Archive for the ‘writing’ Category
ambidextrous, dog behavior, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/10/2012 at 10:37 am
"Is she KIDDING me?"
I have come to the conclusion that Olive is right-pawed. As opposed to left-pawed or the even rarer, “quad-pawed,” which would make her doubly ambidextrous. How do I know this? Not from watching her try to pick things up with her paws, although she tries valiantly. Sometimes I can sense her utter frustration at not having thumbs. Like when she tries to pick up a ball when the Frisbee is already clenched between her teeth. I swear I can hear her yell, “WHY THE HELL DON’T I HAVE THUMBS!!!” She reluctantly drops the Frisbee, snatches the ball and then tries to jam the Frisbee into her mouth at the same time. Then she drops the ball, retrieves the Frisbee and the circus starts all over again. It is comical. No, I discovered Olive’s paw preference much more organically. When she comes inside after having been out in her pen digging for buried treasure, I march her straight into the downstairs bathroom, prod her into the shower stall and rinse off her perfect little feet. “GIVE ME THIS PAW OLIVE. NOW THAT ONE. LIFT UP THIS ONE. ONE MORE PAW AND WE’RE DONE.” More times than not I noticed, three of the paws are moderately dirty. But the fourth paw? The right front one? Filthy. I can spray it for days and there are colonies of dirt still present. So I conclude, that must be the paw that she prefers to use to do all the excavating. Now that I know this, I am going to find ways to validate her paw preference. Maybe I’ll ask her to say the pledge of allegiance, which of course requires her to put her right paw over her heart. Or perhaps, I’ll ask her to swear on a bible to “tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” while raising her right paw. “OLIVE. WOULD YOU PLEASE OPEN UP THIS BOTTLE OF DIET STEWART’S ROOT BEER FOR ME?”
cookies, dogs stealing food, packaging
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/03/2012 at 10:36 am
"What happened to my cookie?"
As I sat in my office, working at my computer the other night, I heard the familiar sound of packaging crinkling as it was being spindled. I sensed a semi-frantic effort to get to its contents. Without hesitation, I bolt upright in my chair and yell “OLIVE!” She is of course, nowhere to be seen. The crinkling continues unabated. “OLIVE?” I repeat loudly in the hopes that my voice distracts her momentarily. “OLIVE! I MAY NOT HAVE EYES IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD BUT I DO HAVE EARS THERE.” Silence. For just a few seconds. More crinkling. I race down the hallway and into the second floor loft-style dining room. From this vantage point, I spot my pooch standing in the living room below like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car. A white plastic wrapped oatmeal raisin cookie dangles from her mouth precariously, held in place just barely by her tiny, perfect porcelain incisors. Her pupils are dilated to the size of pool covers. Her tail wags energetically if slightly apprehensively. I interpret this as a dare to come downstairs and try to retrieve the package from her. Another showdown. To be effective, it requires that I channel Julius Caesar. “HERE I COME, OLIVE. DROP IT. DROP IT NOW. NOW!” As I approach her, she goes into pre-flight mode. All at once, all four legs tense, bend and she lowers her whole body. She is preparing to take off. The end of the wrapped cookie is still safely clenched between her teeth. “OLIVE. DID YOU KNOW THAT RAISINS ARE POISONOUS TO DOGS?” She just stares at me, trying to anticipate my next move. I reach out and gently grab the other end of the wrapper. “OLIVE. LET GO.” And after thinking about it for a few seconds, she does. ‘GOOD GIRL, OLIVE.” I examine the wrapper and unbelievably there aren’t even any holes in it. And the cookie has not been crushed. As I walk upstairs into the kitchen, I open the wrapper and eat the cookie before Olive can see me. Unless of course, she has eyes in the back of her head.
dog books, e.b. white, smart dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/02/2012 at 6:33 pm
"My God, of COURSE I can read."
I also enjoy Gunter Grass novels. Like “Katz and Maus,” and “Dog Years.” I found “The Tin Drum,” very disturbing though. So I ate it. I think I may have also eaten a book by Herman Ebbinghaus, but I can’t recall for sure. What? Did you think I read only the backs of dog food packaging? Or Jack London novels? Please, I’m a weimaraner, not some common canine. I can even write. What the hell do you think you’re reading right now? I have no ghost writer. I AM the ghost writer of this blog.
dogs, rocky & bullwinkle, squirrels
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/02/2012 at 12:12 pm
"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't."
Always listen to the tiny voice inside your head. The one that intuits that something is not quite right. Such as “WHY IS OLIVE SPENDING AN UNUSUAL AMOUNT OF TIME IN THE FAR CORNER OF HER PEN? She usually runs to this corner because it gets muddy when it rains and it makes it easier for her to dig a hole until she reaches the earth’s core. I don’t know what she thinks she’s going to find there. Perhaps the answer to one of life’s greatest mysteries—how planet Earth formed—will be unearthed. Or, maybe she’ll find that the earth’s core is really just all of a previous planet’s garbage compressed into a seismic landfill. And like a ball of clay, God keeps molding new planets from old when we wear them out. Or maybe she’ll discover a petrified piece of Juicy Fruit gum. Olive’s obsessive preoccupation with the corner of her pen is revealed the next day when finally, I walk outside to see what she’s up to. There it is. On the outer perimeter of her pen’s black chain link fence, trapped between the fence and the railroad tie retaining wall is a dead squirrel. “GREAT,” I announce to no one in particular, “ANOTHER DEAD ANIMAL I HAVE TO PICK UP.” Its back is laying right up against the fence, so while Olive couldn’t really nibble on it, she could certainly sniff and lick it. As I make my way to the garage to fetch the garden cultivator which does secondary duty as a rodent removal system, I wonder what the state of rigor mortis will be. Will the squirrel be as stiff as a board and as light as a kernal of popped popcorn? Or will it be as limber as a spaghetti noodle and heavy? Gross. As I carefully perch atop the four-foot retaining wall, I tentatively work the long-handled garden cultivator into the 12-inch crevice. I ladle the dead squirrel up while Olive watches from inside her pen with rapt attention. “HUH, IT’S PRETTY LIGHT,” I notice. I gingerly pull it all the way up, careful not to drop it. As I walk down the driveway with Chip ‘n Dale’s cousin, I silently marvel about how well honed my rodent removal skills have become when suddenly, Rocky, the no-longer flying squirrel tumbles off his steel stretcher. “SHIT, NOW I HAVE TO PICK IT UP AGAIN.” Olive hasn’t taken her eyes off us yet. I scoop the fuzzy grey carcass back up, walk across the street and fling it into the empty cornfield which is now populated by the ghosts of many pheasants. Thank God that cornfield is big enough to hold herds of elephants.
complementary colors, dogs and food
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/02/2012 at 9:55 am
"She'll never find me here."
Olive playing Hide ‘n Seek. I know you’re in here somewhere Olive. It’s too bad I can’t find you because I need someone to guard the roast turkey sitting all alone on top of the kitchen counter.
digging holes, dogs, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/25/2012 at 7:26 pm
"WHAT? No hole?"
