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.