idIza5B1-58izEkKjnIj337ouhTkkL5rACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_6527.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="419" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sMmHda0O2YU/YSLmE8Ia1fI/AAAAAAAAB-A/idIza5B1-58izEkKjnIj337ouhTkkL5rACNcBGAsYHQ/w335-h419/IMG_6527.jpeg" width="335" /></a></span></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d6QVEK5Hwc4/YSLmDp3Vl-I/AAAAAAAAB98/kdi81kwiC64tNCwwMwl97lphnDbWQOr5gCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_6638.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="447" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d6QVEK5Hwc4/YSLmDp3Vl-I/AAAAAAAAB98/kdi81kwiC64tNCwwMwl97lphnDbWQOr5gCNcBGAsYHQ/w335-h447/IMG_6638.jpeg" width="335" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6vvNHLpeAU/YSLdRh5SL_I/AAAAAAAAB9c/E36NGNrd0eU_3Xjmv2du0MAIEcxQDNryQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1280/09FC9E52-9482-4395-90BE-25A1FC3500EB.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="245" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6vvNHLpeAU/YSLdRh5SL_I/AAAAAAAAB9c/E36NGNrd0eU_3Xjmv2du0MAIEcxQDNryQCNcBGAsYHQ/w327-h245/09FC9E52-9482-4395-90BE-25A1FC3500EB.jpeg" width="327" /></a></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DR0HOCyk5lI/YSLUgSxxByI/AAAAAAAAB88/9NnsvALiOz8eHqpzhSWONGFO1xV9z0Y4ACNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/4AC41280-A874-4F95-92D9-5B5726E4C7F9.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="415" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DR0HOCyk5lI/YSLUgSxxByI/AAAAAAAAB88/9NnsvALiOz8eHqpzhSWONGFO1xV9z0Y4ACNcBGAsYHQ/w311-h415/4AC41280-A874-4F95-92D9-5B5726E4C7F9.jpeg" width="311" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p></div></div>ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com10Banks, OR 97106, USA45.6177996 -123.114410420.390268492349946 -158.2706604 70.845330707650049 -87.9581604tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-3350916639368125552021-04-01T19:45:00.007-07:002021-04-01T19:49:39.991-07:00RIP Kirby: 7 July 2006 - 10 January 2021<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLfVd9wFN74/SILYdMCc6aI/AAAAAAAAAaI/XAtjVGni5QITbAjG4LATFhZPh-lmKTd6wCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/20080707%2Bkirby%2B-%2Btwo%2Byrs%2Bold%2BIII.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1234" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLfVd9wFN74/SILYdMCc6aI/AAAAAAAAAaI/XAtjVGni5QITbAjG4LATFhZPh-lmKTd6wCPcBGAYYCw/s320/20080707%2Bkirby%2B-%2Btwo%2Byrs%2Bold%2BIII.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This is another post I haven’t wanted to write. I’ve been putting it off for a couple of months because it has been too hard to capture my thoughts without feeling like every word is somehow inadequate.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On January 10 we said goodbye to our sweet little dog Kirby. He was 14-1/2. That’s in the zone for a dog’s typical lifespan, but being a little terrier mix, we had hoped Kirby would be one of those scrappy little dogs who lived to be 20. His passing seemed too quick to be real. He was fine the evening before, trotting around the house being his jaunty little self, until, quite suddenly, he wasn’t. His tail, which was almost always wagging, was hanging low. Something was amiss.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We thought it was just stomach trouble. Kirby always had a penchant for eating anything stinky he found in the lawn and we figured he got into something that didn’t agree with him. In our experience, these things usually passed (though often not without gaseous fanfare). But he didn’t seem any better in the morning, so we took him to the veterinary ER. We honestly thought we would be bringing him home with us later in the day, blockage removed. Sadly, imaging showed he had multiple tumors, and he was declining quickly. It was his time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2OoRpGpJ3MQ/U72SVOmuhuI/AAAAAAAABdI/kySsv8cEcN4SYTq776NK6pV3Y2PqApxBwCPcBGAYYCw/s1378/2014%2B07%2B08%2BKirby%2B%2540%2B8%2Byrs%2B-%2B1A%2BREDUCED.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1378" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2OoRpGpJ3MQ/U72SVOmuhuI/AAAAAAAABdI/kySsv8cEcN4SYTq776NK6pV3Y2PqApxBwCPcBGAYYCw/s320/2014%2B07%2B08%2BKirby%2B%2540%2B8%2Byrs%2B-%2B1A%2BREDUCED.jpeg" /></a></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Such a quick passing was in character for Kirby – he never did anything slowly. And, while it was hard for us, it was a blessing that he didn’t suffer long. Wouldn’t we all be lucky to pass so quickly after living a long life as he did: full-throttle with abundant enthusiasm and joie-de-vivre.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It’s one thing to know that intellectually, but another thing entirely to feel your heart breaking as you say goodbye to your beloved companion.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Now there’s a little Kirby-shaped hole in our lives. All his sweet little quirks (and he had plenty) are now in the memories that crop up at regular intervals throughout the day. Both Jamie and I think we see him out of the corner of an eye or hear him across the room, muttering that it’s time for dinner (something he did each evening to remind us to put down the laptop or phone and get on with the meal prep).</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Even after all this time, I still hesitate at the times we would have engaged – our morning snuggle, putting on his collar by the door, waiting for him to finish his morning “walkabout” in the yard, preparing the dogs’ breakfast, even hearing a big truck go by on the road and waiting for the barking to commence… And that’s just in the first hour of the day.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Our big dog, Remy, waited for him too. For weeks he seemed confident that Kirby would once again emerge from behind a shrub or under a chair. Remy still sleeps on top of Kirby’s favorite places, which are now some of his favorite places to play with his toys and take naps. He raises his head when a loud truck goes by, waiting for Kirby’s cue. Silence. Sometimes he lets out a single “woof” then looks around, confused and alone in his concern. Remy is mourning too, in his own way. He follows us everywhere with an intensity that’s greater than normal (his breed, Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, is notorious for being “velcro” dogs who never let you out of their sight). He and Kirby often slept with a head or paw over each other, touching backs or spooning. Since he came home with us when he was 11 weeks old, Remy has never known life without Kirby.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1535" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cO5XFGY5UuE/YGZ4uD1BbWI/AAAAAAAAB1E/lR57Q5RCAJkWExo_2tLictbPLuH_DS5XQCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_8310.JPG" /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Despite Kirby’s death feeling like it was too soon, there have been times we felt like he was on borrowed time. He had some health challenges in his senior years – Cushing’s Disease (which was managed well with medication and herbs) and a genetic disorder that led to glaucoma, two eye surgeries and, eventually, total blindness. Because of those moments when we briefly thought we were losing him, we came to cherish every day he was with us. And for that I am grateful – what a blessing to have recognized, while he was alive, just how precious every one of those snuggles were.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Originally, Kirby wasn’t going to be our dog. I told myself we were getting him for my mother after my father passed away. She lived in Arizona at the time, too far away, and I thought a little terrier dog, like the one we had when I was a teenager (her first and only dog) would ease some of her loneliness. I pictured her having a little companion to care for and snuggle with, a warm little being who would give her a reason to keep going out for walks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I started trolling Petfinder for a scruffy little dog and one day this picture showed up:</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZkfqXgPmuBg/R8UIrHICk0I/AAAAAAAAAWs/ZmdXMxOIROIipENLdNz16dxzrRB61eMNwCPcBGAYYCw/s200/Kirby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="122" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZkfqXgPmuBg/R8UIrHICk0I/AAAAAAAAAWs/ZmdXMxOIROIipENLdNz16dxzrRB61eMNwCPcBGAYYCw/s0/Kirby.jpg" /></span></a></div><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was smitten. He looked so sad, and so cute, and he just begged for a loving home. He was still a puppy, so the idea was to bring him home with us and use our wonderful, well-behaved Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, Baxter, to train him. Then we would take him to my mom as a surprise gift at Christmas time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="1136" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QCK4lW0tg60/R13i4NocjtI/AAAAAAAAAT8/M9PngDH-nBY7v6Vt9seR4JXUWpyMoJGTgCPcBGAYYCw/s320/Kirby%2B20061105.jpg" width="320" /></span>Mom informed us she didn’t want a dog to worry about (so much for my plans…though I suspect she saw how attached we were to Kirby). And that’s how we ended up with two scruffy dogs – one large and one small – with completely different personalities. Baxter and Kirby were quite a pair. The whole story of Kirby’s early years is chronicled in this blog’s entries beginning from the day we brought him home, so I won’t cover it all again here. But years later, when<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mom came to live with us, she ended up sharing an abode with her little grand-dog and the two of them napped together most afternoons – Mom in the chair and Kirby curled up under it.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kirby was a mixed breed, but despite there being numerous lineages in his canine ancestry, he was mostly terrier at heart: lightning-fast, smart, spunky, independent, fierce, lord of the manor, announcer of all comers, liking affection on <i>his </i>terms and definitely not a lapdog – a lap was a nice place to visit, but he wouldn’t want to stick around there very long. He loved his cuddles on the floor – his territory.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As a pup, Kirby drove 7-year-old Baxter crazy at times with his antics. Bax would occasionally look up at us, as Kirby raced around him and jumped all over him, with an expression as if to say “Why did you do this to me. Didn’t we have a great life before?”</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Anything Kirby was excited about was worth bouncing for. It was as if his feet were spring-loaded. He was also very quick. One of Kirby’s favorite pastimes was doing the “Kirby Derby” – he’d take off and run at top speed around the living room, rounding the sofa, dodging under chairs, into the kitchen and back out the other side. He’d do this over and over and over until he wore himself out and flopped down exhausted.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y0lJDWs9ZAA/SGm9RJc-INI/AAAAAAAAAZY/HRiOPwCn7FEitIDK4uGMunMluv7kLjoeQCPcBGAYYCw/s320/20080620%2Bbax%2B%2526%2Bkirb_500.jpg" /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kirby loved pouncing on little things that move fast. He even caught a mouse once – a little rodent bandit that had been raiding our pantry. He didn’t kill it – he just stunned it and stood over it, marveling, I think, at his own success.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">He was true to his terrier “land dog” ancestors…Kirby hated going into any water above his little, low-to-the ground knees. We once got him to swim in a pond at a friend’s farm. He only went in because we ALL were in there, including Baxter, and were coaxing him. But Kirby didn’t like it at all and swam to shore as soon as he could. He loved going to the beach. He couldn’t care less about the ocean, but the beach was his place to run with abandon then dig a deep hole in the sand and lie down in it to stay cool.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The only time I saw Kirby being anything other than bouncy and vivacious in his young life was when Baxter died. Bax was his companion. His wrestle-mate. His shelter (literally) in a storm…he always stood under Baxter when they were out in the wind and rain. Baxter mostly tolerated Kirby, but Kirby was devoted to Baxter nonetheless, and he never stopped trying to spoon with Bax whenever he could. When Baxter passed, Kirby didn’t embrace being an only dog. He seemed out of sorts. So alone. He needed a companion.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1iZiUakimNk/YGZ-zbqMSMI/AAAAAAAAB1M/p27WxBKpNecLbMPm9E2sD6_ZaRYGRHVyQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1296/2012%2B12%2B12%2Bremy%2B%2526%2Bkirby%2B%252803%2B-%2Breduced%2529.JPEG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1iZiUakimNk/YGZ-zbqMSMI/AAAAAAAAB1M/p27WxBKpNecLbMPm9E2sD6_ZaRYGRHVyQCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/2012%2B12%2B12%2Bremy%2B%2526%2Bkirby%2B%252803%2B-%2Breduced%2529.JPEG" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">When we brought little Remy home, another Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, Kirby was happy to have a companion again and was totally on board to “school” him. Kirby got a taste of the relentless puppy-nagging he had given to Baxter seven years earlier and he didn’t particularly like it. But Remy was also extremely affectionate toward Kirby, and Kirby loved every minute of that, snuggling close. Finally, a Griff he could spoon with!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">When Remy quickly outgrew a reasonable playmate size, Kirby took it in stride. In his mind, Kirby was a big dog (even though he proceeded to use Remy as rain cover). And, to Remy’s credit, he soon came to realize that Kirby was small and could easily be hurt by him. So Remy started “floor wrestling,” lying down and pretending to wrestle, letting Kirby think he had the upper hand. Remy would roll over, gently swat at Kirby with his big paws and allow Kirby to totally “dominate” him. It was pretty cute. Kirby maintained his status as lord of the manor and he always let Remy know, in no uncertain terms, that all toys belonged to Kirby. Even when they didn’t.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: arial;"> </span><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PLb9xz4G2CE/UabIDBUekSI/AAAAAAAABVY/ecfIXWP5dG0ZbEXG-B3ypiFa4el9hgd1wCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/Remy-n-Kirby.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PLb9xz4G2CE/UabIDBUekSI/AAAAAAAABVY/ecfIXWP5dG0ZbEXG-B3ypiFa4el9hgd1wCPcBGAYYCw/s320/Remy-n-Kirby.JPG" width="320" /></a>Kirby always got along well with other dogs, but once Remy joined the family, Kirby took on the role of Remy’s protector (at least in his own mind). Once, when Remy was a puppy of about six months old, a couple of rambunctious pit bulls decided to chase him at the dog park. Kirby immediately ran to Remy’s “rescue,” taking on the two pit bulls as if he actually thought he could fight them off. Thankfully, the pit bulls had on electronic collars and the owners called them off before they shredded Kirby. But I think Kirby thought he won that round. The whole incident had a distinct ring of “I can pick on my little brother, but nobody else can.” Kirby continued to behave like Remy’s protector for the rest of his life, even though Remy was three times his size.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When we moved out to the country in late 2013, Kirby took it in stride. He loved racing around our big yard, rolling in the grass and savoring the fine tastes of “deer berries” and “chicken fudge,” which he also liked to roll in (much to our chagrin). He had a particular penchant for munching on wild onion tops – not something dogs should be eating much of – and every morning he came into the house with onion breath.