It’s been 7 years and 4 months since Phoenix arrived in my life. Seven years and 4 months since I’ve had a little baby creature in the house.
By the time Aussie-puppy-with-no-name arrives, it will have been 7 years and 5 months. I am going to see the litter next week and am nearly beside myself with anticipation. The breeder has been excellent about sending pictures and video, which quite frankly is only making matters worse. While photos of human babies leave me fumbling for something polite to say, pictures of puppies send me into paroxysms of maternal bliss. The puppy-induced endorphin rush has nearly rendered me dysfunctional. (The Farmer made a smart comment about this but I deleted it. Editorial privilege.)
A lot has happened since February of 2007 when Phoenix marched into my life, looked around and took over. I’ve sat with a parent in hospice care, said good-bye to that parent, attended four national specialties, said good-bye to two wonderful dogs, found out my heart doesn't work right, avoided being downsized at work at least nine times, had my job “reorganized” 10 times, buried a parent-in-law, became a storm spotter for the National Weather Service, had surgery and added cats to a household that contained a dog who thought cats were demon spawn to be scourged from the earth.
Through all of that, there’s been the never-ending roller coaster of Phoenix’s obedience career. Not a day has passed when at least some portion of my waking hours have not been occupied by thoughts about training that crazy dog. One of his best gifts has been giving me something else to focus on when normal life was just too toxic to embrace. Granted, that wasn’t just Phoenix. Jess, Connor and Jamie did it, too. I have endured the stress of "there will be lay-offs" staff meetings, the uncertainty of doctor’s appointments and the emotional drain of funerals while thinking about ways to clean up a drop on recall or fix a stay problem.
Dogs have always been such an integral part of my life that I tend to remember events through the years by connecting them to what my dogs were doing at the time.
Wedding planning in the spring of 1991? I was showing Jess for his UD. My mom kept wanting to do wedding stuff and I kept telling her I couldn’t because “I have a show that weekend.”
The straight-line windstorm that decimated our farm in the summer of 1998? I was just starting to show Connor for his OTCh. I remember dragging my jumps out from under the twisted wreckage of an evergreen tree in the back yard and thinking, “Crap, cleaning up this mess is going to cut into my training time.” It did.
Painting the house in the autumn of 1999? (The Farmer and I painted it by ourselves. Every. Single. Fricking. Board.) I remember finishing “my” portion (everything below the fourth rung of the extension ladder) the weekend before driving to Ohio to pick up baby Jamie in September.
The ice storm of February 2007? It hit the night I got home from the airport with Phoenix. One week without heat, lights or running water and a crazy baby malinois sleeping in the bed with us. Good times.
Putting vinyl siding on the house in 2007? I remember Phoenix grabbing big sheets of loose Tyvek house-wrap and running around the yard with them. I’m probably lucky he didn’t pull it off the house.
I wonder what non-dog memories I will attach to this puppy? What will happen in its lifetime that will leave me remembering, “Oh yeah, that was the year we . . .”?
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Sunday, June 15, 2014
A stitch in time
I am sewing.
I did not like sewing when I was a wee lass in 4-H and after 30 years of avoiding sewing like some kind of Third World plague, I've found I do not like it any better now.
Sewing involves needles, pins and scissors - pointy, sharp things capable of drawing blood. As far as I am concerned, this is just asking for trouble.
But I am sewing because A) I am subject to spurts of creative energy and B) I am trying to save money.
I am not sewing a new wardrobe. God made LL Bean and Christopher and Banks and outlet malls so women do not have to sit, hunched over and squinting and sticking out their tongues, trying to make their own clothes. (Am I the only one who sews like that? I suspect I am not alone.)
I have great respect for anyone who can make their own clothes. Hell, at this point, I have great respect for anyone who can thread a needle on the first try.
I grew up in an era when it was commonplace to go play at a friend's house and find tissue paper patterns from McCall's or Butterick spread across the dining room table and the sewing machine whirring away while her mother created a new blouse or skirt on a Saturday afternoon, casual as making toast.
My best friend's mom in high school made my friend's prom dress. I was still struggling to master a straight seam and she made an entire freaking prom dress. And it looked better than most of the stuff that came off the rack. That was back in the day when girls went to JCPenney and bought their prom dresses, they didn't go to a bridal store and order one and get fitted for it and register it so no other girl in any school in the surrounding six counties could buy the same one because imagine the HORROR and DEGRADATION you might experience if someone else showed up at prom wearing YOUR dress.
Ahem. But I digress.
I am making a belt pouch. If you have ever attended a Renaissance festival, you know what I'm talking about. Well, if you attended one and paid attention to the costuming. And could get past the wood nymphs, Goths, harem girls, faeries and pirates to the folks who were dressed as simple peasants, which is what I aspire to. Apparently the concept of pockets eluded folks back in the day. Or maybe their pockets were full of other things. But most folks have at least one belt pouch attached to their, um, well, belt. This was the forerunner of the modern handbag.
A group of friends and I have been tossing around the possibility of attending a Renaissance festival "in garb" at some point in the future. Said "garb" is not to be taken lightly and I'm taking my time to assemble something that is passably "peasant-ish" without being "wench-ish." However, I have learned that "wench" is simply another term for "woman" so perhaps I need to clarify that I hope to avoid the "slutty wench" look. If you've been to a Ren faire, you know what I'm talking about.
