Hold My Ladder

 

Ladder Holders

One spring day, I had some work to do around our old house.  I had to climb up to the second story to do a bit of work on a window.  This window faced the back of the house.  There was a very narrow ledge for me to stand on beneath the window.

 

I put the ladder against the ledge but did not extend the ladder very far past the ledge.  I climbed the ladder got off onto the ledge and did my repair. 

 

When I turned around to get down, the ledge suddenly shrunk.  It was much smaller than when I had climbed up.  And the ladder was too short.  I didn’t have room to lean over to grasp the ladder.  It was a lightweight aluminum ladder.  And the ground was uneven.  And the wind had come up, threatening to blow me and the ladder to the ground.

 

I simply did not think that I could get down the ladder by myself.  I needed someone at the other end to hold the ladder for me.

 

I looked into the backyard.  Henry was laying under a tree chewing on a stick.  PD was sniffing around the back yard to see what critters had been visiting.

 

I called for Kathy.  No answer.  I called again, a bit louder.  No response.  I may have called a few more times.  And my voice got louder, with a bit of panic in it.  Kathy was deep in the house and could not hear me.

 

I thought.  I knew it was crazy.  All those Lassie movies?  No dog really would go running off to find a family member if you fell in the well.  Would they?  Well, nothing else was working.

 

So, I called out “PD! Henry!”  PD looked over and ran toward the ladder.  Henry continued to be involved with his stick.  PD looked up at me, with his head cocked to one side, and his ears pricked forward. 

“Go get momma!” I said, in desperation.  “Go get mamma!” I repeated.  PD ran over to the back door and ….

and ….

 

… he barked!  PD started barking and barking.  Kathy could not hear my voice when she was in the house.  But she DID hear PD’s bark.  Kathy came to the back door to see what PD was barking at. 

 

Finally!  Kathy was at the door and she was close enough to hear me.  I called down to her and asked her to help me get down, which she did. PD, the brilliant dog that he was, managed to get just the help I needed.

With Kathy holding onto the ladder, I felt safe stepping off of the ledge and climbing down.  I had never before realized how important a ladder holder is.

Kathy has helped me go up and down a lot of ladders since then.  She always warns me that she is not strong enough to hold the ladder if it starts to fall.  But that’s not the point.  The point is that she adds that sense of security, that sense of stability, and that sense of safety that I need in order to do whatever job it is that needs to get done.

Your ladder holder may complain that they are too weak or believe that they did very little to help you.  But the truth is, they have the most important job.

Ladder holders are important in this world.  They are the unsung heroes that help people do the scary, dangerous jobs at the top of the ladder.  They are the support that we need to accomplish our goals in life.  We all dream of doing something that is just beyond our reach.  And we all need that one person, no matter how small, no matter how weak, to just hold the ladder while we reach out and achieve what we could not have achieved without them.

There is currently a phrase that foretells someone is about to do something stupid by themselves: “Hold my beer.” 

I think that there should be a new phrase to indicate someone is about to do something brave and that reflects the presence of a loving relationship: “Hold my ladder.”

I just want to say thank you to Kathy, my main ladder holder, and thank you to all of the other people in my life who have held ladders for me.  Everyone of you are special, important people in my life.

"Nana"

Some people have a death date that is befitting their life.  Kathy’s grandmother was one of those lucky people who died on just the right day.  She died on a day that ensured a long legacy.

Kathy has really strong, loving memories of her father’s mother.  She remembers standing at her elbow in the kitchen, watching her make dumplin’s for the family’s famous Chicken N’ Dumplins. 

I think there are only three people alive who know the secret process of building this meal: Kathy and two of her cousins.  Maybe only one cousin.

I call it a process rather than a recipe.  Kathy can’t give out the recipe.  A recipe exists, but the only way to produce this dish to perfection is through apprenticeship.  The feel of how much salt to add is a muscle and sensory feeling, not a precise measurement.  How long to roll the dough is not measured by the clock.  It is measured by the sight, the texture, the heft.  There is even a technique that must be mastered in the way strips of dough are dropped into the boiling chicken stock.

I suspect the amount of love put into the meal is also a part of the process.  And Kathy was fortunate enough to absorb that love, standing side by side, watching, touching, and feeling the process.

Her grandmother was called “Nana” and besides being an incredible cook she also had a boisterous, playful side.  Very few photos of her still exist.  We have a series of three pictures of an epic battle between a 7- or 8-year-old Kathy and Nana.  It is a truly rare moment caught on camera.