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">About four years ago Kirby started getting cranky. We thought it was just advancing age, but when he started acting a bit aggressive toward people and other dogs we were concerned. He stopped jumping at the door and his back legs became shaky and weak. He developed a pot belly and his hair started falling out. His once beautifully lush tail looked more like that of a rat. He was thirsty and panting all the time. Something was wrong.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Diagnostic tests showed that Kirby had Cushing’s Disease, which causes dogs to have high cortisol all the time. Cortisol is a major fight-or-flight stress hormone. No wonder he was snappy and nervous! The vet put him on a drug called Vetoryl and we consulted with a holistic vet as well, who prescribed several different Chinese herbs to help with the Cushing’s and with the potential side effects of the drug. The combination worked like magic (his regular vet said his recovery was remarkably quick compared to other dogs she’d seen). His pot belly shrank back to normal (he always was a little bit thick), all his hair came back and he mellowed back into his former sweet self. And, best of all, he got his bounce back. It was like having a new, younger dog again. And it was a thrill to see him racing around the yard again.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4w87IXyvPG0/VdkZhwT3vfI/AAAAAAAABjI/5DGyA76EIbc36aJNw9g_8-KOXCBGeECrgCPcBGAYYCw/s1080/11947737_10154076340259186_6713223249012933443_o.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4w87IXyvPG0/VdkZhwT3vfI/AAAAAAAABjI/5DGyA76EIbc36aJNw9g_8-KOXCBGeECrgCPcBGAYYCw/s320/11947737_10154076340259186_6713223249012933443_o.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Completely separate from the Cushing’s, about a year later Kirby suffered from a genetic condition typical in terriers – lens luxation – which eventually resulted in the loss of one eye, then the other eye a few months later. We had tried for months to save the last eye by giving him three different eye drops for glaucoma, administered like clockwork at three different times of the day. We didn’t mind, and Kirby didn’t mind either, but it wasn’t enough when an accident dealt the final blow – his lens luxated again and with the high pressure he lost his sight in that eye as well. So there he was, at age 13, totally blind. Yet intrepid as ever.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: center;">He learned to navigate through the house and around the yard, using his little sideways ears like curb feelers. He would follow us by listening to our feet. And as his hearing waned in his last months, we would clap and he would follow the clapping. He did occasionally lose track of his inner GPS and wander “off piste,” getting himself caught up in the blackberries, so we had to watch him carefully. But through it all his joie-de-vivre never waned. He still bounced at the door and had a spring in his step when he trotted. As my husband Jamie so aptly put it, “</span><i style="font-family: arial; text-align: center;">he settled into a comfortable, bow-legged trot when he was older that suited his surveying and exploration</i><span style="font-family: arial; text-align: center;">.” Kirby never lost sight of the fact that life is an adventure. We were always amazed at his resilience, his ability to move about in total darkness and never seem the slightest bit put out by it.</span><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In his last couple of weeks, which we didn’t realize were his last weeks, he started a funny habit when I meditated in the evening. Almost like clockwork, as I put on my headphones and started a guided meditation, Kirby would start rolling around on the carpet next to me. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the joyfully loud grunting and groaning noises he made as he did it. It never failed to make me laugh and lose ALL semblance of focus. But it charmed me to the core, and that was as good as meditation for helping me let go of the troubles of the day. Something about that pure, unbridled joy always gave me perspective.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kirby had multiple nicknames over the years. Bug. Little Mug. Little Buddy. Bud. Little Dude. Kirby-Derby. But mostly Kirb or Kirby. He was my sweet, steadfast little guy who stole my heart and never let it go. It has been hard to adjust to not having his little face looking up at me, wistfully, as I put carrots on the salad each night. I still look over, and I take a beat to remember him and how much he meant to me. To Jamie. To Remy. And I am reminded that mourning is a gift, because it means we have loved deeply.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Rest in peace, sweet Kirby. I will always love you.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t92IDaP23zg/SgZcQPZesXI/AAAAAAAAAso/OAXyFaSNjTULIu4C_myx0WhWU0OV7037QCPcBGAYYCw/s600/20090503%2Bkirby%2Bat%2Bnewport_reduced.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t92IDaP23zg/SgZcQPZesXI/AAAAAAAAAso/OAXyFaSNjTULIu4C_myx0WhWU0OV7037QCPcBGAYYCw/s320/20090503%2Bkirby%2Bat%2Bnewport_reduced.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-75074254686107667462015-08-22T18:00:00.002-07:002015-08-22T18:00:48.380-07:00Dogs and PicturesOur first Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, Baxter, was very photogenic and didn't mind having his picture taken (as evidenced by many posts on this blog). He didn't always like it, but he tolerated it well and was pretty good as posing.<br />
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Our little dog, Kirby, picked this up from Bax. He doesn't particularly like having his picture taken (and frequently acts like he's done something wrong when we tell him to sit still), but he usually tolerates it well and will hold a pose long enough for us to snap a quick shot.<br />
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Our young Griff, Remy, wants nothing to do with this picture thing. He actively dislikes having a camera (or phone) pointed at him and will go to great pains to avoid it. This is one reason why there are far fewer pictures of Remy around than there were of Baxter or Kirby at his age.<br />
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This morning I managed to get Kirby as a captive audience (Remy is pretty good at photo-bombing, despite his inability to pose for a portrait). I was having a bit of trouble getting Kirby to turn around and look at the camera. After much prodding he finally did, but I ended up loving the first picture the best...<br />
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Kirby: "I'm not giving in, I'm not looking at you.<br />
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Me: "Come on, Kirby. Look at me."<br />
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Kirby: "Oh, alright, if you INSIST."<br />
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Kirby: "Happy now?"<br />
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Me: "Yes, Kirby, thank you. You are a good boy."<br />
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Kirby: "Where's the treat?"<br />
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<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-74650105293004434912015-04-09T10:13:00.001-07:002015-04-09T10:13:24.842-07:00Remy is Finally Learning to Speak Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Like many teenagers, Remy was a bit socially awkward. At least in terms of dogs (he has always been quite adept at interacting with humans). His dog-awkwardness is not something I have wanted to admit, so I haven't made much of an effort to write about it. But I'm happy to report that Remy is finally figuring things out, and I've decided that it bears a blog post.<br />
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I guess this is sort of a continuation of my earlier post, <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2014/06/my-dogs-nuts.html">My Dog's Nuts</a>, where I went into detail about why we delayed neutering Remy until he was 21 months old and some of the issues we faced in having an adult, intact dog (not what I had expected). Now, 9+ months post neuter, I hope this report might help others who have delayed neutering their dogs and, as a result, found themselves with a dog that didn't get quite enough socialization during adolescence.<br />
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Most every dog innately knows how to speak some dog language. At least the big stuff. (Remy does get the big cues.) We humans understand a tiny fraction of dog communication, and we frequently get it wrong. ("Oh, he's wagging his tail" doesn't always mean "he must be friendly" -- it's all about <i>how </i>the tail is wagged, its position, etc.) There are far more subtle cues that dogs use to convey things to each other that most of us in the human realm don't even see. Adding layers to that, there is a lot of information dogs convey through scents and sounds that even the best dog whisperer will never understand because they're physically out of the realm of human perception.<br />
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Remy came to us from a wonderful breeder whose family spent a great deal of time working on socialization of their puppies. He came pre-loaded with a love of children (little girls in particular), other dogs and even cats (yes, they had a dog-loving cat who played with the puppies). Remy was always a happy, social puppy. Before he was six months old, we took him to a local doggy daycare for a couple of their Sunday puppy romps. He had a great time. Any dog we greeted on leash or in a park was a fast friend, at least from Remy's point-of-view. And when he was old enough to hold his own, we started taking him to the local dog park to run and play with other dogs. He loved it.<br />
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But, as I wrote previously, Remy's sexual maturity complicated that situation greatly. We stopped taking him to the dog park after he was attacked twice by neutered dogs (he did not provoke the attacks). We couldn't take him to doggy daycare or play groups because most of them don't allow intact dogs older than six months old. (I subsequently found out from a doggy daycare provider that this isn't just because they were concerned about the intact dogs being aggressive, they were just as concerned that neutered dogs tend to react in a passive-aggressive way toward intact dogs and that tension can lead to bad situations for all the dogs involved.)<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sHH3UsRdX1Y/VSay5H6aAeI/AAAAAAAABgQ/tOzgFLpArg0/s1600/IMG_6240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sHH3UsRdX1Y/VSay5H6aAeI/AAAAAAAABgQ/tOzgFLpArg0/s1600/IMG_6240.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>I guess we complicated things further when we moved to a larger property out in the country when Remy was just over a year old. Suddenly he had a lot of wonderful room to run and play in, but his only playmate was our other dog, Kirby, who is 1/3 his size. He got to play with our friends' dogs when they came over or when we all went to the beach, but those opportunities were few and far between.<br />
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Occasionally we would take Remy out for a walk on leash around our old neighborhood in town. We thought it would be good for him to see some of his old dog neighbors and meet some new dogs occasionally. We soon discovered that Remy, probably as a result of having been attacked before, was becoming very nervous about meeting new dogs. He would approach them to sniff, but something was different. He was no longer just assuming that everyone was his friend. Instead, he was wary.<br />
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Some dogs we approached were fine with Remy. The friendly old Golden Retriever, for example, didn't let it phase her and the two dogs had good interactions. But other dogs would start growling at him. A couple even lunged at him. We weren't sure if it was Remy's tenseness that set them off or if they were sensing his intact-male hormones and feeling threatened. This didn't have to happen very many times before Remy's wariness cranked up a notch. He started approaching EVERY dog with extreme caution, as if he just assumed they weren't going to like him. His defensive mechanisms started to turn into proactive notifications -- little growls as he approached other dogs that conveyed "don't come up to me and hurt me or I'll hurt you back."<br />
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We knew this was not good. And, of course, this made us humans nervous whenever we were approaching other dogs. Was it going to be a good interaction or a growling one? I'm sure any fears Remy had were just amplified by our own nervousness and we knew we had to break this cycle somehow or we'd never be able to take Remy out for a hike or a romp on the beach.<br />
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We had seen this negative feedback loop happen before with some of our neighbors. A new puppy is all sweet and friendly. Then something happens that makes the people nervous about having their dog meet other dogs -- perhaps there was an altercation between their dog and another while out on a walk (sometimes dogs just don't like each other). Anyway, it starts small, but the people reinforce the dog's anxiety by tightening the leash whenever they approach another dog. The fear of the dog and the fear of the people feed into each other until they have a leash-aggressive adult dog who cannot meet new dogs without a snarlfest.<br />
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One of the reasons we neutered Remy was because we didn't want this to happen. We knew that neutering him was no guarantee that he'd get along well with other dogs again. But we hoped it would help other dogs not feel so nervous around him, which might, in turn, help him not feel so nervous around them. We were also told that neutering him might calm his reactions a bit if and when a dog did growl at him.<br />
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Our breeder (who is a veterinarian) said that it could be about six months before all the testosterone was out of his system, so the reactivity might still linger for a bit. About three months after he was neutered, we started trying to curate some positive dog interactions for Remy. We had a couple of positive interactions at the beach on Remy's birthday and only one growl-fest -- with an off-leash Corgi who came running at him and surprised him from behind growling. Remy growled back and we were glad we had him on a leash. Nobody got hurt and the Corgi's owner apologized. But it was clear Remy was still on high alert.<br />
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We had one not-so-positive session with a local dog trainer who just didn't seem to read Remy's personality very well. So we decided to try taking him to a doggy daycare to give him a chance to be around other dogs in a more casual, playful environment. We told the staff there that he was nervous about meeting new dogs, so on his first visit, which was a 4-hour evaluation session, they paid special attention to his reactions to try to read what was fear, what might be aggressive and what his play style was. Remy immediately bonded with one of the staff people there, and it was very apparent from the get-go that she understood Remy's personality far better than the previous trainer did. She introduced him to the other dogs and gave any overly-assertive dogs either a water spray or a time out in their crate so Remy had time to play with the gentler dogs. We got to watch through their window and via a webcam after we left.<br />
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Remy was clearly nervous, tail tight against his bottom, and on the defensive. Eventually he started slinking low up to other dogs. When he realized the other dogs weren't out to get him, he started sniffing and allowing himself to be sniffed. He started circling and after a short time he was running around and playing. After about an hour of this he decided he wanted to go home and just laid down by the gate and stared at the door, panting. But overall, the session was a success and they welcomed him back to the doggy daycare any time we wanted to bring him.<br />
