blueAlto

It's fat-free, comes in a ton of flavors, and it's for ... dogs.

Introducing "Dogissimo" — an ice cream created specifically for canines. Which, as of this weekend, has gone on sale at my local high end coffee shop.

Sitting on the enclosed patio at Terez, the Yorkville coffee shop and bistro, Allison and I had blood orange smoothies, while Singher had a one cup serving of Mint Mutt - evidently her favorite, as she passed on the Snicker Poodle.  Judging by the way she attacked her cup of the green stuff, and is now sporting a fashionable green moustache, this new find has the potential to become a hit during the dog days of summer.

 

Because there really is no sense in feeding you a line of bullshit over it, yes, this is a particularly tough entry to write, Since I have to admit, today has been a particularly tough day. The extent to which, has both surprised and humbled me.

No, nothing is wrong, no one is sick, and Singher is as crazy as ever. What has me more than a little bummed, is that tomorrow evening at this time, two of my best friends and their twin boys will be on a plane to London, ushering off their year of living and working abroad.

But I need to be clear; I am more than happy for them, truly. Dan has taken a position that if I was still working for the flight medic program, I too would have jumped at. Not to mention the opportunity for Karen to spend a year with her sister, and be able to enjoy what will be the third year in the life of their twins, in one of the most exciting cities in the world.

Though when it comes right down to it, I really don't think that I ever considered just how much of a role those two people have played, and continue to play in my life. It's beyond friendship, it transcends the limiting boundaries of straight and gay bullshit, and it's something I have been supremely blessed to enjoy in my life. I think perhaps I feel a little guilty that it has taken the fact of them moving away, to make me see exactly how important that has been.

So, not to draw this out anymore than is necessary, and because I steadfastly refuse to turn this into a painful, ritualistic goodbye, and thirdly because when Karen gets settled she will do a once weekly update from across the pond, for all those reasons, I will close. So, to Karen and Dan, two of the best friends I could hope for, I love you both, take care of each other, and be safe. I will see you soon.

PS  And just remember, you have to come back because I'm the sucker who is feeding and boarding your mangy flee bag!

Now that the title brought you here, and because she was such a hit in this similarly entitled post of two days ago, here is an encore presentation of my friend and yours....no not ocountymommy. I'm referring to none other than Faith the two legged dog. I assume this is her official photo album / portfolio. It seems the girl has been getting around. We have Faith in the seniors home, Faith contemplating eating the guinea pig, Faith on Main Street, you get the idea.

There are some really cute shots in this collection actually, and if this is the type of morning that finds you in a mood that could no doubt use a pick me up, then Faith is just the dog to provide it. Enjoy.

And Faith, by the way, if you ever feel the need to tell your story, I know just the author who could write it....

No, it's not a country song. Given that most people who have taken more than a passing nod at this site, could no doubt easily identify it in the more progressive variety of blog, that designation then would go on to suggest we are in what many call the "reality based community".

Well, judging from the rather colorful comment threads of the last few days, that I imagine, would be the last way one would describe this site and its assorted cast of writers, regulars, commenters and trolls. Never a dull moment, seems an apt description.

Whatever the case may be, from a potentially full moon, to the creeping suspicion that crazy just got loose in the streets, I have had my share of it. Therefore, as I indicated in an email to a few friends last night:

"I think for the next week I will only post about balloons, gay men's fashion (for comedy) and unicorns"!

While that approach would no doubt provide fresh perspective, resulting in a less raucous discussion in the comments, the fact is it would never work. Balloons, if I have to admit this, really kind of creep me out. Then there is the fact that instead of a soother, I was known to obsessively rub balloons under my nose as a comfort thing, and well, that's why we are moving on.

Gay mens fashion? No. As someone who loves to buy his clothes at a boot store named after a forest, admittedly, I'm not all that centered in the latest Versachi for men collection. And really, even posting about unicorns would be a lost cause, lest one of the regular and unhinged Warriors for Jesus comes up with the twisted idea that I want to fuck the poor unicorn. "Because the next thing, don't you know, is men with goats"  (Comment # 20)

Right. So instead, I offer you a video. A short story that is simple, sweet, happy, and even a bit inspiring. And in keeping with the theme of the past few days, I'm tossing in a bit of old fashioned crazy for good measure. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you:

Faith, the dog who walks on two legs. Seriously, this is a very nice story.

 

A few weeks ago Singher celebrated her first year anniversary of being a "pet therapy dog". It was a program she was enrolled in on the advice of her vet, and she has been doing once a week visits to a local hospice ever since (minus the few weeks she was undergoing chemo).