Nana and Kathy stand only yards apart.  Each armed and ready to attack the other.  But it is obvious that Kathy is the loser of this battle as she is ducking her curly red head in anticipation of the blow she is about to receive.  Nana’s face is split into a wide grin as she gleefully taunts her granddaughter.  Her arm is cocked back as she is ready to throw her weapon.

You can almost hear the soft thud of the snowball as it hits its mark.  You can hear the giggles coming from the little girl and Nana’s cackle of laughter.

Did I say this was a rare moment?  Indeed, it was rare.  Not because of Nana’s lack of a playful nature.  But, because it only snows about once every 10 to 20 years in Kathy’s hometown.

Nana was always ready to pitch in and take her granddaughters to places they needed to go.  Kathy always found the rides exciting.  I don’t think Nana roared down the two-lane highways at break-neck speed.  And she didn’t burn rubber or weave from side to side. 

She did, however, like to tell the girls that she knew the road so well she could drive it with her eyes closed.  Kathy would watch in horror as Nana's right eye squeezed shut.  I think Kathy convinced herself that Nana kept the other eye open so it just “looked like” her eyes were shut.  But there was always that doubt.  Maybe they really were both closed.  You couldn’t tell with Nana.

Nana wasn’t supposed to die before Gus, her husband.  Gus was the one with heart problems.  It was Gus who had the life-threatening illness.  Nana was the one who was healthy.  But she did die first.  She died on April 1, 1968.

I never got to meet her.  She died a little over a year before Kathy and I discovered each other.  But from what I learned about her; I believe she selected her death day.  In life she was fun loving and mischievous.  I think she liked to keep people guessing.  Just like driving the car; did she really close both eyes, or not?  And so, she passed away on April Fool’s Day.  Is she really dead, or not?

I think not.  I think she still lives through the fond memories of her granddaughters.

And through Chicken N’ Dumplins.

And through her name, Nana, being passed down to Kathy’s mother, and now to Kathy.

From what I can see of our granddaughters, Nana’s boisterous playful spirit exists in our granddaughters.  And maybe one of them will someday be called Nana. And hopefully, so will the process of Chicken N’ Dumplins. 

POST #47: THE LAST DOG BLOG (more to come)

So far, my 30 Plus years of dog ownership have taught me that I always have more to learn.  I should never be complacent in thinking I know the right way to do things.

 

I have learned that dogs can fly.

 

I have learned about trust and I have learned about the value of being dependable.

I have learned about silent companionship.

 

I have learned about forgiveness.

 

I have learned about jealousy.

 

I have learned how to be a better neighbor.

I have learned the importance of a good veterinarian.

 

I have learned about aging gracefully and acceptance of the physical changes that come with age.

 

I have learned about showing respect.

 

I have learned to never underestimate a dog’s loyalty.  Do not ever underestimate his or her ability to be protective of the pack.

 

I have learned that dogs can climb trees.  But that they need help coming back down.

 

I have learned that sleeping with dogs is not such a bad thing.  Unless it is in the summer and you have no air conditioning.

 

I have learned how to be brave even when facing an unknown threat.

I have learned the value of teamwork when facing down a threat.

 

I have learned how to step in and help or to take charge when others are scared.

I have learned a lot about unconditional love.  Loving someone and being loyal to them is possible even when you have been neglected and left outside to fend for yourself.

I have learned about the depth of grief for the loss of a loved one, and the sense of powerlessness when you watch the loved one die, or the guilt over feeling that you haven’t done everything in your power to stop the loss.

 

I have learned that sometimes you really can’t undo your past.  All you can do is learn from your mistakes and go forward.  I have learned that mistakes hurt.  But, if you pay attention you really do become a better person.

Living with dogs has helped me grow in my own capacities for human emotions.  Many folks say that a dog is an animal, and animals do not have the capacity for emotion.  A dog’s place was outside according to my grandparents.  They were part of the livestock, and they had a job to do: protect the other livestock. I’ve had friends tell me they would never allow a dog into their house because they are messy and dirty. 

I got mixed messages from my parents while growing up.  Sometimes our dogs would be allowed inside, but my parents’ attitude still seemed to be one of “they are only animals.”

I shared that opinion when we got our first dog, Spike, and continued with our second dog, Katie.  We wouldn’t let them in the house, except on rare occasions.  We treated them more like animals than family members. 