Here’s my dirty little hole-digger. The dog who should have had the lead role in the Disney movie, “Holes.” Her 75’ x 20’ pen looks like a post-hole digging test site. I let Olive out to do potty and she distracts herself by digging holes and then stuffing her mouth with dirt, or when it’s available, grass seed. I often catch her in the act. She is not the least bit embarrassed. She stops digging and looks up at me indignantly as if to say “WHAT? WHAT? CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY?” I knit my brows and just stare at the smudge of light brown soil on her darker brown nose, complemented by bits of terra firma resting on top of her snout and delicately perched atop her whiskers. “MY GOD, OLIVE. RIGHT NOW YOUR NOSE LOOKS LIKE YOUR REAR BLOWHOLE.” She could care less. She resumes digging, eventually frantically raking both front paws across the “pilot” hole to get the job done faster. Stand behind her and you’ll get an unforgettable dirt shower. The other day when I went into her pen to collect all the fecal nuggets, I find one that had so many grass seeds in it, it could have passed for a baby porcupine. I shake my head thinking, if they did an ultrasound on her now, they’d probably find a chia pet growing from the inside out. All of this explains why the water in Olive’s water bowl is the filthiest I have ever seen. Really. I have to change it at least three times a day. One, because it’s gross and two, because the Princess will not drink out of it unless it’s as clear as a Colorado mountain stream. There’s bits of wood, dirt, grass seed, insect corpses and God knows what else. I’m surprised there aren’t sea monkeys floating in it. Yes, weimaraners are champion hole diggers. You could probably train them to dig holes when you are planting shrubs or flowers. And if you don’t want them digging up your flowers, you’d better give them an area in which they can dig to their heart’s content. Maybe when it gets a bit warmer, I’ll put some peanut butter on a stick and bury it to see if she can find it. That might keep her busy for about 10 minutes. “ARE YOU FINISHED?” I ask Olive. She bolts into the house through the sliding glass door, rockets past me, and the next thing I know, I see dirty pawprints all over the rug. Not surprisingly, they lead to Olive standing near the foot of the stairs, with a big toothy Osmond-like smile on her face.
dog shows, westminster kennel club
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/22/2012 at 6:41 pm
"A BEAR?"
“No Olive, it’s not a polar bear,” I inform my TV-loving pooch. But look at it. Can you blame her? I saw this thing and it made me crave both a Coca-Cola and a York Peppermint Pattie. Olive finds the television exceptionally engaging. Some dogs don’t. Like the dog a friend of mine had for many years. A fawn-colored Labrador who I’m sure was put on this earth to make us realize that yes, like people, dogs can be intellectually challenged as well. Steve (yes, that was his name) never, as in ever, glanced at the TV screen in his 15 years on this planet. Not a hint of awareness in the flickering images. Zero interest in the cacophony of sounds spilling out of the “idiot box.” He would walk by it a thousand times a day as if it were an inanimate object. Just another piece of furniture. Steve was a good dog, just not one of the brighter ones. In fact, my last and most enduring memory of Steve is when he returned home after running off (probably chasing a cloud or a shadow). Gone for hours, he shows up at my friend’s front door, all tuckered out and drooling. Smiling, with a peanut-butter coated English muffin stuck to the roof of his mouth. Stuck. To this day, I can’t figure out why he didn’t or couldn’t eat it. While he may have had no thumbs, he did have paws. As a counterpoint to Steve, I have a dog that is an avid TV watcher. Last night, Olive actually barked at the pheasants she heard on Downton Abbey. She chases the Golden Retriever chasing the VW Beetle in a commercial. She barks at doorbells ringing on pizza commercials, figure skaters gliding across the ice, cartoon dogs and cats acting silly, and dogs engaged in canine combat on “Dog Whisperer.” I have even watched her chase a marathon runner on TV. I guess the 51-inch screen makes it all seem incredibly real to Olive, but something tells me that even if the screen were much smaller, she wouldn’t notice it any less.
downton abbey, tv shows, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/22/2012 at 6:06 pm
"Unbelievable."
“I cannot believe what I am seeing. Has Lord Grantham lost his royal marbles? Almost cavorting with a common house tart? And the honorable Matthew Crawley. He reminds me of an afghan – dog, not blanket – that I once knew. Nice to look at, but I wouldn’t follow it home. Except now that I think of it, maybe more like a blanket than I realized. They have similar personalities. OH MY GOD, I’M SPEAKING IN NARRATIVE FORM AND HAVE NOT INTERRUPTED MYSELF YET! What a dysfunctional pack of twits. I would never stand for such nonsense in my pack. EVER. Thank God I…oh wait a minute, I think I heard a fly fart…WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF! As I was saying, thank God, I can observe while perched regally on the couch at home, far away from such incestuous madness. PATTI, PLEASE BRING ME A GOBLET OF WATER. AND PEEL ME A GRAPE. Oh, no, maybe not a grape. Maybe a pheasant.”
dog farts, scents, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/19/2012 at 6:49 pm
"The HUMAN did it."
Right now, there is ample olfactory evidence that a small but powerful sulfur factory sits beneath my glass desk.
high IQ, smart dogs, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/19/2012 at 6:32 pm
"I'm still deciding."
Usually, when I sit down to write, the story comes first and the title follows. Today, the title came first. On our walk this morning, as Olive and I passed by Centenary College, a car driving past slows down and calls out to us. “A weimaraner!!!” “Yes, a weimaraner,” I reply and I start to walk over to the car with Olive in tow. “Is s/he a rescue?” the woman asks. “No, I strongly considered it, but eventually got Olive from a breeder. All the stories online about how challenging this breed can be even when they don’t have behavioral issues sort of scared me off going the rescue route.” The woman informs us that she has two rescue weims and we begin a conversation that only the owners of weimaraners can have. We agree that they are not mere dogs. They’re not human either, but rather fall somewhere in between. You may often hear the word “rambunctious” used to describe their behavior and it is quite accurate. Rambunctious is described as being “uncontrollably exuberant, boisterous,” and “turbulently active.” And you should know that this is the “natural state” of the weimaraner. The rule, not the exception. When Olive races through the entire house like an Antelope on steroids, I just stand back, watch in amazement and amusement. On one or two occasions, she’s slid across a floor and slammed into a wall which stills her… for just a moment… while she collects her wits and then takes off again. Weimaraners are frighteningly intelligent as well. I feel like I am engaged in a battle of wits all day long with Olive. Somedays, I feel unarmed and like I am a weak contestant on “Survivor.” There are “Mexican standoffs” often throughout the day. “OLIVE. LET’S GO. WE’RE GOING TO THE STORE.” She stands there with her head slightly cocked, looking at me with her piercing amber eyes as if to say, “AND? WHAT STORE? WILL I BE ABLE TO GET SOMETHING?” In other words, she’s deciding if it’s worth going. This goes on for about 30 seconds before I begin to approach her. I have finally learned that if I approach too quickly, she pivots, takes off and races past me in a blur, waiting for me to find her in some distant corner of the house. The other day, during one of my very infrequent uses of the refrigerator’s water dispenser, I glance to my left and see Olive intently watching the water pour from the ”magic fountain.” “CRIPES,” I say to myself. “IT’S NOT GOING TO BE LONG BEFORE SHE STARTS DRINKING FROM HERE.” Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to get stainless steel appliances. They look like her water bowl. Many of the weimaraner’s behaviors makes them seem very childlike. But childlike as in “gifted child.” This is the thought that occurred to me today while chatting with the other weim owner. I did see a bumper sticker online somewhere recently that said MY WEIMARANER IS SMARTER THAN YOUR HONOR STUDENT. I laughed. Only another weimaraner owner can appreciate the sentiment.
hot dogs, political nuts, ufos
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/12/2012 at 10:38 am
"Oh Look, there's my ride!"
