"Because life and death are unfair." ~ Vampire Bill

If you don't know who Vampire Bill is, you are obviously not a big fan of porn. Well, HBO's version of porn anyway. True Blood is some of the best eye- and brain-candy available; order it on Netflix and pass the popcorn.

I've been on a True Blood marathon this week at the direction of my son, who is has been in caretaker mode most of the week. We have the first two seasons on DVD, and I have watched every one of them since Tuesday afternoon.

Because....? you are surely wondering.

Because I have a broken heart.

That's not entirely accurate. To say that my heart was ripped out of my chest would be more accurate. As if by a Maenad.

Tuesday morning, without preamble or fanfare, my sweet baby Keen died. He left this world as he entered it - in my hands. One in a moment of joy, the other in anguish.

We are still awaiting the full report from the necropsy; the preliminary exams have been unable to identify a cause of death. And while my imagination runs wild with possibilities, I will wait for the pathologist to finish his work before saying more.

Keen was - I still want to say "is", pass the kleenex - a treasure chest unopened. Biddable and cooperative, he earned his CGC at 21 weeks of age (the youngest borzoi known to ever do so), was excelling in training for Rally and Obedience, doing incredibly well with agility training (he tore through tunnels and over jumps, loved the A-Frame, was figuring out the teeter; I could do front-crosses with him already). Prey-drive personified, he would chase anything that moved; my 2011 calendar was organized for his budding career. And Keen had made a visit just before Christmas to the treatment center with his sire, taking a full flight of stairs in the dark and spending nearly 2 hours telling me he'd love to be a therapy dog when he grew up.

If I'd given Santa a fantasy wish-list for the perfect dog, I'd have found Keen in my stocking.

Instead... the things that will never be. I'd trade every potential ribbon to have him back. To have his ridiculously curly head shove under my hand, doing the happy-bounce every morning from the bedroom to the door to go outside. To see him sitting in "his spot" eagerly waiting for his breakfast, to see his black form streaking around the pasture, to yell at him just once more for pulling plastic bags out of the recycling and shredding them all over my bedroom...

It is not my nature to live a life filled with regret. But I find that I have countless regrets for Keen. I wish we'd taken more photographs. I wish I'd taken him free coursing to chase a jackrabbit. I wish I'd seen this coming, that I could have prevented it, that I could have saved him, that I was smarter or more skilled or had magical powers and could just undo this unbearable sorrow.

I wish I could stop lying in bed, night after night, reliving the last 30 seconds of his life. I wish I could stop crying. I wish I wish I wish...

Sleep softly, forever more, my little Keen-bean. I will look in the night sky see your inky black coat on moonless nights, your brindle stripes in the Milky Way's band, the twinkle of your eyes in the stars. Farewell.

Comparing Judging

“A good judge conceives quickly, judges slowly” ~ Unk.

The highlight of the weekend, other than the always enjoyable dinner with close friends, was serendipitous. I went to Colorado for a seminar (more on that later) and stumbled upon a pony inspection. I quickly introduced myself as a former Connemara breeder and asked if I could impose by tagging along. The Inspector graciously allowed me to do so.

From a distance.

On the left you see a cluster of people with clipboards; they are the Inspectors, and have a form for reviewing the physical points of the pony they are examining. They measured his height at the withers with an official measuring stick, and confirmed the measurement. Each Inspector put hands on the pony, feeling the coat and flesh - and the animal's response to being touched by strangers. Note the animal is on a flat halter with a loose lead rope at all times. The Inspectors watched the pony move out at a walk and at a trot, and talked amongst themselves while this was happening. Then, because this is a stallion (the inspection process is more onerous for stallions than for mares), everyone moved to the arena (to the right in the photo) and the stallion was turned loose. This enables not only his free movement to be observed, but also his behavior (and therefore temperament) in a foreign environment.

Throughout, the Inspectors stayed clustered together, heads tilted in, sharing thoughts and comparing opinions. After they were done observing the pony, they discussed the evaluation amongst themselves for several long minutes, wrote up their collective score and report, and then gave the stallion's owner detailed feedback on his pony's strong and weak points.

The Inspection lasted nearly 45 minutes. It was my great privilege to observe the process and this lovely animal.

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Many years ago, in a time zone far far away, I was a consulting rosarian. As an active member of my local rose society, I volunteered at our annual rose show, the primary public education activity of the organization. Being a pathologically competitive person, I avoided entering the rose show as I wanted rose gardening to be my private form of therapy. Sunday morning in my rose gardens - putting on a floppy straw hat, pink flip flops, green cloth gloves, and going on bended knee into dark and pungent soil, pruning shears in hand, to practice integrated pest management - provided the weekly antidote to my high-tech corporate pressure cooker career. Cutting a few blooms to grace my cubicle was a joy.

I had four rose garden areas: along the front of the house; between the fence and the street on the east side; the fragrant cutting garden off the kitchen patio; and climbers behind the pool.

