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Showing posts with label Dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dogs. Show all posts
More Quarantine "Cooking"
I decided to make a
protein shake for lunch today. My method involves putting cold tap water and protein powder
into a metal cocktail shaker because it chills it a bit without needing ice. The powder has a slight
vanilla flavor but I normally add a dash of cold espresso from the fridge
to punch it up.
I've forgotten to make
the espresso several times before so I've improvised by squishing a strawberry
or a bite of banana into the concoction to add flavor. This time, I found no
espresso, no strawberries, no bananas, not even a single blueberry hiding
anywhere, but, wait, that fruit flavored kombucha I bought at the store
last week is tasty! So I added about an eighth of a cup of that.
Note to self: quarantining alone for three months kills brain cells.
I not only know that
kombucha is fermented but I also know that store-bought kombucha is made with -
or injected with - more, um, sparkle. Unfortunately, I didn't recall
that I know those things until after I'd combined my ingredients and begun
shaking the cocktail mixer. It was actually the
strange hiss emanating from the container that started some rusty wheels
turning. Sadly, the momentum of the wheels inside my head did not catch
up to the momentum of the chemical reaction inside the shaker.
The vigorous shaking of
the well-carbonated kombucha ignited an explosion that blew the cover off the
shaker, blasting a fruity and attractively pink bubbly liquid halfway across my
kitchen, even spattering the mirrored wall behind my stove.
It looked - and smelled
- like a fruit-filled fairy princess volcano had erupted in my kitchen.
Magoo and Kenosha
scrambled for cover, sidestepping the rapidly spreading, still-sizzling pink
lava while I gaped at my pink-glitter-speckled reflection in my pink-glitter-speckled mirror. Even as the other dogs
hastily retreated, Xyban came charging in from outside to see what kind of
monster had attacked us. He slipped in the liquid cotton candy, spinning out of
control before crashing into the refrigerator. The look of panic he'd
displayed while ricocheting across the kitchen was replaced by one of disgust
as soon as his abrupt deceleration allowed him to survey his surroundings.
After shooting me a reproachful glare, he marched back through the mess to resume his guard duties on the deck, punctuating his exit with snorts and loosely formed pink paw prints.
Now my kitchen and
dining room look like a Grimm crime scene, like the aftermath of the Big Bad
Wolf having an unfortunate reaction to gobbling up Cinderella's Fairy Godmother
and leaving a violently purged carnage of simmering, pink pixie puke in his
wake.
Sorry, no pics until
next of kin is notified.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
Dog Drama
I have severe chronic
pain from twenty-year-old injuries incurred during my duties as a police
officer. The pain keeps me stuck at home most days. Today, I had lots of
company. Xyban is a German Shepherd who works as my Service Dog. Magoo is confirmed to be ½ Chihuahua, ¼ Pug,
and ¼ English Bulldog. Kenosha is my roommates' Catahoula mix. And Molly is my aunt's
13-year-old Portuguese Water Dog whose incontinence prescription isn't working.
She's leaving a wet, noxious, spreading mess on anything she relaxes on. Within
36 hours of her arrival, I had to decommission my favorite, and only, living
room chair twice by using both soap and water, and a leather cleaning kit – twice
each – because she leaked fairly prolifically on its seat – yes, twice.
The first accident was
no one's fault. It wasn't Molly's fault;
she doesn't know that she leaks. It wasn't my aunt's fault; she gave me Molly's
'pee' pills before she went away for the week. And it wasn't my fault; I didn't
have any idea that Molly's incontinence medication wasn't working.
Perhaps being abandoned
by her parents was the proverbial straw that broke Molly's bladder control. The
first chair-christening by Saint Molly was definitely no one's fault. But the
second one? That second christening that occurred after I took counter-pee-measures?
That pungent soaking that happened after I vowed to always flip the ottoman
into the vulnerable seat of my (only) chair? That time? Yeah, that one was my
fault, because of that proverb that goes "once peed-on, twice
paranoid".
My defense in the
matter of that second mess is a good one though. It happened like this:
At about 8, I sat in my
favorite (only) chair to drink coffee while the dogs ate their breakfast. It
was an espresso shot so I finished drinking just as they finished eating. We all
convened in the kitchen for 'breakfast dessert', a single small dog treat
that's a special reward for, I don't know – for being dogs, I guess.
My pain was really bad
so I wasn't looking forward to doling out dog treats. Since I keep them in the broken
dishwasher, I have to bend over to get them, which never helps the pain. It also doesn't help that it's been raining
forever, or that marijuana and wine don't help – not even together, or that doctors
are terrified of prescribing painkillers that actually kill pain. Anyway, after
completing my tour as a doggie-treat-dispenser, I didn't feel like going all
the way back into the living room because it was at least an extra 5 feet away.
I sat at the dining room table instead.
Magoo, AKA the Wireless
Warming Pad, was in my lap within seconds. He'd just assumed his favorite
cat-taught pose – the this-is-cozy-and-I-am-NOT-moving pose – when I realized I
had forgotten the ottoman-in-the-chair trick to prevent Molly from getting – or
wetting – on it. I dreaded having to scrub it a third time but I just couldn't
decide if it was worth standing up, and walking all the way over there, and
bending over, and lifting the edge of the ottoman, and trying to roll it into
the chair seat without moving my back muscles, and, geez, just the utter dread
of standing back up to trudge back to the dining room. Ugh. So I consulted my tattered
inner Zen which told me to stay in my chair and allow things to play out. Of
course, I know now that if my inner Zen had been thinking more clearly, she
would have rolled her eyes and told me to just carry Magoo over to that more
comfortable chair to simply sit in it to protect it from Molly's excretions.
