...a 3 year old, 140 pound kitten of a Rotty who's spent his entire life on a chain.
He's extremely huge, but well proportioned, soulful, intimidating to those who don't know better, and quite stunning in person. My lousy camera doesn't quite capture his gorgeousness, and he hasn't yet learned to not jump (so I couldn't really get better shot.)
The skin under the collar on his neck is hairless and calloused. Does any one know if this skin can ever return to normal? I know of a lot of balms out there but my gut tells me that once hair is lost, its gone.
I would appreciate any feedback.
In the meantime, Sam and I are going for a walk in the next couple of days.
This little guy is Blogtime's face of the Travel category...
...and this little guy is the best friend any actor would want in his HBO Entourage.
Ay, chihuahua.
...has been on my mind lately. To be clear, she doesn't specialize in female dogs. She's just a bitch.
She's been on my mind because, well, although I have not yet found my pooch-mate, there is still plenty do to by way of prep work. One of these things is finding a vet and while I ask around and do office drive-bys, I am remembering the bitch.
About 10 years ago, my beloved bloodhound Beatrice had reached her dotage and, as all large breeds do, was breaking down fast. Her hips were a mess, she was covered with lypomas, and had suffered a siezure or two which rendered her incontinent. After spending many thousands of dollars diagnosing that she was getting old, had hip dysplasia, was covered with non-malignant lypomas, and yeah, she had a seizure or two, I looked at the old girl one day and realized that not only had she lost interest in eating, she had indeed lived a long life and were we in the country would wander off to find a tree under which she'd schmooze herself into eternity. And so I opted for the most painful moment in every dogowner's life: The putdown.
I take her to the vet who tries to dissuade me saying things like...we haven't tried this...or there are doggie diapers..who knows what she was blabbering. I was blubbering. I had put down many dogs before Beatrice but never had I been assaulted with treatment plans at the deathbed like I had this time. When I steadfastly but politely declined the veternarian's suggestions, she turned cold (when she should have been consoling me, quite frankly), administered the mercy and left the disposal options talk to her assistant. After I collected myself I paid the bill. The vet passed me at the desk and said, "You know, this could have been avoided." And I looked at her and said, "F### you."
Because, f### her, you know? She hadn't lived with Beatrice all her life, loved her the way I did. No one wanted for Beatrice to live longer than forever than I did...except, perhaps the bitch vet. Lord knows she would have loved to sell me (and her other patients I'm sure) on some irrelevant, ridiculous therapy that benefitted only her. I know there are vets out there like that who think nothing of tests and pills and injections that cost thousands which wind up doing nothing more but prolonging the end-stage. And for every one of those vets, there are tens of us animal owners who take our responsibilities seriously and are realists about the duties of animal keeping.
Just the other day I ran into a friend who's doggie had a bout of diarrhea. $700 and a couple of bowls of dry food later...all is fine. If you ask a bunch of us, something's f###ed up about this very common scenario.
...HAYL NO!
The overnighter with Storm was a disaster. At my age, and with my schedule, I simply do not have the time or patience or stomach, quite frankly, to house train a big dog. I'll spare everyone the details, suffice it to say that I hope that my sisal rug doesn't fade in the sun.
NEXT!
I'm remembering my friend Betsy as I write this. She was NEVER able to housetrain the older dogs she adopted. Bless her heart, she gave those old guys the best years of their lives, but her house was a mess. And I'm just not willing to have that pole-barn kennel smell in my house. Given that she was so patient and nurturing with her charges, I wonder truly if it is probable that an old dog can be housetrained.
Or maybe that's not the issue, maybe I'm not the older shelter dog type . I had a sister-in-law who loved Siamese cats. At one point I think she had 8 of them. They had the run of the house and it was a smelly mess. But the cats were happy - nevermind that the rest of us had to take Benadryl everytime we visited.
Were Betsy and cat-lady-in-law aware of how stinky their homes were? Or did their love and dedication, somehow, enable the nerve thingies that turn off their sense of smell while the rest of us choked and politely turned down offers for dinner, glasses of water, etc. Does their animal-love exonerate them somehow from criticism and disdain? Were the rest of us just terrible, cold and heartless?
I don't care. Gross is gross. Breeder puppies are beginning to sound good again. I'm willing to deal with the chewing...and the scorn.
...with Storm the German Shepard I cruised a couple of weeks ago at the shelter.
He has spent all of his life either outdoors on a chain, or in a kennel; therefore, he is not potty trained. I knew this going into the overnighter, thinking I'd anticipate his moments. For most, I suppose, this issue might have raised an eyebrow or four (afterall, it takes two to dance this particular tango), but I was excited at the prospect of male-dog company - especially since I had spent the previous week laying low with a bad back.
The set-up seemed right - Storm was one hot canine - hairy like I like 'em, beautiful eyes and a pronounced snout. Big strong paws and a long torso. Woof, to say the least. Laughed at my joke, even, the joke being that I was hobbling. He was remarkably well leashed-trained, and there was no pulling to risk my still sensitive sciatic issue.
He got into my car. He was a little smelly, he had that smell dogs who have no home have. The shelter, I am sure, washed him and kept him in clean quarters, but the guy did reek of rejection. My first order of business was to give him a bath. And why not? I've been known to indulge in a shower scene, or two on the first date. I am so not opposed to hair in my drain if the moment is right.
I write this as he snoozes in my newly moved-into jungle loft. I'd photograph him but, of course, I can't find my camera - it is lost in the flotsam of moving debris. He still smells of homelessness - I wonder if there's a product out there that neutralizes the odor of disappointment and longing. And, Lord, could he use a breath mint or ten.
We seem happy for now. One down. Number two to go.
Stay tuned.
