Close Calls

When I was on restricted activity post-op, I arranged for the neighbors down the street to come and feed the animals and especially, to take Llewellyn out to the alley to do his business. If I had him properly leash trained I could've done it myself early on, but noooo, he's still tugging and pulling at the best of times. And if he sees another dog, it's Katie, bar the door! Definitely in the category of Heavy Lifting.

But about two weeks before I was cleared for regular activity, the teenaged kid from the family that was helping me told me they couldn't find my house key. For a few days, he'd ring the bell morning and afternoon, I'd let him in, and he'd take the dog out. And late at night, at bedtime, I could take Llewellyn out off-leash, since nobody walks their dog in the alley at that hour.

But gradually, none of my helpers from down the block came at all. It was up to me. Whattodo, whattodo . . . ? Ah. Midnight trip, as before. Daylight potty breaks, I let Llewellyn run down to the back gate and I'd get him secured when I got there. Then, "Sit!" He sits. I put the leash on him. "Wait!" He waits. I open the back gate, carefully, carefully . . . I stick my head out, and sweep the scene, up and down the alley. No dogs. "OK!" And out we'd come, Llewellyn would do his business on a relaxed leash, and I wouldn't get my stitches pulled and he wouldn't be menacing other people's pets.

This worked so well, that last week, I got careless. I didn't take the time I should've to make sure the coast was clear. And for three straight mornings, at different times each day, I just missed letting my fear-agressive mutt into the alley right in the path of a neighbor and his little brown dachshund!

I do not know how Llewellyn didn't nose that dog and go off after him, but I guess he had other business to attend to.

Unless . . . ?

Not sure when it was, last Friday or Saturday, but we were out there so he could do his business. And a couple houses down the alley, two young guys I didn't know were standing by a car, I guess waiting for their friend to get home. Then I heard a jingling as of dogtags, and yes, they had a little mutt on a leash, right where Llewellyn could see him. And Llewellyn did see him. And did nothing, except finish his business.

Then yesterday, the neighborhood children were out in force, accompanied by the big Dobie owned by the family on the corner. Vader, who is always off-leash, lay down in the next-door neighbors' yard, not twenty feet from my front entrance. Where the door was open. And Llewellyn was sitting right behind the screen. Did he go crazy? No, he didn't. In fact, the kindergartners and I did some training with some doggie treats I brought out. Llewellyn got treats for sitting nicely behind the door and not barking at Vader, and Vader got treats for chilling out and not coming any farther into Llewellyn's territory.

All seemed well. Until the one preschooler in the group ran into my house to get something, and let the door hang open when she came back out. And out Llewellyn came with her, starting down the front steps, with the child's pet Doberman just a long leap away.

But . . . Llewellyn wasn't running, or barking, or attacking. He was just ambling out, enjoying the fun, wanting to be outside with all the kids who like to pet him and spoil him rotten. Had to spoil his fun, of course. "Llewellyn, back in the house. Now."

He went. Dare I say he might be getting an eensie bit more dog-socialized? If so, I wish I knew what we were doing right. I hate having to be so careful of him now-- and I know he'd love it if he could get over his fear and get out and play and frolic with other dogs.

A Seedy Post

The birdfeeder is outside my dining room window. To get to it you have to go out the door on the other side of the house, around the front, and back along the other side to where the feeder hangers from its wrought iron shepherd's crook.

There's still a lot of snow on the ground. Deep snow, that I don't want to tromp through.

I have, not a ten-foot, but a four-foot pole, with a hook on the end, that I made for fishing things out from under bushes (mostly plastic grocery bags that the wind blows out of my dog-doo collecting stock on the back porch. But I anticipate). This winter I have discovered, that if I open the dining room window and lean out, this pole is long enough for me to hook the birdfeeder, fetch it in, refill it, and hang it back on the crook.

(This may explain why my natural gas bill was so high last month, but let's not think painful thoughts.)

On Friday, I fetched the feeder in and poured in the mixed seed from the big popcorn tin under the window. I hung the suet holder on the plastic hook under the feeder, then, having placed the feeder bale on my pole hook, I leaned out, out, out the window to hang it up.

Oopsie!

This time, I missed. Feeder and suet cage crashed to the ground. And this time I could've used a ten-foot pole.