On our walk last week, Olive and I encountered a lipstick red hot dog truck sitting in the parking lot of an auto body shop. “LOOK OLIVE. IT SAYS HOT DOGS.” EITHER THEY MEAN THE NITRATE-LACED TUBE MEATS OR SEXY DOGS LIKE YOU.” Olive looks at me as though she recognizes that this is a teaching moment. I stand there and stare unapologetically at the bright red truck because like a 5-year old, I am always entranced by bright, shiny objects. I did try mightily to get Olive into this picture, but the truck was too tall, and it was parked between two other badly beaten vehicles, so I couldn’t get a wide view. And then there was the matter of who would hold her three-foot leash while I took the picture. I could have had someone Photoshop her into the picture but all the photos on this blog are neither “Photoshopped” or cropped, so I didn’t want to start doing that. Besides, I think everyone who reads this blog gets the visual pun. Off we go. As we approach the corner of this quiet back road, Olive starts pulling just a bit to see if the big white German Shepherd is in his yard. He usually springs up and pops his polar bear head over the stockade fence to ogle Olive. We call him “Kimba The White Lion.” “NOT TODAY OLIVE. SORRY. KIMBA IS PROBABLY IN THE KITCHEN TEARING OPEN A PACK OF BALL PARK HOT DOGS.” As we get closer to Main Street, I see that the political wingnut has planted himself in front of the local Post Office again. He’s standing behind a small card table flanked by posters of President Obama on which he’s drawn Hitler’s mustache. Really? Whatever your political views, is this really an acceptable way to portray any sitting President? “YOU KNOW WHAT OLIVE? I THINK THE NEXT TIME WE WALK BY, WE’RE GOING TO EACH BE WEARING A HITLER MUSTACHE.” How funny would that be? Of course, I’d have to apply and remove our mustaches quickly so passersby don’t get the wrong idea. And there’s no guarantee that you wouldn’t eat yours before we got to the corner. As expected, the wingnut senses an opportunity to engage me in conversation because I’m walking a dog. I’m not in a rush and politely listen. I’m open-minded. Maybe I’ll learn something new. When he started to talk about going to Mars as a way to re-boot the U.S, economy, I said. “YEAH, WELL I HAVE TO GO BECAUSE I HAVE TO TAKE MY UFO IN FOR A TUNE-UP. BYE.”
dogs and intuition, intuition of pets
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/11/2012 at 10:50 am
"Oh yeah. THAT'S the one."
Last night, Olive did something that truly amazed me. And this has inspired me to write today. I was sitting on the couch hunched over my iPad whose incredibly cool lime green magnetic cover was, I noticed for the first time, sticking to my copper coffee table. “What the heck?” I mutter to myself. Olive, my velcro companion, was lying beside me on the couch, snoring like a little Matchbox locomotive. As I sit, self-absorbedly reading everyone’s nonsense on Facebook, I hear a deep and very sustained growl from Olive. “GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR” In fact, this may be the first time I’ve ever heard her make this sound. It serves its purpose. It gets my attention. I look over in Olive’s direction and note that she’s now raised her head and is directing her serious bear-like growl with laser-like intensity at the television. I look at the TV and lo and behold, what do I see that she’s growling at? A black and white police sketch of a criminal suspect. I kid you not. I laughed my ass off. Either this guy is so evil that Olive picked up on it through the television screen, or she simply knows how to recognize bad people. I find the former possible and the latter comforting as Olive is so uber friendly that I’m afraid if she encountered a serial killer, she’d just start licking him like she does everyone she meets. Thanks, Olive. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of this story already. You are one smart little goofball.
dog walk, humor, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/04/2012 at 11:40 am
"I'm not going ANYWHERE with 'hungry eyes.'"
On our walk the other morning, as Olive and I come to a quiet four-way intersection, a man rolls down the window of his car. Olive and I expect either one of two possibilities. We’ll either be asked for directions to a location about four blocks away or he’ll say something like “Beautiful dog.” It was neither. What he did say was this: “Hey, I’ll buy your dog from you.” It was a statement delivered in the form of a question. “Fat chance,” I reply with an unspoken acknowledgement of his back-handed compliment of Olive. “I just sold a litter last week,” he continues. I wonder what kind of response he’s expecting from me now. Finally, he’s basically pushed into the intersection by the car behind him and slowly chugs along his way. Olive and I cross the street and finish the last leg of our walk. It doesn’t occur to me until the next day that what the guy in the car was really suggesting was that he buy Olive to breed her so he can sell more litters. So, does that whole strange exchange mean he was propositioning Olive through me, her supposed pimp? I think I have to go take a shower now. “OLIVE? YOU’RE NEXT!”
dog food, lamb, lambchops
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 02/04/2012 at 11:03 am
"BAA. BAA."
The other evening, as I was bending down headfirst in Olive’s dog food container, scooping the little brown kibbles into her bowl, it hit me like a runaway freight train. The odor of lamb was so pungent, it finally ignited the circuitry in my brain. In an instant, I flashed back to that moment when I asked myself, “Why does my dog always smell like day-old lambchop?” DING! DING! DING! DING! BINGO!” This is why my dog smells like day-old lampchop. Because she eats lamb everyday. I guess she must secrete it through her pores. Sort of how a friend of mine always smells like a walking, stinking clove of garlic. Because she eats so much of it, it has to escape from her body sub-cutaneously. Her pores await the tsunami of garlic that rushes toward them, using these microscopic portholes as escape hatches. I guess the same thing happens to Olive. Maybe she’s eating too much lamb. Maybe she’s turning into a lamb? I wonder what she’d do if she came nose to nose with a real, live one? Thank God I don’t feed her groundhogs. I don’t know what they smell like, but it can’t be good. Too bad chocolate is harmful to dogs. I wouldn’t mind if Olive walked around the house smelling like a chocolate Easter Bunny.
dog thoughts, existentialism, philosophy
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/31/2012 at 8:44 pm
"I think I get it."
Maybe I am crazy, but I love having existential conversations with Olive. I do this to stimulate her natural intellect and to reassure her emotionally that she has a life and existence all her own, one in which she has the ability to make choices. In some small, slightly delusional sort of way, I hope to raise her consciousness when I say things to her like: “Olive. Do you understand the concept of free will vs. determinism? Determinism is like fate; it’s how you ended up living with me. It’s the paw of cards you were dealt. Free will is how you play the paw you have been dealt. This means as a conscious being, you make choices in your life freely that you are able to make. Such as, do I lay on top of the back of the couch today? Or, on the bed in the master bedroom? Do I have a drink of water right now because I’m thirsty or because I might be thirsty in a few minutes and I’m standing by my bowl right now?” “Do I believe in Dog, or God for that matter?” Olive usually sits there politely listening to me address her in this sobering tone of voice. Other times, I sense her disinterest and she just humors me. “How do you know that you are really awake right now Olive and that my talking to you is not just a dream?” “Yes, that was a trick question. I just want to make sure that you know you may spend the day today however your little heart desires. The choice is yours.”
dog clothes, doggy fashion show
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/28/2012 at 7:56 pm
"Are we done? I'm EXHAUSTED."