I did not want my roses to become a competitive endeavor; they were sacred.

Of course, it was not to be. In an effort to learn more about roses, and their spectacular blooms in particular (the entire plant is fascinating - did you know roses have prickles, not thorns?), I became a clerk at our annual show.

Clerking is the best job there is at a rose show. You get to spend hours on your feet, keeping your mouth shut, following around a pair or trio of judges, trying to keep up with their discussion and decisions, keeping your mouth shut, marking class winners and placements, flagging down runners to move winners to the head table, keeping your mouth shut, finding the table with the next class your group of judges is to judge even though it's on the other side of the hotel's ballroom and you can't leave your judges' side, deciphering the grunts and gestures common to some judges - and soaking up every morsel of conversation between the judges.

The best rose show judges, and almost all for whom I clerked were great, always took time share knowledge with their clerks. Their kind words made me a better gardener, a better rosarian. Eventually, I was persuaded to enter some of my roses in the local annual shows, where my exhibits occasionally placed.

An exhibit may be picked up (by the display vase) by a Judge, turned this way and that, viewed from above, foliage from below, the scent sampled - never touched, but as thorough an exam as the other senses can achieve. Disagreements between judges over scores and placements were always civilized, with comparisons between cultivars prompting persuasive arguments of one exhibit over another based on the scale of points:

OFFICIAL A.R.S. SCALE OF POINTS:

• FORM 25 points
• COLOR 20 points
• SUBSTANCE 15 points
• STEM AND FOLIAGE 20 points
• SIZE 10 points
• BALANCE AND PROPORTION 10 points

Needless to say, winning a class at a rose show is a tremendous honor. I was lucky enough to do so only once, at a huge District (regional) show. The trophy is to this day proudly displayed in my family room.

This is Love Potion, taken from my mauve cutting garden off the kitchen patio. It is staggeringly fragrant and just looking at the picture fills my head with its scent.

As each class is judged, the winner is taken to a head table. After every exhibit in each class has been judged, all the Judges gather (up to 10 judges) to select Queen (first), King (second), and the Court (remaining placements). Then the judges - ALL the judges - select the overall winners. Sometimes the decision is instant, sometimes discussion ensues, but it is always unanimous.

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Let us compare these two processes - evaluation by committee and discussion without overt time constraints - to the process of judging at a dog show:

A new breed judge is expected to judge a minimum of 20 dogs an hour, and experienced judges at least 25 dogs an hour (see Rules Ch. 7, Section 12).

Pp 10 - 11, Rules, Policies and Guidelines for Conformation Dog Show Judges

It is no small wonder to me that the quality of stallions is so very high, that the winning roses are of overwhelming magnificence: the collective wisdom and experience of many people have gone into making the selections.

It comes as no surprise that dog show judges so frequently get it wrong - each works alone and has scant time. The miracle is they ever get it right!

Perhaps, if we want to find the best dogs, we need a better process - lest we judge in haste and repent in leisure.

Back in the Saddle

After a lovely summer spent playing with puppies, cooking with my son, celebrating a milestone wedding anniversary, and teaching (and learning from!) a lot of new clients, it's time to get back in the proverbial saddle - which in fact is a keyboard - and release a slew of posts that have accumulated in my head.

Starting Monday. Probably.

Later today I'm off to Colorado for a seminar on structure and performance given by Helen King, renowned Connemara breeder and agility competitor. Maybe I can get her to sign my Rocky statue...

Anyway, planned topic is a long-ago started draft on unforgivable faults. Hoping for lots of discussion on this one....

Black holes

Going to Nationals was a great experience, but I was "off the radar" in more ways than one.

First, there was the two-day drive out. In near-constant gale-force winds and driving rain. Just me, seven borzoi, and Brown Betty (my van). Many thanks to Barb for the loan of a cargo platform, it was invaluable!! The sheer amount of stuff that went to Kentucky with me was, well, staggering. And other than too many t-shirts, none of it was unnecessary. Yikes.

The tubs contain: coursing/racing gear; dog food, bowls, buckets, etc.; people food/drinks; dog-washing and -grooming supplies, show leads, et al; people clothes, a change of shoes.

1,350 miles and four tanks of gas later, we arrived. Meeting on-line friends in person for dinner set the tone for the week - everyone was happy to see each other, fervent in their opinions, and filled with sportsmanship.

The field trials occupied Sunday and Monday, and there were some nice borzoi. By nice I mean: sane and functional. Well muscled. Lots of prey drive. A few impressed me, a few were disappointing, and most were in that ho-hum middle-ground of decent runners that left my socks on my ankles. But there were no slackers, and that is always a good thing. I didn't enter the ASFA trial, but did have skin in the game: Gin's sire, grand-sire, and great-grand-dam were all running. (I helped slip.) Gin ran in the LGRA trial that afternoon, but was pulled after P2 following a nasty collision at the finish. (She was fine.) I ran three dogs in the AKC trial on Monday: Rumor finished her MC title from the Veterans class; Py (Specials) and Gin (Open) both placed.

