Béla recently completed her 3rd dog course. She has yet another diploma, and has won yet another end-of-class challenge. The first challenge she won was a Sit-off. This was was a freaking obstacle course, WITH various focusing tasks thrown in! Nothing can shake her.
The class she just finished was coined 'Middle Management', a class designed for dogs that are young, in between 1-3 years, basically suffering from the 'Terrible Two's'....
The first class I enrolled her in was the highly-suggested Beginning Behavior course, located in the adoption center she hailed from. The second class, Agility - was also highly suggested, per people at various dog parks who witnessed her flying through the air.
*I would like to note that the wonder of those who have seen her fly is...er, noteable. One guy filmed her on his phone, from afar - and then told me he was going to play it off as his own dog!
Enrolling her is always exciting, as I cannot know what behaviors will come out or what useful information we'll leave with.
Attending class with her in the classes is always heart-stopping. I'm nervous, for both her and myself. I would like to come off looking smooth and suave as a parent/trainer, and I'd like her to look calm and accomplished.
I wonder how she feels when we jump in our jank car, heading somewhere other than an open green space. Does she think, 'Aw, mom, do we have to?', or is she happy to socialize and showcase her abilities?
As a youngster who was forced into some classes and begged herself into others, I am no stranger to the classroom. In my childhood, my mother enrolled me into the following classes/clubs:
Karate
Cooking
Swimming
Gymnastics
Ballet...& Tap...& Jazz
4-H
Sign Language
Brownies -- into Girl Scouts -- into, yes -- Junior Girl Scouts. (That sash was FULL when my time there ended.)
Obviously, one or two of those sucked more than the others. The swimming thing didn't take. The whole hanging with livestock thing is but a bad memory. But my mom made sure I knew...if I wanted to do the good stuff, I had to put my time in with the geek stuff as well. No dance if I didn't go to 4-H that week. So every Wednesday, I pledged my hands to greater service, my heart to greater loyalty (oh God!, it's all coming back!).............so that I could shake it on the subsequent Monday and Tuesday.
I have enrolled Bela into the classes for the same reasons I believe my mom enrolled me.
I want her life to be so big! I want her to encounter so many different people [dogs], situations, places and things! I want her head to spin with the variety and spice of life!
While the classes are costly and time, too, is not free - I will continue to enroll her in various courses, over the years. I may have her dabble in dock-diving (I swear she would be so good!), try her hand at Tricks 101 and...maybe even take a paw-painting class.
(I'm kidding on that last one. I don't think such a class exists. If it does - people are more whacked than I thought.)
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Memento
Fall has ended; my dog-walking gear must change. The vest I have used so routinely certainly looks more abused than used. All three zippers are broken. It's stained. And it never really fit that beautifully in the first place. I should toss it, I say to myself. Don't be a hoarder.
But as I prepare to throw the mustard-brown vest away, I pause. The pocket conjures up more than pockets usually can. I recall the day I found the pocket dripping onto the hardwood floor. It was a steady drip, rather quick. I was perplexed. How on earth did a section of my jacket get soaked without my knowledge?
And then I realized...Béla and I had been out a little before, and I had her "obey-me" treats in that there pocket. It was saliva-soaked.
Once I understood the substance, I was even more in shock! How could she have lost THAT MUCH saliva, sucking on my pocket? How long had that taken her? How did I not notice her, standing near the kitchen chair, oddly still, eyes glossed over, like a child sucking its thumb?
"Gross", I exclaimed! "Béla!"
I checked the pocket. The once hard, crusty dog cookies resembled crumbs of biscotti, after the coffee. I couldn't even feed them to her. (As if I should have!...rewarded such behavior!?) But I wanted to feed them to her, for sure. For all of her hard work. For really loving food, the way I do. I get it. I have eaten a piece of cake that I had thrown in the garbage. We are but one, I said to her, lovingly. (And...actually...she was less savage in her endeavor. She was simply trying to get a cookie out of a pocket -- not a piece of cake out of a garbage can. Oh - and also, she is A DOG...)
Reminiscing, I hold the jacket close. So many walks with her in this! So many treats dispensed from these [now dry] pockets! Fully-equipped with two outer, zippered pockets and even an inner, perfect for holding all the needed items: keys, phone, poop bags, treats. I admit, I also liked the way the color was similar to that of her fur. We looked like we belonged together.
I am paralyzed in my attempt to put the vest in the garbage. I liken it to a baby blanket. An item that recalls a soul. A token that reeks of love. I'm not sure what to do with it. I might up-and-toss it, in an effort to 'own less, live more' or some bullshit theory like that... I might cut out a swatch and put it in my jewelry box, for the day that she comes sweeping back to me, in a wave of recollection, while attempting to adorn myself. I might just hang it back up in my closet, tattered and torn, filthy and worn....so that every single time I put it on in the future, the past is with me as well.
But as I prepare to throw the mustard-brown vest away, I pause. The pocket conjures up more than pockets usually can. I recall the day I found the pocket dripping onto the hardwood floor. It was a steady drip, rather quick. I was perplexed. How on earth did a section of my jacket get soaked without my knowledge?
And then I realized...Béla and I had been out a little before, and I had her "obey-me" treats in that there pocket. It was saliva-soaked.
Once I understood the substance, I was even more in shock! How could she have lost THAT MUCH saliva, sucking on my pocket? How long had that taken her? How did I not notice her, standing near the kitchen chair, oddly still, eyes glossed over, like a child sucking its thumb?
"Gross", I exclaimed! "Béla!"
I checked the pocket. The once hard, crusty dog cookies resembled crumbs of biscotti, after the coffee. I couldn't even feed them to her. (As if I should have!...rewarded such behavior!?) But I wanted to feed them to her, for sure. For all of her hard work. For really loving food, the way I do. I get it. I have eaten a piece of cake that I had thrown in the garbage. We are but one, I said to her, lovingly. (And...actually...she was less savage in her endeavor. She was simply trying to get a cookie out of a pocket -- not a piece of cake out of a garbage can. Oh - and also, she is A DOG...)
Reminiscing, I hold the jacket close. So many walks with her in this! So many treats dispensed from these [now dry] pockets! Fully-equipped with two outer, zippered pockets and even an inner, perfect for holding all the needed items: keys, phone, poop bags, treats. I admit, I also liked the way the color was similar to that of her fur. We looked like we belonged together.
I am paralyzed in my attempt to put the vest in the garbage. I liken it to a baby blanket. An item that recalls a soul. A token that reeks of love. I'm not sure what to do with it. I might up-and-toss it, in an effort to 'own less, live more' or some bullshit theory like that... I might cut out a swatch and put it in my jewelry box, for the day that she comes sweeping back to me, in a wave of recollection, while attempting to adorn myself. I might just hang it back up in my closet, tattered and torn, filthy and worn....so that every single time I put it on in the future, the past is with me as well.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
En Route: Walk This Way
I've always been one for walks. I grew up in the country, where walking the dead-end road after school was really, my main pastime.
Walking in the city involves many more diversions, turns and possibility. I like to let whimsy guide me, the route varying according to the fickleness of my feet.
Acquiring a dog only made my walks more pleasant - albeit a little more frequent, a little longer & sometimes entirely dependent upon a need to defecate.
I imagined that Bela and I would amble along, appreciating sights and sounds, never knowing where our path might take us.
Not the case.
