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.

Couch time

Sleeping beauty
Originally uploaded by Jessica Jessica

Sometimes Pooka curls up on the couch and buries her face behind her back knee/elbow/whatever. I take it as a sign that the lights are too bright, the TV is too loud and would you PLEASE just leave me alone. She cracks me up.

All's well in our little house, which doesn't make for very exciting blog fodder, but I'm not complaining (and neither should Pooka's grandparents). She's become an avid sentry in the back yard, protecting our turf from invaders of the crow and squirrel persuasion. Sometimes she and the neighbor's dog just stand and stare at each other through a small bit of open fence. The only back yard hitch of late has been her impulse to eat/smear unidentified poo on her face less than an hour after a bath. Pooka. Seriously. Disgusting.

It's winter, so if you're thinking of us, imagine her in a pink and yellow reflective vest and me in full-body raingear, tromping through the neighborhood.

And the kitty lives to tell the tale

Last night on a quick walk around the block, Pooka and I came across a little marmalade kitty with a big meow and an apparent lack of fear. I might have called this a lack of good sense, given Pooka's propensity to chase with intent everything small and furry (or feathered) that crosses her path.

But this little kitty rolled on his back, stood upright and walked right up to us. I gave Pooka a little slack, which she used to sniff the kitty all over. As kitty slowly wandered up driveway, Pooka followed, sniffing along. She whined a little, which I interpreted as, "What the f---?" And didn't chase. Didn't snap. Didn't bite. Very interesting.

Of course, Miss P. still seems to regard every other small critter as a delicious snack. And when this little kitty wised up and dashed under the car, she still lunged. But it was a heartwarming moment, my little killer keeping it in check.

We're heading off on our first backpacking adventure this weekend. Trial runs with emtpy backpack have been positive so far. Stay tuned.

It's not you, it's me

I'm wondering whether to take this personally.

For the last few nights, I've woken up in the morning to find Pooka's bed empty. She's been creeping downstairs and curling up in her new Costco bed, a big fluffy thing that smells like cedar. I could swear she looks a little guilty when the alarm goes off and I tromp downstairs to make sure she's really still there (and not, say, bashing through screens and roaming the neighborhood).

Maybe my snoring is disturbing her beauty sleep?

My sweet and vicious guard dog

We've been in the new house for less than two weeks, and I'm hoping the next few weeks will be a little less eventful in the dog-settling-in department.

Our new neighbors on one side are renovating, and the endless parade of contractors, carpenters and painters are setting Pooka off. When I'm home, I'm working on "leave it" with her, and she consistently is giving up the barking and trotting to me for a treat.

But Saturday night when I was out, something must have really bugged her, because I came home late to a Pooka on the front stoop and a clawed-out screen lying in the driveway.

Yikes.

The sick feeling of horror and relief and stress is just leaving me, four days later, and I'm trying to devise a plan. I've hooked-and-eyed the door she got through, and won't leave windows open more than a crack while I'm out, but I'm scared she's going to go through the glass one of these days and really hurt herself. And we already know how hard she works to escape crates. I'm going to try to increase our morning walks, do some training exercises before work, and leave her with frozen Kongs (this is called enriching her environment). Continue to work on "leave it," though I might also take Jean Donaldson's advice and try to get her to bark and quiet on cue. And try to work on desensitizing her to things that move outside the house. But without being able to absolutely control what happens when I'm away from the house, it's going to be slow going.

Also, she clawed through my new sofa, which is not as sturdy (or as leathery -- vinyl, I think) as it looked. I paid someone to come fix the small tears, and will not be letting the P. on the couch ever after. Why do I feel bad about this??? Am contemplating getting her one of the round IKEA chairs she likes so much. Mostly to ease my own guilt.

But there are funny and good things happening in the little house, too. Pooka loves surveying the back yard from the upstairs window. She can hear a crow land from anywhere in the house, and goes tearing outside to scare it off. And she has buried every rawhide I've given her in the loose dirt of the garden beds. She digs a shallow ditch with her front paw, but then covers it up with her snout. It's hilarious to watch, as is her dusty face after she's done. Real sneaky, Pooks.

