Atlas Dog

Swimming season

2006-05-28T14:21:00.000-05:00

I'm a perfectionist dog.

Today was the first real day of the swimming season. A few weeks ago, Dad put up the pool. He had been agitating for it for a while, but Mom advised him to hold off until it was warm enough for me to enjoy it. When the weatherman gave the all-clear signal, Dad and Mom labored over the pool for hours. They repaired the holes made by mice (guys, you're going to have to find a better place to store the pool than the mice-infested shed), and Dad painstakingly smoothed out the pool so there were no creases in the bottom. Then they filled it up.

It was botched. The pool wasn't centered over the earthworks platform Dad built last year. Or more accurately, it was slightly oval, causing it to hang over the east edge of the earthworks. This caused the pool to tilt dangerously, so it could not be filled very high. I got in one or twice and tried to enjoy myself, but I couldn't even porpoise, let alone really swim. Fortunately, I was saved by a week of bad weather. Otherwise, I would have been forced to come up with daily excuses for not getting in, and I hate that.

Dad, I appreciate the effort, but please get it right next time. I had to have Mom empty the pool, move it a few inches west, and refill it. (The water made the pool so heavy that even a powerful dog such as myself could not have moved it.)

But I'm a forgiving dog, and the pool was filled in time for today's 90-degree weather. I'll tell you, I really enjoyed that refreshing water after the long walk. I swam and swam and yipped and yipped. I hope I impressed those two Australian Shepherds who moved in next door yesterday. I'd like to see them swim the way I can.

Dad, when you were a kid and used to put up pools with Grandpa, you used surveying equipment worth the cost of a new car. Now you are using sticks, fishing line, a $5 level, and gut instinct. C'mon, let's do it right next time.

Dog Jog 2005 excuses

2005-09-18T16:22:00.000-05:00

I'm a philosophical dog.

Today I attended the U of Wisconsin Vet School Dog Jog for the seventh time. Each fall, this event provides an opportunity for dogs and their owners to meet each other, compliment each other on their beauty (but apparently only if you're a bluetick coonhound), enjoy the once-scenic campus, and get a little exercise. What's important is that everyone enjoy themselves and have good, clean fun. Everyone's a winner at this fine event. It's not the competition, it's the togetherness.

This is a way of saying that I didn't do too well this year.

Mom thinks she and I came in about sixth place in the women's division. Usually we get to stand on the podium after the race, where we get a trophy and a bag of treats. That didn't happen this year. However, I did get some treats from the local pet food store booth, anyway, so I guess it's OK.

Dad and Juno were also in the rac--err, event. That fat slob of a sister led much of the way. (If you don't think she's a slob, take a look at this picture of her taken after the run.) But what counts is who crosses the finish line first, eh, Juno? And Mom and I crossed a good 25 seconds before Dad and Juno. Ha!

But I'm a big-hearted dog, so I won't rub it in. As a matter of fact, I kind of felt sorry for Juno. She "hit the wall" toward the end of the, ahhh, activity, and was reduced to a slow walk in the last hundred feet. The crowd cheered her lustily, and she recovered soon enough afterwards.

A philosophical dog such as myself doesn't make excuses. But in the interests of scientific accuracy, I should tell you the circumstances surrounding the disappoi--err, different-than-expected results.

Mom has a bit of a cold, and had spent all day Friday picking cranberries in a bog. So, she wasn't at her best. It was hot, which isn't the best for certain thickly-furred dogs. (That didn't prevent me from taking off like a rocket at the beginning, though.) Juno has been taking 80mg of phenobarbital twice a day, and it has slowed her down. Dad has been fighting various aches and pains, but overall he wasn't too badly off.

And the competition--I mean the other members of our joyful Dog Jog fellowship--seemed particularly good this year. One woman would have looked completely at home toeing the line in the Olympic 1500 meter finals.

I can't wait until next year. I am really looking forward to beating--I mean greeting--those other dogs next time!

Pulled muscle

2005-09-11T14:15:00.000-05:00

Oh, woe is me. I hurt my right arm yesterday, so today I was not able to compete in the local Ironman Triathlon.

I guess I pulled a muscle jumping off the couch yesterday morning before going for a walk. But I didn't really have a problem during the hour and forty-five minutes we were walking. And when we got home, I played furiously in the pool. When the water level is low the way is has been lately, I love to porpoise (jump around) in the water and bark and bark and bark. Sometimes Dad tells me to be quiet, so I pipe down for 15 seconds or so. When Mom says to be quiet, I know I don't have to take her seriously.

But later in the day yesterday, I was really limping. I knew that this was going to put the kibosh on my triathlon plans.

