Sisko hits adolescence big time!

First of all, let me say that Sisko is a very good dog. He wants to please me and tries very hard to do so. He’s not a destructive chewer, doesn’t dig in the yard, never gets in to the trash can, won’t steal food, and won’t dash out open doors or gates. He sits for his meals and is not a problem barker. He’s affectionate and loves to cuddle. He’s a very good dog.

But he has hit adolescence big time. Not that he’s challenging me; for the most part he’s not. But he has definitely hit that stage where he’s pushing the older dogs, trying to see how much he can get away with and how far he can go.  He may not be challenging me but he is being a pain in the tail towards Riker and Bashir as well as the other trainers’ dogs at Kindred Spirits. He’s annoying them big time.

Riker is aging; he’ll be 13 in April and when I brought Sisko home over a year ago Riker made it very plain he’d already helped raise several puppies and he wasn’t going to raise another one. Since Riker basically ignored Sisko and never asserted himself with the puppy, Sisko has been pushing Riker from the beginning and it’s gotten worse as Sisko hit this teenage stage. Sisko has been downright obnoxious with Riker – growling at him, guarding toys, and pushing the old dog around. As long as Riker is okay, comfortable, and is not acting stressed I’m not interfering too much.

However, sometimes I will tell Sisko to knock it off when he gets too obnoxious with Riker just for my own comfort. I don’t like to see anyone bother old dogs; especially Riker.

Thankfully Bashir took on the job of raising Sisko right from the beginning and he’s a very good teacher. Bashir has never let Sisko get away with anything and when Sisko pushes too much Bashir will get taller, swell so that he looks twenty pounds bigger, and he’ll lift his lips showing his canines. Sisko usually lowers himself immediately baring his neck. But since he’s hit adolescence, he’ll often continue pushing, usually by trying to take the toy Bashir has, and Bashir will grab Sisko’s muzzle and force Sisko to the floor. Sisko will roll over, bare his belly, and peace will again reign. At least for a little while.

I knew exactly when Sisko hit adolescence because Bashir became the enforcer more often. Bashir is still patience personified but he’s reacting to the puppy more often. When the two dogs are playing Sisko will body block Bashir more, bark loudly in Bashir’s ear, try to steal a toy, and Bashir will take the puppy down. Again.

I love watching Bashir teach the puppy. Bashir is very patient and puts up with an awful lot. However, he apparently has a mental line in the sand and knows when to tell Sisko to knock it off and when to ignore the puppy. When he does correct the puppy he does so quickly – very quickly! – firmly and yet he’s never too forceful. He does just enough to stop the behavior, make an impression on the puppy, and then when Sisko acknowledges Bashir, the correction is over. Bashir never holds a grudge and Sisko never acts afraid of Bashir. It’s fascinating to watch them.

Photo: Bashir and Sisko playing in the ocean in central California. Photo by Liz Palika.

Dead dog walking … running … eating … and happy

Torky has surgery today to remove an aggressive, malignant mass that has take over the largest pad on her right rear foot. Backstory here, but I’m happy to say we’ve raised all but maybe a few hundred bucks of the cost, and I’m good for that if need be. Ed went over the surgery with Dr. Robert Runyon, a surgeon I’ve recommended many times, and who has worked on my own dogs as well.

Torky is in good hands today, with a good prognosis for the future.

Thanks to everyone who helped out!

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Now, about Drew …

When we shut down PetConnection, it wasn’t long after my 14-(now 15-)year-old Sheltie, Drew, had been diagnosed with canine kidney disease. Shortly thereafter, I had a reservation at Camp Unleashed, and I wavered between not going and wondering how difficult the trip would be on Drew if we went. In the end, I packed up his IV bags and he had an incredible time. Fellow dog-owners at the camp were all amazed to know his age and grim prognosis, and I’m sure when we all said good-bye, they figured they’d never see Drew again.

A few months later, I’m not so sure they won’t see him again when we return to camp this fall.

Things really are going just that well.

