Why Dogs Are With Us So Briefly

This is another story e-mailed to me by a friend.

A Dog’s Purpose (from a 6-year-old).

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog’s owners, Ron, his wife Lisa, and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn’t do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.

As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt Shane might learn some thing from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker’s family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker’s transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker’s Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.

Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up,”I know why.”

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I’d never heard a more comforting explanation.

He said, “People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life — like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?” The Six-year-old continued, “Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don’t have to stay as long.”

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply.  Speak kindly.

Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure Ecstasy.

Take naps.

Stretch before rising.

Run, romp, and play daily.

Thrive on attention and let people touch you.

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.

On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.

On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.

When you’re happy, dance around and wag your entire body.

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.

Be loyal.

Never pretend to be something you’re not.

If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

Enjoy every moment of every day

Jasper and the Unbaked Rolls

This is another story that came to me in an e-mail, with no indication of the author or source.  If anyone knows the author or source, please e-mail me so I can put the credit in this post.

Please note: The story is funny, but the outcome could have been serious, even fatal. The ASPCA has unbaked yeast dough on its NEVER-feed-to-dogs list.

We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10-year-old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.

Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me.

Lest you think this is a bad case of  ‘no discipline,’ I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.

Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time.

I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole house that worked, thus the assignment. I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for several hours.

Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30 PM. When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty.

I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated. I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night.

God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.

We rose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing put the dog out to relieve himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt, and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction.

He couldn’t lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our backyard, he couldn’t stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon. I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol.

Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister’s house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day. My sister lives outside of Muskegon on a ranch (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and me, we took off.

Now I know you probably don’t believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that’s not the worst of it.

Now he was beginning to let off gas and it smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen’s, thankful she didn’t live any further away than she did.

Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister’s garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper’s latest endeavor to walk without running into something.

Of course, as the old adage goes, ‘what goes in, must come out’ and Jasper was no exception. Granted, if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but a dog’s digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen’s house. Having discovered his ‘packages’ on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor.

This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor. And as if this wasn’t degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed, too.

Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry’s sister’s house. I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear … I presume.

I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I’m doing research on the computer as to: ‘How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet’

Greta and the Cockerel

We had a new Greta adventure Wednesday morning. The people next door keep chickens and they have one rooster. Well, the rooster got out of the coop and flew into our back yard, whereupon Greta did her greyhound race memory thing and chased it. She pulled a lot of feathers out and stopped it cold, but dropped it immediately when my husband said, “Greta, drop it.”

We thought it was dead, and took Greta inside. I went back to pick up the corpse, and it was gone.  It was only stunned.

About two hours later, the stupid bird came back into our yard.  My husband spied it from the upstairs window, where he’d been looking out for it periodically for a while.  I guess a rooster is very macho and has to live dangerously? My husabnd called me to keep Greta inside. He rushed downstairs and went out and tried to catch it to put it back over the fence, but it wouldn’t cooperate.

Finally the kid who cleans the animal pens next door arrived; my husband spied him from the window.  I went next door and got him, and he caught Rooster  in one try and took it home.  I had a good look at him, and there wasn’t much damage, just  a little blood on its neck, and its tail was distinctly lacking in feathers, but it seemed OK.

I noticed it didn’t  crow all day, as it usually does, so I perversely hoped that Greta got its voice box or whatever roosters have that makes the crowing sound. Once in the morning is cute; all day and all night gets wearing. No such luck. He was back crowing as usual the next day.

Anyway, when the drama was over,  Greta lay on her cushion as though nothing out of the ordinary ever happened.

Jasmine, Canine Earth Mother

This came to me in an e-mail message from a friend. I have no idea who wrote it, or when, or if it was published anywhere or is just making the rounds via e-mail forwarding. But it’s such a wonderful story, and it describes so well the fundamental greyhound breed characteristic of gentleness that I want to share it.  If anyone has claim to it, please e-mail me so I can put it in the blog.

