You have to wonder. How did they get the idea to process bull penis as a dog treat? I mean really, we’re not talking rabbit’s foot or elk antler or even pig’s ear. Whose idea WAS this and how did they even GET this idea? I’m afraid to ask. And why the bull? You know what, I don’t want to know the answer. All I know is that Olive LOVES them and her breath stinks like, well, I’m not sure whether the predominant “aromatic note” is bull or penis, but it is gross. The only thing grosser is when she has chewed the entire 12 inch stick down to about 3 inches and I have to take it away from her so she doesn’t swallow it whole or choke on it. God, why do I feel like I’m writing porn right now? I can’t begin to adequately describe what the “leftovers” are like. Suffice to say, gooey, fleshy and stinky. These things aren’t cheap either. Of course, Olive prefers the Merrick brand which are more expensive (about $5 each) AND much stinkier. Big surprise on both counts. She’s lying in front of the pellet stove chewing her way through one right now. Last night I had to pull the remnant piece out of her mouth and this dog is a very powerful chewer. Three words came to mind as I did this, Lawn mower, mountain goat and beaver. I still have all my fingers. (Probably because they are fingers and not tiny bull penises.) I wonder if she has any idea what exactly it is that she’s chewing on?
Posts Tagged ‘dogs’
“Bully Sticks”
In Uncategorized on 01/20/2011 at 7:57 pm
Crash Landing
In Uncategorized on 01/18/2011 at 9:16 pmOlive is now 9 months old and has begun toying with me. The other day while I was in the kitchen, I looked into the dining room to see Olive peering through the oak railing into the living room below. I could tell she was perplexed simply by the way her head was cocked and ears slightly elevated as if preparing for lift off. This impressionistic display clearly communicated “Huh, how did that happen?” or the ubiquitous “WTF?” Curious myself to see what she was staring at with such intense focus, I make my way into the dining room. “Olive, what’s going…” and as I peer over the side of the parquet cliff, I see it. The twisted, gnarled plush wreckage. Olive’s mini bear squeak toy, lying lifeless at the foot of the domestic mountain. Trapped between the chestnut-colored leg of the couch, and the base of the pewter floor lamp. Olive looks at me with a mixture of shock, curiosity and helplessness. At least that’s how I interpret it. If you look closely, you can see what I can’t, the cartoon bubble floating over her head. It reads “Watch me get this without moving a muscle.” As if on cue, I proceed down the stairs into the living room to retrieve Olive’s bear from its hellish crash landing. I come back upstairs, toss the bear to Olive and return to the kitchen. Not 30 seconds later, the deafening silence grabs my attention. What do I see? As if I am watching a slow-mo replay of a Superbowl touchdown, Olive, striking an identical pose, peering over the side of the parquet cliff, as if to say, “Oops.” As I make my way back down the stairs to once again rescue the tiny plush beast my goofy pooch has casually tossed away like a rancid fish, it occurs to me that I’ve just been trained how to fetch.
Kryptonite
In Uncategorized on 01/16/2011 at 1:24 pmIf you’ve never heard of Giardia before, think Kryptonite. It is an intestinal parasite common to dogs THAT CAN LIVE IN ENVIRONMENTS FOR TWO TO THREE MONTHS after a dog excretes its cysts. Yes, this would have been a useful piece of information to tell me when I was leaving Olive’s lawn cigars and cow pies scattered about the lawn like Bingo chips this past Summer. Had I known they required delicate hazmat handling, I would have been obsessive about picking them up right away. Because when you have an acre of property, what’s a few brown trout dotting the lawn? The drawback to having an acre of property as a canvas for Olive’s fecal artwork is that contrary to what one might think, it’s actually not so easy to find these deposits. I couldn’t pick them up right away while I had Olive on the leash because she would try to tear the flimsy plastic bag out of my hands as if we were playing tug of war with a delectable rotting fox carcass. So I’d put her back in the kitchen and arm myself with a gardening shovel, plastic bag and…surgical gloves. Just call me “Scatologist.” Then, I’d be faced with trying to recall the coordinates of precisely where the event occurred. Standing in the yard looking hopelessly perplexed as if I were lost, I’d mutter to myself out loud, “I think it was about 10 feet from the 8th pole in the split rail fence opposite the middle hemlock bush.” It was like playing “Battleship.” And rarely, did I sink the battleship. Then, I have a brainstorm. Why not get those tiny red anti-litigation flags that companies plant on lawns to warn people that pesticides have been sprayed? I go to the first place I think might have them. Yes, Amazon.com. They have EVERYTHING. Including 50 miniature red flags attached to the end of foot-long wire poles…for about $5. Now my lawn looks like a miniature golf course in the summer. I’m sure my neighbors think I’m batshit when out there planting little red flags in the lawn while Olive is in the undignified “pooping position.” I don’t care. It’s genius. Except I didn’t anticipate how hard they’d be to jam into the frozen ground in the winter, resulting in bent poles hanging and twirling in the wind like psychotic pinwheels, while leaving my knuckles bloodied. Now, it looks like a miniature golf course at an insane asylum from which a serial killer just escaped. The alternative is feeding Olive sweet potatoes which when consumed, digested and released, resemble orange glow-in-the-dark cylinders. You can see them from space.