If you want to dive into another world entirely, Google "Renaissance Festival Clothing." Pretty much anything you want is available and I mean anything. Just whip out the MasterCard and click "add to cart." And be prepared to give up your firstborn child and several random body parts to pay for it.
To date, I have refrained admirably. A skirt from Amazon has been the high end of my spending, at $14. A $5 peasant blouse from a thrift store will do for a chemise. I suspect if I get into this sort of thing (like I NEED another thing to get into), I will upgrade my wardrobe but for now, I'm taking the cheapest route. Precision authenticity is not a goal. Trust me, if you've been to a Ren faire, there's a whole lot going on that has little to do with authenticity.
But I did buy a belt. One needs a good belt to hang things from. I do not anticipate buying a dagger or a drinking mug to hang from my belt but in the grand scheme of things, I will need somewhere to stash the 21st century conveniences like my keys, cell phone, lip balm and cash while at the faire. Hence the pouch. I do not anticipate tucking them into my bodice. The bodice is a whole other post entirely.
I tried hard not to buy a belt. I thought I certainly had a belt that would suffice.Wrong. My belts were woefully inadequate for doing that fancy loopy knot thing. They barely went around my waist once, let alone left any room for loopy knotty things. Okay. Fine. I would use one of the Farmer's cast-off belts. Then I realized there is reason they are cast off. They are beat to hell. It's hard to do loopy-knotty with something that is fally-aparty. Sigh. Click "add to cart."
Which is why I am playing Scarlett O'Hara and sewing a belt pouch out of an old shirt. A pouch is a pretty simple thing to sew. Which is good, because I've nearly lost my religion already. Trust me when I tell you I will not be opening an Etsy store featuring hand-sewn items any time in the future.
If I were a good blogger, I would insert a picture of my pouch here. But I'm not going to. It's not done. It may never get done. I may grab my MasterCard and with tail between my legs, crawl off to one of the 15,839 web sites that sell Ren faire garb made by people who can actually wield a needle and thread without sewing their finger to the cloth. Not that I did that.
I'll admit this experience in hand sewing simple seams has been kind of fun. Even if my stitches are crooked and the thread is abominable demon spawn that tangles just to spite me. The longer I worked at it, the better I got. That's not to say I got good at it, just better.
Come to think of it, I don't think Scarlett O'Hara actually sewed that gown from the old drapes herself. She probably made Mammy do it. Hmmmph. Since I am decidedly Mammy-less, I will have to soldier on.
I did not like sewing when I was a wee lass in 4-H and after 30 years of avoiding sewing like some kind of Third World plague, I've found I do not like it any better now.
Sewing involves needles, pins and scissors - pointy, sharp things capable of drawing blood. As far as I am concerned, this is just asking for trouble.
But I am sewing because A) I am subject to spurts of creative energy and B) I am trying to save money.
I am not sewing a new wardrobe. God made LL Bean and Christopher and Banks and outlet malls so women do not have to sit, hunched over and squinting and sticking out their tongues, trying to make their own clothes. (Am I the only one who sews like that? I suspect I am not alone.)
I have great respect for anyone who can make their own clothes. Hell, at this point, I have great respect for anyone who can thread a needle on the first try.
I grew up in an era when it was commonplace to go play at a friend's house and find tissue paper patterns from McCall's or Butterick spread across the dining room table and the sewing machine whirring away while her mother created a new blouse or skirt on a Saturday afternoon, casual as making toast.
My best friend's mom in high school made my friend's prom dress. I was still struggling to master a straight seam and she made an entire freaking prom dress. And it looked better than most of the stuff that came off the rack. That was back in the day when girls went to JCPenney and bought their prom dresses, they didn't go to a bridal store and order one and get fitted for it and register it so no other girl in any school in the surrounding six counties could buy the same one because imagine the HORROR and DEGRADATION you might experience if someone else showed up at prom wearing YOUR dress.
Ahem. But I digress.
I am making a belt pouch. If you have ever attended a Renaissance festival, you know what I'm talking about. Well, if you attended one and paid attention to the costuming. And could get past the wood nymphs, Goths, harem girls, faeries and pirates to the folks who were dressed as simple peasants, which is what I aspire to. Apparently the concept of pockets eluded folks back in the day. Or maybe their pockets were full of other things. But most folks have at least one belt pouch attached to their, um, well, belt. This was the forerunner of the modern handbag.
A group of friends and I have been tossing around the possibility of attending a Renaissance festival "in garb" at some point in the future. Said "garb" is not to be taken lightly and I'm taking my time to assemble something that is passably "peasant-ish" without being "wench-ish." However, I have learned that "wench" is simply another term for "woman" so perhaps I need to clarify that I hope to avoid the "slutty wench" look. If you've been to a Ren faire, you know what I'm talking about.
If you want to dive into another world entirely, Google "Renaissance Festival Clothing." Pretty much anything you want is available and I mean anything. Just whip out the MasterCard and click "add to cart." And be prepared to give up your firstborn child and several random body parts to pay for it.
To date, I have refrained admirably. A skirt from Amazon has been the high end of my spending, at $14. A $5 peasant blouse from a thrift store will do for a chemise. I suspect if I get into this sort of thing (like I NEED another thing to get into), I will upgrade my wardrobe but for now, I'm taking the cheapest route. Precision authenticity is not a goal. Trust me, if you've been to a Ren faire, there's a whole lot going on that has little to do with authenticity.
