ozma914: (ozma914)
( May. 18th, 2024 05:34 pm)

 We dogsat--um, sitted?--for a friend's canine last week, and enjoyed it very much. As many of you know, our own dog, Beowulf, passed away last July. 

 Watson resembled Beowulf quite a bit, actually. Watson has had a hair cut, but I saw photos from before and it really was uncanny. Both are rescues, and came from further south of us, so I suppose some relation is possible.

Watson is more solid, though, for want of another word. One thing in common: So darned cute.

He wouldn't get up on furniture unless invited, and even after he'd been on the couch and bed he still wouldn't climb up again without an invitation. A very well behaved dog.

I was surprised that at ten years old Watson still likes to play hard. He tired me out pretty quickly.

He also loves to snuggle. Yes, I did call him Beowulf several times, but he didn't seem to mind.


 

Remember: Pets love booklovers; they can snuggle while reading..



No one knows where Beowulf came from.

 


The above is one of the first photos I ever took of him. Beowulf was found wandering the fields around Huntington County, Indiana, southwest of Fort Wayne. To this day no one knows where he came from--he wore a collar so rusted it couldn't be unbuckled, and had to be cut off. Clearly he'd had a rough life for awhile.

 

 

 

He was very serious, and also very curious. I suspect he was mistreated by his former owner, because he would whine instead of bark, and was a little jumpy when touched. We did our best to make him feel at home, and I think it worked: One day he got off his line in the backyard, and when I started a panicked search I found him patiently waiting at the front door.

 

Gradually he relaxed and, as will happen, became family. He never chewed on anything unless he knew he was allowed to, and when someone passed by he would bark at them for one reason: He wanted us to let them in so he could make friends. (Having said that, he saw any animal smaller than him as food, giving us some insight into his former life.)


He loved every kid who came around, and most adults--unless he detected alcohol on their breath. Then he'd start to growl and become protective, which perhaps gives us another look into his past.

 

 

 

 

Like us he loved to travel, but he also loved to get home.

But he got old, as dogs do, and people. Neuropathy, hip dysplasia, hearing loss, cognitive problems. We were okay with him sleeping a lot--heck, I sleep a lot. But wandering in circles, steering himself into corners and just standing there, whining when he should have been comfortable ...

Sometimes there comes a time when you have to consider if you're keeping them around for their happiness--or yours. We got him about six months after Emily and I were married. The vet's estimation of his age meant he was around sixteen years old. It was time.

In the last photo ever taken with the three of us together, Emily and I were smiling, kind of. I think I can speak for both of us when I saw they were forced smiles.

 


 I'd like to give a shout-out to Line Street Veterinary Hospital in Columbia City, a place we'd gotten more and more familiar with in recent years. You don't have a pet for eleven years and just let him go with a "he's just a dog". They understood that. They let us in through a private door, set out last treats, and gave us all the time we needed, which was a fair amount. We fed him Hershey's Kisses because, as the jar they were in said, no one should pass away without tasting chocolate first.

 

He wasn't just a dog. He was family. Now he's crossed the rainbow bridge, to frolic with the family members who came before him (as Emily told him to at the end). There aren't any words to describe how much he'll be missed.






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When hamsters came into my house years ago they had little plastic balls, so they could run merrily all over. (Humans now have those, too. You’d think we could just walk.) We did have to close the door to the basement while they were out. I thought it would be kind of funny to hear the “thump-thump” of a rodent taking a ride, but the kids thought the hamster wouldn’t appreciate an E-ticket at Disneyland.

One day I found one of the balls in the kitchen, sans hamster. The lid had popped off. This triggered a panicked search, which was about as successful as panicked searches usually are. The hamster – Ranger, named after a slippery, hard to track character from a Stephanie Plum novel – was gone.

My daughters were very upset. I looked at it as a challenge … but before you congratulate me for my attitude, I should point out that I hate challenges.

After a time – a long time, during which I could have been doing more important things, like nothing – I found a little white puff ball behind the oven, as far back into the corner as he could possibly get. I could have done a few different things, but I didn’t have a gun on me, and in my experience napalm is dangerously unreliable. So instead, I tried to entice the furball out with a handful of his favorite snack, which looks suspiciously like shreds of colored paper.

Ranger instantly disappeared into the wall.

He’d discovered what I, in ten years, had not – the hole mice use to get into my house every fall. (They stopped coming after we got the pet snake, but that’s another story.) It led behind the cupboard and from there to – who knows? A rodent superhighway, perhaps, or a mouseport, or a hamsterteria.

The next morning, I found a very old mouse carcass on the floor outside the hole. I’m talking mummified. Ranger had not only made himself at home in the former mouse house, he’d even dug up the cemetery.

 

“Yeah, I’m bad, I’m bad–you know it.”