Opening our home to PD, and then Henry, and then Frank has really changed my mind about a dog’s capacity for emotion.  These dogs, pets, family members have changed my mind about my capacity to learn of my own humanity and emotional attachments.

They’ve also changed my mind about dirt.  I mean really, is dirt that evil?  People lived on dirt floors for centuries, and it brushes right off.  Surely it isn’t healthy for you to avoid contact with all dirt.

Whether they were outdoors dogs or inside dogs, they have all helped me learn about unconditional love, and all of the emotions that come along with that kind of love.

My dogs will continue to amaze me and to amuse me.  And I am sure there are new lessons out there for me to learn from PD and Frank.  But for now, it is time to say goodbye to those of you who have been reading along with me.  It is time to put these musing about living with dogs aside.  I have enjoyed writing these memories.  The writings have helped to examine my own thoughts, feelings and behavior, and have helped me gain some self-insight.  Hopefully, these have been of interest to you, the reader, as well.

Thank you Spike.  Thank you Katie, Thank you Henry.  Thank you PD and Frank for the lessons you have taught me.

And thank you, Reader, for following along as I’ve relived the adventures I have shared with these wonderful family members.  

POST #46: DOGGY ADDICTION

Frank has an addiction.  I know this is an addiction because he spends all of his time and energy trying to get to this substance.  He continues to seek it, despite experiencing negative consequences.  And it seems like he craves more and more.  Those are all signs of an addiction.

His addictive substance?

Frogs!

 

Frank spends all evening looking for them.  Unfortunately, this year happened to be exceptionally wet during the spring and early summer.  Which means that this is an exceptionally froggy year.

It started out innocently enough.  We had a couple of toads in our backyard in our little patio home on Balboa.  Frank pursued just one toad.  We were able to stop him from eating it, but Frank remembered the bitter taste, and he remembered the thrill of the hunt.

Yes, Frank is a thrill-seeker, too.

 

Most toads and frogs emit a toxic substance through their skin.  This is supposed to discourage predators from eating them.  Frank, on the other hand, seems to enjoy the taste, the bitterness, and tingly sensation in his mouth, and the way his saliva will start foaming out of his mouth.  He sees nothing wrong with shaking his head and slinging slobber all over the floor, himself, and anyone who happens to be standing nearby.  Slinging the foamy slobber onto his face and back allows him to actually wear the frog toxin.  Maybe this is some kind of badge of achievement among those dogs who are addicted to frogs.  Maybe it just serves to remind him of the fun and joy he’s had chasing down the frogs.

PD and Henry both went through a phase when they thought frogs were worthy prey.  But they both grew tired of the game, and they didn’t care for the after – effects of the foamy mouth.

Frank, however, just can’t seem to get enough.

 

This has been a year of rain, rather than drought.  And with so many years of drought behind us, the few surviving frogs in the area got busy making tadpoles.  I cannot take a single step into my yard without setting at least three frogs into motion.

And Frank wants to play with every one of them.  Frank is mostly addicted to the chase.  When he finds a frog, he will start by barking.  Most prey know that it is best to sit still, try to blend into the background, and hope the predator can’t see them.  So, when Frank starts barking, the frogs will freeze in place.

This is not what Frank wants!  He wants a chase.  So, he puts his nose, and sometimes his mouth, on the frog.  The frog jumps.  Frank is happy.  His tail wags.  And he barks again.  He wants more!  Frank keeps barking at the frog to keep it moving.  Every time the frog stops, Frank touches it to get it going again.  Sometimes, the poor frog gets really tired.  Frank has to get more aggressive, giving the frog a little nip.  This is usually when his mouth starts to foam, and the excitement grows.

 

Unfortunately, Frank will get too aggressive at times.  He’ll accidently kill the frog.  I don’t think Frank intends to do this.  I’m not real sure he understands what he’s done.  Frank will keep barking and lunging at the poor dead frog.  He just doesn’t understand why the frog has quit jumping.  His toy is broken, and he can’t get it to move again.

Eventually, Frank will give up and go inside. 

When possible, I will go outside and intervene in the frog’s (and neighbors’) behalf.  Sometimes, a simple command to “settle” will be enough.  But usually, I have to try to stand between Frank and the frog so that I can herd Frank back into the house.

The frog never seems to understand that I am on his side.  The result is that the three of us do this silly dance, going in circles.  Frank is trying to get to the frog.  The frog is trying to get away from both of us.  And I’m trying to figure out where the frog went so that I can get between the other two.  During this dance, I am also challenged with trying to not step on the frog.