Now, this isn't the Ironman triathlon in Hawaii, of course. It's the Madison, Wisconsin version run by the same organization. If it had been the Hawaii Ironman, I would have done a little preparation for it--maybe practiced some ocean swimming, or learned how to ride a bike. But a big, strong, healthy dog like myself doesn't need to worry about local competition. My nearly-daily swimming routine and natural talent should certainly carry the day on the first leg of the triathlon. On the last leg, well, I got a second-place trophy in the Dog Jog last year, so it stands to reason that I should be the second-fastest runner in the triathlon. As for the cycling leg, well, if Dad can bicycle, it can't be that hard. I figured I'd borrow one of his bikes--maybe the cool orange one--and learn on the the morning of the race.

But now I'm going to be sidelined--out of the running altogether. Maybe it's just as well. Today the temperature is going to go up to 92 degrees, and I don't mind admitting that I find that uncomfortable. I can't take off my double-layer fur coat for the run.

Now I'm worried about Dog Jog next weekend. Will my injury have healed by then? My trainer, Mom, doesn't know the meaning of the word "rest". I have a feeling I'll be putting in some serious miles this week, leading up to the race. No pain, no gain.

Stay tuned.

Juno's seizures 2

2005-08-06T21:07:00.000-05:00

Juno has had a lot more seizures since her first one in September 2004. When she has one, she often has another one within a day or so. They only last about a half a minute or so, but they are grand mal seizures that leave her gasping for breath for minutes afterwards.

Poor Juno. She is scared during and after the seizures. She likes to have Mom or Dad around afterwards to comfort her.

I used to be a little scared, too, when I saw her jerking around uncontrollably. But seeing as how I'm a big, brave dog, it didn't take long for me to get over it. Now when I see one happening, I don't worry so much. But I know it means that once, again, Juno will be getting all the attention, while I sit around like Chopped Liver. Mom and Dad even have a nickname for me: C. L. Very funny. Ha, ha, ha.

Not to belittle Juno's suffering, but her seizures--or even the prospect of seizures--are also taking their toll on certain other members of the family. Mom won't sleep with the air-conditioner on anymore, for fear that she won't hear Juno having a seizure and won't be there to comfort her. We ordinarily don't use the air-conditioner much, but it has been very hot this summer, and some of us have two layers of coat that they can't take off.

Ah, well. There are some advantages, too. After catching her breath after a seizure, Juno is very mellow. In fact, Juno, who does not always appreciate other dogs who come up to greet her enthusiastically, has been calmer around other dogs lately. Maybe this means we can go to off-leash dog parks more often now.

And: Juno now takes phenobarbital twice a day to control her condition. (The vet said that it's not practical to try to diagnose the cause of the seizures; all you can do is treat it with drugs that help prevent them.) Mom says her childhood dog Peabody used to spit out pills they gave him. Juno is less picky about what she eats. But just to be sure, Mom feeds her the pills wrapped in cheese. Mmmmmm, cheese. And--bless her--Mom tries to be fair to me by also feeding me some cheese at the same time. Way to go, Mom!

Will bark for meat

2005-05-14T09:53:00.000-05:00

It's time for me to get out of the house and get a job.

Mom likes to make fun of me, calling me a lazy dog. But then she admits that my job is to sit on the couch most of the day, then go for a walk and hopefully a swim. And I do a bang-up job at that, don't I, Mom! Darn right.

Still, I sometimes wonder whether I could be more useful to my fellow creatures. Juno helps by finding money when we go on walks, and by peeing on the floor to let Mom know it's time to clean the carpet. The only thing I do other than my assigned duties (see above) is to bark the mailman away every day. I could do with a little more ambition.

That's why I was thrilled to learn of the positions opening up in some place called Andhra Pradesh, India. It seems that a dog's barking woke up police at a police station and warned them of an impending attack by rebels. (Some might wonder why police would be asleep in the station, but I am understanding on matters like that.) Now police there are being ordered to feed street dogs rice and meat to make them feel at home around the stations. "The street dogs will become our ears and eyes," said a police boss.

This sounds great. I love meat and rice, but Mom gives it to me only when I have certain digestive problems that I'd rather not talk about. My only concern is the "street dog" part. I don't know whether I'd qualify. I don't get to walk in the street much--it's either the sidewalk or a park. I've even given up trying to jump in front of big trucks driving down the street, because Mom won't let me and always pulls me back. Maybe I'll have to start trying again, so I can put "street dog" on my job application.

My pool vs. the Hoover Dam

2005-04-17T19:54:00.000-05:00

It's the biggest civil engineering project since the Hoover Dam.

That's what Dad says. He's talking about the installation of my pool this year.

The first two years we had the pool, it was on a slanted part of the back yard, so the pool was tilted. As a result, we couldn't fill the pool completely. So, I when I used the pool, I did as much "porpoising" as swimming. (For those of you are who aren't experts at swimming like me, this means you bounce off the bottom.) I had fun. But the pool did not meet the standards of Mom and Dad. I'm glad that I have parents with high standards--at least when it comes to important things.

So this year, Dad bought two cubic yards of dirt and spread out the dirt on the lower part of the area where the pool goes. This made a level platform for the pool. Then yesterday, Mom and Dad set up the pool and filled it. Smoothing out the bottom of the pool takes a long time. It was said that if either of my Grandpas had been there, there would have been foul language. But there were no fouls with just Dad and Mom around.