But I did buy a belt. One needs a good belt to hang things from. I do not anticipate buying a dagger or a drinking mug to hang from my belt but in the grand scheme of things, I will need somewhere to stash the 21st century conveniences like my keys, cell phone, lip balm and cash while at the faire. Hence the pouch. I do not anticipate tucking them into my bodice. The bodice is a whole other post entirely.
I tried hard not to buy a belt. I thought I certainly had a belt that would suffice.Wrong. My belts were woefully inadequate for doing that fancy loopy knot thing. They barely went around my waist once, let alone left any room for loopy knotty things. Okay. Fine. I would use one of the Farmer's cast-off belts. Then I realized there is reason they are cast off. They are beat to hell. It's hard to do loopy-knotty with something that is fally-aparty. Sigh. Click "add to cart."
Which is why I am playing Scarlett O'Hara and sewing a belt pouch out of an old shirt. A pouch is a pretty simple thing to sew. Which is good, because I've nearly lost my religion already. Trust me when I tell you I will not be opening an Etsy store featuring hand-sewn items any time in the future.
If I were a good blogger, I would insert a picture of my pouch here. But I'm not going to. It's not done. It may never get done. I may grab my MasterCard and with tail between my legs, crawl off to one of the 15,839 web sites that sell Ren faire garb made by people who can actually wield a needle and thread without sewing their finger to the cloth. Not that I did that.
I'll admit this experience in hand sewing simple seams has been kind of fun. Even if my stitches are crooked and the thread is abominable demon spawn that tangles just to spite me. The longer I worked at it, the better I got. That's not to say I got good at it, just better.
Come to think of it, I don't think Scarlett O'Hara actually sewed that gown from the old drapes herself. She probably made Mammy do it. Hmmmph. Since I am decidedly Mammy-less, I will have to soldier on.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Conversation with a malinois
Me: Phoenix? C’mere, I’ve got something exciting to tell you.
Phoenix: Is it suppertime?
Me: No, it’s not suppertime.
Phoenix: Wanna play ball? Can I have a cat in the house? Is that steak in the fridge for me? When’s Papa coming back? Can we go for a walk?
Me: No. Not a chance. How did you know there was steak in the fridge? I don’t know. Yes, later.
Phoenix: Oh. Then hurry up. I’m busy. Things to do.
Me: We’re getting a puppy.
Phoenix: A what?
Me: A puppy. A baby dog.
Phoenix (doubtful): Why would you get one of those?
Me: Because I miss having 2 dogs. And so you can have a friend. I know you miss Jamie.
Phoenix: Yeah. Miss him.
Silence.
Phoenix: Can I have a cat in the house instead?
Me: Um. No.
Phoenix: Why?
Me: Because I don't want to spend the rest of the year making homeowner's insurance claims.
Phoenix: This puppy thing - will it eat my food?
Me: No.
Phoenix: Will it sleep in my bed?
Me: No.
Phoenix: Will it sleep in your bed?
Me: Not at first.
Phoenix: Will it get my toys?
Me: It might. Do you think you could share some of your toys?
Phoenix: Do I have to?
Me: Yes. Some of them.
Silence. Phoenix contemplates toy sharing.
Phoenix: What will it look like?
Me: It will be a lot smaller than you. Probably tri-colored. And have a little tail nubbin. And tippy-over ears. And be very fuzzy.
Phoenix: Fuzzy? Like me?
Me: You’re not fuzzy. You’re sleekit.*
Phoenix: Papa calls me Fuzzball.
Me: Papa calls you a lot of things. You are sleekit. The puppy will be a fuzzball.
Phoenix: Will be a girl fuzzball or a boy fuzzball?
Me: I don’t know.
Phoenix: You can’t tell the difference?
Me: Yes, I can tell the difference. Smart ass. But I don’t know which one will come live with us yet.
Phoenix: Get a smart one. Don’t get a dumb one.
Me: Well, that’s the plan.
Phoenix: What will you do with it?
Me: Teach it things. You can help me.
Phoenix (gleam in eye): Really?
Me: Oh dear Lord, what am I saying? Do NOT teach it how open cupboard doors or un-pot plants or steal honey bottles off the table or that weird thing you do when you put your back legs on the edge of bed and your front legs on the window sill and bark at things out the window.
Phoenix: Every dog should know how to do that stuff. Seriously.
Me: Seriously not. Just remember that it will be very little and it won’t know anything and you’ll need to be very patient with it.
Phoenix: Will it pee in the house?
Me: Probably once or twice.
Phoenix: I never peed in the house.
Me: Um. Yes, you did.
Phoenix: I don’t remember that.
Me: I bet there’s a lot of things you don’t remember doing.
Phoenix: Papa says he likes how quiet it is with just one dog around.
Me: Papa is confused.
Phoenix: Will you take it to dog shows?
Me: Yes.
Phoenix: Will you take it instead of me?
Me: No. I will take you both.
Phoenix: Bet it won’t be as smart as me.
Me: Sweetheart, I am sure it will be nothing like you.
Phoenix (smugly): I’m one of a kind.
Me: Amen.
Phoenix: When will you get it?
Me: Later this summer, when it gets really hot.
Phoenix (thinking): Tomorrow? It will be really hot tomorrow.
Me: Not that soon. It has to live with its brothers and sisters for awhile longer.
Phoenix: You’re only getting one, right?
Me: Yes.
Phoenix: Is it a herding dog?