Chicken
In Uncategorized on 01/15/2011 at 3:23 pm
"I wonder if it tastes like chicken..."
The Other Reindeer
In Uncategorized on 01/14/2011 at 7:27 pmWhen I was first thinking about getting a dog, I was also thinking about what I’d name her. Olive’s predecessor, my surrogate pooch, was named Idgy. What a great name. Even William Wegman whom I met at a book signing in Frenchtown, New Jersey thought so. He signed (prophetically apparently) his book “Chip Wants a Dog,” and he sketched a simple doodle of Idgy and me. When he said “What a great name,” I actually sensed that for a split second, he considered the name for one of his future dogs.
Anyway, after considering many names, I short-listed Luna, Zoe, and Shortbread. I loved Shortbread, but it was just too long. I tried yelling it out loud as though I were calling her and quickly decided I sounded like an idiot. “SHORT BREAD! SHORT B-R-E-A-D. COME HERE SHORT BREAD!” It met the two-syllables criteria, but not without using most of the letters in the alphabet.
Then a friend of mine said “What about Olive?” Not only did it just feel right before I even met Olive, but I loved the idea because it reminded me of one of my favorite “nouveau” children’s books, “Olive The Other Reindeer.” It was also serendipitous that the pooch in the story looked like the late Idgy. So, Olive’s name is also a nod to Idgy, a dog I came to love wholeheartedly for 14 years. It was perfect. Now everyone who hears Olive’s name thinks it’s just perfect for her. They have no idea that her middle name is “Pimento.” This was suggested to me by another friend. It made me laugh. So, that’s how Olive Pimento Soldavini got her name. Ironic, given that I am an Italian who will not let a green, black or purple olive come within 15 feet of my mouth. My poor cousin’s wife always has to make my salad “sans olives,” because I won’t even pick that scat out of my dish.
Now that I know Olive, would I have named her anything else? Not a chance. But…I would have considered the following names: Rocket, Tornado, or Goofy. In fact, one day I called her Goofy when we were walking past the local middle school and I overheard an 8 year old boy say to another in an incredulous tone, “Is that dog’s name GOOFY?” No, but it could have been.
Transfixed
In Uncategorized on 01/13/2011 at 9:47 pm
"Absolutely disgusting, but I can't stop watching."
Canine Musicology
In Uncategorized on 01/13/2011 at 7:27 pmEver notice the musicology of squeak toys? They have a limited range of distinct squeaks, but depending on how Olive squeezes them, they take on the quality of the Boston Symphony. The larger squeakers, when compressed slowly like an accordion actually emit a sound that resembles the word “people.” PEE-PULL, PEE-PULL. PEE-PULL. The smaller squeakers, compressed more rapidly sound like BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD.
The sound I make when I’ve heard enough of Canine Concerto Minor? “STOP-IT. STOP-IT. STOP-IT.” I wonder if dogs use squeakers to try to communicate with us, using them as a sort of aural sign language. Really, maybe we’re just too stupid to get it.
Right now, Olive is lying in front of the pellet stove contentedly (and quietly) gnawing on a $27 Elk Antler which is so hard, it feels like the femur bone of a Triceratops. God knows what she’s sharpening her teeth for next…
Ordinary People
In Uncategorized on 01/13/2011 at 8:01 am
"Hurry up, my ass is cold."
Wild Kingdom
In Uncategorized on 01/12/2011 at 7:52 pmAs I sit down to write tonight, Olive leaps over me like a champion reindeer to curl up on the couch directly behind me. Just moments after revealing that the missing fleece sock I spent the past few minutes looking for is not in my bedroom where it should be, but laying in a corner in the living room looking “dead” if that is at all possible. (Her head is jammed into my back as I write this). The TV is on and Olive will remain vaguely disinterested in it until she hears or sees a dog on screen. Then, she will leap off the couch with the energy of an errant spring that’s suddenly popped, approach the TV with her metronome tail wagging furiously, waiting for a chance to formally “greet” the pooch on TV. She’ll start to sniff the TV screen in the approximate direction of the dog’s uniquely aromatic rump and I begin praying that she doesn’t decide to jump up and rake her nails across the screen in an alpha attempt to mount the pixilated pooch. Olive is about 55 pounds now and it’s 55 pounds of pure muscle and bone. When she slams into something, it’s like being hit by an NFL-branded sack of wet cement. The only thing funnier than watching this half-reality/half virtual interaction is watching the expressions on her face and her ears when she’s bearing witness to warfare in the animal kingdom. “GRUNT. BARK. (DROOL) SQUEAL. (BITE) YELP. BARK, BARK. GROWL.” As the animals begin tearing into each other, Olive’s bright, captivating amber eyes completely dilate, her lips curls ever so slightly, revealing a few bottom teeth and you can actually watch her emotions cascade across her ears. Their rapid, but subtle micro movements convey a complex mix of curiosity, fear and disgust all once. Meryl Streep would be impressed. I think it’s the equivalent of rubbernecking past an accident on the highway. Olive is repulsed but feels compelled to watch. Besides, she has to be on high alert just in case the animals pounce into our living room. I’m so glad I didn’t let anyone talk me out of getting a Weim. I love Olive’s intelligence, her energy and her goofy sense of humor. “OLIVE, WHERE THE HELL IS MY SWEATSHIRT?”