I would recommend the program to anyone with a socially inclined animal; as much for yourself, as for the dog. Here is the entry I penned from last year, after Singher had graduated from the program. She may be insane, but she has heart!

*** 

Since getting the Singher all clear report, and finishing up the chemo last week, my crazy dog is doing much better and seems to have finally returned to her old self.

Whether that is entirely positive and normal, is yet to be seen. Please remember, there is a reason she is called the insane canine. "Old self" and "normal" are relative terms, all things considered.

Though one difference I did notice in my normally mild mannered, albeit eccentric dog, was that what is hers is now hers, and what is mine, is now hers as well. After a burst of energy unexpectedly hit this afternoon, I was vacuuming the living room (doesn't happen often), when I noticed my small, stuffed Winnie The Pooh in a pile of severely chewed squeaky toys. The pile that is meant to indicate impending surgical intervention or perhaps trash bin. And there, not a mark on him, sat Winnie.

Strange, as that specific bear sits on my desk in the den which Singher never goes near unless I'm sitting at it attempting to do something besides pet her. So why would this Winnie (she has her own Winnie), the one she has never given a second glance to, be in the middle of the island (heap) of misfit (severely traumatized) toys? As I said, around here, normal is a relative term. Without thinking, I pick up the misplaced bear and plop him back on the side of my desk. Which, obviously he must have fallen from.

Yeah, right. Literally minutes ago, Singher walks into the den, sits down at my feet, looks at me then at Winnie, stands up, paws on my leg, and grabs my little, yellow bear, making a quick dash out of the den, no doubt headed for the island of misfit toys. I think we may just have to have that talk about respect and acceptable boundaries again. Because it obviously worked so well the last time.

 

Well, after a tumor removal, nine days of chemo, and a day stay at the puppy hospital for dehydration, it wouldn't be your best day either, now would it. As you can see from the above picture, tonight the insane canine is not in one of her playful, energetic, thus insane moods. The good news is the vets in charge of her care assure me that they did in fact get all of the tumor, and that the chemo was simply a preventative measure in the unlikely event that there was some residual cancer that had not been detected.

To all those who have expressed concern and asked about Singher, thank you, it was very much appreciated. I'd especially like to thank Miranda and Sam for the doggy cards Singher received. And of course curiousg, who for the entire week he was here, kept Singher in stock of all forms of gourmet delights from the local doggy bakery. Her vanishing appetite from the chemo, surprisingly returned anytime George would walk in with the canine gold. Speaking of George, you will enjoy reading about the travel hell that he endured on the way home.

Actually, Singher eating the bakery treats was more than likely good, considering that the only other food she has managed to keep down has been the Miso soup that I was making for her nightly (yes my dog enjoys tofu and seaweed soup from Japan, enough already). Dehydrated buffalo with cranberry, grapefruit and flax seed does gets old you know.

If the last few treatments have been any indication, Singher will be back to her old self, attempting to climb trees, and purring at the feline malcontent gang, in a couple days. Though tonight I think we'll just stay in, have some Miso, and toss her favourite DVD in player. Do you really need to ask? Benji, of course!

I received this in an email from my friend Allison today. No big introduction here, except to say that I've been fighting back the tears for the past half day after reading this powerful essay, originally written by a man named Jim Willis.  Simply, if you have a dog in your life, or ever have had a dog mean something to you, you need to read this. 

Though as I indicated, get the tissues ready.

How Could You? 

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. ...

Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" -- but then you'd relent and roll me over for a belly rub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect.

We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day....

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy.

Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I would've defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway.

There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.

Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers."

You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed, "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life.

You gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago.

At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you that you had changed your mind -- that this was all a bad dream... or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me.

When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited. I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room.

She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days.

As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago.

She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself --a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place.

And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was directed at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of you. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

Considering that George (curiousg) got into town this evening, and I am going to be busy playing host to corrupting his virtue in gay town, I will leave you with this entry that Karen has written, and has been on my back asking me to post it. Now seems as good a time as any.

When I went  to Vancouver last spring, I asked Karen to stay at the condo and watch Singher for a few days. Because of this, she of course thinks she has the inside goods on the fact that I spoil my dog. Whatever. Here's her two part  entry, and yes it is funny. And no I don't spoil my dog!

Please pray for George. He is going to need it.

*** 

Oh the things I get myself into. I've often stayed at Al's place when he and David were away etc. but not until this time did I notice just how utterly spoiled that dog is. Just in case there is any doubt, let me share  the note that greeted myself, the twins, and my still a puppy mangy mutt when we arrived to house sit.

