Category Archives: Diary of a Dog Walker

Follow along in the adventures of an Out-U-Go Dog Walker.

Dog Walking: The Dogs are the Easy Part

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But where the heck is Southport?

This last weekend was nuts. Filling in for a sick walker, I forsook my own beloved dogosphere for a whole new pack of pups in a whole new part of the city.  Things started out poorly as I rode around on my bike looking for a street that I knew existed, had seen and traveled on before, but for some reason just couldn’t find.  After many confounded miles riding back and forth, swearing under my breath that when I finally found Southport Boulevard I was going to kick it in the shins, I finally asked a bus driver stopped next to me at a red light for directions.  He told me there was noSouthporthere.  South of Clyborn it changes its name to Noble.  Ah of course, silly me.

Streets disappeared on me all weekend, and I started to wonder what good a grid system is if it only applies sometimes.  When I came upon streets that had no street signs, I began to wonder if the whole idea of a city wasn’t a total failure. I made silent ultimatums in my head: either send an emergency sign crew to name this intersection immediately, or I’m moving to the woods.  The city ignored me, and it called my bluff.  Oh well, at least I’m not walking dogs inVeniceorShanghai.  Venetian dog walkers would probably kill forChicago’s imperfect grid. But whatever, they’re inVenice.

Once I found the dogs, things got much better.  Without fail, whatever the stress or anxiety that is besieging my skull, it all disappears in a puff when I meet the dogs, dispelled by the mighty wind from a wagging tail. Sometimes if poor directions or bad drivers get me riled up, I pause by the front door to take a breath and put on a happy face for the dog that awaits me on the other side. This ritual is totally unnecessary, because the dogs themselves are instant antidote to the travails of urban living.  One look at a big-toothed smile and I am convinced that all the world is roses.  I can offer no debate.  Should the puppy also be bouncing or doing the whole-butt wag, I turn to putty in his paws.

The first dogs I walked were sweet.  Hard to find and a bit shy, but no problems. The next dog was an Australian Shepherd, which is to say, totally energetic. Aussies are wonderful dogs; one could even argue that they are the most wonderful breed of all, being generally handsome, healthy, friendly and crazy wicked smart.  It’s this last trait that can lead to trouble though, since some Aussies don’t have sufficient stimulation for their massive intellects, and as a result, go just a wee bit nuts.  I’ve seen it many times, in about a third of the Aussies I’ve come across. This dog I walked was hilarious.  We walked about ten, maybe twenty feet down the street before he flopped over on his side, refusing to budge.  Curious as to the strength of his conviction not to walk, I tried to keep walking to see if he’d let himself be dragged. He did.  So I didn’t.  Most dogs, as in every dog I’ve ever met, will give up this silly display of spoiled petulance if you pull them up onto their feet. But since I was clearly up against a great and determined mind, we turned around and walked the other way.  We got about ten, maybe twenty feet to the other side of his front door and he did the same thing.  Flop and sprawl. Okay…how about we cross the street?  Sure, no problem. Once we reach the other side however, flop sprawl.  No go. This Australian was determined not to venture more than a treat’s toss away from his home, and was prepared to go to any length of non-violent resistance to have his way. Fortunately, he quickly did his business, and we got on to the business of playing fetch inside.  It was a test of wills and I lost. I’ll just say that had it been my dog, I’d have dragged him until he had it very clear that I, the giant shaved monkey thing, was totally in charge and that he, the tail-less quasi wolf-thing, was not at all.  But it wasn’t my dog. It’s not professional to drag him.  And it looks bad.

The next dog was Max, an old lab (31 years old according to the typo on his notes, and doing pretty good I must say), which is another way of saying he’s a friendly, courteous and all together delightful walking companion. So far so descent:  2 for 3.  But then the next two visits, oh help.  That’s what I called to say to the office: “Oh help.” First was Jack who was a Pomapoo or some such thing, and he was sweet and adorable and just smart enough to know how to avoid all my attempts to lure or trick him into going back into his crate.  For 40 minutes.  I resorted to begging him, but pity and cuteness don’t necessarily go together like you might think; besides, Jack was having too much fun watching me suffer.  But in he went eventually, and on I went to the next trial.

This one was a twofer.  They were Boston Terrier sibling named Emma and Ollie, both adorable and both so terrified of me that they were shaking at 1000 bpm. I’ve mentioned before that I tend to scare little dogs at first.  I won’t go into it now beyond reiterating that I don’t blame them for being scared, and it only hurts my feelings a lot. So when I managed to get one to come to me to get harnessed up, I was feeling pretty good.  Until I looked around for the other.  And kept looking.  All over the house.  Finally I found him upstairs under the bed, out of reach and clearly not coming out for treats, baby talk, belly rubs or anything at all so long as I was involved in the equation.  I’ll make this very long and very painful story short:  I eventually managed to get close enough to hook a leash on him, and we went for a walk.  A 25 minute visit had, again, turned into an hour.  Which is ironic, because apparently, no one wanted it to go on at all.  They sure were cute though.

The next visit was much easier.  A long haired Dachshund named Chloe who loved to cuddle, and a “Sheepoo” named Dylan whose jealousy for my attention made me feel absolutely Royal. We had a great time until Chloe tried to poop and found she couldn’t finish the job, so to speak, which required my bagged hand to reach in and help things along, to everyone’s embarrassment, including all the many passers by. Then Dylan took her turn and had the opposite problem. Which makes it impossible to pick up, and since it was in the middle of the sidewalk, makes me the enemy of all civilization in the eyes of everyone who saw us.

