Playing catch-up

Apologies, dear readers, for being so remiss in bringing you the news from Phinney Ridge(back).

First, Taquito. A month after his knee surgery, the vet declared him ready for adoption, and so back to the shelter he went. It broke my heart a little. So when two weeks passed and no one had taken the little man home for good, we decided to bring him back for another stint at Camp Oona and Jessica.

He was ecstatic. He also had giardia, it seemed. We were up for emergency potty excursions all night the first night he was home. I left him in the crate Monday while I was at work; Oona came home to a poo-covered chihuahua mix. Tuesday, after several embarassing incidents at Oona's office, we decided to send him back to the shelter until they figured out what exactly was wrong and had him on meds.

Amazingly, that very day, someone came in expressly to see Taquito. A match was made, and our little refried bean found his forever home. Not a peep since. We love you, T.

Our next adventure in fostering came in the form of Hector a full Chihuahua, also from Los Angeles. He was tiny and snuggly and followed me everywhere. He liked to burrow down in the covers near my feet. He thought peeing on the carpet was totally OK, no big deal. Our mission was to teach him that it's OK to give up a toy or food to a human without growling, because chances are he'd get it right back -- plus a treat!



Hector returned to the shelter after about a month of work at Camp O&J, and was adopted a week or so later. No news is good news, in both cases. I hope his human doesn't mind that he likes to sit in her lap and "edit" documents in progress by walking all over the keyboard.

We have learned several things from these two animals. One: I am a sucker for little dogs with issues. Two: O. would prefer not to live with puntables that can't keep up with the real dogs. I'll have to get my fix at the shelter, and our next foster will have to be a big dog.

Pooka and Olli have appreciated being the only dogs in the house again, without a little semi-dog underfoot stealing the toys and guarding the humans. Since I quit my job, I've been spending more time at home freelancing and doing chemistry homework, which I think Pooks has appreciated, even though I'm remarkably boring from a canine perspective.

Of note: After many years, Pooka's favorite toy, "squeaky," is on his last legs. He no longer squeaks. He has no tail. One ear. Three legs. Matted, mottled, and smelly. I finally purchased a replacement. Photos say it all:

Taquito Chronicles: Post-Op

By the end of his first two weeks with us, Taquito was getting the hang of things. He was growling less, barking less, peeing less and overall being more cute, snuggly and more gremlin-like and less over-the-top macho little dog-like.

We took a second trip to Marymoor, and he was perfect on the flexi-leash. And I brought him with Pooka and Olli to another (better-fenced-in) dog park, took a deep breath and unclipped the leash. I was so proud -- he sniffed and greeted other dogs, stuck close and came back running when he strayed too far.

Tuesday, everything changed, again. I dropped him off early in the morning for surgery on his luxating patella -- a condition caused, the vet says, by overbreeding of little dogs that results in bowed legs and kneecaps that pop out of place. When I picked him up Tuesday night, his back right quarter was shaved bald and he had an ugly incision site with big stitches.

Little Quito was completely out of it until midday Wednesday; since then, he's been absolutely ticked off that he's a) stuck in a crate or a pen, b) wearing a cone on his head and c) being picked up -- the indignity! -- and carried outside for bathroom breaks.

I spent Wednesday working from home, keeping an eye on him. Pooks and Olli were also in the house, and they drove me absolutely bonkers with attention-seeking antics, wrestling matches and whining. By the end of the day, I was ready to have a total meltdown. I wanted to scream at the dogs to shut the hell up. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run really, really fast.

Between getting Quito to surgery and home and mapping out the plan for his 6-week recovery, I didn't really notice how deeply I was affected. It's heartbreaking to see such a wild, energetic little guy come home drugged out and shivering. To see the swelling and bruising set in around the incision. To hear him yelp in pain when he accidentally puts weight on the bad leg. To listen to him cry in frustration and loneliness. Add to that the guilty feeling that I'm not taking very good care of my own dog right now, and it was a recipe for losing it.

I swam last night, and I'm feeling better today. He spent a good chunk of the day at home alone in his crate; now he's sleeping in his bed leashed to the chair I'm sitting in. I don't know how to harden my heart a little about all of this, even though I know I must. After all, he's here in our warm quiet home, not in the cold, noisy shelter. And there's almost nothing I can do for him to help his healing along other than locking him in his crate for the next few days, no matter how much he hates it.

Taquito Chronicles: Food Motivation

Last night after the dogs all had dinner, I thought I'd try to do a little work with Taquito on the "go to your bed" command. So I brought out the clicker and threw some kibble in my pocket, because that little guy will work for any kind of food.

Big mistake. The first click summoned Pooka out of thin air. "Hello? I'm right here? If there's clicking, there's treating, and if there's treating, it should be in MY MOUTH?" She decided Taquito wasn't a fast enough study, so she thought she'd show him by example what "go to your bed" means. By putting her big self into his tiny bed. Emphatically. What could I do? Click, treat for Pooka.

This drove Taquito insane, and he began buzzing and jumping all around me, trying to get his nose into my pocket. End result: a snapping Pooka and a snarling chihuahua, and me desperately trying to empty my pockets so that neither of them would be trying to crawl in and get the treats.

Hopefully this weekend I'll carve out some one-on-one training time for the little guy, because clearly working with Pooka around is out of the question.

Update: I forgot to mention that he was doing really well on the peeing inside...until O. came home last night. I was dead asleep, but apparently he dashed downstairs and promptly peed on the leg of the sofa. Sigh.

