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?