Category: Annie the dog

C is for Crate, as in Annie’s apartment

When Annie and her brother Chico were little, less than 20 pounds combined, they shared a little crate in the den, then moved to the laundry room. All the dog-training books recommended crate training, so we did it, and they adapted well. We had our ritual. I would lure them out to the laundry room with Milk-Bones, turn on the Tiffany lamp I placed on the washing machine for a night light, wish them good night and quickly close the door. At first, they whined to come back in, but eventually they would settle down. God help the person who opened that door because they would zoom back into the house and we’d have to do the good-night ritual again. In the morning, I’d open the door and they’d come running, ready for breakfast.

When we traveled, I put the crate in the car. It kept the dogs out of trouble, and they seemed to feel safe there.

As they grew, I got a bigger crate, which they still shared. But these were not destined to be little dogs. Eventually I bought a second crate. For months, they still slept together, but one morning I discovered Chico had moved next door. They slept in their side-by-side crates until Chico ran into trouble and I had to give him away.

Annie still sleeps in her crate when I’m not home or when she isn’t feeling well. She has a doggie door now, so she can go out whenever she wants–although she usually waits for me to go with her. Over the years, the crate has taken a beating. Annie and Chico were chewers. They chewed up the opening of the crate so that the door no longer fits on it. And Annie likes a messy bed. If I put her blankets in neatly folded, she will push them around with her nose until they’re a big ball of wool with the edges sticking out.

When I’m home, she now sleeps in the house, either on one of the big chairs or on her pink and white blankets on the floor. The laundry room was a good idea until the temperature dropped below freezing for weeks at a time, and the crate was just too big to bring into the house. The laundry room is only partially finished and gets almost as cold as outside, so I let her sleep inside. We tried sharing my bed, but we kept each other awake, so she sleeps in the living room, and I sleep in my room. But that beat-up crate is still there, just the way she likes it, stinky, messy, dark and private.

C is for crate. Where does your dog sleep? 

This is Day 3 of the A-Z Blogging Challenge. Each day in April except Sundays we are writing posts corresponding to letters of the alphabet. Because I have several blogs, my alphabet posts will appear in different places on different days. Here’s the schedule. 

A Newsletter–A is for Annie
B Childless by Marriage–B is for Baby
C Unleashed in Oregon
D Writer Aid
E Unleashed in Oregon
F Unleashed in Oregon
G Unleashed in Oregon
H Childless by Marriage
I Unleashed in Oregon
J Writer Aid
K Unleashed in Oregon
L Unleashed in Oregon
M Unleashed in Oregon
N Childless by Marriage
O Unleashed in Oregon
P Writer Aid
Q Unleashed in Oregon
R Unleashed in Oregon
S Unleashed in Oregon
T Childless by Marriage
U Unleashed in Oregon
W Writer Aid
X Unleashed in Oregon
Y Unleashed in Oregon
Z Unleashed in Oregon

More than 1300 other bloggers have signed up for the challenge. Check out the list at kmdlifeisgood.blogspot.com/p/under-construction.html. You might find some great new blogs to follow. I know I will. Find out what D stands for tomorrow at Writer Aid.

Walking Through the Seasons in South Beach

 I have been walking this road since my late husband Fred and I moved to South Beach in 1998. For the first eight years, I walked it with our dog Sadie and sometimes with Fred. Now I walk it with Annie. This road, officially 98th Street, was once known as Thiel Creek Road. Where the pavement ends, it forks into an upper and lower branch. We adopted Annie on the lower branch from a family that had two litters of puppies. The house is vacant now, but when we walk down there, Annie, who will turn 6 on Feb.16, still pauses to listen and smell and perhaps to remember. There’s something about this place . . .

Although I’ve worn out several pairs of shoes on this road, I’m still not tired of it. There’s always something new to see. Last week it was a new layer of rocks that bruised my feet right through my sturdy shoes. I also saw fresh deer tracks in the mud. The Scotch broom is tall and green now. It will soon sprout flowers so yellow they light up the sky. Wildflowers will follow and then wild blackberries which Annie and I will eat off the vines.

Paths lead off into the trees and shrubs. The ones we took with Sadie are overgrown, and some are blocked with concrete barricades, but a new path carved out by road workers a few years ago parallels the backs of the homes on Cedar Street, turning back around to Cedar at a wide viewpoint overlooking a ravine and the airport beyond. The path is isolated. I study the paw and hoofprints on the ground, seeing many dog prints and tennis shoes but also signs of deer, coyote, and bears. Annie and I both keep our senses alert here, ready to react if another creature appears.