They were not kidding when they said dogs are creatures of habit. For the route (different routes according to time of day) must remain the same...or my four-legged friend just won't go.
In general, I honor this apparent need of hers. But every now and then, I'll see something that urges me to deviate from our normal route.
That man lurking next to a tree 1/2 a block up? We're turning left here, missy. An actual barricade - like streetwork? We're detouring, just like the sign tells us to, sweetheart.
I admit that occasionally, I try to re-route her due to a selfish desire. Bela! -- there appears to be the loveliest tree up ahead on the right....can't we go see it?
She simply cannot oblige.
If you try to move her in the 'wrong' direction, her anger emerges in the form of a standoff.
"Hey....walk this way, Béla", I say.
No -- THIS way, Kelly, she replies, her head held high.
While I can often alter her stubborn stance with a bribe (i.e. liver chews), for the most part, I give in.
I put the treat back in my pocket, shake my head in wonder and affection, and continue down the path she has chosen.
Walking in the city involves many more diversions, turns and possibility. I like to let whimsy guide me, the route varying according to the fickleness of my feet.
Acquiring a dog only made my walks more pleasant - albeit a little more frequent, a little longer & sometimes entirely dependent upon a need to defecate.
I imagined that Bela and I would amble along, appreciating sights and sounds, never knowing where our path might take us.
Not the case.
They were not kidding when they said dogs are creatures of habit. For the route (different routes according to time of day) must remain the same...or my four-legged friend just won't go.
In general, I honor this apparent need of hers. But every now and then, I'll see something that urges me to deviate from our normal route.
That man lurking next to a tree 1/2 a block up? We're turning left here, missy. An actual barricade - like streetwork? We're detouring, just like the sign tells us to, sweetheart.
I admit that occasionally, I try to re-route her due to a selfish desire. Bela! -- there appears to be the loveliest tree up ahead on the right....can't we go see it?
She simply cannot oblige.
If you try to move her in the 'wrong' direction, her anger emerges in the form of a standoff.
"Hey....walk this way, Béla", I say.
No -- THIS way, Kelly, she replies, her head held high.
While I can often alter her stubborn stance with a bribe (i.e. liver chews), for the most part, I give in.
I put the treat back in my pocket, shake my head in wonder and affection, and continue down the path she has chosen.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Heartlove Deary Emma Puffy: The story of her name.
Naming Bela was a process.
We went back and forth, round and round, tossing names out that the other would almost immediately denounce. Occasionally, we'd think on one, bounce it around...and then denounce it.
There were three main categories from which to work. 'Dog' names, human names appropriate for dogs, and then straight up human names.
We didn't like the dog names, in general. Spot, Blackie, Lucky (notice that most dog names are little more than adjectives). We actually toyed with the name Katherine for a bit. We would obviously have done this for our amusement only. Just think of it. Someone comes up to you on the street. 'What is your dog's name?' 'Katherine', we'd reply. We'd yell at her from across the park. We'd need to get her attention on a walk. "Katherine!-- "Katherine, come! Sit! Beg!"
We got my niece Olivia involved. 4-year-olds can have great clarity at times, in matters like these.
I told my sister to ask Olivia for a couple of suggestions.
Roughly five minutes went by from the time of request.
Then the text message came in:
Heartlove Deary Emma Puffy
Heartlove made a showing, but at the end of the day, we chose a human name that could work for a dog.
Béla. Hungarian. Meaning: Bright. Pronunciation: Bay-law.
I had heard of the name before in reference to Béla Fleck and the Flecktones, a band whose name I knew, but whose music I did not. I imagined Béla to be quite the woman, a statuesque African-American with her buzzing Flecktones working for her in the background. I later found out that Béla Fleck is a man. A white man.
Béla is traditionally a man's name. Had I recalled the 1984 Olympics (Mary Lou Retton's coach!), I would have been clearer on this. Remembering that Dracula was a Béla would have also helped.
Never the matter.
I heard a man (whose accent intimated that he may be closer to the origin of the name than myself) reprimanding his Béla (presumably a male) one day in the park.
BELAW!!, he bellowed!, BELAW!! -- while tapping his dog quite forcefully between the shoulder blades. The German Shepherd kept his head down, cowering.
Though this Béla's breed has always been my least favorite, that day I felt a sadness for the wiry-haired beast. He seemed to be ruled by this larger beast. And not in the most loving way.
Mike and I say her name a little more softly. Our pronunciation is without the W on the end. Bay-la, we say. Bela, we spell. (Usually without the accent, but we have recently mastered the alt+0233, so you'll be seeing the accent much more.) Not many grasp her name, though. Nearly everyone calls her Bella. Even close friends seem exasperated when I try to correct them. Her name is not Bella; it is Béla. It has an accent and one less L. It is deliberate in its difference.
When someone does recognize her name, I swell with pride.
I took her to to get her paws done recently, and the groomer asked her name.
"Bay-la", I sounded out.
"Oh! -- a beautiful Hungarian name", she replied.
I doubled her tip.
We went back and forth, round and round, tossing names out that the other would almost immediately denounce. Occasionally, we'd think on one, bounce it around...and then denounce it.
There were three main categories from which to work. 'Dog' names, human names appropriate for dogs, and then straight up human names.
We didn't like the dog names, in general. Spot, Blackie, Lucky (notice that most dog names are little more than adjectives). We actually toyed with the name Katherine for a bit. We would obviously have done this for our amusement only. Just think of it. Someone comes up to you on the street. 'What is your dog's name?' 'Katherine', we'd reply. We'd yell at her from across the park. We'd need to get her attention on a walk. "Katherine!-- "Katherine, come! Sit! Beg!"
We got my niece Olivia involved. 4-year-olds can have great clarity at times, in matters like these.
I told my sister to ask Olivia for a couple of suggestions.
Roughly five minutes went by from the time of request.
Then the text message came in:
Heartlove Deary Emma Puffy
Heartlove made a showing, but at the end of the day, we chose a human name that could work for a dog.
Béla. Hungarian. Meaning: Bright. Pronunciation: Bay-law.
I had heard of the name before in reference to Béla Fleck and the Flecktones, a band whose name I knew, but whose music I did not. I imagined Béla to be quite the woman, a statuesque African-American with her buzzing Flecktones working for her in the background. I later found out that Béla Fleck is a man. A white man.
Béla is traditionally a man's name. Had I recalled the 1984 Olympics (Mary Lou Retton's coach!), I would have been clearer on this. Remembering that Dracula was a Béla would have also helped.
Never the matter.
I heard a man (whose accent intimated that he may be closer to the origin of the name than myself) reprimanding his Béla (presumably a male) one day in the park.
BELAW!!, he bellowed!, BELAW!! -- while tapping his dog quite forcefully between the shoulder blades. The German Shepherd kept his head down, cowering.
Though this Béla's breed has always been my least favorite, that day I felt a sadness for the wiry-haired beast. He seemed to be ruled by this larger beast. And not in the most loving way.
Mike and I say her name a little more softly. Our pronunciation is without the W on the end. Bay-la, we say. Bela, we spell. (Usually without the accent, but we have recently mastered the alt+0233, so you'll be seeing the accent much more.) Not many grasp her name, though. Nearly everyone calls her Bella. Even close friends seem exasperated when I try to correct them. Her name is not Bella; it is Béla. It has an accent and one less L. It is deliberate in its difference.
When someone does recognize her name, I swell with pride.
