It’s Not All Mary Poppins

Crate Mates?

People have been asking us how the old dog is adjusting to the new dog. The first 48 – 72 hours were a bit growly and snarly and occasionally even snappy when Romeo was toooo persistent. Given that Indie outweighs Romeo by about 1200%, I was a tad nervous about this.

What does a new mommy (gramma?) do when she’s nervous about her baby? She consults experts on the Internet, of course!!!! (That’s why you’re all here, right? Mwah-ha.) Carol assured me that dogs in a low-stress situation don’t hurt each other. Big dog needed to be allowed to put little dog in his place, and the noise was just that, noise. (Thank you, thank you, thank you, Carol, for the peace of mind!)

There has been essentially no growling since those early couple of days. Well, there was that one time Romeo tried to take Indie’s brand-new bone away from her*, which got suddenly, loudly fierce… for about 2 seconds. (*Because Romeo is a puppy, and he’s kind of stupid that way…)

They have sorted things out, and Romeo pretty much knows and accepts his place in the order of things. His place…

which seems to be…

in Indie’s crate…

cuddled up next to her…

So when people ask how they’re getting along?

I think I can safely say they’re doing pretty well.


January 13, 2011 Posted by | the dog | , , , , , | 4 Comments

It’s that 1% that gets you

The husband is out of town for a few days this week, and thus I am a single doggy parent. The teens? They are not so much work.

Teens certainly don’t have me out the door at six for a 45-minute walk before my first clients arrive. Not that my first clients arrive at 6:45. I know there are caregivers out there who start at 6:30 or even earlier, God love’em, but I’m not of their ilk. I am a morning person: this is why I like to savour some of it for myself.

Walking the dog is, in fact, 99% pure pleasure, particularly on a morning when the mist is rising off the plate-glass river, the swans regal as they drift by, the air a caressing blanket, soft, warm, fresh. The dog neither drifts nor caresses. She bounds, leaping with the pure joy of being alive — and then freezing, stock-still, as she spots a squirrel. She lives in never-dying hope of catching one of those things.

(It will never, ever die now that she actually has caught one of those things. Thankfully, not on my watch.)

She bounces into the long grass on the verge of the river, chomping madly. I do not know why some mornings are grass mornings, why the One Thing in the World she craves more than anything else is salad, plucked fresh from the riverbank, dressed with dew.

I particularly do not know this five minutes later, when we arrive at the racing-around-the-field-with-other-dogs part of our outing, and she bombs into the middle of the field … and horks the whole thing up again.

Well, not quite the whole thing. The rest she saved for the dining room. An moist heap of pureed greens, a long greenish puddle oozing away from it on one side, along the nothing-is-100%-true-in-a-century-old-house floor.

As I said, 99% pure pleasure.

August 11, 2009 Posted by | random and odd | , , , , | 4 Comments