Heart of Dogness

Taking the Dog for a Walk: Back to the Beach

Fall is my favorite season anywhere, but especially here on the Cape. The dogs can go on the beach again without incurring the wrath of the local gendarmerie, and there's something new every time you go.

Two weeks ago, it was the first Buffleheads of the season, and somebody walking a matched pair of Samoyeds. One of these was a sweetheart, and the other was a jerk just like Gus. Good thing everybody was leashed. Also met a Yellow Lab whose owner was convinced that JoJo's "let's play" act was a vicious attack. Like as if JoJo could hurt a Lab, or even get its attention.

One week ago, it was the first Brants of the season. About a dozen, tucked into the little cove down at the end of Long Beach. And we saw Flora, the World's Sweetest Golden Retriever. Very submissive, Flora, unless you're a dog and try to get in her car. She don't put up with that crap.

The day after Election Day, Gus and I strolled to the end of Long Beach and up the back side. We saw a raft of about a hundred Brants. Gus wanted to run after them, but he couldn't stay on top of the water. The sun had set before we returned, so we walked back under a rising full moon.

Yesterday, I took both Gus and JoJo. On a bright, clear and pretty-damn-windy afternoon, we met a pretty Golden, a really neat-looking white mutt with black patches around each eye and on the tip of his tail, and Flora again. Gus has become such a total putz that I automatically leash him when I see another dog. Can't tell if it's because his leg hurts (which it wouldn't if he'd stop eating it) or because he's protecting JoJo.

Down at the end, we saw about a half-dozen Buffleheads in the cove where the Brants usually hang out, and raised about fifty Brants, who turn out to make the same noise flying that they do sitting on the water: the sound of an equal number of twelve-year-old boys gargling bilge water before spitting it at each other.

And always, whatever the season, there are gulls. One of the winter species is shown above.

Taking the Dog for a Walk: The Beach Reopens

On September 15, the town's summer ban on dogs at the beach (can't let the tourists see what kind of loathsome mutts live here) expired. So we tossed the dogs in the car and drove down to Long Beach.

It was JoJo's first time at the beach, and to say she was in heaven would be to seriously understate her joy. She'd never seen so much space to run, or so many things to run after. As soon as she got to the water, she spotted the Sanderlings. These are the cute little birdies that run up and down with the surf, picking out bits of food from the sand. Most dogs will chase Sanderlings a hundred feet or so down the beach until the birds take off, then trot proudly back to their humans. JoJo didn't get this memo. She chased the Sanderlings a hundred feet or so down the beach until they took off, then kept chasing them as they flew out over the water, landed several hundred yards away, then took off again to avoid JoJo, then flew out over the water, then.... Eventually, they all ran out of beach and the Sanderlings took off for New Jersey, muttering something about "friggin' dogs" under their breaths. And JoJo went looking for something else to chase.

The something else was Gus. JoJo darted around, over, under and through the bewildered mutt until she finally got him to chase her. She did at least seven complete laps of the beach, and Gus did three. Gus lay down and slept all the way home. JoJo lay down for about thirty seconds.

We've been back to the beach several times since. JoJo's figured out she's not going to catch Sanderlings, which now number in the hundreds rather than the few dozen that first day. We've also seen Greater Yellowlegs, Ruddy Turnstone, a late-departing Willet, the first few of the coming millions of Eiders, and the usual aggregation of Gulls.

Product Review: Dr. Harvey's Barkotti

The nice folks at Dr. Harvey's sent us a package of their new Barkotti to test. The description in their email said: Barkotti are handmade biscotti for dogs made with organic ingredients. These treats are delicious and beautiful, and because they come from Dr. Harvey's you know they are the healthiest treats available. Dogs absolutely love Barkotti! These unique biscotti treats are made with organic flours, 8 vegetables, apples, 7 herbs, bee pollen and love! Barkotti contain no preservatives, coloring agents, corn, wheat, soy, salt or sugar and are made in the USA from 100% human grade ingredients. They promote healthy gums and teeth, and because they are so delicious they make a great training treat. We've been trying these for a couple of weeks, and here are the results: Gus: I never met a treat I didn't like, but I like these better than most. When Cap'n Chucky holds a Barkotti and another treat side by side, I'll go for the Barkotti first. And with all that healthy stuff in them, I should be around to enjoy Barkotti for a long time. JoJo: I'm kind of a Nervous Nelly, and coming for a snack is hard for me. When I take a Barkotti, I place it on the floor in front of me and start scoping for trouble. Then Gus takes the treat. I wolud probably like them. Maybe one day I'll calm down enough to just eat one. Cap'n Chucky: Barkotti have a pleasant whole-grain taste and just a little sweetness from the honey. They're not much harder to chew than regular biscotti, with a healthier nutritional profile. The Takeaway: A snack you can dip into your coffee and enjoy with your dogs. Don't dip your dogs' Barkotti into their coffee. They're perfectly capable of doing this on their own, and resent it when you presume to make decisions like this for them.