I took her to to get her paws done recently, and the groomer asked her name.
"Bay-la", I sounded out.
"Oh! -- a beautiful Hungarian name", she replied.
I doubled her tip.
Friday, October 14, 2011
A Flirtation with Destruction
Bela was a perfect roomate from day one. She didn't have 'accidents' inside. She didn't try to sneak food, but rather sprang onto her ass when she saw you had something to eat, in hopes her good behavior would lead to you sharing it with her. She didn't disturb the home during the day and she slept through the night.
About two weeks in, she went ballistic.
She started by stealing 5 frozen sausages. (Which put her in real danger of maintaining Mike's affection - since sausage is one of his most revered foods.) She destroyed four pair of shoes. She opened and inhaled an entire container of espresso grounds (and then, thankfully - threw them right back up). She tore open a box of tea and sucked on the teabags. (Yes, I see she may have a problem with caffeine). She ripped up an antique Italian dictionary. She ate all 4 corners of a wooden prayer plaque -- The Serenity Prayer. (The very thing we are seeking - we often do not see right in front of us.) The picture above was taken on her final day of destruction.
We threw her in a crate. We crate-'trained' (is it training or just a padded jail cell?) for about two weeks. We hated the idea of her held up like that. Every time we left the house and shut her in it, we were filled with anguish.
We only kept her in there solidly for about seven days.
For the next seven, we did test runs. No crate use when we were leaving for short periods of time.
She succeeded! Day after day, we found nothing displaced.
So we freed the beast.
And she has been near angelic.
That said...every now and then...she will threaten us.
If we up-and-leave during a Bela-designated time (I swear, she knows the times that we don't have to be at work-- these being nights and weekends), she'll take items from throughout the house and place them in her domain, on her carpet. One shoe. A lid from a Rubbermaid container. Whatever the object be -- it is a token, a physical representation of her statement: "I will not be ignored".
Her threats work. We stay home, if not both of us, then at least one - most every single weeknight. Weekends we are less stringent, but like to keep her alone time to a bare minimum.
We didn't get a dog to see her when we occasionally stop by the house to change clothes. She keeps us grounded, aknowledging that time spent with family is well spent. And as long as we continue to acknowledge that, she'll keep our material possessions intact.
About two weeks in, she went ballistic.
We threw her in a crate. We crate-'trained' (is it training or just a padded jail cell?) for about two weeks. We hated the idea of her held up like that. Every time we left the house and shut her in it, we were filled with anguish.
We only kept her in there solidly for about seven days.
For the next seven, we did test runs. No crate use when we were leaving for short periods of time.
She succeeded! Day after day, we found nothing displaced.
So we freed the beast.
And she has been near angelic.
That said...every now and then...she will threaten us.
If we up-and-leave during a Bela-designated time (I swear, she knows the times that we don't have to be at work-- these being nights and weekends), she'll take items from throughout the house and place them in her domain, on her carpet. One shoe. A lid from a Rubbermaid container. Whatever the object be -- it is a token, a physical representation of her statement: "I will not be ignored".
Her threats work. We stay home, if not both of us, then at least one - most every single weeknight. Weekends we are less stringent, but like to keep her alone time to a bare minimum.
We didn't get a dog to see her when we occasionally stop by the house to change clothes. She keeps us grounded, aknowledging that time spent with family is well spent. And as long as we continue to acknowledge that, she'll keep our material possessions intact.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Bela's Bestie.
A couple of weeks ago, a new dog moved in upstairs. Charlie, the black labradoodle. You wouldn't know he was a puppy by his size, as he is almost as big as Bela, and soon to be likely two of her. Bela hadn't had any real friends prior to this. She generally prefers human companions to canine. We've seen her 'playfight' with another dog on maybe two occasions over the past year.
But we forced Charlie onto Bela, and then Charlie forced himself into her heart. We did the introductions, made some park trips together, urging her to give it a go. She didn't bite. For a good bit, Bela seemed pretty ticked that she was the object of his affections.
Then the match struck. And the games began.
Now, if she so much as hears his paws paddling down the stairs or his name being called, she runs to the door and sits, like a lady in waiting. Sometimes, when we come in from a walk, she goes to his apartment instead of ours. We've been told he does the same.
Be it love or friendship or one in the same, we are so pleased. She has a playmate! She's knocking him down, gnawing on his ears, and baring her teeth in happiness. Mike and I aren't quite used to it yet...her acting 'normal' and all... We stare, open-mouthed, constantly urging the other to "look at this!!"
When the rain flew in last week and her park outings were kept to a bare minimum, we invited Charlie down to our place. A couple of hours in their fight ring (our one & only carpet) and she is ready to sleep through the night. She's usually covered in spit when he goes, but don't they say that when a girl is in love, she glows?
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
The Great Escape [Artist]
Bela revealed that she was hard to contain early in the game.
Mike had her in his mom's yard one afternoon, when he noticed she wasn't consistently present.
She was coming and going from...somewhere.
He found that she was quietly slipping out of the side of the fence, running around back by the train tracks (I do love that calming image...my dog trotting over train tracks, oblivious to anything but small mammals), and then coming back into the yard when she was done exploring. Wash, rinse, repeat.
There were bolder escapes as well. To be honest, probably one or two more than I can remember. (The brain will often turn off that which it doesn't want to recall.)
There are a couple that stand out, burned into my memory.
The horror of standing in the [Chicago Archdiocese] Cardinal's yard, watching Bela run 360's around the joint. Each second was what I thought could have been the last second before the second that I never saw her again. My head spun in circles, watching my dog mock my human desire to capture her.
The worst (can we really rate her runaways? yes, I think we can) was in Beverly. It was Thanksgiving Day. We took her to a lovely park and brought the ball out. She was into it. Oh, yes. And then...gone. In a flash. The residents of the house across the street from the park were outside. When they saw my god-awful expression and painful attempt to sprint, they yelled, "What's wrong?" -- "Our dog!", I exclaimed!
By the time I turned the corner - the one that Bela had turned a good 30 seconds before me (a LOT of time when you're talking about sprinting) and Mike a good 20 seconds (still a LOT of time when you're talking about sprinting), some other residents yelled the same inquiry, to which I responded the same.
They took no time messing around. They jumped in their van and headed down the street after my slow ass. Right before she hit 99th St. (a street with enough traffic to stop her, if you catch my drift), something happened. (God?) She turned. We threw her ball up in the air and the yellow caught her eye. We got her.
Mike and I were wheezing for a good two hours after the occurence. My legs shook for about 30 minutes (from a combination of fear and running faster than I am capable of running). Bela, on the other hand, was pleased as punch. She'd had a great little hunting escapade!
After a couple of brushes with Bela's boisterousness, I could barely take her to the park. I was paralyzed with fear. I was considering keeping her held up in the house, allowing her muscles to atrophy, running free no more. But I knew. Without her exercise, she's a miserable, miserable dog.
And we have been blessed with many months without an episode.
But recently, she has taken to running again. 3 escapes in 3 days. A terrifying percent of possibility of loss.
What is she escaping from? We don't think it's us. She seems to genuinely like us. I suppose she's escaping from captivity. She plans to return, but on her own terms and after she's done what she'd like to do. She needs wide open spaces.
I think the truth is that she's not escaping at all. She's a dog. She hears the call of the wild.
