Found Online

There’s always something out there, online, that has a message for us in one way or another. We find things, or they find us, sent to us by online and offline conspirators, messages and pictures (which are worth, last I heard, a thousand words) that suddenly mean something significant.

I received one such picture last night.

The Killing Machine was in rare form yesterday. On her morning walk she stumbled upon a cat. There are a great many cats running loose around here, both pets and feral cats that live in the wildlife refuge in the middle of our complex. Cats everywhere. I, fortunately, was not there, but Andrew was.

Poor Andrew. I would not have wanted him to witness such an event.

Anyway, we steer her away from cats. We always keep her leashed in the complex because of the proliferation of fun things to chase. (Off-leash dog parks, for some reason, are remarkably devoid of little chaseable creatures such as cats and squirrels.) So she was on a leash. But the entered a heavily shaded area and didn’t see the cat that was there . . . until dog was close enough to cat to grab it.

And she did, because for some reason she’s gotten it into her little head that this is what she’s supposed to do. Her handler was beside himself as he tried to rescue the kitty (not technically, though if he had been it might have been helpful as he could have used the help), as he pulled the dog away (but dog had kitty firmly by the neck), as he, hopefully, smacked the offending dog. Kitty escaped, and ran off, though perhaps with a slight limp. Andrew looked for her, but could not find her. Dog was chastised severely. (I’m not sure Dog cared, since she enjoys a good cat chase.)

They came home. I heard about Dog’s exploits and looked at her with disgust. She smiled at me, pleased with herself as usual.

Then last night I received a picture from Stew that I had to show Dog. It was so appropriate for the situation. You’ve probably seen it. Dog had not.

Dog is rethinking her propensity for cats.

Terrorist Dogs

Investigation of procedures for taking a dog, specifically the one we know as Killer, into Hawaii, the state, not the state of mind, has yielded some interesting results. First of all, it is obvious that the enemy of Hawaii is the canine. I'm not sure why this is, though I'm certain it has to do with the canine harboring all sorts of nasty things in its blood that Hawaii does not want. That, or dogs are the new terrorists.

There's a quarantine of 120 days. One hundred and twenty days. This is obviously not a place where one takes their dog on vacation, unless one wants their dog to be quarantined not only for the length of one's vacation, but for months afterward. It is true that Killer has some annoying habits, but I'd miss her if she were . . . well, away.

Fortunately, there's an alternative. Isn't there always? It's part of our proliferation of choices. Option A is unsatisfactory, but don't worry - there's an Option B, a C, a D. There's the 5-DAY-OR-LESS Program. We have a checklist of required procedures to qualify for the 5-DAY-OR-LESS Program. It is not a short checklist. Three single-spaced pages tell us what we must do to get our dog into Hawaii in 5-DAYS-OR-LESS. I think, when I first glanced at it, I saw something about giving up my first-born child.

There is, at the top, a notice that resident dogs (and cats) originating from Hawaii and returning for the 5-DAY-OR-LESS program have a different checklist. Of course they do. Hopefully it is shorter, though if I were a canine and had managed to get INTO Hawaii in the first place, I doubt I would leave again, knowing the hell I'd have to endure to get back in.


Step 1: Vaccinations
This seems pretty reasonable. We do want our pets vaccinated, after all. Has my pet been vaccinated at least twice in her lifetime? (The actual wording refers to an "it," as in "in its lifetime," as if a dog were an it and not a he or a she, which tells me right off that they're second class citizens.) There are seven little checkboxes under this first step. Seven. And we're only on step 1. Vaccinations more than 90 days apart? Most recent vaccination not more than 12 months prior to pet's date of arrival OR not more than 18 months prior AND not less than 90 days prior to the date of arrival . . . I'm already confused. This goes on at some length.

Step 2: Microchip
This is vital. And the microchip number. Without this, the dog goes straight to 120 day quarantine. My dog HAS a microchip, somewhere, she came with one, but the number? Do I have that? I dunno. Maybe she has it in her personal records.

Step 3: OIE-FAVN Rabies Blood Test
Ah, now we're getting somewhere. This test must be done at an approved lab. There are two. Kansas State University or the DOD Food Analysis and Diagnostic Laboratory in Texas. Wait a minute. Food Analysis? FOOD ANALYSIS? This raises my suspicions, as I've never yet considered my dog to be anywhere in the food chain, except at the top, where she likes it just fine.

Step 4: Waiting Period
This is where it pays to be prompt. Early arrival means disqualification from 5-Day or Less quarantine and airport release. This is punctuated with exclamation marks so we know they're serious. There's a WARNING in bold, with an exclamation, that early arrival WILL result in disqualification, unless we weren't paying attention before. This is followed by an IMPORTANT!, which tells us when the waiting period begins (on the day the blood sample is received by the lab) and what the result must be.

