a time like that. I was clapping my hands and squealing like the six wild balls of fur at my feet. If I could design my afterlife, it would be populated with puppies, specifically Jack Russell puppies, no disrespect to the other breeds. The puppies would be born in heaven, not taken from earth, because that would be sad. Tabasco was the runt, getting tackled and sideswiped by the pack but persevering. We lifted her out of the melee and she wiggled joyfully in our arms. She was a happy puppy until we drove down the gravel road and past the wooden gate, at which point she let out a long mournful howl, followed by another. Aliens in a Volkswagen spacecraft were abducting her. Where were her brothers and sisters?
I’m no pet psychic but I
am
an only child, and I recognized alienation when I saw it under that bed in Tampa. There was only one thing that could draw her out. Food. Food changed everything for us. Tabasco got a bonus meal in the middle of the night. She looked up at me with love while she chewed. Not love for her master, because I fawned too much to ever gain that distinction. It was love for a long-lost littermate, a partner in play, a source of body heat for cold nights, and a really big dog that had her back and would never go away. It was what we both were missing.
My roll-aboard suitcase became her exclusive dog bed for the week. I pimped it out with a pillow and threw in my dirty socks for that lived-in aroma dogs crave. I moved the easy chair and ottoman to the window, giving her a two-hop viewing stand of the occasional bird flying by. We enjoyed many walks along the nearby creek and an up-close armadillo encounter that stirred her killer instinct and made her tail quiver with excitement. But for Tabasco, nothing compared to kissing Tennille in that special way reserved for the Captain. It was a bold move from a creature of habit turned adventure seeker. Tampa was our territory. Now we roam new lands as a small but fierce pack of two, masters of our destiny. She anticipates each voyage before I start packing. She sits by the suitcases before the airport shuttle arrives. Howling is in the past. All we hear is the call of Tennille.
I will, I will, I will, I will
Be there to share forever
Love will keep us together
[ In antique photos, only the dogs still seem alive.—Dan Liebert ]
Dog Mad
[Lee Harrington]
W ELL, IT HAS finally happened, as I feared it would. I have officially become a Crazy Dog Lady. How can I say for sure? Well, just last weekend, at the local dog run, I was chatting with my fellow dog parents about the usual subjects—anal sacs, diarrhea, undescended testicles, and the like. And I thought it perfectly fine—even appropriate—to announce that my dog’s breath had begun to smell like urine. “I follow that Berkeley-water-conservation rule, to, you know, not flush every time, unless it’s necessary, and I forgot to put down the lid. With Ted gone, there’s no one to crab at me about putting it down. So when my dog came up to give me a kiss, there was this awful smell, and I knew what he had done. I knew he had drunk—”
Slowly, my fellow dog parents backed away.
Even the man who was just, not minutes before, describing, in excruciating detail, the contents of his Terrier’s most recent Riverside Park vomit (“Cigarette butts! Part of a Cuban sandwich! Even some partially digested human feces”); even he put his dog’s leash on and hurried off, stiffly, like Charlie Chaplin, as if I were a disease he might catch.
I was left standing alone, in a cloud of dust, wondering how it had happened. And so quickly! I was only in my third decade, and had had my dog only four years. I didn’t even get a chance to tell them that the urine drinking was a onetime incident. That I had learned my lesson and now flushed. But it was too late. I had been pegged.
Meanwhile, far, far away, from across the run, I heard someone bring up the subject of bull pizzles. And I thought: What
I’m no pet psychic but I
am
an only child, and I recognized alienation when I saw it under that bed in Tampa. There was only one thing that could draw her out. Food. Food changed everything for us. Tabasco got a bonus meal in the middle of the night. She looked up at me with love while she chewed. Not love for her master, because I fawned too much to ever gain that distinction. It was love for a long-lost littermate, a partner in play, a source of body heat for cold nights, and a really big dog that had her back and would never go away. It was what we both were missing.
My roll-aboard suitcase became her exclusive dog bed for the week. I pimped it out with a pillow and threw in my dirty socks for that lived-in aroma dogs crave. I moved the easy chair and ottoman to the window, giving her a two-hop viewing stand of the occasional bird flying by. We enjoyed many walks along the nearby creek and an up-close armadillo encounter that stirred her killer instinct and made her tail quiver with excitement. But for Tabasco, nothing compared to kissing Tennille in that special way reserved for the Captain. It was a bold move from a creature of habit turned adventure seeker. Tampa was our territory. Now we roam new lands as a small but fierce pack of two, masters of our destiny. She anticipates each voyage before I start packing. She sits by the suitcases before the airport shuttle arrives. Howling is in the past. All we hear is the call of Tennille.
I will, I will, I will, I will
Be there to share forever
Love will keep us together
[ In antique photos, only the dogs still seem alive.—Dan Liebert ]
Dog Mad
[Lee Harrington]
W ELL, IT HAS finally happened, as I feared it would. I have officially become a Crazy Dog Lady. How can I say for sure? Well, just last weekend, at the local dog run, I was chatting with my fellow dog parents about the usual subjects—anal sacs, diarrhea, undescended testicles, and the like. And I thought it perfectly fine—even appropriate—to announce that my dog’s breath had begun to smell like urine. “I follow that Berkeley-water-conservation rule, to, you know, not flush every time, unless it’s necessary, and I forgot to put down the lid. With Ted gone, there’s no one to crab at me about putting it down. So when my dog came up to give me a kiss, there was this awful smell, and I knew what he had done. I knew he had drunk—”
Slowly, my fellow dog parents backed away.
Even the man who was just, not minutes before, describing, in excruciating detail, the contents of his Terrier’s most recent Riverside Park vomit (“Cigarette butts! Part of a Cuban sandwich! Even some partially digested human feces”); even he put his dog’s leash on and hurried off, stiffly, like Charlie Chaplin, as if I were a disease he might catch.
I was left standing alone, in a cloud of dust, wondering how it had happened. And so quickly! I was only in my third decade, and had had my dog only four years. I didn’t even get a chance to tell them that the urine drinking was a onetime incident. That I had learned my lesson and now flushed. But it was too late. I had been pegged.
Meanwhile, far, far away, from across the run, I heard someone bring up the subject of bull pizzles. And I thought: What
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