In Between

Wow. Crazy Bob Mom to post so soon. Was told something today that puts me "In Between" again. Uncomfortable. But Bob, You're resilient. And I just need to be in the in between. Just breathe. Wow. This Sucks. Ok. Breathing,,,

Good Lesson.  Thanks Bob.

Pee and Matter

Nerd side comment...energy and matter are related by the expression e=mc^2.  Energy IS matter.

So I was walking Bob this morning. As always, he pees big time as soon as we're outside. And for the rest of the walk (giving him time to poop) he sniffs aggressively and lifts his leg everywhere. Even after I inform him that the tank is empty. Instinctively, he needs to leave a mark.

As a rescue dog, Bob is obviously "fixed". Will not procreate. I too have been "fixed". I alluded in an earlier post that a "bunch of shit" happened two dogs ago. OK, so here's the deal. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. You do not mess with ovarian cancer. So I was "fixed". Ten years later, medical science had advanced and my particular tumor was re-diagnosed as "benign." Um, great. A little late, guys.

Rest assured, I have not taken to peeing on the sidewalk. But I DO leave a mark on this world, even without kids.

Be Like Bob lesson: I matter

Good lesson. Thanks Bob.

Bob's Foreleg

No witty, insightful essay this time. I just snapped this picture last night because I was marvelling at how muscular Bob's front leg is. Jeez. No wonder he's such a tank!

Resilence

Our schedules were a little kerflewy yesterday…I took the day off, and had an appointment 3-5 pm yesterday. Bob isn’t used to me being home all day, and then leaving around walk/dinner time. As I left the house, his desperate howls broke my heart. But I knew he’d settle down. And by the time I came back, he was happy to see me, none the worse for wear.

Now, perhaps he’s just blessed with limited memory (I might have to run him through the games/tests on Dognition.com to find out.) But I don’t think that’s it.

I think Bob has the gift of resilience – to be able to adapt to change, to redirect his loyalties, and to love the one you’re with.

 

As you know, I adopted Bob from the Humane Society a couple years ago. At a time when I was emotionally bleeding out. God knows what stress pheremones I was spewing out at him. I gotta think he had his own stress spew going. At 1-1/2 years old, his first family dropped him off. Into a place of concrete and chain link and strange, stressed, noisy dogs. And never came back.

Yet, he toddled up to me in the meet-‘n-greet area with no residue of such loss, such hurt.

It only took him maybe 36 hours to adapt to my home. I should say, the house. “Home” no longer applied.  And when we moved to an apartment a year later – OK, the first night he barked at every noise, but by Day Three he pooped right on the sidewalk like any self-respecting City Dog. (I picked it up of course – see earlier post)

Granted, he has his moments of separation anxiety – reference yesterday’s howling. And, as soon as he hears my key in the door, he gets a bit excited. And does a number on the wall/molding. (Eh, might hit my security deposit. Or maybe just some spackle & paint.)

But generally, Bob is content with his not-so-new-anymore-life, as long as he can curl up in contact with his mom from time to time.

While I’m not emotionally hemorrhaging 24/7 any more, I still have spells of missing my old life, flawed as it was.

Be Like Bob Lesson – Change can be good. But ya gotta leave the baggage behind.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

Welcome Home Bob...Again

Bob came into my life on the Ides of March 2011. I had been stabbed in the back, and at the time wasn’t sure if I would survive. OK, beyond that the Julius Caesar reference just falls apart. Whatever.  At least I know that March 15 is Bob’s and my anniversary.

So, I missed our anniversary this year because I was on a business trip plus a side trip to visit my parents. Which meant that Bob had a rather lengthy stay in purgatory. Kennel operators (at least the ones I frequent!) are wonderful to and for their charges. Still, every dog  is deliriously insanely happy when it turns out that this unexplained exile is not in fact permanent. One may think that shelter dogs exhibit this desperation more acutely, but that does not jibe with my long experience of springing many dogs from jail. Rather, I think it’s a fundamental pack mentality shared by all dogs – Pack Leader Is Back! We Are Saved!

Still, it would be flattering if on his release, Bob focused entirely on me (as Pack Leader) and knocked me over so he could shower me with kennel-biscuit-scented kisses while all the kennel staff and other dog parents looked on approvingly at our bond. I have had dogs that do stroke my ego that way. But, well, that’s not Bob’s style.

I reckon he just knows that exile is bad, something changes, and change can only be good. He enters the lobby where a cacophony assaults his exile-dulled senses.  People! Toys! Dogs! Bags of Food! And oh-for-the-love-of-God-my-freaking-brain-is-going-to-explode. CATS!

I have mentioned earlier that Bob provides quite the upper body workout as this tank of a dog jerks in all directions. Said chaos is documented in the illegible signature on the nearly $500 credit card slip for his foray in exile. OK, we covered all his medical expenses for the year too. And when I line that up relative to my medical deductable, considering both the physical and emotional services he delivers – well, he’s a pretty good deal for the money.

And that signature. My signature. It flows so much more naturally from my hand than did the name I assumed for a decade while I tried to be someone I wasn’t. I realize that even the handwriting in my journal – actually, my 11 volumes of journals that breathed for me these two painful years -- has been so cramped, so scratchy. I too have been in exile.

So Bob, you’ve come back from exile that you did not understand.  I am here to hold you. You are home.

And I am home too. Back to my name. Back to me.

Good Lesson, Thanks Bob.