I'm starting to think it would be a heck of a lot easier to get forged documents for my dog.

Step 5: Documents
Let's not even go here. There's five little check boxes. Passport, ID, affidavit of canine status. Good idea. I know my dog is often mistaken for, say, a chipmunk.

Step 6: Submission of Documents
First of all, we have to make sure they receive the documents 10 days or more before the dog arrives in Hawaii. This is so they can, no doubt, do an Interpol search just to make sure said dog is not wanted elsewhere. Documents must be sent overnight or tracked. Must have a completed Dog & Cat Import Form. Import form? A dog and cat import form? This must be notarized. Of course, why wouldn't it be?

And the cost is a bargain! Only $165 for direct airport release or $224 for 5-day-or-less program. In unmarked small bills.

Step 7: Other
Other what? There's more? Of course there is. We're still only on page two. Thirteen little checkboxes under this category. That's apparently where we throw in everything we hadn't mentioned before. Ah, this is where it becomes clear the difference between immediate release and 5-day-or-less. If your pet arrives between 8 pm and 8 am, he or she (not IT, as the checklist states) goes into the 5-day-or-less program. Apparently dogs arriving 8 am and 8 pm are not as dangerous as those traveling at night and can be immediately released PROVIDING THEY HAVE MET ALL THE QUALIFICATIONS LISTED IN THE PRECEDING 97 PARAGRAPHS.

Oh sure, I know they have their reasons. Small islands, once things get in there, difficult to get rid of, yada yada yada. But all the same . . . I can see why there'd be a black market in forged dog documents.

My dog is unconcerned with any of this. She knows if we go to Hawaii, she goes to Hawaii, and she won't have to worry about it. No, that's what we're here for. All she has to do is exist . . . lucky dog.

The Incredible Killing Machine

By which I mean the Illustrious and Infamous Honey. Sounds innocent enough, doesn’t she? Honey. Just 65 pounds of Chow Retriever, lots of fur and big brown eyes and, very polite under the most trying circumstances, well-mannered now and then, and everyone thinks she’s just soooooo cute.

They’ve never seen her go after a possum. Lucky them. I wish I hadn’t seen it either. This will take some recovery time.

So there we are, out for our 9:30 pm walk, which happens never on schedule and only occasionally at 9:30. The important thing is that we were out, at night, in the dark, alone. We were by the fenced off nature preserve that sits smack in the middle of our apartment complex. There’s a pond in there with ducks, and, I’m assuming, nature stuff. Which is why it’s a nature preserve. I don’t venture in there. Honey has ventured in there before, of her own volition and in direct violation of a direct order not to, but she’s never been particularly obedient. Anyway, we were close to the nature preserve and the outdoor pool, minding our own business. At least I was, minding my own business, but Honey was apparently minding someone else’s business.

She jerked on the leash. This happens when she sees something interesting, such as a cat. She likes cats, and we have a plethora of them. Usually I just jerk back on the leash, but this time there would be none of that. She was not to be deterred. She jerked the leash and it was either let go, or be pulled down. We’ve had a lot of rain and the ground was rather muddy. I let go, knowing I’d end up face first in the mud otherwise. Against the wall that encloses the pool area something was moving, and The Incredible Killing Machine was on it before I’d regained my balance. “It happened so quickly, officer, I didn’t see a thing!” It’s not just a cliché, really. Something with a prehensile tail, claws, light in color, was being vigorously shaken by The Machine.


At first I was afraid it was a cat. We have many cats roaming around loose, so many that management has said they’re going to have them rounded up and taken to our local animal sanctuary. But it did not look like a cat, at least not a normal cat. It looked like a rat, a large rodent. I have an irrational fear of rodents, so I didn’t want to get any closer than I was. And I’m not particularly interested in saving the life of a rodent. It was a large rodent though. I yelled at dog to drop it.

You can imagine how effective that was. The shaking continued. Dog did drop it, looked at it, then looked at me. She looked rather happy. And why not? Doesn’t this just sound like fun? Then she picked it up again and shook it, she waved it around, the poor thing would have suffered severe brain damage from shaken possum syndrome if nothing else, and then she dropped it again.

What was I doing while all this was going on? Several things, actually, despite my seeming indolence. Yelling, “Stop, Honey, put it down!” Wondering how close I could get without becoming a victim. Saying “oh, gross,” to myself. Losing my appetite. Pacing. Wondering if Honey was going to grab her prize and run off into the wilderness, which was just a few feet away, with it.

Honey dropped the possum again, then looked at me. It was obvious what she was thinking. She’s never actually caught anything before, and her primary concern at this point was, “Hey, mom, what do I do next? Do I eat it? Take it home? What?”