I’m looking forward to cooler weather and fewer frogs.

Post # 45: Rabbits!

Wife has started raising a Spring/Summer garden in our backyard. She worried about the dogs getting into her garden the first year that she planted.  So I put a small fence around her little plot.

The vegetables grew and produced an abundance of produce.  But, it was difficult to step over the fence.  She worried about snakes. And she worried that everything was crowded.

The second year saw a larger garden plot with fewer plants and no fence.  This was also the year of the heavy rains and some flooding in May and June.  The garden didn’t do very well with that much water.

This was also the year that PD decided he liked squash plants.   Not the squash vegetable.  Just the plant itself, the stalk.  Over a period of a month, PD ripped out one plant after the other.  He would tug on the plant, pulling it out by its roots.  Then, PD would drag the plant out of the garden and settle down for a luscious meal of Squash Plant.

Wife and I had been worried about rabbits, not dogs.

It turns out that we were right to worry about rabbits, too.

Twice I had come home and spotted a rabbit in our back yard.  I quickly alerted Wife and had her seal off the back door.  Neither one of us wanted to watch our dogs tear up a rabbit.  We had chicken wire along the back fence to deep our dogs in the yard and other critters out.  Apparently the fence only worked on our dogs. 

I knew that the rabbit had figured out a way to breach the chicken wire.  But I also figured there would only be one or two ways in and out of that fence.  I was worried that in its panic to get away from the dogs, the rabbit would get trapped and we’d have a slaughter.

In each instance I was able to go into the back yard without the dogs, and herd the rabbit back to whatever hole it had dug or chewed to get in.

One evening, Wife and I were sitting on the porch enjoying our freshly mowed lawn.  Frank started barking at something I couldn’t see.  Wife had a better view and told me it was a rabbit.

I walked over and started “shushing” Frank.

It was just a poor baby rabbit.  The little guy was all hunkered down, trying to be still.  Despite his best effort at looking like a rock, he was trembling. 

I was able to pick up Frank.  We called PD, who obediently followed us into the house.  We closed off the dogs and I went back outside.

The bunny had hopped over to the brick border around a tree.  He sat there with his face to the wall.  I guess he thought he was hiding.  Wife was watching from the window.  He was so small.  She said that he just kind of fell over onto his side on uneven ground.

We just knew that his momma had to be nearby somewhere.  So we kept the doggy door shut and waited a couple of hours.

Two hours later, and he was still in our back yard.  Still in danger.

I scooped him up, carried him to the fence and put him gently on the other side.  That should take care him, right?

That evening just before bed time, we let the dogs out to take care of business.  And they did.  And for Frank, taking care of business included discovering that the bunny had come back into our yard.

Frank started his barking at the bunny.  He was a little afraid of it, since he had no idea what this critter was.  I walked over to get Frank but he kept avoiding me.  Then, the bunny turned around and lunged at Frank.  This little tiny thing decided he was tired of Frank’s noise.  So he lunged, not just hopped, but an aggressive lunge.  Frank backed off and into my waiting hands.

We left the little rabbit alone in the yard and locked the dogs inside for the night.  Surely, by morning the rabbit’s momma will have found him and escorted him home.

The next morning, I did a quick walk around the backyard, looking for the little rabbit.  I saw nothing, so we let the dogs out of the house.  It wasn’t long before we heard Frank barking.  What I couldn’t see, Frank managed to sniff out.  That little bunny was still in the back yard.

Back in the house went the dogs.  I scooped up the little fella and placed him in a small cage.  Then I went back into the house and got on the computer to do a bit of research.  My granddaughter had raised a rabbit for 4-H just a few months ago.  I was wondering if this rabbit might be turned into a pet for her.

Or maybe I could find a shelter for the rabbit.  It was plain this baby’s momma just didn’t care.  And he didn’t seem to be very bright.  I learned that baby rabbits’ nests often loo

k like the piles of grass we had all over our yard after mowing.  So maybe he just got turned around.

I also learned that it is very hard for a young bunny to survive as pets.  They are much more hardy than you expect, and usually do quite well on their own.  Better, in fact than they do when people try to make them pets.

So, I pulled out my folding ladder and climbed over into our neighbor’s property with the cage.  I walked a bit into their property, and behind some brush and released the rabbit back into the wild.

