Well it will probably almost be fall by the time we are back in our house. I am ferrying Cooper, who is the least boardable, back and forth from the motel to the kennel. If John and I both have things to do at the house then Cooper goes back to the kennel, and then I pick him up in the afternoon and he spends the night here with us.
Today they told me Nigel and Llewis were not eating. Oh good heavens!! You all know when a Basset refuses food we are in serious trouble. I said, try anything. Then I went to visit with them. They went nuts. I felt awful. Llewis began keening-- it is the only word that fits: a high-pitched steady wail. Nigel jumped all over me, frantic. I only stayed a moment and then left. I did not go see Conley.
Also today I called the Head Honcho of all this Mess and said if it is going to be weeks before we get in, we need somewhere else to live: a house with a kitchen and washing machine and mostly, a place where they will allow dogs. He said nobody would allow 4 dogs. I said fine, tell them there are two and we'll rotate.
So apparently the ALE (relocators) are looking for a house for us. That might make life a little more bearable.
Meanwhile it has gotten hot hot hot-- 90 degrees on Monday, 85 today, maybe higher. Working in the house is almost unbearable. Everything has to be packed out, and while we have professionals doing a lot of the work, it is tedious and dirty and boring and backbreaking. I worked all morning on my room, packing tiny little things. By the end I was dumping whole drawers into boxes, taping them shut, shoving them at the packers and saying "Here, this is ready to go."
I set aside the good crate pads, knowing if we get a house I will need to crate the monsters at night and will need the pads, then forgot them, and tonight, when I went back to get two or three small, delicate, ancient items, they were gone.
I don't have a scale and have no idea what I weigh but I bet I have gained about ten pounds eating the way I have, even though I sweat it off in the house. Without a stove it's tough to cook properly and so I have been subsisting on Panera and Dunkin Donuts. Luckily for my cholesterol, the local DD has closed for remodeling-- much as we have. But I FEEL fatter.
The Maids, of course, are terrified of Cooper who doesn't help much by barking and whuffing at them, and backing away. He doesn't like them any better than they like him so when they come to clean our rooms (we have 2) I sit in the Van with the a/c blasting until they're done. For some reason we seem to be almost last on the list.
The pond where my mama duck and her cutie babies were has dried up completely. I don't know where they went. I hope they're safe.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
TEMP HOMES
We always expect things to continue on as they have. People and things we care about last forever. We are most of us, by nature, stability-seeking creatures. Both enthusiasts and victims of the status quo. We want a thrill now and then, but as a steady diet the majority of us will pass that up.
We are no different. We never really expect our dogs to die, or parents, or....homes. When my first Belgian was diagnosed with cancer he was 8. I half-jokingly told Doc "You just get them trained the way you want and then they die." (He didn't-- he lived another 2 years).
The same might be said for homes. You just get them broken in, and then they break. At least ours did. Due to some inclement weather
and an inexperienced roofer-helper, we had a disastrous and very personal encounter with Mother Nature--INSIDE. Rain poured through the inadequately tarped roof-- a roof of nothing but boards. Rain poured into the house. Soaking ceilings, walls, floors, artwork, clothing, dogs (we got them out right away) and us. By mid-day the living room ceiling was pulled down for safety. We had to get out. Luckily we have insurance and they found us a place to put our heads while we have work done on the house. And I bailed Cooper out of Camp Chez Doc Coyne and he stays at the motel with us, unless we both are at the house working, which we will be today, and then he goes back to the kennel for the day.
But Cooper must now be walked rather than just sent out into the yard to play. He cannot go far-- doesn't even want to. He pauses often. He sleeps a lot in the room. He isn't terribly interested in the maids. He has always been well- behaved in motels. Now he is especially quiet. On our walks, we go past a little, filthy dirty pond. And guess what! It is DUCKLING season!
A Saving Grace
We are no different. We never really expect our dogs to die, or parents, or....homes. When my first Belgian was diagnosed with cancer he was 8. I half-jokingly told Doc "You just get them trained the way you want and then they die." (He didn't-- he lived another 2 years).
The same might be said for homes. You just get them broken in, and then they break. At least ours did. Due to some inclement weather
and an inexperienced roofer-helper, we had a disastrous and very personal encounter with Mother Nature--INSIDE. Rain poured through the inadequately tarped roof-- a roof of nothing but boards. Rain poured into the house. Soaking ceilings, walls, floors, artwork, clothing, dogs (we got them out right away) and us. By mid-day the living room ceiling was pulled down for safety. We had to get out. Luckily we have insurance and they found us a place to put our heads while we have work done on the house. And I bailed Cooper out of Camp Chez Doc Coyne and he stays at the motel with us, unless we both are at the house working, which we will be today, and then he goes back to the kennel for the day.
But Cooper must now be walked rather than just sent out into the yard to play. He cannot go far-- doesn't even want to. He pauses often. He sleeps a lot in the room. He isn't terribly interested in the maids. He has always been well- behaved in motels. Now he is especially quiet. On our walks, we go past a little, filthy dirty pond. And guess what! It is DUCKLING season!
Friday, May 27, 2011
THE DELUGE
And it's aftermath. Nothing like Joplin or the areas down there but our own, private little hell.
And the question is, after 40+ yrs of marriage is living in two rooms for a couple of weeks together going to end it? I am kidding. Sort of.
The roofers arrived to re-roof the house, a tear-down so the wood was exposed. They did a lot the first day and the Boss left two guys to tarp the house. I even asked one of them about the tarp because it didn't look very tarped to me, but what do I know, and peering at it from the ground too, a fat, grey-haired old stumpy woman whining that it didn't look very secure.......and guess who was right?
In the morning, the deluge came. Standing in the house was no different than standing outside. It started when I heard the unmistakable sound of water hitting a hard surface very close by: my bookcase, as it happened. I yelled for help and as I did I saw the water pouring from the ceiling in the utility room, and suddenly there was water everywhere: I might as well have stood in the shower or under a waterfall.
I began ripping artwork off the walls, throwing towels on bookcases but, as you can tell things were drenched quickly. I did save most of the art. We ended up putting out buckets, bowls, and whatever else we could grab and dumping almost the second we put it out. I called the roofer. I believe my exact words were "We are in deep shit." (I have a way with words, don't I?) And he said they would be out immediately, and they were, and they worked all day without a break trying to make it right. They shop vacced and tarped and hauled wet stuff out and tried so hard but keeping up with it was not in the books. And then......the living room ceiling.....