Just like they say, hindsight can be, uh, really, really, annoying.
I convinced myself that
the always-attentive-and-always-obedient Molly would remember that I have
reminded her countless times to stay out of my chair, and I sighed peacefully,
just as the now-rather-quite-a-bit-senile Molly daintily climbed up into my
chair.
I said quietly, and firmly,
"Molly, get out of that chair."
When almost-deaf, slightly-blind, and rather-quite-a-bit-senile Molly
stubbornly – and adorably – refused to move out of the chair, I copied her tactics (and IQ) by also stubbornly – and childishly – refusing to move out of a chair.
I raised my voice
slightly, adding a stern tone, "NO. Molly, get out of my chair." As I began speaking, Kenosha and Xyban, AKA
The Hoyden and The Hooligan, both started moving. Reacting to my sterner tone,
super-sensitive Kenosha was noisily bolting out the dog door on my right while
on my left, Xyban, the poster boy for equanimity, was moaning deeply as he
lazily curled over, the way a bored dog would if he thought he might possibly
maybe have an itch on some vague part of his body, somewhere.
Looking right and left was
a mistake. Big mistake. HUGE. I should have been looking at the 26 lb.
Chihuahuan warming pad in my lap that was getting hot, as in
hot-under-the-collar, literally. Before I finished the last syllable of my second
command, a surly, spitting fury – an incensed Magoo – leapt off my lap, raced
across the floor, jumped onto the ottoman, and bared his teeth at Molly while
self-righteously snarling, "LISTEN to WHAT the BOSS LADY said BEFORE I
MESS UP your PRETTY FACE!" Molly
froze in a panic. She's known Magoo since he was four weeks old. She's been
aware of Magoo's "problem" for a while. Magoo has illusions of
grandeur. Magoo has a tragic need to control. Magoo thinks he's a cop. That's a
problem. A big one. Yes, huge.
And Magoo's been known
to overreact when he polices the other dogs. He did not learn that from my
example; his ½ English Bulldog father has serious anger issues. Magoo has also been
known to spark citizen unrest when he disregards the government's established rules
and regs regarding the police use-of-force continuum. But Magoo has never been
a sworn police employee of this particular household. He's more like that
creepy, socially-inept guy who got tossed out of the police academy after he
insisted that they didn't recognize his brilliance. Unfortunately, it falls to
me as the overseeing superintendent to prevent any brawls. But, unlike Magoo,
I've had training. I went to two police academies. With the reflexes of
a crippled, senior cat, I instinctively reverted to my police training,
skillfully thwarting bloody mayhem by jumping up, um, I mean, by moving
somewhat faster than a 90-year-old arthritic, and shouting with
badly-improvised enthusiasm, "Who wants a cookie?" before darting (I
love verbs! They are SO prettily objective.) into the kitchen with as much, er,
alacrity as I could muster.
Mission accomplished! Disaster
prevented! And there are happy dogs thanks to treats from the Puppy Crack jar. Enforcer Magoo got a cookie right after he
was presented with a Junior Police Chief Badge in front of a small,
semi-official canid gathering. Every one of those civilian dogs was drooling with
envy – and probably with impatience from waiting for cookies. Molly got a
cookie because she got off my chair quickly without releasing any unpleasant
liquids into its seat cushion. Xyban got a cookie because, well, because he was
just lying around lustily snuffling his . . . well, because he was just so amazingly
engaged and focused while the others were itching to start a pit-fight. Kenosha
got a cookie because fair is fair and she is part of the pack, even if
she's the part that handles pack-crises by running away screaming louder than a
five-year-old girl whose ice cream just fell to the sidewalk.
Oh, and there's a happy
human, too, because I grabbed a beer for myself without having to walk an
extra 5 feet.
#WinWin
#MagooTheJerk
#MmmmmBeeer
#It's5pmSomewhere
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
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Service Dogs
Paxil Josephine Wragg
When I retired from the Police
Department in 2001 after a line-of-duty injury that left me with severe
chronic pain and a diagnosis of PTSD, I decided to train a dog to help
me adjust to my new life. I was given a black Lab puppy by a local breeder and named her “Paxil” because I knew she would make
me happy.
Paxil provides physical assistance by picking up items I
drop, fetching phones, helping me climb stairs, telling me when to take
my pain medications, opening and closing doors, tugging off jackets and
shoes, operating light switches, and even taking the clothes out of the
dryer and putting them on the counter for me to fold.
She provides
psychiatric assistance by alerting me to people approaching from behind,
waking me from nightmares, creating a furry comfort zone in crowds, and
distracting me with a paw in my lap or a nose in my face.
When we
first began working together, people were surprised to see us in the
mall and at restaurants. Almost every time we went out in public, a
manager or security guard would ask us to leave because “dogs aren't
allowed.” I carried copies of the Americans with Disabilities Act
regulations that gave us the right to be in public places and patiently
handed them out to everyone who confronted us. As the years have passed,
it's gotten a little easier. If we are approached now, it's usually by a
curious stranger who has seen something about service dogs on
television.
HISTORY OF SERVICE
The first service dogs as we
know them were trained in New Jersey at The Seeing Eye. In 1928, an
American named Morris Frank and his Swiss-trained guide dog, “Buddy,”
campaigned tirelessly for federal recognition of guide dogs and earned
the right for guide-dog teams to enter facilities that had been
traditionally, and legally, off-limits to dogs.