In 2003, police in Warwickshire , England , opened a garden shed and found a whimpering, cowering dog. It had been locked in the shed and abandoned. It was dirty and malnourished, and had clearly been abused. In an act of kindness, the police took the dog, which was a Greyhound bitch, to the nearby Nuneaton Warwickshire Wildlife Sanctuary, run by a man named Geoff Grewcock and known as a willing haven for animals abandoned, orphaned or otherwise in need. (URL is  http://www.warwickshirewildlifesanctuary.co.uk/index.htm .)

Geoff and the other sanctuary staff went to work with two aims: to restore the dog to full health, and to win her trust. It took several weeks, but eventually both goals were achieved. They named her Jasmine, and they started to think about finding her an adoptive home.

But Jasmine had other ideas. No-one remembers now how it began, but she started welcoming all animal arrivals at the sanctuary. It didn’t matter if it was a puppy, a fox cub, a rabbit or any other lost or hurting animal, Jasmine would peer into the box or cage and, where possible, deliver a welcoming lick.

Geoff relates one of the early incidents. “We had two puppies that had been abandoned by a nearby railway line. One was a Lakeland Terrier cross and another was a Jack Russell Doberman cross. They were tiny when they arrived at the centre and Jasmine approached them and grabbed one by the scruff of the neck in her mouth and put him on the settee. Then she fetched the other one and sat down with them, cuddling them.”

“But she is like that with all of our animals, even the rabbits. She takes all the stress out of them and it helps them to not only feel close to her but to settle into their new surroundings.

“She has done the same with the fox and badger cubs, she licks the rabbits and guinea pigs and even lets the birds perch on the bridge of her nose.”

Jasmine, the timid, abused, deserted waif, became the animal sanctuary’s resident surrogate mother, a role for which she might have been born. The list of orphaned and abandoned youngsters she has cared for comprises five fox cubs, four badger cubs, 15 chicks, eight guinea pigs, two stray puppies and 15 rabbits. And one roe deer fawn.

Tiny Bramble, 11 weeks old, was found semi-conscious in a field. Upon arrival at the sanctuary, Jasmine cuddled up to her to keep her warm, and then went into the full foster mum role. Jasmine the greyhound showers Bramble the roe deer with affection and makes sure nothing is matted.

“They are inseparable,” says Geoff.  “Bramble walks between her legs and they keep kissing each other. They walk together round the sanctuary. It’s a real treat to see them.” Jasmine will continue to care for Bramble until she is old enough to be returned to woodland life.

When that happens, Jasmine will not be lonely. She will be too busy showering love and affection on the next orphan or victim of abuse.

Greta Comes to Live with Us

April 7, 2009

A month since Joey died, and  we have adopted another greyhound: Greta. I was so bereft during the day, I started looking at the greyhound rescue web sites and saw this little girl dog who needed people like us. The description on the rescue site said she needed a quiet home as an only dog, and time and patience to become a happy dog.

When we met her, we knew we had to take her. Greta was one of 17 greyhounds who were kept in cages where they couldn’t stand up or move around, in a windowless shed; and were only let out for a few minutes each day. It was dark and cold and she was in there for nearly two years. Then the rescue people got her.

She was afraid of men especially, but she was timid of everyone and fearful of other dogs. She was in poor health and needed to be fed properly. She had to learn how to walk on grass because she had never seen grass before. (Since we’ve had her, I’ve become positive that she was hit with a stick or cane, because anything that narrow cylindrical shape, even a chew treat, frightens her. We have to put the treat on her cushion and let her pick it up. If we hold it out, she runs away.)

After one week now, Greta is comfortable with us, and with my friend Leonie and her son Justin, who is our regular dog sitter. (They went with us when we went to meet Greta at the rescue kennels.) But she’s still fearful anytime we move too fast, or come back into the room too suddenly. She looks hard and gets into the submissive position until she’s sure it’s me or Ian. At first, when we came downstairs in the morning (she slept on the couch the first few nights), she took several seconds to recognize us, but then her tail wagged like crazy and she came to say hello. She’s more trusting now, even after only a week, but it will take time for her to be completely secure.