Upstairs, above part of the living room, is an unfinished "crawl space". I know they are supposed to be under the house, but ours is not. And that is where the roof was bare, where the tarp had not been applied properly, and/or had slipped or blown off and that room was full of water-- maybe two inches. The insulation, dripping, had fallen...and in turn it seeped down into the ceiling below, the living room ceiling which now had growing splots of off-color and then tiny pinpricks with little drabs of water............
The crawl space beams.
The living room windows.....
At which point I called the insurance company. And they have been fabulous. When this is all over and bills roll in, we will see exactly how fabulous they really are. This is so beyong the scope of the roofers to fix...the insurance company sent a guy to evaluate how wet everything was. He was impressed, especially with the way the ceiling in the living room was now bulging slightly downward. He called the adjuster. They called a company that comes in when there is a disaster and cleans up. They pack your belongings right out the door. They bring in huge four foot high de-humidifiers (in our case) and industrial fans. Suddenly there are more people in the house than have lived there for 15 years.
(The dogs were bustled off to the kennel shortly after it began to be obvious that this was going to be an emergency.)
By mid-afternoon the ceiling had been pulled down, the living room furniture sent to storage, and two "safe" (as in dry) areas established. It continued to rain.
So that is how we came, today, to be living in two rooms in a motel. I have sprung Cooper from the kennel but tomorrow when I go back to work at the house he will be returned to the kennel. He comes back with us at night. The Boys are stuck. I wish it could be otherwise but they're too rowdy to be here.
What a spring it has been.
And the question is, after 40+ yrs of marriage is living in two rooms for a couple of weeks together going to end it? I am kidding. Sort of.
The roofers arrived to re-roof the house, a tear-down so the wood was exposed. They did a lot the first day and the Boss left two guys to tarp the house. I even asked one of them about the tarp because it didn't look very tarped to me, but what do I know, and peering at it from the ground too, a fat, grey-haired old stumpy woman whining that it didn't look very secure.......and guess who was right?
In the morning, the deluge came. Standing in the house was no different than standing outside. It started when I heard the unmistakable sound of water hitting a hard surface very close by: my bookcase, as it happened. I yelled for help and as I did I saw the water pouring from the ceiling in the utility room, and suddenly there was water everywhere: I might as well have stood in the shower or under a waterfall.
Upstairs, above part of the living room, is an unfinished "crawl space". I know they are supposed to be under the house, but ours is not. And that is where the roof was bare, where the tarp had not been applied properly, and/or had slipped or blown off and that room was full of water-- maybe two inches. The insulation, dripping, had fallen...and in turn it seeped down into the ceiling below, the living room ceiling which now had growing splots of off-color and then tiny pinpricks with little drabs of water............
At which point I called the insurance company. And they have been fabulous. When this is all over and bills roll in, we will see exactly how fabulous they really are. This is so beyong the scope of the roofers to fix...the insurance company sent a guy to evaluate how wet everything was. He was impressed, especially with the way the ceiling in the living room was now bulging slightly downward. He called the adjuster. They called a company that comes in when there is a disaster and cleans up. They pack your belongings right out the door. They bring in huge four foot high de-humidifiers (in our case) and industrial fans. Suddenly there are more people in the house than have lived there for 15 years.
(The dogs were bustled off to the kennel shortly after it began to be obvious that this was going to be an emergency.)
By mid-afternoon the ceiling had been pulled down, the living room furniture sent to storage, and two "safe" (as in dry) areas established. It continued to rain.
So that is how we came, today, to be living in two rooms in a motel. I have sprung Cooper from the kennel but tomorrow when I go back to work at the house he will be returned to the kennel. He comes back with us at night. The Boys are stuck. I wish it could be otherwise but they're too rowdy to be here.
What a spring it has been.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
WALKING THE CAT
Regrettably, no photos of these attempts exist. (Or perhaps it is just as well.)
We have had, since our marriage began, three cats. Ambulance, Arsenal and Beemr. Ambulance was an indoor/outdoor cat and lived to be 17, a beautiful long-haired black and white kitty with a perfectly feline self-image, a twisted sense of humor and a Supreme Court Justice's sense of fairness. (The photo shows him at an advanced age.)
At the time we had him we lived across the street from a school and, most importantly for Ambulance, the Forest Preserve. For many years he hunted there and sometimes brought home "treats" for me.
And then a neighbor complained. A neighbor who we had had trouble with before.
He said my cat and another cat (Gandalf-- a big Russian Blue who lived next door) were hiding under a bush near his house at night and scaring the bejesus out of his tiny white poodle, Chippy. Thus, late at night, last thing, Chippy would go out before bed but be too terrified by the huge lions in the bush hissing at him, to do his "business". I thought this was hilarious. Trying not to laugh,
I told him I would discuss it with Ambulance and explain that this was not appropriate, then quickly shut the door, turned off the light and sprinted for the stairs before he had a chance to realise what I had just said.
Anyway in our town, cats are SUPPOSED to be on leashes.
So I thought well, ok.
And I bought a cat harness. One of the figure8 ones that they cannot pull out of. Little dog harnesses do not work.
I put the harness on Ambulance who instantly flattened himself into the grass. I clipped on the "leash" and took a step. Hissssssssssssss.
I gently tugged the leash. Repeat Hisssssssss.
Now Ambulance was not a pissy cat. Hit him with a book when he was sleeping and he'd slit your eyelid open, as my 3 yr old son learned. Fair is fair.
This, he felt, was not fair. I tugged again and suddenly he came to life, leaping, screaming, turning somersaults in the air and finally, attaching himself tooth and nail to my upper rear thigh, chewing on me as if I were some little rodent. Screaming, I managed to detach my body from his but he wasn't done and wrapped his legs around my arm and began tearing at me again. I scruffed him off and threw him on the ground where he instantly flattened out-- ears and all, and regarded me with loathing, his eyes huge and dilated, panting. He knew he had won round 1. There was no round 2. The entire debacle lasted about 20 seconds.
I quickly removed the leash and harness as I simultaneously attempted not to drip blood on everything. He remained flat in the grass, glaring, in case I was stupid enough to try again. In case I had not gotten the message:
"Put a tether on me and I become SCHIZOPHRENIC CAT."
I never tried that again.
Arsenal was a short-haired grey Tabby that I brought home from the Veterinary Hospital where I worked. He was my son's cat, really. He was an indoor cat and as soon as he shredded the shower curtains and began working on the new stereo speakers I had his front declawed. (For the record, I did this again with Beemr because neither cats were allowed outside without supervision, but I would not do it now.)