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We have since brought him back four more times and, with each successive visit, he has become more comfortable around all of the dogs. He is dealing well with the more assertive dogs and is clearly not feeling like he has to be the top dog there. Instead of growling back, he licks the dominant dogs under the chin and either leaves them alone or tries to engage them with a play bow. The last couple of times we brought him, he was so excited to go he started whining when we drove into the neighborhood and practically pulled our arms off as we went in the door because he was so eager to get inside and play with his friends.<br />
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I cannot tell you how relieved we are. What seemed like a budding potential fear-aggression issue was overcome by the highly tuned-in staff at the doggy daycare and the nice group of dogs who play there every day. It really seemed like the key to his transformation was that they trusted Remy (but with a watchful eye) and let him come around on his own to make friends.<br />
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The woman with whom Remy bonded so quickly told us he was just a little socially awkward at first -- he didn't quite know how to relate to his peers and he didn't have all his doggy language straight. All it took was some supervised time with friendly dogs and he quickly learned the dog lingo and made some play buddies.<br />
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We plan to take Remy there every few weeks for some doggy play time (and to give Kirby a break). And we now feel comfortable that Remy can meet new dogs without fear. He's learned how to handle himself around assertive dogs without snarling back and he's learned to be more open and friendly. And that's everything we were hoping for.<br />
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I don't know if the same thing would have happened had Remy not been neutered -- some say the "super-male" effect of high testosterone in young male dogs starts to wane by the time they're two and they settle down a bit. But the fact remains, Remy wouldn't have had a chance to go to the doggy daycare if he wasn't neutered.<br />
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And thanks to his doggy daycare experiences, we now feel more comfortable taking him out on the trail or to the beach knowing that most dogs will accept him without fear and that he will be able to greet them without feeling defensive. There will always be aggressive dogs to watch out for, but at least he's not one of them.<br />
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Remy has learned to speak dog, and that makes his humans very happy.<br />
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<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-1150687379838675352015-03-09T18:53:00.002-07:002015-03-09T18:59:58.081-07:00Amtrak Allows Pets: But it took a bill in CongressFor many years I've been scratching my head at the fact that Amtrak, which is ever-struggling to remain a viable form of transportation, hasn't allowed people to travel with their pets. While huge numbers of people are jetting across the country with their cats and dogs, paying a premium for pet-friendly accommodations and spending an unprecedented amount of money on their furry friends in general, Amtrak has remained clueless to a marketing opportunity of giant proportions.<br />
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Apparently it took a bill in Congress to make Amtrak do something it should have done a long time ago. No, it's not perfect. According to <a href="http://www.thebark.com/content/amtrak-welcome-dogs-and-cats">The Bark</a>:<br />
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The bill specifically directs Amtrak to figure out parameters of the program within one year of its passing, which will need to include a designated pet car on each train. Traveling animals will ride in a kennel and be subject to a to fee (amount to be determined).</div>
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For now, pet kennels must fit within Amtrak's carry-on luggage size limits, 28" x 22" x 14". That's bad news for big dogs, but it is larger than the standard in-cabin size for pets traveling by plane.</div>
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Yeah, bad news for big dogs. Because little dogs can already travel in relative luxury inside cabins on airplanes while larger dogs are relegated to the cargo hold where temperatures, air pressure, oxygen and other necessities of remaining alive are not guaranteed (yes, I know many people travel with their pets in cargo and some airlines do a better job than others, but a friend had a pup nearly die from oxygen deprivation and lack of proper pressurization, so I know it does happen). This is why so many dog-loving travelers own or rent RVs and take road trips. But geez, who wants to drive an RV down Highway 1?<br />
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I've always loved road trips, but my favorite part is when someone else is driving. This is where trains come in. Traveling in places like Japan and all over Europe, my husband and I have experienced the relative luxury of train travel -- allowing someone else to do all the driving while we relax and enjoy the scenery. Those places have train systems that are efficient, cover most of the country and are usually on time. Amtrak can't quite get there, at least not in the West, where it shares many of its lines with freight trains that always seem to get precedence. But having dogs on board would be a check mark in the positive column, on balance.<br />
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I dream of a better situation here in the US for train travel. I want the train travel experience it to be like it was in the old black-and-white movies...you know, when traveling by train across the US was <i>cool</i>. Traveling in a sleeper car with my hubby and my dog, like Nick and Nora Charles above, would be pretty awesome. Although in one of the Thin Man movies, they ended up traveling in the baggage car because they insisted on bringing Asta with them... As I watched, I actually thought for a moment that it wouldn't be too bad traveling like they did in the baggage car if they allowed me to do it with my dog. Short trip maybe. Otherwise I would much prefer having windows...nevermind.<br />
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My idea of a pleasant, low-stress, cross-country trip would be on a train outfitted with both a pet-friendly policy and a car carrier (so I'd have my own transport when I arrive). It would be something like this:<br />
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<li><b>Nice digs</b> -- big seat next to a window so I can sit back and enjoy the scenery, catch up on my reading and sleep. For overnights and cross-country trips, I'll take a sleeper car.</li>
<li><b>Good food</b> -- not the packaged food/snack bar variety on many trains. I want to eat the way they used to eat on trains in the old black-and-white movies...you know, when train travel in the US was <i>cool</i>.</li>
<li><b>Dog on the seat next to me.</b> Ok I know this would bother many people who have allergies. So do peanuts. So I'll sit in the car with all the other "dog people" who want to take their furry friends with them. </li>
<li>If I can't have the dog in the seat next to me, then <b>a kennel car will due</b> -- particularly if I have visiting privileges. </li>
<li><b>Potty stops</b> -- designated areas at train stations for the dogs to go relieve themselves and for the people to get some air. </li>
<li><b>Dream scenario: </b>they'd have a supervised doggy "romper room" car where you could go play with your dog and other dogs for short periods during your journey. Man, how the time would fly, even if you didn't.</li>
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I would get off at my destination and my dog and car would be there too. In the meantime, I'd feel good about having saved a lot of gas, enjoyed the ride and kept my pet with me rather than in a kennel. Almost perfect.</div>
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<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-31631303517632709912014-10-06T10:41:00.000-07:002014-10-06T17:18:23.170-07:00Happy 2nd Birthday, Remy!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remy - 2 Years - Newport, Oregon (29 Sept. 2014)</td></tr>
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On September 29, 2014 Remy turned two years old. He was almost my birthday puppy -- Remy's mama began delivering pups on September 28, 2012 and I had my fingers crossed for a birthday puppy. Alas, the whelping went on into the wee hours of the next morning and that is when Remy came into the world. So we share a great "24 hours" of birthday. This year we spent our birthday weekend in the coastal port town of Newport, Oregon in an apartment that overlooked the harbor, complete with NOAA ships, fishing boats and dozens of noisy sea lions on the rocks to watch (and listen to 24/7).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remy - 2 Years - Newport, Oregon (29 Sept. 2014)</td></tr>
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While being the ripe young age of two might signify adulthood with many other dogs, Griffs maintain at least some of their gonzo puppy energy and attitude well after two. It's just part of their charm. Remy is no exception. He still has that teenage-puppy joie de vivre, that unbridled enthusiasm for all things and a playful spirit that, I hope, will never leave him.<br />
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In terms of the big things, though, he really has matured into a nice, adult dog. (Note: I am only half-jokingly knocking on wood as I type this, because making the following types of statements in the past has seemed to almost invite trouble...)<br />
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I'm pleased to report that, at this point in his young life, Remy is pretty darned trustworthy. He doesn't counter surf (thank heavens). He doesn't mess up the furniture (though I do believe, based on the mysteriously rumpled afghan and warm dent in the pillow, that he occasionally gets up on the "invitation only" sofa while we're gone...).<br />
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He no longer chews on shoes. We made an early attempt (10 mos. old) at giving him freedom to roam about the house while we were gone for short periods. We had left him inside while we were out working in the garden or on a short trip to the store and he managed to stay out of trouble, so we began to trust him. Let is suffice to say, with the humans having lost the heels and insoles on several favorite pairs of shoes and Remy having major abdominal surgery to remove an 18" long rope toy that was lodged in his gut (a discarded rope toy he pulled from a wastebasket I might add), we decided he wasn't ready for that level of responsibility. Remy spent a few more months being crated every time we left the house.<br />
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Eventually we mustered up the courage to try again for longer and longer periods and, I'm happy to report, he has proven himself to be very trustworthy. No more chewed shoes or missing toys. No evidence of wastebasket surfing either. He doesn't like it when we go without him, I'm sure, but he gets it. When we start putting on our shoes he gets all waggly and hopeful. Then we turn on the music or the TV and puts on his best hang-dog look, walks over to the rug and lies down, usually with a big sigh. And every time we come home he greets us with that full body wag and look of pure joy.<br />
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He is learning patience. He waits for the "go" sign before rushing out the door (usually) and before diving into his food bowl (always). He doesn't jump on people (ok, there's the occasional overly-enthusiastic greeting, but he seems to know the difference between people he can jump on and people who would be horrified by such an act). He treats my 88-year-old mother like the queen of the house. While he bounds through rooms on window deer patrol, at times running into us and stepping on our feet, with Mom he slows down and gives her space. And when she's home alone with the dogs, Kirby keeps watch by the door while Remy lays at her feet like a protector.<br />
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There's more to work on, for sure. Like consistent recall (particularly at the beach). But more on that later. In honor of Remy's second birthday, I just want to express how very proud I am of the wonderful, responsible dog he is growing up to be!ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-60116196383556581662014-08-20T19:59:00.001-07:002014-08-22T14:06:51.233-07:00The Beach is the Best<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bPFKZzyybN8/U_VZqP_-pSI/AAAAAAAABd8/Op99rZcqch8/s1600/IMG_5731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bPFKZzyybN8/U_VZqP_-pSI/AAAAAAAABd8/Op99rZcqch8/s1600/IMG_5731.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>Yesterday we went to the beach. This wasn't any ordinary trip to the beach, it was our almost-annual beach trip with some friends, two of whom are Canadians who make it a priority to visit Oregon's beautiful beaches on every trip out here.<br />
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Remy and Kirby haven't been to the beach for a while. Between work on weekdays and the whole process of packing up the final items at our former house and getting it ready to sell, we just haven't been feeling like we could take a day off for a beach trip. That's a shame. Oregon's beaches are so lovely in the summertime. They're also filled with people. So we all picked a Tuesday, hoping it would offer that perfect mix of being able to take a day off and getting the weekend tourists out of the picture.<br />
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Great strategy. We left early and when we got to Indian Beach there weren't very many people there and no other dogs. It was mostly us, a handful of intrepid early risers and a bunch of surfers taking advantage of yesterday's big waves.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uCNNgfju4fU/U_VZplPktLI/AAAAAAAABd0/XEssMSJ8afA/s1600/IMG_5733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uCNNgfju4fU/U_VZplPktLI/AAAAAAAABd0/XEssMSJ8afA/s1600/IMG_5733.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>After making sure there were no major obstacles to us removing the leashes, we let the dogs off. Remy, Kirby and our friends' dog Vito took off in fits of joy, chasing after thrown balls, running through the surf (though Kirby, being the terrier-type he is, wouldn't go in past his knees).<br />
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Remy's first definitive act at the beach was to storm a crumbling sand castle and claim it as his own. <br />
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Then Remy noticed something...dark, human figures bobbing on the top of the waves a ways from shore. Now THIS was interesting. (We usually go to long beaches without a lot of big waves, so he had never seen surfers before.) Remy had to go investigate. He launched himself into the surf and swam out, braving the breakers, to greet the surfers.<br />
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Fortunately, the first surfers he came upon were dog-friendly and they gave him a happy greeting. Satisfied, he decided surfers were OK and he could leave them to their business. He proceeded to body surf his way back through the waves and rejoined our group. He spent the rest of the morning fetching bumpers and balls, approaching friendly people and attempting to climb barnacle-covered rocks (not cool). I think he learned that lesson pretty quickly and amazingly his paws, now sufficiently calloused, didn't seem much worse for the wear.<br />