The final walk of this day (yes I know this is long and dragging, but it’s an accurate account for that) was another pair of black and white Boston Terrier siblings (what are the odds) named Frankie and Beansie. In contrast to Emma and Ollie, these two were not afraid of me one iota.  In fact one chewed on my hand while the other repeatedly hopped up and bit my nose. In a friendly sort of way.  Anyway, the walk was fine, the dogs were great, no problems whatsoever.

Maybe the heat is getting to people.  People like me. Maybe it’s even getting to dogs.  Occasionally I try to remember what it was like in the winter, when there was this stuff called snow and ice everywhere, and the air hurt you but in a different way that’s kind of hard to recall.  I vaguely remember longing for summer, dreaming of it, trying to remember its smells, imagining what it was like when you could go outside any time of day, when girls wore dresses, and the sun was not just another star in a frigid sky, but a huge floating space heater that made your eyes hide and your skin leak.  Now that summer is here, I’m pleased to find it was everything I hoped for and more. I certainly don’t long for the winter, but I would appreciate a little of its calm, its crystal in clarity.  In other words, I wish everyone could just chill out for a minute.  Take a collective deep breath.  Then, let’s name our streets, name our dogs, and calmly, collectively, kickSouthport Boulevardin the shins.  Or do what you want, it doesn’t matter to me:  I’m heading back to my regular dogs.

 

The Skittish Dog, Big-Bada-Booms and Me

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Over the Fourth of July Holiday, I was scheduled to visit with two dogs I had never met, Molly and Clementine.

Molly - Boxer mix

Molly - Boxer mix

I’d been told that Molly, the Boxer Mix, could be a little wary of strangers and skittish with sudden movement or loud noises. Good to know.

That first visit, as I got out of my car, I could hear thunder in the distance. *Bada-Boom!* I walked up the steps to the apartment feeling the heaviness of the air. About halfway up, the barking started.

In an attempt to soothe the barking dog, as I unlocked the door, I sang in a soft yet high pitched voice. “Hello Ms. Molly and Ms. Clementine! I’m here to walk you and feed you and we’re gonna be good friends.”

The snarling, barking face that greeted me as I pushed the door open, did NOT want to be my friend. But, just beyond Molly was Clementine.

Clementine - Mt. Feist

Clementine - Mt. Feist

It was a strange juxtaposition! Clementine was practically dancing in place, she was so excited to see me. She ran to my other side and there she was – ears forward, running up to me and trying to lick my hand. On the other side was Molly – ears back, hackles up, teeth bared, snarling, barking and backing away.

I put my hands in my pocket, averted my eyes from Molly and kept singing. “Nothing to be scared of. I want to be your new friend. Let me give you a treat!”

Since Molly wasn’t rushing me, I moved very slowly to the kitchen table where the treats were. (Of all the times… I forget to have an emergency treat in my pocket like I usually do!) They both sat, though Molly still looked freaked out. While they were distracted with the treats, I fed them their dinners and read over the notes the pet parents left me. Then I took Clementine for a walk, hoping Molly would see how much fun Clementine was having and be okay with me.

While we were outside, I noticed that the weather had gotten worse. It hadn’t yet started to rain, but it is pretty dark and I could see lightening in the distance. Clementine didn’t seem to mind.

I gave them treats when I got back in and, since Molly seemed to be chilling out, I moved very slowly to put her leash on. Two things happened almost simultaneously: I heard a loud *Bada-Boom!* and Molly bit!

Fortunately, she only got my shirt.

Time to call for backup. (One thing I really like about Out-U-Go! is that if something goes wrong, I’m not alone.) Amanda, the Top Dog, was on a visit herself. We discussed the situation. She was baffled. She’d met Molly and had never seen her behave like that. But just talking to Amanda helped me think clearly. As we talked, I continued to give the girls little treats. Molly was no longer barking or snarling, but she was still fearful, stress panting and, every few seconds, her body would jerk… as if something was startling her.

That’s when it hit me. Though I couldn’t hear it, I realized there were fireworks going off in the distance. That combined with the thunder and this strange person in her house was terrifying her! I understood the situation. But what to do…

Thinking back to my work with not so friendly dogs in the shelter, I decided to try to lasso her with the leash. I pulled the leash through the handle end and looped it over her head. It worked!

We managed to walk and, even though it was sprinkling, the thunder was closer and I heard more fireworks, she did well. She finished up her business and we got back inside. While walking, the leash managed to get caught under her collar so I couldn’t just drop it to let her slip out of it. But I wasn’t taking a chance and putting my hand anywhere near her mouth. I found a long wooden spoon in a drawer and slid it under the lasso. It came right off. Phew!

The next morning, I come in with treats. Molly barked, but then settled down quickly. No snarling at all. Over the next few visits, she got more and more comfortable with me until I was able to cuddle with her in the living room. She even put her head in my lap while I wrote notes!

Just goes to show, you can’t judge a dog by the first meeting. Especially when Big-Bada-Booms are involved!

Talking to Dogs

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Biscuit says "awoahwooor"

I have always talked to my own dogs in a highly idiomatic and probably unintelligible way, and yet I have consistently been impressed by their ability to not only understand me, but indeed contribute to a meaningful exchange of sentiments.  Not to take anything away from my own dog’s abilities, but since starting as a dog walker, I have come to the conclusion that most dogs are, in fact, remarkable conversationalists.  Provided, of course, you know how to talk to them. Though there are a number or viable approaches to dog-diction, I would like to share my own, which have brought me considerable success.

First, it is important to keep in mind that dogs are excellent listeners.  Even Dudley the Boxer, who seems to grow progressively deafer by the day, will listen attentively throughout a full 20-minute visit as you talk about the weather, your day, your worries and concerns, or anything else that might be on your mind. Other humans you pass on the street might look at you sideways, but that is simply because they aren’t good listeners. Unlike Sally the Australian Shepherd, who could make quite a lot of money as a therapist and yet offers her patient floppy ear on a strictly pro-bono basis.  She will listen discreetly as you talk things out, and then turn and give you a slight approving nod as you come to an appropriate conclusion.  It’s very professional, and guaranteed to be held in the strictest confidence.

