...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.
...are when I'm sick. I'm a big baby.
Every once in a blue moon, my sciatic nerve get irritated and I'm just no good. I wouldn't say that it's a chronic problem, as the last time I suffered an episode was about 13 years ago. The damn nerve is acting up again and like the last time, there was no heavy lifting involved. The last time I tossed a newspaper into the back of my SUV; this time, I tossed a piece of cardboard into the back of my baby brother's SUV. The last time, it really hurt; this time it did too - it is the kind of pain that makes you nauseaus. The last time I rested and did stretching exercies, which I've been doing now. Ada, my beloved German Shorthaired Pointer, cuddled next to me the last time. This time, I'm all alone.
I miss having a dog. I miss the comfort. I miss the reassurance they return. How do they do that?
...and Monroe, Dietrich and DiMaggio...
This greyhound found right here on Dogtime.Com's categories menu to the left [see Home & Daycare] gives good face.
Garbo, if you ask me.
...for a pretty face. Even if [sigh] it is on a terrier.
And with all pretty faces, there's a bit of madness, isn't there?
Meet Rex. He's a bit of a Shia LeBeouf, isn't he?
When I was in my twenties, I had a friend who's Jack Russell terriers (she had 2) ganged up on a puppy she introduced and killed the poor thing. Tore it to shreds, practically. We were all shocked. Until this pair came into our lives, all we knew about the breed was that it was that cute pooch on Frazier. For a time the friend was the bomb - not only was she rich and thin - she had the dog of the moment. In stereo. But then...the incident.
Needless to say the collective gasp was immediately followed the uninanimously newfound interest in the Visla. Previously dog-only persons were considering cats.
I hadn't thought much about the breed, really, until I moved to New York where my good friend, Georgina, mothers a pair of Jacks...well, Jills really, Maggie and Indie. I adore Indie - she's a bloodhound in a terrier's body if you ask me. She's an independent, sleepy sort who is content to snooze and look up every now and then. Maggie, on the other hand, as her mother put it in her most proper Aussie accent, is "the sort a sheep farmer puts down, isn't she?" Horrible. Maggie attacks anything that moves, me included. Even though she lives in a swanky pad in Chelsea, I'm always hesitatant to dog sit the girls when Georgi goes away which is often.
This bears repeating. I am a single male who thinks twice about dog sitting 25 pounds of pooch who live in a fab crib in the middle of Chelsea because of Maggie, the crazed Jack Russell.
Rex is cute though. I'm gonna arrange with the shelter for an outing to see just how crazy his pretty is. I'm wearing boots to be safe.