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What was really fun was seeing just how much in common Remy, a young adult Griff, had in common with our friend Emerson, who is a tall, athletic 16-year-old. I swear, those two were like twin brothers of different species. They both had no problem braving the cold Pacific waters and spent most of the day running around, tumbling in the surf and climbing things.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rI-J73Fbfm0/U_VZsOcNt7I/AAAAAAAABeE/KCG1YVfhu-M/s1600/IMG_5737.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rI-J73Fbfm0/U_VZsOcNt7I/AAAAAAAABeE/KCG1YVfhu-M/s1600/IMG_5737.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>At one point Remy caught sight of some small children walking up the beach with their parents. Putting on his full body wag, he approached them (Remy loves children and becomes gleeful at the sight of them or the sound of children playing.) Unfortunately, the parents were NOT friendly. They grabbed the kids and hid them behind their legs and started shooing Remy away before he even had a chance to approach the cute little child in the pink hoodie and her big brother. Remy had a toy in his mouth that, I'm sure, he intended to show the little girl in the pink hoodie, but instead, recognizing he wasn't wanted (this is progress) he gave a muffled bark and turned away.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Editorial Pause:</b> I'm sure those people had their reasons. Perhaps the parents had had bad encounters with dogs on beaches before. I'm sure a lot of people do. I get that. But there's always a little piece of me that becomes sad when I see parents instilling fear and keeping their children from having any sort of healthy relationship with dogs. Those kids will encounter dogs their entire lives and mommy won't be there to protect them. I just hope they get over their parents some day. There are certainly unfriendly dogs in the world. But when a happy, scruffy Griff comes at you with a full body wag and a big orange toy in his mouth, that should be your cue that this dog's most likely OK. The way I see it, teaching kids that ALL dogs are scary probably isn't a wise thing if you want your children to grow into well-adjusted adults. </blockquote>
<br />
In any case, I have to say, I was proud of Remy for recognizing that not all people want wags and sloppy dog kisses and friendly toy-sharing. He's finally old enough to understand that. And I feel a lot better about taking him to the beach now.<br />
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I'm focusing on Remy, as Kirby is an experienced beach dog. Kirby was, of course, a little herder the whole time. At one point I had to turn back to go pick up a poopy bag I had set down and, seeing that I was leaving the pack, Kirby had to accompany me and try to guide me back to safety. He succeeded. Job done. It was a good day for Kirby.<br />
<br />
Vito, a Lagotto (Italian Water Dog) was in heaven, of course, and he and Remy had a great time playing in the surf, stealing each other's toys and getting as wet and sandy as caninely possible.<br />
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Yes, it was a good day all around. And the people had fun too.<br />
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<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-3006433917754118242014-07-28T18:59:00.000-07:002014-07-28T19:04:10.429-07:00On Gluten and Grain Intolerance<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YikDgb3wF8E/T2kqgKZF8nI/AAAAAAAABEM/u7h2kRyIjto/s1600/IMG_1311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YikDgb3wF8E/T2kqgKZF8nI/AAAAAAAABEM/u7h2kRyIjto/s1600/IMG_1311.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baxter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Back in 2006, after battling with allergies, skin problems and recurrent ear infections for seven years, <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2006/07/baxter-gets-acupuncture.html">we took our Griff, Baxter, off of ALL grain</a>. He lived another six happy, healthy years without a single skin allergy problem or ear infection. <b>Not one.</b><br />
<br />
So we started our little dog, Kirby, on grain-free dog food the day we rescued him from the shelter; and our Griff Remy, now 2 months shy of 2 years old, has been grain-free from the day we brought him home as well. Remy has never shown any signs of allergy to anything, and we don't know if the grain-free food has anything to do with it, but we're not taking any chances. He's a healthy pup.<br />
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When Dr. Pema (the holistic vet) explained to me that dogs didn't evolve to be able to digest grain effectively, it made perfect sense. I even wrote an <a href="http://www.polishingstone.org/articles/feedingdog-newton.html">article about it</a> for <i>The Polishing Stone</i>, a wonderful (but sadly now out-of-print) magazine. Sure, dogs are omnivores who seem to be able to eat just about anything, but they're primarily meat eaters and historically they got their grain pre-digested in the guts of the animals they ate. Industrially-processed food didn't enter into the equation until fairly recently, and grain makes a great (and cheap) filler.<br />
<br />
<b>So, after all this, I'm not sure why I didn't really give much thought to grain's effects on people. </b>That is, not until recently, as more and more of my friends and colleagues started going "gluten free." Yes, I live in Portland, and the gluten-free craze has risen to the level of being a Portlandia send up. I fully admit I was one of those people who believed that a certain percentage of those "gluten-free" people had real problems and the rest were just jumping on the bandwagon. The fad would soon be over and everyone would find some other food to vilify. But the more I read about gluten and grain issues in people, the more I'm realizing there actually is a lot more to it. The thing is, when people get off wheat and other gluten grains, many, if not most, of them feel better. There are multiple reasons for this. But, nonetheless, I thought I'd try it and see what happened.<br />
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It DID make a significant difference in a number of ways. I'll spare you the details, but let it suffice to say I feel a lot better. This <a href="http://drhyman.com/blog/2012/02/13/three-hidden-ways-wheat-makes-you-fat/#close">article</a> by Dr. Mark Hyman explains a lot about why grains -- particularly wheat -- are making many of us unwell and we don't even realize to what extent. Most importantly, the wheat we (and our dogs) are eating today is NOT the wheat of our ancestors. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>"This is not the wheat your great-grandmother used to bake her bread. It is FrankenWheat – a scientifically engineered food product developed in the last 50 years...Not only does this dwarf, FrankenWheat, contain the super starch, but it also contains super gluten which is much more likely to create inflammation in the body. And in addition to a host of inflammatory and chronic diseases caused by gluten, it causes obesity and diabetes."</b></span></i></span></span></span></blockquote>
I wish I hadn't noticed significant things when I got off gluten. I LOVE bread. I love many, many things that involve flour (which, in our culture, is just about everything). I wish it were all in my head or that I was just on some fad diet. But the truth is, I, like Baxter, seem to have some pretty obvious allergic reactions when I eat gluten-y, wheat-y foods and all of those reactions go away when I stop eating them.<br />
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I would cry. But it's hard to get too bummed out when I feel so much better. I will, for a while, lament the loss of wheat and some of my other favorite grains. I may try to have it narrowed down a bit to see if maybe, just maybe, I can eat some rye or barley or other good grains that make those micro-brews I love.<br />
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For now, though, I just have one more thing in common with the dogs...<br />
<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-63777768043495328902014-07-23T11:17:00.000-07:002014-07-23T11:17:01.725-07:00Kirby Likes Gromit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ghQWYa-R4mE/U8_6X8fd0AI/AAAAAAAABdk/cRc65U1JI4w/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-07-23+at+11.08.59+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ghQWYa-R4mE/U8_6X8fd0AI/AAAAAAAABdk/cRc65U1JI4w/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-07-23+at+11.08.59+AM.png" /></a>Last night we dug out our DVD of <a href="http://www.wallaceandgromit.com/characters/gromit.html">Wallace & Gromit </a>for a little light entertainment. Remy and Kirby were doing their usual evening ritual -- a little wrestling, then settling down with their chew toys. Suddenly, when Gromit (who, in case you aren't familiar with the British claymation-style animated series, is the dog) appeared on the screen, Kirby stopped what he was doing and ran up to the television. He sat in front of the TV and barked whenever Gromit appeared on the screen (this is what he does when he sees real dogs on television -- he totally ignores the people, but the second a dog comes on screen he runs over and starts barking at it).<br />
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I think what surprised me about this is that Gromit is a very stylized dog. He doesn't have a lot of the features of a real dog. He doesn't bark. He reads the newspaper and walks on two legs (sometimes) and expresses himself mostly through his eyebrows. Yet Kirby unmistakeably recognized this clay figure as a dog. He didn't bark at the clay people. He didn't bark at any of the other animals. Just Gromit.<br />
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This got me to thinking about dog facial recognition. What makes a dog a dog to another dog? I always figured it was a combination of how they look and how they smell and sound. Most dogs we see on television are barking or panting or otherwise making noise. In this case the only clues were the face and ear shape, big humanlike eyes and a round black nose.<br />
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Gromit may act like a person, but, according to Kirby, he is most definitely a dog.ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-89690376730807516032014-07-09T12:07:00.003-07:002014-07-09T12:28:35.660-07:00Happy 8th Birthday, Kirby!<br />
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<b>I can't believe our scruffy little guy is eight years old!</b></div>
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He's spent his <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2006/11/introducing-kirby_03.html">life</a> around Wirehaired Pointing Griffons and despite being 1/3 the size, I
believe he thinks he is one. (He even points.) As a pup he <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2006/11/puppy-in-princes-court.html">relentlessly</a>
<a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2006/11/rawhide-and-knowing-when-to-back-off.html">pestered</a> our adult Griff, Baxter; was <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2012/06/kirby-goes-solo.html">crushed </a>(as we all were) when Bax
passed away; then got the <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2012/12/mouthfuls-of-hair.html">other end of the golden rule/dog karma</a> when we
introduced our Griff puppy, Remy, to the household a year and a half
ago. Despite his diminutive size, he manages to <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2013/01/morning-choreography-and-wishing-for.html">hold his own</a> with the
big dogs. We love you, Kirby!</div>
ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-87014804531080507152014-07-07T18:20:00.000-07:002014-07-07T18:20:23.150-07:00People and Pedigree<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3RrOHGswWwg/U7s-8vAm7gI/AAAAAAAABcg/UIJNK1OKXTU/s1600/IMG_4452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3RrOHGswWwg/U7s-8vAm7gI/AAAAAAAABcg/UIJNK1OKXTU/s1600/IMG_4452.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a>We have a purebred dog...Remy, a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon of excellent pedigree. We also have Kirby, a little shelter dog of much less fancy and much more diverse lineage. Is one dog better than the other? No. They're just different. We mostly knew what we were in for when we brought Remy into our home. He is intelligent, athletic, obsessed with birds and is an absolute clown. He has wiry hair that doesn't shed much, never requires combing and repels burrs like teflon. He is devoted and affectionate and doesn't want to be far from his poeple. He has his own unique personality that is certainly different from our first Griff, Baxter, but he still has these characteristics that are just part of how Griffs are.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xoFON4dNX8s/U7s_JXpWhsI/AAAAAAAABco/Ey_KRfvZBwI/s1600/Image+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xoFON4dNX8s/U7s_JXpWhsI/AAAAAAAABco/Ey_KRfvZBwI/s1600/Image+11.jpg" height="151" width="200" /></a>With Kirby it has been an ever-unfolding mystery. He pounces on his toys and gives them the "terrier death shake" with aplomb. He is little, but he defends our house with the ferocity of a Rottweiler. He also herds us down the beach as well as any collie and he points at birds (granted, he might have learned the latter from living with a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon most of his life). Kirby is a sort of Renaissance dog with a little Napoleon thrown in.<br />
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When it comes to genetics, I am a bit of a mutt within the broad category of Western Europeans. When my ancestors came to seek their fortunes in America (most in the 1600s and 1700s), they had unique cultural and ethnic identities. For a few generations they stayed within their cultures. But by the time my great-grandparents came along, it must have been a lot more accepted to marry outside one's community. An Irishman married a Pennsylvania Dutch German. An Englishman married a French-Canadienne. That's my mom's side. My dad's side stuck a little closer to the "British" ethnic home with marriages among English, Welsh and Scots-Irish. Mind you, my older relatives on the Scots-Irish side were certain to emphasize the "Scots" portion of Scots-Irish -- they were fierce Protestants with a disdain for Catholics. I'm not sure they even knew why, at that point, having lived in Illinois and Iowa for generations, but somehow the old rivalries managed to get carried on along with the stubborn Scottish DNA.<br />
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I don't look like I have a pedigree of any certain origin. In North Iowa I grew up with a lot of people who were pure-blood Norwegians and Swedes (think "A Prairie Home Companion: South of the Border Edition"). Many of my friends had blue eyes, blonde hair and names that ended in -son and -sen. I was fascinated by their family traditions and foods like krumkake and lefse. The closest thing we had to a family food tradition was my mother's use of herbs and garlic (French) and my father's British range of food preferences (from brown to white).<br />
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So when I got my DNA test back from Ancestry.com, I was a little surprised to learn that despite having no known heritage suggesting Nordic ancestry, my DNA tells another story. It says I'm 12% Scandinavian. At first I thought the DNA test must be wrong. Then I got to thinking about where the Vikings landed and my Scottish and English ancestors...(and probably a few Norman ancestors as well). Somehow, that Viking blood managed to make its way through so many generations it landed in me with absolutely no discernible Scandinavian family names as far back as I can trace my family history. How many of those fierce Campbells of Scotland (my tribe of human terriers) got some of that ferocity from the Vikings who landed there? Probably more than a few.<br />
<br />