Man leaves his mark, too. Unlike the street, where I can always find hamburger wrappers, empty cigarette packs, and Starbuck’s cups, the paths are usually clear of litter. But I see big yellow Caterpillar tractors parked along the road and muddy scars where they have carved out openings in the trees and brush. When we first moved here, we were told that the property owner–and yes, someone does own this wilderness–had plans to build a housing development and golf course resort. It hasn’t happened. We have also heard that the airport might build a new entrance off 98th Street, which would add a great deal more traffic, but that hasn’t happened either. The tree line has moved farther east, trees ripped off their stumps and carted away for lumber. But new growth sprouted up in their places.

If there is any sun, it shines on this path. Sometimes in late afternoon, we see the moon above the trees. We rarely see any other people or animals, but when we do, I wave and they wave back. The seasons of nature and of our lives change, but we continue to walk this road, rain or shine, and we always notice something new.

THIS is how you bathe a dog


A while back, I posted here about “How Not to Bathe a Dog”. Annie had gotten into something smelly, and I had tried to wash her off in my bathroom. As you can read in detail at that post, I wound up naked in a tub full of fur and stink while she remained on the floor. I got so frustrated I washed her out there, ignoring the fact that the water was rising and starting to trickle toward the bedroom. I wound up with a big mess and a sore back. Bad idea.

More recently, on my first day back from my vacation, I was out front washing the mud and bugs off my car when I foolishly decided it would be okay to let the dog hang out with me. Of course when I opened the door, she sprinted across the street and out of sight. Luckily we live in the middle of nowhere so there’s no traffic and she never goes very far. I continued washing my car. When the dog showed up a half hour later, covered with Thiel Creek mud, I grabbed her collar with one hand and turned the hose on her with the other. I know the water was cold and she’s scared of the hose, but I was not in the mood to mess around. Effective but heartless.
Last week, I faced another dog-washing situation. Annie had been scratching for days. Every time I looked at her, she was either scratching or twisted around staring at her tail. Her butt and legs were wet and red. Unacceptable. We’ve done the vet routine with oral and topical medications and changing her diet to see if she has a food allergy. Expensive and ineffective. Apparently she’s hypersensitive to fleas. I sat with Annie for a while, plucked a flea off her paw despite using the expensive flea gunk, and decided a bath might help. But no hoses, no wrestling in my pink bathtub.
I called a groomer to see if I could get her in, but they didn’t call back. I loaded Annie into the car, drove by the groomer’s on my way to the Post Office, and discovered that, in the typical way of Oregon Coast businesses, they were closed on a Thursday afternoon. Why? I don’t know. The sign on the shop next door said THEY were at the beach.
So, I leashed up my dog and we went to Moondoggy, a doggy daycare and spa in Newport that offers facilities for owners to wash their dogs. It’s like a car wash for our four-legged loved ones. It was great! The woman there led Annie up three steps into a big tub, closed the door, harnessed her up so she couldn’t run away and got the water started at just the right temperature. She directed me to a shelf full of shampoos, rubber scrubbers, and towels, and left us to have fun.
To my amazement, my big nervous mutt stood calmly as I wet and soaped and rinsed her body, even her private parts and her head. She may even have liked it. I know I did. Quality time with the pooch, washing away her troubles (I hope). When she was clean, I rubbed her dry with a big towel much thicker and more absorbent than any of the towels I own. Afterward, she nibbled dog treats while I paid $10. Now my dog smells good, her fur is soft, and she’s scratching much less. That night, feeling better, she relaxed into a deep sleep in my lap. Such a deal. Moondoggy rules. THAT’S how to wash a dog.
My dad says when he lived on the ranch in San Jose, they used to have places like Moondoggy to wash the horses. The only difference was they played music to keep the horses calm. Good idea for next time.
Do you have dirty dog-dog-washing experiences you’d like to share? I’d love to hear them.

