Woman in the Middle

Hubby and I always set very strict rules when it came to giving Honey the dog treats and human food. We didn’t want a begging dog following us around all the time or prowling around the table during dinner. She got plenty of treats, but not at times that would encourage begging.

The girls were told these rules on numerous occasions. For the most part they stuck to them. But Eldest Daughter, well, she is the softest touch of the family. She began finding ways around the strict treat rules. We realized this one day when Eldest was pouring dry cereal for herself and  Honey went running into the kitchen the second she heard the sound of cereal hitting the bowl. We discovered that cereal was “accidentally” falling to the floor every time Eldest was getting herself some breakfast. We knew there was no motor-nerve disorder at work, so we immediately realized what was happening.

We keep a can of dog treats on our kitchen counter. Honey usually gets one or two (from me) in the morning. No big deal, I hand out the treats when I am puttering around the kitchen getting my own breakfast. But I am apparently not a reliable treat giver, not like Eldest anyway.

Once again, we started to see a pattern. Eldest would get up in the morning and as she neared the kitchen, Honey would join her, every time, doing a dancing dog routine. I wish I was talented enough to video it on my phone and download it for your viewing pleasure, but I am not. So I will try to describe it. The almost 16-year-old dog takes up a position next to Eldest and then bounces next to Eldest, her front feet leaving the ground together. This little parade makes its way into the kitchen where the dancing dog is rewarded for her performance, every time, with a treat. Hum, I am seeing a repeat of the cereal performance from years ago.

Eldest and I had fun with the dancing dog routine this morning. She would walk towards the kitchen, and Honey would bounce away beside her. But, if Eldest turned away from the kitchen and took a few steps, no dancing. Then, a couple of steps back towards the kitchen and the bouncing would start once again.

I hope I can dance like that when I am that old. I hope someone is giving me treats that make me what to dance!

At a recent city council meeting, one of our city council members told a funny story I wanted to share with you. A while back he had neighbors who had quite a few dogs who where noisy and annoyed the neighbors with their barking. One of the dogs was named “Fire.” On a regular basis these neighbors would open their back door and scream at or for the dog, yelling “Fire” loud enough for most of the neighborhood to hear. Needless to say, when the neighborhood heard someone yelling “Fire” they stopped what they were doing and looked for smoke. But it was never smoke, it was just a badly chosen dog name.

So let this be a lesson. Never name your dog “Fire!” Well, maybe the dog below could be named Fire, but no one else!

Photo courtesy of the State Library of Queensland, via Flickr

A few nights ago, about 3:30 a.m., I heard pacing outside my bedroom door.  I realized what must have happened. Dry bowl syndrome. Honey the dog had run out of water and was getting a little antsy about it.

I dragged myself out of bed to fix the problem. Thank goodness my eyes were adjusted to the darkness. As I turned the corner from the hall into the den I noted a dark something on the floor. I stopped, turned on a light, and there, right in the middle of the path of traffic and exactly 12 inched from my husband’s tennis shoes, was a pile. This was not an “Oops, hidden because I just can’t help myself” pile. This was a  “damn people didn’t refill my water bowl so I am going to show them my displeasure  in a very obvious way” pile.

And some people think dogs are dumb. If she just had opposable thumbs I am sure Honey would take over the house. She is way too smart for us. And her communication skills? Spot on!

Her placement, shall we say, rivaled Blackie the cat’s “I am annoyed” pile of 2008. We went away for two nights to the beach. It was summer and it was hot and we didn’t want to leave him in the garage. Because of coyotes we didn’t want him outside at night either.  So we brought the litter box in, left plenty of food and water, and off we went. When we came home the litter box had been used several times. But right in the middle of the living room, where we couldn’t miss it, was one perfect poo. We received that message loud and clear as well. The cat did not like being left in the house over the weekend.   Blackie is now a house cat and he is doesn’t mind being in the house all the time. He leaves the perfect poo placement to the dog.

Night before last Honey created yet another classic pet moment in our household involving, what else, dog poop and Hubby, in a scene that I am sure would have been a Utube favorite if only I had gotten it on film….

