wideeyedfunk

Category: Pets

They are all completely unpredictable.

  • Snow trash is the best.

    Gloriously foul and endlessly fascinating, snow trash happens when the deep snow melts and reveals the urban detritus of weeks. It is a special seasonal process to be enjoyed only a few times a year. Because I happen to be a professional studier of the material remnants of human activity, I can’t look away from a nice nasty city snow bank. I like them to be really full of good stuff and I stop for particularly rich ones to be sure I’m seeing everything. This isn’t the WideEyedSpouse’s favorite activity, but the dogs sure don’t mind.

    Dog dookies are ubiquitous in the melting snow banks. Big, small, dark, light. You can really see the variety of diets fed to the neighborhood canines. Here in Buffalo chicken bones also are typical in the melting snow mounds. Perplexing. Yes, Buffalo Chicken wings, but does everyone eat them all the time? They must fly from car windows like confetti.

    I see newspapers, catalogs, dryer sheets, and Kleenex that appear used but may just be wet from the melt. I haven’t developed a way to determine used versus wet yet but I do tend to think crumpled means used. They come in all colors: white, pink, green, yellow. I have suspicions that the yellows started as white and they are in fact used.

    A shoe appears every now and again and it baffles me every time. Where does that single shoe come from? Who walked home with one shoe? If you noted that your shoe had come loose from your foot, in the winter, would you not backtrack? Go on a little hunt for your missing shoe? What I should do is determine if the single shoe is statistically significantly correlated with the presence of a spray of brightly colored vomit. Which, by the way, can be observed on the white snow with alarming frequency. Here my broader hypothesis is that inebriated people throw up hard enough to toss a shoe, and then they don’t notice their shoe is gone. Although, there are no bars in the immediate vicinity, so they must be home drinkers. Alternatively, the vomit could innocently result from too many chicken wings or a terrible Kleenex supported flu that hits while walking the family dog (which parsimoniously explains the vomit, the Kleenex litter, the uncleaned up dookies, AND maybe even the shoe. Now that’s hypothetical model building friends.). I might be looking for too many causal links. I can’t help myself, that’s what I do.

    Yesterday the dogs and I saw something entirely new. A unique specimen. A kidzbop 3 CD had sliced into a snow bank and it gleamed in the morning sun. A prize. Hamish sniffed it pretty good and Tibbit wee’d near it. From its position in the snow bank, about 1.4 meters in from the street, I could posit that kidzbop 3 had been flung from a moving car. The presence of the kidzbop cd in the snowbank distracted me all day and I developed a series of hypotheses explaining why the cd had been flung:

    H1: “What? No baby I don’t have any kids.” Fling.

    H2. I went home and found kidzbop 3 online. Gave it a listen. Who wouldn’t?. And so, Hypothesis 2: Track 1: remake of Soak up the Sun. Track 2: remake of Hey Baby Hey Baby Hey sung by tunelessly chanting children. Track 3: (does it even matter?)…Fling.

    H3: “Oh look, a cd came in my used car…” Fling.

    H4: “Oh God, the baby just puked in the car! All over everything!” Fling.

    H5: “Mamamamamama play kidzbop. Play kidzbop. Play it. Play it. Plaaaaaayyyyy iiitttt.” Fling.

    I went back later to get kidzbop 3. It was gone. Gone.

  • Job wanted for newly graduated smallish black dog of limited skills.

    TibbitDiplomaLast Tuesday evening the WideEyedSpouse and I marched down the block with Miss Tibbit to her training final exam and graduation, belching the happy taste of Sahlen’s hot dogs and a reasonable lost-grape-of-Chile Carménère red wine. We were all nervous. Miss Tibbit had been nervous all day with an upset stomach which she emptied explosively on the side of the bed, the bed post, and the floor.

    Miss Tibbit passed the test with what might be considered a C. Maybe a C+ with a special commendation for savant treat catching. She walks beautifully, sits like a dream, and will not/can not resist throwing herself on people to demonstrate her love. She escaped her leash during Cooper the standard poodle’s walking exam. Mayhem. Demerits. She won a ribbon for showing the most improvement during the course. Which means, of course, everyone recognized her remedial start state.

    Miss Tibbit waking from a rejuvenating post-baccalaureate nap.
    Miss Tibbit waking from a rejuvenating post-baccalaureate nap.