For now, we're avoiding parks with lots of trees (i.e. squirrels) and watching her like a hawk. (If you see her cock her head to the side, MOVE IN.) We give her treats every couple throws, to reinforce that it pays to return to us. I've enrolled her in another behavior class, to learn ways we can keep her tuned into us and only us.
Because she'll take a chance on a squirrel -- any one...but she's far too important for us to take chances on.
Mike had her in his mom's yard one afternoon, when he noticed she wasn't consistently present.
She was coming and going from...somewhere.
He found that she was quietly slipping out of the side of the fence, running around back by the train tracks (I do love that calming image...my dog trotting over train tracks, oblivious to anything but small mammals), and then coming back into the yard when she was done exploring. Wash, rinse, repeat.
There were bolder escapes as well. To be honest, probably one or two more than I can remember. (The brain will often turn off that which it doesn't want to recall.)
There are a couple that stand out, burned into my memory.
The horror of standing in the [Chicago Archdiocese] Cardinal's yard, watching Bela run 360's around the joint. Each second was what I thought could have been the last second before the second that I never saw her again. My head spun in circles, watching my dog mock my human desire to capture her.
The worst (can we really rate her runaways? yes, I think we can) was in Beverly. It was Thanksgiving Day. We took her to a lovely park and brought the ball out. She was into it. Oh, yes. And then...gone. In a flash. The residents of the house across the street from the park were outside. When they saw my god-awful expression and painful attempt to sprint, they yelled, "What's wrong?" -- "Our dog!", I exclaimed!
By the time I turned the corner - the one that Bela had turned a good 30 seconds before me (a LOT of time when you're talking about sprinting) and Mike a good 20 seconds (still a LOT of time when you're talking about sprinting), some other residents yelled the same inquiry, to which I responded the same.
They took no time messing around. They jumped in their van and headed down the street after my slow ass. Right before she hit 99th St. (a street with enough traffic to stop her, if you catch my drift), something happened. (God?) She turned. We threw her ball up in the air and the yellow caught her eye. We got her.
Mike and I were wheezing for a good two hours after the occurence. My legs shook for about 30 minutes (from a combination of fear and running faster than I am capable of running). Bela, on the other hand, was pleased as punch. She'd had a great little hunting escapade!
After a couple of brushes with Bela's boisterousness, I could barely take her to the park. I was paralyzed with fear. I was considering keeping her held up in the house, allowing her muscles to atrophy, running free no more. But I knew. Without her exercise, she's a miserable, miserable dog.
And we have been blessed with many months without an episode.
But recently, she has taken to running again. 3 escapes in 3 days. A terrifying percent of possibility of loss.
What is she escaping from? We don't think it's us. She seems to genuinely like us. I suppose she's escaping from captivity. She plans to return, but on her own terms and after she's done what she'd like to do. She needs wide open spaces.
I think the truth is that she's not escaping at all. She's a dog. She hears the call of the wild.
For now, we're avoiding parks with lots of trees (i.e. squirrels) and watching her like a hawk. (If you see her cock her head to the side, MOVE IN.) We give her treats every couple throws, to reinforce that it pays to return to us. I've enrolled her in another behavior class, to learn ways we can keep her tuned into us and only us.
Because she'll take a chance on a squirrel -- any one...but she's far too important for us to take chances on.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Riding in Cars with Bela
It became apparent soon after Bela's adoption that we would need a way to get her around. It became apparent, really, the day we needed to pick her up. They arrange it so that the dogs leaving the shelter have their neutering surgery the morning of. As not all taxis allow dogs, and buses certainly do not --there was no other way to transport her, save our feet and her feet, walking in conjuction down a sidewalk.
This was not a possibility that day, as I knew she would be drugged beyond belief. So I frantically searched for a way to get her home. A 'Dog Taxi' came to the rescue. The genius (or rather, guy with a van) behind this company took my request for a pick-up over the internet, called me to confirm, and showed up at the shelter, waiting for Mike to exit with our new dog.
Soon after, we bought Bela a car.
Now, I had not owned a dog or a car prior to this, so I was a bit out of my comfort zone. But we quickly navigated craigslist, found a 19-year-old white Volvo (I've always loved their boxiness!), and slapped down $1100 for it.
It is as unreliable as they come. It's been towed off the Dan Ryan Expressway from the middle lane --of FIVE -- IN TRAFFIC -- twice. It makes a constant whistling sound. Being whistled at by a person can be annoying. Being whistled at by your car will make you down right uneasy.
The car is almost strictly for Bela-centered activity. We rarely take it out for our own devices or pleasures.
It is for trips to the dog beach, the 44-acre dog park in Lake Forest, city parks outside of walking distance, and destination trips. Where we go, she goes!
She likes to ride with her two backfeet on the backseat, the two front on the center console, and her face in between our faces. She will occasionally rest her chin on Mike's extended right arm. When we reach a speed above 60 miles per hour, she climbs down onto the floor behind the seats, curls into a ball and lets the vibrations lull her to sleep, just like a baby.
Today marks one year of car ownership. The now 20-year-old machine dies roughly every 3 uses, and has no radio or cupholders, but I'll be damned if it hasn't given us some great car rides with B.
This was not a possibility that day, as I knew she would be drugged beyond belief. So I frantically searched for a way to get her home. A 'Dog Taxi' came to the rescue. The genius (or rather, guy with a van) behind this company took my request for a pick-up over the internet, called me to confirm, and showed up at the shelter, waiting for Mike to exit with our new dog.
Soon after, we bought Bela a car.
Now, I had not owned a dog or a car prior to this, so I was a bit out of my comfort zone. But we quickly navigated craigslist, found a 19-year-old white Volvo (I've always loved their boxiness!), and slapped down $1100 for it.
It is as unreliable as they come. It's been towed off the Dan Ryan Expressway from the middle lane --of FIVE -- IN TRAFFIC -- twice. It makes a constant whistling sound. Being whistled at by a person can be annoying. Being whistled at by your car will make you down right uneasy.
The car is almost strictly for Bela-centered activity. We rarely take it out for our own devices or pleasures.
It is for trips to the dog beach, the 44-acre dog park in Lake Forest, city parks outside of walking distance, and destination trips. Where we go, she goes!
She likes to ride with her two backfeet on the backseat, the two front on the center console, and her face in between our faces. She will occasionally rest her chin on Mike's extended right arm. When we reach a speed above 60 miles per hour, she climbs down onto the floor behind the seats, curls into a ball and lets the vibrations lull her to sleep, just like a baby.
Today marks one year of car ownership. The now 20-year-old machine dies roughly every 3 uses, and has no radio or cupholders, but I'll be damned if it hasn't given us some great car rides with B.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Hair Files
Bela's hair was the first thing that jumped out at me upon meeting her. Literally.
Mike and I were covered in it within seconds. She was jumping all over us, lovingly...wanting us to get to know her. We know her quite well now, but that loving jumping has never decreased, so neither has the hair.
I have two lint rollers (one without scent, one with the scent of Bounce, which means not only can I wear recently hair-covered clothes, but dirty ones at that). I have a broom and dustpan that likely consider themselves overworked and underpaid.
The comforter cover, which used to be what one could call a 'midnight' shade of blue, is now what a linen store would deem a heathered blue. The tumbleweeds that roll through our house look like no one has tended to the floor in months.
I find her hair in my hair sometimes. In my purse. In my shoes.