That afternoon I handed off one adult and two puppies and I headed up to the host hotel with a fist-full of ribbons and bling, ready for the next stage of the event. By Monday night I had shed another adult, so was down to a mere three borzoi for the rest of the week. After coordinating 50 meals (and at least four-times that many potty trips) in three-and-a-half days, I was finally feeling like a lady of leisure.

Except for unloading all that stuff from the van to the hotel room - plus two crates, an x-pen, several dog blankets, my cooler, camera, and other front-seat sundries... which sent me to bed with an aching back.

Tuesday was Obedience and Rally, and I will say - hands down - this was the most supportive competitive environment I've ever been in. Pick a sport, any sport; any time zone, any level. THIS was a great place to be: heartfelt cheers, good-natured laughter, sympathetic groans, supportive classmates. Clear front-runners for the Triathalon emerged, titles were finished, first legs were earned, and the judge's indulgence was much appreciated.

Wednesday the entire tone of the event changed. Perhaps it was the quantity of dogs, the endless drone of blow dryers in the grooming room, the wet and shivering dogs walking from the bathing area to the building. Perhaps it was the event type changing, perhaps it was something else. But once the conformation events started, there was a subtle shift. Around the ring, people seemed to fragment into groups, there was less camaraderie. There was a lot of clumping around the results board, muttering and lowered voices. Aside glances, fingers pointing in catalogues, and pursed lips.

In the grooming room itself, sportsmanship abounded. Grooming tables, supplies, dryers, and extension cords were shared as readily as a super-sized bag of M&M's. Two of my own dogs were groomed for nearly six hours by someone else (six!!) and - I will be honest - looked utterly magnificent when she was done. Paula is a master groomer, and a finer example of a Southern lady would be hard to find. Kindness and generosity, endless gossip and tales of other dogs and long-ago shows filled the air - along with mousse, mist, and whips of dog fur. Scissors sang and brushes flourished and virtually all the dogs stood for endless hours with looks ranging from profound boredom to resignation to quiet contentment.

The health seminar Wednesday night was great; the speaker was funny, articulate, thoughtful, and very informative. An excellent use of time and money.

Thursday "regular" conformation classes began. Hallways were progressively more crowded, exercise areas in constant use, and a sense of "I'm late! I'm late! for a very important date!" gave urgency to footfalls in the hallway.

Heaven help you if you took a dog of color into the ring (and few people did), or one without a lot of bone, or a moderate rear... with few exceptions, you might as well have been standing on a distant planet. Serious rumblings of discontent from the ring-side observers was evident.

Thursday night I attended the member education seminar on how to judge Sweepstakes. Focused principally on procedure and administrivia, it provided insights into the realities for judges. More interesting than informative, I thought, other than a suggestion to find the dogs of best type first, then select soundness from among those. Not quite chicken and egg... but perhaps soundness first and type second?

Things weren't quite so bad in the bitch classes on Friday, as there were more colored hounds entered and quality, overall, seemed better than in dogs. I was terribly disappointed, however, when in one class a bitch that the judge had great difficulty in touching was put up over others that were of superior temperament.

After a quick trip to visit a friend's kennel and see some lovely puppies, I attended the judge's education seminar. This is presented several times a year to prospective and current borzoi judges so they know what makes a "correct" borzoi. There were numerous photographs, including two of hounds that had been shaved down (so their coat didn't disguise appearance). In retrospect, I think I would have preferred that photos of outstanding running dogs, rather than highly successful show dogs, had been used. If BCOA is going to tell judges this is a running breed, then let's focus on field performance phenotype, yes? Return of upper arm and croup angle are two items where information presented was inconsistent with experience. Points around tail -set and -usage and sidegait (a trotting breed moves very differently from a galloping breed) also made me frown.

Saturday morning I was up and loading and on the road as soon as possible. Another 1,350 miles and four tanks of gas, I was home late Sunday afternoon. Despite the grueling hours - most days approached 18 hours in length - it was a very worthwhile week. My head filled with possibilities and good memories, I'm already looking forward to next year.

Puppy Update

Six weeks old? The time has FLOWN by!!

The camera is giving me fits again (guess that will go on the wish list for Christmas) which is a shame as they are wicked cute. This morning they "helped" me take the garbage out, and I do wish there's been an extra set of hands with a video camera. Imagine four puppies racing me down a 400' driveway while I drag two 80-gallon cans. The garbage cans make quite a racket and have big wheels, which is exactly what Kay Laurence says they need exposure to. (Kay has a reputation as the person on puppy learning, and is a wonderful seminarian.)