We’ve not seen any rabbits since then.  I don’t know whether he survived, if he found his nest or his momma.  But in Wife’s imagination, he made it back home safely and is still out there in the brush romping around with his brothers, sisters, momma, and daddy.

Of course, Wife isn’t really all that naïve.  She pointed out to me that her google search revealed that rabbits are food for everything else.  “Why do they have to make them so cute?” she asks. 

Maybe rabbits could look a little more like possums?

POST #44: ZOOMIES

When we lived in Aransas Pass and both PD and Henry were young, Wife and I would often sit outside in the evenings.  We would enjoy the sea breeze and the cool shade of our Live Oak trees. 

PD and Henry were full of youthful energy.  They would often entertain us by chasing each other around the yard.  PD would chase Henry around the shed, under the lawn chairs and around the trees.  We’d watch and laugh when Henry would sometimes take a break in the game.  Henry would gain distance from PD and then stop once he was out of PD’s sight.  Then he’d sit in the grass and watch PD continue to run around the course, thinking Henry was just ahead of him.  When he got tired of watching PD run by him self, Henry would take off in the opposite direction.  The two would cross paths at a high rate of speed, barely missing each other, like the Blue Angels with their thrilling in-air stunts.

Sometimes the two of them would come crashing into one of the chairs as they misjudged the turn.  Or Henry would broad-side PD and send PD rolling through the grass.

Wife and I just saw this as an interactive game of chase and enjoyed the show.

When Frank came along, PD was already too old to play chase.  But Frank was young and full of joyful exuberance.  He wanted to play and needed to release his pent up energy.  Wife and I had become busier in our lives and spent less time walking the dogs, or even sitting out in the back yard.

What’s a young, high-energy dachshund supposed to do when surrounded by a bunch of “old fogies?” 

The answer is “Zoomies!”  I have to thank the Dachshund-Talk forum for giving me a name for this phenomenon.  Without them, I would have never known what to call it.  Zoomies describes the action perfectly.

They started when we were still living in the old house in Aransas Pass.  Every evening around meal time, we would hear the clatter of toe nails on hardwood as Frank would jump off the love seat in the TV room.  We’d look up in time to see a brown and white streak flying past the kitchen door toward the living room.  Then Frank would come racing back and making a hard left turn into the kitchen.  

With the hardwood floor, he would almost always overshoot the mark, sliding past the door as his paws scrambled to make purchase, and sometimes slamming into the door frame.  Then Frank would zoom through the kitchen, into the mud room, out the doggy door, back into the mud room, and back through the kitchen.  He’d then hang a left, go back into the TV room, fly onto the loveseat, jump off, and start the whole course all over.

Frank did this with his tail wagging, and a look of joy on his face.  Usually two or three trips around the house like this, and then the Zoomies stopped, just as suddenly as they began.  He walked calmly into the kitchen and get a drink of water as if nothing unusual had happened.

Frank continued to run his Zoomies in our little patio home and he still has them in our new home.  We have a bit more of the floor covered with carpeting, and he seems thankful for that.  The paths he invents have altered a bit to accommodate the shape of the house and then number of rooms available to him.  But the behavior and the pure joy we see in him has not.

I love Zoomies!

Frank's Zoomies

If none of the videos or links above work, copy and paste on this link:

https://youtu.be/Yq7CX7Wryc0

Post #43: Moles in the yard

PD has established his dominance over Frank, and Frank pretty much accepts his place in the pecking order.  While it is sad for us to watch Frank’s insecurity around PD there have not been anymore major fights between the two.

Frank enjoys our backyard and he usually takes advantage of the ramps we have around the house. But, he still manages to surprise us by flying on to chairs, tables, and even the bed.

Frank has filled out nicely. He is no longer the skeleton he once was. However, he can no longer fly as high or as far as he once did. Still, he does pretty good.

Frank has learned to ask for attention when he wants it. And, he can be really persistent. He will work his muzzle under our hands and then onto top of his head. It doesn’t take long to figure out that Frank has a pair of ears that need to be massaged or chest that needs to be rubbed.

Frank also does his best to earn his keep as a house dog.

When we first moved to our new house, we had mole trails all over our back and front yards. Frank decided that it is his job to hunt them down. I’m pretty good at catching gophers. I know what to look for in a gopher hole, and how to set a gopher trap.  But I’m not so good at catching moles.