But does DNA matter, really? Not unless you have some sort of family gene that indicates a susceptibility to a certain disease, and even then, as the science of <a href="http://www.nature.com/scitable/topicpage/epigenetic-influences-and-disease-895">epigenetics</a> is revealing, even that is not a blueprint, as you can turn on and turn off genes through your environment, your lifestyle and the food you eat, among other things. And those genes can be passed down as well. What your father or grandfather had to eat during his lifetime might have as much or more influence on whether you get diabetes or cancer than the presence of a particular gene would indicate.<br />
<br />
In any case, the search for DNA markers that indicate ethnic heritage is an interesting line of study, I think. It's fascinating to me that someone might have, say, an Italian last name, but no measurable amount of DNA markers associated with Italian people. The family name was carried down through the fathers, but the "Italian genes" that went with it got diluted or simply not passed along somewhere in the process of marrying out to a few non-Italians down the line.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nI3g6jeWrJ4/U7tAfZuhJFI/AAAAAAAABc4/yqM6IfkcM0k/s1600/IMG_5204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nI3g6jeWrJ4/U7tAfZuhJFI/AAAAAAAABc4/yqM6IfkcM0k/s1600/IMG_5204.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>This happened with me. Another puzzle in my DNA results was the lack of Irish DNA. My great-grandfather on my mother's side came to the US from Tipperary, Ireland. This we know. We have the records. He is my most recent connection to an old country of any kind. So you'd expect that DNA to be pretty significant in me. We had my mother's DNA tested and she came out 28% Irish. According to the DNA test results, Irish people have a pretty strong set of DNA markers -- a native Irish person has a score of 95% (some others, like English, are more admixed with other ethnicities that have overrun the country at various times...(Vikings, Normans, Romans, etc.) But Irish is one of the most pure ones in terms of recognizable DNA markers. For Mom, whose grandfather came from Ireland, a DNA match of 28% seems pretty expected.<br />
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You'd think mine would then be at least 12 to 14%, right? Nope. 3% Irish. I have more "Iberian Peninsula" (5%) and Italian (4%) than I do Irish, and I have no known heritage from either of those regions. Apparently those Scots-Irish Campbells were so stubborn, even their DNA kicked out the Irishman in my inheritance.<br />
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I don't care. I'm still wearing a green shamrock on Saint Patrick's Day, just like Grandpa told me to. <br />
<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-33820799659559304632014-06-28T18:23:00.002-07:002014-06-28T18:30:30.551-07:00Oh the Oregano!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-71R3_6zkFVk/U69jVg_QgzI/AAAAAAAABcE/dBK0dfddXC4/s1600/IMG_3228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-71R3_6zkFVk/U69jVg_QgzI/AAAAAAAABcE/dBK0dfddXC4/s1600/IMG_3228.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Last fall, after about 15 years of talking about moving to the country and looking at properties and not finding "the place," we finally purchased a little three-acre farm. We fell in love with the lay of the land and the trees and the sweet view of the Coast Range.<br />
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Like all farms around here, our little farm has a history, and part of the fun of buying the place has been piecing together that history from limited information and new discoveries. Some of that history is about the house, which is a work-in-progress that I'll discuss at another time. The real fun for me has been watching the flora and fauna popping up everywhere. <br />
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Having first looked at the place in the early fall, we had a pretty good idea of the late-summer plants and we knew there was a grape arbor and an orchard with plums, pears, apples and cherries. The previous owner, we were told, loved to garden and had planted herbs, medicinal plants and perennials around the house and yard, but all had finished their blooms by the time we saw the property and, in many cases, we weren't certain what we were looking at just from the leaves. The place had been vacant for a while, so the deliberately-planted perennials were so overgrown by the grasses, invasive weeds and other native volunteers we weren't sure what all was out there.<br />
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As the first shoots started breaking through this spring, we still weren't sure which ones to pull up and which ones to leave in place. So we just left everything in place until it bloomed for easier identification. (Now we have an epic amount of weeding to do, but I digress...)<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KO27ReFz75A/U69jeXILDpI/AAAAAAAABcM/OuXNZVt-3sA/s1600/IMG_5024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KO27ReFz75A/U69jeXILDpI/AAAAAAAABcM/OuXNZVt-3sA/s1600/IMG_5024.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>Just figuring out the array of beautiful flowers here has been a joy. Springtime surprises like the snowball bush and bleeding hearts and late-spring peonies were gifts from nature. We've identified many of the plants now, but we still have a number of green, leafy things we haven't quite put a name on.<br />
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We've had some help. Thanks to the Oregon State plant identification folks, we found out the "uncertain" plant growing along the driveway wasn't poison hemlock but, rather, Sweet Cicely, which has delicate white spring flowers and leaves that have a lovely, subtle, fennel-like flavor when added to salads.<br />
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Most of the herbs were pretty straightforward, though, as we've grown herbs before. Lemon balm is cropping up everywhere (to the point of being too much...I prefer lemon verbena for flavor). We have a nice patch of spearmint, and I'm looking forward to making my first mojito. But, more than anything else, we have lots of <b>oregano</b>. We lost some of it due to some trenching through the garden that was required for electrical work on the shop/studio, but even after that, we still have lots of oregano. <br />
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This oregano is tough stuff. It seems to be the most successful plant in the yard, with the exception of wild grasses. We have deer wandering around our property daily. They browse on just about everything (including my flowers >:-\) , but they don't seem to touch the oregano.<br />
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Bugs don't seem to like it either. Other than the occasional spider, I never see little critters on the oregano and the leaves appear untouched by insects. Whereas most of the garden has been taken over by invasive plants, somehow the oregano is managing to effectively choke out the weeds. Even the bindweed vine that has twined itself around a number of oregano plants is having a hard time. It's now riddled with holes from some bug that makes it look like we've had a visit from the retired ticket-taker in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0211915/?ref_=nv_sr_1">Amelie</a>. Bien sûr, Monsieur did not touch the oregano. (I still pull out the bindweed as it tries to choke everything...)<br />
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Honestly, the only natural enemies of all this oregano appear to be the dogs, who always try to run over and lift their legs on it. Needless to say, we've been steering them in other directions... (You knew I'd have to work the scruffy dogs in here somewhere, didn't you?)<br />
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Anyway... I've been using the oregano occasionally in cooking, but I've found the fresh oregano loses much of its flavor when cooked. On further research, I learned that oregano is best and most flavorful when cut just prior to flowering and air-dried. The oregano-drying experts also say it's best to cut it in the morning, just after the dew has dried and before the heat of the day has a chance to wilt it.<br />
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Of course, as if on cue, on my busiest work week, the oregano started putting out flower buds. Must act fast!<br />
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So this morning I grabbed my scissors and began my first round of oregano pruning. There is still a lot of oregano and much of it is just going to have to bloom and be decorative unless I want to go into oregano drying as a business. (Not a bad idea, actually...I might have to rethink that...) <br />
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I brought an armload of it into the house, lightly rinsed off the dirt and two spiders (yes, only two in a whole armload of oregano), gently spun away some of the water in a salad spinner and placed the stems on a kitchen towel. As I continued rinsing and spinning, my husband rounded up some string and tied the oregano into bunches and hung it from the cupboards and light fixture.<br />
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Obviously I'm going to have to find some place else to keep these hanging until they dry, but for now I'm finding the kitchen potpourri to be quite fragrant and lovely! I suddenly have this urge for Italian food...<br />
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<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-86816997285774829552014-06-26T16:04:00.003-07:002014-06-26T16:04:42.953-07:00Renaissance Remy<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1fLiT0AaVUo/U6ymo8RgRHI/AAAAAAAABbw/1ZMql-Tncb8/s1600/2014+06+25+Renaissance+Remy+(smaller).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1fLiT0AaVUo/U6ymo8RgRHI/AAAAAAAABbw/1ZMql-Tncb8/s1600/2014+06+25+Renaissance+Remy+(smaller).jpeg" height="640" width="561" /></a></div>
My husband just couldn't resist. Remy does have that Dutch Renaissance painting look about him, doesn't he?ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-31592299617743227542014-06-25T13:21:00.000-07:002014-06-25T13:36:38.249-07:00Lampshade vs. Donut<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-crURflXsZ00/U6su2i7QjXI/AAAAAAAABbg/2vUbRHi_JNM/s1600/Remy+Donut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-crURflXsZ00/U6su2i7QjXI/AAAAAAAABbg/2vUbRHi_JNM/s1600/Remy+Donut.jpg" height="400" width="362" /></a></div>
We tried the lampshade on Remy -- he did the most amazing, backward,
furniture-destructive freak-out dance I've ever seen. So we took it off
and dug out his old inflatable donut we had from a puppyhood mishap. He
was SO EXCITED to see the donut, he put his head into it willingly and
strutted around the house like it was the mark of something special. He
loves that thing so much, even though it's not big enough to prevent him
from reaching his stitches, he hasn't once tried to lick them since we
put it on him. Psych!<br />
<br />
Oddly enough, our <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2006/12/cone-head.html">Baxter LOVED his cone</a> and used it like antlers...ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-39835664032936440372014-06-24T19:20:00.002-07:002016-01-21T17:42:33.392-08:00My Dog's Nuts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TERTWDr_fdU/U6opnyVsihI/AAAAAAAABbQ/uPAsbTHDHg8/s1600/Remy+Certificate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TERTWDr_fdU/U6opnyVsihI/AAAAAAAABbQ/uPAsbTHDHg8/s1600/Remy+Certificate.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<b>No, Remy is not crazy. </b>Rather, he was an adult, intact male dog. Until today, that is. Now he's an adult, neutered male dog. TMI? Perhaps. But I thought I'd take this moment to ponder the whole neutering thing and talk about the rather interesting medical and social
aspects of waiting until a dog is an adult before having him neutered.<br />
<br />
Despite my being an advocate for spay/neuter all of my adult life, I found myself feeling ambivalent about the whole neutering thing with Remy. I think this is mostly because I hate the thought of putting my dog through any sort of medical danger or pain. And somehow it seems different than our previous dogs because Remy's 21 months old.<br />
<br />
<b>Historical Context: </b>We've always dutifully neutered our pups at about six months of age. This is what the veterinarians and pretty much every social organization devoted to dog care, rescue or overpopulation prevention advises. If you neuter at six months, they say, the dog is still too young to have much going on in the way of hormones, they don't develop as many hormone-related behaviors, the wee gonads are easier to remove and your dog will be healthier and live a longer life.<br />
<br />
<b>All goodness, right? Not exactly.</b><br />
<br />
When we got Remy, his breeder, who is a U.C. Davis-trained veterinarian, requested that we wait until Remy was at least 16-18 months of age (full adult size) before we neutered him. Waiting even longer is better, she said. The influence of the sex hormones would help with his bone growth, which would in turn help him avoid problems like hip dysplasia and ligament tears. Apparently the sex hormones in dog puberty play a critical role in signaling the bone growth plates to stop growing. Dogs neutered before they reach their full bone growth don't get the same chemical signals and they tend to have longer legs and higher rates of joint and other musculoskeletal disorders as a result. Our first Griff, Baxter, definitely had longer legs than most Griffs I had seen in dog shows. And he suffered from lower back and hip joint pain in his senior years. Anything we could do to help prevent that in Remy was OK with us. <i>See below* for more research on this point.</i><br />
<br />
I didn't mind waiting. In fact, I thought it was an interesting opportunity to see what an adult, intact male Griff is really like. I'll be honest here -- based on what I'd heard as "common knowledge," intact male dogs are always marking in your house and riding your leg and getting into fights and other such things. They are aggressive and sometimes dangerous and it's best to prevent those behaviors before they start.<br />
<br />
But is this really true? Or are we largely basing or societal assessment of male dogs on a few ill-behaved, poorly trained, aggressive dogs whose owners kept them intact for all the wrong reasons? After all, I don't see the dogs at Westminster tearing each other apart. And the intact cafe dogs in Paris seem to get along pretty well with each other. <br />
<br />
<b>What I found out:</b><br />
Some intact male dogs are perfectly nice, friendly dogs who don't mark your house, don't ride your leg and don't pick fights with other dogs. Remy was one of those dogs. But often that didn't matter. <i>See Social Observation #2 below.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Social Observation #1 (aka, What I learned from walking around with an intact male dog): </b>There is a stigma about having an intact male dog in the U.S., particularly here in the PC, leftie, dog-loving Pacific Northwest. People cast glances. They comment. Despite neutering being a rarity in places like Europe, the U.S. has done an excellent job of reducing shelter populations and euthanasia of unwanted dogs (though there is <b>much</b> more to be done) by putting the PR out there about spaying/neutering your pets. This has translated into a culture where just about everyone has their dog neutered before it reaches adulthood. You just don't see dogs with testicles walking around much here.<br />
<br />
Ever since Remy passed the 6-month mark, people have asked me (sometimes repeatedly) "So when are you going to neuter him?" Many of these people are my friends and family (and if you are one of those people and you are reading this, please know I mean no offense. I probably would have asked this same question a couple of years ago.) But after a while, and after having to answer this question <b>a few too many times</b>, I rather began to resent it. (Even though I fully admit to being one of those spay/neuter promoters myself...I'm entitled to a little cognitive dissonance, aren't I?)<br />
