Putting things into Perspective

FINALLY, after 13 days of confinement, Chica and I have been sprung from the vet’s. We were left to languish in his wire cages because our master and mistress took a trip to New York and Canada. And believe you me, it was no picnic for us dogs.

Not only were we denied the table treats we get at home, we didn’t get our daily walk in the ’hood. When Mary and Lewis finally sprung us last Monday, we were both considerably thinner. And the devil of it is, Mary likes the way we look and is limiting us to what they gave us at Dr. Kothmann’s: a cup of dry food each per day. At least, however, she has been walking us twice a day, due no doubt to her feeling of guilt for having abandoned us for so long.

So what were they doing that justified leaving us in a virtual jail? Attending a celebration of the 200th year of the Fisher Homestead, Lewis’ ancestral home in Fishers, N.Y., and a week later, attending a family wedding in Syracuse. In between the family events, they put in 2,000 miles driving around the Gaspe Peninsula in the province of Quebec.

Now neither my mistress nor my master speak French, but they lost no time picking up words such as homard, meaning lobster. They savored homard more than once, along with cod and another local favorite, sugar pie. Sometimes they stopped at little open air stands to eat sandwiches and honest-to-God made-from-scratch French fries, sprinkled as the locals do with white vinegar. (Lewis never took to the quebequois preference for vinegar and stuck to ketchup; Mary, on the other hand went native.)

The high point of the trip was in Perce, a town at the tip of the peninsula beyond the mouth of the St Lawrence River. The picturesque community has two claims to fame: the Perce Rock and the gannet rookery. The rock has a surreal aspect, standing nearly 300 feet high just offshore. People can walk to it in low tide, but we when they were there the water was deep enough for large boats to circle it.

Perce’s other claim to fame requires a half hour’s boat ride and one-hour hike across Bonaventure Island. The nesting site of hundreds upon hundreds of gannets is an astonishing sight—and sound. The large white birds with funky green-lined feet are beyond noisy as they go about their day building nests, mating, sitting on eggs, flying out and back for food, greeting their returning mates, feeding young and fighting for territory. Observers within touching distance witness their every move.

On their way back from Perce, Mary and Lewis passed on taking a rubber dingy out to hunt whales in the Saguenay River for three hours and instead visited a foie gras farm. There they saw ducks slated to be stuffed so as to enlarge their livers. The owner described a process in which she used a machine to send dried corn kernels directly into the ducks’ stomachs. The machine has a Dr. Seussian appearance, but with a decidedly sinister aspect.

I must say that the idea of being force fed even if it is something to my liking is repugnant. So I’m going to quit complaining about getting a mere cup of food per day and give thanks that Chica and I aren't having ten times that amount jammed down our throats twice a day. It's all a matter of perspective.

Fourth of July Fun

Last Fourth of July, my mistress dressed me in red, white and blue for the Terrell Hills parade. It was kind of a relief this year when she and my master decided not to doll me and Chica up and instead to drive up to our country place. It was hot as Hades, but we loved the novelty of running up and down the dry Hondo Creek bed.

Chica—who is as fast as greased lightning—more than met her match when she came nowhere near catching her first jackrabbit. What she would have done with it is anybody’s guess as it stood way taller than she, not even counting the ears. I didn’t bother to make chase, instead savoring country smells (though the scent of coyote made me nervous enough to stick close to Mary at dusk).

Mary was elated to spot yet another wildflower she hadn’t photographed for the book she is compiling with her granddaughter. Called buttonbush, it looks like a spiky white ball.

After it got dark we enjoyed a dark sky spangled with an explosion of stars more spectacular than a fireworks display. In the past, there have been plenty of fireworks lighting the sky, but this year they were banned. Which suited me and Chica fine as frankly, the sounds and smells of gunpowder offend our canine ears and noses.

Dog Days of Summer--Yuk!

Why do humans use the expression “dog days of summer”? Do they think we like it any more than they do? For weeks, Chica and I have been pent up inside, thanks to heat that has hovered at the 100 degree mark. For the past two nights, we have had no walk at all, since it never cooled off. It was kind of surreal being on the front porch and having no one to bark at; there were simply no passersby.

Things weren’t much better when we went to the country over the weekend. Hondo creek is no longer a creek; it’s a creek bed. Fortunately there was a hint of a breeze at night which, helped by ceiling fans, saved the night. The good news is, my master and mistress are getting an attic fan. So hopefully, it will be more tolerable if they decide to go back upcountry anytime soon.

It’s a good thing Mary started her wildflower photography project last year as now there's hardly anything in bloom, thanks to the drought. But on our way back to town her son Maverick spotted a devil’s bouquet blooming by the side of the road. It’s a spectacular flower and the photo she took will be a nice addition to the Texas wildflower book she and granddaughter Christina are compiling. Given the paucity of blooms, it was a true "dog days of summer" treat.