I didn't realize what was going on. Was that really a swimming pool? Who ever heard of filling a swimming pool in Wisconsin on April 16?

But today when we got back from a long, hot walk, I knew what that pool was all about. At first, I was reluctant to get in. Mom tried to entice me in by throwing my big stick into the pool so I'd fetch it. But I fooled her. I got the stick out of the pool from the side, without getting into the pool.

It didn't take long for me to work up the courage to plunge in. The pool is taller than last year, because it has more water in it. But a powerful jumper such as myself can overcome difficulties like that.

Soon I was swimming and swimming, barking and biting the water. Thanks, Mom and Dad. And you, too, President Hoover.

My ice obsession

2005-03-05T08:46:00.000-06:00

I am obsessed with eating ice. I am so obsessed that I told my story separately to Mom and Dad so we’d get two blog entries. Looks as if my trick worked, didn’t it?

This time of year there is lots of ice in my back yard and on the streets where we walk. I will eat ice until my whole body quivers and my teeth chatter. Then I come into the house and act really hyper, digging up blankets and tossing couch cushions around the living room. Mom thinks maybe my brain gets frozen, kind of like an "ice cream headache," not that I would know what that is since I never get ice cream.

It takes a long time until I stop shivering, but then I want to go back outside to eat more ice. This drives Mom nuts. She doesn’t mind if I eat ice if it’s a weekend and she’ll be at home, but she yells at me if I eat ice in the morning before she goes to work or if it’s getting towards bedtime. She says something about how I’ll have to go potty, but I don’t really get the connection. I mean, ice is hard and solid—-not liquid like water. How could ice make me go potty?

The next best thing to ice is snow. It’s not as crunchy and satisfying as ice, but it’s okay for a change—-it’s kind of like "ice lite." Also, I like to roll in snow. Mom doesn’t mind that at all. She says that makes me clean, and everybody likes a clean dog.

Another thing about ice is that you can walk on it. Mom takes me to the lake by campus where I go swimming in the summer. But in the winter, they take away the lake and put a big piece of ice in its place. I haven’t been able to eat that big, lake-size piece of ice, but I do enjoy running on it.

There are all these guys who think there are fish underneath the ice. They sit out in the cold all day waiting for the fish to bite onto the string they put into the ice. Why would a fish want to be smooshed under the big piece of ice? I’m glad Mom just wants to walk and not sit there with a pole and string waiting for fish. /psm

Eating snow

2005-03-05T08:38:00.000-06:00

Let me in! Let me in! I've got this great thing to show you, Mom! This is the tastiest treat ever. I'm going to go right over to my favorite spot and enjoy this prize. Boy, this is best stuff around. And it has no calories, so you can eat all you want! I can't believe they give it away.

Well, I made sh-sh-sh-short work of that. Now what? I think I'll just g-g-go over to the kitchen and sit. No, I'll j-j-jump up on the dog couch. No, th-th-that's not right. I'll scamper over to the dog pads and make myself comfortable. Can't do that. Let's g-g-g-et up on the people couch and make a nest. Put this blanket here, this p-p-pillow here. No, the blanket should go this way. No, the other way.

M-m-mom, how come my body is shuddering like this? And why are my t-t-teeth knocking against each other? I'm not sure I like this. Can you help me? Thanks for hugging me. And I n-n-need those blankets. This is awful. I hope I never feel like this again.

[5 minutes later.]
Mom, can I go outside? I really need to get out. Why? Because I have to, uhhh, go potty. Yeah, that's right, go potty. Yes, I know I just went potty 10 minutes ago, but a dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do. What, you don't believe me? Eat snow? Now, why would a dog do a silly thing like eating snow? Trust me, Mom. Oh, boy, here I go!

[5 more minutes later]

L-l-let me in! L-l-let me in!

The Ball

2004-11-28T19:43:00.000-06:00

I'm an obsessed dog.

Four days ago, I found The Ball. Not just a ball, but the ball--the best ball in the world.

Man, this ball is so good that I can hardly explain it. Sure, it looks like a regular green tennis ball. In fact, it looks like the 27 other green tennis balls that I have in my toy box. (Mom and Dad don't play tennis--I just find the balls on our walks. I can't believe that people just leave these balls around.) But it is the greatest ball in the world!

I am so happy to be blessed with this ball. But it's not all a blessing. Once you come into great riches, you have to start being careful--very careful. You never know who might try to separate you from your wealth. Take Mom, for instance. For six years she has generously tended to my every need: feeding me, taking me on long walks, and cuddling me. But nowadays I'm not so sure about her. When I'm sitting on the couch, guarding my ball, she'll do strange things like looking at me, or even sitting down on the couch near me. I can tell that she is thinking of stealing my ball. In fact, it's clear that she can think of little else. Sometimes I have to keep the ball in my mouth for minutes at a time, just to ensure she won't take it.