As I sit here writing this post tonight, Olive is downstairs in the living room, splayed out in front of the pellet stove’s roaring fire and intermittently kvetching. Not a whine, not quite a bark. Something in between. Something meant to communicate her displeasure that I am upstairs and not giving her my full attention. She’s exhausted from the fashion show today. And when she’s tired, she can become quite pissy. If we’re out and it’s past 8pm, she’ll start to piss and moan relentlessly until we leave. She stops only when we get home. She races upstairs, leaps onto the bed like a pole vaulter, executes a few “nesting circles,” then plops down and conks out like a serial drunk. Initially, she lays there curled up like a street vendor’s hot pretzel, ultimately untangling her supermodel-long limbs and stretching out the full length of her frame, squeezing every last molecule of stale air out of her lungs. Occasionally, she might open one eye partially, and catch me staring at her. She goes right back to sleep. Today, at around 10am, we arrived at K-Nine Coaching in Old Lafayette Village for Olive’s fitting. There are already about eight dogs there, most of them the size of an infant’s teaspoon, save for one big-boned boxer who didn’t look very happy to be there. I think he might have felt emasculated by the gigantor bow that was attached to his collar. It was so big it looked like it had sprout from the side of his fawn-colored head like a parasitic twin. Like some “what the Christ were they thinking” accoutrement appended to the cleavage of some Hollywood starlet’s mermaid-like gown. It’s Olive’s turn to be fitted, so she marches forward with her usual unbridled enthusiasm and curiosity. Two dressers are strapping a violet-colored winter coat with a repeating pattern of blue paw prints on it over her head and around her undercarriage. She’s not too crazy about having her head plunged through a small fabric hole, but it’s performed quickly without clumsiness so she doesn’t panic. Meanwhile, she stands there fixated on some small white fluff of a dog wearing pink goggles. “DON’T WORRY OLIVE, YOU WON’T BE WEARING ANYTHING THAT RIDICULOUS. IF YOU’RE GOING TO WEAR ANY GOGGLES, THEY’LL BE PRADA BRAND.” Olive’s friend Luna, a blue weimaraner, arrives. They proceed to act like long-lost Siamese twins separated literally and figuratively for much too long. I know this sounds crazy, but I swear they understand that they are the same breed. Not species, breed. It’s uncanny. Olive behaves differently around Luna, almost as though they came from the same litter (which they did not.) Now it’s time to move Olive to the staging area with the other dogs. We enter an empty storefront which might be 12’ x 10’. It contains dog crates and adjustable fences that would fit properly in a space twice the size. Dogs, dog handlers, dressers and owners are also squeezed into this coffin-like space. Dogs are barking (including my champion barker), dressers are frantically dressing the models, handlers are coming in and out exchanging dogs; it is controlled panic. But this is probably what a human fashion show feels like behind the curtain, I imagine. Meanwhile, I stay close to Olive in her crate because in this atmosphere and because she’s so powerful, I don’t want her accidently escaping in the middle of all this unfocused hysteria. Olive is pissed at me; barking so incessantly that I’m almost getting sprayed by spittle. “I’M RIGHT HERE, OLIVE. KEEP YOUR PANTS ON. IT’S ALMOST YOUR TURN.” Thankfully, finally, it’s Olive’s turn to be led down the runway in the building next door. Flashbulbs pop and I proudly watch my pooch walk down the runway surrounded by strangers ogling her. She loves all the attention. She deplanes from the runway and is returned to my arms. “YOU MEAN I WAITED IN THAT CRATE ALL THIS TIME FOR THIS 90 SECOND WALK? YOU OWE ME,” admonishes Olive. “YEAH, YEAH, YEAH. YOU SEE THAT COAT YOU’RE WEARING? YOU GET TO KEEP IT. WE’RE EVEN.” Olive climbs in the car, lays down across the rear bench seat and sleeps the entire 30-minute ride home. What a rough life this dog has. Now, she’s standing in front of the TV barking at figure skaters doing a dance routine. This is a first. Maybe modeling isn’t challenging enough for her.
doggy fashion show, dogwear
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/27/2012 at 8:51 pm
"I'm doing WHAT tomorrow?"
Olive will be retiring to bed shortly. She needs extra beauty sleep tonight. Tomorrow, she has a 10am model call for the Fuzzy Fashionista K-Nine Fashion Show. I thought I caught her purging herself earlier today, but she was just gagging on a Breathe Right strip that she tunneled into the bathroom wastebasket for. That, and a half eaten Q-tip that dangled from her lips making her look like a cheap tart. Of course, tomorrow morning, she’ll awaken from her peaceful slumber and look like three million bucks before she even gets up. No bed head for this dog. Hopefully, she won’t try to eat whatever she’s wearing tomorrow on the runway.
frosty paws, rockettes, walks
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/23/2012 at 8:23 pm
"WHERE are my damn boots?"
Yes, there still are kind people in the world in which we live. On the last leg of our walk yesterday, following a weather pattern that dropped five inches of snow on the ground, Olive starts raising one of her hind legs. As high as the Radio City Rockettes. She’s still walking, but the right rear leg is drawn high up off the sidewalk. I bend down and start rubbing her paw with my gloved hand, brushing the snow from her foot and possibly salt crystals. I am as careful as I can be when walking her in the winter. Mindful of the anti-litigation salt crystals people toss across their sidewalks like chicken feed, I try to steer Olive away from obvious blue clumps and direct her to walk on the snowy lawn. I figure this way, her paws get a brief respite and are possibly somewhat cleansed by the snow. She puts her foot down, walks a few feet, lifts the same leg and then LAYS DOWN IN THE SNOW in obvious discomfort. “Shit,” I mutter. It must be the salt crystals burning her pads. Not thinking, I try to pick her up in my arms so all four feet are off the ground and within seconds I realize that I have to put her back down. What do I think I am, a weight lifter? She’s almost 70 pounds and there’s no way I can really hold her. I might as well try to lift a burlap bag filled with wet cement. As I’m trying to mentally calculate my options, a black SUV rolls to a stop across the street and the driver calls out: “Do you need any help? My dog does that sometimes too.” I reply: “Thanks. I think it must be the salt. We’re OK. We only have another block or two. I think we’ll make it.” “Boy, that was nice, huh Olive?” I pick up both Olive’s back feet and vigorously rub her frosty paws for about 10 seconds. She’s upright now on all dainty fours, but looking at me a little unsure of what to do next. “We don’t have much further to go Olive. Walk on the snow instead of the sidewalk and I promise I’ll rinse your paws off in nice warm water when we get home.” She seems to instinctively trust me or figures she has no other choice because English is not her first language. We continue on our walk, me on my two feet, her on all four of hers. When we get into the car and I turn the key in the ignition, I notice that the temperature is just 21 paw-chilling degrees. Yikes. I realize it was probably just the cold that was flash freezing Olive’s pads. This happened once or twice last year during her first winter. In case you’re wondering, I did ask the vet about possibly getting booties for Olive and he said not to baby her. (Who me?) She’s a dog, her feet have to get used to it. Now, if I could only find where I put the container of Musher’s Secret I bought for Olive this past Summer. I can only imagine that trying to apply it to her paws will be like trying to apply it to the heels of an acrobat.
beggin strips, bones, dog whisperer
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/23/2012 at 6:53 pm
"PLEASE change the channel."
If I see one more political commercial, I’m going to regurgitate my kibbles. And what’s with these guy’s names? Newt? Mitt? It sounds like a salamander is running against a baseball glove. Sometimes, you humans are hard to figure out. I think I smell a casserole cooking down the street. Am I drooling? I’m done watching “Dog Whisperer.” Please put the cartoon with the dogs in it back on. I liked that. Yes, I know they are dogs even though they are cartoon dogs. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. WHERE IS MY NEW KNUCKLE BONE? I really like these. Whose knuckle is it? I do like the Beggin’ strips commercial a lot. When is Spring coming? Where have all the little birds gone? The giant hawks circling overhead scare me. Pffffttttttt. Excuse me. My God, my nails are long. I look like Edward Scissorhands. I’m going to clean the kitchen counters now.
german dogs, sauerbraten, snow dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/21/2012 at 6:57 pm
"WHERE'S my sauerbraten?"