Me: Yes.
Phoenix: Not one of those birdy dogs or varmint dogs or hound dogs or fluffy dogs?
Me: Umm . . . sometimes you’re one of those varmint dogs. You get varmints.
Phoenix: That’s different. It needs to be a herding dog. They’re smart.
Me: It’s a herding dog.
Phoenix: Only one smaller-than-me, tri-colored, nubbin-tailed, tippy-over-eared boy or girl herding-dog smart fuzzball?
Me: Yep.
Phoenix: I suppose it’s okay. You should get it. Might be fun.
(* Sleekit is a Scottish word that means smooth and shiny, or sneaky. Phoenix is, by all accounts, very sleekit.)
Phoenix: Is it suppertime?
Me: No, it’s not suppertime.
Phoenix: Wanna play ball? Can I have a cat in the house? Is that steak in the fridge for me? When’s Papa coming back? Can we go for a walk?
Me: No. Not a chance. How did you know there was steak in the fridge? I don’t know. Yes, later.
Phoenix: Oh. Then hurry up. I’m busy. Things to do.
Me: We’re getting a puppy.
Phoenix: A what?
Me: A puppy. A baby dog.
Phoenix (doubtful): Why would you get one of those?
Me: Because I miss having 2 dogs. And so you can have a friend. I know you miss Jamie.
Phoenix: Yeah. Miss him.
Silence.
Phoenix: Can I have a cat in the house instead?
Me: Um. No.
Phoenix: Why?
Me: Because I don't want to spend the rest of the year making homeowner's insurance claims.
Phoenix: This puppy thing - will it eat my food?
Me: No.
Phoenix: Will it sleep in my bed?
Me: No.
Phoenix: Will it sleep in your bed?
Me: Not at first.
Phoenix: Will it get my toys?
Me: It might. Do you think you could share some of your toys?
Phoenix: Do I have to?
Me: Yes. Some of them.
Silence. Phoenix contemplates toy sharing.
Phoenix: What will it look like?
Me: It will be a lot smaller than you. Probably tri-colored. And have a little tail nubbin. And tippy-over ears. And be very fuzzy.
Phoenix: Fuzzy? Like me?
Me: You’re not fuzzy. You’re sleekit.*
Phoenix: Papa calls me Fuzzball.
Me: Papa calls you a lot of things. You are sleekit. The puppy will be a fuzzball.
Phoenix: Will be a girl fuzzball or a boy fuzzball?
Me: I don’t know.
Phoenix: You can’t tell the difference?
Me: Yes, I can tell the difference. Smart ass. But I don’t know which one will come live with us yet.
Phoenix: Get a smart one. Don’t get a dumb one.
Me: Well, that’s the plan.
Phoenix: What will you do with it?
Me: Teach it things. You can help me.
Phoenix (gleam in eye): Really?
Me: Oh dear Lord, what am I saying? Do NOT teach it how open cupboard doors or un-pot plants or steal honey bottles off the table or that weird thing you do when you put your back legs on the edge of bed and your front legs on the window sill and bark at things out the window.
Phoenix: Every dog should know how to do that stuff. Seriously.
Me: Seriously not. Just remember that it will be very little and it won’t know anything and you’ll need to be very patient with it.
Phoenix: Will it pee in the house?
Me: Probably once or twice.
Phoenix: I never peed in the house.
Me: Um. Yes, you did.
Phoenix: I don’t remember that.
Me: I bet there’s a lot of things you don’t remember doing.
Phoenix: Papa says he likes how quiet it is with just one dog around.
Me: Papa is confused.
Phoenix: Will you take it to dog shows?
Me: Yes.
Phoenix: Will you take it instead of me?
Me: No. I will take you both.
Phoenix: Bet it won’t be as smart as me.
Me: Sweetheart, I am sure it will be nothing like you.
Phoenix (smugly): I’m one of a kind.
Me: Amen.
Phoenix: When will you get it?
Me: Later this summer, when it gets really hot.
Phoenix (thinking): Tomorrow? It will be really hot tomorrow.
Me: Not that soon. It has to live with its brothers and sisters for awhile longer.
Phoenix: You’re only getting one, right?
Me: Yes.
Phoenix: Is it a herding dog?
Me: Yes.
Phoenix: Not one of those birdy dogs or varmint dogs or hound dogs or fluffy dogs?
Me: Umm . . . sometimes you’re one of those varmint dogs. You get varmints.
Phoenix: That’s different. It needs to be a herding dog. They’re smart.
Me: It’s a herding dog.
Phoenix: Only one smaller-than-me, tri-colored, nubbin-tailed, tippy-over-eared boy or girl herding-dog smart fuzzball?
Me: Yep.
Phoenix: I suppose it’s okay. You should get it. Might be fun.
(* Sleekit is a Scottish word that means smooth and shiny, or sneaky. Phoenix is, by all accounts, very sleekit.)
Monday, May 26, 2014
2014 Iowa Renaissance Festival
Spent part of today at the Iowa Renaissance Festival in Amana. In keeping with well-established Renaissance festival tradition, it rained. At least it was 75 degree rain as opposed to last year, which was 55 degree rain.
The turkey leg was tasty, the shows were entertaining, the people watching was, um, well, seriously, you just had to be there.
Here are some highlights. And yes, the white statue lady was "real."
The turkey leg was tasty, the shows were entertaining, the people watching was, um, well, seriously, you just had to be there.