If you ask a dog a question, they will immediately consider it.  If you say “hey, what’s that?” they will look at you with an expression that says, “why, I don’t know.  Please allow me to investigate on your behalf.”  I did this with Sam the Yellow Lab today, and the “that” I was referring to was a large deer.  Sam was very eager to go ask the deer what he was, and though this was unadvisable, I appreciated his enthusiasm and open-mindedness.

If you say “whose there?” when you enter a house or when there is a knock at the door, all nearby dogs will begin to bark maniacally, like my Morgan and Barley.  Though their barking might seem a somewhat brash conversational mode, it must be interpreted in light of what the dogs are saying with each bark, which is typically “hello?  State your business please.  If you are nice, than you are welcome to enter and begin to pet me immediately, and if you are not nice then you should perhaps depart the premises lest I should be obliged to masticate on your limbs.”  Nothing could be more polite.

If you ask Biscuit the Lab “where you going?” he’ll look and say “oh nowhere in particular. Where do you think we ought to go?”  If you ask “whose a good boy?” he will wag his tail and reveal a grin that translates as “I think I know the answer; yet I eagerly await your pronouncement.”  If you ask him “what’s the big idea?” he will respond with a look that says “the big idea?  I’m afraid I don’t know. Would you care to elaborate on your question?”  While waiting for me to lock the door so we can begin our walk, Biscuit always says “awoahwooor,” which is an ancient canine prayer for a safe and prosperous walk.  It is polite to chant along with him when he does this.

If you walk into a room in which something has recently been chewed, knocked over, or otherwise disassembled, you can ask “who did this?” and be immediately answered by an abashed countenance indicating the guilty party. You need not stop there however. Though possessing the foreknowledge that Poncho, for example, is prone to obstreperous caprices, upon seeing his self-incriminating posture you can proceed to ask “Poncho, did you do this?”  He will tell you “yes I’m afraid so, and I am deeply ashamed.”  Also add some “how could you?” and “don’t you know better?” and don’t limit the disappointed tone in your voice.  The more deeply shocked and hurt you sound, the more the guilty party will visibly repent (in some cases even trying to hide, or crawl into another universe where they are not so oppressed by guilt) and the more confidently you can report your conclusions to the proper authorities on the report card.

Also a few notes on pronunciation:  Boy should be pronounced as “Bouyee” and girl should be pronounced as “Guroh”.  The word dog should come at the close of any and every sentence, and is best communicated as “Dewg” or even “Dewgadewg” if you’re not in a hurry.  Definite articles and possessive pronouns are to be used constantly.  For example, a paltry ‘hello how are you Bailey’ would become ‘hello the Bailey dog, how is my doggy dog’. The end of a sentence should either rise as in a question or fall dramatically as in the final inarguable pronouncement of a great sage.

Most dog languages do not feature consonants, so avoid them in your own speech whenever possible.  This can be readily accomplished by paralyzing the tongue and speaking with the back of the throat.  The lips should be held soft, thick and inert, like velvet curtains that open for your word play.

There have been a number of high profile dog philologists who have lately achieved great fame and fortune on the lecture circuit promoting their new theories.  Chief among these is the so called “L to W” theory, which holds that any time you are conversing with a canine, you shouwd tawk wike this and empwoy a widdwe baby voice. I feel that not only does this approach not enhance inter-species communication, but in fact has led to a sharp increase in biting incidents.  I would further add that these bites are all well justified in that they come as a response to an indecent, gratuitous and audibly reprehensible practice.

I contend that the L should not be abandoned.  In some cases it should even be enhanced, such as in the word “hello.”  In this case, I find it advantageous (and highly gratifying) to make as rich and luxuriant and “L” sound as possible.  Use the whole of the tongue, hold it a few extra beats, and then use this tongue position as a sort of morphological spring board, as it were, to fling the final “O” in hello into the sound-space of your new dog friend. The O will find itself rising and falling like a kite in the air, much to the delight of all around.  Think of Whitney Houston were she a champion yodeler.  If your vocal explorations should lead you into the higher registers, you might be lucky enough to hear your dogs join in a cappella. You needn’t wait for a full moon to harmonize in this way.

Finally, a word on dog whispering.  While this subtle and powerful practice has enjoyed a vogue of late, I recommend talking in a full-volume voice.  Whispering is just fine, but now that you know the proper way to talk to a dog, you may as well let them hear you.  You know they’ll be listening.

 

 

Small Dogs

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Chet

I didn’t used to like little dogs.  In fact I thought they were obnoxious, pathetic and even difficult to regard as real dogs.  I said things like “I can’t respect a dog that couldn’t kill me,” and considered wrestling as an essential touchstone of canine quality.  I thought that the more a dog resembled a wolf the better. Miniature sounded like a derogatory term for any breed.  I even admit to wondering on occasion just how far one could punt a yapping Chihuahua, given optimal weather conditions.  I confess this all now with contrition.  I was a blind fool.