I started Ars with a harness very young and so he was ok with it, altho he wouldn't "walk" with you. I put a very long very lightweight line on the harness and would sit outside with him while he managed to tangle himself around every plant, bush and tree in the yard, usually ending up under something with deadly long thorns and near a wasp nest. Once he cornered a shrew and was about to start playing "kitty tag" (which consists of taking some harmless little creature and slapping it with a paw: BAM!"You're it--I dare you to move...") but the shrew had other ideas and standing up on it's little back legs it SCREAMED at Arsenal-- if I had not been right there I would never have believed him-- and poor Arsenal paused, stared, and then basically showed the shrew the way into the neighbor's yard.
Beemr came along some time after Ambulance had died and she was also from the Hospital. A tiny, malnourished long-haired tabby, she grew up into a beautiful, ill-tempered little bitch. She hated the harness. She would wear it but she hated it. I do not think she had been outside before because when she did go out she was afraid of grass.
She was afraid of flowers, trees, grass and generally, anything outside the window.
Altho she acted as if she longed to be outside, take her out and she would bunny hop to the nearest sidewalk and wail to be let back in.
About twice a year she would somehow manage to get out the door with the dogs and then, finding herself in GRASS, panic. I was always afraid she would lunge under the fence in her terror, and run away, but I was always able to get to her before she had a chance.
For Beemr, the harness was a tool of torture.
Beemr bit people. She rarely bit me because I learned quickly to read the "Beemr's had enough, thank you" signs. She would snuggle down next to you in a chair or couch and then, if you moved....
They were wonderful cats. But it will be a long time before I try "walking" one again.
We have had, since our marriage began, three cats. Ambulance, Arsenal and Beemr. Ambulance was an indoor/outdoor cat and lived to be 17, a beautiful long-haired black and white kitty with a perfectly feline self-image, a twisted sense of humor and a Supreme Court Justice's sense of fairness. (The photo shows him at an advanced age.)
At the time we had him we lived across the street from a school and, most importantly for Ambulance, the Forest Preserve. For many years he hunted there and sometimes brought home "treats" for me.
And then a neighbor complained. A neighbor who we had had trouble with before.
He said my cat and another cat (Gandalf-- a big Russian Blue who lived next door) were hiding under a bush near his house at night and scaring the bejesus out of his tiny white poodle, Chippy. Thus, late at night, last thing, Chippy would go out before bed but be too terrified by the huge lions in the bush hissing at him, to do his "business". I thought this was hilarious. Trying not to laugh,
I told him I would discuss it with Ambulance and explain that this was not appropriate, then quickly shut the door, turned off the light and sprinted for the stairs before he had a chance to realise what I had just said.
So I thought well, ok.
And I bought a cat harness. One of the figure8 ones that they cannot pull out of. Little dog harnesses do not work.
I put the harness on Ambulance who instantly flattened himself into the grass. I clipped on the "leash" and took a step. Hissssssssssssss.
I gently tugged the leash. Repeat Hisssssssss.
Now Ambulance was not a pissy cat. Hit him with a book when he was sleeping and he'd slit your eyelid open, as my 3 yr old son learned. Fair is fair.
This, he felt, was not fair. I tugged again and suddenly he came to life, leaping, screaming, turning somersaults in the air and finally, attaching himself tooth and nail to my upper rear thigh, chewing on me as if I were some little rodent. Screaming, I managed to detach my body from his but he wasn't done and wrapped his legs around my arm and began tearing at me again. I scruffed him off and threw him on the ground where he instantly flattened out-- ears and all, and regarded me with loathing, his eyes huge and dilated, panting. He knew he had won round 1. There was no round 2. The entire debacle lasted about 20 seconds.
I quickly removed the leash and harness as I simultaneously attempted not to drip blood on everything. He remained flat in the grass, glaring, in case I was stupid enough to try again. In case I had not gotten the message:
"Put a tether on me and I become SCHIZOPHRENIC CAT."
I never tried that again.
Arsenal was a short-haired grey Tabby that I brought home from the Veterinary Hospital where I worked. He was my son's cat, really. He was an indoor cat and as soon as he shredded the shower curtains and began working on the new stereo speakers I had his front declawed. (For the record, I did this again with Beemr because neither cats were allowed outside without supervision, but I would not do it now.)
I started Ars with a harness very young and so he was ok with it, altho he wouldn't "walk" with you. I put a very long very lightweight line on the harness and would sit outside with him while he managed to tangle himself around every plant, bush and tree in the yard, usually ending up under something with deadly long thorns and near a wasp nest. Once he cornered a shrew and was about to start playing "kitty tag" (which consists of taking some harmless little creature and slapping it with a paw: BAM!"You're it--I dare you to move...") but the shrew had other ideas and standing up on it's little back legs it SCREAMED at Arsenal-- if I had not been right there I would never have believed him-- and poor Arsenal paused, stared, and then basically showed the shrew the way into the neighbor's yard.
Beemr came along some time after Ambulance had died and she was also from the Hospital. A tiny, malnourished long-haired tabby, she grew up into a beautiful, ill-tempered little bitch. She hated the harness. She would wear it but she hated it. I do not think she had been outside before because when she did go out she was afraid of grass.
Altho she acted as if she longed to be outside, take her out and she would bunny hop to the nearest sidewalk and wail to be let back in.
About twice a year she would somehow manage to get out the door with the dogs and then, finding herself in GRASS, panic. I was always afraid she would lunge under the fence in her terror, and run away, but I was always able to get to her before she had a chance.
For Beemr, the harness was a tool of torture.
Beemr bit people. She rarely bit me because I learned quickly to read the "Beemr's had enough, thank you" signs. She would snuggle down next to you in a chair or couch and then, if you moved....
They were wonderful cats. But it will be a long time before I try "walking" one again.
Monday, May 23, 2011
WIND THINGIE
John, my husband of thousands of years, has a very expensive weather station and one of it's components is a wind thingie. That is not the technical term. Anemometer. A thingie used to measure wind speed.
Years ago Roger helped John put this up so it was above the apex of the roof. We have a Cape Cod with an addition where the garage used to be. We moved in here in 1985 and there were 3 layers of shingles on at that time and there are still three except that they leak terribly over the freezer, washer and dryer in the utility room.
So we decided it was time to re-roof, and it happened that I knew someone (well) whose husband does this for a living. So tomorrow the roofers are due to appear.
John decided the wind thingie, the anemometer, needed to come down.
So he climbed the ladder up onto the roof and began to disassemble the wind thingie.
(In the foreground is more of the weather station. The anemometer is visible on top of the corner of the roof, happily spinning away in the summer wind.)