In the 1970s and
1980s, dogs, monkeys, and miniature horses were trained to assist with
other disabilities, but they didn't enjoy the same federal rights of
access as guide dogs. In the 1990s, the Americans with Disabilites Act
(ADA) officially gave people the right to use animals to mitigate the
effects of disabilities other than sight loss.
It was a breakthrough, and a problem.
Although
the ADA distinguished between “therapy” animals that visited nursing
homes and hospitals to comfort patients and “service” animals that made
life with disabilities easier, it didn't actually define what a service
animal was. As the 2000s evolved, the ADA's vague regulation led to an
inundation of animals, both wild and domesticated, being touted as
service animals.
The Internet and media were rife with stories about
people shopping, dining at restaurants ,and riding buses with parrots on
their shoulders, ferrets in their pockets, snakes wrapped around their
necks, pigs on leashes, and badly behaved dogs at their sides - one
woman even rode a full-sized horse into supermarkets – while declaring
that their animal was necessary because of their now federally
recognized disability. The ambiguity in the ADA regulation made it
illegal to ask someone to refrain from bringing his 9-foot boa
constrictor or her snarling Great Dane into public places. The flood of
bizarre amateur “helpers” was making it difficult for well-trained
service animals to gain respect. Disabled Americans with legitimate
service animals, fed-up business owners, and confused law enforcement
agencies clamored for some clarity.
On March 15, 2011, the ADA, which
takes priority over local or state laws and regulations, revised its
definition of service animals. It officially excluded all animals except
dogs and miniature horses (defined as ranging in height from 24 inches
to 34 inches at the shoulders and weighing between 70 and 100 pounds)
from having public access and stated that the dogs and miniature horses
must be individually trained to do work or perform tasks for people with
disabilities.
Disabled people may still use other animals (goats,
gerbils, cats, etc.) to assist them but only in places where those
animals would normally be allowed to go, such as within the confines of
their own homes and private vehicles, and friends' homes with
permission.
The ADA also tightened another loophole by outlining the
difference between “psychiatric service dogs” and “emotional support
animals."
Psychiatric service dogs are trained to recognize the onset
of psychiatric episodes and actively respond by performing tasks
directly related to the person's disability, such as reminding the
handler to take medicine, interrupting self-mutilation, and removing
disoriented handlers from dangerous situations.
An emotional support
animal's sole function is to provide comfort or emotional support. The
animal may or may not be able to discern that its owner is in distress,
but it is not trained to do anything specific in response to this
awareness. It merely provides comfort by being present. Emotional
support animals are considered pets and do not have public-access
rights.
FOLLOWING THE LAW
But just because someone enters a public place with a dog or miniature horse doesn't mean the animal is a legitimate service animal. Last summer, a woman was asked to leave a Yarmouth consignment shop because the manager did not believe her dog was a real service dog. When she refused, police settled the dispute by verifying the woman's claim.
But just because someone enters a public place with a dog or miniature horse doesn't mean the animal is a legitimate service animal. Last summer, a woman was asked to leave a Yarmouth consignment shop because the manager did not believe her dog was a real service dog. When she refused, police settled the dispute by verifying the woman's claim.
But there are people who want to take
their pets everywhere they go and are willing to exploit any ignorance
of the law to get their way. Most states have laws against
misrepresenting an animal as a service animal. Managers of public
facilities and police officers need to know how to identify a service
animal.
There's a YouTube video of a man in a wheelchair bullying
police officers who responded to a beach after complaints about his dog.
The dog was not wearing any service dog equipment and had clearly been
swimming. The man repeatedly admonishes the officers telling them, “If I
say it's a service dog then you have to let it stay!”
That is not
true, but identifying a service animal is not always simple. There are
no national identification cards or certification programs; service dogs
trained in any state or country are recognized by the ADA. Some states
issue their own cards and certification letters, but since the federal
regulations take precedence, state certification is not proof and cannot
be required. Most service animals wear special vests or harnesses, but
they are not mandated because they could interfere with the service
animal's work or a person's disability could prevent their use. The size
of the animal does not matter, except when classifying a miniature
horse.
Basically, a service animal team consists of a disabled
person and a dog or miniature horse trained to mitigate that disability,
and the ADA provides simple tools for anyone questioning the legitimacy
of a team.
When it isn't evident that a dog or miniature horse
assists someone with an obvious disability, the ADA allows only two
questions. The answers must be taken at face value. Only a federal judge
can decide if a person is actually disabled or substantiate that an
animal meets performance requirements.
The first question is, “Is
the animal required because of a disability?” Follow-up questions about
the nature of the disability are not allowed.
The second is, “What
work or task has the animal been trained to perform?” Asking for a
demonstration of the animal's training is not permitted.
It is a
service animal only if a disability exists and the answer to the second
question describes an active, trained response or legitimate work
performed on the disabled person's behalf. If not, the animal can be
removed and excluded from future access to public areas.
ACCESS IS KEY
So what is public access?
Federal
regulations state that service animals are medical equipment that must
be accommodated in the manner of crutches, wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks.
Therefore, state and local governments, and businesses and nonprofit
organizations that serve the public, must allow disabled people with
service animals access to all areas where the public is normally allowed
to go, even if health codes prohibit animals. In many states,
Massachusetts included, trainers of service animals have the same rights
as service animal teams as long as the animal is well-behaved and
housebroken. The rule of thumb is that access rights belong to the
person, not to the service animal. If the person has a right to be
there, an animal that meets the definition of a service animal has a
right to be there.
Service animals are allowed at pools, beaches and
playgrounds, but they are there to work, not play, so if the animal is
running loose, swimming freely, chasing balls or playing with children,
then it is not on duty and can be removed.
