Annoyance

So yesterday was Bob's made up 8th birthday. Made up because he's rescued and we don't know the exact date of his birth. But by the Delaware Humane Association's estimate, he was born close to Thanksgiving 2009.

We just got back from the long drive from Michigan after spending Thanksgiving with my parents. Over these last six years, my mom and dad have not been terribly impressed with Bob on our visits. He let loose his inner beagle and howled pathetically if I went out to see friends and left him in this unfamiliar house. He pestered visitors to distraction. He plied his awesome counter-surfing skills (see earlier post). And yes, once (ONCE! In 6 years!), he pooped in the house.

I always took it personally that they would criticize my dog. Well, it wasn't that much of a stretch to take it personally when they said "Oh Good Heaven's Carol, do something about this dog!" It's not like he was attacking or drawing blood, or even destroying the baseboard (which my brother's "perfect" dog did due to separation anxiety). He's just being the friendly, feeling dog he is.

Well, this year my parents admitted he's a good dog. He didn't stop howling or pestering or counter-surfing. He just stopped sooner than in the past, before it became a real annoyance. I assume this is a matter of just getting older and not having the energy to keep fighting for whatever you think, or thought, was important. And in the #MeToo era, you're deemed OK as long as you stop before you become a real annoyance.

"Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History"

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

Bob the Celebrity

Oof, busy day for Bob and for Bob's mom. One of my many errands today was to take Bob to the pet store to get his claws clipped. (Don't judge me, his claws are black and clipping is so challenging I give that to the professionals. I mean, I DO brush his teeth ya know!)So turns out I was a day late and a dollar short. Bob's rabies vaccine expired yesterday. YESTERDAY.  After 3 years? Really?? No  claw clip. AARRGH.

Actually, they call it a "nail trim" rather than a "claw clip." Seems they're really marketing for the dog pedicure with, and I kid you not, nail polish. Um, I love my dog, But there is no way I would subject him to celebrity owner arrogance with, oh for God's sake, nail polish. There is NO WAY I want to cart him around in a purse. Not just because that would be impossible -- can you imagine my chiropractic bills? But because what the eff is the point of having a dog in a purse??

Anyhow, this does make me think. I'm not a celebrity in my neighborhood. But Bob is. My neighbors and I are alike in that we know the names of the dogs we meet on a walk far better than the names of those who are walking them. And we fawn over them with petting and snuggles. Not that that's a bad thing. But why does our human nature drive us to do so?

Hmmmm. What IS celebrity? Why are we so drawn to it?

I have an idea. And the concept of celebrity enriches that idea. And I wouldn't have thought of that if it hadn't been for Bob.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

p.s. as of this afternoon, Bob is up to date on his rabies and all, vaccinations. Plus a baseline CBC since he's now 7 (aka my age, see previous post). And the vet said I was taking good care of his teeth. Yay.

Dog & People years

This morning, Facebook tossed me a picture from six years ago. It was Bob swimming in the exercise pool as part of the vet-sponsored Biggest Loser contest back when I first adopted him, back when he was dangerously obese. Bob is not a fan of water. But he DID win the contest! And has been a healthy weight ever since.

I adopted Bob on March 15, 2011. The Ides of March. Which is relevant only because that helps me remember the date. No stabbing involved. March 15 is now known as “Gotcha Day” and eminently worthy of celebration.

This Facebook thing reminded me that Bob is now well into his 7^th year (DHA and I reckon he was 1-1/2 years old when I got him). Last week, after one bag’s worth of denial, I finally purchased a bag of “Active Longevity” – Science Diet’s signal that your dog has moved into the next demographic. Great. He’s still a puppy-like goofball. But we all know where this is heading.

And I realize that Bob and I are the same age. In dog years, Bob’s in his mid fifties. A little grey. Delighted to sniff around the neighborhood and meet other dogs walking their people. Then go home for food and sleep. Occasional explosions of physical exercise (typically chasing the cat, or often with no discernable reason). Snuggle on the couch, then curl up in bed.

Ya know, except for the fact that I don’t greet my neighbors by sniffing their butts, that pretty much describes my mid fifties too.

I know where this is heading, Bob. You caught up to me in age, and now you’re gonna blow by me and just get, well, old. And you’re gonna show me how to do that. Meanwhile, you are not gonna pay any attention to that ticking clock. You are gonna wrestle with your little cat sister Penny because it’s fun for both of you. You will continue to scramble, SCREAM down the ubiquitous stairs of our house, until you have to take the stairs a little slower.

And I ain’t going quietly into that good night any more than you are, darlin’

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob

Oops. Bog posts out of order...

Today was the dreaded monthly heartworm/flea/whatever parasite treatment day.

Bob alone is not a problem. He trusts me not to hurt him when I hold him down to squirt the flea kerosene between his shoulders. I reckon that's the recommended spot because he can't lick it off. Which suggests it would not be such a good idea if he did lick it off. Which makes me wash my hands really well before I give him the yummy heartworm pill as a "reward."

With Penny, though...She's a sweetheart who wants my attention and cheek/neck skritchy skratches all the time but, well, she's a cat. So it has to be on her terms. One of which is that she always has an escape route. I'm happy to give her that, except when I have to part her between-the-shoulder-blades-fur once a month to administer that which a responsible cat owner must administer. Escape route closed until medical procedure done. Not to mention that said medical procedure requires access to less preferred part of her body. Needless to say, she emits pitiable cries worthy of Opera Delaware during the procedure. On release, she high tails it to her retreat. Where her box is. And throws a freakin rock&roll diva temper tantrum of litter ("It was drugs, what can I say"). 15 minutes later, she's back out for skritchy skratches.

Together, though, Bob is SUCH a good kid, and Penny so suspicious. Hmm. There's a lesson in here so, thanks Bob and Penny!

Bob's now 6 years old. Absurdly, I have stopped paying attention to his lesson, and rarely write to this blog. My bad.

I just got back from a week away, during which he was a a really great boarding place where he gets to play with and sniff at all the other dogs. I can even check on line how well my dog is socially doing, Bit of a worry...he seems to skirt around the outside. But whatever. He's good.

A week away is a long time. He kinda didn't know what to do about me at first. Plus, Penny had had the glorious run of the house for a week. We all are reestablishing our roles in our household.

And then, Thunder. And Hail. I hugged Bob as we watched the iceballs pellet our back patio. And with my assurance, he relaxed.

My trip was time with my parents and with my dear high school friends. All of us have been through the wringer of life. Thunder and Hail. But... Hugs and caring help. Always.

Disruption is difficult. But it knocks me out of complacency and  reminds me to be grateful.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob

Chirp

The battery in one of my smoke detectors faded so it started to chirp. Thankfully this was at 9 pm instead of 4 am. Yeah, you know how that goes. The chirping really doesn’t wake you up. But it totally freaks out the dog. So I replaced the batteries and the chirping stopped.

Bob is still a little bit freaked.  Unsettled.  He’s staying close, and I reach down to nuzzle his muzzle.

And I realize that I’m a little bit freaked too. How much we are connected, how much he needs me. And how much I need him to need me. 

It’s been kinda weird lately – so many people ask how old Bob is. They think he’s a puppy, because his big paws look like something he needs to grow into.  But he’s almost six. That’s like serious middle age for a dog.

And recently, so many of my friends who are dog parents have had to deal with the thing you sign up for when you bring a dog into your life. My heart breaks for them. I’ve been there. And will be again.

Shit. He’s six. I’m starting to hear the chirping. I know we still have several years together. But I also know where this is ultimately gonna end up.

Bob, oh gosh, I’m just not sure the pain is worth it. But, here we are. So I guess we decided it is.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.