John gets up on the roof. I can climb ladders, or I can stand on a roof but I cannot climb a ladder and step OFF of it onto the roof. The act of stepping off the ladder fills me with a dread that I am helpess to put words to. I'm not sure it is a fear of falling. But it might be. Clearly, John doesn't share that sense of impending doom.
Anyway once up there he discovered that the brackets were frozen. He used WD-40 (which rolled off the roof) and worked on it for a long time and then determined that the bottom of the pole would have to be cut off in order to get it out of the brackets.
He was up there a long time working on it. I kept thinking the roofers could work around it, (it has wires that crossed the roof and apparently John felt it wasn't safe.)
I guess Nigel agreed.
Eventually he got it down. So now the roofers can roof the roof. Tomorrow morning. Should be really interesting with three Bassets to help them......
Years ago Roger helped John put this up so it was above the apex of the roof. We have a Cape Cod with an addition where the garage used to be. We moved in here in 1985 and there were 3 layers of shingles on at that time and there are still three except that they leak terribly over the freezer, washer and dryer in the utility room.
So we decided it was time to re-roof, and it happened that I knew someone (well) whose husband does this for a living. So tomorrow the roofers are due to appear.
John decided the wind thingie, the anemometer, needed to come down.
So he climbed the ladder up onto the roof and began to disassemble the wind thingie.
Anyway once up there he discovered that the brackets were frozen. He used WD-40 (which rolled off the roof) and worked on it for a long time and then determined that the bottom of the pole would have to be cut off in order to get it out of the brackets.
Eventually he got it down. So now the roofers can roof the roof. Tomorrow morning. Should be really interesting with three Bassets to help them......
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
WRITER'S BLOCK
Everyone knows what
a Red-Winged Blackbird looks like.
The bird on the right is a heron that was on a shed where we went to rent an airboat in Florida. He hung around all the time and had a name but I cannot remember what it was. Stan, maybe.
My daughter and me kyacking (Bwaaahahahahahaha) outside my brother's house in Oahu many yrs ago. He no longer lives in Hawaii. Once in the lagoon by myself I accidentally ran over a sea turtle which were abundant in that little inlet.
This is the lovely little cabin that my daughter and my son's ex stayed in at Sanibel Island, Florida. It was a wonderful trip and we could sit on the porch in the evening and see the Gulf of Mexico and drink our wine and Margaritas and watch the sunset.
Montesano, Washington. Stellar's Jay sitting atop one of many bird feeders in Mary's garden. Far at the foot of the garden you can see the huge pines that are owned by Weyerhauser paper. Many of them are gone now, compliments of a very bad windstorm a year or two ago. This was taken in 2002. Mary is a Master Gardener and her garden is just drop-dead gorgeous.
Also it has a very treacherous CLIFF-- well it's a hill, actually, that leads down to those trees which it is possible to fall down during a garden tour, remembering, as one tumbles, to set one's glass of scotch carefully down so as not to spill as one rolls screaming into the abysss.
When Susie and I went to Wyoming we got caught in the middle of a cattle drive: the old fashioned kind with horses and cowboys(and cowgirls) moving the herd a few miles a day to another pasture closer to the barns, in preparation for winter. They had two Border collies working: this one was resting in the back of the truck (they had a trailer for the horses, too) Originally he was watching-- with ill-disguised envy-- his partner working, but when we pulled up he could see Cooper in the back of the car and that is what he is staring at in this photo.
This is the other BC, working with the head Honcho and moving the cattle.
This is a little pier at Sarnia, Canada. I don't know the Province, I cannot remember. Susan the Belgian Sheepdog lady and I went up here for a dog show. I am not even sure which dog I had at the time, probably Cooper since Quiller really was not showable. This was right across the road from the motel we stayed in. It was a beautiful area, and a lovely show, and Susan did quite well altho I think I bombed.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
THE DOG WHO THINKS TOO MUCH
My blogs lately seem to all be about Cooper. I am not sure whether this is because he takes up a lot of my mental space or whether I am just paying more attention to him, since I know our time is limited, even if he doesn't.
It is 3:45 as I write. I have been up for about a half an hour. At about 3 this morning, Cooper came to talk to me.
He says "Good morning." and I reluctantly open my eyeballs. I ask if he needs to go out. He doesn't leap up and run for the door. He says "Good morning. There is something wrong."
I hate it when he does this.
I ask if he is sick. He says "Good morning. Look around."
So I do. It is dark. Of course it is dark it is 3 in the morning.
"No," he says, "listen". And I Listen, and it is silent. Wait. SILENT?
"Yes," he says, "listen to the silence."
And slowly, very slowly, I realise nothing is running. There is no refrigerator noise, no clock noise, no lights on the computer, no lights on the weather station. Hmmm. I sit up and look across the street to where their bathroom light is always on. It isn't.
Awwwwwwwwpooooie. No electricity.
"Right" he says. "The magic stuff is off. All I can hear is you breathing and the rain."
I get up. Now the dogs are up and want out so I let them outside. I fumble around for the $100 totally dependable heavy-duty police-issue flashlight which almost instantly quits working. Luckily there are two: the other heavy enough to cause back strain. I see a couple of lights working on the cable thingie so I try to use the phone but the cable actually is out so the phone is too and I have to use my cell phone to call CWEdison and get the automated response which says, basically:
YOUR POWER IS OUT. SOMEDAY IF YOU ARE VERY VERY GOOD WE WILL RESTORE IT. MAYBE.
The dogs are back in and Cooper will not leave my side. I get the portable police scanner. The batteries are dead. I get out all the batteries in the house and start putting them in the scanner but nothing works. Cooper is watching intently.
"Why don't you use the battery tester?" he asks. I glare. I get out the battery tester which tests every battery I try as dead.
While I am doing this, concentrating in the sharp light of the flashlight, Cooper is bumping me with his nose. I tell him to stop. He keeps it up.
Finally he says:
"Hey! Look around!"
Oh. The electricity is on.
He wanders off to his chair in the living room. I pile all the batteries on the freezer.
Sometimes it is really not fun to have a dog that is smarter than you are.
It is 3:45 as I write. I have been up for about a half an hour. At about 3 this morning, Cooper came to talk to me.
I hate it when he does this.
I ask if he is sick. He says "Good morning. Look around."
So I do. It is dark. Of course it is dark it is 3 in the morning.
"No," he says, "listen". And I Listen, and it is silent. Wait. SILENT?
"Yes," he says, "listen to the silence."
And slowly, very slowly, I realise nothing is running. There is no refrigerator noise, no clock noise, no lights on the computer, no lights on the weather station. Hmmm. I sit up and look across the street to where their bathroom light is always on. It isn't.
Awwwwwwwwpooooie. No electricity.