Countersurfing

Update Sept 12, 2014:
Sad to report that Zeus has crossed the rainbow bridge to the big Kitchen Counter in the Sky.

http://news.yahoo.com/video/world-tallest-dog-dies-age-005028083.html

RIP, Zeus

Admit it, if your dog is big enough, he or she countersurfs. It’s in the dog code of ethics – Go Where Food Is. And kitchen counters are always a good bet. Some better-trained dogs are discreet about it, waiting until you leave the house. But the evidence on the floor is irrefutable – the empty donut box, the licked-clean take out container with teeth marks, and on unfortunate occasions, broken glass.

Bob? Not so discreet. He basically shoves me out of the way while I’m cooking. So I push the food further away from the edge of the counter and shove back. Eventually we reach a truce – which means I put some morsel in his food dish. Despite being an indulgent dog owner, this is the one area I do not budge – no people food fed by hand. Ever. OK, unless I’m training him and using carrots as a reward. (Man, he loves carrots!)

Thing is, Bob was not blessed with the physical attributes that would typically position him as a champion countersurfer. Not like Zeus, the world’s tallest dog from my proud home state of Michigan.

  This guy OWNS the counter. Not a surprise there’s not much on it.

And then there’s Bob who, fully extended, can barely rest his chin on the counter’s edge. And yet, his countersurfing skills are prodigious. If Zeus is the Manute Bol of countersurfing, Bob is Spud Webb. Because he makes use of what he DOES have. Big paws to get a solid grip. Tank-like build to push himself into the best leveraging point (usually by pushing me out of it). And last but not least, a preternaturally long, giraffe-like tongue. He tips his head to the side to maximize his reach and laps toward his target until he finally makes contact and lures it in.

It would be funny if I hadn’t lost so many dinners before I realized that, despite his small stature, nothing within 10 inches of the edge is safe.

Gotta admit, I admire his resourcefulness.

Be Like Bob Lesson: Don’t assume someone’s not good at something just because they don’t appear to be cut out for it.

Be Like Bob Corollary: Use what ya got.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

Bob the Musher and Bob the Rock

I have mentioned that I walk Bob twice a day. Actually, “drag” would be the more accurate term. Sometimes Bob is dragging me because he sees or smells something interesting up ahead – another dog-walker, a bit of food, a bug. Let’s call this “Musher mode”. More often I am dragging Bob because he has discovered a particularly interesting smell that he wants to savor. Let’s call this “Rock mode”.

Musher mode isn’t too bad, unless it’s slippery out. I’m pretty good at holding back that tide. Rock mode is a little more difficult. You see, Bob weighs about 35 pounds, of which approximately 68 pounds is muscle. He also has very large paws. So when he really plants himself over an intriguing scent, he exerts somewhere north of 300 pounds of resistive force against the pull of the leash. Of course, I could easily just pick him up and move him on his way. But dragging him shows him who’s boss! OK, that's delusional. So how 'bout this -- dragging him gives me an upper body workout for free. Multitasking!

There are some physical hazards associated with this. A couple months ago I developed pain at the lower end of my right bicep due to the habit of dragging him with a bent arm. The doctor said it was some sort of muscle strain or tendonitis or whatever (I leave the diagnosis to the “real” doctors out there.) So now I drag with a straight arm, and alternate my leash-holding hand, thus giving each shoulder a nice stretch. The other hazard springs from the fact that Bob switches from musher mode to rock mode and back to musher mode with random, nanosecond transitions.  Said nicely-stretched shoulders are at perpetual risk of being pulled from their sockets.  Not to mention balance, which means I need to keep my core abdominal muscles on high alert throughout. It is a full, multitasking upper body workout.

These drag hazards take on new dimensions when Bob joins me on a jog. Or should that be a drog? Yes, I like that. Hazard Class One: unlike walking, when one jogs there are moments when neither of one’s feet are in contact with the earth. Hazard Class Two: Bob is so excited to be going further afield that the musher/rock transitions are a) much more frequent and b) no longer one dimensional. The mush forward/rock back pattern of a walk becomes mush forward/rock left/mush right/rock back/mush left etc. So not only am I less steady due to being intermittently airborne, I am also buffeted by the shifting gusts of force transmitted through the leash. Not to mention the occasional "rock forward", when I nearly trip over him. Eventually he settles in and is a great jogging companion. But that first mile, when I am simultaneously airborne, buffeted and navigating uneven sidewalks and/or potential slick spots is, ahem, challenging. Bonus points if I’m also juggling a bag of poop in all this. And, the first mile of my favorite drogging route is uphill. (Could use some mush forward help here, Bob!) Takes a lot of effort, both in the brain and in the core. No wonder my heart rate soars well above the zone that my Polar heartrate monitor has decided is “target” for a woman of my years.

But I do it because it’s good for my health and I enjoy how much Bob loves these drags and drogs. I appreciate that they are the Today Show and the Evening News of Dog World. New pee on the retaining wall! Unfamiliar person and potential friend at 12 o’clock! Greasy fast food container abandoned on grass! A cat crossed This Sidewalk! At This Spot! These stories and more on Channel O! K! Nine! (wait for it…aaaaannnd…groan)

And it occurs to me – why do I feel the need to keep moving ahead, to “make progress”, especially at risk to limb and perhaps life, when Bob clearly has an entirely different take on it?

BLB Lesson: stop and smell the news. Or in more human terms, take time to pay attention to what’s right under your nose.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.