    Yesterday the WideEyedSpouse stood gazing down at Miss Tibbit, who was lounging across three remotes, the Xbox controller and the WII wand on the living room sofa. He asked when she intended to take her newly inked diploma out on the streets to look for a job. Miss Tibbit stretched and blinked at him. She needs time to chill after the intense discipline she used to earn her degree, she told him. She has to get in touch with what will make her fulfilled, figure out what the next step is. She heard there’re advanced degrees in dock jumping, agility, and citizenship. She’s going to ask around, see what other dogs think of the different programs. Maybe travel a bit. WideEyedSpouse stared at her for a moment and then walked with purpose out of the room and down the hall.

    I heard ice cubes clackle into a glass in the kitchen and then the fizt of one of my Fever-Tree tonic waters opening. The WideEyedSpouse was mixing himself a nice, super-premium Gin and Tonic rather than pursuing the conversation with Miss Tibbit. He knew, as I know, soon enough the WideEyedHousehold will be writing more checks for Miss Tibbit’s graduate education. Her dog brother Hamish the Corgi knows it too, and I can see him planning something expensive to even the score on his own account.

  • Hamish Believes He’s Been Cheated.

    Hamish the Corgi is guest writing this week. I, WideEyedFunk, bear no responsibility for the opinions expressed below.

    I am disgusted by recent household events and I am done with sulking. Miss Tibbit was forced to attend dog training classes a couple of weeks ago because she is mildly disobedient, and in my opinion, really obnoxious. She is a toy-stealing, leash pulling punk. I believed Dog Training was a punishment. I have recently become aware of some facts that have made me rethink that notion. I now believe that I have been cheated.

    Here are the top 10 reasons I believe I have been cheated.

    1. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

    2. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

    3. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

    4. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

    Sit? Stay? Come when called? Ridiculous to treat for these. I sit WITHOUT treats. I don’t need to be called because I am attentive to my people. Who knew a dog could GET treats for simple assignments.

    Oh, she’s sitting. How charming. Let’s give her a treat.

    Which brings us to point 5.

    5. Miss Tibbit gets treats for normal, decent behavior.

    6. Miss Tibbit is bad, regularly, and gets treats during the short moments of being good.

    7. Miss Tibbit is upstairs barking right now. She is going to get a treat when she makes the decision to stop barking.

    I bark and then stop barking all the time. Do I get fed treats? You know I don’t.

    8. Miss Tibbit gets treats for walking nicely in the park. Guess who has been walking nicely in the park without a leash, for years? Treats? Don’t be absurd.

    9. Miss Tibbit gets a treat for sitting nicely when the WideEyedSpouse comes home. That is simply no way to display love and absolutely does not deserve a treat.

    10. Finally, the worst offense: Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

    It’s on.

    I now realize I have been going about this all wrong. I have made poor lifestyle decisions. Sniff the winds of change WideEyedHousehold. Say hello to Bad Hamish. Say hello to well-treated Hamish. You have been warned.Good bye and good day.

  • Why does Miss Tibbit smell like meat?

    Something isn’t fair.

    I crouched down so I could see under the table. Hamish was worried and had squeezed himself under the low shelf of the stainless steel prep table in the kitchen. He looked across the floor at me and asked again, “Why does Miss Tibbit smell like meat today?”

    I sat back. “Well, you know Tibbit is a Bad Dog most of the time on walks, right?” Hamish just looked at me. In his opinion, being a Bad Dog was no reason to smell like meat, unless the Bad Activity had been stealing a packet of meat from the counter. No dog has ever perpetrated this act in the WideEyedHousehold. Hamish would have known.

    He kept staring at me, waiting patiently for an explanation.

    “Hamish, remember when we all left the house last night and left you upstairs in your room?” He blinked. “We went to dog training school.” He stared at me some more, still not clear on the meat connection.

    “Apparently Miss Tibbit is so bad, that the Dog Teacher said to give her a treat if she was good for even a second. The treats are bacon beef snacks and she was really bad and then really good a lot during training.” Hamish perked up. “I’m good all the time,” he suggested, “if I am bad first do I get meat?”.

    I sighed. Of course Hamish is good all the time and I didn’t want him to be bad. He also tends to portliness. But, peace in the household was important. “Want to have some dog school here in the kitchen?”

    Hamish popped out from under the table.

    Hamish walked like a man. He sat. He stayed. He went into a down. I tossed Hamish meatie snacks, cheerios, kibble.

    Walking like a man.
    Snack down the hatch.

    Miss Tibbit watched all this training with increasing concern. She couldn’t stand it anymore.

    Miss Tibbit tried to walk like a man, but instead she jumped 5 feet in the air and snatched a treat out of my hand. She sat. She stayed. She went into a down. “This is it,” I told her and tossed the last snack.