Cat in The Hat
In weimaraners on 01/10/2011 at 9:30 pmWhat a “Cat in The Hat” morning I had today. This is how I describe a series of ridiculous events that starts with some innocuous act on my part and quickly accelerates into a Pandorian nightmare. Usually because I’m rushing and not paying close enough attention to something I should. At around 6:30 am this morning, while lugging the 40 pound plastic bag of wood pellets up onto the pellet stove, dumping them into the hopper, the bottom of the bag breaks open and 20 pounds of compressed wood pellets come cascading down the front of the stove onto the living room rug, scattering like tiny shiny turdlettes. Olive is now trying to gobble up these unexpected treats like a Dyson vacuum cleaner. To her, it probably resembles deer or rabbit scat, two of her favorite environmental delicacies. I reach into her mouth with the finesse of a blind plumber, trying to extract these tiny missiles to no avail. They are so small, she can barely chew them; they disappear down her gullet only to tumble onto the pile of other foreign objects she has recently ingested (pencil bits, the eye from a plush lizard, cardboard, discarded Q-tips, etc.) I retract my hand, now dripping in a syrup-like coating of dog saliva. To make matters worse, part of the heavy-duty white plastic bag is now melted onto the front of the black pellet stove. I’m so annoyed with myself I want to slap my own face repeatedly. Olive gets led to her “dungeon” crate downstairs while I clean up and curse at myself. (I call it her dungeon crate only because it is very spartan. It’s where she goes when I have to leave her for awhile and the possibility of a gastrointestinal train wreck is very real. Often she holds on to her lawn cigars for hours, apparently in an attempt to polish them into diamonds.) Soon, she’s barking and I know this time it’s for water. I swear the dog forgets to drink sometimes and when she’s thirsty, she becomes very insistent and the water in Princess Olive’s bowl had better be as pristine as an arctic spring. If it contains microns of stick bits, whisker dust or God forbid, a bloated kibble, she won’t touch it. Any foreign floaters, and she turns her nose up in disgust, waiting for her handmaiden (me) to replenish it. I clean and fill her water bowl, let her out of the crate and scrub my hands. What a great day today! You won’t hear me complain, my dog is a nuthatch and I’m insane!
Frankenprong
In Uncategorized on 01/07/2011 at 7:47 pm
"What now?"
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past six months, it’s that most people think their dogs are well-behaved. Even as they jam their snout into your netherbits trying to ferret out a toy. Guess what? You’re not supposed to have to give a dog a command 42 times before it stops trying to mount the defenseless 15-month old teeter-tottering through the kitchen wearing nothing but a soiled diaper and a grin covered in peanut butter. Yes, the baby smells THAT good to the dog. A walking, cooing aphrodisiac.
Anyway, dog training takes an unfathomable level of patience and the ability to endure hours of mindless repetition without wanting to cry. “SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY…” Sometimes, waiting for the light bulb to go off in the dog’s head is like waiting for Godot. (Which by odd coincidence includes the word ‘dog.’) This is when the dog recognizes that we humans are woefully inept at communicating…especially in dog. I think they are actually jerking our chains then. Thankfully, Olive’s disposition makes her very eager to please. She will stand on her head and recite Desiderata just to make me happy. Other times, she puts on a William Wegman mask and tells me to stand on a chair.
Anyway, when Olive and I first started obedience school, she wore a regular, run-of-the-mill, overpriced dog collar. Big mistake. As I would soon learn, this was like putting a wet noodle around her neck. She had not one iota of respect for it. My independent spirited, crazed scent hound kept her nose to the mat, mentally categorizing and reclassifying every odor she encountered, occasionally stopping to lick some sort of forensic residue. The only time she wasn’t doing this was when she was distracted by the molecular activity around us. The dog is a biologic motion sensor. If the tiniest thread in the fabric of the universe shifts imperceptibly, Olive goes on high alert.
It was impossible to walk her. The collar was simply an accessory. It was like walking a 40-pound jackrabbit, zigzagging all over the place, leaving scorch marks in the earth she traversed. At this time, it would have been easier to train her to plow crop circles. I quickly developed “Olive Elbow,” from overextending it repeatedly. The leash burn on the underside of my arm was getting worse. My shoulder was dangling out of its socket. Olive was learning many, many foul words during this time. “$%#@!*&^%&*#@$! My God, am I ever going to enjoy walking this dog?”
At my wit’s end, I consulted with Olive’s trainer. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to train Olive without using the prong collar?” If you’re not familiar with the prong collar, it’s the one many dog owners (usually those who own dogs no larger than a Fabergé egg) wince at when they first see it. Actually, I winced too. It resembles a medieval torture device. A series of interlocked angry chrome pincers. I couldn’t imagine stringing this around Olive’s dainty neck. Oddly enough, it reminded me of going to the dentist, where they try to shove equipment the size of a 1962 Buick through your piehole. Nonplussed, the trainer responded: “Yes. But it will take a VERY, VERY, VERY VERY, VERY LONG TIME.” The perfect answer to give an impatient personality like myself.
“Welcome to Frankenprong, Olive.”