Rats. Gotta go out in the snow regardless.

Picked my way along the partly-thawed strip along the front border and crunch, crunch, crunch into the side yard. Where I discovered that the plastic hook on the birdfeeder was broken.

Oh, well. I hung the suet holder on the shepherd's crook, too, and came back inside.

1. Where I discovered that
   I had neglected to put the lid on the birdseed tin before I went outside, and


2. There was a biiiiggggg dent in the birdseed and scads of millet and sunflower seeds and cracked corn scattered across the floor, and


3. Llewellyn was happily helping himself to it all.

If I had any question that it was he who'd caused the birdseed level to drop so precipitously, it was settled in a few hours when I took him out to do his business. You'd think my dog had turned into a canine seed drill. Doubt the birds will want them any more, sauced as they are with essense of doggie digestive tract, but I do have to wonder if any of this stuff will sprout when Spring finally comes.

After all, it works that way with birds.

Cooooolllldddd Feeeeeeettttsss!!

This morning, the guy on the radio said the air temperature was seven-below-zero F.

Llewellyn and I went out to the alley so he could take care of his business. After he'd done his wee, he started looking around for the best place to deposit his poo. But before he'd made even one complete pass over the available ground, he was lifting up one paw, then another, then another. Then he tried to lift several up at once.

"Hurry up, Llellyn, hurry!"

He veered away from the snow-mounded grass strip by the fence and headed out into the ice-packed alley. It only made things worse. If my poor dog could have found a way to levitate, he would have.

That does it. No waiting for a No. 2 this trip! So I called him back inside the gate to return to the house. But he couldn't even walk the length of the backyard, his pads were so miserably cold.

Well. When I adopted Llewellyn, I was looking for a dog that would be a) big enough to hug, b) big enough to intimidate strangers who arrived with dubious intentions, and c) small enough for me to pick up and carry if it was ever ill. At 45 pounds I figured he fit all three criteria. Now, obviously, I'd have to test assumption No. 3.

So I picked my dog up and carried him back to the house. He wasn't as heavy as I'd expected. And as I carried him, he turned his head and looked into my face with relief in his big limpid red-brown eyes. If dogs can say Thank you, I think mine just had.

Sloppy

There’s been snow on the ground the past week or so, hard, crusty snow that gets added to at irregular intervals.

Today’s addition was three inches of wet whipped cream, slushy and mixed with rain, falling in a temperature that hovered around 33 degrees . Your boots (tall ones, not the ankle kind) squelch through the gelid, pitted mixture, sploosh, sploosh, sploosh, even on the sidewalk you’ve attempted to shovel and then sprinkled with rock salt. It’s sloppier than Sandy Berger at the National Archives.

Well, I just took Llewellyn out for his night time constitutional. And between the old ice and the new semi-frozen puddles, I couldn’t get the back gate open more than 2"!

I pulled him up on the rock (and snow) covered mound next to the gate where my Norway maple is planted and convinced him it’s ok to pee there.

But he would not do his No. 2. Since October, he knows that’s done Outside. In the alley. He even went and sat down in the slush and looked expectantly out the gap.

So I tried taking him out and around to the alley via the side gate. And it’s frozen shut as well!

Okay, not totally. I could push it open enough for him to get out. And for me to get out, probably, too.

But I didn’t dare. I could see me not being able to squeeze back in. I could visualize impaling myself on the latch bolt. And the only unlocked door and the spare key are both at the back of the house, through that gate.

Gave up, pulled Llewellyn back in, and now I couldn’t shut the side gate, even to latch it!

Came back inside. But Llewellyn really needed to go. All right, I’d take him out and around the block by way of the basement door.

Oh, no, no! My dog wouldn’t let me do that! He knows he’s not allowed down the basement stairs! Not even I would be permitted to tempt him down them!

Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry, puppy.

So we went out the front door (the one that won’t latch), which meant using the key. Llewellyn was so thrilled with getting to go out front that he nearly forgot what the purpose of the trip was. As he hauled me splooshing along the futilely cleared sidewalks, I could just see him pulling me over and me falling down in a great frigid splash!

But we got past next door's house, and next door's to them, and along the side street, and around back with no more than wet paws and cold boots. Once he saw his usual strip of real estate between my fence and the alley, he did his business in short order.