Fortunately, I'm the same nice, affable guy I've always been. But why has everyone else changed suddenly? Must they be so jealous of my good fortune? Why do they want to wrest from me what is rightfully mine? Let them find their own ball, and leave me alone with my precious. Yesss, my precious.

Juno's raccoon

2004-11-13T20:53:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, Juno lost her raccoon. But then she found it.

Of course, I'm not talking about a real raccoon. Real raccoons are scary. They are nearly as big as a big, strong, muscular--and handsome--dog such as myself. I saw a real raccoon once. It was in my backyard, sitting on a fence post and staring at me with those spooky eyes. I'll tell you, I did not go into the backyard after that for a while.

No, I'm talking about a toy raccoon, the one Mom gave Juno about a month ago. Mom bought it a long time ago, but Dad said that we already had a big collection of toys, so we should save it for a rainy day.

At the time, our collection included three elderly Grunty Hedgehogs. They used to grunt when you bit them in the right place, but I took care of that with my powerful jaws. I used to have fun tearing a hole in a hedgehog's skin and then pulling out the stuffing. The stuffing is no good to eat, so I'd just leave it around for Dad to push back into the hedgehog. Then he'd sew it up for next time.

After a while, I got tired of chewing on the hedgehogs. After all, I'm an intellectual dog, and I don't like to do the same things over and over. Well, except swimming, eating, and sniffing.

But my simpleton sister liked to play with the hedgehogs day after day. Dad would throw a hog from the living room down the hall into the bathroom. Juno would go tearing after it and retrieve it. Of course, she wouldn't give it back--no self-respecting dog gives something back to a human. It would make them feel too big and important. But Dad would be ready with a second hedgehog. He'd throw it, and Juno would drop the first one and go running after the second.

I couldn't stand to see her enjoying herself like that, day after day. I'd growl and body-block her when she's chasing a thrown stuffed animal. It's not right that she should be having so much fun with no thought for dignity.

One day Mom finally brought the raccoon up from its hiding place in the basement. (It didn't seem to be raining.) Juno really flipped out over it. She loved it so much that she growled a bit and gave Mom the Evil Eye when Mom came close. I could tell that I was going to have to do even more body-blocking and butt-slamming to prevent Juno from having too much fun.

Juno was in raccoon heaven for a month. She and Dad would play and play with the fresh new raccoon. Sometimes the two remaining hedgehogs would join in (one had been retired).

But then the raccoon went missing. Mom and Dad searched the house and backyard, but couldn't find it. Mom was sad. She thought Juno was sad, too, but Juno seemed to be getting by OK with the hedgehogs.

The story has a happy ending: Juno found her raccoon a couple of days after it was lost. She isn't saying where she found it, but all is right with the world again. She's chasing the thrown raccoon, I'm trying to enforce the rules of dignity, and the raccoon is still squeaking when you bite it.

My favorite store

2004-10-11T20:17:00.000-05:00

I like shopping.

I didn't list shopping as one of my hobbies, because it's not really shopping I like--it's eating. But you see, the store where I shop, Mounds Pet Food Warehouse, you get to eat whatever you can find on the floor. Mom takes me to Mounds about twice per month. Sometimes my sister Juno comes along too, but that's not the point here. We usually stop at Mounds on the way home from the dog park in Verona. I get very excited about going to Mounds. In fact, I'm usually pretty happy to leave the park, because there's a good chance that Mounds will be the next stop. Then, when Mom gets into the left-hand turn lane, I just know that treats are in my near future!

Mom usually parks in the same place, to the left of the door, so I don't even have to think about which way to pull her when I hop out of the car. One time Mom parked on the right side of the door though, and I got confused and ran the wrong way! Dad was with us and he laughed and laughed. Very funny (not).

Once we're inside, the fun begins! We walk up and down the food isles, and usually there's at least one bag that's leaking, and little bits of kibble are strewn hither and yon (that means all over the place, for those of you who aren't so literate). Mom says maybe they should've called me "Hoover," the way I clean the floor (I guess President Hoover liked to eat too). Sometimes we have to go to the isle with collars, leashes, or bottles of pee-smell remover, but we don't dawdle there long. They have cats for adoption in the back, but I'm not there to adopt a darn cat. Although I do eat cat food if there's some on the floor.

Anyway, Mom usually picks up a bag or two of food plus some rawhides, and then we go to the "checkout." They call it checkout because that's where you can check out all the good treats in the bowl on the counter. The workers there all tell me how handsome I am, and then they toss me treats. And then Mom gives me treats. I really like it when there's a long line, because then I get more treats while we wait. Mom hands the nice people a piece of plastic, signs a piece of paper, and then we have to leave, even though I never want to leave. I would like to get a job at Mounds, but Mom says not till I'm at least 16! /psm

Rules

2004-10-09T08:28:00.000-05:00

I'm a law-abiding dog. At least for my own laws.