The much maligned and misunderstood prong collar should be sold, not as a utilitarian pet product but as a device that balances the relationship between dog and human. It works. Olive respects it’s ability to set limits. And if you wrap it around your arm, you’ll see that it’s no big deal (assuming you bought the quality one with rounded prongs). What I couldn’t get past though was watching Olive shrink 4 sizes before my eyes when the trainer popped the leash connected to Olive’s bright new prong collar. I think my sensitive, short-haired pooch yelped more from surprise (the party’s over) than anything else. Still, I said, “Screw that. I’m not making my dog feel small.” Off came the Frankenprong. For now anyway.
Four weeks later, ready to pull a Sylvia Plath, I attempted to reintroduce Olive to the Frankenprong. I gently placed it around her neck, softly cooing to her like the crap-stained baby from paragraph one. She remained unusually calm while cocking her head every so slightly as if to let me know that I’d been had. I swear, she may have even winked at me.
Rebuttal
In Uncategorized on 01/05/2011 at 7:34 pmOkay, so I ate the number two pencil. Maybe it was the way it smelled. I am after all, a scent hound. Which means that I can tell you with 100% certainty that there is a Snickers wrapper with some caramel still stuck to it on the sole of a chubby kid’s shoe in Paramus. Maybe I ate it because it was the prettiest looking stick I ever saw. Almost trophy quality. I liked the point on the end of it. I used it as a toothpick. The best part was the little pink nipple on the other end of it. I had to spit out the small silver collar to get to it, but it was worth it. Maybe I ate it just because it was called “number two.” I didn’t expect that hard black filling though. What was THAT all about? Now every time I sit down and scratch, I Ieave smudge marks on the floor. (Patti’s not going to like THAT.) Hold on I have to scratch myself. Did I just hear a bird? God, I’m so bored right now. That’s because I’m a Weimaraner. Sometimes it’s better to be stupid; there are less obligations in life. Did I just say that? HOLY CRAP, I CAN WRITE!!! Wait a minute, I have to lick myself. Oh look, there’s a stinkbug…
#2 Squared
In Uncategorized on 01/03/2011 at 8:17 pmOlive just finished devouring the #2 pencil I left on the coffee table unattended for 5 minutes. She’s outside in the backyard now writing the next post.
The Defuser
In Uncategorized on 01/03/2011 at 2:56 pmOlive may not have any thumbs, but the dog is exceptionally talented at zeroing in on the olfactory presence of the Bounce dryer sheet nestled inside a tangled pile of freshly dried clothes. Within seconds of identifying this tantalizing specially-formulated commercial odor, she plows her head into the dryer, (bystanders be damned!) dives into the pile of clothes and with the precision of a trained explosives expert extricates the dryer sheet and takes off with it dangling from her mouth like some cheap carnival prize. Getting her to give it up requires the negotiating skills of Henry Kissinger. It is important to her to hang onto it for as long as possible. This means she must fly up and down the three levels of stairs at least three times, run around the whole house like her tail is on fire, occasionally pausing only to gently gnaw on the dryer sheet. The only way I have been able to get her to give it up is by offering something better. If I yell the word “BISCUIT,” drawing it out…“B-I-S-C-U-I-T-T-T…in a voice so high pitched that it makes birds drop out of the sky, she races toward me, sits promptly, and instantly lets the dryer sheet drop as if it’s a dirty diaper.
Hydrant
In Uncategorized on 01/02/2011 at 11:13 am
"Go ahead, try to take a picture of me not moving."
Goliath
In Uncategorized on 01/01/2011 at 2:14 amThe dog who would be Goliath. Most people probably don’t know that Weimaraners were originally bred to hunt large game, large as in BEAR and DEER. (Which of course would make New Jersey the perfect home for these dogs.) Then, according to the Weimeraner Club of America, they were “converted to a fur and feathers” dog, as in hunters of picnic basket-sized prey. Make no mistake. Olive is a very confident dog, approaching strangers (with and without candy) and other dogs in full alpha mode with her head proudly held high, chest thrust forward and her cigarillo-like tail wagging so fast it can slice a tomato cleaner than a Ginsu knife. In these moments she reminds me of a 5-year old child who innocently believes that the world is there only to make them happy. However, my sweet-tempered pooch is not what I’d consider brave. Standing in the middle of my rural acre of property late one night, waiting for Olive to deposit some black gold, she goes into red alert and starts to stalk something on the other side of the split rail fence dividing my neighbor’s property from mine. The low growling which had immediately preceded the deliberate and focused stalking now erupts into apocalyptic barking. “HOLY CRAP,” I think as I am on the verge of barely controlled panic. IS IT A BEAR? A COYOTE? A BOBCAT? Yes, these animals are all indigenous to New Jersey. Even mountain lion, which I learned when one was found spitting at cars on Rt. 17 in Mahwah a year or two ago. While I am standing there mentally processing the possibilities, the flexi-leash continues to unwind with such ferocity, I think I actually smell smoke. And then, in what seems like a nanosecond, with the deft coordination of a ballerina, Olive pirouettes and races back toward me at the speed of light…and hides behind me. Like I said, confident, but not brave.