Of course, everyone needs a
break from work once in a while, so an occasional visit to the woods,
game of fetch, or dip in the water isn't in violation of any rules, but
if the animal's leisure activities interfere with other people it can be
removed. If the animal is under control and at its handler's side,
waiting at the water's edge to assist its handler in entering and
exiting the water, or assisting the handler in the water because of a
specific medical requirement, it must be accommodated.
Service
animal teams visiting a person living in no-pet housing are not required
to give notice to management and are permitted by invitation of the
tenant to stay as long as necessary, even if the disabled person leaves
the animal at the residence during an outing. Motels, hotels, and inns
cannot require prior arrangements or force a service dog team into a
room normally reserved for guests with pets.
Enrolled students with
a service animal must be allowed to attend school unless the school
obtains a court injunction banning it and anyone who would normally be
admitted to enter a school as a guest must be allowed if accompanied by a
service animal.
Service animals cannot be denied access to public
transportation and no operator of a public conveyance can refuse to
transport them. Devout Muslim taxi drivers who refuse to pick up service
dogs for religious reasons are in violation of federal and
Massachusetts laws and in conflict with the Shariah Council, which has
ruled that Muslims worldwide must accept, and may even use, dogs that
are trained to assist disabled people.
Service animals cannot be
excluded from movie theaters, concerts, or auditoriums, but if a service
animal makes noise during a performance it can be asked to leave unless
the noise was an attempt to communicate with or alert its handler, the
animal was deliberately provoked, or the noise was consistent with
noises made by humans, such as barking during applause. If an animal is
removed because of noise, that behavior cannot be used to restrict its
admission to future events.
HEALTH AND SERVICE
Regardless
of health codes or departmental regulations restricting pets, service
animals are allowed in ambulances, police cars, and other state and town
vehicles. A service animal team cannot be denied transportation under
any circumstance in which any other civilian would be transported.
Exceptions
could occur if the presence of a service animal in the ambulance might
interfere with patient care; jeopardize the safety of the crew, the
patient or others, or cause damage to the ambulance or equipment. In
such circumstances, personnel are expected to make every effort to
reunite the patient with the service animal at the time of the patient's
arrival at the hospital by arranging for simultaneous transport of the
animal by the police department, animal control, or the patient's family.
The
ADA has determined that police departments have an obligation to
accommodate a service animal in the same way as any other medical
equipment unless the animal's presence would cause an alteration in the
environment that would disrupt normal operations.
The ADA prohibits
segregating or isolating service dog teams from other patrons, treating
them less favorably than other patrons, and charging fees that are not
charged to other patrons without animals. A business that normally
requires a deposit or fee to be paid by patrons with pets must waive the
charge for service animals, but any business that normally charges
patrons for damage that they cause can charge a disabled customer for
damage caused by his service animal. Staff members at public facilities
are not required to provide care or food for a service animal, but they
are not prohibited from doing so voluntarily.
The ADA allows, but
does not mandate, exclusion of a service animal when the animal poses a
direct threat to the health or safety of others.
Health issues
could arise in areas such as sterile operating rooms, some
intensive-care units and areas where food is prepared, such as kitchens,
freezers, and walk-in refrigerators. Allergies are not valid reasons for
denying access or refusing service to people with service animals. When
a person who is allergic and a person with a service animal must spend
time in the same room or facility, they both should be accommodated by
assigning them, if possible, to different locations within the room or
different rooms in the facility. If an animal is not housebroken, it can
be removed. However, an indoor “accident” cannot be used as a reason to
refuse entry the next time. Unless there is a specific medical reason
necessitating it, a service animal can be restricted from using
apparatus, chairs, and other items provided for the use of humans. A
miniature horse can be excluded if a facility cannot accommodate its
type, size or weight; if its presence will compromise legitimate safety
requirements necessary for safe operation of the facility; if it isn't
housebroken, or if it isn't under the handler's control.
Safety
exclusions could result if a service animal displays vicious behavior.
Viciousness must be an overt display of aggression that is unprovoked.
Barking and jumping should first be investigated as a medical emergency
since a service dog could be trained to bark, jump, or tug at its
handler's clothing to call attention to a medical condition. A PTSD
service dog may seem confrontational when blocking strangers from
approaching its handler, but this is a trained response, not aggression.
Safety concerns cannot be assumptions based on someone's past
experience with animals or on his perception of aggression because of
its breed's reputation. A person's fear of dogs or miniature horses is
not a valid reason for denying access or refusing service to a service
animal team.
Private homes and private clubs can exclude service
animals if they choose, but if privately owned properties such as gyms
and malls serve the public they also must serve patrons with service
animals.
HUMAN BEHAVIOR
When encountering a service animal
team, do not distract the animal with whistles, calls, or by petting it.
The animal has a job to do and its handler could be injured if the
animal doesn't remain focused. Some service animals are able to interact
with strangers, but look carefully for any tags or patches that read
something like, “Do Not Pet” or “Working Dog, Please Don't Distract”
before asking its handler if you may pet it or speak to it. Never touch
the disabled person without an invitation and never touch the service
animal or its harness or leash, period.
Do not separate the service
animal from its handler. Service dogs are specifically trained to remain
calm in excitable situations, but they are animals and might show
aggression or fear if their handler is startled or injured.
If you
want to assist a service dog team, ask the person what to do. Some
mobility service animals are trained to step aside and allow humans to
help their handlers. Animals that guide the blind are trained to
“follow” on command a specific sighted person while still guiding their
handlers. If your offer to help is turned down, don't be insulted; the
purpose of a service animal is to lessen its handler's dependence on
other people. If a disabled person doesn't need your help, her service
animal is doing its job.