I spent hours weeding last night. She spent those hours guarding (lots of "leave it" moments), sniffing, eating ornamental grass and finally curled up in a ball sleeping nearby.

Pooka 1, Car Safety 0

I've toyed with the idea of  buying Pooka some sort of car/seatbelt harness for a while now. Especially after the accident, I'm thinking, an ounce of prevention could save me the next $7,000 in vet bills. 

So, after poking around online for reviews, I measured Miss P.'s girth and ordered one, $25, free shipping. It arrived. I slipped it over Pooka's head, then pulled her paws through one by one. So far, so good. When I buckled her in, she glared at me, but stayed still en route to the lake, standing and staring out the window. 

When it came time to get back into the harness after a long walk around the lake, she turned her head, clearly a cool "no thank you" gesture. I had to work a little harder to get her into it -- and even harder still to convince her to hop back into the car. When she did, she immediately cowered on the far side of the back seat. I had to climb in and wrestle around to get seat belt looped through strap and buckled again. 

Not half a mile from the parking lot, I hear a whole lot of scuffling coming from the back seat. Little Pooka "Houdini" M. had wriggled out of the darn thing. And what's more, a terrible, terrible smell begins to emanate from the back seat, too. Appears her contortions prompted a little glandular expression. I'm interpreting that as a pup's equivalent of flipping me off.

Now what?

Short: Discovery Park's allure

Pooka could spend an entire hour sniff sniff sniffing through the grassy field of Discovery Park's south bluff. She hounds along until she finds an interesting scent, then:

Pause.

Sniff.

SNIFFSNIFFSNIFF.

(Ears up, pounces nose first into tuft of tall grass.)

Pause. Sniff.

(Pulls head up dramatically. Sniffs. Repeat.)

Must be the bunnies.

Ew.

So Pooka and I just wandered down to the schoolyard with the hope that she'd find someone other than me to wrestle with.

The field was emtpy. But wait! A nice-looking man in nice-looking clothes with his nice-looking black lab waltzed in. Hello, Maestro.

It went downhill fast. He is one of those "show your dominance" dads, and I bet you can guess how well that goes over with Pooka. She barked, growled, threw her hackles up, and dodged his overly stern efforts. At first I was scared she'd attack him or something equally horrific, but when I realized he wasn't provoking violence, I had a hard time not laughing as he tried to impose his weird macho mean will on Pooka, and she persisted in ignoring his loud sit and drop-it commands.

Unfortunately, she was also ignoring me, so I didn't have much opportunity to show him how generally well-behaved she is. Could be because she was too focused on keeping 8 feet between her and machoman, or because she hasn't eaten in 24 hours (the post-diarrhea fast we're about to break). Half felt like I should explain her bratty behavior, half wanted to get as far away from him as quickly as possible. Just: ew.

Rewarded behavior is repeated

With the big madness of Pooka's accident behind us, what is left for me to do but sweat the small stuff? Such as, why is this dog so itchy? How am I going to keep her from breaking another (yes, another) window? Is she ever going to ditch the little twist in her left hind knee when she walks?  Is she going to hurt herself dragging my sharp knives out of the kitchen sink? Is the landlord-barking getting worse? And why is this dog so itchy?

I've been most irritated by a new walking habit of hers -- slipping behind me as we walk so she can sniff the hedges and grasses on my other side, then outpacing me so the leash is wrapped around my back. I don't know why exactly, but it's been driving me absolutely bonkers.

Time spent working on clicker training with the pups at the Seattle Humane Society reminded me how magical it seems. Click, treat: the dogs get it. Ace the springing terrier, whose default behavior is to endlessly jump head high in his kennel, gets it when he sits, I click and treat. (When he's overly excited, which is often, he still dissolves into jumping fits -- but you can tell he's thinking about sitting.)

So tonight I brought the clicker on our late-evening walk. When Pooka zipped around to my left side, I stopped and maneuvered so that she was headed back into position. Click. Treat. Bingo. Helps that she hadn't had dinner yet, of course. But within a few blocks she was responding to "right side!" when I called it out. When I didn't, but she ducked behind, she was quick to return to the right spot and looked at me, expectant, every time.