Update on Puppy Adoptions

I've been a bit lax about keeping folks up to date on the status of JoJo and Dinghy.

Gus no longer tries to kill JoJo, and has in fact become rather protective of her. They play together for hours, as illustrated at left. This looks, I'll admit, like Gus trying to kill JoJo, but please note that her teeth are every bit as much engaged as his. In fact, she usually starts this nonsense.

Best evidence that he's not actually trying to kill her is that, at some point during each of these fights, he'll roll onto his back and let her drag him around the room by his ruff. How a 25-pound dog drags a 60-pound dog eludes me, but she does it.

Dinghy is no longer the starved urchin he was when Betsy got him. He's about as tall and as long as JoJo, but his legs and body are twice as thick and his paws are bigger than Gus's (no big accomplishment, this: Gus looks like he's walking in toe shoes; nevertheless...). The vet's current estimate is that he's part beagle and part pit bull, and will end up at about 60 pounds. He's also a real sweetie pie.

Gus and JoJo get a bath

So, anyway, Gus was beginning to stink, and had his usual summer excess of hair; and JoJo still had the road dirt on her from when we picked her up. We bundled them into the car and hauled them down to The Grateful Dog in Hyannis.

This is a high-class wash-your-own-dog facility with several raised dogwash tubs (saves the back, and there are ramps for the dogs to walk up; not that either Gus or JoJo would walk up; still, it's the IDEA) and a wide selection of shampoos. Other amenities include plenty of towels, a restraint thingy to keep the dog from jumping out, and a blow-dryer that no longer terrifies Gus, although I'd hesitate to say he enjoys it. Scared the bejeezus out of JoJo.

First, we settled Gus (settled is a highly relative term) onto the de-shedding table for a quick brushout that lasted half an hour. We'll be knitting a village out of the results. Then my Lovely and Charming Wife and I each hosed off a dog, and we chatted with the owner, Kristen Ellis. She's delightful, sweet and knows her stuff, and also runs a pet-sitting and dog-walking business.

The resident pooch, a handsome rottweiler-and-who-knows mix named Cowboy, evidently had a political disagreement with Gus, but the two exchanged their views over the counter and no fisticuffs ensued.

If your dog needs a bath when you're around Hyannis, this is the place. Highly recommended.

Why DoggySpace is better than MySpace

We've just joined DoggySpace. I've put up a Profile for Gus, and another for JoJo. Each now has 13 friends, and each has received a message from a friend. All their friends are actual dogs, and none appears to be trying to sell anything or get their credit card information.

I joined MySpace about four years ago, and during that time, I've received about 13 friend requests. All but one of these has been from either a porn site, a hooker, or a mortgage broker. So my only friend is Tom. Just like it says on the t-shirt. Or, for those of you with really shattered self-esteem, the other t-shirt.

Gus finds a new hobby

One of the great dog-walking venues in my town is Hathaway's Pond, a local conservation/recreation area. It's one of the few places during no-dogs-on-the-beach season where an aquatically-inclined pooch can go to get wet.

Last week, to allow Gus to escape the rigors of a new puppy in the house, I took him to Hathaway's for a walk and a swim. After fetching a stick from mid-water several times, Gus started doing something I'd only seen one other dog do: pawing at the bottom and shoving his face under, blowing bubbles. He did this about twenty or thirty times before I realized what he was up to.

The other dog I'd seen do this, a Golden Retriever at Eagle Pond, liked to pluck rocks off the bottom and chew them. The object of Gus's attention, however, was a submerged log about four feet long and three or four inches in diameter. After his numerous practice dives, Gus plunged several times to try to get the log. Failing this, he began pawing at it, gradually moving it to shallower water until he was able to get a grip on it.

