I don't need a dog whisperer . . .

I don’t need a dog whisperer; I need a dog yeller!

Okay, I know he’s from Texas, but that alone should not be reason enough for the bizarre behavior our wonderful pet displays.

We bought our tricolor collie off the Internet, which is maybe a bit risky given we couldn’t really see how he interacted with his siblings and parental units.  However, he has been a lover—an ideal pet and so perfectly spoiled!  That is until we changed the flooring.

When we took out the carpeting and put hard floors in, all of a sudden he became afraid of his dog bowl.  We really didn’t realize he wasn’t eating till a friend commented on how skinny he had become.  With his big fur coat, the gradual reduction in weight had not really sunk in.  Hubby thought I was filling his bowl; I thought he was.

Panic mode.  Rescue mode.

He went from only pure (expensive) dog food—no scraps—to food laced with eggs, feta cheese, and beef gravy!  (Okay, don’t tell my husband, but I did accidently regularly drop food he might like just a bit as I prepared meals.  But that is a secret!)  We coaxed and cajoled (Yeah, they are synonyms.  It’s for emphasis!) and got him to eat out of our hands, and eventually the bowl.  Problem solved.

At least you would think.

He got some kind of intestinal bug.  We think it’s from his disgusting habit of licking other dogs’ urine.  His tongue lolls out of his mouth, his eyes glaze over, and he drools as if in some kind of drug-induced stupor.  I’d say it is a doggie sexual thing except he does it with bird poop, too.  Like I said, he’s from Texas!  (Kidding.  Don’t throw things.)  The gas he got from his addiction made him think that he was being chased by demons.  Or else he’d look at me as if I’d poked him or something and take off out the door!

Expensive vet type pills took care of those demons, but amazingly the demons were cast out of his butt and into his water bowl!

Current dilemma:  He will lick water from the sprinklers and off the concrete, and occasionally even drink from his bowl as if nothing is wrong.  But more often than not, he will lie in front of his water and whine.  Or bark.  And look ever so pathetic.

Solution:  By going over and standing by the water, he will drink.  But apparently some doggie demons only come out with exotic rituals, which in this case means you lean over (must hurt lower back or it doesn’t work), put a finger actually touching the side of the bowl, and then he will drink.  Or at least till the bowl gets about halfway down.  Then somehow the waves . . . or his reflection . . . or the dip in publicly traded stocks stirs the water and he jumps back!

So since Caesar the Dog Whisperer is not available, and I’m not so sure a whisper is what we need anyway, we are thinking of lacing his bowl with antidepressants for dogs (which come in little cat-shaped pills).  And if that doesn’t work, we’re back to yelling . . . at each other!

P.S.  Don’t tell us to get a stand for his food and water.  Done that.  Returned item.

Don’t tell us to buy a fountain that circulates refreshing water into the bowl, simulating a Canadian mountain stream.  Well . . . you know.

Don’t tell us he will drink when he’s thirsty.  Held out as long as possible, but the SPCA was doing drive bys.

Don’t tell us to change the bowl or get a rug or put the bowl outside.  Tried and failed.

And remember:  This is the dog that was attacked a few days ago by a pit bull boxer type big muscular meanie, driving me into hysterics trying to club the dog with my bicycle and a pine tree!  Okay, I was trying to hide behind the pine tree.  When we get ready for our rides now, me armed with an 18” steel pipe that gives me hand cramps, he looks at me with the same jubilant eyes that he always has had.  Me, I’m still in shock and fighting nausea.   But give him a bowl of water to drink . . . and my neurotic goes into hysterics! 

Help me!

New Neighborhood Watch-ing

We have a new neighbor:
no loud parties,
fairly neat and clean--at least in contained areas,
and so far has not used any foul language.
He seems to be taking over Neighborhood Watch.

A Dog Tale

There is a certain economy with cats that you do not find with dogs.  Cats lick and clean and lick and clean and learn to use a litter box with very little instruction.  They deposit headless gifts at the doorstep and do cough up the occasional hairball, but all in all they are quite self-sufficient. 

Dogs, however, cannot bathe themselves and so require the back-breaking efforts of their masters (Read that:  me.) who refuse to spend fifty plus bucks for the professionals to do it.  I have to wonder what our collie would actually look like in the wild.  I suppose he would eventually possess collie dreadlocks and have ratted hair domiciles for ride-along creatures, both plant and animal.  But since our domesticated canine lives inside with us, is loved as the fifth son, has neighborhood appearances to keep up, and stinks, I must do his bathing for him.  Today was that day.

As a preamble to the bath, I took JD for a run (Read that:  I bike and he trots.).  This is a new venture for me.  Kelly has been exercising him like this ever since his latest leg problems have made park romps difficult.  This was my third time out, and I was gaining confidence.  That is until JD jerked me to a stop—a stop that almost left me splayed in the street.  Apparently, when the urge to poop hits him, he just stops.  My stopping was not as efficient. 

After his exercise, he was too tired to resist my man-handling efforts to drag him into the tub,  Typically, I must back him into the bathroom (as if he doesn’t know what is coming), lift the back legs in first, and then body slam him in, keeping one foot of mine in the tub and the other out.   So I have stumbled on the new method of “exhaustion,” which I will henceforth call superior planning. 

After soaking his long hair and exposing the skinny form that he really is, I proceeded to shampoo him with his Paul Mitchell pet product.  Only the best!  Layers and layers of coat are lifted and scrubbed and rinsed and rinsed again.  Meanwhile, my back burns and reconsiders the fifty bucks.  I have tried to sit on the toilet lid to get a rest, but the idiot who designed these new mini-flush toilets was brilliant enough to be environmentally conscious but too stupid to make a lid that does not collapse when the dog washer needs to sit.

Having done the dirty deed—or clean deed, I suppose—I proceed to the drying part.  This is no easy feat since JD knows the torture is almost over, and he becomes an expert scrambler, even with the towel covering his eyes.  Several times over with the towel and several shaking showers later, he is not approximating dry, but at least he is not dripping.  My walls are dripping a bit, though, since I have never convinced him to wait for his shake till he is safely outdoors. 

It has been a tiring dog day, and said dog is now sleeping peacefully on the cashmere Mongolian rug, allowing his wet dog smell to settle into it nicely.  I, in the meantime, am putting off doing my class corrections and am dreading the combing out which comes next.  Every brushing produces a miniature dog in fluff, and still there is more hair.  And then comes the vacuuming. 

Okay, I’ve stalled enough:  On to work!