Off leash

Saturday night I dreamed Pooka escaped from me, and ended up far across a field, penned in with a vicious pit bull, and I couldn't call her back. When I woke Sunday, I felt jittery about taking her out, nervous that she'd run away from me.

But when we got to the North Beach trail at Discovery Park, the stairs were slippery and I was having a hard time making her heel as we tromped down, so I took a deep breath and unclicked her leash. She did not run away. In fact, she stuck to the trail, listened to my "uh-uh's" when it seemed she might be tempted to dash into the underbrush, and checked in with me often. When we reached the beach, she dashed and sniffed around a bit, but didn't leave my sight. Later, on a longer stretch of sand, she stretched out her stride for a long sprint, then came bounding back when I called. She seemed light and happy. Watching her makes me feel light and happy. We wandered the beach for a bit; I reluctantly leashed back up after she chased a bird a ways and didn't react to my call.

One step at a time. What a good dog.

Sunday evening, we went to visit L. and Pepper the Pug, who alternately sniffed and yipped at Pooka. The Pook wasn't thrilled with this noisy little beast that didn't want to play, but the two coexisted nicely on and off, joined in the common pursuit of Wait For Humans To Drop Pizza On The Carpet Under The Dining Room Table. L. had warned me it might be a little rocky, so I was pleased that Miss P chilled, chewed on a rawhide and generally ignored Little Puggy when things got uggy.

Proof!

Digital proof that Pooka has been known to retrieve a ball, courtesy of my father.

Will wonders never cease.

Yesterday morning, when it was time for me to leave and get Pooka into the crate, a small miracle occurred. I tipped her out of her bed (no amount of coaxing or treats will get her to stand up when she thinks it might be crate time), followed her to the living room and watched as she hesitated, and then Walked Right Into The Crate.

Today, she hesitated even less.

I don't know what's changed, but I feel more grateful than you can perhaps imagine. Even if I'm just anthropomorphizing, her anti-crate evasive maneuvers made me feel sad and anxious. I've started practicing "Pooka, kennel up!" at home when there's no actual danger of me locking the door behind her; perhaps some day she'll actually enter on command on Crate Days, too.

We had an eventful several days. Pooka met my parents and liked them, even if they couldn't tell. After all, at her most affectionate, Pooka will lean into a nice petting -- rather subtle in her enjoyment, except when it comes to chase-chase-wrestle-wrestle episodes. We all went to Magnussen for a stroll and a romp; once again, Pooka was reserved and stuck close to me in the wide-open play space, but seemed braver when we reached smaller nooks and the beach area. She chased the ball 80% of the time, I'd guess, and actually retrieved it...40%? Dad? What do you think? Go Pooka!

On Sunday, Pooka spooked when a guy came to pick up her old crate (thanks, Craigslist). She took one look at her old crate and zoomed into my bedroom and curled up in her bed -- similar to our morning ritual. Then, when I was helping him maneuver the thing out the door, she sprinted outside and into the road. I tried all sorts of "Pooka, come!" commands in various tones of voice, but it was minutes before she stopped running from me and allowed me to grab her collar. I was terrified she'd run away, or get hit. Terrified.

And of course, last night, she was the star of obedience class. She remembered "Leave it" even though we haven't practiced, and quickly learned to "Heel," though of course, she did it better next to the teacher than with me. (With me, she jumped to try to get the treat out of my hand. Maybe I'm too easy with the treats?! Naaah. She also got frustrated when I wasn't rewarding her "Sit" during a particularly long stretch of time when the teacher was talking, and impatiently slapped a paw up onto my thigh. Um, hello, missy, nice try.)

As for me, I'm warming up to the teacher. And am feeling more charitable toward his animals after one played very nicely with Pooka last night.

Some human musings

I feel more and more tender and adoring toward Pooka each day. Recently, I've started inviting her up on the bed for a little cat nap if she starts agitating before the alarm goes off. It's all very sweet.

But I've been surprised by my own reactions to her lately, in as much as I seem to have started a) thinking of her as a person, almost, and b) taking her behavior, and others' assessment of it, rather personally.