The puppies wove in and out of my legs, got in front of the moving cans, and generally made total pills of themselves then entire way to the gate - excellent reactions! Then I pulled out the BIG can we keep by the gate, a 120-gallon container that gets emptied by the collection service. I made as much noise as possible (not difficult to do, these are hard plastic jobbers), banging lids, lifting and dumping and dropping and tossing. The puppies looked at me like I was a rock star... oooooh, how cool! Do it again! Then I opened the gate, scooted out, and left the puppies behind while I positioned huge container at the property line. Cries of protest followed me - for the big container or me, I could not say.

I scooted back in the gate and locked it, picked up the recycling bins, loudly dropped one in each garbage can, and started back up the driveway. The 80-gallon cans, now considerably lighter, banged merrily along the gravel, making a terrible racket. The puppies were everywhere in the way, so I found a clear path and started jogging, hoping to stay in front of them. The cans were making a horrific noise at this point, bouncing madly along the gravel, the recycling bins clanging inside them. The puppies then raced me, trying to keep up, eyes bright and faces gleeful at this game. Interestingly, the biggest puppy was the fastest, the smallest was the slowest. Clearly, all the racket was a non-issue for them.

Later this morning they get their longest car-ride yet: to the vet's office for their first vaccinations. I hope they think that is fun, too!

Volcanoes

The recent volcanic eruption in Iceland got me thinking about a book I recently finished: Krakatoa. A fascinating trip through history and geology (as most of his books are), making many a road trip quite pleasurable.

Actually, I've enjoyed everything I've by Simon Winchester that I've read, though there are a few I haven't devoured yet. Guess I better hit the library...

Friends, Family, and Freedom

There's an old saying: never discuss religion or politics. This advice is routinely given to children, but sometimes forgotten by adults.

I have an uncle, my favorite uncle in fact, who's politics I agree with about 50%. This uncle, a former judge and big-shot in his religious organization of choice, is a card-carrying member of the John Birch Society. (Yes Virginia, there really is a JBS.) Then there's my mother; in 1972 she campaigned door-to-door for George McGovern (sometimes taking me and my sister with her). I learned a lot about commitment and activism that summer. But I agree with my mother only about 50% of the time.

My uncle and my mother are able to sit at a table and share a meal and love each other and have mutual respect - and keep politics off the menu. Religion (broadly speaking), is fair game as a topic, however. But not politics.

My in-laws are Roman Catholic, very Catholic. I am... not. My husband was an altar boy. He went to just about the most Catholic university in the country - twice. With my in-laws, we don't discuss religion, ever. Politics, broadly speaking, is a hot topic (it is California, after all).

Think you know what political party I belong to? Ten will get me $20, you're wrong.

It's a choice, getting along or not. To respect ourselves, each other, and the First Amendment, or not. Sadly, most of the time, the loudest people seem to be choosing not. We can't hear each other over the shouting, the raised angry voices screaming We're right and they're wrong and there is no middle ground. How on earth could healthy or constructive dialogue ever take place with that vitriol in the air?

I think the truth is: we all just need to STFU. By which I mean, we all need to stop becoming hysterical when somebody says something with which we don't agree. On the big issues - especially on the biggest issues, the third rail stuff - nobody is changing anybody else's mind. And hasn't in a very very long time, and any semblance of movement toward agreement is closer to impossible than difficult.

My uncle, who's smart and thoughtful and considerate and sometimes infuriatingly articulate, once told me (as we prepared Christmas dinner together, sharing a kitchen full of knives and boiling pots and glassware) that abortion is like slavery: the issue is that divisive. I didn't agree with him, at the time, but have come around to the opinion that he's probably right. Nobody is changing anybody's mind about anything, and sometimes it does look like a Civil War on the front lines of the issue.

As for me, I'm a big fan of Milton Friedman. A brilliant thinker and writer, proponent of personal freedoms and free markets. And responsibility in both. His death was a terrible loss for the world.

So think, believe, say what you want. I will, too. And I'll defend to the end your right to think, believe, and say what you want, even if I don't agree with you. And I expect you to do the same for me.

Because that's what freedom really means, and that's what friends (and family) do.

Even when there are certain things we don't talk about.

Heroines

I have been inspired, twice, this week. That could be a record.

First, by a peer and friend that is offering an opportunity to someone that most people would go to great lengths to avoid.

Second, by a former student who, through hard work and tremendous generosity, has grown in ways she can't yet appreciate.

Three cheers to both.

I doubt it's coincidence that both of these have a little something to do with dogs. The universe is talking - and I am all ears.

One Last Time

It's one o'clock, and I can't stop crying.

This morning I put Bugg on trailer, headed to new owners and a new life. The barn feels hollow, my view of our empty pasture is sad.

Her new owners have been wanting a Connemara for their grandkids to ride. A chance conversation over dinner a couple of months ago raised a possibility that today became reality.