"Right" he says. "The magic stuff is off. All I can hear is you breathing and the rain."
I get up. Now the dogs are up and want out so I let them outside. I fumble around for the $100 totally dependable heavy-duty police-issue flashlight which almost instantly quits working. Luckily there are two: the other heavy enough to cause back strain. I see a couple of lights working on the cable thingie so I try to use the phone but the cable actually is out so the phone is too and I have to use my cell phone to call CWEdison and get the automated response which says, basically:
YOUR POWER IS OUT. SOMEDAY IF YOU ARE VERY VERY GOOD WE WILL RESTORE IT. MAYBE.
The dogs are back in and Cooper will not leave my side. I get the portable police scanner. The batteries are dead. I get out all the batteries in the house and start putting them in the scanner but nothing works. Cooper is watching intently.
While I am doing this, concentrating in the sharp light of the flashlight, Cooper is bumping me with his nose. I tell him to stop. He keeps it up.
Finally he says:
"Hey! Look around!"
Oh. The electricity is on.
He wanders off to his chair in the living room. I pile all the batteries on the freezer.
Sometimes it is really not fun to have a dog that is smarter than you are.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
A BAD WEEK SO FAR
I got some new stuff to try on Cooper for storms. I am not sure what is in it but it smells suspiciously as if it has VitB in it. When I bought it I read the directions and it said give a teaspoon etc. Now having lived through trying to give a dog a teaspoon of anything I knew right away this wouldn't work but I figured I have an eyedropper marked with mls and could figure it out. Yeah right.
The eyedropper contains 1 ml. He gets 7 to 10.
This stuff STINKS.
Cooper's opinion of the taste was similar and altho I had him trapped there was a lot of head-slinging and spitting going on and I ended up wearing a couple of mls of if plus I had it all over my hands and it is sticky. And did I mention: IT STINKS.
This was last night. Of course the storm went north of us. We got nothing. I found Cooper staring out the front door but I don't think the stuff did much else.
I went to bed early and every time I got my hands near my face I could smell this stuff, even tho I had washed my hands over and over and put on lotion. I finally used some of that sanitizer with about a half a bottle of alcohol in it.
This morning, I can still smell it on my hands. Gaaaah. Clearly when I turned down the Tech's offer of a syringe I made a terrible mistake, one I plan on rectifying asap.
****************************************************************************
Meanwhile a friend's Basset, one who I really like (I like most Bassets but some are more likeable than others) has been desperately ill. He is very young, and for awhile it looked as if he had some kind of major tumor. She (owner) has lost two other dogs in the past 6 months or so and now it appeared that she very well might be losing another.
Yesterday he went for an MRI and yesterday morning I got an email from another friend saying her Elkhound mix has bladder cancer.
Needless to say it was very depressing. While I waited for word on the MRI and waited for my other friend to write and tell me what they were thinking of doing for the Elkhound, I decided to go paint, just to get out of the house and away from my ever-darkening thoughts: got to the Gallery and learned that a 20 yr old Shih Tzu belonging to one of the artists had died that morning.
GOOD LORD ALMIGHTY!!!
Well ok the Basset does not have cancer but has a whopping infection of some kind, generated by an unknown factor, possibly a foreign body but they could not visualize it on the MRI. So $6000 lighter, my friend (That was not just for the MRI but other diagnostics) has him home and on antibitoics while they wait for the results of the culture to see which antibiotic will be the best. And he is feeling better but still swollen up she says, "like a mutant Shar-Pei".
The dog with bladder cancer may have surgery or not-- they are still trying to work through that decision. He is twelve years old and currently very happy, with no inkling that he is desperately ill.
I have not called the artist yet to express my condolences altho that is on my list of things to do today.
And then there is this smell on my hands......
Some weeks are just like that.
The eyedropper contains 1 ml. He gets 7 to 10.
This stuff STINKS.
Cooper's opinion of the taste was similar and altho I had him trapped there was a lot of head-slinging and spitting going on and I ended up wearing a couple of mls of if plus I had it all over my hands and it is sticky. And did I mention: IT STINKS.
This was last night. Of course the storm went north of us. We got nothing. I found Cooper staring out the front door but I don't think the stuff did much else.
I went to bed early and every time I got my hands near my face I could smell this stuff, even tho I had washed my hands over and over and put on lotion. I finally used some of that sanitizer with about a half a bottle of alcohol in it.
This morning, I can still smell it on my hands. Gaaaah. Clearly when I turned down the Tech's offer of a syringe I made a terrible mistake, one I plan on rectifying asap.
****************************************************************************
Meanwhile a friend's Basset, one who I really like (I like most Bassets but some are more likeable than others) has been desperately ill. He is very young, and for awhile it looked as if he had some kind of major tumor. She (owner) has lost two other dogs in the past 6 months or so and now it appeared that she very well might be losing another.
Yesterday he went for an MRI and yesterday morning I got an email from another friend saying her Elkhound mix has bladder cancer.
Needless to say it was very depressing. While I waited for word on the MRI and waited for my other friend to write and tell me what they were thinking of doing for the Elkhound, I decided to go paint, just to get out of the house and away from my ever-darkening thoughts: got to the Gallery and learned that a 20 yr old Shih Tzu belonging to one of the artists had died that morning.
GOOD LORD ALMIGHTY!!!
Well ok the Basset does not have cancer but has a whopping infection of some kind, generated by an unknown factor, possibly a foreign body but they could not visualize it on the MRI. So $6000 lighter, my friend (That was not just for the MRI but other diagnostics) has him home and on antibitoics while they wait for the results of the culture to see which antibiotic will be the best. And he is feeling better but still swollen up she says, "like a mutant Shar-Pei".
The dog with bladder cancer may have surgery or not-- they are still trying to work through that decision. He is twelve years old and currently very happy, with no inkling that he is desperately ill.
I have not called the artist yet to express my condolences altho that is on my list of things to do today.
And then there is this smell on my hands......
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
PET PET PEEVES
I have some of the best Vets around. I am sure other people would debate that and I am sure that there are other Veterinarians out there who are better or smarter so on and so forth. I am just saying that for my dogs, my cats (in the past) and me, I have the ones I am happiest with.
There are a bunch of them. Unfortunately, as I no longer work there, I don't know who the new ones are. And I can promise you, there are some real clunkers out there. Consequently I tend to stick close to the ones I have worked with. Doc, Ms Doc and KatDoc.