Taquito Chronicles: Day Four

This morning I woke up with a 17-pound Chihuahua in my bed, curled up by my side with his head on my arm. He looked up at me with the sweetest tired little look and totally pretended that I didn't tell him REPEATEDLY last night that he will not be sleeping in my bed, under any circumstances. Unintended consequence of taking an Ambien. Sigh.

Last night I walked Pooka, Olli and 'Quito together and didn't die. Today, a solo walk with the little one was actually pleasant -- he didn't pull at all for most of the walk. And as far as I know, he didn't lift his leg in the house (yet) today. Now, we just need to work on the shrieking cries when I lock him in the crate and the snarly face that emerges when he's cuddled up to me and one of the other dogs comes by.

Pooka and Olli are being real troopers about the disruption in normal operations. They're still mostly ignoring him except to steal a good sniff now and then. This morning they were romping around as usual, while 'Quito looked on with some curiosity and tried to keep from getting trampled.

O. and I have been discussing the profile of a perfect adoptive home for the little man. We're thinking, little old lady, maybe? Your thoughts are always welcome, readers.

Taquito Chronicles: First Days

Housemate O. and I have been kicking around the idea of taking in a foster dog from Seattle Humane Society -- a pup who needs a little extra love, attention, discipline or socialization, and who might not find his or her permanent home without it.

I've grown attached to one little guy in recent months, a Chihuahua mix who came with dozens of others from a shelter in Los Angeles. According to his paperwork, he's 5 or 6 years old, and was found as a stray. I'm pretty sure no one has ever worked on training with him before; the first time we met, after a walk, I tried to teach him the "sit" command. He didn't always get it, but the moment he realized he could do something that would make me give him a treat, his eyes lit up and his tail started wagging.

A few weeks in the shelter turned him into a more cheerful, social dog, which is saying a lot about the conditions he must have lived in before. Finally, we decided to just go ahead and do it.

Meet Taquito, our new foster dog.

The fact that he's sitting happily next to Pooka on the deck is a big step for a little man who bared his teeth at all the other animals in the family just 24 hours earlier.

The first two days have been stressful -- I'm not sure why I thought perhaps they wouldn't be. I'm feeling some of the same crazy weight of responsibility I felt when Pooka arrived, and my affection for him is muted by my despair that our efforts will be in vain, even though that's a totally irrational concern. I mean, he's already attempting to pee on fewer indoor surfaces every day!

Like all the dogs (and many children, too), he's an adorable angel when he's asleep, and that's what's keeping us going right now. He's bossy, loves food, hates cats and squirrels. Which means he should get along just fine in our family, right?

I'll keep everyone posted.

Woof.

On Expanding the Pack

Spring has sprung at the cute little cottage, and that means far fewer minutes spent in front of a screen, at least at home. Sorry for being so remiss.

In February, our pack doubled in size, which has been really excellent for both me and the Pooks.

For me, it means company on evenings that might have been spent quietly, mindlessly staring at the television, though there's still some of that. O. is inspiring in her organization and housekeeping skills. Some day she might even rub off on me. I have been trying to do my part to make sure at least our shared spaces don't get sucked into the maelstrom of my life and spit back out in a pile of debris.

For Pooka, it means sheer joy, every day. When she and Oliver-dog have spent time apart, she dashes back up the steps sniffing excitedly, wondering if he's waiting for her on the other side of our front door. When he isn't, she searches the house for him. When he is, no matter how tired she is, impromptu wrestling match ensues. The house is filled with snarly teeth gnashing and body slamming and endless games of chase around the sofa. The back yard is one big obstacle course of jumping and wrestling and occasionally pausing to eat ornamental grasses. Sometimes, Pooks even lets Olli pin her to the ground. Briefly.

I find Pooka is more social at the dog park these days, too, which makes me think some of Olli's open nature is rubbing off on her.

There are moments when Pooka the wild animal gets a little out of control, however. She and Olli are pretty good about sharing food, but man, every now and then she just loses it when he gets too close to her rawhide, food toy, food bowl and, on rare occasions, his own food bowl. Bad. Pooka. No.

One week when O. was out of town and I was single-mom-ing it, I woke up to find Olli whining next to my bed. When I went to tuck him back under his blanket (poor skinny boy gets so chilly), I found Pooka all curled up and looking pleased with herself for displacing him. Yes, Pooka, we know you are the alpha dog in this relationship, but some things just aren't OK.

In Sickness

Pooka has hookworm. You can click that to read more about this nasty little parasite, but you may not want to.

Having a dog has taught me all sorts of things about myself. One of the most important is that no matter how scattered my own life may be, I am together enough to take care of Pooka when she needs it.

For the last four nights, this has meant waking up every hour or two to insistent whining, stumbling downstairs, getting on socks and shoes and various layers of outerwear and trudging with urgently-needing-to-go-out Pooka around the neighborhood. (Again, you really don't want the specifics.)

Yesterday, I was still feeling good about my ability to pull it together. Today, I am having a hard time feeling compassion because I'm so tired that I actually wobble when standing up. I really, really hope the de-worming meds she's on take care of those little f*ckers soon.

I've taken away her couch and dog bed options today and left the back door open as I work from home today, in the hopes that she'll be awake and stimulated by day and thus as exhausted as I will be by bedtime. I really don't think I can do night #5 without dissolving into hysterics.