For a hospice case, Drew simply could not be doing better.  His diagnostics every three-four weeks come back pretty close to normal. His appetite is pretty good. And the only thing that seems to be managing this miracle is half a bag of Lactated Ringers every morning, dripped into the Drewbinator as he relaxes on the dining-room table, the IV kit hanging from the chandelier. I call it the “Daily ReDrewbinating” and those 500 ml keep his kidneys hanging in there. To be sure, he has a bad day now and then, and once or two the tests came back suggesting the good times were heading to an end. But so far Drew has gotten over the bumps quickly and with no apparent long-term difficulties.

For a while Drew was getting medical marijuana — it helped a little with his appetite and a great deal with nausea — and some Chinese herbs from the complementary and alternative care veterinarian. But he’s on nothing now except fluids, and for now that’s all he needs.

When will this warm twilight end? Tomorrow? Next month? Next year? I have no idea, but I’m ready for all of those answers.

In the meantime, my little Drewb-it just keeps living happily along.

Image: Drew at Camp Unleashed. He did everything there except swim!

Things Not to Say to the Owners of Small Dogs

“Oh, so yours is one of those ankle-biters.”

No. My dog, all fifteen pounds of her, is a Canine Good Citizen. She loves people, she especially loves kids, and she loves kids even when they’re doing the very things you don’t want kids to do around dogs: move quickly and unexpectedly, speak in high, excited voices, and grab random canine body parts that happen to come within reach.

Can you say the same for your dog?

“Oh, you’ve got one of those little yappers.”

My dog does let me know when someone is on my tiny urban property. She lets me know when something unusual is happening. I suspect yours does too; you just don’t call it “yapping” when your hundred-pound behemoth does it. But a few years ago, my tenant in the other apartment was surprised to discover that I hadn’t been kidding, that I really did have a dog. This was after she’d lived there almost three months, and happened to see me coming back from a walk with my dog.

“My dog could eat your dog for breakfast.”

This is, apparently, supposed to be a joke. A really funny joke. And only complete humorlessness can explain why the owners of small dogs don’t find it funny. Or so I’ve been told.

Your dog, though, is big enough to roast for a really fine family feast.

What, you don’t find that funny? Why not?

“I could kick your dog across the room.”

Yeah, probably. The thing is, I could kick your dog, too, and properly aimed, that kick could do a lot of damage, even if you don’t find the visual image as entertaining. Also, there’s the little issue of animal cruelty involved in doing so.

Yes, I get that that’s another one of those “joke” things. I don’t find this one funny, either.

“Gee, your dog really doesn’t like other dogs, does she.”

This one is normally heard over the sound of my dog expressing her outrage at the idiot retriever that just knocked her over. And no, she doesn’t like rude idiots who knock her over. Not even if they are “friendly” and “just playing.” Most often, these are Goldens. If I didn’t know Goldens who are working guide dogs, I would be inclined to think that no Golden has more than two brain cells to rub together. I’ve seen very excited Labs respond to Addy’s signals that she’s not comfortable with a rapid approach and slow down to let her get more comfortable. I’ve never seen a Golden do that, except for the aforementioned guide dogs, who tend to have excellent manners whether working or off-duty.

“Why don’t you let your dog be a dog instead of putting her in those ridiculous clothes?”

My dog is, as mentioned, fifteen pounds. She also has a natural coat that isn’t particularly weather-resistant, and since she’s at her proper, healthy weight, with great muscle tone, she doesn’t have the insulation of that layer of fat that whale you’re walking has. Even this relatively mild winter has had some days in the teens, and Addy doesn’t share my opinion that temps in the mid-thirties are “comfortable.” She shivers, she’s miserable–and the coat, sweater, or jammies make her a lot more comfortable and let her enjoy her walks.

That pit bull you’re walking would probably enjoy a coat, too, in this weather. Just by the way.

“Why don’t you get a real dog instead of that big rat?”

I have a real dog. She’s active, athletic, can breathe easily, and comes from long lines of dogs on both sides of the family who all mated naturally and whelped naturally. Unlike, for instance, that English bulldog you’ve got, there.

I do hope this little guide is helpful.