Hi Karen,

Thanks for taking care of the apartment while we're gone, I appreciate it. We are at my cousins where I can be reached at until Monday night. Back late on Wednesday night. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. There's left over chicken jalapeno chili, it's amazing.

In terms of Singher, she's pretty low maintenance. Just a few considerations:

1. Be careful of the insane female cop down the hall with the bad dye job,and ugly bob. She appears harmless, with her fake little smile and whiny, squeaky voice. About a month ago Singher chased her stupid fucking cat Swikens, and "traumatized it". You'd think poor Singher brutally sodomized a new asshole into the little shit for the looks David and I get anytime we see cop lady in the hall now. I swear to God, one day her head is going to explode and she'll go completely postal.
2. Singher goes for her walk at 9 am, 5 pm, and 11 pm. Usually poops at 9 and 5, not 11.
3. When you first go out the front doors, hold on tight, as she makes a bee line for the fountain, and is fascinated with the fish. Don't be surprised if she dives in, she has on occasion.
4. You may need to go in and get her, so I'd hold the leash tight to make sure she doesn't go in.
5. Her food is under the sink. All you do is add a cup of water, let it sit for two minutes. It's dehydrated buffalo, cranberry, grapefruit, and flax seed. she normally eats at 9 am and 5 pm, after her walks. For the 5 pm meal she gets a treat for desert. Doggy ice cream is in the freezer; it's an organic soy product made for dogs. Feel free to give one to Abercrombie.
6. Bed time is whenever you go, and she will most likely be okay wherever Abercrombie decides to sleep, though with us, she usually curls around our heads on the top of the pillows. Be warned!
7. Before bed we normally wind her down by playing one of her favorite videos, either Benji, or the documentary on wild horses. If she gets anxious and starts to whine, don't worry, she does that all the time. She'll be totally engrossed, and after half an hour she'll go right to sleep.
8. Anything else, feel free to call.

Thanks Karen, this really helped us out. See you Wednesday.

Al

Day 2 

I suppose I shouldn't complain, Singher is a great dog, and she was actually fine. And yes, it only took Singher two viewings of the horse documentary, and Benji to fall fast asleep. Well, not exactly Benji; it was For The Love Of Benji: Americas favorite dog goes to Greece. What a riveting, entertaining cinematic undertaking that must have been. As per Al's note, the whining began almost immediately and didn't end until the still photograph of Benji faded to black at the end of the movie.

Not to be left out, Abercrombie my Lab / Poodle cross, perfected his whining, cocking of the head, and feigned interest, all in some attempt to impress his older canine fantasy. However it was to no avail. Abercrombie may be cute, but he's no competition for that mutt Benji. Though the best part of our animal themed movie nights, was that the boys couldn't go to sleep with the two expressive canines. Therefore I had my hands full with cranky little twin male people, both mornings.

As much as I complain, I suppose I really must thank Singher. As when the dogs were playing around the fountain, that infamous bunny that loves to terrorize Singher darts past. As expected, Al's dog of course follows with a torrent of "I'm tougher than you bunny" barks. And much to my surprise and delight, so does Abercrombie! I bet you're thinking "surprise and delight from a dog barking, you don't get out much do you Karen"?

Yes I do happen to get out thank you, but I was ecstatic because it was the first time I ever heard my four month old puppy bark. Not sure if it was a hearing issue, or stunted development, but Dan and I were beginning to worry about the lack of vocalization. I can say after a day and a half of Abrercrombie "finding his voice", there's nothing to be worried about.

 

I haven't thought about this for a long time. Still gets me every time. Originally posted a year ago, I have just now decided it will be an annual tradition....

Today was another of those days I was reminded of the power that animals can have in our lives.

It all started with a visit to the local Petsmart outlet to purchase a crate to house Singher during the train ride to Ottawa next Friday. I can't believe that a 5 1/2 hour train ride would generate the amount of anxiety I am feeling over this. After all, it's simply a large cage, and in it she'll have a blanket, food, wall mounted water, a few toys etc.

Ultimately, I find it amusing that I am so concerned over what is simply an everyday event for hundreds of canines. Singher is no different. Except of course, she's my dog.

A card carrying dog lover, I have always had a canine in my life.The first dog I ever owned was Max. An Old English Sheepdog mix, he actually looked like an odd mix of typical sheepdog with the grey and white thick hair, but having the strong and quick legs of a breed like a Border Collie. Max was purchased by my parents as a birthday gift for me at age two when we lived in Tokyo.