Doc is the Bossman. As a diagnostician he is excellent. As a dedicated Vet he is unsurpassed. As a businessman he is sharp and aggressive. Which means sometimes he has other things on his mind and this is my biggest pet peeve about Veterinarians is when I feel I do not have their FULL ATTENTION. I think this happens to me perhaps more than others because having worked there I am expected to understand that sometimes things are crazy. But when I come to Doc with a dog question, I expect his undivided attention.
When I don't get it, I get annoyed.
I will call a Vet on this. I will tell them that I am getting impression they are thinking about something else but could they please listen to what I am saying. I may go to one of the other Vets and explain that Vet#1 is apparently too busy to concentrate. I know the message will be passed along. Techs are less likely to pass such messages.
Techs who are scattered and frantic are another peeve. I am not awed by Techs having been one. I know there are good days and insane days when they are expected to be doing 10 things at once. And then here I come, needing a bandage on a bleeding nail. But if a Tech seems to be paying attention to something else, I will even say "Hey, can we do this, first, ok?" And if I have to intercede a second time I will simply stop them, and ask for a tech who is not as busy. Usually this brings them back to earth.
On the other hand, a good Tech is worth her weight in gold and it is nice to be nice. I have, already a reputation for being a real bitch, but I am NEVER a bitch to those who do their jobs well.
With Bassets a pet peeve is rolling them over by their legs. I always yell and holler about that. You have to know that I go in the back with my dogs for xrays and other treatments. Rarely do I allow them to be taken into the back without me.
For example: if you give my Bassets a shot in their shoulders, they develop huge lumps every time. I want to be there to remind the techs-- no no! in the hips, please!
My Belgian cannot have certain drugs. It is in his file. I want to be there to be sure they are LOOKING AT THAT FILE. I know it is terrible, but sometimes even the best Vet misses what is writ in red in the front of the file: ALLERGIC TO PENICILLIN is a prime example.
Most of all I want a Vet who is going to tell it like it is. I do not need to have my Vet pretend he knows more than he does. If he needs help with something, I expect him to tell me this is beyond his expertise and I need a referral. If I ask for a second opinion, I do not expect snotty behavior. I expect my Veterinarians to understand and agree and not sulk and be hurt. This is MY dog, and I am going to be sure he gets every possible advantage available to him.
By the same token I want to know what my dog's actual outlook is. If he is not going to make it, I expect to be told. I want to know his chances, the timeline, and what to expect. I want it right out front so I understand. I don't want a lot of equivocation. Some people do.
I don't expect Attitude if I ask for a second opinion
And finally I expect a courteous and pleasant experience. I try to understand that at 6pm on Saturday when they have been working non-stop since 7 in the morning that they may be tired and worn out and at the end of their ropes, and so I try to go in at a reasonable time. I try not to wait. Nothing is as annoying as the client who calls 5 minutes before closing and announces that their dog has been vomiting blood for three days should they come in? However, once there, they deserve pleasant and alert service. I try hard to be understanding, having walked in those shoes myself. Sometimes, it is simply more than you can expect.
Sometimes, alertness is a little more than you can seriously expect
So when you go to the Vet, know what the symptoms are. Know whether you need to call ahead (if your dog is bloating, hit by a car, choking, collapsed-- give them a heads-up while you are on the way so they can be ready.)
Above all remember that you and your Veterinarian should ideally be a TEAM. If you are feeling constantly antagonized or as if your Vet has missed something, time to find a new Vet. Really, you owe it to your dog.
ABOVE ALL ELSE. YOU ARE YOUR DOG'S ADVOCATE. YOU AND YOUR VETERINARIAN SHOULD BE A TEAM ON YOUR DOG'S BEHALF.
There are a bunch of them. Unfortunately, as I no longer work there, I don't know who the new ones are. And I can promise you, there are some real clunkers out there. Consequently I tend to stick close to the ones I have worked with. Doc, Ms Doc and KatDoc.
Doc is the Bossman. As a diagnostician he is excellent. As a dedicated Vet he is unsurpassed. As a businessman he is sharp and aggressive. Which means sometimes he has other things on his mind and this is my biggest pet peeve about Veterinarians is when I feel I do not have their FULL ATTENTION. I think this happens to me perhaps more than others because having worked there I am expected to understand that sometimes things are crazy. But when I come to Doc with a dog question, I expect his undivided attention.
When I don't get it, I get annoyed.
I will call a Vet on this. I will tell them that I am getting impression they are thinking about something else but could they please listen to what I am saying. I may go to one of the other Vets and explain that Vet#1 is apparently too busy to concentrate. I know the message will be passed along. Techs are less likely to pass such messages.
"I expect his undivided attention"
Techs who are scattered and frantic are another peeve. I am not awed by Techs having been one. I know there are good days and insane days when they are expected to be doing 10 things at once. And then here I come, needing a bandage on a bleeding nail. But if a Tech seems to be paying attention to something else, I will even say "Hey, can we do this, first, ok?" And if I have to intercede a second time I will simply stop them, and ask for a tech who is not as busy. Usually this brings them back to earth.
On the other hand, a good Tech is worth her weight in gold and it is nice to be nice. I have, already a reputation for being a real bitch, but I am NEVER a bitch to those who do their jobs well.
With Bassets a pet peeve is rolling them over by their legs. I always yell and holler about that. You have to know that I go in the back with my dogs for xrays and other treatments. Rarely do I allow them to be taken into the back without me.
For example: if you give my Bassets a shot in their shoulders, they develop huge lumps every time. I want to be there to remind the techs-- no no! in the hips, please!
"I want to be sure they are looking at that file"
Most of all I want a Vet who is going to tell it like it is. I do not need to have my Vet pretend he knows more than he does. If he needs help with something, I expect him to tell me this is beyond his expertise and I need a referral. If I ask for a second opinion, I do not expect snotty behavior. I expect my Veterinarians to understand and agree and not sulk and be hurt. This is MY dog, and I am going to be sure he gets every possible advantage available to him.
By the same token I want to know what my dog's actual outlook is. If he is not going to make it, I expect to be told. I want to know his chances, the timeline, and what to expect. I want it right out front so I understand. I don't want a lot of equivocation. Some people do.
And finally I expect a courteous and pleasant experience. I try to understand that at 6pm on Saturday when they have been working non-stop since 7 in the morning that they may be tired and worn out and at the end of their ropes, and so I try to go in at a reasonable time. I try not to wait. Nothing is as annoying as the client who calls 5 minutes before closing and announces that their dog has been vomiting blood for three days should they come in? However, once there, they deserve pleasant and alert service. I try hard to be understanding, having walked in those shoes myself. Sometimes, it is simply more than you can expect.