Mike and I traveled to California last year, only 2 months after adopting her. We were sitting at the top of a rocky cliff, looking over the water when he pulled off his shoe and found it full of her hair. He moved the strands through his fingers, and sent them off into the air. "And now it's like she's here with us", he said.
Though some may find a stray dog hair disgusting, or uncouth - I also see it as a token of her presence. There's a Bela hair? Oh, how nice, that she can be with me in the office today! What, another? Fantastic, that she was able to make this trip to the grocery store with me!
One day, we pulled up to a party. We were about to leave the car, when I looked into the rearview mirror to find a piece of cilantro wedged between my tight little teeth. I didn't initially panic, as I am a bit of a floss nut, and usually have a travel size with me in most bags.
But the bag I had that day was unequipped. I worked on the wedged cilantro with a fingernail, to no avail. I tried to push it in deeper with my tongue, so as to leave it still in place, but hidden to the partygoers. Nothing. I was about to head in to a meet-and-greet with a large herb in the forefront of my mouth.
I looked around the camel-colored car. Nestled into the upholstery were hundreds, if not thousands, of pieces of Bela's hair.
Let's just say that her hair found a new use that day....and that when I walked into that party, I was smiling brightly.
Mike and I were covered in it within seconds. She was jumping all over us, lovingly...wanting us to get to know her. We know her quite well now, but that loving jumping has never decreased, so neither has the hair.
I have two lint rollers (one without scent, one with the scent of Bounce, which means not only can I wear recently hair-covered clothes, but dirty ones at that). I have a broom and dustpan that likely consider themselves overworked and underpaid.
The comforter cover, which used to be what one could call a 'midnight' shade of blue, is now what a linen store would deem a heathered blue. The tumbleweeds that roll through our house look like no one has tended to the floor in months.
I find her hair in my hair sometimes. In my purse. In my shoes.
Mike and I traveled to California last year, only 2 months after adopting her. We were sitting at the top of a rocky cliff, looking over the water when he pulled off his shoe and found it full of her hair. He moved the strands through his fingers, and sent them off into the air. "And now it's like she's here with us", he said.
Though some may find a stray dog hair disgusting, or uncouth - I also see it as a token of her presence. There's a Bela hair? Oh, how nice, that she can be with me in the office today! What, another? Fantastic, that she was able to make this trip to the grocery store with me!
One day, we pulled up to a party. We were about to leave the car, when I looked into the rearview mirror to find a piece of cilantro wedged between my tight little teeth. I didn't initially panic, as I am a bit of a floss nut, and usually have a travel size with me in most bags.
But the bag I had that day was unequipped. I worked on the wedged cilantro with a fingernail, to no avail. I tried to push it in deeper with my tongue, so as to leave it still in place, but hidden to the partygoers. Nothing. I was about to head in to a meet-and-greet with a large herb in the forefront of my mouth.
I looked around the camel-colored car. Nestled into the upholstery were hundreds, if not thousands, of pieces of Bela's hair.
Let's just say that her hair found a new use that day....and that when I walked into that party, I was smiling brightly.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Hedonic Rewards
With the ownership of Bela, my experiences have increased tenfold. My life got bigger.
This past weekend, out at the tender hour of 7:00 a.m., I reveled in the newly-cool breeze around me. Still tired, my eyes were half-open as I stumbled around the neighborhood.
Then I saw the first and second of this year's leaves fall from their trees in front of me.
I felt so special. I saw them! I nearly heard them, in their quiet descent!
Who knows; they may have been the first of this season...or, even if not the very first - they were the first for me. And they were then - at that hour, in the peace of the morning with no one else around - because I was out with her.
All weather affects my life so much more than it used to. It's raining? - Shit. It's snowing? - Shit. It's pouring? - Ah, shit!
But her body needn't hail the storm clouds. Her joy to exit into the great outdoors is neverending.
Last winter, we stepped out the door and into the white. The Blizzard of 2011. I could barely see her in front of me, much less anything in my path. She was definately aware that things were not the norm, but she just tended to her business as usual. While I was in something like a mix between horror and awe of the environmental tempest around me, I was also so grateful! Had I not needed to take her out - let's be honest - I wouldn't have stepped into that monster! But what an experience!
Our night walks end the day together. No matter how tired I am before taking her out, I am rejuvinated with the bounce in her step. Her little hipswing catapults me into appreciation. For everything - for her, for my capable legs, for the place in which I live, for the weather, in all its states, for the sheer opportunity of the opportunity to walk her. I look up - I look around; I observe every single night sky from the sidewalk now.
I have seen so many moons since she came to me. I pray she stays by my side for many more.
This past weekend, out at the tender hour of 7:00 a.m., I reveled in the newly-cool breeze around me. Still tired, my eyes were half-open as I stumbled around the neighborhood.
Then I saw the first and second of this year's leaves fall from their trees in front of me.
I felt so special. I saw them! I nearly heard them, in their quiet descent!
Who knows; they may have been the first of this season...or, even if not the very first - they were the first for me. And they were then - at that hour, in the peace of the morning with no one else around - because I was out with her.
All weather affects my life so much more than it used to. It's raining? - Shit. It's snowing? - Shit. It's pouring? - Ah, shit!
But her body needn't hail the storm clouds. Her joy to exit into the great outdoors is neverending.
Last winter, we stepped out the door and into the white. The Blizzard of 2011. I could barely see her in front of me, much less anything in my path. She was definately aware that things were not the norm, but she just tended to her business as usual. While I was in something like a mix between horror and awe of the environmental tempest around me, I was also so grateful! Had I not needed to take her out - let's be honest - I wouldn't have stepped into that monster! But what an experience!
Our night walks end the day together. No matter how tired I am before taking her out, I am rejuvinated with the bounce in her step. Her little hipswing catapults me into appreciation. For everything - for her, for my capable legs, for the place in which I live, for the weather, in all its states, for the sheer opportunity of the opportunity to walk her. I look up - I look around; I observe every single night sky from the sidewalk now.
I have seen so many moons since she came to me. I pray she stays by my side for many more.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
The Facts of Life
You take the good with the bad. With all things in life. And so with Bela.
Her delightfulness is apparent.
People are constantly commenting on what a happy dog she seems to be. She loves all adults. She seeks out all children, with whom her gentleness is great. She is good at home and joyous outdoors. She listens to us, behaves and showcases her easy demeanor in all she does.
That said - there is a backhand.
You see, while Bela is a dearheart -- if she feels the need arises for her to flip the switch, she flips it...quite a bit.
I've seen dogs growl at her without reason, come up and steal a ball, lunge at her while she's walking by...she takes it all in stride.
But as of late, it appears that if her nose gives way to real threat, or she senses you are foe instead of friend, the bitch will bite.
My co-worker mentioned that Bela sounds a little like...well...me. Generally and genuinely, quite kind. But generally and genuinely, ready to strike. You give me the idea that you are not here for honorable purposes and I will charge. I will bear my teeth, not at all for the sole purpose of bearing them.
Sadly, I am now a little paranoid. When I see a possible standoff, I step her away from the foreign dog, whereas I used to just raise an eyebrow.
This withstanding, I can't help but also feel a bit proud. I've got a little girl who refuses to be taken as one. A real fighter. She bears the same name as not one, but four Hungarian kings. She wears it well.
Her delightfulness is apparent.