Four on the floor: The news is promising on Torky’s tumor

As I wrote earlier, my housemate’s dog has a pad that just won’t heal, despite a handful of veterinary visits, multiple courses of antibiotics and months and months of wearing protective footwear. Torky’s owner has no money and nothing to sell to get any, so I’ve been struggling with what to do with a dog in my home who isn’t mine but needs care her owner can’t pay for. Again, here’s the backstory.

The biopsy results came back yesterday, and my veterinarian’s gut feeling was right on the money: Torky has an aggressive, malignant tumor in her paw pad.

That’s the bad news. The good news — and really it is good news, considering the situation involves the words “aggressive,” “malignant” and “tumor” — is there is no indication the cancer has spread beyond the paw. Even better, there’s good reason to believe the surgeon can get it all by removing a large hunk of pad — no amputation of the leg is thought necessary. Things could change once Torky’s, in surgery, of course, but for a prognosis termed “guarded” by the pathologists, this is all about as good as it gets.

Torky has an appointment with the surgeon tomorrow.

Now, we just have to figure out how to pay the bill. Yes, this is Ed’s responsibility, not mine, but I can’t turn my back on this dog even though she’s only in my life by accident — her owner is the house-sitter who never left my spare bedroom. While Ed has fallen hard (and this is not the place for a discussion of him, and I will enforce that), I cannot help but imagine how much worse things would be for him without Torky. She truly is one of the most incredible dogs I’ve ever known. Her loyalty alone sets her apart, and that’s before you consider her intelligence and common sense.

The estimate will be in tomorrow, but I’m going to guess that we’re going to need between $1,500 and $2,000 (I’ll update with information as a I have it, and if we happen to go over actual costs, I’ll donate those to the AAHA Helping Pets fund). Since my veterinary hospital, VCA Sacramento Veterinary Referral Center, is AAHA Accredited, and since Ed is on food stamps, Torky is eligible for an AAHA Helping Pets grant, which he’ll be asking the hospital to submit. If that comes through, that’s $500. The chip-in fund is a little more than that already, so we’re closing in on two-thirds of the minimum we need if we can get the grant.

If I need to close the gap myself, I will, but honestly … I hope I don’t have to. Things are pretty lean right now, trying to get a home for all my critters, horses included.

I’m hoping we can close the gap with a slew of $10 donations.

Can yours be one of them? If you can’t see the graphic immediate below, go here.

Thunder Dog: The True Story of a Blind Man, His Guide Dog, and the Triumph of Trust at Ground Zero, by Michael Hingson (author), Susy Flory (author), and Christopher Prince (narrator)

When the first plane hit the North Tower on the morning of 9/11, Michael Hingson was at work on the 78th floor, preparing to start a presentation to visiting clients of his employer, Quantum. The building shook, and tilted, and his sighted colleagues, who could see the burning papers and other debris falling, started to panic. It was Hingson, believing what he was told but not able to see it, and influenced by the calmness of his guide dog, Roselle, clearly indicating that they weren’t in immediate danger, who took control and led an orderly evacuation of the office.

Thunder Dog interleaves the story of Hingson, Roselle, and Hingson’s colleagues escaping from Tower One, with the story of Michael Hingson growing up blind in a family that refused to follow then-typical medical advice to isolate him in a home for the blind, but instead “mainstreaming” him before the term was invented. We see how his atypical upbringing–both the fact of his blindness, and the fact that his family expected and supported his full integration into everyday, “sighted” life, helped to develop the skills that in turn enabled him to be a leader in the 9/11 evacuation. Courage was necessary to be a steady, calm force in the stairwell of Tower One, but in many ways it took more courage to get to that point, to overcome assumptions, expectations, and bias to be working, productive professional despite the barriers created by not only his blindness but others’ attitudes toward it. This is not the story of a dog, but the story of a partnership between dog and man, each supporting the other, putting their talents and strengths together for the benefit of not only themselves, but everyone around them.

Hingson tells his story with grace and humor, and it’s read very effectively by Christopher Prince. As a bonus extra in this audio version, we get a couple of speeches and an interview that Hingson did, delivering even more effectively his wit, humor, and charm.

Highly recommended.