Max was the most gentle dog I have known. Though if the situation required it, he was the most brutal and effective protector one could ask for. I remember just having moved back to Canada, being around four or five, and out for a walk in the park with Max and my mother. At one point we were aggressively approached by an obnoxious, obviously high as a kite man wanting change. Max watched intently as my mother declined and the man persisted. That was the first time I had ever heard the growl, or saw the face and posture that became synonymous with "Max the protector". Though for most of his days, he was simply a happy, loyal, and loving pet.

I remember coming home from school at lunch time in the middle school years and having Max waiting, head looking out the window. And though my high school years went hand in hand with daily swim team practice, often not seeing me return home until close to dinner time, Max and the wagging tail would always be waiting. Mom always made sure there was just enough time for our ritual ball toss in the park. For this only child, that dog was my best friend for sixteen years of my life, navigating all the "firsts", and the requisite coming of age experiences right along side me.

The summer before I left home for my first year at McGill, and two weeks before I was to turn eighteen, I was busy filling out course applications for the fall semester. Sitting on the couch in my fathers den, the sun streaming in through the huge windows, it was your perfect early fall day. With a bit of help, my sixteen year old, arthritic best friend joined me on the couch, curling up in my lap. He adjusted himself, stretching, turning, attempting to garner full benefit of the sun streaming in from the window. And that is when Max met my eyes, licked my hand twice, let out a deep breath, and simply left this world behind.

I remember sitting with my dog in my lap for well over an hour, crying occasionally, but mostly not wanting to make the next move. The required "actions" of a death. When my mother came in the den, initially she didn't know. Though when she looked, and saw the face of her seventeen year old son crumple, she knew.

At age 39, and twenty years later, I still can't discuss that day at  length without the chin starting to shake and the voice betraying me. And as I'm finding, writing about it doesn't change that response. Though the feelings these memories generate are nothing but fond.

 

Sadly, I'll never know. Singher came into our life when she was a year and a half, therefore our only puppy picture of the insane canine is a poorly lit, fuzzy pound shot, one taken by the SPCA the first time she was adopted. To the wonderful, caring crack addicts who, when they moved the party to another flop house, left Singher behind. The poor girl was alone, pregnant, and with no food until rescued over a week later. But that, is a story for another day.

Much more interesting is the picture above. Because wouldn't you know it, that puppy is a Dalmatian / Lab cross at the tender age of six weeks. Evidently, this is how my insane canine would have looked in her diaper days. How do I know? Because Dr. H Dawson DVM, says so! Before you ask, I am composing the post evening highlights as you read this. Should be up soon.

This entry was originally written in Vancouver, Tuesday morning July 31/2007. It has been pre scheduled to post, just after midnight August 01/2007.

I read about this last night just before going to bed. Ironic that I'm here for a death in the family that I've hardly thought twice about, yet a pooch that I've never met, had me sniffling and rubbing my eyes, as if I was experiencing the death of my own dog! I guess in the world of special dogs and evil aunts, there's no accounting for taste.

A beautiful dog, a black lab named Jake, was put to sleep last week, by his loving owner, Mary Flood. But not until after a last stroll through the fields and a dip in the creek Jake used to swim in, just a few miles from their home near Oakley, Utah. The older canine was in too much pain at the end, and plagued with a 105-degree fever as he lay on the lawn.

And while no one will come right out and say it, if we look at the human equivalent of Jake, people are dying of exposure in record number. You may be thinking: "Exposure? Exposure to what?" Jake was exposed to the smoky air at ground zero, though cancer in dogs Jake's age - he was 12 - is quite common.

A specially trained rescue dog, Jake became a national canine hero after burrowing through white-hot, smoking debris in search of survivors at the World Trade Center site. He died Wednesday after his battle with cancer.

From the website, AOL News Report:

Some rescue dog owners who worked at the World Trade Center site claim their animals have died because of their work at ground zero. But scientists who have spent years studying the health of Sept. 11 search-and-rescue have found no sign of major illness in the animals.

The results of an autopsy on Jake's cancer-riddled body will be part of a University of Pennsylvania medical study of Sept. 11 search-and-rescue dogs. Flood had adopted Jake as a 10-month-old disabled puppy - abandoned on a street with a broken leg and a dislocated hip.

"But against all odds he became a world-class rescue dog", said Flood, a member of Utah Task Force 1, one of eight federal search-and-rescue teams that desperately looked for human remains at ground zero.

I'm sure Jake will be deeply missed by a few, but this special dog, once nothing more than an injured stray, will be remembered by thousands.