People are constantly commenting on what a happy dog she seems to be. She loves all adults. She seeks out all children, with whom her gentleness is great. She is good at home and joyous outdoors. She listens to us, behaves and showcases her easy demeanor in all she does.
That said - there is a backhand.
You see, while Bela is a dearheart -- if she feels the need arises for her to flip the switch, she flips it...quite a bit.
I've seen dogs growl at her without reason, come up and steal a ball, lunge at her while she's walking by...she takes it all in stride.
But as of late, it appears that if her nose gives way to real threat, or she senses you are foe instead of friend, the bitch will bite.
My co-worker mentioned that Bela sounds a little like...well...me. Generally and genuinely, quite kind. But generally and genuinely, ready to strike. You give me the idea that you are not here for honorable purposes and I will charge. I will bear my teeth, not at all for the sole purpose of bearing them.
Sadly, I am now a little paranoid. When I see a possible standoff, I step her away from the foreign dog, whereas I used to just raise an eyebrow.
This withstanding, I can't help but also feel a bit proud. I've got a little girl who refuses to be taken as one. A real fighter. She bears the same name as not one, but four Hungarian kings. She wears it well.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Street food
Street food is very in right now. I mean, it's always been in...but now it is in vogue, if you will.
You and I have to seek out street food, and then pay for it. Not Bela.
During our walks, she has her fair share of treats, at absolutely no cost.
In the past (and without the nose of a dog), I had never noticed an abundance of fare for the taking. But oh...are there things to be had.
Bread. Bread is a big one. Lots of buns, rolls, and the like. Pizza. Partial pieces, tossed aside. A stray chip, fallen from the bag. Chicken bones. Damn chicken bones.
I don't know about you, but I have never in my life been walking down the side walk, eating, and decided that a)I didn't want the rest of my food (I'm too frugal and stubborn for that) or b)that in this case, I would or should TOSS THE REMAINDER OF MY FOOD ON THE SIDEWALK BEHIND ME.
Who are these people doing this? Not only are they obviously wasteful, but environmentally disrespectful, to boot! And dangerous! They are orchestrating dangerous little dances, between dog owners and dogs, wherein the owner must pry the foreign object their dog's mouth, in case it is something harmful.
And while I named the most commonly found food items above, there have been some items of note as well. An entire McDonald's Sausage McMuffin. An entire Reese's Peanut Butter Cup! Now, have the morons who tossed these items aside ever TASTED these items? They're fantastic!
I know that gum is often found on the ground, and I may have even spat out a piece or two in my own lifetime, but...never on the sidewalk. The street, or better yet - the sewer.
But some people like to spit their gum in the grass, next to their granola bar wrappers. (At least they ate the moderately healthy and most likely delicious granola bar.)
Yesterday, after arriving back home after an outing at the park, Bela lay down to rest. And on her underbelly was a matted piece of mint gum.
I guess I should look at the bright side of it. That gum would have really freshened her breath after the Cool Ranch Dorito she had on the way to the park.
You and I have to seek out street food, and then pay for it. Not Bela.
During our walks, she has her fair share of treats, at absolutely no cost.
In the past (and without the nose of a dog), I had never noticed an abundance of fare for the taking. But oh...are there things to be had.
Bread. Bread is a big one. Lots of buns, rolls, and the like. Pizza. Partial pieces, tossed aside. A stray chip, fallen from the bag. Chicken bones. Damn chicken bones.
I don't know about you, but I have never in my life been walking down the side walk, eating, and decided that a)I didn't want the rest of my food (I'm too frugal and stubborn for that) or b)that in this case, I would or should TOSS THE REMAINDER OF MY FOOD ON THE SIDEWALK BEHIND ME.
Who are these people doing this? Not only are they obviously wasteful, but environmentally disrespectful, to boot! And dangerous! They are orchestrating dangerous little dances, between dog owners and dogs, wherein the owner must pry the foreign object their dog's mouth, in case it is something harmful.
And while I named the most commonly found food items above, there have been some items of note as well. An entire McDonald's Sausage McMuffin. An entire Reese's Peanut Butter Cup! Now, have the morons who tossed these items aside ever TASTED these items? They're fantastic!
I know that gum is often found on the ground, and I may have even spat out a piece or two in my own lifetime, but...never on the sidewalk. The street, or better yet - the sewer.
But some people like to spit their gum in the grass, next to their granola bar wrappers. (At least they ate the moderately healthy and most likely delicious granola bar.)
Yesterday, after arriving back home after an outing at the park, Bela lay down to rest. And on her underbelly was a matted piece of mint gum.
I guess I should look at the bright side of it. That gum would have really freshened her breath after the Cool Ranch Dorito she had on the way to the park.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
On Treats
Doggie boutiques, i.e., pet supply stores, abound these days, and within them lies a vast assortment of dog 'treats'.
Before Bela, I assumed the category of dog treats involved mainly hard bone-shaped biscuits and soft, chewy beef-like strips of....beef?
Well. Let me tell you -- there is so much more to be had.
We use these treats for times when we need her to be heavily distracted, mainly when we dine outside at a place where dogs are allowed to accompany patrons.
In order to be sure we always have something on hand, Mike and I enter these stores nearly whenever we come across them, determined to pick up just an item or two. But then Bela walks around, checking out (licking) so many items that we feel compelled to get her an assortment of things.
Last week, while we were standing at the spice rack-like object featuring various treats, Mike exclaimed,
"Lamb ears, pig hearts...it's like we're witches or something!"
The array of animal parts available for purchase is truly astounding. Duck feet, beef tendons and cow hooves are up for grabs. And one of her faves - the bully stick - I have come to find out...is...bull penis.
That's right; while Mike and I sit down to a meal al fresco, we let our little girl chew on a bull penis at our feet. Hey...it works.
Before Bela, I assumed the category of dog treats involved mainly hard bone-shaped biscuits and soft, chewy beef-like strips of....beef?
Well. Let me tell you -- there is so much more to be had.
We use these treats for times when we need her to be heavily distracted, mainly when we dine outside at a place where dogs are allowed to accompany patrons.
Last week, while we were standing at the spice rack-like object featuring various treats, Mike exclaimed,
"Lamb ears, pig hearts...it's like we're witches or something!"
The array of animal parts available for purchase is truly astounding. Duck feet, beef tendons and cow hooves are up for grabs. And one of her faves - the bully stick - I have come to find out...is...bull penis.
That's right; while Mike and I sit down to a meal al fresco, we let our little girl chew on a bull penis at our feet. Hey...it works.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Reservoir Dog
I can't track the exact time that Bela's new reserve habit kicked in. I only know that I do not have peace with it.
When we first got her, I recall leaving the house, watching her rather purposefully trot to a spot and let it all out. She'd settle into her squat and take care of business.
Now, when we exit the house, she has a sniff around, finds an appropriate spot, squats...and then....sprinkles the ground. Just a sprinkle.
The amount released is not related to how badly she has to go or how much she has in the bladder. It is a procedure, a careful calculationing, an estimation.
'Let's see...if I need roughly an ounce a block up (for the spot where that damned St. Bernard continually pees), and then about 1/2 an ounce 2 blocks west (for that annoying Chihuahua)...and then approximately 2 more ounces for the remainder of this walk (if it is to be sufficiently long)..then right now...I'll need to...let out...eh...yeah...about 3/4 of an ounce.'
She hovers momentarily and then pops right back up.