On the other hand, Frank has never caught one, either. But that hasn’t stopped him from trying. He is probably one of the most enthusiastic mole hunters that you have ever seen. He spends hours in the backyard digging trenches. I’ll look out the window and see his butt in the air and dirt flying. He’ll dig for a bit, and then he will grab a grass runner and pull and shake and pull some more until that grass runner has come loose. Then Frank will stick his nose in as deep into the earth as he can. Once he has the scent firmly in his nostrils, he will pull his head out, snort, and start digging the trench again. Frank has been at this for about two years.

He’s never caught a thing.

We have a few cats in our neighborhood. Frank and PD will chase them out of the backyard when they see them back there. I don’t mind the cats. I won’t feed them, but I don’t chase them away.  And I try to be careful about not running over any cats when I pull out of the driveway. Unlike the experience we had on 11^th St., we’ve not yet killed any cats in our new home.

There is a large yellow cat that likes to sleep under my truck. I think he’s watched Frank’s futile attempts at catching moles. Sometimes I see him lying in the brush behind our property staring into our yard.  I’m not sure, but he may be smiling while he is watching Frank dig trenches.

Watching Frank’s enthusiastic attempts to catch the moles motivated me into action. I’d done a bit of research and I couldn’t really see that they’re doing a lot of harm. They weren’t killing the grass. In fact, they were probably eating the cinch bugs dining on the roots of my grass.

Sometimes it is a little disconcerting to walk across the lawn and then suddenly sink lower than expected when I step on one of their trails. But that doesn’t happen too often. I’m actually more annoyed by stepping into one of the trenches Frank has dug than I am by stepping onto one of the mole trails.

I have read stories about moles damaging foundations and driveways, but I’m not sure that those stories are true. Most of these stories came from internet sites trying to sell the latest and greatest gadgets for killing moles.  Still, I felt I should do my part to help Frank’s “stamp out the moles” campaign. So I went online, and did some research.

I bought some Super-duper, Extra Large, Guaranteed to Work Mole Traps. I carefully read the instructions, bought some flags to help me carry out those instructions, and set out the next day to mark all of the trails that were crisscrossing our backyard. I’d walk a bit, and when my foot sank down I took a close look at the ground, and if it looked like there might be a mole trail under that grass I’d stick a little red flag into the ground next to where I just stepped.

The idea is that moles do not like to have their active trails shut down. If you step on one and crush the tunnel the mole will come back over overnight and reopen the tunnel.  If you look at the trail the next day, and the trail has been repaired, then you know that you have found an active trail, and that is where you want to set your trap.

By the time I finished, I had about 20 places marked off in our backyard. The next day I went out and selected four spots that I thought might have been reopened. Then I set my traps.

After about a week of hunting down trails and setting traps, I finally got one mole.  I noticed the yellow cat watching me.  Yes, that was definitely a smile.

I was setting traps in the back yard, in the front yard, and in the flower bed.  Only one mole.

One morning, sometime after I’d caught my one and only mole, but before I’d given up, I opened the garage door to go get our newspaper.  There it was.  Just outside the garage door.  The gift from our yellow cat:  a dead mole.

There haven’t been any others. The cat didn’t need to bring us any others.  He just wanted me to know that he could do it.  And he could do it anytime he wanted.

I haven’t had the heart to tell Frank.

And I’ve not bothered to set out any more mole traps.

Post #42: PD’s Criminal Record

PD had a difficult time accepting Frank into our home.  He became very possessive of me.  With Henry, PD was willing to share my lap and willing to share our bed. 

Frank was a lively, friendly dog, but he was not totally welcomed by PD.  PD would stare him down if Frank looked like he wanted to get on the couch with us.  He growled at Frank if he thought he was getting too close to my lap.  Early on, we were able to get both dogs on our laps without much of a problem.

But things began to change.  PD became more aggressive.  When Frank wandered too close to my lap, PD would snap at him.  We had a couple of loud scuffles on the love seat where Wife and I sat to watch television.

Food had become another issue between the two of them.  And part of this aggression, we believe, was due to PD’s having been put on steroids.  It wasn’t too long after PD recovered from his pancreatitis that we figured out he really was having back pain, and he was put on steroids for a while to help with that.

One evening, about three months after Wife and I had brought Frank into our home, PD taught me an important lesson.

Frank had beat PD to my lap and had settled in.  PD came up the ramp and demanded that Frank get off.  He began barking and started to lunge at Frank.  I instinctively put my hand out to block PD’s attack.  PD clamped down on one of my fingers.  I grabbed his jaw (with my finger still in his mouth), flipped him over on his back and did my “aggressive” act to let PD know that his behavior was not acceptable.