Now what? Offering amnesty wasn’t likely to help. There is a homemade trap you can build, making steps out of books that lead to a trash can. Water and food goes into the can, and once inside, the sides are too steep for the hamster to get out again. The problem is, Ranger is afraid of heights. Seriously. It took him a week to climb down out of the upstairs apartment in the hamster house.

I considered leaving him in that hole, until the squeaking started.

The only time they made noise was when they started fighting each other. Every now and then they’d get into a quarrel over who gets the best piece of trail mix, or who controls the remote. Then they’d squeak like crazy until they were all squeaked out, and ten minutes later they’d be happily sitting together again. And yes, it reminded me of my daughters.

The conclusion was inescapable: Ranger wasn’t alone down there. Hopefully we weren’t hearing loud rodent sex.

 

“You should have sent me in, coach–I’d have those rodents for breakfast. Literally.”

 

A few days later we found the little white furball, huddled behind a bookcase that turned out to be an excellent place to trap him. I was never so happy to be a book packrat. Or is that a bookrat? Ranger was none too happy, and who can blame him? He’d had free run of the house, so it was like moving out of the Taj Mahal and into a one room trailer. He was in a foul mood, and proved it with a couple of knock down – drag outs with his old roommate.

I never found out whether his mouse friend kicked him out, but later that day I saw the mouse trying to fit an entire soda cracker through its doorway. Eating for two? How friendly they were, I don’t know – can hamsters and mice cross breed? Was I in danger of being overrun by white mice, bent on freeing their dad? I’ve had a few disturbing nightmares.

All I know is, after his brief escape Ranger was awfully squirrely– if you’ll pardon my rodent-themed pun. I feel like I’ve separated Rangero and Julie-rat.

 With blogs like this I've learned to make it abundantly clear: He's OK.

Beowulf is about fourteen, as near as we can figure, which is Methuselah in human years. According to the Bible, Moses lived to be 120; Beowulf is that close to making it to the promised land. What that brings with it, at least for owners, is worry. After all, we've had him for ten years. That's way older than anything ever found in the back of my refrigerator. Except that one time. Let's not talk about that.

So when the side of his face started to get sensitive, we worried. When his snout swelled up to grizzly bear size, it was time for a run to the doggy ER, which does indeed exist. It turns out he had a tooth abscess, which is every bit as horrible as it sounds. He had to be on antibiotics for weeks before they could even think about treating it.

We thought about it, of course. A lot. For three weeks.

 

As you can see, by the time we took him in for the surgery, he was feeling pretty good.

 

I felt guilty about that. Dental work and I have a long history, and there's no "good" about it.

He had a tooth removed, and ended up with stitches where the abscess was, um, abscessing. The first day that didn't bother him much, what with how very, very drugged he was.

"Duuuuddddeeee .... good, good stuff ...."

It got a little harder after that, although we were given pain pills that, it turns out, were for him, not me. Not that he was hungry, but a roll of turkey lunch meat with a lump in it goes a long way.

Every time we coaxed him close to the food he'd lay down, and just look at us. Since getting him in the car for our Pet ER trip is probably how I screwed up my knee a few weeks ago, you can imagine how anxious I was not to move him around. So mostly we let him sleep, although he would periodically stagger to his feet and do his regular patrol.

 

 

 

I know what you're thinking: "But Mark, aren't you taking advantage of Beowulf's medical problem to put out a cheap blog?"

Well, yes. But in my defense, it's not cheap, it's free ... and the subject remains cute and photogenic.

Besides, it's compensation for how I completely freaked out when Emily took the bandage off his leg and I thought I was looking at doggie bone. (I wasn't--they'd just shaved him down to his skin, and I've never seen his skin before.)

The important thing, and let me stress this: He's improving.

 

 


 

Before we start, let me stress: Everyone's doing better.

 

So, how has 2022 been for you, so far? A rerun of the last two years? Me, too.

The first week of the year we had to take Beowulf to the animal hospital in Fort Wayne, and we returned just in time to learn my 96 year old grandmother was being taken to a human hospital with a possible broken hip. This was the day my three day work weekend started: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, 12 hours each. Some of the kids at work like having more days off, but for me it takes a couple of days after to recover.

The horse was not involved with her fall.
 

 But never mind that, the important stuff is as follows: Grandma Nannie (Nannie is her real name) did not have a broken hip, although she did bang it up pretty good. She's going to have to have physical therapy, and as a person married to someone who just finished that, I can tell you it's no fun even for someone younger.

But the good news is that for rehab she's been transferred to Lutheran Life Villages in Kendallville, where she's stayed before, and so at least is not in a pandemic overwhelmed hospital.

I found out about her fall when I got to work Friday night. Earlier in the day I'd laid down to take my pre-work nap, but after about an hour Emily woke me to say the dog needed to go to the vet. Waking me and using the word "vet" are not things she takes lightly.

We had a chore getting Beowulf in the car, and they had to take him into the animal hospital on a cot. If you're not a pet lover, you might not understand just how distressing that is. Well ... it is.