<br />
<b>Is it society's job to police the neutering of dogs?</b><br />
Well, yes, sort of. No one argues that the "ounce of prevention" early neutering has had on
reducing the number of unwanted animals and preventing the
far-too-prevalent euthanasia taking place in shelters across the
country is a good thing. Of note, Best Friends Animal Society estimates the number of
cats and dogs that are
still euthanized daily in U.S. animal shelters at more than 9,000. That is
frightening. <br />
<br />
But this is our dog, Remy. He is a beautiful example of his breed. We had talks with his breeder about him potentially being a show dog. And the whole point of being a show dog is to get a championship status and then put the dog out to stud to further enhance the genetics of the breed. Somehow we just couldn't come to grips with having Remy be a show dog or a stud dog. While I still promote adoption of dogs from shelters and rescues, I have no problem with the <i>responsible</i> breeding of pure-bred dogs. We just weren't sure that was something we wanted to get involved with. <br />
<br />
<b>Social Observation #2 (aka What I didn't expect...):</b><br />
Many (and I mean more than half) of the neutered dogs we encounter on the street, at the beach, in the park, etc. behave differently toward an intact male dog than they do toward other neutered dogs. Unfortunately, this different behavior too-often manifests itself as aggression. I stopped counting the number of times Remy has been confronted with growling, teeth-baring, fight-picking aggression from what seemed like perfectly normal, neutered dogs that approached him and smelled his nether-parts. It's wagging and sniffing for starters and within three seconds it all changes.<br />
<br />
When Remy was a pup, this wasn't a problem. He just groveled, went into duck-and-cover mode on his back and all was well. But when he got to about 12 months old, things changed. The level of aggression from other dogs went up considerably (at this point we stopped taking him to dog parks, due to dogs ganging up on him and attacking him). And, at this point, Remy decided he was a big boy and he wasn't going to take it anymore.<br />
<br />
The strange social thing that happens among the HUMANS accompanying these aggressive, neutered dogs is an assumption that if a dog gets into a fight, it's the intact male who started it. Even if it's not.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the "is this a friendly dog or not?" thing started coloring our walks with Remy on leash and at the beach. Every time we encountered another dog, we weren't sure if it was going to be "wags and friends" or "hackles and teeth." We didn't want this to become such a pattern that Remy would become wary of other dogs or leash-aggressive. And we really didn't want OUR fear of this to rub off on Remy and make this happen.<br />
<br />
<b>So why neuter Remy?</b><br />
<b> </b>This is a decision I've been grappling with. The research out there, from
what I've seen (and I've looked at a lot) doesn't show much in the way of statistically
significant health benefits in neutering a male dog. Prostate and testicular cancers are pretty rare in dogs, from what I've read. (I have heard of enlarged prostate in intact males, though, and there are
some health benefits in spaying females, such as a reduction in mammary cancers, which are more prevalent.)<br />
<br />
"Behavior"
is the main reason cited by most credible sources as a reason to
neuter male dogs. I knew that, I just didn't expect that it would be the behavior of <i><b>other</b> </i>dogs toward Remy that would compel me to want him to be accepted in our local dog society.<br />
<br />
Honestly, that is one of the biggest reasons we decided to have Remy neutered. We want to take him on walks, to the beach, out on the hiking trail without worrying that he will be assaulted by other dogs. We also don't want him catching wind of a female dog in heat and adding to the aforementioned dog overpopulation problem. We have no desire to breed him, and there are no major health risks identified to date associated with neutering a dog after it has reached adult bone maturity. His breeder was OK with it.<br />
<br />
<b>But will it make a difference in his behavior now that he's already an adult?</b><br />
Our breeder and the research suggests it will:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"There is an erroneous feeling that neutering males before puberty is
necessary to prevent some problem behaviors, such as urine marking in
the home or aggression toward the owners,"</i> said Dr. Benjamin L. Hart, a distinguished
professor emeritus at the UC-Davis School of Veterinary Medicine. Research done
at their center and cited in their paper* shows that neutering males in
adulthood, after the onset of problem behavior, is as effective in
changing the behavior as neutering before puberty is in preventing the
problems. -- JAVMA News</blockquote>
Ok, Remy doesn't have these particular problems, but I've heard enough from others who had their adult dogs neutered to believe that this will make a difference in how other dogs behave around Remy and it will make a difference in how he reacts to other dogs.<br />
<br />
We decided to go through with it.<br />
<br />
I don't want to think the human social stigma of having an intact male dog in a largely neutered-dog society had anything to do with it, because that's MY issue, not Remy's. But I do hope that neutering him will help him be better accepted by his peers. He'll be able to run free at the beach, go on hikes and sit under the table at any of Portland's progressive, dog-friendly restaurant patios without getting into a rumble. At least that's the hope. And knowing he'll be less likely to try to escape the yard and that there won't be any scruffy-faced, mixed breed puppies running around our neighborhood with Remy's genes in them is a relief as well.<br />
<br />
<b>I am glad we waited to neuter him until he reached maturity, though.</b><br />
<br />
Not long after we got the neutering advice from our breeder, the U. C. Davis veterinary school published a now-much-publicized <a href="http://news.ucdavis.edu/search/news_detail.lasso?id=10498">study</a> on Golden Retrievers that has called into question the practice of early neutering. The study, which was published in the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association, showed a correlation between early neutering and a higher incidence of musculoskeletal disorders and certain cancers. Specifically:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Of males castrated early—defined in this study as before 1 year of
age—10 percent had hip dysplasia, double the occurrence among sexually
intact males. Cranial cruciate ligament tears were not diagnosed in any
of the sexually intact males or females, but in the early age–neutered
males and females, prevalences were 5 percent and 8 percent,
respectively. Lymphosarcoma was diagnosed in almost 10 percent of males
castrated early, three times the rate in sexually intact males. -- </i><a href="https://www.avma.org/news/javmanews/pages/131101a.aspx">JAVMA News</a> </blockquote>
I'm not a statistician, but those numbers were enough to give our veterinarian (and, apparently, many others) pause and the study has sparked some interesting debate on the risks and benefits of early spay and neuter vs. neutering later or not neutering at all. <br />
<br />
For shelter dogs with an unknown future, early neutering probably makes sense. But for family dogs who have people who will love and cherish and watch over them, waiting until the dog reaches bone maturity just makes sense. Why take the risk? You may catch a few sideways glances from folks who see your intact male at a year-and-a-half old, but if it's best for the dog, who cares? And for all those folks who ask: "When are you going to neuter him?" it's a teaching opportunity.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br /></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-16193068877938115602014-06-23T15:28:00.002-07:002014-06-23T15:41:30.174-07:00Invisible Fence: The Doe TestThis morning we put the Invisible Fence to the test. Well, it wasn't a deliberate test. Rather, it was a happening that tested Remy's adherence to the fence line and raised my confidence level in the product by a huge margin (and it was already pretty high).<br />
<br />
It was time for Remy's mid-morning run around the property. It started with the usual routine...I made him sit and wait at the door until I opened it and gave the "Okay" signal. As always, Remy shot out the door on the syllable "kay"and headed out into the yard. I closed the door and stepped out to see a large doe standing just on the other side of the Invisible Fence flags. I thought "well, if this doesn't test the system nothing will."<br />
<br />
Remy caught sight of the deer and stopped about half way down the yard to point at it (he is, after all, a pointer). The deer caught sight of Remy and trotted another six feet or so beyond the flags. The deer's movement launched Remy into pursuit -- that is until he got up to the Invisible Fence. Remy stopped. He pointed again. And the deer stopped too and just stared at him. They were maybe 10 feet from each other. The stare down continued as I approached Remy and told him what a good boy he was.<br />
<br />
Remy decided something needed to be done and feverishly began running back and forth all the way down the yard, staying clear of the "fence" line. The deer just stood there watching Remy's antics, looking as if she were watching a tennis match. I probably looked the same way.<br />
<br />
Then it dawned on me that this deer probably knows what an invisible fence is. There are at least three houses within a mile of us that have their dogs running inside the flags. The deer was probably coming up to check out the flag and when she saw Remy stop short of it, she knew exactly where he wasn't going to go.<br />
<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwQZRrqnoMmOE-IqzurXHiPzm9TKlkLDZ3aJSEv2PArhuHTVdma57BiELaKfwix6TNEo6QxgZAB3Bg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
I was wishing I had a camera, so I ran inside for the nearest thing...my phone. I figured the deer would take off, but she didn't. Still unfazed by all the barking and running, she just stayed where she was. I approached the fence line with my camera and the second she heard the beep she took off down the orchard. I barely got video of her tail disappearing behind the trees and I didn't get any good video of Remy running along the fence. Bummer.<br />
<br />
But I will say that was quite an amazing, up-close test of what an Invisible Fence can do. And it was also a testament to just how accustomed these deer are to living around homes and dogs and yards with little white flags around them.ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-63960626781653552572014-06-19T12:22:00.000-07:002014-06-19T12:28:53.295-07:00On Spiderman and Being a Big Boy<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"With great power comes great responsibility." </i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
-- Spiderman's Uncle Ben</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
The cool/interesting/challenging thing about having a young adult Griff is that their bodies mature long before their brains understand how to use all of the strength and speed.<br /><br />
For us, the hard part about getting a puppy (Remy) after having a senior dog (Baxter) who knew the ways of the world was suddenly having a big dog that is fairly clueless and hell-bent on figuring things out, sometimes the hard way. The fun part about watching Remy mature is watching him figure things out and seeing those ah-ha moments when he finally gets something.<br />
<br />
Remy is suddenly "getting it" on many fronts. For starters - he now knows that all humans are not to be treated the same way. When we first moved my mother in with us, Remy didn't understand that he can't ricochet off of an 87-year-old the way he does the younger members of the family (not that he should be ricocheting off of anyone, but if you have a teenage Griff or Labrador or Golden Retriever or any other big, active, super-friendly dog, you know what I mean). Now Remy doesn't (usually) jump on us, but he will do the "full body wag and lean" with such fervor he practically knocks us over. Yet he has a whole different standard of behavior with my mom. With her, he approaches enthusiastically but gently. He wags in front of her and puts his big head under her hand for a pat. Wow. He figured that out all by himself. And, as a result, he and my mom have bonded, big time.<br />
<br />
This whole "getting it" thing will be a theme of blogs to come. I just felt like sharing what a joy it is to see Remy figuring things out for himself. While I love puppies, and I'm sure I will miss that puppy energy and long for another puppy some day, right now it's wonderful to see what a lovely adult dog Remy is growing into every day.<!--2-->ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-79786437994248127882014-06-10T18:36:00.000-07:002014-06-10T18:49:49.163-07:00Invisible Fence - Part Trois<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9nLSd9RsYI4/U5exNf9c91I/AAAAAAAABaw/t33rgl8PFJw/s1600/IMG_5291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9nLSd9RsYI4/U5exNf9c91I/AAAAAAAABaw/t33rgl8PFJw/s1600/IMG_5291.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Today the leashes came off. Well, Kirby's leash has been off for a week, but Remy's been dragging a fluorescent orange one around...just in case. The Invisible Fence trainer came for our fourth and final session with the dogs and Remy and Kirby were put to the test. Actually, the big tests came BEFORE the trainer got here. A couple of days ago, our friends brought over their adorable Lagotto, Vito, who does not have a collar for the Invisible Fence. Vito is pretty trustworthy when it comes to sticking around his people, so they let him off leash to play with Remy and Kirby. The dogs stayed inside the flags and played. But at one point, Vito wandered outside the flags. Remy and Kirby ran along with him up to the flags and stopped, letting Vito wander by himself in the orchard.<br />
<br />
This was a major deal for our guys. Trust me on this.<br />
<br />
Earlier today, before the trainer arrived, my husband was out with the dogs, initially on leash, when a deer went bounding by. Remy caught sight of it and was immediately at attention. In a bold move, Jamie let the leash go and Remy ran straight toward the deer but stopped at the Invisible Fence and just watched as the deer continued bouncing down the field.<br />
<br />
YES! This thing really appears to work.<br />
<br />
Test #3 (also before the trainer arrived)... Remy was out in the yard playing with his new ball. Our front yard is on a bit of a slope and at one point Remy dropped the ball and it began to roll downhill toward the flags. In a heated panic, Remy ran for the ball, retrieving it just as it was crossing the line, and quickly pulled it back into the yard. He probably got a little correction out of the deal, but he saved the ball and definitely seems to get the "go back into the yard where it doesn't sting my neck" message.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DrWoZvWv-4U/U5exAdYCqkI/AAAAAAAABao/LkN9zqlATrk/s1600/IMG_5334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DrWoZvWv-4U/U5exAdYCqkI/AAAAAAAABao/LkN9zqlATrk/s1600/IMG_5334.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a>So the trainer arrived about an hour later. Leash off this time. As if on cue, another deer trotted by, but Remy was so busy wrestling with Kirby we couldn't get him to pay attention to the deer. Priorities, man! The trainer finally managed to call him over, but Remy was so busy waggling at the trainer, he totally missed the deer, which was now bounding off down the field. Kirby, who was shaking the grass off after the aforementioned wrestling match, also missed it entirely.<br />
<br />
I had a business call to attend to, so I left my husband and the trainer to do most of today's session with the dogs. They walked all over the property, outside the "fence," up the driveway and all the places Remy and Kirby love to go that are outside the flags. The boyos stayed inside. Whining, but inside.<br />