It took a mighty pack of adorable advocates to sway me. Annie, Abigale, Bisou, Jack, Chet, Bobbi, Nala and others have all shown me that little dogs got it where it counts.  In fact, since most shepherd dogs don’t herd sheep, most bulldogs don’t fight bulls, and the fast majority of pointers and spaniels will never hunt any game more dangerous than a squeaky toy, we may as well recognize that we keep dogs in our homes for a purpose beyond the original designs of the breed. Above all, those of us who don’t hunt or herd have dogs around specifically for their companionship.  And in that sense, little dogs are further along on the path toward the domestic ideal, co-evolving with us before our eyes into the splendid urbanites of the future.  And it’s not just that they fit well in apartments and homes surrounded by cityscape, that they live a long time, eat relatively little and make only tiny, inoffensive poops.  I’ve most come to admire how unadorned they are.  Bisou with her sparkly collar only embodies cuteness and adorability with the utmost efficiency.  Who needs a lab’s webbed feet?  Not Annie.  She can float like a teddy bear.   Where is the herd of sheep that is going to escape if Abigale isn’t equipped to drive them back home?  What does the earth stand to gain by drawing up massive wagging tails to coffee table height? You won’t catch pheasants or ducks if you take Bobbi hunting, but you will capture the hearts of everyone you meet.  And so what if Jack won’t scare off any burglars.  He won’t bite their ankles as they carry out the TV, but he will look sad and cute enough to make the burglars stop what they’re doing, put the TV back and go home to reconsider their ways.

Maverick

My new fondness for little dogs started as professional courtesy, with me being nice and friendly and fun with the pups because it’s my job. Dogs, no doubt, could sense my misgivings, and may have treated me with the same detached formality.  I didn’t look forward to walking the little guys like I did the big boys. With them, I always knew we were pals.  With the little dogs, however, there often seemed an oppressive mutual decorum, if not open hostility.  Maverick, for example, used to bite my shoe as I walked out the door.  Once the bulk of me was safely behind a pane of wood and only my foot stuck back to keep him from running out into the street, he figured the odds were even and he could finally tell me how he really felt.  This was actually pretty painful, but I confess it hurt my feelings more than my foot (though I never let on to either).  What had I, or my foot, done to offend?

Abigale never bit me, but she did require a lot of patience at first.  When she was adopted, rescued from unfortunate circumstances, she was terribly timid and nervous.  She would spend nearly half of every visit running to hide under various couches, listening to me try to coax her to come near enough to let me put a harness on her.  For weeks she would only inch toward a treat, and then grab it and scram to the nearest defensible space.  I never held it against her for being so afraid, because I would probably react the same way if a 100 foot-tall ogre came into my home carrying a rope, regardless of how he baby talked. Little by little over months, this ogre has almost completely persuaded little Abigale that he’s not only harmless, but fun and friendly and generous with treats.  And in trying to win her over, I’ve been won over as well.  How could anyone be displeased with an animal that looks like she was sculpted out of cotton candy, and acts like friendship and joy are her only operative instincts?  She delights in people, and delights them wherever she goes (hurray for an adoption success story!). We leave a wake of smiles wherever we walk, and I’m as proud to walk that happy pup as I am to walk the statelier beasts.  So what if she can’t wrestle.

Bobbi

Bobbi

But some little dogs can wrestle.  Some can even pin 100 foot ogres and reduce them to wiggling, giggling fools. Bobbi did this to me.  She is a chihuahua schnauzer mix, which is all I knew of her as I put the key in her front door for the first time, and I did not then consider this information to be much in her favor. But oh, what a wonderful little creature she is!  While her brother Chet (another unlikely mix of little breeds) regarded me dubiously from his crate and refused to come out, little Bobbi pounced with ferocious affection.  To demonstrate to Chet that I was a friendly ogre, I tried a little dog body language, and lay on my back in the living room.  Chet was not impressed, but Bobbi hopped right on my chest and proceeded to try and lick every part of my face and neck.  I was vanquished, along with any little dog antipathy.  Imagine coming home every evening to a friend whose little body can’t contain all the huge happy emotions the very sight of you inspires, and having those emotions pore over you in unabashed animal glee.  Little dogs indeed.

Chet, however, never did come out of his crate, at least while I was around.  Little dogs still have big teeth, and I wasn’t about to try and pull Chet out of his safe place, in case he had some Badger in his lineage.  Bobbi and I walked alone while leaving Chet free to roam the house, go on a pee pad, have a drink, and maybe enjoy some me time.  When Bobbi and I got back, Chet had scorned the pee pad for the living room carpet and gone upstairs to hide under the sectional sofa.  Though I spent the first 15 minutes of the visit enraptured with Bobbi, I spent the next 45 minutes herding Chet from one hiding place to another, up and down stairs more times than I care to admit, and wondering (often out loud) if I was being punished for something.  Eventually I took it upon myself to rearrange some furniture to block off certain avenues of escape, and finally check-mated Chet into a situation where he either go back into the crate or approach and try and get by me.  I’m glad he chose the crate or else I might still be there, locked in a battle of wits with 10 pound dog. The outcome was never certain, and even in my moment of triumph I was still left with a lot of misplaced furniture to move. Little dogs indeed.

I don’t walk those two anymore.  Less ogre-ish walkers get all the Bobbi kisses, and Chet kisses too for all I know.  I’ve largely demolished the prejudice I had for microdogs, but I can’t help it if some choose not to meet me half way.  Granted half way is one step for me and about five for them, but there isn’t always time to work out an understanding between walker and walked.  There are trees to be marked and squirrels to be barked at, and I’ll gladly stand aside and let someone else get the little job done.  I’m gratified by my new little friendships, especially the ones that seemed so unlikely at first, like Abigale.  But it seems 20 minute visits just aren’t enough to win Chet over, and I don’t hold it against him.  Ogres have thick skin.

Ultimately, it was a revelation to me that little dogs are just like other dogs, only little.  They aren’t necessarily like cats for being cat sized.  They’re not puppies either.  They aren’t fragile little toys that can’t be played with, or effete diva dwarfs that survive only on constant pampering. They’re dogs.  Real dogs!  Just shrunken, as if with a ray gun.  Sometimes I’d like to have this ray gun to use on some of my more beastly beasts.  Just to simplify things.