When he was looking calmer I withdrew my hand and found a couple of puncture wounds in my finger.

Things got better with PD after that, but we still watch their proximity when I am around.  The two can be best buddies as long as I am not close. 

My First Lesson?  I’ve learned not to stick my hand in front of a growling, barking dog.

DUH!

A couple of days after the biting incident, one of the puncture wounds was turning red.  I was in Victoria at the time and decided to have it checked out by a doctor.  I went to a walk-in clinic, got some antibiotics, and was told I had to wait until the Animal Control folk came out to interview me.

What?

Animal Control showed up and asked me some questions.  Then, they informed me that if PD had been in Victoria they would have required that he be taken to the pound and quarantined and observed for three days. 

They labeled him as an aggressive dog.

Since PD lived in Aransas Pass, they sent a notice to the Aransas Pass Animal Control (APAC), and it would be up to APAC to decide what to do with him.  Thank goodness they didn’t file extradition papers on PD.

A day later, the APAC knocked on our door in Aransas Pass.  Wife opened the door and PD and Frank ran out onto the porch to greet the Animal Control Officer.  Thank goodness PD wasn’t in one of his barky moods.  The officer saw the wagging tails and experienced PD’s submissive peeing (did he get her on the foot?  I think not) when she bent over to pat PD on the top of the head.

She said she could tell that PD was not an aggressive dog.  And she understood that bite was due to circumstances, after Wife explained what happened.

But, she also warned us that the dog bite is now “on his record.”  Another bite could result in his being put down because he is an aggressive dog.

The Second Lesson I’ve learned is that my family pets are just two bites away (well, PD is only one bite away) from being taken from me.

I realized that PD was aggressive around Frank, and he didn’t really like kids, but I never thought of him as a danger to the public at large.  But now he has a record.  He has one strike against him in a two strikes and you’re out system.

In my work, I do risk assessment on offenders.  How likely are they to “recidivate” or commit the same crime again?  I began to wonder if there were any assessment instruments or psychological tests out there that I could administer to PD.  Maybe I can do an assessment and show that he isn’t really a high risk dog.  He has to register every year, but that’s just for rabies.  

At least they don’t have his mug shot in a book down at the dog pound.

Post #41: PD’s Third Miracle

PD’s third encounter with near death was also his closest call.  PD was eight years old.  Wife and I were trying to live in two places in two cities.  I had closed my private practice in Rockport and began a full-time position as faculty at the University of Houston – Victoria.  I would stay in Victoria for three or four days a week, and then would stay in Aransas Pass for three or four days.

PD began acting strangely on one Sunday in Aransas Pass.  He was depressed, not moving much, and looked like he was in pain.  This was too soon after Henry went down, and we were still very much worried about dachshund back injuries.  Our first thought was that PD had hurt his back.  Our regular vet was closed and not available. 

I drove PD to the veterinary hospital in Corpus Christi.  I expressed my concerns about PD’s back to the person who did the intake.  The tech took X-rays, the vet looked at them and said she could see some places where he had inflammation of his disc.  She gave PD a shot for his pain.  PD and I left the hospital with a bottle of pain medication, advice to keep him in a crate, and instructions on when to give him his medicine. 

I was supposed to be in Victoria on Monday, and Wife and the dogs were coming with me.  So, we crated PD, packed our things, and headed north.

PD did not get better.  PD continued to be lethargic.  He threw up a couple of times.  He refused to eat.  That was a really big thing.  PD has always been food motivated.  So, any time he refuses to eat, we know something is really wrong.  He also refused to drink.

Wife forced his pain medicine down him, and he threw it right back up.  We decided not to force him to take it again.  By late evening, PD had not had anything to drink.  I took him to his water dish, but he just looked at it.  Then I put some water on my finger and rubbed it around his lips.  That triggered a gagging reflex.  PD was warm and seemed to have a fever.  It was late Sunday evening, and we had no vet resources in Victoria.  We decided to wait it out, and hope that PD would be better in the morning.

He wasn’t.                                                                                                                     

Wife was headed to Temple to spend some time with our grandchildren, but we both knew we needed to get PD back to our vet in Rockport.  

I put PD in the car and drove south to Rockport, while Wife headed north to Temple.  Both of us with prayers for the safety of the other, and for PD to get well.