Couch Hog
In Uncategorized on 12/31/2010 at 6:51 pm
"Is this not my bed?"
Hoofbeats
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 12:45 pmOlive has the body type of a Supermodel, unlike most female Weims who look like they were born to be Champion Roller Derby Queens. When meeting Olive for the first time, most people comment on her long, beautiful legs. She puts dancers to shame. And when she stands up, placing her paws on my shoulders or my back, she comes almost face to face with me. She is lean yet muscular and sinewy with an aura of soft elegance about her. When she trots, it is absolutely graceful in its effortlessness. So, it might be hard to imagine her zooming through the house, leaping up and down stairways, sliding across hardwood floors and coming to rest only when she’s slammed into a wall and literally bent the prong in the back of a C02 monitor plugged into an outlet. My sister visited a few weeks ago and I was concerned that Olive might accidently send her flying down the stairs. “When you hear hoofbeats,” I tell my sister, “Get the hell out of the way. Lean against a wall. It’s your best defense.” This is of course, only when Olive’s not devouring a bully stick, gnawing on some piece of cardboard somewhere or licking houseguests down to their DNA.
Monster
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 7:32 amIn just 72 hours, I have created a monster. From the day I brought Olive home, I was as vigilant as a border guard during all aspects of her training to teach her that jumping onto the couches and climbing to their microfiber apex was not permitted. NEIN!
So, on a particularly frigid evening a few nights ago, feeling sorry for Olive as she lay peacefully curled up like a grey-brown fawn on her expensive fire engine red (how appropriate for a Weimaraner) donut bed from Orvis, I allowed my 8-month old mostly-well-trained pooch to join me on the couch.
She quickly made herself very comfortable, first walking around in tiny half moons before settling down at the far end all curled up, with her head propped up on the cheap faux-suede orange pillow from Kohl’s so she could watch TV. I kid you not. I think the TV screen is so big (51”) that she thinks that whatever’s on it represents something actually happening in our living room.
Then, slowly, as if sneaking up on some oblivious, small-brained prey, she oh-so-casually advances, finally sidling up beside me. Of course, she’s taken the inside track, so when she feels she’s gotten close enough—when her head is resting on my neck—she stretches her body out as far as possible, like a canine version of Nadia Comaneci. And sleeps. And snores. Quietly. She sleeps so soundly, so quickly that if I try to gently pry open her eyes, she could care less. They stay sealed as though they have been sewn shut. Since her eyelashes are the same color as her fur, she actually resembles a stuffed animal whose eyes have been stolen by some chew-happy dog.
All is fine until we get up to retire for the evening; me in my bed, her adjacent to my bed in the well-appointed but stinky crate she loves. And then it begins. Barking, kvetching, crying, trilling, even keening like a widow at an Irish wake. This is the first time she’s behaved like this, so I have to assume, that a) she’d prefer to stay on the even softer couch, b) she’d prefer to stay on the couch next to me, or c) she’s just pissed that I awakened her from her couch potato slumber. The barking and trilling goes on for about 10 minutes. Telling her to “be quiet” with calm, assertive energy has zero impact. Impatient, I switch gears and try yelling instead. “BE QUIET, BE QUIET, BE QUIET.” My pleas go ignored. At my wits end, I do the next most human-logical thing; I try to reason with her, “Olive, if you continue to behave this way, you will no longer be allowed to stay on the couch.” And for added emphasis, I pile on the rhetorical, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” Of course, the problem with all these approaches is tri-fold. A) she is not a child, B) she is not human and C) she doesn’t speak English.
Optimist that I am, I delusionally figure that this might be a one-time thing. Three times in a row. Now, during daylight hours, I find her walking across the top of the couch and love seat as if she’s scaling Mount Everest.
Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 7:29 amMy dog is stunningly beautiful. Really. As in so, beautiful, she stops traffic. Literally. Every day. Without fail, when Olive and I are out walking, people stop driving and get out of their cars, come out of their homes, stop washing their cars and doing all sorts of things just to greet Olive, typically exclaiming, “She’s so beautiful,” “Stunning,” “Can I pet your dog?” “Is that a…” Weimaraner? Chocolate lab? “Look, Mommy a Greyhound!” But always, “She’s perfect.” Clearly, Olive has a magnetic quality that draws people to her. People also go out of their way to let Olive pass as though she were royalty prancing down the sidewalk. You can actually sense them internally genuflecting. It made me think, “Wow, so this is how the beautiful people go through life.” She continues to parade by passersby with her deep barrel chest proudly thrust forward as if to say, “Yes, look at me, look at me!” At about this time, the old Pantene commercial tagline floats through my head, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”
Windy
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 7:26 amAnyone living in New Jersey during the summer of 2010 had the same reaction when the weather wizards officially proclaimed it the hottest Summer on record. You could hear a chorus of “Big surprise,” all the way from the pastoral farmlands in northwestern New Jersey down to the lonely pine barrens (home of the infamous Jersey Devil) in South Jersey.
However, thanks to Hurricane Earl slobbering its way up the Eastern shoreline like a Bull Mastiff in heat, those of us residing inland awakened to a stunning display of mostly blue skies and a coveted 60 degrees. There was a gentle but constant breeze interrupted by brisk gusts of wind.