    Snack really down the hatch.

    Hamish smiled at me and snuffled the floor next to Miss Tibbit just in case someone missed a treat.

    Peace in the WideEyedHousehold. Until someone rings the doorbell.

  • Miss Tibbit does not care for pixies.

    Nor does she like princesses. Finds Captain America alarming. Is disturbed by tiny Spidermans.

    Chefs, nurses, steampunkers, post apocalypse victims, bees, cats, and ninjas – also Not OK.

    Miss Tibbit alerted us to her concern for three continuous hours last evening. A tiny pixie quivered and shook in fear as she selected a tootsie roll from our bowl of treats. Miss Tibbit’s gaping, toothy maw was visible and audible in the large window behind me.

    I get that it is a little weird for Miss Tibbit, having strangers tromp up onto her porch. Ringing doorbells. Yelling in high voices “Trick or Treat”.  But I had to ask her, Miss Tibbit, where were you when someone stole our middle sized pumpkin yesterday afternoon? Why wasn’t an actual perp more disturbing than 30 inch high vampires?

    Miss Tibbit had no answer for me. She sniffed my face while I asked and tried to look intelligent.

  • Hamish Rides Console

    He’d ride shotgun but he is too small to see out the window. So he rides Console.

    Riding Console in the trucks we’ve had over the years is easy. The space between the driver and passenger seats is huge. The console is a big padded platform that looks like it was designed to provide mattressy respite for beefy man arms. There’s enough space that a passenger beefy man arm would not accidently touch a driver beefy man arm already using the console. Hamish the Corgi fits on truck consoles with room to spare. His panoramic view of traffic, countryside, and snacks being eaten by the passenger is unparalleled from the console.

    However.

    When Hamish cruises the urban scene with me and the Mini Cooper S, he struggles to maintain the attitude of superior contentment. You can see that he is smiling, but maybe his back teeth are clenched. Smile and clench your teeth – then say “this is great”. That’s exactly how Hamish looks riding the Mini console.The Mini console is low and he mainly has a view of the giant Mini speedometer. The console is narrow. He wedges his barrel chest between the seats and perches one front paw on the console in front of him. The other he rests on a human or waves in the air to counter balance g-forces on spirited turns. The console is short. About two thirds of Hamish hangs off the back, dangling in space over the rear seat floor boards.

    None of this deters Hamish. He will shove Sweet Miss Tibbit out of the way to ride console. He calls Console before we’ve even left the house. Before my shoes are on, or keys are in my hand. As I lift the dogs into the back of the Mini, Sweet Tibbit watches Hamish hustle his fuzzy person into the console position and sighs. She sits behind the passenger seat and leans against it to watch the world pass. Sometimes she peers over Hamish’s ears, asking what’s going on up there?

    Nothing much Sweet Tibbit. Nothing much.

    Miss Tibbit wants a turn on the Console. Never going to happen.

  • Hamish the Corgi is Embarrassing.

    Have you ever heard of display urination? No? Neither had I until Hamish the Corgi came into my life.

    Evidently dogs, male dogs most of the time, like to lift their legs nice and high to wee when other dogs are around. Hamish is keenly aware when an unfortunate is locked inside, watching from a parlor window as Hamish prances across this other dog’s front yard. Hamish will take a moment to be sure he is in the ideally, most obnoxiously centered viewing position, then he will lift his tiny, 5 inch leg as high as dogly possible to wee on that other dog’s property. Usually you can hear the barking change from alert to berserker during the display.

    If that were all, I’d probably get over it. However.

    And mind you, I’m going to have to be indelicate here.

    Hamish, my furry pal, my buddy who is napping next to me now, well, he’s a display dooker too. Don’t be coy, you know what dog dookies are. The problem, if we can stretch our minds past the initial, unavoidable catastrophe of me having to carry tiny plastic bags to clean up warm dookies, the problem is that Hamish unequivocally prefers to dookie in front of homeowners, on freshly sodded, well-watered, carefully groomed lawns. Sure, who wouldn’t – the grass is soft and cool and deep. Probably it is very nice.

    But.

    There are many lawns in this condition. Many without an owner in sight. Hamish likes the ones where the owner is sitting on the porch with an evening glass of wine, enjoying the end of the day. Or even better, the ones where the owner is actually STILL out there working on the lawn. It is embarrassing. Heh, heh, Hi, I say, making it Very Clear that I have a dookie bag at the ready. Awful.