Olive is feeling much better and was thrilled to see the five inches or so of snow we got this bright morning. Although she prefers days where she can lie on her side on the lawn and bake like a hearty Maine potato, she takes great pleasure zipping back and forth through the snow. It makes her so happy, she runs around like a child who just slipped out of their diapers and is racing through the house reveling in their nakedness. Of course, the first thing she does is stop to eat gobs of snow. As much as she can jam into her mouth. She looks like a diabetic who has just uncovered a stash of spice drops and Skittles and tries to devour them before the Nurse takes them away. After she’s done dining on snowballs, she proceeds to use her nose as a plow, shoveling it into all the foot tracks around us—mine and her own. I stand there immobile like a frozen winter scarecrow because if I move, she just “tracks” me across the lawn. She looks up at me and her nose is covered with fresh downy snow. It looks as though she’s been eating powdered donuts. My heart melts when I see this. She looks like a child who has just raised their head from the bowl of ice cream they’ve been eating to reveal a nose covered in chocolate. This tender anthropormorphic moment abruptly ends when Olive breaks into a run and bolts. (This is the outdoor version of how she behaves indoors when she sees one of her little white pills in my hand.) She’s on her flexi-leash but she’s galloping in wide unbroken circles across the lawn again and again. To her, snow is a playmate. In the distance, a dog barks. The wind blows snow through the air like it’s sand. I am freezing because I am still standing in the same spot like a traffic light. I am just happy that Olive is feeling better and enjoying this moment. Crystals of snow have formed on her whiskers and her chin, accentuating their definition. “HEY OLIVE. ARE YOU AWARE THAT RIGHT NOW YOU LOOK LIKE AN OLD BAVARIAN GRANDMOTHER?” As if to punctuate my sentence, Olive immediately squats and pees.
bears, gestalt, tootsie roll
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/19/2012 at 8:11 pm
"OK, I surrender."
“IS THAT A DEAD BEAR LYING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD?” I say out loud. I am actually aware that my voice is simultaneously filled with controlled panic and curiosity. A giant chocolate brown lump lies motionless on the faded yellow line in the street today. The World’s Largest Tootsie Roll? Dinosaur scat? Olive and I are about a half block away from it and the closer we get, the more Olive starts shrinking away from it and moving towards me. At this point, she is so close to me that she might as well have her head up my rear end. I’m not sure why I’m so apprehensive, because whatever it is seems stone-cold dead. Still, it would be a bit unsettling if it actually is a dead bear. And I have Olive with me, so if the carcass begins to rise up as they often do in horror movies, I’ve got to worry about how to protect her. “I don’t know Olive, could it really be a dead bear?” I start to walk a little slower, Olive can’t hear me because she is about 20 feet behind me now. What is so amazing is that this dog understands when something is “out of place.” I’m not quite sure how she knows this, but it is very Gestalt of her which as a former Psychology major, I do appreciate. As we pass the front of the lump, and then the side, we can now observe the lump from the back. I am now in a position to identify the species. It is ursus americushionus couchus. That’s right. It is the largest cushion from an old Lazy Boy couch that looks like it was wrestled to the ground by an obese grizzly bear. I feel both relieved and stupid at the same time. I may have really crappy eyesight, but I have an inspired imagination. “LET’S KEEP GOING OLIVE. WHO KNOWS WHAT AWAITS US AROUND THE NEXT CORNER.”
dog beds, pet beds, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/18/2012 at 8:28 pm
"It MOVES."
As I sit here writing tonight, Olive is curled up like a 24-week old fetus on her brand new Bowser bed in the kitchen. She just came in here a few moments ago to check on me. Seeing that I was safe and had not been abducted by neighborhood vermin, she returned to her new “chocolate bones” microfiber bed. When I purchased this item at Well Bred Pet Store, the owner expressed surprise that I was getting a medium-sized bed for my weimaraner. “OH, THIS ISN’T HER REAL BED,” I say. “THIS IS JUST HER RESTING BED. IT’S SORT OF A COMFORTABLE WEIGH STATION WHILE I’M IN THE KITCHEN.” When I selected this bed, I wanted a fabric that was soft, a little fun or contemporary, wouldn’t clash with the new rug I want to get for the kitchen and was not too big. Well, three out of four isn’t so bad. I get the bed home and drop it in the corner of the kitchen and the thing is as big as a flying saucer. Twelve-hundred people could climb aboard and escape to the moon on it. Then, Olive climbs up on it, ready to sit down, but her legs are as unsteady as a drunken sailor’s. I don’t know what the hell is inside this bed, but it gives the impression that it’s an inflatable. It doesn’t really “give” that much. This is totally unacceptable to Olive. She now races around in a thousand circles this way and that trying to flatten her new “nest.” When this doesn’t work, she starts to maniacally scratch at it with her front paws as though she is digging to the earth’s core trying to find an earring she dropped in the bathroom sink. And then, finally, she gives up and just plops down. And now, I can’t get her up from it. This dog is a riddle wrapped in an enigma and cloaked by a sphinx.
dog health, ultrasound test, vet trips
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/18/2012 at 7:47 pm
"Is that an electric RAZOR?"
What does the inside of a dog look like? It’s dark. Very, very dark. And by the looks of Olive’s abdominal ultrasound, like a snowy picture on a TV set. Really, it looks like what a blind person might see feeling their way around a dark room. It sure is clear why you have to be trained to read these things. Do you think that these are the same people who scour the beaches with metal detectors looking to find precious items? I guess ultrasounds are easier to read when there are no apparent serious issues, which thankfully is what Olive’s recent ultrasound revealed. There were no foreign objects although if you look very, very closely at one of the pictures, I think you might see the outline of a pheasant (just kidding.) Inflamed intestines, but nothing more. Not that that’s great, but it’s way better than many of the alternatives. I waited impatiently while my dog was being scanned like a bar code at the supermarket. I sat on the hard, cold, germ-resistant plastic chair waiting for my sweet little taupe pooch to re-appear. About two hours later, Olive is led back into the waiting area, straining on her temporary in-patient leash to get to me. The veterinary assistant hands her over to me and removes the communal leash as I place Olive’s collar around her neck and attach her worn leather training leash. Olive heads straight for the exit. “OH, C’MON OLIVE. IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN THAT BAD. AT LEAST IT WAS AN EXTERIOR ULTRASOUND.” She turns her head and looks back at me as if to say, “OH YEAH? YOU WEREN’T EVEN THERE. THEY SHAVED ME!” Oh the indignity (or is that indognity) of it all. I actually didn’t even notice this until much later that evening when Olive was laying on her side snoring peacefully, safely away from the electric razor. They didn’t shave much. They didn’t have to. The undersides of a weim might be characterized as miles of bright pink skin. It is almost exactly the color of the Eberhard Faber Pink Pearl erasers that kids in the early 60s used to have in school. It looks like they mowed the lawn on a high setting on one side of her abdomen. Now home, Olive, completely exhausted from today’s ordeal, gobbles down her new bland dinner of boiled pasta, chicken and cottage cheese. After licking the bottom and sides of the bowl, she turns to me, oblivious to the fact that tiny white boulders of cottage cheese sit perched atop her Mt. Rushmore-like brown nose. My heart grows about four times bigger when I see this. “OLIVE. COME OVER HERE SO I CAN KISS YOU UNTIL YOUR HEAD FLIES OFF.”