There are some rules in life that must be followed carefully. There are others that really don't matter. What's important is to know which is which.

When Mom or Dad say "sit" and they have a bowl of food in their hand, you sit. Then you get to eat. Otherwise, you're just going to wait.

On the other hand, if there's a big truck coming, and you want to jump in front of it, just do it. Don't worry if Mom or Dad say "No!". I've never gotten hurt by jumping in front of a truck. Admittedly, I've never actually succeeded in doing so. (Darned leash.) But I'll keep trying--there's really nothing wrong with it.

Don't rely on others for all your rules. Sometimes they are just clueless. Can you believe that Mom and Dad don't know about barrels of sand? They are very dangerous! When I see a barrel of sand sitting on a street corner in winter, I am very careful not to get close to it. Dad and Mom, ignorant as they are, would have me walk right past it.

Another rule that Mom and Dad ignore is the Pool Rule. Never get into the pool without permission from your parents. They must say "OK"--then you can get into the pool. If you get out of the pool and roll on the grass, you must get permission again to go back in. I had to teach Dad and Mom this rule. But they keep forgetting it. Sometimes they wander off and I have to wait for a long time before they remember to say "OK".

But I'm a rule-minding dog. Sometimes it's inconvenient. But it's worth it to do things right.

My little runaway

2004-10-02T10:42:00.000-05:00

I'm a naughty dog.

At 5 o'clock this morning, I woke up Mom to go potty outside. I wanted to go in the backyard, but Mom knew that Juno would also want to go in the backyard and would baroo and baroo. At that time of the day, there are so many good smells that Juno just can't help herself. So, she took me in the front, where there's no fence. Juno doesn't like the front as much, so she waited patiently inside.

I really did have to go potty, so Mom let go of my collar. I peed, but when I was done, I took a quick look at Mom and bolted. I ran over to Mrs. Brose's house. Mom called me, and I looked at her. "Should I go back to her?" I thought. "No! I'll go sniff and sniff in the neighbor's yard. Maybe I can play hide-and-go-seek with Mom, too."

Well, Mom played a dirty trick on me. She went inside instead of playing with me! Something to do with having to get a pair of shoes to wear.

I had to go back. I decided the backyard was where I wanted to be, especially by the grape vine. Mom hopes I'm not eating grapes, which are supposed to be bad for dogs.

Dog Jog 2004

2004-09-19T20:16:00.000-05:00

I'm a victorious dog.

This morning we ran the Dog Jog. The Dog Jog is where you run around in a big circle with your mom or dad, and afterwards you get treats. It happens every year at the University of Wisconsin, the school where Mom works. I always run with Mom, because I'm her dog. Juno runs with Dad, because she's his dog, even though Mom does all the work.

In the past, Mom and I have come in third two or three times, and fourth twice. You don't get to go up on the stand afterwards if you only come in fourth, and Mom wants to go up on the stand. I know how important the race is for Mom, so I always run the whole race without stopping. This is the only occasion where I go for more than 100 yards without stopping to sniff or pee. I also try to make the race fun for Mom by trying to take her to the lake, which is near the race course. That makes Mom mad.

But this year I didn't try to run to the lake. I just ran alongside Mom. I also conserved my energy at the beginning, maybe because Mom has been taking us on runs on-leash at that really cool Governor Nelson State Park. So, I am more used to running.

Guess what: we came in second! When you come in second, you get to go up on the stand, people give you more attention, and better yet, you get a big box of treats.

Dad and Juno were in the race, too. Dad wasn't sure how well they'd do. In past races, Juno has stopped to sniff just as much as she does on a normal walk. And Dad hasn't been able to run as much since his knee got hurt at that dog park in 2000. Geez, Dad, I was only three years old at the time--practically a puppy. You don't hold a grudge against me, do you? I didn't think so.

Well, I wasn't going to mention this, but in victory, I'm a magnanimous dog. Dad and Juno actually finished ahead of us. But they didn't get to go up on the stand and they didn't get any treats. (I shared my treats--not that I had any choice.) Mom said that's because Dad's a boy and she's a girl. But I don't understand--I'm a boy, and I got to go up on the stand.

Dad and Mom said they were proud of me and Juno because we were so well-behaved and because we ran the whole race. Maybe we weren't perfect dogs: I did bark at a dog that tried to pass us. And Juno attacked the Giant Schnauzer that crossed the line right after us. I thought that Juno was going to get yelled at. But Mom sympathized. She said that the Schnauzer's mom cheated by "cutting the course", whatever that means, and Juno was sticking up for Mom. Dad wasn't sure that was really the reason. But it only lasted a second. And Mom and I beat the Giant Schnauzer anyway.

Here are some more pictures of the Dog Jog, and some of the winner.

Where I came from

2004-09-12T19:56:00.000-05:00

Here's the story of how I came to live with Mom and Dad.

Back in 1997, Mom had finally talked Dad into getting a dog. "OK," said Dad. "But it's gonna be your dog, and you'll have to take care of it." (Back in those days, a dog was an "it" to Dad. You've come a long way, Dad.)