<br />
The computer readout on the collars said they had "tested" the boundaries a couple dozen times each (that includes both the the outside perimeter with the flags and the inside unit, which is about half the correction level of the outside unit and now keeps the dogs away from the cooking area in the kitchen...). This is OK and normal, says the trainer. They must test it to hear the tone and make the associations with what happens if they don't heed the warning.<br />
<br />
Frankly, I was a little surprised at how often Kirby tested the system. He appears to stick with us wherever we go and never gets close to the flags outside. But being the little dog vacuum that he is, I'm guessing that when no one is around Kirby's probably scanning for crumbs in the kitchen and setting off his collar when he just can't resist that little bit of something just on the other side of the boundary...<br />
<br />
So what's next? Well, the trainer made the final adjustments to the collar settings, reminded us about how to maintain the system and ensure the batteries are always working. Voila, we're done. The trainer felt confident that Remy and Kirby know the rules and are choosing to obey them.<br />
<br />
Will I ever feel 100% confident in a fence I cannot see? Probably not. But knowing the dogs have faced some of their greatest temptations and still stayed behind the fence helps me get 98% there. Honestly, I can't say I would trust a physical fence 100%. Maybe even less than 98%, knowing that if there's an obstacle, both Remy and Kirby have the brains and ability to figure out how to either get over it or under it.<br />
<br />
In any case, they won't be left out there unattended. As it is, I have to say it is <i><b>wonderful </b> </i>to see the dogs running around our property. They just look so happy to be out there and to have that freedom to roam in places they've been looking at from the end of a leash for so long.<br />
<br />
<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-54401696084271097702014-06-06T18:44:00.001-07:002014-06-06T18:44:51.042-07:00Griffology: Scruffy Dogs Go Social<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1t-mfqCDibE/U5Jt3ss_ZLI/AAAAAAAABaM/8YkLcO9jB5Y/s1600/Jennifer+&+Remy+2+reduced.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1t-mfqCDibE/U5Jt3ss_ZLI/AAAAAAAABaM/8YkLcO9jB5Y/s1600/Jennifer+&+Remy+2+reduced.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
I think it's kind of interesting that now I've picked up my blogging again, I suddenly find that a single social media post just isn't enough to say what I want to say. For a while, I think Facebook made it easier for me not to blog when I felt compelled to say something. I'd just dash off a couple of lines and toss in a picture, then spend far too much time reading about everyone else. Now, suddenly, a couple of lines of "all about me and mine" just doesn't feel like enough...so I'll indulge myself here. Yet, I know I'll still spend far too much time reading about everyone else on Facebook.<br />
<br />
At least I have a creative outlet. This is what I'm telling myself.<br />
<br />
I know, Facebook is not a substitute for getting out in your community and doing things with friends, in person. But I have to say, the community of scruffy-dog-loving Wirehaired Pointing Griffon aficionados in the Facebook group "Griffology" has become one of my communities too. This is a place I go when I'm in a dog-talkin' mood. I'm sure my nearby, in-person friends would tire altogether too soon as I wax nostalgic about our first Griff, Baxter, and what a perfect canine he was. Or go off on a tangent about how funny our little dog Kirby is when he gets all Napoleon on our spirited young Griff, Remy. I could speak for hours on subjects like physical fencing vs invisible fencing, whether e-collars are a good idea and the health benefits of grain-free dog food.<br />
<br />
Where some of my in-person friends' eyes would glaze over, my Griffology friends share these questions and many more. We share answers and personal experiences, joyful pictures of new puppies, tearful tributes to those Griffs who have left this world. We post lots of funny pics, artistic pics, "caught in the act" videos and throwback Thursday memories. We post and comment (and comment and comment) about how we overcome the challenges of raising and living with these highly intelligent, strong, athletic and sometimes crafty canines.<br />
<br />
This is my go-to group for all things Griff. The founder even sells Griff swag from time to time (my "Life is short, play with your Griff" T-shirt is one of my favorites...even though a friend's Griff puppy bit a hole in it the first time I wore it). When I joined this community nearly two years ago there were a less than two hundred members. As of today, it has nearly 1800 members (1798 to be exact) from all over the world. I didn't think there were that many people on the planet who even knew what a Griff was!<br />
<br />
(I'll talk about the yin/yang of this breed growing in popularity another time.) For now, I just want to say to all of my Griffology friends: <b>thank you for being such a wonderful, funny, open and sharing community. </b>Your advice has been valuable and your Griff pictures always make me smile. I have found a group of scruffy-dog-loving kindred spirits and the far-too-much time I spend with you is (almost) never wasted!ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-34376870258984037452014-06-03T19:01:00.000-07:002014-06-04T11:50:26.594-07:00The Joy of Dirt<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q9Y1k-yIzqg/U49YABpLhPI/AAAAAAAABZg/CysqCYKdMe0/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q9Y1k-yIzqg/U49YABpLhPI/AAAAAAAABZg/CysqCYKdMe0/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>I don't often use the word "joy" and the word "dirt" in the same sentence. If Remy and Kirby could write a blog, I'm sure they would use the terms often and with great gusto. The dogs have a completely different relationship with dirt than I do. They love to run in it, roll in it, dig in it and unabashedly eat things that live on it and in it. <br />
<br />
I, however, have always had very mixed feelings about dirt. As a child growing up in Iowa I was fascinated by all the critters that lived in the rich, black soil of our yard. I dug up earthworms for fishing. I made mud pies. I buried things and discovered things buried by children past. My parents allowed me to run around barefoot in the grass (something for which I am eternally grateful). I feel sad for children who never get to take their shoes off and sink their toes into the mud.<br />
<br />
But for all of my family's outdoor appreciation of dirt, once inside, dirt was the enemy. My mom (bless her) heeded the advice of the day, which was to keep everything in the house spotlessly clean. After being in the workforce for nearly 20 years, she became a stay-at-home mom and took on the job of housework like a professional. Bleach. Spic-and-Span. Mr. Clean. Our floors were so clean I could eat off of them (and occasionally did).<br />
<br />
But now, as an adult, (and much to my mother's chagrin I'm sure) I do not have the wherewithal (or the time) to maintain the primo level of dirt-and-dust-free-ness I grew up with. Dirt happens. It's entropy. And I prefer environmentally-friendly cleaning products that, let's face it, don't quite annihilate the dirt like Mr. Clean did (he should have been called Commando Clean). In any case, that doesn't stop me from feeling some guilt around the level of dust, dirt and clutter in our house at present, particularly since Mom now lives with us and has to put up with it. But it does make me wonder...<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1rZbfuhWE-8/U49YN0H9POI/AAAAAAAABZo/eu_MdZr5SYI/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1rZbfuhWE-8/U49YN0H9POI/AAAAAAAABZo/eu_MdZr5SYI/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>How much dirt is OK? </b> Now that we're living on a little farm and looking forward to growing a lot of our own food organically, I am developing a whole new relationship with dirt. In particular, the article, "<a href="http://www.yesmagazine.org/issues/how-to-eat-like-our-lives-depend-on-it/how-dirt-heals-us">The Surprising Healing Qualities of Dirt</a>" by Daphne Miller, MD made me rethink the value of dirt as a critical element of our health and well-being. I recently saw Dr. Miller give an excellent presentation on this very subject at the <a href="http://functionalmedicine.org/">Institute for Functional Medicine</a> annual conference, where more than a few MD's jaws dropped at some of her assertions.<br />
<br />
Miller claims (with some very interesting and credible evidence to back it up) that "soil teeming with a wide diversity of life (especially bacteria,
fungi, and nematodes) is more likely to produce nutrient-dense food" and that soil microbes and other farm microbes may have a protective effect against allergic diseases. She cites data that offers new explanations for the so-called “farm effect” -- that children who grow up on farms and in rural environments tend to have fewer allergies. This was previously thought to be explained by early life exposure to a variety of microbes that dampened the
allergic response of our adaptive immune system. But it may be more complicated (and more significant) than that. Now, she says, through the science of metagenomics (through which we can sequence the DNA of an entire microbiome) "we’re beginning to connect the dots and
we’re discovering that genetic swaps can take place between our
microbiome and the outside world—particularly the places where our food
is grown." This may, in effect, help foster the growth of a more diverse and protective microbiome in our gut -- that's right, our gut -- which helps us better digest the nutrients from our food and fight off pathogens.<br />
<br />
Wow.<br />
<br />
This has huge implications for the health of our species (and many others). If we continue to pour Roundup and other pesticides on our yards and gardens and farm fields, these chemicals will continue to decrease the microbial diversity of our soil and, in turn, end up decreasing the nutritional value of our food. And she cites work being done by microbiologists at Washington University in St. Louis who have "recently noted that soil bacteria exposed to antibiotics and other
chemicals can develop antibiotic resistant genes which... can be transferred to our microbiome, turning
otherwise benign resident bacteria into 'superbugs.'”<br />
<br />
Wow again.<br />
<br />
Maybe the dogs have it right. At least I'm comforted when I turn over a rock in our yard and see a whole city of visible critters living beneath it. I'm hoping this means that a lot more invisible microbes -- the good ones that make our apples and plums and kale have more nutritional value -- are down there too.ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-18977256980973294892014-06-03T12:49:00.001-07:002014-06-03T15:37:05.908-07:00Invisible Fence - Part Deux (Doh!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SVGHXc7GWL0/U44jSai7cPI/AAAAAAAABZQ/6tztfbEYlFM/s1600/Invisible+Fence.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SVGHXc7GWL0/U44jSai7cPI/AAAAAAAABZQ/6tztfbEYlFM/s1600/Invisible+Fence.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
We've had a couple of weeks to get used to the <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2014/05/getting-buzzed.html">Invisible Fence</a> we had installed around a part of our property and today was our second visit from the trainer. We haven't been brave enough to let our dogs off leash in the yard, but we have been walking around the perimeter with them, letting them test the tone/buzz if they saw something they wanted on the other side of the flags. For the most part, they've been great about it. But there were a couple of moments...<br />
<br />
One day when we had the dogs out to do their business, Kirby insisted on peeing on the other side of the flag. (Apparently whatever he smelled over there was just too good NOT to pee on.) He crossed the line and trembled as he proceeded to lift his leg. My husband thought maybe the collar wasn't working so he stuck his finger under it and it WAS working. Apparently Kirby just has an iron will and a high threshold of tolerance for electricity pulsing on his neck. Of course, because Kirby did it, Remy had to go pee on top of Kirby's and he proceeded to do exactly the same thing. His neck was twitching. Of course, both leg-lifting sessions were cut short as we brought them back inside, but it did make us wonder if the settings were high enough.<br />
<br />
Despite the appearance of a high tolerance, Kirby did seem to get the message, because he hasn't gone within 5 feet of the flags ever since. Remy got his next "test" a few days later when my husband was walking him around the yard and a deer went bolting by just outside the flags. Remy ran up to the flags and stopped. Amazing. Could the message be getting through?<br />
<br />
We also had the indoor unit blocking off a small area inside the kitchen doorway. Both dogs "tested" this a bit more often, but after a few days Remy just walked outside the flags whether he had his collar on or not and Kirby avoided that doorway altogether. (This unit is now residing under our kitchen island to keep the dogs away from the food prep area.)<br />
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This morning the trainer came back out and plugged each of the dogs' collars into his computer, which tells him how often each dog "tested" the boundaries, either inside or outside. Kirby tested a handful of times. Remy's tests ran into double digits. (He is much more adventuresome than Kirby and also in that young adult "I'm testing my boundaries every day with you" phase anyway.) So I was a little nervous when the trainer said it was time to let go of the leashes outside and see what they'll do. <br />
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As the trainer and I walked around the yard, the dogs both enjoyed a happy romp (and a couple of wrestling matches) dragging their leashes behind them. Kirby trotted along and avoided the fence line entirely. He didn't even stop at his "pee through the pain" spot. (Methinks he learned a valuable lesson with that incident.) Remy did well until we decided to test him by going outside the flags. The trainer and I turned the other way and walked up the driveway, glancing back and being careful to avoid eye contact with the dogs (you don't want to call them over the line). Both dogs stopped at the flags. Great!<br />
<br />
Then we walked around behind the big barn and up toward the neighbor's house (the one Remy runs to whenever he gets out...seeking Susie, the little chihuahua/dachshund who lives there). Suddenly Remy broke through. We could hear him yelping as he ran toward Susie's house, but he was not deterred and he timed-out the collar (the system is designed to give a continuous buzz after the dog breaks through, which turns off when the dog comes back inside. But the buzz does have a time limit.) The trainer finally caught Remy and brought him back. Time to up the settings.<br />
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I was worried that we had just taught Remy he could break through and eventually the collar would turn off. The trainer wasn't overly concerned (I guess this happens) but said he didn't want to leave the training on a down note and he stayed a little beyond his time to re-do that lesson. He reset Remy's collar up another notch and we went back out again and moseyed around the yard a bit more.<br />
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All was well, the dogs kept to the boundaries. Eventually we tried going outside the perimeter again. At first Remy howled from behind the line because he wanted to go with us. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and he broke through again, this time, though, he stopped about 15 feet from the invisible fence and started yelping. The trainer quickly grabbed his leash and brought Remy back inside the boundary, which immediately made the pain stop. It was at this point I think Remy experienced an "ah ha" moment. (I think he had shifted from the Bart Simpson "bzz-ow-bzz-ow-bzz-ow" approach to more of a "Doh!" moment in the Homer Simpson tradition.*)<br />