Sometimes, alertness is a little more than you can seriously expect
So when you go to the Vet, know what the symptoms are. Know whether you need to call ahead (if your dog is bloating, hit by a car, choking, collapsed-- give them a heads-up while you are on the way so they can be ready.)
Above all remember that you and your Veterinarian should ideally be a TEAM. If you are feeling constantly antagonized or as if your Vet has missed something, time to find a new Vet. Really, you owe it to your dog.
ABOVE ALL ELSE. YOU ARE YOUR DOG'S ADVOCATE. YOU AND YOUR VETERINARIAN SHOULD BE A TEAM ON YOUR DOG'S BEHALF.
Friday, May 6, 2011
ADVENTURES IN DOG TRAINING
When he was about a year old I took him to a Park District training class with a friend who had a Golden Retriever puppy. Warf had had some training by then but he also required two muzzles, two strong people to restrain him and a Vet to trim his nails.
In class we got past "sit" and began the "down." The instructor noticed that he was still sitting. She came over and knelt down to show me that he would lay down if I pulled his front feet forward and very quickly I said "I would NOT do that."
Very slowly she withdrew her hands and stood up, regarded Warf for a moment and said "Oh well: he's almost down as it is."
End of "down" training.
The black dog in the photo is Quiller as a youngster. My first Belgian. I used a very poor trainer to start with and really screwed this dog up, but he was very compliant and willing. It was just that he was so anxious to do it right that it overwhelmed him, and he got nutty. One day I was at a "fun"match with my friend and his breeder, Susan, and I was complaining that on the "watch me" command, Quiller didn't. She suggested I hang a long piece of string cheese out of my mouth where he could see it and give the command. So I did. I hung this piece of cheese out of my mouth, turned to Quiller and said "Wat------------" and instantly had my lip split in half as he hit it with his teeth grabbing the cheese. I was laughing so hard it was difficult to stop the bleeding. I guess he knew the command after all.
(The Keeshond in the photo is Kailey, my daughter's absolutely wonderful, loving and mischievous dog who lived a happy 17 years and who we all miss on a daily basis.)
This is Walker. He was with us only for a very short time. He had the longest ears of any Basset we had had or have had since. At training class (for show, not obedience) he could not get around the ring without tripping on his ears.
Walker also taught me that teaching the "stand" to a young Basset is a lot like working with a slinky: you get one end up and the other is already down. You fix the back end and the front is laying in a puddle on the floor. Keeping one hand under the rear you lift the front. There is absolutely not one bit of help can you expect from the hot little bundle in your hands. The tail wags. Other than that, you are on your own.
He walked to a bush.
I pulled him back and started over. Neither of us had EVER done tracking of any kind.
He went to a bush.
I pulled him back and started over.
He walked about 6 feet down the street did a turnaround and went back to the bush. This time he resisted being pulled back to the fence, so I got down on the ground and peered under the bush and found myself staring into two green kitty eyes. Arsenal. Under the bush. Right where Warf knew he was.
We gave Warf a nice bowl of ice cream for his reward. He loved it.
Two days later he had pancreatitis (from which he recovered) and the Vet was screaming at me YOU! OF ALL PEOPLE! SHOULD KNOW BETTER! THAN TO GIVE HIM ICE CREAM!!!!!
Thus did I learn about training.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
DO DOGS HAVE ANGST?
Last night Cooper came in and asked to come to bed with me. Actually it was about 4:30 and I thought he needed out, but when I asked, from the depths of my pillow, he said no, he just wanted to get in bed with me.
So I scooched over and got a pillow for him and he climbed up, flopped down, sighed happily and we fell asleep, my arm thrown over his back and chest so I could pet him a bit before we both dropped back into sleep. When I woke up at 5:30, he was gone. (He gets uncomfortably warm. It would have to be about 20 degrees in the room for him to stay.)
But later, I began to think about this. He does this every now and then. But I do not know why.
Does he have bad dreams? Do dogs have bad dreams? Do they dream that their food bowls have run away, or that they have been left behind and no one comes back, or that they have taken their owners for a walk off-leash and now they cannot find them? (I dream that-- in reverse-- and it is almost always Cooper who has vanished.)
The psychologist Piaget determined somehow that small babies, when a parent leaves the room, seems to think the parent is gone permanently. I am not sure how he drew this conclusion from non-verbal babies, but it has been a long time since I read the experiment.
Do dogs think this way?
I am told dogs "live in the Now". Are we sure?
Here is Cooper on a day when I was cooking. When I cook, he flees the house. Why? Because he is afraid of the smoke alarms. When I cook, sometimes the smoke alarms go off and he leaves the house and stays away for at least an hour, no matter what the weather. I cannot coax him in, I cannot catch him, not even now that he only has three legs, he is still a lot more nimble than am I. What is he thinking? With what unkown danger does he associate the stove being on? How did he manage to figure out that the smoke alarms mean danger? If he would come right back when they go off I would think he just doesn't like the sound, but it is more than that. He associates it with something terrible. Surely a dog like this can have bad dreams.
This looks to me like an animal that has the ability to live not only in the now but in the past and in the future.
Where IS she? She left and maybe this time she won't come back. She's going to leave me with HIM. I mean he's ok and everything, but he isn't HER. Is she out someplace fooling around with those big damn..whatcallem--HORSES again? They'll eat her alive. Should I try to get out, go find her? Yesterday she left and came right back. This time it's been....damn I wish I could understand that time thing--the clock. Is that her Va---no.....
This is a dog who does not have that problem. This is a dog who I am pretty sure has no major Angst and can be said to "live in the now" which consists mainly of naps, barking at squirrels and taking things off the counters.
This is a dog who gets into the car full of hope even if we are just going to Vet, and the next time he gets into the car he will be full of hope even tho we are going to the Vet AGAIN. The only time I think he has Angst is when I roll open the door and he is at a dog show, and then he does not want to get OUT of the Van. This is the one time when I suspect he is able to think forward.
Dogs get lost because they don't think forward. It does not occur to them that they will not get home again. Most dogs. Bassets and beagles often simply backtrack home. Not always.
This is a dog who knows deep in his soul that if he disobeys something unspoken and dreadful will happen. He will not be beaten, or thrown out of a car or anything like that, but I might scowl at him.
Right now in this picture he is thinking that there must be some way of getting rid of the short-legged ones so he can have the house to himself again but by the same token he knows this is wrong-think, and is, therefore, deep in Angst.
So I scooched over and got a pillow for him and he climbed up, flopped down, sighed happily and we fell asleep, my arm thrown over his back and chest so I could pet him a bit before we both dropped back into sleep. When I woke up at 5:30, he was gone. (He gets uncomfortably warm. It would have to be about 20 degrees in the room for him to stay.)