If you believe a handler is abusing or
neglecting his service animal, report the incident to your police
department or animal control officer. Generally, service animal training
facilities retain ownership of the animals and recall them from
handlers who fail to meet their expectations of care.
For more information
To speak with an ADA specialist about
service animals and access rights, call 800-514-0301 between 9:30 a.m.
and 5:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Fridays or 12:30 and 5:30
p.m. Thursdays.
(originally published Cape Cod Times 2013.04.03)
(and @ https://www.southcoasttoday.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130404/LIFE/304040311 )
(and @ https://www.southcoasttoday.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130404/LIFE/304040311 )
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
.
Steven Xiarhos
Yarmouth Police Department
Chief Frank Frederickson
@yarmouthpolice
http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/
Lessons From Dogs
I’ve learned a lot from dogs.
My grandparents’ Newfoundland, Blackie, taught me about personal responsibility and holding up my end of the bargain. He had an easy life. He was even treated to a bowl of ice cream in front of the TV every night. But, spoiled as he was, he repaid my grandparents by treating them like royalty and being the best dog he could be.
A Black Lab named Shadow was my companion when I was eight. His participation in his owner’s hobby, duck hunting, turned my stomach. I was convinced that Shadow shared my distaste yet he performed his repugnant job with spunk and style. If Shadow could jump into an ice cold lake to retrieve a bloody murdered duck, I could clean the toilet without (too much) complaining.
I found Mr. Sweets in a neighbor’s yard, chained to a dog house. He was matted and flea ridden and adorable. A good grooming revealed a handsome Schnoodle. We renamed him Mr. Bojangles. His dedication as my willing sidekick helped me to become a better friend.
Trooper was a burly German Shepherd at my kennel job who liked to bite everyone but me. We had a special bond. When I visited him at his new position as a guard dog, he lunged at me and ripped the end of my sleeve. If I hadn’t been quicker, he’d have ripped off my arm. The lesson? Sometimes it’s best to leave the past behind.
Kevvie, aka Kevlar, the Giant Schnauzer, was meant to be my police K9 partner but her heart wasn’t in it. The day she became entangled in a wayward rope with a terrified squirrel showed her true character. She squealed in pain as the frantic rodent bit her over 70 times on the face and neck in its efforts to escape. Instead of killing it with her massive jaws, she gently pulled it off each time. Still entangled, it attacked again and again until exhaustion rendered it helpless and I was able to cut them free. Kevvie was true to herself and kind to smaller creatures, gifts I admired and endeavored to possess.
Paxil, my current Lab, is an expert at pleasure, both giving and receiving, and at fun. Everything is her favorite. And she has the best stress management strategies: karaoke – howling at sirens, cheap aroma therapy – rolling in every vile, vomitous substance she can find, and soothing water therapy – splashing in the tub with a child. The lesson she expounds is that there’s good in everything if you look (or smell) long enough.
In addition to the lessons I’ve learned, my dogs have taught me about myself. I learned I am a loyal friend when I stood between Bojangles and an angry Doberman with gnashing teeth who outweighed me by ten pounds. I discovered that I am courageous, and foolhardy, the day I headed into a riptide to save Kevvie who was being sucked under and tossed about in terror. I was surprised by my strength of character when I defied the vet and insisted on staying with Kali when she was euthanized. And I wasn’t embarrassed when I brought friends home the day Paxil left half-eaten underwear in the living room and scattered the contents of the bathroom trash throughout the house.
My dogs have been building blocks in my life. The cats? They haven’t taught me anything, except maybe to mind my own business and keep the food dish filled.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
*** This piece is copyrighted and can be used with permission only. ***
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French Tutor
My French tutor has a cold nose. She also has four legs and a tail. It's actually a stub with a tiny bald spot at the end but it conveys her moods as well as any conventional tail and is more knick-knack friendly.
Her name is Ripley. She's a Giant Schnauzer. “Giant” being the operative word. A point I tried to drive home to Fernando the cat on the day Ripley arrived. The cat ignored my instructions to wage psychological war on Ripley while he still had a chance to make an impression. But she was a cute little bundle of black fur with adorable brown eyes! How could he swat something smaller than him? Regret was written on his face when she doubled in size and weight after two weeks and decided to use him for a soccer ball. Apparently, hind sight is 20/20 even when you're a cat.
I had pick of the litter so I put the girls through a series of puppy tests. I wanted the dominant female. It turns out that I'm much better at testing puppies than I thought. By the time she was eight weeks old, Ripley displayed a dizzying variety of dominant behavior. She growled over toys and food, she stepped on my toes, she leaned against me - and pushed, she stood between me and any food I'd set on the coffee table. She came when she was called but never in a straight line. She even lifted her leg to declare that the trees in the yard were hers. And when she realized that only I was allowed on my bed, she quietly removed herself to the living room to sleep alone. She was not willing to play second fiddle to anyone. She was stubborn, strong willed and hard headed. My mother's wishes had come true - I had a child just like me.
It was obvious that she thought a lot about how to unsettle the pack leader and claim the throne for herself. She wasted little time chewing furniture, peeing on the rug or whining at night. She spent a lot of time refusing to be rolled onto her back, getting onto the couch and chasing the cat, my cat -in other words, using my toys without my permission. My older dog, Kevvie, who happens to be Ripley's aunt, was a plaything, too. Albeit, a plaything with teeth and a short temper around midget upstarts who repay the boss' kindness with disrespect. Sometimes I broke up dog fights but most of the time Kevvie enjoyed a sort of anonymity. Ripley wasn't concerned with Kevvie. Kevvie wasn't the boss.