Gus then dragged the log ashore, where he contentedly chewed it and ripped the bark off it for a good half hour before deciding it was time to finish the walk. We've been back a couple of times since, and while he still chews the log, I haven't seen him blowing bubbles again.

Radio silence ends

My apologies to all my reader for not having posted anything since the Great Bat Hunt. I've been busy trying to keep JoJo from eating Gus's toys, and trying to keep Gus from eating JoJo.

We seem to have reached at least a temporary accommodation. No telling how long it'll last. I've got a bunch of things I want to post.

We get a new dog. Gus, um, thrilled.

In the surest sign yet that the End Times are upon us, my Lovely and Charming wife developed Puppy Fever a couple weeks ago after Betsy adopted Dinghy. [Update: the vets now think Dinghy's going to grow up to be between 50 and 70 pounds; good thing the Schnauzers are nice to him.] So we went to Petfinder, and found JoJo, a beagle mixed with some kind of hound, at PAWS New England. We applied, were accepted, and on Saturday, July 19, we went to Plainfield, Connecticut to pick her up, with her medical history and health certificates. We weren't alone. There were about 150 dogs on the truck [from Alpha Dog Transport], and all but a handful had families waiting for them.

I tried to document as much of it as I could. If you had a dog on that truck and I didn't get a picture, please send me one and I'll put it in the Photo Album.

Photo Album of the whole shebang

Late-Breaking News: Gus, to no one's great surprise, keeps sitting in the corner trying to will JoJo into disappearing. I'll keep you posted on how that works out. JoJo, to her credit, isn't taking any crap off him.

Little Fluffy Dogs: an Appreciation

Little fluffy dogs, although derided by some as Rat Dogs, as Dog Food, or as Squirrel Surrogates, are in fact Dogs. With actual dog personalities and actual dog behaviors.

This was brought home to me recently when I got back from the Licensing Expo and took Gus for a walk at Eagle Pond, which is where we go in the summer when they close the beach to dogs. (I contend that the beach should be off limits to people without dogs the rest of the year, but so far the town hasn't conceded this point.)

While there, we met Abby, a Border Collie, and George, a Little Fluffy Dog (Shih Tzu or Lhasa Apso; I don't remember which.) Abby loves to fetch sticks from the water, and had five or six in her mouth when we met her. George took one look at Gus and decided he was going to take no crap from this hulking fuzzwad. So George went off on Gus. Gus looked amazed.

George's owners, naturally, were mortified, and at a loss to explain this behavior. I, having seen Gus pull the same stunt more times than I'd care to count, about fell out laughing. It's a wonderful thing these little penwipers are real dogs.

Gus the Flatulator

Gus, although in all other ways flawless, chews on himself. This has been the subject of previous reports.

Recently, our efforts to keep Gus from self-amputating have included a number of medications which, individually or in combination have made him violently flatulent. We're talking more silent and more deadly than phosgene, but vastly more malodorous.

Dahlin' Daughta has taken to calling the unfortunate pup "squeakycheeks".

Gus Turns Six

It's hard to believe, since he's still such a puppy, but Sunday was Gus's sixth birthday. Dahlin' Daughta bought him some presents, we took him for a beach walk, and we made a carrot cake (he loves carrots). He ate two pieces, and doesn't seem to have suffered any harm.

You can hardly tell from this picture that he's backing away from the cake. The little tongue flick suggests otherwise, but he bolted to the other side of the room right after this was snapped.

Mickey: Best Dog Ever

I've mentioned Mickey a few times without explaining who he was. Mickey was Gus's predecessor and, though I won't say it where Gus might hear, a much better dog.

Mickey was a Cape Cod Retriever, which is a Black Lab mixed with whatever happened to be walking by that day. In Mickey's case, that was a German Shepherd, and he looked just like you'd expect a Black Lab/German Shepherd mix to look.

In his early years, Mickey ate a couch, a lamp, and several window screens. His whole life, although he was officially not allowed on the couch, whenever we came home we'd find the still-warm impression of Mickey there (please note: I never said he was the best-BEHAVED dog), but he was extremely tolerant of our kids. In spite of several years of poking and prodding, the only time he ever nipped at The Wee Lad was once when that party stepped on his stomach. Heck, I'VE bit the kid more often than that. When The Dahlin' Daughta was a baby, she could crawl on Mickey for hours, and when he'd had enough, he'd lick her face a few times and she'd take off.