So, Mom decided to sign up as a volunteer at the Dane County [WI] Humane Society (DCHS). That way, she could learn more about dogs, and see how much she liked being around them. Plus, maybe in the course of walking the various dogs, she'd find the right one to take home. After a training and approval process that was more grueling than getting into graduate school, Mom became an official volunteer.

For 6 months, Mom walked dogs. She found one that she liked, but "Karl" got adopted out from under her. Eventually I came along. I had been picked up as a stray near S. Thompson Drive, a tough neighborhood (for Madison). I had been seen running loose for about a month before someone called the Humane Society.

Mom liked me right away. In the midst of a bunch of kennels of wildly barking dogs, I lying there calmly and quietly, looking up curiously at Mom. (Ha! What a dumb kid I was back then. I've found my voice since then.)

But when a stray gets turned in, the volunteers aren't supposed to walk him for the first week. This is to allow the owner to claim the dog before the dog forms an attachment to someone else. But here's the dirty secret: normally law-abiding Mom actually crept into my cage before the week was up and petted me. I was glad to have the attention, and repeatedly jumped up on her, as any polite dog would do.

Mom decided right away that I was the dog for her. So, she put her name on the waiting list so that she could adopt me when my week was up.

The big date was 4 June, 1998. Mom and Dad came to take me for a walk. We immediately felt like a family. Plus, I had a great time checking out the field next to the Humane Society. At the time, the DCHS was located next to a big field with old railroad ties and other construction material. A prime spot, if you ask me.

The adoption papers were filled out, and I was theirs. It was 4 June 1998. After filling out the papers and finalizing the adoption, Mom and Dad were hungry. (So was I, but I am always hungry.) So, we went to the nearby Einstein's Bagels to eat. Well, they ate and I hung out with them outside.

When we got to Mom and Dad's house, I walked right in, sniffed around, and promptly declared the place my own. I knew I was home.

Epilogue: two years later, the person who cleaned our house, Deedee, one day matter-of-factly declared that she knew me from a few years ago. Seems her ex-boyfriend's cousin, who lived near S. Thompson Drive, owned me for a few months. My name was "Thumper". She ditched me when she went off to college.

Now, Mom was skeptical of this. Why did Deedee wait for two years before making this claim? But on the other hand, I was very accepting of Deedee even the first time I saw her in our house. And Mom and Dad never told Deedee where I was found. Could the S. Thompson location be a coincidence?

I can't say. But here's a hint: I've always thumped my tail a lot.

Coonhound and macaroni dream

2004-09-12T10:14:00.000-05:00

I'm a well-rested dog. I need a lot of sleep to keep my high energy level and swimming ability. Not to mention my good looks.

When I sleep, I sometimes dream. Mom and Dad tell me that my limbs jerk around as if I'm running, and I woof softly. I'm probably chasing a rabbit or something. But I'm a private dog, and I'd rather not talk about my own dreams. Let me tell you instead about the dream Dad had last night.

Dad was cycling in the neighborhood around dinnertime, and stopped and got talking to some new neighbors. They invited him in, and he watched them make macaroni and cheese. This was not the kind of macaroni and cheese that comes out of a box. They had boiled the noodles and were stirring in chunks of real cheese. Mmmmmm. There were enough noodles for five families, and it was a lot of work stirring them all. Dad noticed that they weren't using enough cheese. I'll have to have a few words with them if I ever meet them: More cheese, please.

They offered some macaroni to Dad, but he said no thanks. He wanted to finish his bike ride before it got dark. Dad, you are an idiot. How many times to I have to tell you: When someone offers you food, take it. If they don't offer it, take it anyway. Sheesh.

In addition to being friendly, the neighbors also had an ulterior motive for asking Dad in: they wanted him to talk their son out of his latest crazy scheme. He wanted to go door-to-door, collecting pledges for him to do a school assignment. If he got the report written and handed in on time, they'd pay up. Dad tried to explain that people just didn't do that sort of thing, so the boy changed his plan so the pledges would go toward the kid grooming his coonhound.

Now, I think that's an abomination. Dogs should not be forced to suffer the humiliation of grooming. I've learned to put up with Mom "stripping" me with that special brush, but that doesn't mean I like it. What's really ironic is that no one in his right mind grooms a coonhound. Except Mom. She grooms Juno just because Juno likes the attention. Juno's hair is so short that it doesn't really need it. I told you that my sister was stupid.

Dad had a tougher time with this idea. After all, the kid said, people make pledges toward the Dog Jog, which benefits dogs. Why need make pledges toward benefitting a kid's coondog? Dad was eying those noodles, and apparently forgot about coonhounds not needing grooming. Finally the macaroni won, and Dad accepted the next offer of the cheese-covered noodles.

But just when Dad was going to start to eat, a stranger drove up in a pickup truck with a big bear in the back. Everyone was scared of the bear. Of course, if I had been there, I wouldn't have been scared. But then the guy pulled a rifle out of his truck and started shooting people. The noise made Dad wake up.