Nonetheless, I still feel vaguely revolted at the sight of a mini canine head sticking out of a purse, or looking over a steering wheel.  But it’s the humans I question, and make me wish again for a shrink ray.  I still think the greatest pet I will never have is a perfectly tame grizzly bear.  I may never get over the dream of riding him around town, letting him humor me with daily wrestling matches, and playing sofa on movie night.  Big dogs offer a glimpse of the ego explosion that comes with familiarity with (and domination over) a powerful predator.  But I can take vicarious pleasure in little Bisou curling up in my arms when I carry her down a mountain of stairs, or Abigale trying oh-so-hard to jump into my second-story lap.  I’m their grizzly bear, and I’m just as tame, and as real, as they are.

 

Leashes, the most important tool

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Gotta have a leash, might as well have a fun one! 🙂

Leashes are the tools with which dog walkers practice their craft.  No other single item is as important.  Without shoes, our feet would quickly develop thick natural pads.  Without cars or bikes to get from house to house, we would become bus schedule masters and/or Olympic runners.  Without poop bags, we would either be jailed for littering or never shake anyone’s hand again.  Without keys and alarm codes, we would become cat burglars without the burgling (i.e. we’d remain dog borrowers, only stealthier).  Yes, whether nylon, cotton, hemp or leather, the leash is as essential to dog walking as the rope is to sailing.  In fact, with strong pulling dogs, the leash and sailing rope become effectively the same thing.  Why don’t they have an aquatic Iditarod with lots of Labradors pulling canoes? I’m sure labs and audiences would love it.  I’m losing my train of thought.

Train!  That is what we would have to do without leashes.  Every dog we walk would have to be like those fancy shepherd dogs that run precisely the direction of your choosing based on which part of “Frére Jacques” you whistle. Some of the dogs I walk, like smarty Miss Sally, have the intelligence and docility to pick up this trick, and yet we would still lack the time needed to practice, as well as lacking the open field full of sheep.  With some of the other dogs–no offense Biscuit–I’m lucky to get them to sit for a treat.  A field full of sheep would become a scene of such carnage that even National Geographic photographers would have to turn away.  And what if the field was full of squirrels?  It’s a horrific thought.

But not with a leash!  Leash technology is so effective that I’ve even seen it applied to wild animals such as tigers and children.  Some people even walk their leashed-up house cats, though these people are probably nuts.  Avid anglers are always trying to convince fish to attach themselves to a leash, but fish are so stupid that they don’t recognize a great tool when they swim past it.  Cowboys are famous for the way they attach leashes to cows.

Bungee jumpers are dedicated to sharing their most thrilling moments with leashes, and for an instant, they even love leashes as intensely as a dog walker. Kite flyers, yo yo artists, double-dutch jumpers and just about everyone in the world shares a common motto:  “from leashed to greatest!”

 

Midwest Friendliness: Get away from my dog!

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I know, it's hard to resist these cute faces!

One of the really terrible things about the Midwest is that people are so golly goshdern friendly.  If you pass ten people on the street, you’ll likely hear five “hellos,” a couple “how are you’s” and everyone else will smile and nod. (With the exception of one person who is either distracted, cranky or foreign.) It takes a little getting used to, but once you’ve caught on it becomes imperative to reciprocate every greeting, and even initiate those that aren’t forthcoming, even if it means risking the shock of saying “howdy” to the one oddball that doesn’t respond.  That shock is indeed terrible, but other than that, all the friendliness is really only terrible when you’re walking happy, adorable animals while maintaining the strict no-petting policy.

Out-U-Go! teaches their Pet Sitters to stay away from other dogs and humans……and squirrels and rabbits and cars and orangutans and ogres (the training is amazingly intensive). It’s a sound policy and an easy one to embrace for the sake of liability and plain ol’ good sense. The difficulty comes in explaining company policy quickly to a person who, already slightly crazed with Midwest friendliness, is bowled over by my pup’s cuteness and comes charging across the street to smear their hands all over my poor pooch.  These people can come out of nowhere and are surprisingly quick, and since brevity is not my strong suit, I have some special tricks to keep them at bay.

One of these is to pretend that the dog at my side is pulling really hard, and say things like, “Easy girl! Stay down!”  This will cause most prudent people to reconsider coming too close to a wild dog. A few of the dogs I walk seamlessly pick up on the subterfuge and start pulling, lunging and wiggling like crazy.  Lizzie is a good example of this.  In fact you could say that Lizzie is a dedicated method actress who has never broken character for a moment.

Still, it’s amazing how many people are not deterred by an over-excited canine. Sometimes I’ll say to this person, “careful, he’ll get his muddy paws all over you.” This will keep the dapper friendlies away, but still there are those who are not deterred, especially if there is obviously no mud around, or conversely if there is mud everywhere, including on the would-be love assaulter.  For these kinds of bogeys, I have a special weapon – blatant lying.  I’ll tell them to “Stay back!  He’s not too friendly” or “Careful now, she doesn’t like to be touched.” This second one isn’t always lying, seeing as most of these overzealous fur fiends think noogies and ear pulling is endearing to a dog.  Such people deserve a quick lesson from several dozen pearly white tutors.  But if I let them get that lesson, I’d deserve to get fired.

A few examples:  Annie and Abigale weigh about 15 pounds combined and are so impossibly cute you want to curl up in a ball and suck your thumb.  Such creatures need lots of protection from everything (including hawks) and I provide this in a pinch by telling people–in as serious a voice as I can muster–to “watch out, they’re killers.” It’s easier to deter would-be petters when you’re walking a dog that actually looks kind of scary.  In that case all I need to do is also look kind of mean, and the friendly folks naturally keep their distance.  Dudley’s somewhat demonic features, when combined with a scowl from me, can create a 100 ft buffer zone for us to stroll through, which is especially important now that school is out and feral children are everywhere.