    The absolute topper, the dead most humiliating display dooking didn’t involve a primped lawn though. Instead, it included an entire multigenerational family reunion. Oh god. Folks were clustered on their front porch, iced teas, family albums, smiles in much evidence. Ahh, they said almost in unison when Hamish hove into view, what a cutie! People pointed him out to others. Someone ran inside to get Auntie Clara to see the cute Corgi.

    Hamish looked at them with his goofy smile and paused. He does like to be admired. Then, in a careful, smiling pirouette he turned his hind quarters to the 30 or so happy people. And he dookied.

    I think I heard Auntie Clara – whoever she was – gasp. One older grampie was wheezing with laughter. Otherwise. Silence. Long seconds of silence. Hamish didn’t mind. He took his time. I cleaned up and we walked on.

    That dog is completely embarrassing. And there’s nothing I can do to change him.

  • The Dog Has An Opinion. Why Do I Listen?

    Hamish is forming an opinion.

    Hamish just told me he thinks it’s more than time for morning walkies. It was simply his opinion. I didn’t care. Then he expressed his opinion to Miss Tibbit and she got all excited about it. It is now her opinion, also. Evidently, we will be having walkies soon if I am to have any peace in my day of Big Thinking.

    Hamish has an opinion a little too often in the course of a day.

    He believes that Wiggins The Cat should not be wandering around the house at 5:30am. He tells the cat so. We all must listen as a captive, bed-ridden audience.

    He strongly believes that nasty looking, ancient, fuzzy dog should not walk on our sidewalk or wee on our flower beds three times a day, every day. He cries his thoughts on the matter in full voice, telling the block, telling the scrappy dog. As far as I can tell, only Miss Tibbit cares.

    Hamish defends his opinion.

    Hamish is entrenched in the notion that toys are his, and he graciously allows Miss Tibbit time with them. He observes her using toys from his Chair, and when her play is too rough, too fun, too engaged, he sits up sharply and tells her so. She never, ever listens. He speaks louder. She selectively hears harder. His opinion on this matter is of no consequence to Miss Tibbit.

    When distributing his opinions, Hamish adopts a particularly annoying body posture. His ears are pricked. His head is high. His back is long and stiff. His stubby tail stands out. His tiny T-rex front legs are planted firmly. His lip curls after he declaims as he prepares to press his position. It should be cute.

    I am unutterably tired of Hamish’s opinions.  But I still listen.

    He is expressing one now, as Miss Tibbit approaches the top of the stairs without sanction. In Hamish’s opinion, it is not yet time to go downstairs. Now we all know.

    I listen because I, like everyone else in the vicinity, have ears. I listen because Hamish is my companion, my dog-protector, and there may be a time when his opinion has value. Like, say, when the bear was coming to camp last summer. He didn’t care for that. Or when a skunk wandered toward Miss Tibbit in the backyard. He doesn’t like skunk stink. Even though his opinions are mostly the windy exhortations of a dog with too much to say, I listen. And if I am honest, he listens to all of mine.

  • Debating Obedience and Disempowerment with Dogs

    Miss Tibbit explores the limits of her autonomy within the bounds of Authority.

    “Miss Tibbit,” I addressed her hindquarters as she strained away from me with all the power in her small frame. “Miss Tibbit,” I repeated and shortened her leash during a brief lull in the pulling. Her head snapped when she hit the end of her lead sooner than expected. She gave me a dark look that clearly said, What do think you’re doing?

    I reeled her in and asked her to sit by my foot. She refused. Flatly.

    “Miss Tibbit, do you know what obedience means?” She glanced at me from the corner of her dark eye. No. She was not being truthful. She watched a squirrel in the tree above us. She heaved at the leash in dog rampant, front paws flailing toward a submissive Golden Retriever across the street. Over her shoulder between choking gasps and yips she said, But I do know what disempowerment means!

    I gasped. The audacity. Disempowerment indeed!

    A good, obedient boy trusts Authority to know best.

    I asked Hamish to join us. He was illicitly rolling in a moldering worm and finished up before coming over. He, always a gentleman, sat by my foot and looked up at me smiling. What can I do for you?

    “Hamish, do you know what obedience means?”

    Sure. It happens when I comply with your rules and submit to your authority. He sniffed Miss Tibbit’s foot and walked on.

    I thought to myself: EXACTLY. “Miss Tibbit,” I called forward to Miss Tibbit, who now had her snout shoved into a clump of dense spring grass, “Miss Tibbit, did you hear Hamish? This is how we live within a society. We all agree to obey higher levels of authority and to conform to our culturally derived rules for appropriate behavior.”