How not to bathe a dog

It started with a discarded McDonald’s cup on the side of the road. A big plastic one. Annie grabbed it in her teeth, did a U-turn and started trotting toward home. Okay, I didn’t want a long walk anyway.
The contents looked like water and a lump of what might be dirt. It had rained briefly in the morning. I figured it was perfectly safe, unlike the various coffee and chocolate drinks she has picked up in other discarded cups. I laughed as she hurried along, cup clenched in her teeth, liquid sloshing out on her face and chest. So determined, so darned cute, doing her part for recycling.
It wasn’t until we got to our back yard and I unleashed the dog and took away the cup that I smelled it. Whatever was in that cup reeked something awful. Skunk spray would smell better. As I took the cup, the rest of the contents spilled out, and Annie started rolling in it. And rolling in it. And rolling in it. Oh Lord, such a smell.
I threw the recyclable cup in the garbage can, wanting to get as far away from it as possible, then pondered what to do about my dog, whose new name is Stinky. I had never bathed her, always left it to the professionals at the kennel, but now in addition to reeking of eau de awful, her tan fur was streaked with mud from all that rolling in the dead-leaf area under the trees. It was already past dinnertime, but a bath was required.
I had once tried to clean her with the garden hose, but the cold-water spray scared her so badly I can’t even water the flowers now without her bolting for safety. But a nice warm bath in the house ought to be less frightening.
Okay, I can do this, I thought. I dug in the cupboard and found an ancient bottle of anti-itch shampoo the vet gave us for a previous dog. Like that dog, Annie had itchy skin, so this would help that, too. I prepared the bathtub by putting down the non-slip mat, pulling down the spray nozzle and warming the water. I grabbed the sponge from the kitchen sink to be converted into a permanent dog sponge. Then I lured Old Stinky into the bathroom with Milk-Bones and closed the door. She started getting suspicious.
The water was a perfect temperature. I wouldn’t mind soaking in it. But how would I get this 80-pound smell-factory into it? I put cookies on the edge. She gobbled them up and backed toward the door. I patted the side. “Come on, it’s warm. You like water. Look.” No go. I had to get this dog washed. I soaked the sponge and rubbed it on the dog. Okay. I did some more. She was starting to get wet. I squeezed some blue shampoo out of the bottle and rubbed it into the fur on her back. Sudsy. I scrubbed it in. Okay. She was used to getting shampooed at the kennel. Of course they had a dog-sized tub and a noose-thing to keep her in it, and we were still on the floor.
More shampoo. More rubbing. So sudsy. Too sudsy. How could so little shampoo create so many suds? How the heck was I going to get this gunk off her fur? She had to get into the tub, but so far that wasn’t happening. Okay. How about this? I kicked off my shoes, stripped off my socks, pants and underpants and got into the tub naked from the waist down. I knelt in the murky water where patches of tan fur floated like ice floes and beckoned my sudsy dog. “Come on, it’s great.” Not moving. I grabbed her slippery front legs and pulled. “Come on.” Nope.
I was squatting in a half-full tub of fur, dog shampoo and stink, and she was standing on my pink bathmat covered in suds. If another human lived here, perhaps he/she could have helped me lift the mega-dog into the water, but it was just me and Stinky. Screw it. I grabbed the spray nozzle and aimed it at the dog, letting water, shampoo and dirt flood the bathroom floor, soaking the flowered linoleum, the bathmat, my shoes and the scale. As the water rose, it trickled toward the carpet in the bedroom. This was not good for any of these things, but I got enough of the suds off the dog and toweled off the rest as she strained toward the door. Now she smelled of shampoo, with an undertone of the stink, but it was tolerable.
With aching back, I rose, opened the door and let her bolt toward freedom as I blotted up the flooded bathroom with five of my best towels and scrubbed out the tub with multiple layers of Comet cleanser.
Okay, done. Tomorrow I’d go to Fred Meyer and buy her a new collar; the old one was going in the trash. It was finally time for our belated dinner. As I pulled out leftover chicken and salad makings, I looked out the window. There was my dog, rolling in the dirt.
There has to be a better way.