Of course it’s nice to not scare or scowl, and most of the time it’s possible to preserve the dog’s personal space just by avoiding people.  We can cross a street, take a wide arc across a lawn, or even turn around and walk the other way. But sometimes folks don’t get the message.  I was walking Sam the other day (which is to say that I was restraining him as he went bounding around) when we came upon an old man walking his own old dog. The street was too busy to cross and there were no side streets to turn onto, so I tried to go wide and give the man the sidewalk.  But this man was intent on our dogs meeting, and he turned wide to meet us.  I turned to make an arc the other direction, and he turned too. I pointed out the obvious fact that Sam was a little wild, but the man just said, “Meh, they should say hello.” So say hello they did, briefly, standing in someone’s front garden.  It was a quick and incident-free exchange (as most of them surely would be if they were allowed to happen), but I was left with the feeling of defeat, since I was practically cornered by this old man, and all my tricks and policies brushed aside by his inveterate friendliness.  That man has been saying hello for many decades, and was not going to be denied.  We continued walking down a lovely street on a beautiful day.  It was terrible.

 

Gentle Leaders – a dog walker’s favorite tool!

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Gentle Leader!  Gentle Leader!  This is not only a Confucian ideal and a dream of the Arab Spring.  No, it’s also something far less important, if no less rare:  the perfect dog walking tool.  In over six months of walking dogs, I can honestly say I’ve used this magical implement exactly twice.  Both occasions were notable for the comfort and ease with which the dogs were gently led by me.  This is as you’d expect though, since the gentle leader is, in my professional opinion, the best thing on the market for people with dogs and arms who care about either.  I don’t mean to endorse the gentle leader product specifically–buy the counterfeit black market version, or make your own out of old shoe laces for all I care. You may find your pup reluctant to be bridled at first, but I think this is only partly because they’re uncomfortable (though surely no less comfortable than a collar with little prongs sticking into your doggy’s neck, the most popular method among my pup’s parents) and partly–mostly–because the dogs know that once that thing is on, their pulling and lunging days are over.  For as dogs, they intuitively understand the great fortune-cookie wisdom of the universe: control the head, and the body will follow.

Control the torso, however, and the dog will pull like a punctilious draft horse behind on his rounds.  Body harnesses are preferable to prong collars or choke chains in my book, but that’s only because I’m larger than the dogs I walk.  In some cases, like Annie and Abigale, both of whom wear harnesses and together weigh about as much as my shoe, the harness works well because if they pull and pull with all their adorable might toward an old pizza scrap or something, I can simply lift them up and set them down a foot away.  A crane operator couldn’t ask for a better cargo net.  In other cases, I’m only slightly larger than the dog, like Cooper the giant Goldendoodle.  Even in this case, the combo collar/harness gives me enough control to keep him from pulling me wherever he pleases, provided I center my chi, tie the leash to my belt and hug a street light.

But even then, the walker can still become the walked.  There is another important piece of equipment that connects to the thing that connects to the dog.  You guessed it:  the leash. And you guessed it: retractable leashes suck.  Most dog walkers agree and can’t get enough of talking about how they dislike them.  The flaws in the retractable leash approach are so myriad that I can’t even describe them all.

But let me try.

  • Your sweet puppy prince doesn’t stay to the left or right but rather goes back and forth and requires you to switch the retractable handle thingy from hand to hand lest you find yourself twisted like a pretzel and walking backwards.  Passing this thing from hand to hand is harder to do than with a simple leash, let alone passing two from one hand to the other when you’re walking two dogs that both switch sides.  If the dogs switch sides simultaneously while slightly behind you and then advance quickly to the next smell up ahead, you will quickly discover yourself to be a backward pretzel who is in a position where you must juggle little mechanisms, quickly and behind your back, being sure that the correct leash goes over or under, lest they become tangled near the retraction point and create a whipping line that will sever you at the waist.
  • You might drop one leash cover which will crash on the pavement with a loud crack which, if it doesn’t break the darn thing, will scare the dogs into flight, leaving you chasing a gun shy dog down the street with virtually no chance to grab the leash that has retracted to within six inches from his quickly escaping neck.
  • You can be walking along just fine, giving the dogs a little more room to roam (because that’s the point of the things, right?) when suddenly a loose dog or a half-rotten taco or a rabid rabbit springs out of the bushes and you have to not only trust the speed of your thumb or index finger to reach the lock button (depending on the model) but also hope that the small cog will actually be sturdy enough to lock the internal mechanism against the cosmic force of a lunging, surging, charging beast, and then instantly pull the dog in, quickly release the button, extend your arm and hope that the leash retracts faster than the dog can launch again, bring in some line and then repeat again and again, so that you look like some kind of fantasy warlock flapping your arms up and down the street while your canine minions froth at your side.  Is that what you want?

All of this happens every day, or would, if I were less of a pro. As it is, I get plenty of practice passing retractable leashes between hands (behind my back, over my head, between my legs, oh yes) every morning with Jackson and Poncho, two large energetic dogs who are used to dashing where they please.  Jackson, in particular, gets walked with out any leash at all by his owner (don’t get me started) and seems shocked every day to find that he can’t stray more than 30 feet from my side.  He’s lucky to get that far, ever.

Really, I like to give dogs as much leash as the environment and circumstances allow, and they’re obedient and mature enough to handle.  With some dogs unfortunately, this isn’t much.  Biscuit can have a lot of line unless we’re approaching a corner or alley or thing he shouldn’t get at. Dudley can have all the line he wants, because he’s old and doesn’t fight or chase anything (though he has been known to walk into trees and fences, poor guy).  Beau could have a lot of line because he always came when I called or pulled him in.  Poncho gets very little, because he wants to pursue and consume everything, even if it should happen to be beneath a moving car.  His retractable leash recently broke though (surprise!  I didn’t do it) and he’s been using a backup, normal leash.  Guess which I prefer?