diarrhea, dogs, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/14/2012 at 2:35 pm
DO NOT DISTURB
Today, the plan was to drive down the Parkway to the Jersey shore to visit a boyhood friend of my father’s. I was going to interview him and his wife as part of my genealogical preservation efforts. This couple is but one of a handful of people still living who knew both my parents (now deceased) and whom I myself have memories of when our families got together over the years. I had planned on taking Olive with me as I take her everywhere that she is welcome. However, the trip had to be postponed as Olive is recovering from two days of atomic diarrhea. There was no way I was going to leave her at home crated for up to 8 hours under these conditions. Not for her safety and because I didn’t feel like turning her crate and the finished basement into a monochromatic Jackson Pollack painting. I also didn’t think it was fair to take a dog suffering from explosive bouts of diarrhea to someone else’s house. I mean, how do you apologize for that. “I’M REALLY SORRY SHE SPRAYED YOUR COUCH. DO YOU HAVE ANY BLEACH?” Besides, it would be a new experience for Olive and therefore, even a bit stressful for her which was the last thing she needed. It started on late Thursday afternoon, when Olive assumes the familiar “poop-crouch.” As she starts to push, it sounds like an explosion detonates. Neither of us expected this and Olive is so startled by the sound alone, that she jumps up, does a 180, and looks behind her as if to say “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT AND WHERE DID IT COME FROM?” Really, if it wasn’t so pitiful, I would have laughed out loud. This happens again and again and while I am monitoring her for signs of dehydration, I am getting a little freaked out because it just deteriorates to the point that when she crouches, it looks like a garden hose spraying mud. What now, I think? This dog has a digestive system that is as sensitive as an exposed nerve. There is no apparent thread of consistency between situations when Olive experiences these episodes, which makes it just maddening. On Friday we go to the vet who admires my deftness in securing a non-contaminated sample of the diarrhea in a disposable plastic mealsaver. “ IT ACTUALLY WASN’T SO HARD TO GET,” I SAY. “I’M JUST GLAD I DIDN’T GET SPRAYED.” (I suppress the desire to tell her about Olive’s massive series of explosions on the carpeting in the basement yesterday which I still have to RE-clean. The funny thing was, Olive kept going into the two bathrooms just prior. My God, does she think that THIS is where she should go under these circumstances? This dog is so smart it’s scary.) We discuss what it could be affecting Olive, what it probably is, (irritable bowel syndrome) what we can do to help her right now and what next steps we should take. $261 later, my dog has been injected with fluids subcutaneously to keep her from dehydrating, she has three prescriptions for medication (Carafate, Metronidazole and Reglan), and her watered-down stool is being tested for Giardia. Oh, and she has an ultrasound scheduled for Monday morning. That’s $350. If I were someone going to med school for people, I think I’d rethink my career. Veterinary science and petcare doesn’t appear to have been compromised by insurance companies yet. Since I feel so sorry for Olive, and because I want to keep one eye on her, I let her sleep in bed with me last night. I didn’t sleep at all. She seemed to sleep fairly well until about 4am, when she just couldn’t get comfortable no matter how many times she spun around to change position. And now I hear her stomach gurgling like a backed-up sewer pipe. When I finally rise from bed a few hours later, Olive stays uncharacteristically curled up on the bed. I go over to her and kiss the top of her velvety-soft head and her beautiful amber eyes look up at me as if to say. “I’M NOT MOVING.” So, I leave her there and go about my morning rituals. At around 9:30 that morning, the vet calls to check on Olive’s progress and to report that the Giardia test came back negative. That’s a relief. Getting rid of Giardia is like trying to get rid of dandelions. By now, I have administered all three doses of medication to Olive and she actually seems to be feeling a little better. This sounds counter intuitive, but because a weimaraner’s energy level is always at 150 precent, when Olive’s not feeling well, it’s at about 120 percent, so it’s a little difficult to identify listlessness or lethargy. Today as I write this, I’m trying to keep Olive calm and relaxed. It seems to be working. Right now, she’s curled up in her sage-colored Orvis bed in my office and casually sniffing the dry heat being emitted from the electric baseboard heater. Once she gets up, she’ll do what she’s been doing for the last three days; staying so close to me while I’m walking that it’s as if she’s been sewn onto my pants leg. God, I love this dog.
conundrums, grammar, philosophy
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/12/2012 at 8:05 pm
"WHO goes there?"
“If an intruder has not yet come inside, doesn’t that make them an extruder?”
dog behavior, dog park, great danes
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/11/2012 at 4:42 pm
"WHAT did you expect?"
If it’s not one, it’s the other. As Olive and I jauntily approached the entrance to the dog park last Saturday morning, I spot a Great Dane the size of a thoroughbred trotting around the perimeter of the fence. “NOT GOOD NEWS, OLIVE. THE BIG BLACK BUFFALO IS HERE TODAY.” This means that for Olive’s safety, we have to remain quarantined in the small dog area. Not Olive’s favorite. “Black Buffalo” is one of three Great Danes that visit the park somewhat regularly. One is fawn-colored and the other, a Harlequin Dane. Usually the trio arrive at the same time with their java-junkie owners who remain in a tightly curled clique by themselves. While the Danes appear very friendly, their size (150+ pounds) makes them potentially dangerous to other dogs. Twice now, Olive’s been trampled by two of them, spinning end over end with dirt and pebbles flying, yipping throughout the ugly collision which seems to occur in agonizing slow-motion. It makes me mental to watch. It’s like watching an 18-wheeler roll over a sedan. While I understand there was no aggression involved, my dog could have been hurt and it seemed that only luck prevented her from being injured. It’s hard not be angry at the Danes and yet you can’t blame them. Clearly, the wreck was unintentional. In fact, I kind of like the Danes; they have better manners than their owners who never stop to ask, “Is your dog alright?” Now, flash forward 24 hours. Olive and I are at the dog park on Sunday morning enjoying the bright winter’s day and the company of the other medium-sized dogs and their owners. After about 45 minutes, a woman shows up with a 7-month old ball of black fur that was so small, it looked like a fleece dog toy without stuffing. ‘HOLY CHRIST. ARE YOU KIDDING? SHE’S BRINGING THAT TINY SOCK IN HERE?” I mutter mostly to myself. “Tiny” comes bounding in and to her credit seems completely non-plussed by all the much larger dogs surrounding her, lining up for turns to sniff her naughty bits. However, my dog seems unusually fixated on this ball of fluff and while Olive does not have an aggressive temperament at all, she is by breed, a hunter of small animals and has a “strong, instinctive prey drive.” People desiring to own a weimaraner are cautioned in skyscraper-size type that weims may “tolerate” cats but many may “chase and kill small animals.” As I watch Olive routinely attempt to place her mouth around Tiny’s microscopic neck, I figure I better intervene before my dog starts shaking it by the neck as though it’s a toy. That would not be good. So I grab Olive by the collar, who is desperately trying to resist my attempt to leash her, and say, ”THAT’S IT OLIVE. WE’RE DONE FOR TODAY. THE LAST THING WE NEED IS FOR YOU TO COMMIT A HOMICIDE IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.”
dog toys, toys, ugly dolls
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/11/2012 at 10:09 am
"Are you KIDDING me?"
Beautiful dog, ugly doll.
game birds, hunting dogs, pheasants
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/07/2012 at 8:45 pm
"I can't believe it either."