When Ripley was 1½, I took a crash course in French. Two weeks in Montreal made me dangerous. Dangerous enough to put a few words together to make a sentence. Dangerous enough that anyone who spoke French didn't want to hear me butchering their language. That's where Ripley comes in.
I don't know if it's because she missed me (yeah, right) or because she was a French dog in a former life but Ripley loved to hear me trying to speak French. Her stub would wag, her ears would lift and she would smile. So, I started practicing French with Ripley. She never laughed at my pronunciation or ridiculed my grammatical errors. She'd never cared what was on my mind when I spoke English, but she was always interested in what I had to say in French. It made learning fun. For both of us.
We practiced obedience commands in French. We discussed the meaning of life. We exchanged sweet nothings - I in French, she with her stub. The breakthrough came when I found her on her back with her legs splayed and playfully asked, "Est-ce que tu fais le morte?" (“Are you making the death?”). She grinned a big dog grin and wagged her stub so hard it could have whipped eggs for a soufflé. I took advantage of her mood to rub her belly, something she rarely tolerated. A few minutes later, when she'd regained her composure (and her attitude), I said, "I liked you better when you were dead." And added, “Why don't you ‘fais le morte’?" I was shocked when she instantly fell to the floor and rolled onto her back, splaying her legs and wagging furiously! She'd taught herself a trick and, in the meantime, allowed herself to be subservient to me without compromising her ethics. It was the beginning of a better relationship - and of household harmony.
My French has improved and so has Ripley’s temperament. We occasionally have spats over territory and household rules but I think she's just trying to hang onto her childhood, sa enfance. We hadn’t realized that we were speaking different languages until we learned a new one together. It made us closer. It's amazing what adjusting the lines of communication can do!
The discovery of Ripley’s true self, her inner tutor, has resulted in real learning experiences. Practical French and practical relationships. Too bad it’s costing me a fortune in baguettes and Roquefort! I hope she doesn’t learn to like wine.
Her name is Ripley. She's a Giant Schnauzer. “Giant” being the operative word. A point I tried to drive home to Fernando the cat on the day Ripley arrived. The cat ignored my instructions to wage psychological war on Ripley while he still had a chance to make an impression. But she was a cute little bundle of black fur with adorable brown eyes! How could he swat something smaller than him? Regret was written on his face when she doubled in size and weight after two weeks and decided to use him for a soccer ball. Apparently, hind sight is 20/20 even when you're a cat.
I had pick of the litter so I put the girls through a series of puppy tests. I wanted the dominant female. It turns out that I'm much better at testing puppies than I thought. By the time she was eight weeks old, Ripley displayed a dizzying variety of dominant behavior. She growled over toys and food, she stepped on my toes, she leaned against me - and pushed, she stood between me and any food I'd set on the coffee table. She came when she was called but never in a straight line. She even lifted her leg to declare that the trees in the yard were hers. And when she realized that only I was allowed on my bed, she quietly removed herself to the living room to sleep alone. She was not willing to play second fiddle to anyone. She was stubborn, strong willed and hard headed. My mother's wishes had come true - I had a child just like me.
It was obvious that she thought a lot about how to unsettle the pack leader and claim the throne for herself. She wasted little time chewing furniture, peeing on the rug or whining at night. She spent a lot of time refusing to be rolled onto her back, getting onto the couch and chasing the cat, my cat -in other words, using my toys without my permission. My older dog, Kevvie, who happens to be Ripley's aunt, was a plaything, too. Albeit, a plaything with teeth and a short temper around midget upstarts who repay the boss' kindness with disrespect. Sometimes I broke up dog fights but most of the time Kevvie enjoyed a sort of anonymity. Ripley wasn't concerned with Kevvie. Kevvie wasn't the boss.
When Ripley was 1½, I took a crash course in French. Two weeks in Montreal made me dangerous. Dangerous enough to put a few words together to make a sentence. Dangerous enough that anyone who spoke French didn't want to hear me butchering their language. That's where Ripley comes in.
I don't know if it's because she missed me (yeah, right) or because she was a French dog in a former life but Ripley loved to hear me trying to speak French. Her stub would wag, her ears would lift and she would smile. So, I started practicing French with Ripley. She never laughed at my pronunciation or ridiculed my grammatical errors. She'd never cared what was on my mind when I spoke English, but she was always interested in what I had to say in French. It made learning fun. For both of us.
We practiced obedience commands in French. We discussed the meaning of life. We exchanged sweet nothings - I in French, she with her stub. The breakthrough came when I found her on her back with her legs splayed and playfully asked, "Est-ce que tu fais le morte?" (“Are you making the death?”). She grinned a big dog grin and wagged her stub so hard it could have whipped eggs for a soufflé. I took advantage of her mood to rub her belly, something she rarely tolerated. A few minutes later, when she'd regained her composure (and her attitude), I said, "I liked you better when you were dead." And added, “Why don't you ‘fais le morte’?" I was shocked when she instantly fell to the floor and rolled onto her back, splaying her legs and wagging furiously! She'd taught herself a trick and, in the meantime, allowed herself to be subservient to me without compromising her ethics. It was the beginning of a better relationship - and of household harmony.
My French has improved and so has Ripley’s temperament. We occasionally have spats over territory and household rules but I think she's just trying to hang onto her childhood, sa enfance. We hadn’t realized that we were speaking different languages until we learned a new one together. It made us closer. It's amazing what adjusting the lines of communication can do!
The discovery of Ripley’s true self, her inner tutor, has resulted in real learning experiences. Practical French and practical relationships. Too bad it’s costing me a fortune in baguettes and Roquefort! I hope she doesn’t learn to like wine.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
.
