RIP Kirby: 7 July 2006 - 10 January 2021

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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). 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

I started trolling Petfinder for a scruffy little dog and one day this picture showed up:

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. 

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  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.

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 his 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. 

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?”

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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! 

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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, “he settled into a comfortable, bow-legged trot when he was older that suited his surveying and exploration.” 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.

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.

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.

Rest in peace, sweet Kirby. I will always love you.

Dogs and Pictures

Our 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.

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.

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.

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...

Kirby: "I'm not giving in, I'm not looking at you.

Me: "Come on, Kirby. Look at me."

Kirby: "Oh, alright, if you INSIST."

Kirby: "Happy now?"

Me: "Yes, Kirby, thank you. You are a good boy."

Kirby: "Where's the treat?"

Remy is Finally Learning to Speak Dog

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.

I guess this is sort of a continuation of my earlier post, My Dog's Nuts, 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.

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 how 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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Remy has learned to speak dog, and that makes his humans very happy.

Amtrak Allows Pets: But it took a bill in Congress

For 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.

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 The Bark:

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).

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.

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?

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.

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 cool. 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.

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:

• Nice digs -- 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.
• Good food -- 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 cool.
• Dog on the seat next to me. 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. 
• If I can't have the dog in the seat next to me, then a kennel car will due -- particularly if I have visiting privileges. 
• Potty stops -- designated areas at train stations for the dogs to go relieve themselves and for the people to get some air. 
• Dream scenario: 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.

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.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Remy!

Remy - 2 Years - Newport, Oregon (29 Sept. 2014)

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).

Remy - 2 Years - Newport, Oregon (29 Sept. 2014)

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.

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...)

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...).

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.

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.

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.

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!

The Beach is the Best

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.

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.

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.

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).

Remy's first definitive act at the beach was to storm a crumbling sand castle and claim it as his own.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Editorial Pause: 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.

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.

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.

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.

Yes, it was a good day all around. And the people had fun too.

On Gluten and Grain Intolerance

Baxter

Back in 2006, after battling with allergies, skin problems and recurrent ear infections for seven years, we took our Griff, Baxter, off of ALL grain. He lived another six happy, healthy years without a single skin allergy problem or ear infection. Not one.

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.

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 article about it for The Polishing Stone, 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.

So, after all this, I'm not sure why I didn't really give much thought to grain's effects on people. 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.

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 article 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.

"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."

 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.

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.

For now, though, I just have one more thing in common with the dogs...

Kirby Likes Gromit

Last night we dug out our DVD of Wallace & Gromit 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).

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.

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.

Gromit may act like a person, but, according to Kirby, he is most definitely a dog.

Happy 8th Birthday, Kirby!

I can't believe our scruffy little guy is eight years old!

He's spent his life 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 relentlessly pestered our adult Griff, Baxter; was crushed (as we all were) when Bax passed away; then got the other end of the golden rule/dog karma when we introduced our Griff puppy, Remy, to the household a year and a half ago. Despite his diminutive size, he manages to hold his own with the big dogs. We love you, Kirby!

People and Pedigree

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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 epigenetics 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.

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.

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.

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.

I don't care. I'm still wearing a green shamrock on Saint Patrick's Day, just like Grandpa told me to.

Oh the Oregano!

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.

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.

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.

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...)

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.

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.

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 oregano. 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.

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.

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 Amelie. Bien sûr, Monsieur did not touch the oregano. (I still pull out the bindweed as it tries to choke everything...)

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?)

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.

Of course, as if on cue, on my busiest work week, the oregano started putting out flower buds. Must act fast!

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...)

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.

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...

Renaissance Remy

My husband just couldn't resist. Remy does have that Dutch Renaissance painting look about him, doesn't he?

Lampshade vs. Donut

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!

Oddly enough, our Baxter LOVED his cone and used it like antlers...

My Dog's Nuts

No, Remy is not crazy. 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.

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.

Historical Context: 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.

All goodness, right?  Not exactly.

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. See below* for more research on this point.

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.

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.

What I found out:
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. See Social Observation #2 below.

Social Observation #1 (aka, What I learned from walking around with an intact male dog): 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 much 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.

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 a few too many times, 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?)

Is it society's job to police the neutering of dogs?
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.

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 responsible breeding of pure-bred dogs. We just weren't sure that was something we wanted to get involved with.

Social Observation #2 (aka What I didn't expect...):
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.

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.

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.

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.

So why neuter Remy?
 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.)

"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 other dogs toward Remy that would compel me to want him to be accepted in our local dog society.

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.

But will it make a difference in his behavior now that he's already an adult?
Our breeder and the research suggests it will:

"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," 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

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.

We decided to go through with it.

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.

I am glad we waited to neuter him until he reached maturity, though.

Not long after we got the neutering advice from our breeder, the U. C. Davis veterinary school published a now-much-publicized study 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:

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. -- JAVMA News

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.

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.