I'm a brave dog, but even I would have been scared of the rifle. When Mom and Dad first got me, I was really afraid of gunshots and fireworks. I even got nervous in thunderstorms. I'm over that now. But I still prefer to do my hunting alone, without a gun. And without a human hunter.

And Dad, I feel that somehow the whole bear and rifle thing could have been avoided if you'd just accepted that first plate of macaroni.

Photo album

2004-09-08T20:43:00.000-05:00

My family has a photo album. Naturally, I star in it.

There'd be more pictures of me in it, but I tend to squirm in front of the camera. Vain Juno loves to have her picture taken, because everyone is always saying how beautiful she is. Hmmmph.

There's also a movie of me swimming. But it's a big file (16MB), so don't bother unless you have a high-speed connection, or lots of patience.

Jake

2004-09-07T20:29:00.000-05:00

This is our friend Jake Odell.

I've known Jake for about four years. I wouldn't exactly call him a good friend, because aside from Juno I don't have any close friends. I'm more interested in sniffing, swimming, and eating--not necessarily in that order. But I get along with most dogs. Except for those dogs that have the gall to be bigger than I am. Can you believe the nerve of those dogs? The worst is that Great Dane. He walks past our house being so big and everything--gosh I hate that. And that poodle Rudy, strutting along as if he's the king or something. Sure, he might be a little taller than I am. But I bet I weigh as much--and can swim better, too.

OK, where was I? Oh yes. Jake is bigger than I am, but I'm an hospitable dog, and I'm willing to overlook that. Especially since Jake doesn't prance around as if he owns the place. So, when Jake visited us on Saturday because his Mom Katharine had to go to a play, I ignored him. Except maybe for a polite sniff.

Then the next day, he visited again when his Mom went to a meeting with my Mom and Dad. I dunno what the meeting was about, but usually when they leave for a few hours, Mom and Dad say that the meeting is going to be really boring and I'm lucky I don't have to go. When they come back, they often have a "doggie bag" that they quickly put in the refrigerator before I can get at it. I don't what that's about. I sure hope there isn't a dog in the refrigerator.

Anyway, on Sunday I again politely ignored Jake. And I'm a diplomatic dog, too. When we went walking with Jake when our parents got back, I made sure to sniff the spots that Jake sniffed, to show that I trusted his judgement.

Juno's seizures

2004-09-04T20:22:00.000-05:00

A scary thing happened three days ago: my "sister" Juno had some seizures.

Just before Mom got home from work, Juno started flailing around on the floor. She pooped a lot and peed. When Mom walked in, Juno was still panting hard, trying to recover. Mom knew that something funny was going on but even after she found the big pile of poop, she didn't know what. And I had no way of telling her--not that I understood anyway.

Four hours later, at 9:30pm, it happened again. This time Dad and Mom saw the whole thing. Poor Juno stumbled and fell on her side, and starting jerking around. Then she started paddling her legs as if she were swimming. Silly dog! There's no water in the living room. Juno, I'm a much better swimmer than you--you should leave the swimming to me.

Dad and Mom were kind of freaked out, but they held themselves together pretty well. Dad called Veterinary Emergency Service to let them know we were coming, while Mom consoled Juno, who was conscious and scared. It was over in a few minutes, and shortly after that, Juno felt good enough to walk to the car under her own power.

Juno was the only patient at the emergency clinic. Mom said that it was much better than a human emergency room, and maybe she'll go to the vet clinic next time she gets very sick or hurt.

By the time we got there, Juno was fully recovered. They took blood from Juno, and Dad gave them a piece of paper with $218.00 written on it. Dad said it was the only place he'd seen that ran its business on an iMac.

Later that night, the emergency vet called with the blood test results, which were fine. In fact, our regular vet the next day called them "perfect". The vets said we shouldn't worry about seizures in the future unless they happen more than once a month, or last more than three minutes. Apparently dogs have them pretty often, and if it's an older dog (Juno is about 9) then it's usually not a big deal. But I sure hope I never have any of those seizures.

Things I'm not so fond of

2004-07-28T20:33:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm a pretty good dog, and I don't complain much. Most of my posts have been about stuff that I like. But I don't like everything. For example, I really hate this one Great Dane that walks by my house. I don't know why I hate him. I've never even met him (or her), but I get so angry when that GD GD struts by with his so-called family. I definitely don't like getting my toenails trimmed. I prefer to go au natural and let them grow long. Well, that's enough complaining for right now. Mostly I like things and am a happy dog. /psm

I must surf

2004-07-25T18:15:00.000-05:00

You've heard of my love of swimming. Another favorite pasttime of mine is surfing: countersurfing.

It's not just that I enjoy standing up on my hind legs and scrounging for food on the counter--it's that I must do it. My Mom yells at me, but I take no notice. Her threats have no effect on me. I must sniff around on the counter, even though I rarely find anything. When I do find something to eat, though, you can be sure it's down my gullet faster than you can say Rumplestiltsbone.