And then waited to be let in through the back gate, as usual.

Not tonight, doggie. And if it freezes tonight as the forecasters say, not tomorrow morning, either.

Oh, joy.

Beside the Point

My Llewellyn is, as far as I can determine, a muttly mix of collie, beagle, and pointer. When he's indoors, the shepherd side of him rules his doggie behaviour: He's continually trying to herd the cats. I can see a kitten up on the wrong surface in another room and chide, "Huw! Get down!" and Llewellyn is immediately off after that feline, to nip him into line.

Outside, however, his hunting dog heritage comes into play. Especially the pointer part. I'll have him out the back gate in the alley at 2:00 in the morning in the freezing cold to do his business. And suddenly, he'll pick up the scent of something. What is it? Rabbit? Raccoon? Skunk?

No matter. His body goes stiff and straight, his tail takes a rigid right-angle curve, his ears prick up, his eyes shoot laser-like straight ahead, and up comes his forepaw in a steady, determined point.

It's a beautiful point, a focussed, concentrated point. Trouble is, when he points, he doesn't poop. He can be hunkering down into his squat, ready to do what we came out in the alley for, when suddenly the message of the nose overrides all else. Poooiiiiinnnnttt!!!!

And there I am, out in the back alley in the middle of a brass-monkeys frigid night, and my dog is homed in on some hidden rabbit, raccoon, or skunk. "Business, Llewellyn, business!" I stage whisper (so not to disturb the neighbors). But he hears me not: he's Pointing. I try gently pulling him over to an old pooping place, to give him the idea. No: Soon as I let up the tension, he's reassumed the stance and is resolutely pointing again. The only way to get him out of it is forceably to jerk his leash.

But by then, all hope of his producing anything is dried up and gone. I can only take him in and pray he holds his biscuits till we go out again in the light of day.

Nice to have such a talented dog. Too bad it's a talent I have no use for.

Good Dog!

I confess it: I haven't done any systematic training with my dog Llewellyn since that abortive attempt at dog class last spring. The one where he dragged me through the grass trying to get his fangs into the neck of another owner's dog.

No, everything I do in the training line is casual: Sometimes making him sit before I put down his food bowl. Telling him "Naughty!" when he swipes stuff off the counter or gets too pushy with the cats. Putting him into a Stay while I go down the basement to fetch something, hoping to goodness he obeys and doesn't swipe anything off the counter. That sort of thing.

But nothing so far has broken him of the habit of flinging himself at the back door whenever he believes he just might get to go out. Nothing could ever curb his enthusiasm, or prevent him from taking flying leaps worthy of Barishnikov in his prime.

Until now.

The last couple of days, I've noticed that when it comes time for him to want to go out back and do his business, Llewellyn has been sitting down calmly in the corner next to the back door. Where he looks at me like, "OK, get the leash, I'm ready to go!" And stays sitting until I get the leash on him and we're out the door.

How on earth did he teach himself that? Because I certainly didn't!

Amazing.

Good dog!

Teaching a Young Dog New Tricks

The grass in the near end of my backyard is a mess.

Correction: The bare dirt in the near end of my backyard is a mess. Thanks to my doggie Llewellyn and his little gifts and deposits over the past year and a half, it might be, oh, maybe one-quarter covered with grass?

And not happy grass, either.

This I need to do something about before the warm fall weather goes away.

Never mind why I didn't rake out the dead matter until yesterday. I had my reasons. But now it's done. Hopefully, I'll get the area reseeded by Saturday. Can I let my poor dear dog range free out there and do his business as usual?

No, I can not.

So since last night, Llewellyn's doing his business on the leash, out the back gate, in the grass next to the alley. Back there, I don't care if the vegetation gets killed. Good riddance to it.

The surprising thing is that he's not pulling on the leash half as much as he does when I try to take him for a walk out front. And this is in spite of the fact that he chewed through his Halti collar when he freaked out at the vet's in July!

In fact, the one needing the discipline is most likely to be me. I start an early class tomorrow, and it'd be soooooo much easier on cold crisp dark mornings to just let him run out the back door . . . ! Especially if I'm running late.

Llewellyn, he's enjoying himself so much, he's forgetting to be a prat on the leash. Maybe it's the novelty factor. Long may it last.