Bugg's new home has other horses, regular trail rides, and two girls that want to see what possibilities exist. (My son learned to ride on Bugg's niece, Laurel.) It sounds ideal.

But it has been bittersweet.

The last several days I've been spending a lot of time with Bugg, re-playing the Parelli games, stripping out her winter coat, handling her feet. I was struck, time and again, by what a nice, nice pony she is. Sane, sensible, easy, kind. Since late 2008 the rhythm of my life's routine has been closely tied to her needs - daily feeding schedule, regular grooming, trying to keep her in work, blankets on and off during the bitter nights of winter. Mucking and scrubbing and hauling hay and scrutinizing grain. But she deserves better than the life of pasture candy, more opportunity to get out and about and have fun than I have been able - or willing - to provide.

I had high hopes, big dreams for us, when Bugg arrived two years ago. But having horses means having a having a horse-centric lifestyle, something I realized I'm never going to do.

While there are no regrets about Bugg's departure to better things, I do have disappointments. Two AI breedings that never took and now will never be repeated; there was a time when I would have sold my soul for a Go Bragh or Clearheart baby (and I'd have sold more than that for a good quality hard-colored colt by either one of them). Time and money and hopes never to be recovered - such is the lot of a horse breeder. Perhaps it's just as well, the horse market has been brutal the last few years. I'll never see the view of my dogs course hare from her back, or find out if I had the courage to learn to take fences despite my age (closer to 50 than 40).

Yesterday I was acutely aware of each thing being done for the last time. The last grooming, the last trim of her bridle path; the last time I'd rest my ear on her flank and listen to her healthy gut's gurgles. The last face rub; the last time our breaths would mingle as she nuzzled my cheek. The last time I'd scrub a water bucket, or throw hay, or dump grain into a pan. Once more I climbed on her back, Bugg's nose coming around to touch the tip of my boot before we moseyed around the paddock... for the last time.

As we walked out to the gate in the dawn's early light, Rick snapped a couple of pictures. She didn't mind that I interrupted her breakfast to put on a halter, and she liked the bits of apple as I led her out. She went on the trailer like she did it every day, rather than less than a dozen times in her life.

I treasure the lessons she taught me. Horses are smart, in their prey-animal ways. Bugg took to clicker training as easily as a dog, and better than most cats I've tried. But her run-or-be-eaten wiring challenged me to try harder, breath deeper, go slower. I trusted her with my life, as well. One day last year, while picking out her feet, my glasses fell off my face, somewhere under this 800 lb. animal with lightening reflexes and a keen sense of self preservation. Without thinking (foolish, foolish human that I am) I dropped to my hands and knees, feeling around in the straw bedding until I found my glasses. I pushed them up my nose and stood up - and then the stupidity of what I had just done struck me. Bugg was looking at me, one ear back, as if to say "silly biped, don't you know most horses would kill you for doing that?" She was right, of course, and all I had to offer was a cookie for her kindness.

It hasn't all been sunshine and roses, but that's more my failing than hers.

So this morning we took one last walk together: through the barn, down the driveway, between the trees, out the gate, into the morning's first rays of sunlight, and onto a truck. And I said a quick goodbye and gave her a slice of apple - for the last time - and sent her on her way.

Then sobbed all the way back to the house.

And then it was one o'clock and time to feed lunch; I'd walked halfway to the barn before I remembered, looking at the empty corral... and wiped away more tears as I turned away.

Godspeed, LoveBugg. And thank you.

From hamsters to piglets

Three weeks of age, and the milestones keep ticking by:

Eyes open - check.

Hearing - check.

Walking (er, staggering) - check.

Play begins - check.

Conscious elimination begins - check.

Self awareness, climbing, & exploration all begin - check, check, check.

Weaning begins - check... and a napkin, please!!

I would love to post pictures of cute faces - the Ahdin babies are too adorable for words. Imagine, if you will, a photo of their four gorgeous heads with full pigmentation, dark eyes and haws, all in a row... But no. They are far too busy to hold still for such a photo, even if they were clean enough to attempt one.

They are having far too much fun playing in, and with, their puppy gruel to be bothered with pretty pictures. Oh yes, they are eating it, but it gets everywhere in the process.

See the website for individual photos... this is the ONLY one with no feet in the pan (quite possibly an accident).

Luck Runs Out - almost

I guess it's time to confess to a dirty little secret.

We have a beagle.

I've mentioned this hound a couple of times before, and after yesterday's trauma I suppose it's time to "reveal all".

This tale starts in early 2004 when the friend-of-a-friend asked for help if locating a beagle to adopt. At that time I had good connections with rescue and shelters (we lived elsewhere in NM at that time), so after clarifying the seeker's requirements (young adult, 15", altered, housebroken, good with kids), I put out my feelers. Over the course of a few months I screened several candidates, none fit the bill.