This is a true story. And not a pretty one. The other day, as Olive and I stood on the lawn on the side of my house, facing my neighbor’s country white split rail fence, we both noticed something odd at the same time. About 10 yards in front of us, on the other side of the fence was a large object on the ground. Olive barks at it. I stand there and think to myself “WTF?” Holding Olive firmly on her flexi-leash, I make my way toward the fence, my steps slowing a bit as I get closer. “Christ. It’s another dead pheasant, Olive.” Mangled and frozen to the ground. “At least it’s not on our lawn this time,” I say to Olive who is now straining at the leash, desperate to investigate the carcass du jour. “Let’s go back in the house and call Ray and tell him he’s got lawnkill in his yard.” As I dial the phone (and why do some of us still say dial when rotary phones disappeared along with the Triceratops?) I mentally calculate the number of dead pheasants I’ve encountered since the Snoctober storm. Too many. For the first few weeks, they were skittering around the property like mice that had dropped acid. Since then, they’ve been dotting the property and the roadway like paint on a pointillist masterpiece. It isn’t over yet. The next morning, I release Olive from her crate as I always do. Except this time, she zips down the hallway, leaps down the stairs and races to the front door where she starts frantically sniffing the bottom of the threshold and scratching with both paws simultaneously at the draft blocker like a serial killer trying to claw their way out of hell. Great. A mouse must have gotten in the house I think. In retrospect, I should have been so lucky. I take Olive outside and as we pass the alcove by the front door, I can’t help but see a black object about the size of a small brown derby cake to the right of the doorway…exactly where Olive was scratching from the other side of the door. As I take this odd sight in and consider the possibilities, Olive is trying to pull me toward the object. “Not a chance, Olive. That looks way nasty even from here.” I bring Olive back in the house and return to the scene of the crime. I don’t know whether it’s dead or alive, but I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of animal. As I get closer and closer, I notice greasy black streaks leading up to the object. I am as close as I’ll get to it now and looking down, I observe the most revolting concoction of blackened feathers, bloody guts and God knows what else. Now I know what it is. Some animal, in the middle of the night, a fox or a coyote, ate too much of its prey and came to my front door to evacuate it out of one of its orifices. Thanks. And I used to think that cats bringing dead pink and grey little voles and headless mice was bad. This sets a new standard in vileness. And now I have to deal with it. I get a shovel from the garage and begin picking it up. As I do this, I can’t help but start to dry heave. I have never been good about cleaning up any type of vomit, dog or human. Multiply either of those by about 50 and that’s what I’m dealing with. I continually retch as I walk across the front lawn, across the street and dump it into the cornfield which has already been transformed into Our Lady of Holy Pheasants. The grass is littered with the corpses of about a dozen of these game birds. I back away and stand there for a second. I’ve stopped retching. I go back in the house and call my neighbor, Ray to tell him about this. Before I begin my story, he says, “Hey, you know that dead pheasant on my lawn yesterday? It was the damnedest thing. I picked it up, and everything was all there…except all its insides were gone.”
christmas, dogs, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 01/07/2012 at 7:54 pm
"So, that's IT?"
“Christmas is over? I won’t be getting any more presents? I like Santa. I wonder if he tastes like chicken. Ppfffffftttttttt. Excuse me. I must have eaten one too many elves. WHERE IS MY NEW KNUCKLEBONE? Ouch, I think I just layed on my new dental toy with all those nice little plastic niblets that I love to floss my teeth with. Are there any other holidays like Christmas? Does this mean I’m catholic? By the way, that little baby in the manger by the tree? It was very tasty. It’s not my fault. Who the heck leaves a baby in a barn by itself next to a bunch of animals? Now, I’m thirsty. Do I smell lampchop? Is that me? Uh-oh, my stomach is making funny noises. HEY HEY HEY, I NEED TO GO OUTSIDE NOWWWWWWW!
design, furniture, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/30/2011 at 7:01 pm
"You can't see me CAN you?"
Olive impersonating a stunningly elegant French Provincial table.
dog games, dog park, fetch
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/30/2011 at 6:49 pm
"So you want the BALL, do ya'?
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were filled with fun, food, family and friends for Olive and me. If Olive were writing today’s post, she would have listed food first. We started out each cold morning with a trip to the dog park. At 8am on Christmas morning, under a heavy, violet-tinted cloud cover, we found we had the entire park to ourselves. Olive would have been happier if her dog friends were there, but she is quite content to just run around, enjoying her freedom, stopping every five seconds to sniff something on the ground, brushing her wet brown nose up against some foul item of interest. Better to keep moving instead of standing still up here and being the only object to buffet 25 mph winds. I try to interest Olive in a game of fetch which is usually a waste of time. Like most weimaraners, Olive thinks “fetch” is a moronic way to spend her time. She might pick the ball up as if to announce “OF COURSE, I CAN GET THE DUMB BALL,” and then promptly drop it. “NOW WHAT?” Today, however, it’s the only game in town. I walk over to a once-yellow tennis ball whose fur has been savagely torn off in places and is caked with crusty bits of frozen earth and communal dog saliva (which I actually refer to as paste due to its unusually gluey quality). I bring my right leg all the way back, aim for the ball, and it goes racing along the ground like it’s been shot out of a cannon. Olive didn’t quite expect this. She scrambles from her stationary position and zig zags across the field like an all-terrain vehicle gone mad, chasing the ball and picking it up in her mouth before it ever comes to a breathless rest. “Christ,” I mutter to myself, thinking, I don’t want to walk halfway across this stadium-sized field for the ball. And then Olive starts trotting back with it. In what I can only describe as a calculated act of “intelligent defiance,” she casually saunters toward me and gently releases the ball…about 10 feet away from where I’m standing. Clearly, she has just thrown down the gauntlet. “FINE, YOU LITTLE BALL BUSTER. LET’S SEE IF YOU CAN DO IT AGAIN.” I repeat the exercise about six more times. Each time, Olive races out to retrieve the ball, trots back with it and drops it about 10 feet away from me. I am now certain that this is her way of saying: “HEY MUSHROOM TUCHES. IF I HAVE TO RUN ACROSS THE FIELD FOR THIS DISGUSTING BALL, THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IF WALK A FEW FEET TO RETRIEVE IT.” Now I get it. It’s her way of playing fetch with me. I shake my head as I obediently walk over to retrieve the ball and kick it toward the cloudy horizon one last time as she spasmodically tries to anticipate its trajectory. I marvel at the fact that somehow, a game that is supposed to be largely physical is actually more mentally challenging with a weimaraner. To be continued…
pheasants, roadkill, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/30/2011 at 8:51 am
"He took MY pheasant."
As Olive and I stood in the front yard at 6:30 the other morning, she, contemplating just what tiny patch of the entire acre of property on which to deposit a healthy-sized brown gift, and me, feeling myself age like a mythological creature waiting for her to make a decision, a black pick-up truck slows as it drives past our house. Olive instantly abandons her quest for biological correctness and starts barking like a banshee. The truck stops just past our driveway. The neighborhood is treated to an early morning rendition of “WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO.” The first thing I see emerge from the truck is a day-glo orange knit cap. It is so bright it could cause retinal burn. The cap shines like an tree top ornament on a man dressed in green camoulflage. “MAYBE IT’S SOMEONE FROM THE POWER COMPANY, OLIVE. OR A HUNTER. BUT WHAT DOES HE WANT FROM US?” As he continues walking in the street at the edge of my lawn, he cheerfully calls out. “THERE’S A DEAD PHEASANT ON YOUR LAWN. I USE THEM TO CATCH RACOONS.” Doesn’t that seem backwards, I think? Isn’t the pheasant supposed to be the desirable catch? Here is the best part. As he says this with just a little too much excitement in his tone, he reaches down and picks up the dead pheasant by its limp green head and starts walking away with his trophy. I squint to confirm that yes, the dead pheasant is dangling from his ungloved, bare hand. Yeesh. I feel like I have to go inside and wash my hands after seeing this. Or my eyeballs. Even Olive has stopped barking. Maybe because she didn’t realize that this treat was sitting on her front lawn like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae and now a stranger has stolen Olive’s gamey little dessert. Or, she has simply witnessed the most spectacular opportunity that opposable thumbs present. As the human military ornament walks back to his car with an unmistakable spring in his step, I call out, “HEY. COME BACK ANYTIME. NEXT WEEK WE’RE SERVING FOX.”
dog clothes, laundry, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/29/2011 at 6:29 pm
"HEY, my laundry's done."