(She does occasionally miscalculate and end up in a hover, bladder nothing left to give. I always project embarrassment onto her in these situations, but I'm pretty sure she feels nothing like that.)
I do find the new behavior humorous - but frustrating all the same. Because I never know - when we're heading in...if she has actually emptied herself.
If she only encountered 2 of the 5 sweet spots her body required, then she saved the rest for a rainy day.
There is nothing to be done, however.
So before I leave, I go to the bathroom. I, myself, do not hold onto a thing -- for public restrooms do not abound for me, as they do for her.
When we first got her, I recall leaving the house, watching her rather purposefully trot to a spot and let it all out. She'd settle into her squat and take care of business.
Now, when we exit the house, she has a sniff around, finds an appropriate spot, squats...and then....sprinkles the ground. Just a sprinkle.
The amount released is not related to how badly she has to go or how much she has in the bladder. It is a procedure, a careful calculationing, an estimation.
'Let's see...if I need roughly an ounce a block up (for the spot where that damned St. Bernard continually pees), and then about 1/2 an ounce 2 blocks west (for that annoying Chihuahua)...and then approximately 2 more ounces for the remainder of this walk (if it is to be sufficiently long)..then right now...I'll need to...let out...eh...yeah...about 3/4 of an ounce.'
She hovers momentarily and then pops right back up.
(She does occasionally miscalculate and end up in a hover, bladder nothing left to give. I always project embarrassment onto her in these situations, but I'm pretty sure she feels nothing like that.)
I do find the new behavior humorous - but frustrating all the same. Because I never know - when we're heading in...if she has actually emptied herself.
If she only encountered 2 of the 5 sweet spots her body required, then she saved the rest for a rainy day.
There is nothing to be done, however.
So before I leave, I go to the bathroom. I, myself, do not hold onto a thing -- for public restrooms do not abound for me, as they do for her.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Bela & the bucket.
Yes - made. I'd love to take some credit here; but I can't. It's all Mike. Mike's idea, Mike's hard work.
He rounds up the best sales at the grocery store - chicken is usually the star feature (be it a breast, thigh or whole bird.) Occasionally, she'll have a ground chuck or ground turkey. Eggs often get thrown in the mix or on top every few days. The proteins are mixed with vegetables of a wide variety. This girl gets everything from sweet potatoes to okra, from lima beans to kohlrabi, from carrots to cabbage. (She has certainly benefited more than we have from the CSA we joined this year). A brown rice or barley stands in for the carbohydrate component. An apple goes diced into the mixture near the end. Then one to two herbs from Mike's indoor herb garden to garnish. All of these ingredients face their final incorporation in the red bucket.
These batches take roughly 3 hours from start to finish. I usually walk around the kitchen, verbally appreciating the smells and techniques (and time) he's putting into the excercise. I help him scoop the food into numerous rubbermaid containers for freezing. I wash the dishes that aid him.
Bela knows when this process is occurring. She watches him take out frozen meats, grab the bag of brown rice and get cooking.
She stands or lays in the kitchen for the duration of the evening, facial expression alternating between adoration and visceral desire.
When the red bucket comes out, she knows she will soon have her head in it.
For after the containers are filled and stored in the freezer, the bucket - with the remnants inside...is placed on the floor for her. She inserts her head. She places her paw inside, so as to hold it in place as well as possible. She licks it until it appears to be so very clean that sometimes I 'forget' to wash it.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Bela bit me. (And that really hurt...)
Teeth trump flesh.
Last week, while at the dog park, Bela got in a fight.
The details involve a large dog taking posession of both of her tennis balls. (Because, yes - we bring an additional ball for ball-thieves.)
As B is not much of a fighter, I knew she meant business.
I didn't see the owner of the other dog moving too quickly to pull her dog off, so...I went in swinging! Well...actually, I went in, arms waving wildly, attempting to pull the other dog on the right more towards the right, and Bela on my left more towards the left.
As the dogs were pulled away from each other (which, ironically, I had nothing to do with -- the other owner grabbed her dog; Mike grabbed Bela), Bela went in for a final chomp.
She got one. Only it wasn't the other dog she got. It was me.
(Even the satisfaction of feeling her teeth sink into something didn't stop her. After being picked up and held in the air by Mike, Bela actually continued to squirm and growl, eager to get out of his arms and KEEP FIGHTING.)
I looked up from the ground where I lay - the only fallen soldier - and said quietly, "I got bit...."
The blood began to pool and run down my arm into the grass.
We packed up her bookbag with her balls and headed home.
She had, nor has - any idea that she bit me. She may relate to or remember a scuffle with a large thiefdog, but likely little more than that. Meanwhile, I ritually tend to my wound and observe it, as it appears as though I have been violently attacked by an unobvious creature. Everything has a mouth!
Ultimately, I am glad she doesn't know she hurt me, as it wasn't her intention and I wouldn't want her to have to feel bad about something she didn't design.
I have been curious, however, as to whether she could connect to the mark if she were to see it.
So this morning, I held out my arm, while doing my morning cleaning, to see if I could incite some feelings of guilt in her.
She just leaned in and sniffed my perfume, appreciatively.
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Terminator/Exterminator
Last year, we moved into a basement apartment.
Before this move, I was fairly unfamiliar with the centipede. (Only now do I know how fortunate I had been.)
They began appearing around springtime. One here, one there. And then they were everywhere. I would freeze in fear - and watch the million-legged beasts run where they liked.
As time went by, and the frequency of spottings increased (minimum one per day), I became bolder when confronted by these monsters. Fearful screams turned to warrior yells. After spotting one, no rest was had until I had done him in.
That said, it never becomes easy to deal with centipedes in the home; I just got better at it.
I still timidly approached the shower each morning (they love to cling at the top of it) and checked the bedsheets each night. I feared they would show up when I was in my most vulnerable state. (And one night, Mike said he felt something on his face. Enough said.)
There was also the frightful day I stepped up to the kitchen sink to wash my hands, and found two large centipedes spooning each other in the drain strainer.
The winter brought peace.
Spring looming, I began researching suggestions for warding off centipedes. Websites confirmed that the basement is their favorite place in any home, and since the basement is my home...I wasn't feeling hopeful. I decided a substance deemed Diatomaceous Earth was what I needed most. I had its name on a post-it, carrying it around with me, but just never got around to picking it up.
In the meantime...spring came.....and went.....with an curiously low number of centipede spottings.
It took me months to figure out what was going on.
Then one morning, Bela was snuggled up with me when all of the sudden, she sprang out of bed! She ran across the floor, and Pow!, smacked her right paw on the hardwood. A second later, Pow! - left paw! And then she was silent. I ran over to see what had occurred, and there it lay. A dead centipede. After that, I began noticing dried up bodies all over the house.
Yes, it appears that since spring arrived, Bela has been hard at work during the day.
While I am gone, she cleans up the house.
I recently discovered that she has various approaches to their disposal.
The other day, she gently picked one up in her mouth, drowned it with her saliva and then dropped it back on the floor.
"Good girl!", I exclaimed. Good girl on two points: 1) She killed me a centipede! 2) She did not eat it!
I immediately ran to her treat cabinet and showered her with freeze-dried liver, oat biscuits and bacon strips.
She deserves it all!
Hell - she deserves a paycheck! She has exterminated the basement!
Before this move, I was fairly unfamiliar with the centipede. (Only now do I know how fortunate I had been.)