Until one day, a owner-surrender came across my radar.
To say that "Copper", as he was then called, was fat, is to make light of his girth. The dog was hugely obese, 56# in a 15" body. This, people, is what animal cruelty looks like. Obesity is easy to prevent, and puts incredible stresses on the body's joints and organs. It is mean and irresponsible to allow a dog - any animal - to eat so much that this becomes their condition.

At five years old.

I drove to Albuquerque, temperament tested the dog (with kids, food, toys, and basic husbandry), and found him charming and stable. I stepped outside, called the seeker, confirmed they wanted this dog, and bailed Copper out of the shelter and into my car.

Not the first time I'd brought home a rescue, not the last. But he turned out to be a rescue like no other. The old adage that "no good deed goes unpunished" may have flitted through my mind... I don't really remember.

I seem to recall it was a Thurdsay when I did this... the next day we all headed out of town for an agility trial, taking the new dog with us (he couldn't fly out until the next week as we were awaiting veterinary paperwork). Turned out Copper had a terrible vice: baying. Incessantly. The friends set up next to us at the agility trial actually moved to get away from the noise. We were pariahs all weekend.

No matter, he was leaving in a few days.

And leave he did, shipped out by air to his new owners, who had pined for a beagle for nearly three years.

And three days later I spoke to the new owners, to see how things were going. Oh, fine, they said. He's sweet and smart and the grandkids love him, but he's too tall so we're taking him to the shelter here.

Um, WTF? No, you're not. Read the contract, he comes back to me, on your nickle. No exceptions. (Too tall? Seriously? Whatever.)

So Copper was flown back to us - promptly dubbed "Boomerang" - and a new adventure began.

He arrived heavier than when he left - now a staggering 58#. Boomer was granted house privileges while we figured out how to place him again, and he relished in the new accommodations.

New Mexico Beagle Rescue was over-stuffed and unable to take him, so we agreed to foster Boomer until a new home was found. I took him back to the vet for a detailed exam (his initial trip had been to secure a Health Certificate so he could be flown out of state) - and we were shocked by what the vet found: bilateral subluxating patellas, lubo-sacral disease, and worst of all, a severe heart murmur. This was no longer a dog that could be placed in a pet home. We could return him to the shelter or keep him.

Hardly a choice at all.

So Boomer went on a diet. At that time Rick was the house-spouse, so Boomer joined the border collies on long daily walks in the 500 acre open-space behind us. A strict, high-quality diet, proper supplements, and countless miles later, a very attractive hound emerged:
This picture was taken just four months after Boomer went on a diet - still too heavy at 35#, but soooooo much better than he was.

There was, and still is, fall-out from his early years of being free-fed. Boomer had come to see food as his god-given right to consume at will. He counter surfs, steals food off the plate in front of you and sometimes out of your hand, walks on the dining table, tears open food bags, grocery bags, trash bags - anything that contains something remotely edible. Having a beagle has turned out to be a lifestyle, and one frankly that we don't particularly enjoy.

Boomer is also an escape artist - which he proved in spades yesterday and is actually the prompt of this post. One of my favorite stories involves my sister (and mostly because it [A] wasn't a failure on my part, and [B] it ended well) who came over to potty dogs while Rick and I were away for several hours. I had a HUGE sign posted, which she looked at after letting the dogs into the back yard. The sign said: do not let Boomer outside unsupervised. She ran into the back yard, only to discover Boomer was already gone. The sounds of screams from next door (we lived in suburbia at the time) drew her attention - Boomer had gone over the back wall, down a culvert, up the other side, through a neighbor's garage, into Vera's house via the cat door, and was eating her cat's food in her kitchen.

We bought Vera a bouquet of flowers.

Since moving to our Ranchero, keeping track of Boomer has become part art and part science. Because he digs (the only one of our dogs to do so), we have learned the hard way - repeatedly - that there's no such thing as a beagle-proof fence. He can go under, around, and through anything - and regularly does. Gates are no challenge. The dog-equipment industry has yet to invent a collar or harness that can contain him. (We should have named him Houdini.) Supervision is the only solution, as training (it took me three years and multiple attempts to get him to pass a CGC test) only works when you are vastly more interesting than some distant temptation. At night he wears a lighted collar and a bear-bell so we have some notion of where he is in the small dog-yard off the house.

This winter was harsh. We've had many many feet of snow and the ground has been frozen for four months.

We got sloppy about watching Boomer. By we, I mostly mean me.

Yesterday, just before lunch, I put Boomer out to potty, then the phone rang. I answered the phone and chatted for twenty minutes. Then it hit me. Fuck, Boomer's outside.

I grabbed a coat (it was howling wind) and dashed out the door - no Boomer in the dog yard. I stepped back in the mudroom, grabbed a leash, and headed to the barn. Boomer finds horse-poop irresistible, and has been known to break into Bugg's stall for a gorge-fest. It is, in fact, his preferred destination. This time - no Boomer. I knew I was in trouble.