We Meet the Monster in the Forest

The bushes rustled and shook. Something big was in there. And it was coming our way. Annie froze. I looked around. Nothing but trees, shrubs, birds and field mice for a half mile in any direction. Newport Airport to the north, trees to the east, more trees to the south, houses too far away to the west. No humans close enough to save me from whatever it was. It might be a deer, an elk, a cougar or a bear. All have been seen in the area, although not usually in mid-afternoon. We hikers are instructed to remain calm, keep talking, and fluff ourselves up as big as possible to convince the animal that we are more scary than they are. If that doesn’t work, duck and cover and hope to survive. Having an unpredictable dog with you does not help.
I tugged on Annie’s leash. “Come on. Come on. We have to get out of here.” She moved an inch at a time, too scared to walk. The creature was coming closer. Sweating under my tee shirt and hoodie, my heart pounding, I continued trying to drag my dog toward the safety of the road. But we weren’t fast enough. The creature was coming out, coming out, here it was.
Oh. “I thought you were a bear!” I exclaimed to the Mexican man with a giant bouquet of salal leaves balanced on his shoulders. I don’t think he understood a word. I tried to form a sentence in Spanish. I knew “oso” was bear, but I couldn’t figure out the verb tenses to say I was afraid.
Annie stared, her tail between her legs, still afraid. To her, he looked like a man with no head, just a bunch of leaves. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I told her as Leaf-Man went by us, soon followed by a leaf woman with another big bunch of greenery. The two work for the company near our home that sells greens to florists to put in bouquets with roses, carnations and other flowers. Several times a week, a giant truck backs up to the dock at 98th and 101 to be filled up with bundles of leaves they gather from the wilderness areas around South Beach.
Yesterday, when I saw the bushes moving again in the same general area, it occurred to me that THIS might be a bear, but I doubted it. Sure enough, another man emerged with a big bundle of leaves. He was wearing hip-high rubber boots. Annie didn’t like the looks of it at all, especially when he hefted the leaves up over his head and walked by us. But I had my camera this time, so I snuck a picture of the fabled Leaf-Man.
Someday the rustling in the bushes might be a bear, especially when all those blackberry vines full of flowers start producing fruit. If so, I hope Leaf-Man is nearby. That ought to scare any old bear.

Barks in the Night

1:30 a.m. Deep sleep for the first time in a week. Barking. Barking. Barking. As I gradually swim back to consciousness, I realize this is not just making-noise barking. There’s something out in the yard. Fresh from our recent bear sighting, I peel myself off the sheets and hurry barefoot to the door.
I can’t see Annie, but I hear her doing her fiercest I’m-going-to-kill-you bark. Oh, Lord.
It’s dark, clouds obscuring any moon or stars. I can’t see anything, but Annie is under the table at the west end of the deck. Between barks, I hear something else, something growling. “Annie,” I say, “we’re not alone out here.” Bark.
I run back in to get the big flashlight and shine it around. Finally, I see something moving through the deck railing. I grab Annie and drag her into the house, then come back out to take a closer look. A raccoon stares at me, its eyes shining in the flashlight. It appears to be caught between the deck and the chain link fence of the dog pen. These days, weeds and berries have grown so thick that nothing can move in there. If it can’t get out on its own, I don’t know what to do.
I go back in, telling Annie to sleep on the sofa where she dozes most of the time. But no, she wants to share my bed. It’s like having an elephant in the bed, a panting, stinky-breathed, sharp-clawed elephant who wants to lie on top of you with its feet in your face. Pretty soon I kick her out and take another look in the backyard.
My flashlight catches the raccoon hanging off the fence, its feet clinging to the chain link, its head facing downward. Swell. I go back to bed, ordering the dog to sleep on the couch, shutting my door so I can go peacefully back to dreamland. I hear Annie pacing outside my door and decide to ignore her until daylight.
My dreams are a blend of raccoons in the yard and The Bachelorette TV show for which I just watched the three-hour finale. She chose J.P., broke Ben’s heart, walked hand in hand into the sunset.
6:30 a.m. Daylight. Cloudy and still. Annie is waiting at the door. No way am I keeping her in now. We both hurry to where we last saw the raccoon.
It’s gone. Whew. Nothing but weeds in there. Annie sniffs at the fence and deck, then jumps down to the grass and sniffs the whole yard while I go back to bed and try to sleep. No go.I’m awake.
Time for orange juice for me and Kibbles and Bits for the dog. As she does her breakfast dance, I see that she has two shallow scratches on her nose. We didn’t imagine it; the raccoon was here. For both our sakes, I hope it doesn’t come back.
Thank God it wasn’t the bear.
***
More Oregon adventures can be found in Shoes Full of Sand, my new book, available in paperback and ebook form. Click here for details.

Annie meets her mom

I always feel bad for mother dogs when their pups are given away or sold. I picture them wandering around looking for their babies, weeping over their loss. In reality, most mom dogs seem to be happy to have one less infant hanging off their teats. When we adopted Annie and Chico three years ago last week from a family that lived in our neighborhood, their mom, Roxie, trotted off with a free-at-last spring in her step.

Time has passed. My 8- and 9-pound baby dogs, half Lab, half Staffordshire bull terrier (aka pit bull), grew up. Unfortunately, Chico got a bigger dose of the pit bull and became aggressive. Combined with his ability to jump-climb a six-foot fence with ease, he became too dangerous to keep. My heart broke as I turned him in to the Salem humane society. When he wasn’t jumping fences or going after other dogs, he was the sweetest, most loving and most handsome dog in the world. I pray that he found new owners with lots of space, patience and love.