I was out bustling about getting some things done in the yard I decided to go next door and tell our neighbors that I was going to have a meeting the next night of 20 to 30 women on my patio. Our neighbors have very large dogs who are very friendly but have loud barks and I thought a group of people in the back yard  might get them excited so I wanted to forewarn. After I explained my reason for coming over we chatted a bit. Meanwhile Hubby came home and went in the front door. Honey, who was inside, had apparently felt the need to go and deposited a large wet pile on the throw rug by the front door. Hubby didn’t see the pile as he came in. His left foot somehow both kicked the pile off the rug and then stepped in it. We have wood floors and so the entire left side of his body went surfing for about three feet, riding on the wave of poop. Note I said his left side went surfing. Of course his right side was planted firmly on the ground. The next time I saw him he was walking towards me on the sidewalk in the front  of the house, one shoe on and one shoe off. Being the observant  person that I am I noticed this odd state of affairs and asked what happened.

He explained that he had almost broken his leg due to dog poop. Honey got to spend a bit of time outside at that point. I got to clean up the poop. It is one of those unwritten marriage rules: Spouse who almost breaks a limb on the surprise pile of poop may limp away while other spouse cleans up said pile. I am happy to report that a couple of aspirin helped Hubby with the pain cause by one side of the body sliding while the other side did not. He seems none the worse for the excitement, but I don’t ask. I spent an amazing amount of time on my hands and knees getting up the prodigious amount of poop. Really, Honey isn’t that big. It required the initial clean up, a wash with soap and water, and then a scrubbing with a toothbrush to get it out of the cracks between the wood boards that make up the floor. I felt a particular urgency since I was having that meeting the next night and, silly me, didn’t want my house to smell like dog poop. The rug was washed and no longer smells, either.

We think, in hindsight, that the situation might have been caused by the antibiotics Honey was taking for a supposed bladder infection. All three of us are now just trying to pretend it didn’t happen.

One of the blogs I happen to follow is called Elephants and Rutabagas (which can be found at http://elephantsandrutabagas.wordpress.com). Beth, who writes this blog, is at a different point in life than I am and she was posting yesterday about cleaning a mucky high chair. Oh, it reminded me of the good old days when my kids were young and a mucky high chair was a permanent part of my dining room decor. It also reminded me of one of our funny family stories….

When Eldest Daughter was a tiny tot sitting in her high chair we also had a dog named Skip. Before Youngest Daughter was done with her time in the high chair Skip went to doggie heaven and we didn’t have a dog for several years. I started observing the incredible amount of food that ended up under the high chair when Youngest ate and I started getting very concerned. We never had that mess under the high chair when Eldest ate! I began to think that Youngest had some sort of fine motor skill problem, worrying as only mothers can do. I finally shared my fears with Hubby. He gently reminded me that when Eldest was that age we had a “bark-uum-cleaner” to make quick work of the mess and  now we no longer had a dog to clean up under the high chair when Youngest ate. Boy, was I relieved! We have laughed about it ever since.

Eldest Daughter was leaving the apartment of a friend last night near the campus of her university. The friend was walking Eldest out when Eldest spotted a dog only 10 feet away, maybe less. The dog looked just like her own dog Honey so Eldest started making lovey noises and calling the dog over to be petted. The dog didn’t come over but didn’t seem all that disturbed that these humans had appeared and kept trotting down the sidewalk. Just then the pooch trotted into a pool of light and Eldest and her friend got a good look at it. “Oh my gosh!” Eldest exclaimed. “Its a coyote!” At which point her friend said (with great alarm), “You are trying to pet a coyote!!!!!”

Honey showing off her Dingo profile.

When Eldest Daughter got home she informed me that our dog had ruined her, or at least ruined her ability to tell the difference between a wild dog and a domesticated one! We have long ago noticed that our dog closely resembles the wild dogs of our neighborhood so we always make sure she is fixed up with a collar and a tag.   This is why one of her nicknames is “Dingy Dingo.”