Olive’s reactions to the gusts of wind buffeting her were so funny, I actually laughed out loud. Clearly, a brand new experience for her, she reacted to each gust as if it were something physical and solid, like a bumper car sneaking up on her from all different angles. When a particularly stiff gust slapped her in the butt, she did a “crazy eight” trying to escape from this challenging invisible foe. And when another gust slammed up against her head and shoulders, she again took evasive action, doing a 180 on the sidewalk.
And yet the funniest part was still to come. Back in the car, I opened the rear windows to let the glorious fresh air envelop us. Olive’s reaction? In the cargo area, she immediately took cover from the bursts of oxygen, racing from side to side and ducking from the wind as if she were running from B52 bombers overhead. God, this dog is funny.
No Mixed Signals
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 4:20 amOlive has finally gotten a bit more vocal about her needs. Thank God, because I have gotten a bit rusty reading minds. Who would have thought that when she had an urgent need to empty her bowels, she would trill and growl. Yes, TRILL and growl. Not whine, not bark, but trill and GROWL. The trilling has an Irish lilt to it, like when you vibrate your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Sounds a bit lyrical and a bit like a demented leprechaun. The growl makes me laugh though. Is she annoyed with me because until that moment, I was too stupid to anticipate her gastrointestinal need? It’s a very clear signal. I need to get her out of the house INSTANTLY. The good thing is, after I remove the barrier to the rest of the house, she races ahead of me like she’s running the Kentucky Derby. I open the sliding glass door just as she sails across the sill, like a reindeer taking off into space. Less than a minute later, a small brown pie rests atop the bright white snow in the yard. Triumphant, Olive trots back to the door, ready to come back in and find something satisfying to chew on. But wait, I hear slurping noises that sound somewhat hollow coming from upstairs. COULD IT BE? Yes, it’s Olive drinking from the never-ending porcelain bowl of water. It’s like there’s a man living in my house now. Often when I sit on the toilet seat, it is now wet, evidence of Olive’s sloppy drinking style. Do you think she’ll stop if I treat her water bowl like my toilet? Right now, she is laying contentedly beside me curled up in her sage-colored Orvis donut bed in my office. I can hear her stomach gurgling. I look at her sleeping so peacefully and my heart fills with joy. I am so happy to have this crazed little nuthatch in my life. The one who now takes my place on the couch whenever I get up. Is it because it’s warm? Or, is she literally taking the pack leader’s spot? Does she question me as much as I question her? What a complex relationship we have. I love it.
Big Bad Wolf
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 4:18 amOn Tuesday morning, I, the Big Bad Wolf, took Olive to the vet to be spayed. She was fine until they removed her collar and leash and looped THEIR leash around her neck. That’s when she knew something was up. I was asked to complete a form that inquired as to whether I wanted the following procedures performed on Olive “while she was resting comfortably under anesthesia.” Clip nails? Oh yes, she still looks at me like I’m coming at her with a buzz saw when I attempt to do it. Clean ears? Ditto. She runs away from a Q-tip faster than a junk bond trader running from the Feds. EXPRESS ANAL GLANDS? (Is this a rhetorical question I think?) ABSOLUTELY. So, I sign on the dotted line and leave my beloved pooch in the hands of the doctor she adores. Still, I can’t focus on anything else all day long.
Dr. Cojocar calls at 11:40am to inform me that Olive came through the surgery beautifully and I’ll probably be able to pick her up later that day. I should call back after 2pm. (Funny, prior to today, he suggested I leave her there overnight. I wonder why… he’s changed his mind…) I call back at 2:15 and am essentially told that “She’s up and walking around and took a poop in her cage.” That’s my dog. Holds onto the last of her breakfast poop until between 2:00 and 3:00pm every day. Like clockwork. At least, this is one I can subtract from my “to do” list. “You can probably pick her up later today. Call after 5pm.” Now it becomes clear to me, there is a very good chance that my “BARKER” has been barking non-stop since she arrived there. I casually say, “Oh, has she been driving you crazy barking all day?” They say no, but I sense a lack of conviction behind this answer. I call at 5pm and am told that yes, indeed, I may come pick Olive up. I jump in my car and make the 10 minute trip, settle up the bill and await the return of my little grey ghost. “Is she a jumper?” one of the very young assistants asks me. “Olive is part Kangaroo,” is my reply. “Yes, she’s a jumper. Like a 45 pound jack rabbit bouncing off the walls in my house, why?” “Do you want a tranquilizer?” the assistant asks. “For me or the dog?” Just kidding. “Yes, give me the tranquilizer and I’ll use it only if I absolutely have to.”