It's not as much fun when only Dad is at home. My surfing doesn't seem to bother him as much. What's really no fun at all is when neither of my parents is at home. They think I don't countersurf unless someone is there to watch. Are they right? Well, that's my secret. They may find out, though, if Dad ever gets around to rigging that Webcam in the kitchen.

Walkie-Talkies

2004-07-25T13:27:00.000-05:00

A year or two ago, my Dad got a pair of walkie-talkies when he opened a new bank account. (Rumor has it that he opened the account primarily to get the walkie-talkies.)

At first, it seemed that these GE brand walkie-talkies were of very poor quality. Their range was only about 200 feet. But that turned out to be due to weak batteries. Despite the fact that the battery meter showed they were fully charged, the batteries were in fact not up to snuff. With fresh (and warm) batteries, the walkie-talkies turned out to have a range of about half a mile.

But the question was: what to do with them? The answer was that they turned out to be useful on those occasions when my sister ran away. Of course, a serious dog like myself would never run away. What's that? Oh, I wish you hadn't mentioned that. That was a long time ago.

Mom and Dad take the walkie-talkies to the dog park. When one of us runs away--that is to say, when sister Juno runs away--Mom and Dad coordinate the search via walkie-talkies. They also come in useful when Mom runs ahead. (Dad also runs, but not at dog parks. He believes that running and dog walking are separate activities. I wonder if this is because Juno and I like to stop and sniff every 10 meters?)

Mom just got one of those new radio phones that everyone's talking about. I think they call them sell-you-all phones. Now she can call Dad on her own phone when Juno gets lost and Dad is not at the park with us. Previously, she used to have to borrow a sell-you-all phone from a stranger. Maybe Dad will get one of those phones too, some day. He says he's waiting for the concept to prove itself.

Sticks in the yard

2004-07-24T20:29:00.000-05:00

Over the last year or two, I've developed a real taste for sticks.

Well, actually, the taste for sticks goes back a ways. For years, especially during the winter, I have been amusing myself by chewing on pieces of wood from my toy box. I don't understand why my parents fill up my toy box with crud like Kong toys and special rope that's supposed to floss your teeth as you chew it. It makes it more difficult for me to get at the pieces of wood.

But what I'm referring to here is the big sticks in the yard. These days I'm particularly fond of a 10-foot branch that fell off our silver maple tree a month ago during heavy winds. (There was also a tornado in the neighborhood. Thank goodness it didn't hit our house--it might have sucked all the water out of my pool!)

My favorite activity with sticks in the back yard is chewing off any small nubs that may be sticking out. Even a half-inch nub from a broken-off sub-branch is good enough. The nubs are also good for dragging the branch around the yard. 'Course, only a skilled dog like myself could drag around a 10-foot stick around the yard by a half-inch nub.

True, the nubs are handy for dragging the sticks around. But they must go! Sticks should be perfectly smooth. Any deviations from smoothness will be attacked by me most vigorously. I'll show those German Shepards who's the serious dog around here!

"Wait a minute," says you. "Are they sticks or branches? Seems to me a 10-foot section of wood 3 - 4 inches in diameter ought to be called a branch."

Well, says I, call it what you will. A big, powerful dog like myself will refer to it as merely a stick.

"Big, powerful dog eh?" says you. "What kind of a dog runs away from the stick fearfully when it falls on the ground and bounces?"

Gotta go, says I. I think I hear my mother calling.

Swimming

2004-06-04T19:18:00.000-05:00

I like swimming. I was adopted by Mark and Patty June 4, 1998. It was about mid July when Mom discovered how much I like to swim. It makes them think I might be part Lab. But unlike Labs, who seem to always need to be retrieving something, I'm happy just swimming around in little circles, biting and barking at the water.

Last year Mom and Dad bought me a 16-foot diameter, about 3 feet deep pool for the backyard. It took me until August before I figured out what to do with it. But then, on Aug. 1, 2003, I jumped in and that's all I wanted to do for about two months until it got cold. This year I jumped right in the day after Dad filled it (June 1). It is fun.

I sure wish my sister Juno could have as much fun as I do with the pool. But she is a coonhound and just wants to sniff and chase animals, I guess. /psm

Six years before the couch

2004-06-04T17:20:00.000-05:00

Welcome, all!
Today, June 4, 2004, is my sixth anniversary.
Six years ago today, I was adopted by Patty and Mark.
During that time, I've had my share of adventures
and eaten my share of... well, I won't go into the animal parts, but they were tasty.

And during that six years, I've given a piece of my mind to that horrible mailman. In fact, over the course of roughly 1800 mail delivery days, I've given just about all of my mind to that mailman. Sometimes I regret it; I seem to have a tough time thinking these days. Oh, but it was worth it.

During the upcoming months, I'll be telling you more about my family and the fascinating smells in the backyard.