We were sitting on the couch watching TV the other night, and I noticed that I had left her harness on. "That can't be comfortable," I thought, so I reached over, unsnapped it and started to try to wriggle her out of it. She lay there like a sandbag, and after putting up with a few of my fumbling attempts, growled. It was very quiet, and the most gentle growl she could muster, but I was taken aback. More than that, I was ... offended. Defensive. Rejected. Upset. I actually needed to get up and leave the room and get some air instead of, what, arguing with her? I left to get something out of the car, and when I came back, she was all tail-wagging and thrilled that I hadn't left her. Which made me feel better. Which is crazy, because her missing me is a little neurotic and not all that good for her. So.

At obedience class #3 last night, I humbled up and asked the rather cocky instructor whether he thought Pooka's play style is too rough. He pointed out some things she does that he thinks cross the line and could get her into trouble with other dogs. And then told me he thought she can be cocky when it comes to not taking criticism and corrections from his dogs. The nerve! I was offended and upset, again, though I tried to bravely accept his criticisms. Why am I taking this so hard? Pooka's not the only one who barges in and then feels terrible when she's rejected.

And finally, the other night I was tearing up some bits of treat to put in a new Pooka chew toy. Wellness brand venison jerky. I sniffed it. It smelled incredible. I put my tongue to it. I bit off a tiny piece. And then gave in and ate the whole thing. It has some odd crunchy bits in it, but otherwise, really delicious. My friend B. thinks it was some maternal instinct on my part, but I would argue that I was just hungry.

Not so stinky

Post-day-care Pooka did not reek of pee last night. She seemed extremely happy to see me when I went to pick her up, almost frantically so. Sounds like she did a good job of running around and being a dog, but I shall remain alert to her reactions again Monday. I'm so looking forward to a weekend with minimal crate time...I can only imagine how she feels.

Casualty

Oh, Squeaky, we hardly knew ye.

Pooka eviscerated her squeaky ball last night.

We went for a jog, had dinner, then played a round of squeaky hedgehog.

For those of you unfamiliar with the rules: I squeak hedgehog until Pooka takes hedgehog and enthusiastically squeaks it herself. When she starts to lose interest, I make little squeaky noises of my own and wiggle hedgehog in her mouth. Sometimes she goes back to gnawing and squeaking. Sometimes she drops it. At which point, I squeak hedgehog and toss it up in the air. Pooka pounces and chews. Repeat.

When she tired of squeaky hedgehog, we escalated to squeaky ball. Squeaky ball, Pooka! Where's your squeaky ball! (Of course, Pooka doesn't actually know what I'm asking her to do yet, so I actually go fetch squeaky ball.) Squeaky ball is much more compelling for Pooka because the ball's squeaker is about 1,000 times more irritating than the hedgehog's. She plays it like a 5-year-old on a harmonica: Steady, fast closing of the jaws (screeeeeeech), opening (eeeeeeeeeeeeech), closing (screeeeech), opening (eeeeeeeeeech). This game varies slightly from squeaky hedgehog in that it's me, not Pooka, whose enthusiasm for the chewing and screeching wanes. I grab the ball and chuck it into my bedroom. She flops after it, pounces, brings it back to the living room and the racket begins again.

I bought squeaky ball to convince her balls are fun, so that when we're the only freaks in the dog park on a pouring Sunday she and I have a way to bond that still involves her running for a bit. Last Sunday, we actually played fetch with a disgusting, muddy, slimy tennis ball for 20 minutes.

Last night, though, Pooka discovered the tiny plastic vent that made squeaky squeak. I noticed when the screeching stopped and P. started picking at one spot on the ball with a single sharp tooth. It wasn't long before squeaky's squeaker was on the carpet, and the ball was just another tennis ball with a hole.

I fear for hedgehog's life.

Little stinker

Pooka was waiting, seated, at the fence when I walked in to retrieve her from day care. And was very happy to see me.