They bring Olive out and to my surprise she is fairly frisky; more so than I imagined she would be. Her little cigar-like tail is wagging a mile a minute. I try to remain calm so she doesn’t get too excited and pop a stitch. At home, I put her in her crate with a handful of food which she devours instantly and a bit of water. She is calm but starts to “nose whistle” a bit, so I feel sorry for her, take her out and she lies on her round bed on the floor and goes to sleep with me sitting by her side. Little does she know that prior to going to bed, the dreaded “cone” fitting awaits her. A couple of hours later, I get her up to put her to bed, but first, I try getting the “Elizabethan Collar” on her. What a joke. An inverted lampshade that blocks her vision entirely; it’s like trying to squeeze a sausage through a thimble. Ugh. Forget it, she’s almost in a panic. Thank God, I bought the inflatable tube earlier (for just $34.99) that afternoon. With all my hot air, I’m still about to pass out from trying to inflate this thing. I thread her collar through it, strap it on her neck and fasten the velcro. Not so bad. She’s not loving it, but she’s not panicking. I put her in her create upstairs, close the door and she sits there looking at me like “WTF? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I’M SUPPOSED TO SLEEP WITH THIS THING ON? I try to explain to her that I don’t need her disemboweling herself in the middle of the night, so yes, she will wear the tube. I get into bed and I hear her trying to get settled repeatedly smacking into the sides of the crate like a blind person looking for an exit door in an elevator.
She wakes up the next morning and is instantly relieved when I remove the inflatable tube. Anyway, by 2pm the next day, Olive is the same nutty pooch she was before her spaying; attempting to fly through the air like Superdog. Her period of being “tired” and “woozy,” lasted all of about a few hours. Got to give the dog props; she really hasn’t licked her incision at all either and is eating and pooping like a Champion once again. You can tell by all the little red flags in my yard. It looks like a miniature golf course. :>)
The Illusionist
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 4:17 amLadies, and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to Olive, the Illusionist. That’s right, my dog is an accomplished Illusionist. She can make herself look larger or smaller, grey or brown, even change the color of her eyes and disappear.
The other morning as Olive was parading around the yard, nose to the ground, enjoying the cornucopia of fragrant stinks emanating from the lawn, I looked at her and thought, “She’s so dainty and fawn-like; maybe she’ll be small.” She doesn’t look as husky as most Weimaraners. She looks like a star Quarterback, not a middle linebacker.
Later that same day, while Olive is out looking to plant some more lawn cigars, I look at her and can’t quite believe my eyes. I feel like I must have stumbled into “Olive in Wonderland.” It’s as though she’s grown 2 sizes bigger since early morning. “My God, she looks giant today; maybe she’s going to be an Amazon and it will be like walking a cheetah in a few months,” I think to myself. How is this possible?
When it’s very bright and sunny outside, Olive wears her grey fur. When she’s inside or it’s not sunny, she wears her brown fur. I surmise that the grey fur is what she wears when she’s showing off. The brown coat she saves for more informal occasions. And sometimes, I think I can actually detect her Clark Kent/Superman-like transition, when her fur actually shimmers with a grey and brown glitter-like quality. She clearly makes the most of her limited wardrobe.
She also uses her eyes to great affect as well. People alternately refer to Olive’s orbs as either “spooky” or “beautiful.” They have the quality of striking marbles that look different depending on what angle you look at them. Sometimes Olive’s eyes look mostly yellow, other times they look grey-blue and sometimes they look yellow-blue. And in photographs, they even exhibit a purple-like aura. They look their funniest when she starts falling asleep while she’s sitting up. She looks like a quiet drunk as she starts to teeter to the right or left.
Olive also has the unique ability to telekinetically transport herself from anywhere inside the house to directly behind me when I am calling her. I walk around like an idiot, calling, “Olive, Olive, where are you, come here,” convinced that A) she is somewhere impersonating Steve McQueen in the classic “The Great Escape,” or B) she is quietly wreaking havoc. And then, just as I turn around, I see her quietly seated behind me, wearing a goofy Alfred E. Neuman-like smile.
Nudist Colony
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 4:15 amIf Olive had her way, the entire world would be a nudist colony. How do I know this you ask? Easy. Try getting dressed in front of her in the morning. It’s like trying to make it through an obstacle course wearing high heels and blinders. She finds socks and underwear particularly offensive. She will try to tear them from my hands as I struggle, somewhat defenselessly, balancing myself on one leg to get them on before she shreds them. I must look like a Diane Arbus photograph that got alive somehow. She will however, wait until I get my pants on before she starts biting at the legs. Maybe the pants are more intimidating to her. Hell, maybe she’s trying to even the playing field.
Why does she do this? Either she wants to render me defenseless, clearly demonstrating her Alpha status to me, or she just feels that since she has no clothes on, neither I nor anyone else should either. Perhaps it’s her way of saying, “I too support PETA.” Funny, what goes through the mind of a dog. Perhaps I should take Olive shopping for clothes. Then she can tear her own clothes off. I think she’d probably be partial to Calvin Klein or Prada canine couture. They’d make good dog names too wouldn’t they? Calvin and Prada. I’m sure some snob somewhere, probably in Europe has named their dog Prada, don’t you think?
And the funny thing is. She has no problem when I get undressed at night. She just sits there watching wordlessly, as I toss the clothes into the hamper, (which she can’t quite figure out the purpose of yet.) This is the cue she’s been waiting for all day. Ah yes, another opportunity to stick her head into the wastebasket in the bathroom to retrieve the dental floss which flies behind her like the parachute behind a formula one race car while she races past me in a grey-brown blur. All I see is dental floss suspended in the air down the hallway.