The vet examined PD and ran some blood tests.  He told me to leave PD with him so they could start him on an IV and get some fluids in him.  He was dehydrated and in pain.  The vet wanted to wait for the lab results and check some other things.  I left and went back to Victoria without PD.  When the vet called, the news was bad.

PD had pancreatitis.  His body was digesting itself.  His liver had shut down.  His kidneys had shut down.  The vet wasn’t sure that PD would live.  He told us that on paper, PD was already a dead dog.

The vet withheld all food and water.  Any food or water consumed by mouth would trigger an enzyme action against his organs.  This is why PD was vomiting and gagged when I forced him to put water in his mouth.  This enzyme action was the means in which his body was digesting itself.  Any fluids or nutrition that PD got would have to be through his IV.

PD stayed at the vet’s for several days.  We spoke to the vet every day.  At first we got encouraging news.  He seemed to be getting better.  But then, PD seemed to be getting worse.  The vet asked us to come and talk to him about taking PD home.  The vet didn’t think that there was anything else he could do for PD.

Wife and I drove to Rockport, to the vet’s office.  We went into the examination room and waited while the vet told us about what he had done for PD.  He told us that PD wasn’t “out of the woods, yet.”

The tech walked in carrying PD.  He saw us and began to wag his tail.  The tech put him on the examining table, and PD was all over us with kisses and tail wags.

The vet smiled and said that was the best he had seen PD act since he had arrived.  He knew that he had done the right thing to get us to come and get him.

PD is now on a low-fat diet, and has not had any further problems with his pancreas.  He is 11 years old now, and is losing some of his eye sight.  He is often in pain because of his back, but Wife does a great job of managing his pain.

As he gets older, he accumulates symptoms that slow us all down.  We do not know how many more years we will have with PD.  We are simply grateful for all of the years that we have had.  We count each day that PD is with us as one more blessing.

Post # 39: Memorial Day Tributes

Frank had a chance to settle in and begin to feel like he was home once we got back from our Mother’s day camping trip.  One of PD’s favorite games was “chicken.”  We had a rubber chicken that I would throw in the back yard, and PD would fetch the chicken.  Sometimes he would bring it back to me.  Sometimes he would sit down at the far end of the yard with chicken and look at me expectantly.  I think Wife taught him the “sit, wait!” part of the game in order to encourage me to get more exercise.  I would walk over to PD pick up Chicken and throw it to another part of the yard.

PD was very possessive of Chicken.  When Frank tried to play, there would be raising of hackles and growling.  So, Frank learned to play with Bone.  I would throw chicken first to get PD going in one direction, and then I’d throw a squeaky Bone in another direction.  Frank would run off to the other side of the yard.

Then I would walk over to PD and pick up Chicken.  Frank learned from PD that he was supposed to wait with his toy.  So I’d have to walk over to Frank and pick up Bone.  Frank was still learning, and interested in making up his own rules.  So sometimes Pig turned into a game of “chase me.”  Once I had both Chicken and Bone in my possession, the games would start again.

Memorial Day arrived, and we honored our World War II veterans at church.  I thought about my father who had died recently and who served near the end of the war in the Philippines.  

George and William Hamilton

I thought about Wife's father and uncle, who also served.

Bill Allen

Don Allen

Bill, Gus (their father) and Don Allen

And I thought about my brother who died shortly after his services as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam.

Kirby Hamilton

Kirby Hamilton

I spent the afternoon digging up memories of loved ones.

Frank spent the afternoon trying to dig up Henry.

Wife looked out the window and told me that Frank was digging up Henry’s grave.  I had buried Henry pretty deep, and so I wasn’t too worried.  Henry was probably three or three and a half feet down.

I casually went outside to see what Frank was doing.  All I could see of Frank was part of his butt and his tail.  He was about half-way down to Henry and digging fast!

I took Frank inside and filled in the hole.  I put a couple of cinder blocks and bricks on top of the soft dirt.  Then we let Frank back outside.

Wife and I have really fond memories of Henry, and we miss him a lot.  But we did not want to see Henry again!

Did I mention that Frank was persistent?

I pulled Frank out of the hole again, and put a large #2 wash tub over one end of the site, and placed the concrete bird bath over the middle.

Frank finally gave up on his Memorial Day tribute to Henry.

I feel bad for Henry, though.  One of his pleasures was keeping the birds out of our yard.  And now, all of the birds would be coming to splash and play right over his head.