Apollo's Gift
A friend called the other morning. His voice was hoarse. He explained that his vocal cords needed to be warmed up because he hadn’t spoken yet. I told him to get a dog. I’m always telling him to get a dog. Everyone needs a good dog. But this time I had a great angle. A dog is the perfect tool for keeping your vocal cords flexible. The last thing you utter before sleep is, “you can’t possibly have to pee again, just go lie down” and the first words you scream in the morning are, “it’s only 6 o’clock, leave me alone, puh-lease!” He was amused but he passed on the offer to borrow one of my dogs for practice.
My roommate doesn’t have my vocal flexibility. She has no need of screaming or even talking. Her dog, Apollo, a white Boxer, is deaf.
People are fascinated when they first learn about Apollo. We humor their silly questions. One of my nephews was so surprised that he asked, “Does he walk into walls?”. My cousin was pleased that Apollo can bark. She wanted to know if he sounds to other dogs the way a deaf person who’s learning to talk sounds to us.
Other people ask if it’s difficult caring for a dog that’s abnormal. We don’t humor those people. Apollo is a constant reminder to us that “normal” is not the same thing as “average” or “typical”. He’s not an aberration. He was just born with something that most other dogs don’t have – adorable little pig ears that are decorative instead of functional.
A handicap? I don’t think so. While Kevvie, the old lady, is shaking in terror during a thunderstorm, Apollo is sleeping like a rock. While Ripley, the fireball, is trying to dodge and kill the monster inside the vacuum cleaner, Apollo is waiting patiently for a really good suction massage. And he has an advantage when we interrupt an incident of doggie malicious destruction. While everyone else runs for cover hoping we’re not really yelling at them, Apollo just turns his head away - the deaf dog equivalent of putting his hands over his ears and humming – because if he can’t see the anger on our faces, then it’s not there.
Unlike people, other dogs don’t seem to care that Apollo is deaf. Most dog communication is silent anyway. Have you ever been in a room with three fiercely possessive dogs who have gone off to three separate corners with their bones and suddenly, without any detectable signal, they swap bones and corners? How eerie is that? And just how difficult could it be for Apollo to interpret Ripley’s “read my lips” message of bared teeth when she’s tired of playing? Or the out-of-the-corner-of-her-eye glare that Kevvie gives him when he gets too close to her dish? Even the cat’s raised, hooked paw speaks a thousand words.
Apollo doesn’t know that he’s deaf so it doesn’t affect him. He cruises the communication super highway with ease. If he’s not interested in obeying our hand signals for obedience commands, he looks away with a devilish gleam in his eye. If he wants to go through a closed door, he readies his nails and cocks his eyebrow, daring us to ignore him. When he’s upset, he snorts. When he’s happy, he squirms. And it’s no more difficult for us. To get his attention, we stomp on the floor to send a vibration his way. To show our displeasure, we point at him and scowl. To praise him, we smile and mime applause.
He may sleep through a few raucous renditions of “there’s someone at the door” or be a few seconds late for lunch because he didn’t hear the dog food cabinet open but that doesn’t mean he isn’t like everyone else. He sheds. He chews. He has bad breath. He sleeps on the sofa when we’re not home. He licks himself in front of company. And he understands the power of sound - that funny vibration he can make in his throat. He knows when to use his amusing, chortling growl to enliven a wrestling match. He even climbs onto the bench of our deck and stands surveying his territory, barking in single, well-spaced woofs to proclaim himself “king of the world”.
Apollo is no different from other dogs. Well, with his pig ears, stub tail and smashed-in face, he’s very different from the German Shepherd with pointed ears, a long tail and a tapered muzzle but inside, he’s a regular, everyday Fido. Just a dog. A sweet, kind, wiggly (and usually pleasingly quiet) dog.
Maybe I should change my strategy and sell my friend on a deaf dog.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
Brady Meigs Alden Melissa Alden
Fernando's Last Mission
Last week, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my cat on the porch rail, his fluffy black tail curled around his legs as he stared through the window at me. It used to be a common sight but not recently. My cat, officially named Fernando and nicknamed The Brat, died last February.
I wanted to bury him in his favorite shady spot under the peach tree in the front yard but the frozen ground made me reconsider after a friend recounted his story of a shallow grave and a raiding coyote who returned after a second burial to finish the meal. So I decided to lay him to rest in his favorite sunny spot in the fenced back yard where he’d be safe from grave robbers.
I waited until night because it seemed more appropriate. The dogs kept me company. The hard earth made the heartbreaking task even more difficult. When I’d managed to dig just deep enough, I wrapped Fernando in his favorite fleece blanket and placed him in the grave.
Ripley immediately moved to intervene. She continually prodded Fernando gently with her nose, her signal for “C’mon, let’s play!”, an enterprise which generally consisted of her having lots of fun at the cat’s expense. She seemed confused when he didn’t respond. Her reaction saddened me but I was more concerned about Kevvie.
When she was four years old, Kevvie excitedly traded her collection of stuffed animal “babies” for the little bundle of black fur that purred. She raised him as if he were her own puppy. She shared her food and her bed until the gloomy day when he preferred solitary meals and naps. He’d grown up. He was a cat. She was still maternal, greeting him every morning with a lick and a wag. He always responded by rubbing against her face. He trusted her and they were friends but their relationship had changed. Kevvie found comfort in a stuffed buffalo.