He was also highly tolerant of other dogs, something his successor will probably never be. When our neighbors' dog Emma (the same mix, who looked like Mickey's twin) needed to be taken off their hands for a few months, she moved in seamlessly. The only real problem was figuring out which dog we had to give back. When Gus joined us, Mickey took the pup under his tutelage and taught him everyting he needed to know to be a worthy successor. Gus, of course, didn't learn a damn thing. Except maybe how to chase cats and the UPS guy.

When he was 12, Mickey developed arthritis and over the next couple of years found that he could no longer climb stairs, get up on the couch, or finally, go outside without assistance. A few months before he died, I broke my foot while carrying him out for a pee. Fell down with him in my arms, which literally scared the crap out of him.

We finally had to let him go when he was 14. He could no longer stand up by himself, couldn't stand to pee even when I held him up, and stopped eating. The day after Thanksgiving, 2003, we took him to the vet and had him euthanised. He's buried out back, with a dogwood tree over him to mark the spot.

Gus and the Wind

Gus, although in all other ways flawless, is kind of a Nervous Nellie. Thunderstorms, firecrackers, sudden strange behavior (perhaps not as uncommon at my house as one might like), will send him scurrying for protection.

Last Friday, the wind blew hard all day, with gusts up to 50. At about 1:00 in the afternoon, Gus couldn't take it any more and crawled up into my lap as I was reading. Stayed for an hour, eventually falling asleep. After a while, I got hungry and threw him off to go get lunch. After lunch, he crawled back up for another half hour or so, until the wind began to die down.

We tend to think of Gus as a little dog, because Mickey was a lot bigger. But at 65 pounds, this mutt was never intended to be a lap dog. He's nice and warm, though.

Gus's long-lost uncle?

I've just discovered a breed of dog that may help explain Gus. It's a Norwegian Buhund. Sounds like I made it up, but it's a real breed, and it looks just like Gus.

Except that, at 65 pounds, Gus is way too big for a dog that tops out at 40. And his ears flop over. Maybe he's just defective.

Taking the dog for a walk

I took Gus for a walk in the snow yesterday. In the rain, actually, since it was raining by the time we got out the door, but there was still snow on the ground. He was delighted, as he always is in snow. He does something Mickey would never do: shoves his face as deep into the snow as he can. Repeatedly.

There was a photo on the front page of today's New York Times showing dogs playing in the snow in Brooklyn's Prospect Park. I had hoped to link to it, but I couldn't find it. This is the best I could do.

Gus in his cone

Gus, although in all other ways flawless, chews on himself. At various times he's nearly removed his tail, his front driver's-side leg, his front passenger-side leg, and most recently, his rear passenger-side leg. So he wears this cone a lot. Sometimes the cone slips, as it did about fifteen minutes ago. Usually I'd draw this, but I don't think I can top this photo.

Satan

Satan is not actually a dog, a breed, or, so far as I know, much of an influence on my life. There are those, however, who suspect that he's a major influence on Gus, or even that Gus is part Satan. I prefer to think not, but I'm keeping my eyes peeled.

More on Satan at Wikipedia.

Norwegian Elkhound

The Norwegian Elkhound is one of the oldest dog breeds, having been developed over 6,000 years ago as a big-game hunting dog. Its name is a translation of Norsk Elghund," which means "Norwegian moose dog."

Elkies, as they are known, are compact, fluffy, curly-tailed and shed like there's no tomorrow. They're loyal and protective of their families, and way too friendly with people they've just met.

Conversely, Elkhounds seldom approve of dogs who aren't them.

Gus, this blog's spokesdog and guiding spirit, is part Norwegian Elkhound.

Sources: Wikipedia, Norwegian Elkhound Association of America

Gus: the very Heart of Dogness

This is Gus. Gus is what we once would have called a mutt, in the days before we knew what enormous psychological damage such hurtful names could cause a dog.

In these more enlightened times, we would call Gus a mix, or mixed breed. Some mixes are now marketed as breeds, like the Labradoodle.

Gus is a mix of Norwegian Elkhound (this is where he gets his curly tail and sunny disposition) and, well, we don't actually know what else. Some say Golden Retriever. Some say Satan. Some say both, some say neither. Most don't say, which is probably wise. Gus will be featured in this blog a lot, since it's at least nominally about dogs and he's pretty handy when I need to look at a dog.

I hear you say, "What if I don't want to hear about your stupid dog?"

Then send me stories about your stupid dog.