I had to teach her how to do the stairs, following the instructions in my book about greyhounds. It took only two trips up and down before she learned to do them on her own, so now she has the freedom of the whole house to sniff and learn. We leave the sliding glass door in the living room open as much as possible so she can  go out into the back garden whenever she wants to. All this space is a little disorienting for her, since she’s been penned or kenneled all her life, but she needs to get used to being in a free environment. So we just leave everything open for her as much as possible, and let her adjust in her own time. She needs a long adjustment time, to establish a routine here and to know it’s her home.

She’s starved for touch and will sit on the sofa or the bed and ask to be cuddled for literally hours at a time. At night when we’re watching TV or sitting and reading, she’s right next to us and stroking her is automatic now. But she is already showing a little bit of independence, and even some trust. She goes to the sofa or the bed on her own now, whereas she followed us everywhere the first couple of days.

Greta is a petite greyhound, much smaller than Joey. She’s black, with hundreds of white speckles. She has a very sweet face, but the sadness in her eyes will take time to go away.

March 7, 2009: A Pet’s Death

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Today my sweet, gentle Joey died. We were in the field for our regular walk, and he came running back to me as always, tail wagging and eyes bright; then he was suddenly on the ground gasping and moaning; and he died. Less than twenty seconds, I’d guess. I felt his heart, and it was beating so fast it was uncountable; then his eyes went blank, and he was dead.

I called out to a passing stranger, a dog walker I’d never seen before, and she ran over with her dog and her cell phone. She rang our number, but my husband  wasn’t answering the phone Because he was working. So she volunteered to go to our house and get him so I could stay with Joey’s body.

She came back about ten minutes later and said my husband  was bringing the car and a blanket. I thanked her profusely and she went off to finish her walk with her dog.

Then  I spied Toby, Joey’s best doggie buddy and his person, Leonie, my best friend in the village. They were walking ‘way across on the other side of the field. Leonie loved Joey, as did her son Justin, who was our dog sitter when my husband and I went on holidays. My husband arrived at that moment, so I left him with Joey and went to tell Leonie what happened.

Leonie was with her friend, another dog walker, whose little terrier Ruby liked run with Joey. Both women threw their arms around me and started to cry when I told them Joey had just died. Leonie’s friend called her husband to come help us move Joey’s body.

Neil, the husband, turned out to be a huge, muscular man who told us (women) to go have a cup of tea while he and my husband (the men) took care of Joey’s body. Off we went. Leonie went home with Toby and I was shepherded to Neil and Linda’s house by Linda and little Ruby.

My husband and Neil arrived at the house at about the same time we did, and we were forced inside to have that universal English cure for all ailments, a nice cup of tea, which we drank while we talked about the dogs. These people were virtual strangers. I’d met her while dog walking only, and we knew each other’s dog’s names but not each other’s names. We’d never met her husband, But they took us in like long, lost relatives. So we had our tea, thanked them and left. My husband told me that Neil picked Joey up like a baby and cradled him all the way to the car (a good 200 yards, carrying a 75-pound dog).

Then I had to find out what to do with Joey’s body, which was in the back of our car. I called the RSPCA, who gave me the number of the nearest emergency vet. In the end, we drove into Peterborough, about a half hour’s drive, to take him to the vet’s office, and they will take care of the cremation.

All in all it was a sad, exhausting day. I am in deep mourning for my Joey. He wasn’t the smartest dog I’ve ever had, nor the most beautiful. But he had the gentlest, kindest, sweetest disposition of any dog I’ve ever met and was loved by all the dogs and dog people who knew him.

The Village in Summer

©2008, RKSilipo. All rights reserved.

Today I stepped out of the village shop and post office and was face to face with a horse. Three horses in fact. Here the kids ride horses, not bicycles, during summer vacation. The horses were smallish, not gorgeous quarter horses but sturdy farm horses. The girls mounted and rode off toward the village green with their snacks.