I will say this for retractables:  dogs are less likely to step over them, and you can do the ratchet maneuver where you raise and lower your arm while stroking the flywheel (or whatever) with the cog by gently pressing the button, resulting in a loud ratchet sound which the pooch can hear and feel as small little pulses in the leash.  Dogs that are enjoying a good long sniff know that after the third ratchet, I’m pressing the button all the way and we’re off to find the next great smell.  It’s a pretty neat study in sensitization that most dogs I walk regularly don’t need to be pulled along much anymore; just the ratchet noise is enough to get them moving again.  It’s pretty gentle.

But not as gentle as the gentle leader!  That sweet face hugger is the gentlest leaderiest of all.  And it’s available for purchase at most major pet stores!  Wow!  Trust me, your dog won’t thank you.  At first.  And that’s a good thing.  But eventually he or she will catch on, and then when your neighbors see you and your dog floating down the street like Buddhas, they’ll go buy them too (or make them).  Then someday, maybe, I’ll gently lead a third dog. It’s my great trivial dream.

 

Tangled Leashes: Am I on Candid Camera?

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There’s that moment in the show when the poor hapless protagonist, be he a cartoon duck, a rascally Tramp or an oafish husband, is so exasperated by all the foolishness around him that he stops and looks right into the camera, inviting the audience–begging them, really–to intervene, sympathize, do anything to stop the inanity. The audience is thrilled to be in on the action, and we laugh and nod and say, “Yep, life’s crazy, hang in there buddy.”  Thus encouraged, our hero goes on to defeat the forces of stupidity and ensure that decency can maintain a precarious existence in the universe. But what would the protagonist do if there were no camera?  Where would he look?  Who would share his troubles?  I happen to know. He looks all around, at tree tops and shoe tops, and finding no cameras anywhere, he looks into the eyes of the dogs at his side. And yet he finds no consolation at all.

In my case, the source of my flabbergastation is that very dog.  Not to say that it’s the dog’s fault; in fact if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. But that doesn’t make it any easier.  Let me explain.

Some dogs have what I call “leash sense,” defined as an innate awareness they are connected via a continuous and impermeable strand to the person walking them.  Some dogs figure this out with experience, while others just seem to have the smarts.  Sally, for example, is smart enough to never put a tree between my arm and her neck, and if she should take a wrong turn she quickly backs up and rejoins me at my side.  Poncho seems to be trying to snare the trees with the leash, but he too remembers himself and can figure out which way to go to unwind. Morgan takes it to another level. She tends to step over the leash and also pull it so the pinch collar becomes crooked, but all I need to do is stop and hold the leash in front of her with some slack and she will lift a leg, dip a nose, do a twist and untangle herself with a quick little dance.  I beam with pride. Other dogs don’t have this gift.  For them, walking down the street is a delightful series of diversions (each getting about 0.2 seconds attention) occasionally interrupted by that guy who’s always following along and who somehow keeps getting himself tangled up in bushes and fence posts.  These dogs need watching, because they’ll dash all about in hot pursuit of smells and weave a leash web across the road that will ensnare cars, pedestrians and your will to go on. Buddi and Orecchio belong to this second category.

Let me set the stage.  Near a corner of a busy street, right where one straight line of apartments stops and the next row begins, there is a gap that forms to accommodate the curve in the street. Someone saw this little wedge of earth as a great place for a little lawn, filled in with some tall and somewhat aggressive bushes.  I don’t know how else to describe these nasty shrubs–you wouldn’t want to have to trim them, and any soccer balls that fall in their midst require the recruitment of friends and parents for elaborate rescue operations.

This happens to be one of Orecchio’s favorite places to poop, and since being able to write “#2” on the dog’s report card is sweet vindication for those trained in the art of canine ambulation, I begrudgingly let him enter his little jungle.  One day, however, he went in just as his co-Bulldog, Buddi, started attending to his own business on a little patch of grass on the other side of the sidewalk. I looked over to mark the spot so I could pick it up, and when I looked back, oh horror! ‘Rec had taken a right at the first bush, a left at the second and then tried to go through a third on his way back to me. The poor guy means well (unlike his brother), but he just doesn’t have the leash sense.  I stood a moment in deep thought, as if studying the Gorian knot.  I couldn’t reel him back in, and I couldn’t really go in after him and leave Buddi loose on the sidewalk.  But while I was absorbed the puzzle before me, Buddi decided to see what was up and walked right up to his little bro, taking a path that brought several more bushes into the equation. And this is when I look for the camera. Even a candid camera would do! Standing six inches from a vicious tree with arms stretched wide, connected by taught ropes to two strange creatures that stare at you as if you had any answers, you hope someone’s getting a laugh.  Or else you might just have to cry.

As I said, none of this is the dog’s fault.  It took longer than I care to admit, but eventually I figured out that since each dog was effectively tethered to several trees, I could let go of the leashes and not have to worry about anyone running off down the street.  This was a great opportunity to save myself.  I could go back to the house, leave a nice note explaining that the dogs are fine, just hanging out down the street, and then go curl up in a fetal position for a while.  But no, when I walk dogs we become like a unit of elite commandos, and no one gets left behind.  So I bushwhacked a bit, freed my captive canine comrades one at a time, and eventually continued with special operation codename “pottybreak.”  There were no unnecessary casualties. Or witnesses. And in hindsight, I am very, very glad there weren’t any cameras.

 

Hot Dogs

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Cool Catie on a hot summer day!