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Back inside the perimeter we lavished Remy with praise for his return. (Despite the fence having a negative/corrective aspect to the training, the company's training methods use positive rewards when the dogs avoid the fence or turn back away from it.) Treats were given for extra reinforcement and everyone seemed happy to just stay inside the invisible fence for a while.<br />
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Our next (and hopefully final) training session is next Tuesday. In the meantime, our assignment is to let the dogs run around the yard -- supervised -- dragging leashes so we can stop them should another break through occur. The trainer seemed pretty confident it wouldn't. He does this all day and he said he recognized from Remy's behavior that he "got it." That doesn't mean he won't try again -- he might try at another spot in the yard -- but he's much less likely to want to go through that again. On the next visit we'll do the final tuning on the collar settings and then, hopefully, we're good to go.<br />
<br />
Or stay, as it were.<br />
<br />
<i>* For the record, I do think Remy is smarter than Homer Simpson.</i> :-)ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-30849816652563834572014-05-23T18:38:00.002-07:002014-05-24T09:28:11.570-07:00Getting Buzzed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O3JCw9aPKHQ/U3_15Od2iMI/AAAAAAAABZA/5mP0BW1c76M/s1600/G&T.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O3JCw9aPKHQ/U3_15Od2iMI/AAAAAAAABZA/5mP0BW1c76M/s1600/G&T.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
No, this is not about the very special G&T my husband just brought me to celebrate the close of my Friday afternoon workday (although I have to say the <a href="http://www.rogue.com/roguespirits/">Rogue Pink Spruce Gin</a> and <a href="http://www.brandsofbritain.com/Fever-Tree-Tonic-Water-200mL-6-4-Packs-p/5110.htm?gclid=CjkKEQjw4_ubBRCArMWr6avk_J8BEiQAIj43tTk3tyzPY075bNj1KEjvSwdarAmG0rT912mUpbz8CVTw_wcB">Fever Tree</a> tonic does make a mighty nice wind-down to a long week...)<br />
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This is about keeping our dogs in our yard. As some of my readers know, we are in the process of moving to a country home. That sounds so hoity-toity. Really, we are in the process of moving to three acres of really beautiful land with a funky, old 1930s money-pit-but-livable house sitting on it. At least my office has a nice view.<br />
<br />
ANYWAY I digress. The yard surrounding the house is a huge improvement over the 2 feet of owned land and unfenceable common areas around the townhome we've been living in for the past several years. The dogs, who have been doing their business outside on leashed walks, were particularly glad to see the acres of tall grass, fruit trees and deer frolicking (yes, they frolic here frequently, look in the windows and drive the dogs insane).<br />
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Trouble with this lovely country home is that while there isn't much traffic on the gravel road just across from the property, the small amount of traffic that does go down that road is going downhill, usually <i>very fast, </i>and not looking for children or dogs. (Which, I'm sure, worries the two families just down the road from us who have small children too...) Unless we want our dogs chasing deer into the path of a speeding truck, this means fencing an un-fenced property.<br />
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We identified an area around the back of the house to fence-in. But the best part of the yard, the area where we are most often wanting to work in the garden or have a picnic with a pretty view, is an area that would be spoiled by putting up a fence. After all, it is the pretty flow of the land that made us fall in love with this place. The dogs want to be where WE are, not banished to the back yard if we're not out there. And besides, paying someone to fence that much land is pretty expensive. <br />
<br />
So we started investigating options for underground fencing. You know, the electric kind where the dogs wear little collars that keep them from crossing the invisible line where you want the fence to be by giving them a tone and an "electrical stimulation" when they cross the fence line. I had some reservations about the whole "electrical stimulation" thing. Is it just a shock with a fancy name? (I am, after all, a PR professional, and have a pretty good "spin" detector.) I needed to learn more.<br />
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We looked at four brands: SportDog (definitely the favorite among DIY types who have sporting dogs), PetSafe (the one you see at pet stores everywhere, also a DIY option), Innotek (another DIY option with a dual system that includes a remote trainer) and Invisible Fence (the brand that started it all and the one that was recommended highly by Remy's breeder who is also a veterinarian). Here are a few of the pros and cons as we saw them:<br />
<br />
<u><b>DIY Brand - PROS:</b></u><br />
<ul>
<li>Less expensive than professionally-installed systems. This is a huge PRO.</li>
<li>Readily available, just buy it and install it on your own time. (You have to train the dogs yourself, but there are a lot of online resources to help.)</li>
<li>Uses the standard technology that has been proven over years of use.</li>
</ul>
<u><b>DIY Brands - CONS:</b></u><br />
<ul>
<li>Those who have never used electronic collars with their dogs are prone to mistakes -- not setting the system right and the dogs get through or setting the system too high and thus over-stimulating the dogs.</li>
<li>If you don't do it properly and the system breaks down anywhere, the dogs are roaming free and there is no one to call.</li>
<li>Once a dog crosses the boundary (some dogs will just grit their teeth and run through if there's something they <i>really </i>want on the other side) they are now outside and cannot get back in without getting the "stimulation" again. That's a disincentive to come home. </li>
</ul>
While I really appreciated the wallet-friendly price point, which was in the $300-$600 range, I wasn't particularly comfortable with the risks of the DIY systems nor was I confident in my ability to adequately train the dogs to stay inside. Just letting them out the door and trusting the system was a leap I wasn't quite comfortable with. Also, I knew that we have a zillion projects to do and it could be months before the installation would get done. <br />
<br />
<u><b>Invisible Fence - PROS:</b></u><br />
<ul>
<li>The system is professionally installed. This saves time and guarantees the work gets done. It also means someone is accountable for the proper installation of the system. In the world of software, where I often work, there is a term "one throat to choke" when something goes wrong. In this case, it's not the dog, it's the company. They not only do all the work, they guarantee their system and their training methods and keep coming out until it all works.</li>
<li>They send out professional trainers for at least 3 sessions to work with your dogs, starting at the lowest possible "stimulation" setting and working up so your dog never gets more stimulation than is needed. (This also gives you the opportunity to "stimulate" yourself and see how it feels, which seems like a good idea.)</li>
<li>They have a newer technology that remains ON after the dog crosses the boundary and turns OFF when the dog comes back in. This is an incentive for the dog to return and not just keep running after that deer. (Caveat: there is a time limit on the stimulation, but it can be set by the trainer.)</li>
</ul>
<u><b>Invisible Fence - CONS:</b> </u><br />
<ul>
<li>Price. Yes, it definitely costs more to have someone else come out and dig a trench around your property and install a continuous wire and a wall-mounted control unit. In fact, it can be anywhere from 3-4 times more expensive than the DIY systems, depending on the size of your property. Maybe more. But it is still less than fencing the same amount of property with a nice fence.</li>
<li>You don't get to buy it and install it the same day. After the installation, they ask that you not let your dogs out with the invisible fencing alone until they have completed 2-3 more training sessions (you get a couple of sessions on the day they install it). The training sessions are included in the price and are sometimes a week or two apart and based on the trainer's availability. (I should note that even though the DIY products can be installed
in a day, it is recommended that you take a couple of weeks to train your dog to
the system -- but it's on your time schedule. If you were to hire a trainer with a DIY system, the time and cost would start getting closer.) Either way, it's not speedy, but it does help ensure that your dogs are REALLY READY before you send them out to run free with an invisible fence around them. </li>
<li>Strangers dig trenches around your yard. This I don't mind. We've had so many strangers (contractors) in our house lately I'm getting used to it.</li>
</ul>
You can probably tell from this that we ended up going with the <a href="http://www.invisiblefence.com/landing/save-150-nonav-alt7?promo=cos_POR&gclid=CjkKEQjw4_ubBRCArMWr6avk_J8BEiQAIj43tfmjLY0gUFOPHnfDfeqHYmrHfis4P7J8f_yuHPR93Knw_wcB">Invisible Fence</a> brand. We just had it installed this week. As an added plus, the system came with an indoor transmitter that we can use in the house (no extra cost) to keep the dogs off anything within a 1 to 6-foot radius of the transmitter. The trainers use this to train the dogs to avoid the flags, so once they get outside, they know that a flag means a boundary.<br />
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Based on our first training sessions, it does seem to work. In the future, I know the indoor unit will be helpful in keeping the dogs away from areas we don't want them to go into (which, given the construction going on around our house, is hugely helpful). We joked about just handing it to certain house guests who don't like dogs near them and strapping it to Kirby to keep Remy from jumping on him. <br />
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As for the outside system, we have homework. The first on-leash training session was remarkably productive in teaching the dogs where the boundaries are. Now our job is to walk the dogs around the perimeter of the yard, where the flags indicate the boundary, to get them used to the tone and "stimulation" each time they cross over a flag. After just a day, the dogs already avoid the flags and if they stick their heads across the line, they immediately make a U-turn and come back in. This looks promising.<br />
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As for the "stimulation?" I tried it on myself at the same level as the dogs were set. It felt almost exactly like the electrical stimulation I had received for a shoulder injury at the chiropractor and the acupuncturist. Slightly more than touching a TV, slightly less than the shock from shuffling my feet on the carpet and touching something. But it was, definitely, enough to get my attention. And, apparently, that's true for the dogs as well.<br />
<br />
I'll keep you posted on the progress!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-50019165649004541512014-05-20T19:37:00.001-07:002014-05-20T19:39:38.467-07:00Living VicariouslyIn a meeting with some of my colleagues today I let it slip out that I used to be a dog blogger. That sounded strange. Used to be. But what else could I say? It has been a long time since I've updated this, and you know it's bad when the first paragraph of every new blog entry says something about having not updated the blog in forever. Continuing that theme...<br />
<br />
The reason my dog blogger identity came out is because two of the people I work with have recently brought home new puppies...one a Chocolate Lab and the other a German Shepherd. Looking at their adorable puppy pictures I get a twinge of longing. There is nothing quite like the experience of getting a puppy. They are 24/7 entertainment. They fill your life with cuteness and playfulness and puppy breath. They chew on your hands, wash your face and work their way into your heart. And <a href="http://www.torontosun.com/2014/04/29/puppy-love-is-genuine---your-dog-really-does-love-you">that goes both ways</a>. Dogs make us <a href="https://www.patriciamcconnell.com/theotherendoftheleash/oxytocin-increases-when-your-dog-looks-at-you">feel good</a> and scientific studies show they even <a href="http://www.nbcnews.com/id/4625213/ns/health-pet_health/t/puppy-love----its-better-you-think/#.U3wEbS9uFuE">make</a> us <a href="http://www.webmd.com/hypertension-high-blood-pressure/features/5-ways-pets-improve-your-health">healthier</a>.<br />
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We all know that raising a puppy is <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2013/01/morning-choreography-and-wishing-for.html">no picnic</a>. It's not for the faint-hearted or for those who desire a clean, chaos-free environment. Still, it is so worth every "accident," every chewed shoe and every sleep-deprived night to get to that point where your dog is just such an integral part of your daily life you can't imagine your life without him or her.<br />
<br />
I only wish dogs lived longer. But in the relatively short time they are with us, they make our lives better. I wouldn't trade those 13 years with <a href="http://scruffydogs.blogspot.com/2012/06/baxter-henri-campagnard-4-april-1999-23.html">Baxter</a> for anything.<br />
<br />
So...back to puppies. Despite my ability to wax on about the joys of getting a puppy, I'm in no hurry to add a third dog to our household. (I came close with a senior Griff in rescue last month...but I soon realized that putting that dear old dog in a house with a year-and-a-half old gonzo Griff and a little Napoleon dog who thinks HE rules the roost, might not be the calm, quiet retirement the old dog deserved.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hc4MemV-e6Q/U3wPRNTuwMI/AAAAAAAABYY/TCeYLFKLHes/s1600/IMG_4606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hc4MemV-e6Q/U3wPRNTuwMI/AAAAAAAABYY/TCeYLFKLHes/s1600/IMG_4606.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>Besides, Remy still has enough puppy energy for me at the moment. He is, however, growing up fast. He sleeps through the night and seems content to lie at our feet while we watch movies in the evening. Remy and Kirby still wrestle, but now it's mutual (usually). We don't worry about the shoes getting chewed up anymore. And now, every so often, Remy will sit and stare into my eyes for a long time, as if he's trying to read my mind. That's something grown-up Griffs do.<br />
<br />
The other day Remy and I were sharing one of those calm, focused moments and I quietly said to him: "Remy, go get your Kong and bring it to Jennifer." I could see the thoughts racing behind his eyes for a few seconds. Then he stood up, turned around, walked into the next room (past his other toys), went straight to the Kong, picked it up and brought it to me.<br />
<br />
Eureka! That was definitely a grown-up dog moment.<br />
<br />
I look forward to a lot more of those moments. I look forward to the calm of a home with two adult dogs in it. And I wish my colleagues all the joy and adventure that comes with raising their puppies.<br />
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I will, of course, demand puppy pictures on a regular basis...<br />
<br />
<br />ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30763184.post-84352459903329575352013-11-28T11:16:00.001-08:002013-11-28T11:16:34.561-08:00Hand Turkey 2006: a classic.<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/oY9Vc0ur98Y" width="459"></iframe>ScruffyDoghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07380409586607521878noreply@blogger.com0