Unpredictable
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 4:14 amYesterday morning, as I started to awaken, I could hear Olive inside her crate whining. Not a loud insistent whining, mind you, but a low, intermittent kvetching. Sort of like an idealized Disney Princess, pseudo-whimpering for attention. Or so I thought. “Go back to sleep,” I barked. I need another 10 minutes to shake off the fog that still envelops my brain. It is now about 6:30am. The kvetching continues, low and still intermittently like worn windshield wipers that struggle to keep time. So, now I make the fatal mistake of doing what I do every morning. Get up, quickly restore the comforter to its pre-slumber state, get dressed, open Olive’s crate door, say “Good morning Olive,” and head for the bathroom. Except, this time, unlike any other morning, I close the bedroom door behind me. I march toward the bathroom in a semi-tranquil state of mind, having no clue about the train wreck destined to occur in just a few moments.
I open the bedroom door and there is my little “grey mouse.” Perched regally on top of my bed like a giant chrome hood ornament. Peeing. I stand there, slack jawed like a stupid human, my brain unable to process what my eyes are seeing. “BAD, BAD, BAD,” I yell as I reach for Olive and she frantically scrambles for cover. There is now a wet stain winding its way across the comforter, settling into the nooks and crannies as though the Hoover Dam had burst and was trickling out about 1,000 miles from the epicenter of the disaster.
This is how my day started. I was alternately furious with myself for having ignored the obvious signal – the kvetching – and discouraged that this spectacular display came on the heels of literally months of not soiling anything inside the house. Maybe she couldn’t take the pressure of a perfect record. Thank God, it didn’t seep through to the mattress.
I wondered, did Olive have any idea her trainer was coming to the house today for a private lesson? Was this morning’s performance a foreshadowing of what was to come during Olive’s in-home tutoring session? To the point, was I about to throw $85 in the toilet today?
And then, she surprises me. The trainer arrives and Olive dutifully sits when greeting her – and I haven’t even taught her that yet. (I still haven’t figured out how to “quiet” lightning in a bottle.) Olive also has only a nano-understanding of the concept of “stay” right now. She performs admirably in front of the trainer, once again, defying expectations. Sit, down, sit, down, come. Perfect. Then, in a display of her unquenching desire to please, and perform coupled with her natural slap-happy exuberance, she hurls herself up the stairs and almost kills herself. She holds up her back leg and I’m freaking out afraid she’s snapped a bone. The trainer instructs me to put ice on her leg and we sit there on the landing (aptly named, although Olive confuses it with a “launching pad”) a few minutes while the trainer holds Olive still and I wrap the ice pack around her leg.
The trainer was going to show me how to get Olive interested in the treadmill, but not today. Today, we will focus on the hound’s predilection for “dog singing,” meaning barking. But, that’s another story. :>)
Morning Has Broken
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 4:02 amEvery morning, I awaken at about 6:45am, get out of bed and frantically try to get dressed, brush my teeth and remove my Breathe Right strip before the “rocket fuel” awakens. I then approach her crate door slowly and quietly as if I’m approaching a potential explosive device. In the back of the crate, Olive remains lying regally like a very important lioness in her brown two-tone microfiber bed. She looks at me, yawns as if to say, “Oh, it’s you? ALREADY?” Then she begins to slowly roll over until she’s on her back, all four feet pawing at the air. This is her “awakening dance.” I crawl into her crate halfway to scratch her tummy, pet her and give her a few kisses. She responds to me with some swift nips to the hand, arm, sometimes the ear. There is no part of the human form that is not appealing to her to nip. Tiring of hearing “NO, NO, NO,” directed at her, she confidently and casually turns away from me as if to say, “I’m done with you, now let me go back to sleep.” So, I leave her alone for a few minutes, attend to a few other morning rituals and come back with a biscuit to lure her out of the crate so she can do her morning business. (And why the hell do they call it ‘business?’ Does she make money from this that I don’t know about?)
As Olive tries alternately to bite her flexi-leash and the new brass tag that identifies her as my master, we make our way through the kitchen, past her litany of toys and half chewed, stinking bully sticks, onto the deck outside. Every morning, she pokes her head under the tarp covering the gas grill, hoping to snack on the greasy, charred bits that fall from the grill into the catch cup underneath. I yank her away just in time. One hop off the deck and then it’s like watching Morse Code come alive right in front of your eyes. One long pee, followed by a second short pee. Then one large poop, followed by a few smaller, staccato droppings. At least, the first one of the morning is fast. Sometimes I have to parade her around the entire acre of property until she finds the exact spot where no animal has ever left its droppings in the past century.
Back in the kitchen, I now arm myself as if I am a survivalist heading for a remote hamlet in Chile for an extended undercover mission. Can’t forget the pocketful of treats, salmon flavored little niblets that stink worse than waterway kill. And my iphone in case Olive licks an under-insured stranger into a coma. Now I have to extricate my license, registration, insurance card and debit card from the confines of my wallet, put them in a fanny pack and wear to avoid having to leave my purse in the car while we venture about town. After all this, we make our way into the garage where I yell out loud, “Shit, the keys!” To my car. Olive, “the grey mouse” leaps into the back of my grey (now collectible) Saturn Vue and immediately stands on the wheel well so she can get a good look at all the maniacal squirrels we pass on the way to the center of town. I go get my keys.
That is how all our mornings begin.
Life With Olive 