    Miss Tibbit bravely delivers her anti-authoritarian oration while under the restraint of Authority.

    Miss Tibbit looked up, plump shreds of grass dangling from her lower lip. What happens when Authority establishes rules prohibiting my ability to perform actions demanded by my cultural milieu and my own good conscience? What happens when an entire subset of citizens is uniformly stripped of autonomy by Authority and society at large? Is it not my right, even my burden to protest these removals of individual autonomy? Hamish’s ears perked forward and he watched Miss Tibbit with interest. I didn’t like him being exposed to her radical ideas. He has always been a good boy, no trouble at all. We walked on down the block while I thought about it.

    Ah, I had it. We stopped for a moment under the bower of a large blooming cherry tree. “But Miss Tibbit, you are meant to trust me to know what is best. You don’t understand the dangers of the cars, toxic lawn treatments, other dogs. The world is too big and too complex for one small dog of limited experience to understand.” Hamish nodded at me, Yeah, he said in his small voice.

    Obedience and civil disobedience.

    Miss Tibbit snorted and shook her body, tail lashing a little longer than the rest of her. I didn’t choose you, your authority was granted by the system. And you don’t trust me. You don’t believe that I have the ability to know something you don’t, or that I might be not disobeying but instead attempting to negotiate a situation outside of your awareness or concern.

    Hamish cocked his leg against a hosta. I think Miss Tibbit is advocating civil disobedience, he said. I didn’t see anything particularly civil about her heaving and straining against the leash, or yipping and barking at everything and nothing. It looked like plain old disobedience to me. But she and Hamish were making potentially valid points and I probably should consider their perspective. Perhaps later.

    Authority rewards obedience.

    “Who wants a cookie?” I asked. They bounded over and like good dogs sat on haunches in front of me. They deftly snapped their treats from the air. It was nice and quiet and calm while they chewed. No trouble at all.

  • The Pugrador Retreagle: A New Boutique Breed

    Pugrador Retreagle at 10 months.

    Miss Tibbit came from the Buffalo Animal Shelter last summer, joining a Pembroke Welsh Corgi and a surly cat in her new home.

    Miss Tibbit is a Pugrador Retreagle of the Toy Sporting Hound group. If you’ve not heard of this new boutique breed (mutt), these dogs result from a cross between a Labrador Retriever and a Pug crossed with a Beagle (the Puggle). Let me take you through some of the interesting show-dog career ending traits Miss Tibbit exhibits. She will assume the role of the breed standard.

    The Pugrador Retreagle is a toothy, ungainly, opinionated dog of uncommonly sweet nature. The breed is stoutly, solidly built in the torso with a deep chest balanced forward on outward angled spindly front legs. The hindquarters are narrow with lean haunches and skinny rear limbs. The tailed is thick, arched, and prehensile with a bendy joint halfway along and white tufts on the feathering. The Pugrador Retreagle’s gait alternates between a sidewinding, crabwalking trot and toe prancing. 

    3 mos.

    The coat is short, dense, and soft, with a tendency to stink and shed dandruff during periods of anxiety. It is black along the back, grading into deep bronze at the legs on the head, with white tufts on the belly.  The head is well shaped with a balanced snout and velvety ears that flop to the jawline. The mouth is toothy, with possibly too many bright, white teeth and an overly large tongue that is accidently bitten during frequent baying-barking fits. Deep brown eyes clearly reflect the mood: calm and loving, trouble seeking, or interested but not yet committed to action.

    The Pugrador Retreagle is highly energetic, requiring a minimum of two walks and four yard romps per day, in addition to near-constant play sessions with other household animals and toys or household goods. The Pugrador Retreagle is however a fine napping companion when the energies finally fade. At 45 pounds and 20 inches at the shoulder, the Pugrador Retreagle is small enough to fit comfortably on the sofa, and to be picked up when its opinions are in opposition to human commands.

    3 mos., romping

    Pugrador Retreagles retrieve sticks compulsively, carrying them through the neighborhood until interesting aromas attract the sensitive nose, at which point the dog begins to aggressively track. They are smart and trainable if the tasks are interesting or the rewards sufficiently high. They cuddle close, and like contact with humans if nothing more exciting is happening. In all, Pugrador Retreagles exhibit few of the show qualities of the parent breeds, and many of the sweet, loyal aspects of the Pugs, Labradors, and Beagles. They are highly recommended as family pets for their sweetness of nature, and inexpensive, rescue-dog cost.