This week in Chicago we had some record heat.  I’m not sure of the particulars, but I heard someone say something about the highest temps in about 30 years, and the 4th hottest day ever recorded. They have this thing called the heat index which combines temperature, relative humidity, wind, and distance to the sun (in inches) and gives you a number reflecting not how hot it is, but how hot it feels.  So on a 98F day in Chicago, you might get a heat index of say 14,000.   This means technically that if you go outside, it will feel as if you are being assaulted by an army of 14K trolls named Fahrenheit, each armed with a blow dryer and an electric blanket.  It can be uncomfortable, but if you dress like a Bedouin and drink lots of cold things, you have every chance of surviving.

Dogs, on the other hand, have a much more difficult time.  Most of them insist on wearing fur coats year round and walking on all fours, which puts them near the ground where there is little breeze and lots of asphalt radiating heat like a radioactive thing radiates radiation. Some of my dogs have submitted to grooming, wisely choosing comfort over dignity.  Josey in particular had so much hair removed that she even changed breeds, from Bearded Collie to Russian Nesting Dog.  It’s a smart move.  I barely recognized her at first, and the Fahrenheit trolls are only just catching on.

Other than haircuts, there really isn’t much more to be done to cool the canines.  I stick to the shade on walks whenever possible, take it nice and slow, and provide a little extra time to drink water before the walk, and refill bowls with cold water after.  I’ll offer an ice cube as a treat, and some dogs act like they’ve been trying to get into the freezer all day, while others look from me to the treat and back as if to say, “very funny, now gimme the real treat.”  Those dogs that don’t have aquaphobia (or hydrophobia) can get a little cool water rubbed into the fur on their necks or onto their bellies or ears, where it will evaporate quickly and cool all the blood vessels and thus the whole dog.  A couple dogs weren’t too sure about this idea at first, but they quickly came to love it.  The same can’t be said about the practice of gently blowing on their panting snouts to facilitate evaporation.  Some dogs absolutely love this, while others seem to appreciate the gesture but not the smell of my breakfast.  Some sit right in front me and take in the breeze but eye me suspiciously as if to make sure I don’t move in for a kiss.  No danger of that little friend, we’re cool.  Or trying to be.

Some dogs, especially the old timers like Dudley, will walk out to the corner, handle their business, and then turn around and pull you right back home.  I like to walk the dogs as long as I can, but in these cases the dogs know what’s best for them, and it’s not for me to drag them down a heat-shimmering street for the sake of exercise.  If they’d rather spend the rest of their visit having their belly rubbed in the comfort of their air conditioned home, believe me, that’s fine with me.  Young or old, every dog loves to lay a warm bare belly on a cool floor, resulting in many excellent opportunities to take photos which can and should be digitally altered to show the dog flying through the air like Superman’s best friend.  Just superimpose the dog on a blue sky, maybe add a cape, and you have a smiling hero ready to take on a million trolls.

 

 

Fur

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Sally snuggling with John (and giving him some fur!)

Spring has arrived at last, with all its sweet blossoms and breezes.  The breezes carry the joyful songs of birds and the busy buzzing of bees, the sweet fragrance of rejuvenation and delicate rolling clouds of fur.  Yes, the shedding has begun.

I come home these days so covered in dander that I should, as a courtesy, carry a long stick to keep beyond a poking distance from anyone with pet allergies.  A sample square inch of my shirt would cause scientists to drop their beakers at the shock of finding so rich a genetic pool.  Dozens of dander types are represented, and given the will and a healthy supply of spare beakers, a lab could clone a dog army large enough to threaten our nation’s strategic milkbone reserves.  I don’t mind being a little extra-furry though.  In fact I take a little pride in coming home looking like a house painter who paints in fuzz. The only real harm is to the lint traps at my corner laundromat.

The short-haired dogs are not so bad.  They still shed, but a quick, vigorous rubbing of the back and rump seems to quickly bring out the day’s harvest, and these puppies seem to doubly appreciate a petting with a purpose.  A quick balling-up of these filaments of discarded winter coat and out we go to give it to the birds for the padding of new nests. It’s a mundane but no less inspiring essential part of the circle of life.

The long-haired dogs are a bit more difficult.  I have to refrain from petting them too much until we’re outside, and then make sure the wind is at my back.  Some dogs shed whether I touch them or not.  For example, Biscuit, the yellow lab, needs only wag his tail to scatter his yellow all around the kitchen.  Anywhere I pet him becomes the epicenter of a fur explosion (or “fursplosion”) large enough to make the allergic weep for miles around.  Sally, on the other hand, gets as much petting as ever.  Her long black hair is as eager for retirement as any dog’s, but hers is also the softest, silkiest pelt ever found not on a mink. I simply can’t resist.  This, and the fact that she loves to nuzzle and cuddle and wrestle, means I also end my day with the silkiest softest pelt not found on a Sally, and if have a little stubble on my face walking into the house, an amazing velcro-nuzzle effect guarantees that I’ll leave the house looking like Blackbeard the Pirate.  But yohoho, it’s worth it.

Beau the Poodle has hair instead of fur (what does that mean and why is it creepy?), but I he doesn’t get regular visits, so literally every dog I walk is lightening up, so to speak.  I guess it’s a part of pet ownership.  Just because we love our dogs doesn’t mean we have to love every cell.  There are those hairless Chinese dogs, but it would be hard to love any of their cells.  Dogs are supposed to have fur (dern it, I’m taking a stand on something) and fur is supposed to come out when the weather warms up.  How else will birds build nests? What will become of the millions of lint trap service and manufacturing jobs? Who will feed those families?  How else will I ever become a pirate while remaining a (mostly) law-abiding citizen?  See, it must be.  And for the people whose dogs I walk, fear not:  I take most of the fur home with me.