Meanwhile, Annie, the more mild-mannered of the two, has become my best friend. She’s almost 80 pounds now, but still likes to lie across my lap. That’s her favorite thing. Her second favorite thing is going for a walk.

We discovered about a year ago that her birth family had moved away, taking their dogs Roxie and Jada with them. Sad. But this weekend, we were walking toward the house at the corner of 98th and 101 when we heard barking. As we moved closer, I glimpsed two familiar dogs, one blonde like Annie, the other brindled. A man came out of the house. Annie’s original human dad! It turned out the family was visiting their in-laws.

The dogs didn’t know each other, but the man recognized Annie right away. He called his wife and kids. “Look, it’s Roxie’s pup!” Their son and their little girl grabbed onto my big dog in a happy reunion as Annie wagged her tail and licked their faces.
We compared dogs. Annie looks just like her mother, only bigger. They both have the same white stripes on their noses, the same copper eyes, and the same sleek bodies, but Roxie is pure bull terrier, as is Jada.
I saw so no sign of recognition between the dogs, but for us humans, it felt good to close the circle and see that both dogs are happy, healthy and beautiful. I’m hoping we get to visit again and again. It doesn’t always have to be good-bye forever.

Our therapy dog journey begins

Tension filled the meet room as new potential volunteers dipped a tentative paw into the world of Oregon Coast Therapy Animals yesterday. I suspect we were all thinking variations of the same thing: Taking our dogs to work their furry magic in places where people are sick, anxious or troubled sounds fabulous, but can we pass the stiff evaluation test, can we afford the many fees, and do we really have as much time as seems to be involved? Classes, tests, training, continuing education, meetings and visits to various facilities a couple times a week–Can we really do this?

There are lots of rules involved in taking a dog into places where animals don’t usually go. They must be certified as healthy, be clean from nose to tail, and behave well at all times. All of this applies to the owners as well. In addition, the owners must undergo criminal background checks, and the pet partner teams must be insured. All OCTA members must join Delta Society, which oversees a national pet partner program.

And yet, the rewards seem tremendous. I have already taken my dog to my husband’s nursing home and seen residents who never talk to people talk to Annie. I have seen people who always seem to be cranky soften as they pet my dog’s soft tan fur. I have felt the peace and light that a dog brings into a room. It seems worth the effort to do whatever it takes to use that power for healing and happiness.

Plus we’d get name tags, a spiffy green shirt for me, parties and new friends, and Annie gets to go for more rides. Oh, happy dog.

I was pleased to see my friends Lyn and Darrell from yoga class at the orientation. Are people who are drawn to yoga also drawn to doing good deeds with their dogs?

I came home to a restless, crazy dog who delights in grabbing paper from my recycle box and making me chase her around the house to get it back. I took her out for a walk in the rain, doubling our training exercises. She did well, giving me a look that seemed to say, “That was fun. What next?” This is not going to be an easy journey, but we’ll take it one step at a time.

Discovering the dog park

You can’t miss it, my friend Sue said. Indeed, you can’t. As I approached the construction zone next to Oregon Coast Community College, a long stretch of chain link fence gleamed in the sunlight. I parked beside the gate, let Annie out and entered South Beach’s brand new dog park.

Wood chips cover the ground. Tall fir trees surround the site, adding to an aura of serenity not found many other places. To the south, cars glide in and out of the college. From the north, we could hear soft hammering sounds from the houses being built in the new Wilder subdivision. Someday, this area will be filled with homes and shops. The dog park will be moved to another location, but for now, we had lots of room to run.

And we did run. No one else was there when we arrived, which was a relief because I’m never sure how Annie will behave around other dogs. She slowly sniffed her way around the park, marked her new territory, then sprinted across the park, running one way then another. I followed, tossing tennis balls I found here and there. When our legs got tired and Annie’s tongue hung a foot long, I sat on a stump and she lapped up the cool water provided in giant steel dishes.

It was so peaceful. Yes, we have a large yard of our own at home, but out there, I’m listening for the phone, watching the clock, thinking about how I should paint the shed, cut the grass, or stain the deck. Here we could just play and be free.

A car pulled up. I leashed Annie, just in case. A young woman got out, followed by a pup she said was only 12 weeks old. My dog chose to defend her new territory, so we went home. But we’ll be back.

If your dog wants to play and meet other dogs, follow the Oregon Coast Community College signs just south of the Yaquina Bridge. You can’t miss the dog park.