That night in the yard, Kevvie stepped into Fernando’s grave and nestled up against his body. She seemed to want to warm him. She licked him once and then looked at me before laying her head next to his. I didn’t know how to explain it to her so I sat on the ground near her. Even Ripley understood the seriousness of the moment and was still. We were all waiting for the impossible – for Fernando to awaken, or for understanding and acceptance.
The former was a fairy tale. The latter came more quickly for Kevvie. Her mothering instinct told her that her kitty was gone. Ripley and I were not as pragmatic.
Ripley checked the windows several times each day and often pushed through the door to the cellar to look for Fernando in his secret napping place. I saw him or heard his bell every day for a month, then more and more infrequently. Eventually, we both realized what Kevvie knew. Time has its way of treating those wounds.
Kevvie turned twelve in May. Her eyes are failing, her mind is wandering, her legs can barely support her weight, and she sleeps most of the time. She spends many sunny days sleeping on Fernando’s grave. But she still eats heartily. She still follows me from room to room despite the obvious discomfort. She still greets visitors with gusto. And she still laughs at herself when she falls on the tile like Bambi on the ice.
She doesn’t know that her time in the sun is limited. But I do.
I try to repay the gifts of love that Kevvie has selflessly given me for twelve years. I forgive her when she doesn’t wake up in time to make it to the yard to relieve herself. I forgive her when she bites my fingers in her haste to get the cookies she has trouble seeing. I sit on the floor and massage her tired, old legs. I ask her for kisses even though her breath stinks. I feed her first at mealtimes and pet her last at bedtime. I tell her I love her.
But all my efforts don’t keep the cat away. Kevvie hasn’t noticed him yet but I have. He’s helping me prepare for the day when he’ll come back for her.
And I have no choice.
I’ll have to let her go with him.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
The Dream
Romeo – “I dreamt a dream tonight.”
Mercutio – “And so did I.”
Romeo – “Well, what was yours?”
Mercutio – “That dreamers often lie.”
Mercutio didn’t know what he was talking about. I dreamt a dream, too, when I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. In my dream, my house was crying. Water was pouring down the inside walls in streams of tears. Tears that started in the attic and disappeared into the basement. Tears that began ripping apart the inside of the house. Walls were peeling. Cabinets were sagging from the ceilings. Photos and mementos were melting and washing away with the tears. Amid the chaos, I was frantically calling everyone I knew, becoming more and more unraveled as each phone call ended the same way – no one knew who could help me stop the destruction. The exterior of the house remained intact, a façade in every sense of the word, its yellow paint smiling in the sun, a bright mask for the turmoil inside. But the sun wasn’t coming through the windows. The interior buckled under the weight of the tears. It sagged and folded inward. With the phone in my hand, I watched the demolition. The tears ravaged my home, eradicating my past, swallowing up my present, annihilating my future, drowning my dreams. And there was no one left to call. I was scared, hurt, angry and desperate. I woke up scared, hurt, angry and desperate. I’m still scared, hurt, angry and desperate.
That’s why my dogs dialed 911 one day when I wasn’t home. No, really. They used my new cordless phone. They were pleased with the response they got. Four police officers and three firefighters forced open the door to visit with them – and search for me – when the police dispatcher was not able to get through on the phone. I found the slightly chewed and fairly slimy phone on the floor near the dog beds. The line was still open. My brother thinks they wanted me to come home so they called the shop. I think they were practicing. They wanted to know how long it would take to get someone to make their lunch if I didn’t get off the sofa to do it.
They knew what I haven’t wanted to admit. That after months of feeling depressed, I have officially made the jump to actually being depressed. And they were worried because their food is behind a closed door.
They knew something was going wrong. They’d heard me whisper the words when I thought they weren’t listening. Words like sad, grieving, and empty. They hear me say that I feel like I am outside my body when people insist that a forced retirement at the age of 37 is a fresh start. They see me taking sleeping pills or drinking wine before bed. They hear me grind my teeth when I finally fall asleep. They watch me make dinners that I leave on the counter after one bite. They feel the frustration when I snap at them for no reason. They see me cringe whenever the word “disabled” is tossed around as though it were harmless. They understand that I have the best intentions when I get up, take a shower, then lose interest in the day and go back to bed. They listen to the messages that friends leave on my machine when I don’t bother to answer the phone. They know that I feel detached from everything, including the pains in my head and my chest but they follow me when I go to the medicine cabinet for relief. Then they follow me again when I wander through the house looking for comfort in the things that used to make me smile. They follow me back to the sofa when I find none. And they stay in the room with me when I sit in silence. They watch me do nothing, and, in a show of camaraderie, they do nothing.
Except when I cry. When I cry - even silently - 12 year old Kevvie lifts her head. She doesn’t hear it, she feels it, and it rouses her from a deep, old-dog sleep. With great effort, she hauls her big, old-dog body onto her failing hips, then limps across the floor to sit beside me and rest her head on my leg. She comforts me with her compassion. Three year old Ripley also feels it. She abandons her feet-wiggling dreams of wily squirrels and tasty moles to jump onto the sofa beside me. She rests her head on my other leg. Her effort is as strenuous as Kevvie’s. She struggles to keep every muscle of her body still while she gazes up at my face. She knows this is the only way to send the healing vibrations of her wagging stub directly to me. She comforts me with her clowning.
They don’t care whether I’m a cop or not. They both reach up with long pink tongues to take away my tears. They stay after I stop crying. They stay until I shoo them away.
I don’t deserve this love. Or do I?
Romeo – “Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, thou talk’st of nothing.”
Mercutio – “True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle mind.”
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com
Yarmouth Police Department
Chief Frank Frederickson
Steven Xiarhos
@yarmouthpolice
http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/
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