Here are some highlights. And yes, the white statue lady was "real."
Friday, May 23, 2014
The breed-hopper strikes again
“You are such a breed hopper!” a friend of mine told me. She was right. I am guilty as charged - if changing breeds every time I get a puppy is cause for guilt, I should be dysfunctional with the burden of it.
Only I’m not.
I’m dysfunctional with puppy-itis. Seriously. Wickedly. Bad. Puppy-itis.
The puppies are here! Nine beautiful babies delivered safely last night to a first-time mom who outdid herself. One will be coming to Iowa in a couple of months. Color and sex are undecided at the moment although there are boy puppies and girl puppies in all sorts of lovely colors so I’m not freaking out about which one. Yet.
They are . . . drum roll please . . . red bone coonhounds!
Just kidding!
They are Australian shepherds. (I can hear the cheers of victory and the howls of defeat from Dear Readers who were breathlessly anticipating winning the not-a-contest in my last post.)
Yep. I hopped breed lines again - from tervuren to shelties back to tervuren to malinois and now into the great unknown of aussies.
Well, not totally the great unknown. It’s not like I’m importing a Short Snouted Norwegian Bear-Treeing Flueglehund.
I love my shepherd dogs. Shetland shepherds. Belgian shepherds. Australian shepherds. I’m very consistent in my inconsistency.
As Jamie quietly turned grayer and grayer and Phoenix mysteriously turned 7 years old last December, I knew at some point I needed to get a puppy if I intended to keep playing this game of dogs. I didn’t want a puppy. Really. I didn’t. I wanted my Belgians to live forever in a wonderful Belgian paradise where we were eternally happy and surrounded by nose pokes and tooth clacks and disappearing laundry because someone can’t keep his big nose out of the hamper. In spite of my denial, reality kept jabbing at me, inconveniently reminding me that my “baby dog” was 7 and my old dog was nearing 15 and this status quo was not going to last forever.
The act of starting the puppy quest was bittersweet. It meant that I knew Jamie would be leaving me in the near future. As much as I didn’t want to think about that, neither did I want to be a one-dog family for very long.
I spent a lot of time whittling down my short list. There are so many breeds I want to experience firsthand! Then I spent a ridiculously agonizingly stupidly insane amount of time on the final decision. People are blowing themselves up in the name of religion and using military power to conquer neighboring countries and I’m obsessed with what kind of dog to get next. No wonder I never have time to cause trouble. (Insert Farmer eye roll here.)
I admire people who commit their lives to one breed. Shelties. Tervuren. Malinois. Boxers. Poodles. Corgis. Labradors. I have friends who announce they are getting a puppy and I never have to ask “What breed?” I tell people I am getting a puppy and they raise their eyebrows and say, “What is it this time?”
We all play the “next dog” game, no matter how many dogs currently share our lives. I had an automatic list of breeds I would have gotten again in a heartbeat: tervuren, malinois, sheltie. Then I had a list of breeds that I seriously wanted to invite to share my life: Australian shepherd, Australian cattledog, English shepherd.
Then I ran all of them through the filter labeled: DOWNSIZE. GET A SMALLER DOG THIS TIME. NO MORE BIG DOGS. YOU ARE NOT 25 ANY MORE. YOU NEED SMALLER CRATES TO LUG. SMALLER STUFF TO SCHLEPP. THINK SMALLER. GET A DOG YOU COULD PICK UP AND LIFT INTO THE CAR IF YOU HAD TO.
I would have loved another terv. Jamie was the sweetest, gentlest, funniest dog I’ve ever had. He was gorgeous, dignified, graceful, kind and patient. I could sit here all day and type glowing adjectives to describe him. He was also nearly 26” tall. So Tervs were off the list. Yeah, I could have gotten a bitch, who would be smaller, but I was working under the “get a boy” assumption.
If I were 25 again (or had access to mind-altering drugs and prescription strength pain killers. Just kidding. Sort of.) I would get another malinois. Phoenix is an amazing dog. He is physically incredible and mentally staggering. I love him more with every beat of my heart. I am eternally grateful for our journey together.
But I am honestly not up for another journey of this magnitude. Maybe all mals are not all like him. Maybe they are. People who live with malinois will understand. There is normal normal and there is Malinois normal which does not come anywhere near close to normal normal. They are not for the faint of heart. Phoenix stands almost 24” and I am serious about getting a smaller dog so malinois were off the list.
Three breeds emerged successfully from the “GET A SMALLER DOG” filter: sheltie, Aussie and cattle dog. The English shepherds were still in the running, sort of, kind of, for awhile.
English shepherds intrigued me. I love their “farm dog” look. I love the air of good, old-fashioned, common sense they have. But ES are not an AKC-recognized breed. That is neither here nor there but I mostly show in AKC events so would have to register one as an “All American Dog” and it would eliminate me from being able to show at any AKC trials not allowing “All American Dogs.”
We could go the UKC route for trials, but UKC trials are not abundant in this part of the country. Plus ES come in a staggering variety of sizes which is understandable in a breed valued for working ability vs conforming to aesthetic values. I’m sure there are smaller lines but with my luck, I figured I’d end up with another 24 or 25” tall dog.
Shelties. Sigh. Smile. Sigh. I will have a sheltie again some day. But I’m not ready to go THAT small yet.