Meeting of the Minds

Since Chica joined our household, I’ve had less time for deep thoughts. It’s about all I can do to keep up with her puppy antics, which include playing tug of war with my squeaky fox toy, pretending to fight, and slavishly following our mistress about the house and yard (I had outgrown that, having learned that she isn’t about to disappear, but Chica won’t let Mary out of her sight.)

If I were to return to my philosophical musings, I might begin with a recent program on National Public Radio where some English chap came on the air to discuss his new book on the inner workings of dogs’ minds.

Now mind you (pardon the expression) man has been trying to look into the minds of beasts since time out of (pardon again) mind. Dogs’ minds in particular. Until recently the theory of dominance has prevailed. Now comes this new theory that if, for example you let your dog sleep in your bed it won’t make him feel like he is the dominant one in the relationship. Well duh. Of course we know humans are in the driver’s seat, if for no other reason than they are the ones who feed us.

My question is what goes on in the minds of humans? Why, for example, does my mistress persist in trying to train Chica to do her business outside, when it is perfectly obvious that Chica will always go wherever she happens to be when the urge strikes. Two vets have told her that if a pup isn’t trained after three months (Chica is nine) it’s probably not going to happen. Yet Mary persists. Apparently the concept of hope looms larger in the human than the canine mind.

I could also ask why my master and mistress took us to Tarpley this weekend in the 90 degree plus weather. It was absolutely beastly and the creeks are down to a trickle. We took an early evening walk but even then we had our tongues hanging out. Meanwhile, Mary’s walking group has disbanded for the summer due to the heat. Hopefully they will regroup in fall and walk weekly until it gets too cold. These ladies are fair weather walkers for sure. And I must admit that I am of one mind with them on that.

Of Play and Plovers

My, how time does fly. It’s been roughly a month since I last wrote. And if, as they say, a dog year equal seven human ones, that means it’s been more than half a year. For me, though it has gone by in a flash. That’s because I’m having so much fun with Chica.

Before she came I used to lie under the covers all morning before rising, eating and going back to bed. I was just sleeping my life away. Now I’m up as soon as my mistress gets out of bed, usually around 7:30. Chica is still in that stage where she can’t bear to have Mary out of her sight, so she follows Mary. And I follow Chica.

Mary puts us outside immediately, since she is trying to train Chica to do her business there. The housetraining regimen has not been altogether successful. I am of course an excellent role model in this respect, but sometimes Chica blows it indoors. I do hope she learns. Two vets have told Mary that since Chica is more than three months old, it may not be possible to train her. One of them added, “Aren’t you glad she weighs only five pounds?” This is cold comfort, however when one steps on a nasty in the night.

We have continued to go to the country on weekends despite the drought and worsening heat. Last week we saw a clutch of plover eggs in a little depression next to Hondo Creek. Also called killdeer because that’s what their call sounds like (to a human anyway), the lazy things lay their eggs directly on the ground. We saw a killdeer pretending to have a broken wing and, on to their strategem, we didn’t let her lead us away. Instead we searched the immediate area and lo! there they were, all splotchy on top so as to blend in.

The creek below was hardly flowing and one of the tanks at the back of the place has completely dried up, but if the killdeer figure there’s a future for their fledglings then I feel like surely the rains will come. They must.

Fiesta, Flowers and Friendship

What a difference a year makes. This time last year I was making celebrity appearances all over town as a member of the Humane Society’s Rey Fido court. As a duchess I got to wear a fine velvet cape trimmed in (fake) ermine at the doggie coronation.

This Fiesta Week I had fun hanging around home with my young companion, Chica. Between mock battles waged throughout the house, we like to rest up on a huge dog bed passed down to us from Chigurh, my mistress’ son’s Labrador retriever.

As long as the coolish weather holds out, we will be going to the country on weekends. Whenever we go, Mary takes photos of wildflowers. She and granddaughter Christina--who stays at our house every day after school--identified 64 varieties last year. This spring, they have already added a dozen more. After they identify a flower, Christina prints the name to accompany photos pasted in a book they are making.

A recent trophy Mary and Christina are thrilled about is scarlet leather flower, which only grows in a handful of counties in Texas and nowhere else. Another rarity they identified is smoke tree, whose bloom resembles its name. Though not uncommon, one of the most dramatic flowers they added this year is antelope horn.

On a personal note, today Dr. Kothmann removed the stitches from Chica’s abdominal incision. She will never be a mother now, but hopefully she will someday meet a dog that becomes as much a daughter to her as she is to me.

Fountain hit. Again.

There was a little excitement last Wednesday when one of the walkers, Olmos Park Mayor Susan Gragg, received a call just as we set off. It seems that someone had run into the fountain. Again.

The Spanish style fountain, which sits in the center of a roundabout on the town’s business district, has been the target of drunk drivers ever since it’s installation. Of course the ladies wanted to see the damage, so that determined the route of our walk.

When we got there, several policemen were inspecting the damage. A bollard that protects it was sheared off, but the fountain itself was intact. Later, we heard on the local TV news that the City of Olmos Park is offering a $1,000 reward for information leading to identification of the driver.

Who knows what excitement awaits the Wednesday Walkie Talkies—and Barkies—this week?