Yesterday, as a friend of mine gets into my car she loudly inquires, “DID THE DOG SHIT IN HERE? IT STINKS.” This is a friend that I have known for the better part of my entire life so I behave as I have been conditioned to behave under circumstances that I have come to know much too well over 35 years. I roll my eyes and say “NO, THE DOG DID NOT SHIT IN HERE. AND SHE HAS A NAME. DON’T REFER TO OLIVE AS SOME GENERIC CUR.” And then I pile on the rhetorical. “I DON’T SMELL ANYTHING.” Privately, I’m thinking that it’s probably the seat cover in the back that needs to be cleaned. After all, that’s where Olive’s dirty feet first touch down after we leave the dog park each weekend. Why spoil the fun and mention this to my friend. I’ll just let her enjoy the aroma that has ignited her delicate olfactory sense. So today, I march through the house like a disgruntled, underpaid maid, collecting all of Olive’s winter wear, bed linens and towels. Don’t forget the stinking car seat cover, I remind myself as I casually sniff her parka and wonder, “WHY THE HELL DO ALL HER THINGS SMELL LIKE DAY-OLD LAMBCHOP?” I gag slightly as I pull my nose away from her expensive red wool sweater. How ironic that I love the taste of lamb but cannot stomach the smell of it cooking. It must be a weim thing. This is what I imagine, my tiny-furred pooch smells like when she sweats. Jesus, I better be careful when I’m out with her at night. If she smells like a lambchop to the coyotes that freakishly scream at the moon every night, I might as well just put Olive out on a platter. (Don’t worry Olive, Patti will always protect you from four-legged and two-legged boogeymen just like she protects you from yourself every waking minute of every day.) As Olive’s coat, sweater, car seat cover, towel and fleece blanket are drying, I have a flashback to high school days; doing the laundry at home and accidently throwing my mother’s sweater in the dryer. She wasn’t too happy when she needed a magnifying glass to find it. It was so small, it would be a tight fit on a cabbage patch doll. Excuse me while I go retrieve Olive’s $40 red sweater from the dryer.
christmas, humor, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/27/2011 at 6:33 pm
"WHO goes there?"
Olive, standing guard at a friend’s house, tree-sitting. My dog nonchalantly creates the appearance of steadfastly guarding the Christmas tree and its bounty underneath. Either that, or she just ate a trespassing elf (Burrrpppp!) and is looking for another tasty lilliputian tidbit.
flags, germany, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/22/2011 at 6:26 pm
"QUICK. Which country am I?"
When I tried taking this shot, all I was interested in was getting a new series of photos of Olive against an interesting background. I’m running out of options inside the house and am limited outside because she always has to be on a leash or she may take off for the moon. (We haven’t been to off-leash training yet.) When my dog starting composing this shot, she began squirming all over the towel just like she does when she comes in from the rain. This is the “drying off towel,” and she loves to wrestle with it in an attempt to dry her wet seal-like fur. On these occasions, I stand there like an idiot and just keep dropping the towel over her head and body and she goes mental tearing it away from herself. When she layed down on the towel, like you see here, it immediately struck me that what I was looking at looked like a flag. Largely I’m sure, because of the horizontal alternating orange and yellow stripes. If you look at the composition sideways, it looks like she has formed the number 4. My dog is probably sending me some sort of secret message, but if one of us is the genius John Nash portrayed in the movie, “A Beautiful Mind,” it’s Olive. Or, it’s simply Olive’s artistic interpretation of the flag of Weimar, otherwise known as Germany. Not only is my beautiful dog a work of art, she also creates art.
bat dogs, beautiful dogs, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/21/2011 at 7:55 pm
"Are we DONE yet?"
This is what a weimaraner looks like in suspended animation. Can’t you just tell from the look on Olive’s face that she’s humoring me? ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE, DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE MORE PICTURES OF ME?” “ACTUALLY, I DO,” I reply, “BECAUSE THERE IS AN INSATIABLE NEED FOR NEW PHOTOS FOR YOUR BLOG.” As I command Olive to stay, I can feel every fiber in her body on tensile alert with the aching desire to RUN, RUN, RUN. But she sits obediently, waiting for me to release her from this excruciatingly dull three minute session. You would think I had asked her to empty the dishwasher. When Olive wants to hide from me, she runs downstairs into the finished basement. In the dark. And stands there half-hiding like an 8-year old playing tag with her friends in the backyard on a hot summer night. She waits for me, the giant silhouette at the top of the stairs, to approach her so she can zoom past me and thunder up the steps in a show of both bravado and joy. If at this moment she could speak, I am confident that she would squeal “NAH, NAH, NAH, NAH, NAH.” This time, I am somehow quick enough to catch her near the cheap cotton drapes downstairs. “OLIVE, SIT. NOW LOOK AT ME.” She hates looking at me when “she’s lost” the chase, but eventually she does it. I guess she figures that the quicker she complies, the faster she can initiate another chase. Eventually, she does thunder up the stairs past me and stands perched at the top of the landing like a Valkyrian victor. Her look of triumph is made somewhat less serious by the appearance of her ears, which are both flipped back, exposing their pink labyrinths and making her distinctly resemble a Townsend’s Big-Eared Bat.
dog odors, talking dogs, weimaraners
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/20/2011 at 2:39 pm
"I do NOT smell like day-old lambchop."
“Yes you do.” “No, I don’t.” “Yes you do.” “No, I don’t.” “Yes you do.” “No, I don’t.” “Yes you do.” “No, I don’t.” “YES you do.” “NO, I don’t.” “YES you DO.” “NO, I DO NOT.” “Would you like some mint jelly?” “WHAT is a lambchop anyway?”
dogs and food, humor, kitchen dogs
In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 12/20/2011 at 9:46 am
"Do I smell FOOD?"
Knock. Knock. Who’s there? It’s Olive. Olive who? Olive food. This dog is so alert, she can detect a fly fart. (By sound and scent). Olive loves going over to Susie and Perry’s because Susie will rough house with her and Olive gets to sniff up three-year old Ryan. But everything in the universe comes to an apocalyptic halt when Olive smells food or observes activity in THE KITCHEN. The room that brings her the greatest joy in life. Counter tops lined with food in various stages of preparation. Scents that delight Olive’s over-stimulated nostrils; sending her into a heightened state of ecstasy. ‘WHERE SHOULD I JUMP FIRST,” thinks Olive. To Olive, it must appear that it is a buffet created just for her. ‘GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN,” I command Olive as she is craning her long graceful neck over the sink to lick the grease off a pan. She willfully continues until I march over there, grab her by the collar and pull her away. I’ve tried a zillion different things. Nothing has the magnetic pull required to chase her away from oily grease and carcass niblets stuck to a cold frying pan. She really has to be guided out of the kitchen and then she watches me like she’s Bernie Madoff sizing up his next mark. Because in the nanosecond that I turn my head away from her, she quietly but whiplash-rapidly tracks back to the “edible amusement park.” Whenever my intelligent pooch is confronted with a situation that she realizes may result in a correction, she very slyly and daintily makes her move, as though being delicate makes the behavior acceptable. Even this makes me laugh. “OLIVE. ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME? GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN. I DON’T CARE HOW CUTE AND GRACEFUL YOU ARE.” Everyday is a battle of wits with a weimaraner. Some days I win, some days I lose, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. In fact, the other day, I came to realize that after having a weim, I don’t think I could ever have any other kind of dog again. This dog keeps me on my toes. And living with a weimaraner? They’re four-legged soul mates. It’s like living with a human who actually loves you unconditionally and doesn’t talk. What an excellent combination.
Life With Olive 