But when I got her in the car, I was almost knocked unconscious by the strong smell of urine. This is bad, I thought. Turns out the wild storms in the city had caused something of a flood at the day care center, which somehow translated into dirty, pee-smelly dog. We drove immediately to Mud Bay, where I bought shampoo and a scrubber, and after a walk and dinner I wrestled the poor kid into the tub. The process involved me in a bathing suit, with a leash lashed around my waist, squatting in the tub with soggy treats and a very unhappy animal. She'd put up with my splashing and scrubbing for a bit, then slowly but intently lean toward the lip of the tub. Like she could just will herself out of the shower and I wouldn't notice. Nice try, kid.

The rain that put much of Washington state, including a section of our freeway, under water has stopped, so we'll try that place again tomorrow. Day care lady swore up and down that it was not the norm.

Obedience class last night just wasn't as much fun as last week. The regular trainer, and head dude at Sound Animals, doesn't seem quite as nice as the woman who replaced him last week. And instead of lots of activities, he talked a lot, leaving the animals squirmy and whiny (well, Pooka, at least; in the case of the beagle pups, squirmy and howly). He has this idea that his dogs can teach the other dogs how to be polite canines...but watching them, I just found them to be grown-up dogs, and less interested in playing than Pooka. Sure, they can decline to wrestle with the wonderdog, and they are very well-trained and well-behaved. But the idea that they can "patrol" the play time and know that their responsibility is to keep everyone in line feels overblown to me. The man clearly has had lots of practice, but I get the feeling that he's read the same books I have.

In sum: the jury is still out on whether this guy is going to be very useful for me and the Pook. I think I'll start clicker-training at home and see how that goes.

Anxious new mom all over again

Today is Pooka's first day at day care. She wasn't sure what to make of the change in weekday morning routines -- all signs pointed to "Jessica leaving, crate time" until I grabbed the leash. She had taken one step to dart into my bedroom (her first escape plan, come crate time) then stopped when she noticed something was different.

She walked very, very nicely to the car (rather than stopping and obsessively sniffing for traces of cat, as per usual). The other pups seemed to listen to the day care owner, and to be happy and wandering around. Barking some, but not distressed. As I left, the owner was leading her around the edges of the fenced-in play area, giving everyone ample time to sniff.

After hours of thinking about Pooka once every 10 seconds or so, I gave in and called to see how she was doing. Day care owner gushed about how she was running around with a ball in her mouth (huh? are you sure that's my dog?), playing chase and wrestle and being overall a Very Good Dog. Once she started talking to me, apparently Pooka came over and sat down near her.

Relieved. Assuming Pooka's reaction seems similarly positive, I have a feeling this will be worth every penny.

Winter wonderland

It snowed yesterday, the heavy white clumps we in Syracuse would refer to as "lake-effect snow." This is not Syracuse. I was not pleased.

But I was interested in whether Pooka would have any reaction to the stuff. Turns out: nope. She did her usual routine when we walked out the door (sniff at the bench where the cats sometimes nap, sniff her way across the front yard, again, a cat crossing zone). We walked to Woodland Park, me desperately hoping some other poor, snow-covered saps would be braving the weather to spoil their pups with a sprint and a wrestle. Thankfully, we were in good company, and Pook ran and jousted with Bela, a Thai ridgeback mix about her age and 10 pounds slimmer. Bela's person and I chatted about relocating from the East Coast, bored0m-chewing, Italian restaurants and the merits of feeding ridgebacks cheeseburgers. Talking to other dog owners has been the best thing for me during these early weeks -- learning the tricks to having a full human life and blancing dog care; figuring out it's OK to leave her at home in the crate.

Last night we went out for one last lap around the block before bed. Pooka would not, could not, no way no how take one more step into the snowy grass between the sidewalk and the curb. I'm with her -- one day of the white stuff is plenty.

We encountered a curious sight on our morning walk -- the wake-up ritual of a small army of inflateable Christmas yard decorations. Pooka was about as enthusiastic as if 10 vacuum cleaners had been operating at once as the floppy snowmen, Santas, boxed gifts and other larger-than-life figures rose up from the lawn.

Even with autofocus...

...snapping a decent shot of Pooka at the dog park is a challenge. But I sure tried.

For more photos of the glorious Pook, Click here to see her Flickr album.