After a quick survey of the rest of the ranchero, I went with the feeling in my gut: Boomer was off-property.

Fighting the panic rising in my system, I called Home Again and started printing flyers. I called all the neighbors (which covered 40 acres in 5 phone calls), let Rick know, and headed out the gate. I had posted four flyers and was was taping the fifth when the phone rang: A guy had Boomer in his garage, about 1/2 mile to the east.

Total elapsed time: a little over an hour.

Toll on my being: about 100 years.

While letting the microchip company know the dog was missing was the right thing to do, that isn't what got him back in my possession so quickly. It was the brass plate on his collar - home phone number, the word R E W A R D, and the microchip information. All of which is duplicated on his tags.

It was 15 degrees overnight; imagine if he'd been out all night. A 10 year old dog with cancer, not much body fat or coat. It was luck he didn't cross the main road, but stayed on "this" side, avoiding the traffic that routinely speeds down the hill. Boomer was trying to break into this guy's dogyard, where a bowl full of kibble is out all day for his own dogs. Thankfully the guy was home and heard the ruckus, caught Boomer easily, and checked the collar.

He wouldn't take the reward money I offered. Hey, I've got dogs, been there. No worries.

So now we have a hole under the fence to fill, gate mesh to extend, and I'm seriously considering electrifying the bottom interior of the dog yard. It already looks like a prison out there... hey, maybe I should consider concertina wire... No, I've got it: I'll train him to use a litterbox, so he'll never go out of the house again.

Yeah, right.

That is my confession. We have a beagle, and all too frequently he gets the better of us. Our first - and last - scenthound. A beloved member of our family, but... never again. One of these days his luck is going to run out, for good. And that will be very sad indeed.

Coming of Age

The puppies were born 18 days ago (don't worry, nobody's letting them vote), and a big part of their "puppyhood" development is over.

The Super Puppy neurological stimulation exercises were completed on Day 16, and we managed to get some pictures. These gentle stimulations have decades of science behind them, and very breeder I've spoken with that uses them swears they work. So we did them.

Before starting, I would weigh each puppy:
This week, weighing puppies has been both entertaining and challenging, as Yaso here demonstrates. Now having good control over their legs, climbing OVER has become a popular passtime - over each other, over Mama, over the edges of things. Combined with their eyes being open (though it's debatable that they see more than light, shadow, and big motion) they are avid explorers. It's both fun and a little alarming when they go OUT the holding box when I'm changing the bedding!

Once a weight for the day had been recorded, the foot stimulation was done:
Oro was pretty cooperative on Tuesday. Sometimes they protested mightily, others they squirmed, others they were nonchalant. Every day we did a different foot, so each set of toes was tickled four times.

Next each puppy is held upright:
You can see that Dos's eyes are open, her pigmentation is wonderful, her nails need trimming (done!), and the plump belly. Can you say - perfect!

Next they were held - very securely - upside down. Not very photogenic, so on to the next bit, which is cradling on back:
This usually involved some form of protest, as Yaso ably demonstrates. The first week they were easy to hold, but as they grew by leaps and bounds my small hands had a harder time supporting the entire body. Glad we're done!

Saving the worst for last, was the chilled damp rag torture:
Rojo didn't make it off the platter in four seconds, but like all his siblings - he tried!

When we finished with each puppy, we handed him or her to Rumor for a thorough cleaning (nasty people smell! must get rid of that!) and a nosh. Then they all stretched out for a nap, which I have to say sounds like a great idea:

Oro, Yaso, Dos, Rojo

And yes, that glimpse of newspaper means they are eliminating independently, though Rumor is still clean as a cat and keeps the whelping box spotless.

Our next adventure: puppy gruel. Hooo boy, that should be messy!

It Takes a Village

I may live in the boonies, but to say the Ahdin litter came about without a lot of help would be disingenuous.

Help takes many forms, and I'd like to take a post to thank some people and share a few of the resources that have been particularly useful.

THE VILLAGE (OF) PEOPLE
Thank you to: Sandra - for Py, for everything. Mary, Dora, & Chandra - for Rumor. Barb, Bobbie, Elaine, Karen, Laurel, Sherita, Susan - for support and advice. Sandra (again) and Susan for vouching for me (I know you did). Susan (and again) and Aenone for Skype-ing me when Cayenne whelped - that, I have to say, was the best "resource" ever. Mary (again) for always, always answering her phone, answering every question and providing guidance - without treating me like a dork. Most of all, Joan - for being, for... well, for everything.

And to Rumor: we both know you are doing all the hard work. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.


The following resources have, and continue to be, useful. Some were interesting, others are utterly invaluable. YMMV.