Australian cattle dogs fascinate me. Family members have had them. The Farmer had one when we first met. They have a lot of the same qualities that attracted me to malinois. Practical. Tough. Herding dog smart. Agile. Low maintenance coat. They have adorable smiles. (Oh come on, they do!) On one of my journeys with Phoenix, I met a retired K9 officer who had both a malinois and an ACD. ACDs are like mini malinois, she said. Hmmm . . . maybe . . . then reality smacked me up side the head.
What’s my favorite sport? Obedience! When was the last time you saw an ACD in an obedience ring? That would be . . . 20 years before God made dirt. Seriously. Yes, I know there are a couple of OTCh. ACDs. There are a whole lot more who aren’t. I know ACDs can be brilliant in that conniving, manipulating, controlling way of herding dogs who are happy to do whatever you ask unless they think they have a better reason not to do it. Along with a smaller dog, I am also looking for one who is a tiny bit more biddable and less inclined to argue about who is right and who is wrong and whose ideas are best on any given day.
And so we have arrived at Aussies. Sealey, Kina and Julia - this is all your fault. Over the last 15 years, you wiggled your cute butts through my classes and stopped at agility trials to say hit. You were sweet, bright, athletic, silly and gorgeous. I watched you learn during classes and if you thought your owners were dumber than a loaf of bread for wanting you to do stuff like fetch dumbbells they kept throwing away, well, you kept it to yourself and fetched the dumbbells because it made your people happy. You were enthusiastic and energetic without requiring anyone to put the paramedics on standby. You cared without arguing. You were diplomatic in your disagreements.
And now eight very long weeks begin.
Only I’m not.
I’m dysfunctional with puppy-itis. Seriously. Wickedly. Bad. Puppy-itis.
The puppies are here! Nine beautiful babies delivered safely last night to a first-time mom who outdid herself. One will be coming to Iowa in a couple of months. Color and sex are undecided at the moment although there are boy puppies and girl puppies in all sorts of lovely colors so I’m not freaking out about which one. Yet.
They are . . . drum roll please . . . red bone coonhounds!
Just kidding!
They are Australian shepherds. (I can hear the cheers of victory and the howls of defeat from Dear Readers who were breathlessly anticipating winning the not-a-contest in my last post.)
Yep. I hopped breed lines again - from tervuren to shelties back to tervuren to malinois and now into the great unknown of aussies.
Well, not totally the great unknown. It’s not like I’m importing a Short Snouted Norwegian Bear-Treeing Flueglehund.
I love my shepherd dogs. Shetland shepherds. Belgian shepherds. Australian shepherds. I’m very consistent in my inconsistency.
As Jamie quietly turned grayer and grayer and Phoenix mysteriously turned 7 years old last December, I knew at some point I needed to get a puppy if I intended to keep playing this game of dogs. I didn’t want a puppy. Really. I didn’t. I wanted my Belgians to live forever in a wonderful Belgian paradise where we were eternally happy and surrounded by nose pokes and tooth clacks and disappearing laundry because someone can’t keep his big nose out of the hamper. In spite of my denial, reality kept jabbing at me, inconveniently reminding me that my “baby dog” was 7 and my old dog was nearing 15 and this status quo was not going to last forever.
The act of starting the puppy quest was bittersweet. It meant that I knew Jamie would be leaving me in the near future. As much as I didn’t want to think about that, neither did I want to be a one-dog family for very long.
I spent a lot of time whittling down my short list. There are so many breeds I want to experience firsthand! Then I spent a ridiculously agonizingly stupidly insane amount of time on the final decision. People are blowing themselves up in the name of religion and using military power to conquer neighboring countries and I’m obsessed with what kind of dog to get next. No wonder I never have time to cause trouble. (Insert Farmer eye roll here.)
I admire people who commit their lives to one breed. Shelties. Tervuren. Malinois. Boxers. Poodles. Corgis. Labradors. I have friends who announce they are getting a puppy and I never have to ask “What breed?” I tell people I am getting a puppy and they raise their eyebrows and say, “What is it this time?”
We all play the “next dog” game, no matter how many dogs currently share our lives. I had an automatic list of breeds I would have gotten again in a heartbeat: tervuren, malinois, sheltie. Then I had a list of breeds that I seriously wanted to invite to share my life: Australian shepherd, Australian cattledog, English shepherd.
Then I ran all of them through the filter labeled: DOWNSIZE. GET A SMALLER DOG THIS TIME. NO MORE BIG DOGS. YOU ARE NOT 25 ANY MORE. YOU NEED SMALLER CRATES TO LUG. SMALLER STUFF TO SCHLEPP. THINK SMALLER. GET A DOG YOU COULD PICK UP AND LIFT INTO THE CAR IF YOU HAD TO.
I would have loved another terv. Jamie was the sweetest, gentlest, funniest dog I’ve ever had. He was gorgeous, dignified, graceful, kind and patient. I could sit here all day and type glowing adjectives to describe him. He was also nearly 26” tall. So Tervs were off the list. Yeah, I could have gotten a bitch, who would be smaller, but I was working under the “get a boy” assumption.
If I were 25 again (or had access to mind-altering drugs and prescription strength pain killers. Just kidding. Sort of.) I would get another malinois. Phoenix is an amazing dog. He is physically incredible and mentally staggering. I love him more with every beat of my heart. I am eternally grateful for our journey together.