One other tidbit for the record. Tonight when I came home and was puttering around, I called out to Pooka, "where's your ball?" She got her ball, but when she lost interest in it, I switched to "Pooka where's your squeaky?" Referring, of course, to the ever-rattier tail-less squeaky squirrel. Girl went and got it first try.

Hydro-Pooka and more

Hydro-Pooka
Originally uploaded by Jessica Jessica

It's been a few weeks since Pooka's hydrotherapy sessions ended. I was away for one of those weeks, but from what I hear, she was still pretty active.

This week, we're stepping things up a bit, and went on our longest walk yet last night. She was freaked out by the traffic, so noisy on these wet winter roads, but still performed like a trooper and had energy to spare for a Maka-Pooka smackdown in the back yard after dinner.

She's getting used to our nightly stretching ritual and has stopped protesting as much on her sore side (the one they didn't operate on). She had been doing the "downward dog" stretch on her own, but in the last few days I've noticed she's working on "upward facing dog" too, a sign that the hip extension stretches are a little less challenging for her now. She's still walking funny, stiff-legged with a turned-in knee, but I'm starting to realize this isn't going to magically fix itself. I'm going to start upping her chase/run/play time and just see what happens.

What the. ?

What the. ?
Originally uploaded by Jessica Jessica

Speaks for itself, really. Alert!

Project

Pooka's coat (1)
Originally uploaded by Jessica Jessica

In a burst of creativity, I used Pooka's store-bought raincoat as a pattern for a very homemade wintry coat, courderoy outside and warm fuzzy fleece inside. I have to rejigger the tummy-straps, for the velcro doesn't quite line up right, but it's otherwise adorable. At least, I think so. Pooka is not quite so sure.

What the snow shows

Brief but interesting: Kitty-cat footprints in the snow let me follow along when Pooka gets a wild sniff going. It's like invisible ink.

Milestones

Pooka and I just got back from one of our old walks, up the big hill and to the north, looping home, logging almost an hour of trotting along. An hour! This little pup has come so far, to go so far.

After a good session on the underwater treadmill last weekend, in which Dr. L noted longer, more natural strides, we got the green light for unlimited leash walks. I'm hoping she connected with Dr. A at the surgical clinic to discuss the pros and cons of taking out the screws sooner (before she hurts herself playing, though we don't know she will) versus later (once she's already run around like a maniac and ands up in pain).

In other good news, Dr. L also gave the OK to put away the crate and let Miss P. while away her solitary days on her favorite sofa cushion or rooting around in the kitchen for overlooked morsels. Our bigger, better, collapsible wire crate is folded up, the sofa is back in place, and I've reclaimed my living room. This feels so...normal.  

We've also reinstated one of Pooka's favorite activities, the "Chase me around the living room sofa while I carry my favorite toy of the day, then reverse direction, repeat." I have been taking it slow so she doesn't wipe out on the slippery bits, and she seems stable enough for it.

Tonight she tried to grab the squeaky tailless squirrel toy from the floor as she dashed past me, and missed. A few strides later she realized her mistake, but too late! I had snatched up little tailless squirrel and was holding him over my head, cackling. Is it possible that I take this game too seriously? I did relinquish squirrel and the order of the universe, in which Pooka has the toy and I do the chasing, was restored.

Of course, things with this animal are never easy. She has an unexplained, festering boo-boo on her tail that requires wrapping, antiseptic goop and a stint with the conehead. She also has a bumpy, hair loss-inducing  dermatitis of some sort on her inner forearms which yet another vet thinks is an infection sparked by itching and irritation from an allergy. An allergy to what, you may ask? Well, it could be flea bites, even if she has no noticeable fleas. So we flea-treated. It also could be a food allergy, so I'm gearing up for the idea that I might have to put her on a strict hypoallergenic diet for 8 weeks to see if that does the trick. My poor itchy baby -- every time I see her stop what she's doing to sit down and have a mad scratch at her ears or her chest or her neck, I cringe knowing that it might be a discomfort I've inadvertantly caused.