He kept throwing up and stumbling into things, veering constantly to the left. He was like a drunk Democrat. ('Cause--left. It's a joke, like when I had a right leaning lawn mower.) The verdict: Vertigo. The Doc said he had a neurological condition (dog, not Doc), which comes in two types: The "In a few days he'll start doing better" type, or the "would you prefer burial or cremation" type. After numerous tests, the Doc thought it was the "good" one.

With me working twelve hour shifts all weekend, which I can only handle with a dose of melatonin and ten hours of strange dreams in between, it was left to Emily to nurse poor Beowulf through the weekend. (It was Emily who took these pictures of him--she would send pics to me as updates.)

Granted that once the meds took effect he slept a lot, but she had to be near him the whole time for when he woke up and tried to stagger around. Also, she had to give him the meds that we couldn't sneak into food, because the meds made him lose his appetite. Personally, I think she deserves a reward other than a good night's sleep, which she also deserves. Cheesecake?

So that's how the opening of 2022 went for us. Everyone seems on the road to recovery, so I guess you could call that a win, although I'd just as soon not have things like this happen to begin with.

 

ozma914: mustache Firefly (mustache)
( May. 2nd, 2017 05:34 pm)
Sometimes you just have to know where you came from.

But we don't have the money for that, so instead we decided to find out where our dog came from. So Emily found a doggie DNA test on sale and gave it to me as a Christmas present--I mean, she bought the test for me, to give to the dog--never mind. The point is, the results are in! It turns out Baeowulf (that's our spelling, get over it) is ... wait for it ... a dog.

That was kinda anticlimactic.

More specifically, Bae is, like most good Americans, a mutt. Or maybe I shouldn't say like  Americans, since it turns out he's 25% German Shepherd. I believe Emily and I both have some German in our ancestry, so ... coincidence? Well, yeah.

But he's 12.5% each of five other breeds, with a smattering of others. In fact, it would appear that his parents had a party: One was a German Shepherd/Old English Sheepdog/Siberian Husky, and the other was a Collie/Labrador Retriever/White Swiss Shepherd. So, just as my wife and I have Cherokee in us, Bae has Shepherd on both sides. Awkward family reunions.

I saw definite connections in some of what the company claims are common breed behaviors. For instance:

They say German Shepherds can vary from calm and watchful to energetic. This describes Bae: for instance, calm and half-asleep until the moment the mail arrives, followed by him trying to break the door down like a TV cop. He's completely guilt-free about it: "Dude, he came onto my porch. My porch! All I want is a leg."

Then there's the Collie, which like most of the others is described as intelligent. According to Wisdom Panel they're usually friendly, but can be wary of strangers. That fits: Bae is wary of strangers until the moment he gets that first pat on the head, then he's in love--as long as you don't mess with Mom Emily.

The Lab, in addition to meeting the other descriptions, can be very food motivated. Bae can be asleep in the other corner of the house, but if we even think about the kitchen he'll come running as if the postman is in it.

The English Sheepdog can be motivated by food too, and favorite toys, but he can be stubborn. Try to get Bae to take a pill or a shower, and he's stubborn as a politician guarding his taxes.

The Siberian Husky may chase wildlife. Bae will chase wildlife. And if it moves, it's wildlife.

Then there's the White Swiss Shepherd. Raciiisstttt!!!! The White ... um, let's call him the Swiss ... can be aggressive with other pets or people. Bae usually isn't, unless he and Emily are alone and anyone comes within a mile of her. Then they will be eaten, and killed. Hopefully not in that order.

Finally there was the "Mixed-breed" group, which made up the last 12.5%. Basically the DNA tests found evidence of those groups from way back in Bae's ancestry, just like I go Irish if you search back to the early 1700s. To paraphrase a line from "Stripes", we've been kicked out of every decent country in the world.

Part is the Asian groups, which shockingly are compromised of breeds from Asia--and the Arctic. That's Malamute, Shar-Pei, and Chow, for instance. They're often bred for guarding, which explains why even I can't approach my wife without getting Bae's attention.

Part is the Sighthound Group, which were old breeds often owned by royalty. You got your Greyhounds, you got your Wolfhounds, you got your Whippet--Whippet good. (You older music buffs, you'll get that one.) No, I don't know why kings and princes wanted fast dogs. To chase queens and princesses? There'll be a Disney movie about this.

Finally comes the Terrier group. I didn't see that coming. They were bred to hunt and kill vermin, such as mice, rats, and politicians. I guess I should have seen that coming, since all Bae has to do is smell one of those from a distance and he's in jumping and biting mode--came in real handy during the election. Still, I have a hard time relating a 95 pound dog to a Chihuahua.

Apparently they tested for 200-250 breeds, which is pretty impressive. We expected he might have some wolf in him, but that--they call it Wild Canids--came up negative, as did Companion, Guard, Hounds, Mountain, Middle East, and African breeds.

Just the same, I think he does companion just fine.

.

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