But I am honestly not up for another journey of this magnitude. Maybe all mals are not all like him. Maybe they are. People who live with malinois will understand. There is normal normal and there is Malinois normal which does not come anywhere near close to normal normal. They are not for the faint of heart. Phoenix stands almost 24” and I am serious about getting a smaller dog so malinois were off the list.
Three breeds emerged successfully from the “GET A SMALLER DOG” filter: sheltie, Aussie and cattle dog. The English shepherds were still in the running, sort of, kind of, for awhile.
English shepherds intrigued me. I love their “farm dog” look. I love the air of good, old-fashioned, common sense they have. But ES are not an AKC-recognized breed. That is neither here nor there but I mostly show in AKC events so would have to register one as an “All American Dog” and it would eliminate me from being able to show at any AKC trials not allowing “All American Dogs.”
We could go the UKC route for trials, but UKC trials are not abundant in this part of the country. Plus ES come in a staggering variety of sizes which is understandable in a breed valued for working ability vs conforming to aesthetic values. I’m sure there are smaller lines but with my luck, I figured I’d end up with another 24 or 25” tall dog.
Shelties. Sigh. Smile. Sigh. I will have a sheltie again some day. But I’m not ready to go THAT small yet.
Australian cattle dogs fascinate me. Family members have had them. The Farmer had one when we first met. They have a lot of the same qualities that attracted me to malinois. Practical. Tough. Herding dog smart. Agile. Low maintenance coat. They have adorable smiles. (Oh come on, they do!) On one of my journeys with Phoenix, I met a retired K9 officer who had both a malinois and an ACD. ACDs are like mini malinois, she said. Hmmm . . . maybe . . . then reality smacked me up side the head.
What’s my favorite sport? Obedience! When was the last time you saw an ACD in an obedience ring? That would be . . . 20 years before God made dirt. Seriously. Yes, I know there are a couple of OTCh. ACDs. There are a whole lot more who aren’t. I know ACDs can be brilliant in that conniving, manipulating, controlling way of herding dogs who are happy to do whatever you ask unless they think they have a better reason not to do it. Along with a smaller dog, I am also looking for one who is a tiny bit more biddable and less inclined to argue about who is right and who is wrong and whose ideas are best on any given day.
And so we have arrived at Aussies. Sealey, Kina and Julia - this is all your fault. Over the last 15 years, you wiggled your cute butts through my classes and stopped at agility trials to say hit. You were sweet, bright, athletic, silly and gorgeous. I watched you learn during classes and if you thought your owners were dumber than a loaf of bread for wanting you to do stuff like fetch dumbbells they kept throwing away, well, you kept it to yourself and fetched the dumbbells because it made your people happy. You were enthusiastic and energetic without requiring anyone to put the paramedics on standby. You cared without arguing. You were diplomatic in your disagreements.
And now eight very long weeks begin.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
The short list
Decided on a breed. Check.
Contacted a breeder. Check. (It's too cool that she is someone I met back in the day when we were both just starting out and showing shelties in obedience. We've moved on to other breeds and additional venues but continued to bump into each other at performance events over the years.)
Breeding planned. Check.
Breeding accomplished. Check.
Ultrasound to confirm breeding was successful. Check.
Wait. Wait. Freaking wait some more. Check.
X-rays to count puppy skulls and spines yesterday. Check. (Any weird noise you hear in the background is the breeder gasping for air when she saw HOW MANY of the little critters are packed in there.)
Now we wait. Until Thursday. Or Friday. Or Saturday.
Since the Blessed Event is finally within shouting distance, thought I'd present you, Dear Readers, with the short list of breeds that might be Phoenix's new little bro or sis.
Here they are, in no particular order. Cast your vote and you'll be entered for a grand prize drawing to win . . . um . . . nothing. Sorry. I got excited.
1) Belgian tervuren
2) Shetland sheepdog
3) Australian cattledog
4) Australian shepherd
5) Belgian malinois
5) English shepherd
Tell me why you think I might choose that particular breed. (Yeah, I clearly have a strong herding dog bias.) Some of you already know. In spite of my determination not to publicly go batshit puppy-itis crazy until the litter was safely delivered, well, you what it's like trying to keep a secret in the dog community.
Contacted a breeder. Check. (It's too cool that she is someone I met back in the day when we were both just starting out and showing shelties in obedience. We've moved on to other breeds and additional venues but continued to bump into each other at performance events over the years.)
Breeding planned. Check.
Breeding accomplished. Check.
Ultrasound to confirm breeding was successful. Check.
Wait. Wait. Freaking wait some more. Check.
X-rays to count puppy skulls and spines yesterday. Check. (Any weird noise you hear in the background is the breeder gasping for air when she saw HOW MANY of the little critters are packed in there.)
Now we wait. Until Thursday. Or Friday. Or Saturday.
Since the Blessed Event is finally within shouting distance, thought I'd present you, Dear Readers, with the short list of breeds that might be Phoenix's new little bro or sis.
Here they are, in no particular order. Cast your vote and you'll be entered for a grand prize drawing to win . . . um . . . nothing. Sorry. I got excited.
1) Belgian tervuren
2) Shetland sheepdog
3) Australian cattledog
4) Australian shepherd
5) Belgian malinois
5) English shepherd
Tell me why you think I might choose that particular breed. (Yeah, I clearly have a strong herding dog bias.) Some of you already know. In spite of my determination not to publicly go batshit puppy-itis crazy until the litter was safely delivered, well, you what it's like trying to keep a secret in the dog community.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Wisdom
I initially wrote this as a newspaper column focused on advice for the high school graduating class of 2014. Then I tweaked it a little for dog folk.