They began appearing around springtime. One here, one there. And then they were everywhere. I would freeze in fear - and watch the million-legged beasts run where they liked.
As time went by, and the frequency of spottings increased (minimum one per day), I became bolder when confronted by these monsters. Fearful screams turned to warrior yells. After spotting one, no rest was had until I had done him in.
That said, it never becomes easy to deal with centipedes in the home; I just got better at it.
I still timidly approached the shower each morning (they love to cling at the top of it) and checked the bedsheets each night. I feared they would show up when I was in my most vulnerable state. (And one night, Mike said he felt something on his face. Enough said.)
There was also the frightful day I stepped up to the kitchen sink to wash my hands, and found two large centipedes spooning each other in the drain strainer.
The winter brought peace.
Spring looming, I began researching suggestions for warding off centipedes. Websites confirmed that the basement is their favorite place in any home, and since the basement is my home...I wasn't feeling hopeful. I decided a substance deemed Diatomaceous Earth was what I needed most. I had its name on a post-it, carrying it around with me, but just never got around to picking it up.
In the meantime...spring came.....and went.....with an curiously low number of centipede spottings.
It took me months to figure out what was going on.
Then one morning, Bela was snuggled up with me when all of the sudden, she sprang out of bed! She ran across the floor, and Pow!, smacked her right paw on the hardwood. A second later, Pow! - left paw! And then she was silent. I ran over to see what had occurred, and there it lay. A dead centipede. After that, I began noticing dried up bodies all over the house.
Yes, it appears that since spring arrived, Bela has been hard at work during the day.
While I am gone, she cleans up the house.
I recently discovered that she has various approaches to their disposal.
The other day, she gently picked one up in her mouth, drowned it with her saliva and then dropped it back on the floor.
"Good girl!", I exclaimed. Good girl on two points: 1) She killed me a centipede! 2) She did not eat it!
I immediately ran to her treat cabinet and showered her with freeze-dried liver, oat biscuits and bacon strips.
She deserves it all!
Hell - she deserves a paycheck! She has exterminated the basement!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Tie That Binds
Loving Bela is now the largest common thread between Mike and me. We like to cook, we like the Bulls, we like to play games. But we love Bela. We love to touch her, feed her, observe her, play with her, talk to her, talk about her... She has become the center of our bed and our world. He is cast in a beautiful light as her father; I hope there is a similar halo about me.
There is no time I cannot melt when she is referred to. When we can't see eye to eye - we talk about her poo.
She's like glue.
She's a reminder of sowing what you reap. An example of what we are both capable of bringing out in someone.
Mike's mother states that when she dies, she wants to come back as our dog. Something so treasured, so revered, so very well taken care of.
As odd as it may seem, Bela is a reflection of us.
When I peer into her pretty eyes, I should feel more than an outward love for her. I should feel pride at what I've helped to create. I should see evidence of what two people's love can manifest.
Our love for her can bring us to our knees.
It is strong and unbending, stable, unending.
It is all that I heard love was supposed to be.
There is no time I cannot melt when she is referred to. When we can't see eye to eye - we talk about her poo.
She's like glue.
She's a reminder of sowing what you reap. An example of what we are both capable of bringing out in someone.
Mike's mother states that when she dies, she wants to come back as our dog. Something so treasured, so revered, so very well taken care of.
As odd as it may seem, Bela is a reflection of us.
When I peer into her pretty eyes, I should feel more than an outward love for her. I should feel pride at what I've helped to create. I should see evidence of what two people's love can manifest.
Our love for her can bring us to our knees.
It is strong and unbending, stable, unending.
It is all that I heard love was supposed to be.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Damn her little neck and hunter spirit.
If Bela is anything, she's a hunter. After adopting her, it took many outings before I realized that what I coined 'going out for a walk', she saw as a hunting expedition. She hunts an average of 4 times per day. She likely sees this as inadequate. The fact that she happens to urinate, etc., while out there hunting is a killing of two birds with one stone.
Speaking of birds....
Yesterday, on our 'walk' to the park (wherein we then simulate hunting for roughly an hour, with a tennis ball), Bela spotted a little brown bird on the sidewalk. Before I even fully took the bird in with my eyes, Bela had taken it in her very own mouth. "Drop it, Bela!", I screamed! -- and -- to my surprise, she did. Just like that. Just set the bird right back on the sidewalk, no harm done. She had picked him up in a gentle way, so as to investigate the mouthfeel before crushing his tiny bones. But then Momma said no and so he had to go. She didn't even look back at him as we walked away.
This exemplifies the occasional guidance/leadership I have over her. This power-like thing all but disappears when she is tempted by a squirrel...or...hell...any one of these witnessed things:
Brown paper bag with empty 40 inside
Cat
Toy Plane
Lightning Bug
Rats
Geese
Dog [with non-traditional dog stance/body shape]
Ants
Plastic Bags
This huntress means business. If there is possiblity of a meal - or a thrill - she's on its trail.
Though I am constantly adjusting her harness (for she can easily pull off her collar, when needed), pulling on her leash and begging her to "leave it"...the truth is I am enthralled and enamored with her hunting. She is an animal. A beautiful, strong animal with the desire to survive. And while I can't exactly let her eat every bag, squirrel, cat and rat out there on the streets, part of me wishes I could.
Speaking of birds....
Yesterday, on our 'walk' to the park (wherein we then simulate hunting for roughly an hour, with a tennis ball), Bela spotted a little brown bird on the sidewalk. Before I even fully took the bird in with my eyes, Bela had taken it in her very own mouth. "Drop it, Bela!", I screamed! -- and -- to my surprise, she did. Just like that. Just set the bird right back on the sidewalk, no harm done. She had picked him up in a gentle way, so as to investigate the mouthfeel before crushing his tiny bones. But then Momma said no and so he had to go. She didn't even look back at him as we walked away.
This exemplifies the occasional guidance/leadership I have over her. This power-like thing all but disappears when she is tempted by a squirrel...or...hell...any one of these witnessed things:
Brown paper bag with empty 40 inside
Cat
Toy Plane
Lightning Bug
Rats
Geese
Dog [with non-traditional dog stance/body shape]
Ants
Plastic Bags
This huntress means business. If there is possiblity of a meal - or a thrill - she's on its trail.
Though I am constantly adjusting her harness (for she can easily pull off her collar, when needed), pulling on her leash and begging her to "leave it"...the truth is I am enthralled and enamored with her hunting. She is an animal. A beautiful, strong animal with the desire to survive. And while I can't exactly let her eat every bag, squirrel, cat and rat out there on the streets, part of me wishes I could.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Bela in the A.M.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Leaving Miss B.
It's 6:30am and I am preparing to leave for a 3-day trip to Charleston, SC. I keep looking at Bela with guilt in my eyes. I am going to miss everything! Everything...for these 3 days! Every feeding, every walk, every jump at the park. As I prepare to leave the house, the thing I look forward to most is my return.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Bela's birthday.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Detailing this dog's life.
It was one year ago this eve that I contemplated the arrival of a dog in my apartment/life.
I could recall the hair flying in the air behind her as she walked when I'd first encountered her. I feared a hair-covered, pee-scented house, a testament to the difficulty of owning a dog. I could not foresee the joy that would be involved.
I could recall the hair flying in the air behind her as she walked when I'd first encountered her. I feared a hair-covered, pee-scented house, a testament to the difficulty of owning a dog. I could not foresee the joy that would be involved.
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