BOOKS
I love books. I love turning pages and making notes and the comfort they provide by being constantly accessible. These have kept me company these past months, and as they move from nightstand (and desk, and end table) to bookcase I will be glad to know they remain close at hand. (Images pilfed from Amazon and Dogwise; shop around for best pricing):



This is the one book everyone loved and insisted was a must-have. And I will agree, it's well organized, clear, helpful, practical, and easy to use.






These two books should come as a set, and are worth every penny. The list of supplies to have on-hand is detailed, and I watched the DVD (showing how to tube feed, among other things) over and over.




Speaking of DVD's, this one is also great. Not too technical, detailed information on cesarian sections, singletons, neonate development... etc. From "the man" in canine reproduction.






A friend recommended this book and loaned it to me. Widely considered a classic, covers picking stock to whelping and beyond.








Another favorite loaned by a friend, one that I liked so much I bought. Don't be fooled by the publication date, it's terrific.






Another older book with still-relevant information (no image available).

And a few books that have general information as well as breeding/whelping details:

A UK publication:







A classic, recently updated, and an absolute must-have.








MORE PEOPLE
I would be remiss not to thank the veterinarians, many of whom I count among my friends, for help, support, and service along the way. Noah, for the pre-breeding exam of Py when the hope for "tartlettes" started a couple of years ago. Diana, who did the palpation that confirmed pregnancy and cheered us along every step. Rebecca, for checking medications and ensuring I always have a well-stocked pharmacy on hand - and her cell phone number so I can check in before dispensing. Donald, for the x-ray and good wishes. Western Trails, for being on standby during whelping (thankfully they weren't needed).

SUPPLIES
Joan loaned me a whelping box and heater, they are GREAT. Next week we move everything from the study to the family room and attach the extension. I've made endless use of dog blankets (get the ones at Costco - same thing for 1/3 the price) and piddle pads, a large quantity of both are invaluable.

WEB SITES
Too many to list, but I have made daily use of information and forms and they have saved me countless hours of headache and confusion.

The lists go on and on - by you have the general idea.

So clearly, one does not need to live in a heavily populated area to have a "virtual village" of support. I couldn't have done it - calmly ;-) - without the help of many kind friends.

Two Weeks and Growing

They were born two weeks ago today! Now flirting with three pounds each, eyes are mostly open, and legs that are mostly underneath with game attempts at actual walking, they resemble puppies more than anything else.

I will post more pictures this afternoon when my errands are done for the day. Maybe this morning's puppy-pile will keep you amused until then:

(post-breakfast nap - doesn't look comfortable to me! but what do I know.)

Little Milestones - 1 week old

The Ahdin litter is a week old today!

I will confess to having spent absurd amounts of time watching the puppies, holding and cuddling and generally acting like a smitten fool. Oh well.

Can't believe I go back to work tomorrow! I will miss them while I'm gone, even if it is only for a few hours. They grow and change by the minute, and their antics are endlessly absorbing. Such as their "eat? nap? or puppy pile? nah, let's eat" negotiations. The brute in the morning, climbing over a sibling and stealing a nipple, may well be the one on the bottom of the heap in the afternoon. No longer hamster-like, now they are fat sausages. With tails.


By this age, each should have doubled from birth weight. They have, in spades. We started the "super puppy" exercises, which I call puppy torture time. Rumor thinks I'm insane, and watches me with bewilderment from the otherside of the sliding glass door. And of course, the puppies must think I'm evil as they got their nails trimmed and that was not their idea of a good time, nosiree.

Daily exposure to a novel organic smell is underway, too. They have met two new people this week (thanks to Elaine and Miela for coming by!), were held by Anthony near his sweaty armpit after a day of snowboarding, and took turns on my chest while I ate popcorn.

Their eyes will open in the next few days, which will expand their horizons considerably. I'm looking forward to every minute!

Facing Facts

The truth is, these puppies are wicked-cute:

l => r: brindle boy, black&brindle boy, gold girl, brindle girl

They are four days old today. Life so far has consisted of Rumor's tender and careful attentions, nursing (resulting in impressive weight gains), and charming explorations. While their sleep-cycle is dominated by twitching, the movements when awake are hysterical. They look a bit like hamsters (albeit with tails), move a bit like lizards (legs out to the side, pushing along), and sound sorta like cats (the noises crack me up). Rumor's ability to ignore their "I'm lost!" protestations from under rail or when futilely seeking a nipple on her backside sets an example for me to follow. The puppies are "on their own" for getting around; finding warmth or food or a cooler spot no longer gets any assistance.

Other than increasing Ru's meals, washing bedding twice a day, and providing door-man service, she continues to need very little from me. I am taking her for a walk a couple of times a day, and while she seems happy to get out for a few minutes is ready to race back to her treasures by the end.

The puppies have started their neurological stimulation, including novel scent articles daily, but mostly they alternate between piling up for naps and wrestling matches for the best nipples. Their eyes will start to open next week, so this is the end of flash-photography for a while.

Truth be told, I'm helplessly smitten with them.

Mamma of the Year