WELCOME TO THE REAL WORLD (OF DOG TRAINING)
• Follow your passion. Don’t do something just because everybody else is doing it.
• Not everyone you meet is going to be supportive and encouraging. Most will, but a few won’t be able to think beyond their own insecurities. Don’t take it personally. Grudges are just one more thing you have to haul around and if you’re involved in dog sports, you’ve already got enough gear to schlepp.
• Every time someone is rude or downright nasty to you, pay it forward by doing something nice for someone else. Especially people you don’t even know.
• You never know how you can touch someone’s life with a smile or small act of kindness.
• If it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, it probably isn’t.
• You’ve only got one body. Take care of it. You’re not going to be 18 (or 38 or 48) forever so start making good habits now. You’re breakable. Medical science can repair, replace and prevent a lot of things but it can’t cure stupid. Don’t be stupid. This applies to your dog’s body, too.
• Practice tolerance. There is a whole planet full of people out there who may not share your world view. You’ll set yourself up for a lifetime of misery by disapproving of everyone who doesn’t agree with you.
• Keep your mind open and your mouth shut.
• Smile, laugh, sing out loud. Kiss your dog. Kiss your partner. Hug your friends.
• Don’t be so worried about tomorrow that you can’t enjoy today.
• Be responsible. You’re an adult. Your actions have consequences and you have to live with them.
• Judge not. Unless you have a license and a club has hired you.
• Be determined. Be persistent. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you refuse to give up.
• No one owes you anything. You want it? You make it happen.
• It’s okay to be frustrated, pissed off and disappointed. Go sit in your car and pound on the steering wheel and shed some tears, but don’t take it out on your dog or your friends. Nobody wants to see it. Then let it go and figure out how to make it not happen again.
• You’re going to make bad decisions and screw stuff up. Learn from those mistakes. Make new ones next time.
• You can't fix a problem using the same thinking that created it.
• Be yourself. It’s who you were meant to be. Trying to be someone else doesn’t work. If you’re trying to be someone else to please someone else, that especially doesn’t work.
• You are a unique individual - celebrate the gifts you have been given. Share them with others whenever you can.
• If you have a job, good health, a sound dog and disposable income to spend on dog sports, you have more than a lot of people.
• Count your blessings and never take your support network for granted.
There’s a popular graphic circulating on Facebook that reads, “When I was little, I couldn’t wait to be an adult. This shit isn’t what I expected.”
Yeah, there are days when being an adult (dog trainer) is overrated, but it’s a journey that’s going to last for the rest of your life so look for the good stuff and you’ll find it.
The door has been opened, walk through it with your dog and begin that journey.
WELCOME TO THE REAL WORLD (OF DOG TRAINING)
• Follow your passion. Don’t do something just because everybody else is doing it.
• Not everyone you meet is going to be supportive and encouraging. Most will, but a few won’t be able to think beyond their own insecurities. Don’t take it personally. Grudges are just one more thing you have to haul around and if you’re involved in dog sports, you’ve already got enough gear to schlepp.
• Every time someone is rude or downright nasty to you, pay it forward by doing something nice for someone else. Especially people you don’t even know.
• You never know how you can touch someone’s life with a smile or small act of kindness.
• If it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, it probably isn’t.
• You’ve only got one body. Take care of it. You’re not going to be 18 (or 38 or 48) forever so start making good habits now. You’re breakable. Medical science can repair, replace and prevent a lot of things but it can’t cure stupid. Don’t be stupid. This applies to your dog’s body, too.
• Practice tolerance. There is a whole planet full of people out there who may not share your world view. You’ll set yourself up for a lifetime of misery by disapproving of everyone who doesn’t agree with you.
• Keep your mind open and your mouth shut.
• Smile, laugh, sing out loud. Kiss your dog. Kiss your partner. Hug your friends.
• Don’t be so worried about tomorrow that you can’t enjoy today.
• Be responsible. You’re an adult. Your actions have consequences and you have to live with them.
• Judge not. Unless you have a license and a club has hired you.
• Be determined. Be persistent. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you refuse to give up.
• No one owes you anything. You want it? You make it happen.
• It’s okay to be frustrated, pissed off and disappointed. Go sit in your car and pound on the steering wheel and shed some tears, but don’t take it out on your dog or your friends. Nobody wants to see it. Then let it go and figure out how to make it not happen again.
• You’re going to make bad decisions and screw stuff up. Learn from those mistakes. Make new ones next time.
• You can't fix a problem using the same thinking that created it.
• Be yourself. It’s who you were meant to be. Trying to be someone else doesn’t work. If you’re trying to be someone else to please someone else, that especially doesn’t work.
• You are a unique individual - celebrate the gifts you have been given. Share them with others whenever you can.
• If you have a job, good health, a sound dog and disposable income to spend on dog sports, you have more than a lot of people.
• Count your blessings and never take your support network for granted.
There’s a popular graphic circulating on Facebook that reads, “When I was little, I couldn’t wait to be an adult. This shit isn’t what I expected.”
Yeah, there are days when being an adult (dog trainer) is overrated, but it’s a journey that’s going to last for the rest of your life so look for the good stuff and you’ll find it.
The door has been opened, walk through it with your dog and begin that journey.
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