It’s hot here today; has been for several days. And humid. Yesterday was so bad I longed for Washington, D.C.’s national galleries and museums — air conditioned and free to get into. Anyone who doubts global warning has but to look at the weather here, in these islands, to see it in action. The winters used to be very cold, with snow, even in London and the West Country. The summers had a few hot days, but always punctuated liberally with overcast and rainy days. Not so any more. Last winter, we had one snow, of less than an inch. It disappeared within an hour. And we haven’t had any rain for over a week. This is not the weather of England that I knew thirty year ago when I first started visiting on a regular basis.

Wildflowers are blooming everywhere. Poppies, bright red-orange; Queen Anne’s lace, with its two-inch wide heads of hundreds of tiny white blossoms; purple thistles, many of which are already drying in the sun; deep pink wild geraniums; tiny yellow cowslips and sky blue bluets; and, of course, the hot yellow of ragweed. Wild roses line a lot of the roads here, with huge arching branches of single pink or white blossoms. And blackberries, the rose’s fruiting cousin, are starting to ripen.

In our garden, the snapdragons from last year threw seeds, so we have patches of yellow blooms in odd places. I put in about a hundred sweet pea seeds in April, and they just started to bloom about ten days ago. Roses, left by the previous owner, are blooming even though we didn’t bother to prune last winter. I’m of two minds about them. I hate to get rid of any plants, but these are so pathetic I often consider pulling them up and starting over with good bare root stock. We’ll see.

Lately we’ve had a nocturnal visitor. We leave the sliding glass door open at night for Joey to go in and out, and to let in cool air. The other night I heard the distinct tinkle of a bell and listened to it for several minutes. The next morning, my frying pan, left on the stove, had been licked clean of chicken gravy. This morning the salmon skin I left out had been eaten, along with all the vegetables on the plate. I’ve never seen a cat eat vegetables before. We can’t have a cat because I’m so allergic, but if this is a hungry, homeless cat, I don’t mind feeding it. When it starts to get cold, we’ll have to think of a place to put a warm sleeping box for it, but that’s several months off now.

Good Dog, Carl – A Canine Babysitter with Lots of Stories to Tell

©2008,Ramona K Silipo. All rights reserved.
Good Dog Carl is the first in the series of Carl books by Alexadra Day, based on her own experiences with her dog. In this story, we meet The Mother who is seen only fleetingly, because the protagonist of these books is a cuddly, paternal Rottweiler, and his sidekick is a toddler.

These books are lushly illustrated, without text, or with only one or two lines of text at the beginning of the story to set up the premise. They are wonderful for very young children and their parents to “read” together. They spark imaginations and they show little ones that books are fun and exciting. These books are beautiful for parents to look at and enjoy as outstanding art for children, and they’re joyful for children because the adventures are activities that they themselves are learning about as toddlers and pre-schoolers.

In Good Dog ,Carl we meet Carl and his charge, and follow them through a typical day. In another story, we spend a day in the park; in another Carl takes Baby shopping, and so on.

In Carl’s Christmas, one of my favourites, the paternal Rottweiler takes the toddler on his back for a Christmas Eve adventure. The illustrations show the dog dressing the baby, the baby riding his back to the toy shop, finding gifts and having other small adventures. It closes with Carl, the baby and a mouse (with its present) all sleeping peacefully in front of the fireplace.

The series includes Carl’s Birthday, Carl’s Sleepy Afternoon, Carl Goes to Daycare, You’re a Good Dog Carl (different from the first book), Carl’s Summer Vacation, Carl Goes Shopping, Follow Carl!, Carl’s Masquerade, Carl’s Afternoon in the Park.

These books come in several different formats, from chunky board books to full sized picture books with sewn bindings and sturdy covers that are meant to last on your library shelves. They are fantastic gifts for the little ones, and are a joy for the grown ups to look at.