But later, I began to think about this. He does this every now and then. But I do not know why.
Does he have bad dreams? Do dogs have bad dreams? Do they dream that their food bowls have run away, or that they have been left behind and no one comes back, or that they have taken their owners for a walk off-leash and now they cannot find them? (I dream that-- in reverse-- and it is almost always Cooper who has vanished.)
The psychologist Piaget determined somehow that small babies, when a parent leaves the room, seems to think the parent is gone permanently. I am not sure how he drew this conclusion from non-verbal babies, but it has been a long time since I read the experiment.
Do dogs think this way?
I am told dogs "live in the Now". Are we sure?
This is a dog who gets into the car full of hope even if we are just going to Vet, and the next time he gets into the car he will be full of hope even tho we are going to the Vet AGAIN. The only time I think he has Angst is when I roll open the door and he is at a dog show, and then he does not want to get OUT of the Van. This is the one time when I suspect he is able to think forward.
Dogs get lost because they don't think forward. It does not occur to them that they will not get home again. Most dogs. Bassets and beagles often simply backtrack home. Not always.
Right now in this picture he is thinking that there must be some way of getting rid of the short-legged ones so he can have the house to himself again but by the same token he knows this is wrong-think, and is, therefore, deep in Angst.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
IT WAS A DARK NIGHT
I awoke last night about 2 in the morning, and laid still. What woke me? There was no dog at my bedside begging to go out. I had no pain anywhere (I hadn't noticed it yet was all) and I didn't have the flu so why was I awake?
And then came the soft growl from the crate nearest my bed. Again, louder.
And an answering growl. I heard then the soft scuffle of feet in the other room: the sound of dogs up in the night, moving quietly in their house first at one door and then a sudden growl from the living room and the sound of a big dog moving towards me: the gentle sound of Llewis's bad leg not quite clearing the ground and yet more growling now from around me, rising in intensity.
And then I heard it.
The shrill noise of---a dog in distress?--outside. And again. And again. High-pitched (my imagination instantly envisioned a Maltese or a Shih Tzu) and trailing off into an odd hoppity voice. WTF????
And around me, in the dark, the dogs amped up their voices and finally Conley barked his INTRUDER ALARM bark.
So I got up. The hairs on my neck on end, I grabbed a flashlight and my muck boots and leaving the dogs inside went out in back, hitting the floodlights as I went, not liking surprises like coyotes in the yard, or a small tiger or perhaps a Leopard--who knew?
And discovered I had also left the back door wide open. Oh well.
Out into the yard-- the dogs now thundering behind me and John's sleepy voice as he edged into alertness-- "WHAT'S GOING ON???" -- and then the tremulo high pitched bark began again sending the dogs into a frenzy.
"That" I answered. And stepped outside.
I illuminated every darkened corner of the yard, the sheds, behind the sheds--the neighbor's yard ( they must have loved that) trees--nothing. But the yap was louder now, and then, abruptly it stopped. There was nothing in the yard. I returned to the deafening roar of dogs on a hunt and let them out and they streaked, as one, to the far corner of the fence, frantically leaping up at it, burying their noses in the dirt, shouldering each other out of the way, growling and yarring and scratching at the fence, lest I think SOMETHING had not been there. I got the message. SOMETHING had been in the yard. Whatever belonged to that treble voice.
I got them calmed down and back inside after a short time. Disappointed all of them. Whatever it was it had been in the yard but was gone. Damn. Another chance to rip something apart had been lost. Stupid human, she waited too long...
So I turned on the computer and began hunting too. Listening to the shrill but not shrill enough calls of coyotes and then, on a hunch, on to foxes.
AHA! My nighttime visitor was a fox! Calling out to the world. "I got something". (Maybe the neighbor cat? Out without his claws? I hoped not.) Or a squirrel? YES!! That would be fine.
Now, knowing what it had been, I was ok. And I went back to bed and slept well until the dogs decided it was breakfast time, and when I let them outside, they ran to that corner again--just to be sure. But there was nothing.
Growls in the night. Boy, I just hate that.
(photo borrowed from Google)
And then came the soft growl from the crate nearest my bed. Again, louder.
And an answering growl. I heard then the soft scuffle of feet in the other room: the sound of dogs up in the night, moving quietly in their house first at one door and then a sudden growl from the living room and the sound of a big dog moving towards me: the gentle sound of Llewis's bad leg not quite clearing the ground and yet more growling now from around me, rising in intensity.
And then I heard it.
The shrill noise of---a dog in distress?--outside. And again. And again. High-pitched (my imagination instantly envisioned a Maltese or a Shih Tzu) and trailing off into an odd hoppity voice. WTF????
And around me, in the dark, the dogs amped up their voices and finally Conley barked his INTRUDER ALARM bark.
So I got up. The hairs on my neck on end, I grabbed a flashlight and my muck boots and leaving the dogs inside went out in back, hitting the floodlights as I went, not liking surprises like coyotes in the yard, or a small tiger or perhaps a Leopard--who knew?
And discovered I had also left the back door wide open. Oh well.
Out into the yard-- the dogs now thundering behind me and John's sleepy voice as he edged into alertness-- "WHAT'S GOING ON???" -- and then the tremulo high pitched bark began again sending the dogs into a frenzy.
"That" I answered. And stepped outside.
I illuminated every darkened corner of the yard, the sheds, behind the sheds--the neighbor's yard ( they must have loved that) trees--nothing. But the yap was louder now, and then, abruptly it stopped. There was nothing in the yard. I returned to the deafening roar of dogs on a hunt and let them out and they streaked, as one, to the far corner of the fence, frantically leaping up at it, burying their noses in the dirt, shouldering each other out of the way, growling and yarring and scratching at the fence, lest I think SOMETHING had not been there. I got the message. SOMETHING had been in the yard. Whatever belonged to that treble voice.
I got them calmed down and back inside after a short time. Disappointed all of them. Whatever it was it had been in the yard but was gone. Damn. Another chance to rip something apart had been lost. Stupid human, she waited too long...
So I turned on the computer and began hunting too. Listening to the shrill but not shrill enough calls of coyotes and then, on a hunch, on to foxes.
AHA! My nighttime visitor was a fox! Calling out to the world. "I got something". (Maybe the neighbor cat? Out without his claws? I hoped not.) Or a squirrel? YES!! That would be fine.
Now, knowing what it had been, I was ok. And I went back to bed and slept well until the dogs decided it was breakfast time, and when I let them outside, they ran to that corner again--just to be sure. But there was nothing.
Growls in the night. Boy, I just hate that.
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