Since the flailing had, at least temporarily, ceased, I took the opportunity to find the end of her trailing leash, making sure I didn’t go anywhere near the dead or dying creature (what if it was only damaged?). I didn’t expect Honey to leave her victim easily, but she did. The possum was playing possum, or was dead, or was napping, or something, and Honey was content to walk away. She looked back a time or two, as if thinking about returning for her prize, but I never wavered. We left the possum.

Andrew and I returned later, to see if the possum needed to be disposed of, or if it did not. I took a quick look and returned to the safety of the car, just in case the supposedly dead possum should rise and attack. We left it there, and I phoned the management office and reported the murder, leaving out the fact that I was harboring the murderer in my apartment. Today the scene of the crime is quiet and there is no sign of the victim. No crime tape either, which leads me to suspect the police are not doing their job effectively, but that’s just as well, as I can’t really afford a defense lawyer for the hapless Honey right now.

Andrew took me out for dinner, to help me recover from the shock. A margarita was called for. Honey was left at home alone, to think about what she’d done, but I don’t think she did think about it, other than “Wow, that was fun!”

The Incredible Killing Machine is quite pleased with herself today. She assures me it’s not her last kill. I assure her it most certainly is.

Vera Does Not Like Grapes

This did not prevent her from asking for them twice. The first time I can understand. After all, anything I eat is obviously good enough for Vera. So she wanders over to where I'm working (as if she's coming over for something other than begging food off me) and looks at me with this big brown eyes. And waits.

So I hand her a grape. They're good grapes, she might like it. After all, she does like broccoli, and that's green also.

Vera takes the grape, puts it on the floor, then makes a show of doing something to it. I'm working, so I ignore her. A few minutes later, Vera looks up at me with those big brown eyes again, then glances at my grapes. Then back at me. Then back at the grapes. This is her classic "give me the goodies!" sign. I ask her if she's eaten the first one and she just keeps looking at me, then at the grapes, then back at me . . . I glance over at the floor but I see no grapes, so I give her another.

Silly me. I was assuming she was eating grapes. Vera assumed that even though the first one proved inedible, this did not mean that all of them were inedible. (Vera is very optimistic.)

Vera put the second grape with the first grape in what was starting to resemble a pile, once I looked in the right area, then came back for more. Look at me, look at grapes, look at me, look at grapes.

I'm not sure what Vera thought she was doing. She's mysterious, at best. Perhaps she had an idea to take a collection of grapes, build a structure out of them, perhaps have her own little grape mountain . . . I don't know. "You know," I tell her solemnly, "They all taste the same. This isn't like your snack crackers, where one tastes like liver, one like chicken, one like beef . . ." (so the packaging says, I've never tasted them myself), "No, these all taste the same."

While it was obvious Vera did not believe me, she eventually wandered off, leaving two forlorn grapes behind. I'm trying to figure out how I can write them off as a business expense.

The Dog Recreates Herself

Due to issues of breed discrimination, the dog no longer refers to herself as a Chow Retriever, or a Golden Chow, or anything that might indicate she's anything other than a goofy lovable mutt. She's a Retriever MIX. And what is she mixed with? Heck, we don't know. How're we supposed to know? Poor dog came from a rescue shelter, no telling where from.

My Retriever Mix.

I've advised her, when out in public, to keep her spotted purple tongue hidden as that may let people think she's some kind of Chow. This is why Dog does not go out on hot days when she's likely to be panting. Someone might spot that purple tongue and the secret would be out.

This drastic action is necessary because people are dumb.

Wait. While I do not regret that statement, I should probably clarify it, since not all people are dumb, and mostly they mean well, which is, I believe, how the road to Hell got paved, but that's a different matter altogether.

Some places discriminate against certain breeds of dogs. And with good reason, of course. Certain breeds tend to be a bit more aggressive, a bit scarier, a bit more likely to attack and eat moving targets that may be people. Or may not, but after the attack dog is done with it, it's difficult to tell. Chows are sometimes on that list. Can you believe it? Chows? This is no ordinary Chow however. She's a Chow RETRIEVER. (And yet her retrieving skills are very sad.) So when looking for an apartment, management may or may not have restrictions on breeds. (Assuming they take pets at all.) If Chows are included on their little list of "Dogs Who May Kill," she must have an interview first (previously discussed at a previous time). HOWEVER, if one says, "She's a Retriever Mix," which is the absolute truth, it's assumed she's one of the friendly lovable harmless dogs that no one fears, and we can avoid the impropriety of presenting a dog for an interview.

Dog has also recently lot a significant amount of weight. Not so's we'd notice however. When looking at apartment requirements recently one place has a restriction on size. (Many places have restrictions on size, as if those little toy things that people call dogs somehow don't
count.) The restriction was 60 pounds or less. Okay, she probably weights about 68.

I'm calling it 58. I think my dog can pass for 58 pounds. Most of her is fur anyway, so how can anyone tell? Of course, if they have her get on a scale at the interview, they might notice she's a bit over 60, but I can avoid that by claiming she has irrational fear of scales and they upset her far too much, the poor dog.

It's a sad society that makes even its dogs lie about their weight. Still, we must do what we must do in order to be accepted, right?

The remaking of the dog continues. She's now all caught up with idea that she can be anything she wants, anyone she wants, if only she has enough money for the surgery.

She's thinking of changing her name and getting something more dramatic too. Like Vera.

Next week we have an appointment with the dentist to see about getting her teeth capped.

Clipper Experiments: A Tail in Two Parts

Poor Dog. Subjected to my most ambitious experiments, she still falls for the old line, "C'mon, Honey, it'll be FUN!" Grooming the Dog and Fun do not belong in the same sentence together. This is a fact.

I bought some handy Oster clippers at the pet store a while back. Even while I stood waiting my turn at the cash register, I could hear Honey's tiny little scream in the back of my head . . . "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" But I did not listen. I forged ahead. Do you have any idea what it costs to get a dog like that groomed? She's half Chow, half Golden Retriever, with the chow's thick fur.

I am not a fan of instructions. I will read instructions if absolutely necessary, if forced to, but in most cases I will just learn on-the-job. This can be hazardous for certain tasks. Like electrical wiring, perhaps, which is why I don't do any of that. So I read enough of the instructions to get a comb thingie attached to the clippers, oiling them first.

Honey is not a big fan of buzzing objects. I don't know why this is. Perhaps she was scared by a loud buzzing object when she was a puppy. Maybe it's just annoying. Maybe the sight of me holding a buzzing object strikes terror into her little canine heart. I don't know. But she will cooperate somewhat, as long as I concentrate on the areas she wants me to concentrate on, and avoid the areas she wants me to avoid. I, however, do not believe in humoring her in this way. What? You don't want me to clip around your butt? Okay, that's where I want to then. You don't want to lose all that fur around your neck? Okay, off with it!

Every so often, or more frequently, she'll get up and wander off in a vain attempt to avoid the clippers. Since we're on a small deck and she can't escape back into the house, I just move closer to her. It's very aggravating to her, I'm sure, but we're really not there for her amusement, but for mine, so I don't care. She'll sit, or lay, and as I gently run the clippers through her fur, with tufts of it falling here and there, I can see her sighing to herself. It is a trial. But I am having fun! There is fur falling off in piles!

I do not read the instructions, nor do I have any training in this sort of activity. That is obvious from what is occurring with the poor dog. A portion of a back leg is clipped, so the fur there is white. A centimeter away, the fur is not clipped, so it long and golden. Her ruff is the same. It is not my fault. She was sitting quietly for a couple of minutes so I experimented with the ruff. I have discovered that when my dog's excessive ruff is reduced, she looks fatter. Let this be a lesson to us all: want to look thinner? Get a bigger neck.

I have been told that when I have worked on my dog it is embarrassing for her as the other dogs will point and laugh, but I don't think this is true. I don't think dogs CARE what they look like, and I don't think other dogs are that interested in what other dogs look like as much as they're interested in what they smell like. And my dog smells good. Well, she smells like a dog, but she's fine with that.

After being "groomed" rather haphazardly for awhile, Honey develops a new trick. She stands and she gets right up next to me. Since I'm sitting on my crossed legs, she's as big as I am, and she stands as close to me as she can get. A solid immoveable object jammed up against me. Awwww, my dog loves me! Well, yes, of course she does, but that is not the point of this particular exercise. The point of this particular exercise is to make sure I can't use the clippers on her anymore. How can I when she's jammed up next to me? I try pushing her away, but she won't move. She acts as if she doesn't know what's going on. As if she's there just to be close to me, as if she doesn't know what I'm trying to do . . .

The dog is stubborn. I think she gets it from me.

When we finish, it's not because we're finished, not by any stretch of the imagination. The dog is a patchwork quilt of uneven fur, choppy in some places, long and silky in others. And it's not because, despite the title, I have managed to clip her tale in two. It is because the job, to do properly, would take eight hours straight and I don't have the energy, the stamina, or the will to do so. Frankly, we're not that interested in perfection. That's boring. We're after a unique look, and I think we've achieved that. There is no other dog that looks like this, not once I've finished with her.

She stands alone, a testament to amateurism and on-the-job training. It's the American way.