What Do I Know?

Ghost of Halloween Past

My Fairy Princess 

It was the night before Halloween, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except three-year-old Daughter Number One. You all know her as an accomplished young woman now, but back then, she was, well, a three-year-old. Three-year-olds run. Everywhere. As fast as their little three-year-old legs can carry them.

And I was eight months pregnant with what turned out to be Daughter Number Two. I didn't run. Anywhere.

So when DNO ran down the hall, tripped and hit her head on the door frame, I wasn't the first to reach her. Her dad was. I was still lumbering over, when he said, "Get the keys. We have to take her in." 

"What?" I was in no mood to go to the hospital ER. But I glanced at the gaping gash on her head and said, "I'll get my shoes." It was bad. Deep enough for me to know better than to look at it—I get queasy at the sight of blood, or just about any bodily function that isn't entirely normal. 

Daughter, though, had stopped crying by now. And she didn't like the idea of going to the doctor either: "B-b-but I know where there's some band-aids," she said between sobs. My heart was breaking, but we bundled her into the car and raced to the emergency room. While I held on to her feet and her dad held her hand, a doctor in a clown costume sewed eleven stitches into my baby's head. 

We don't have too many stories like this in our family. Our kids were pretty much non-accident prone. No broken bones, few fevers, and as far as I can remember, this was our only trip to the emergency room. And it was surreal: After we left the ER of the big hospital without being treated (after waiting for hours, they refused to let me and her dad both in, so we went to a children's ER a few miles away) we were greeted by nurses dressed as clowns, passing out popsicles. There was a moment there when I almost passed out, just thinking about what they were doing. No one wants a passed out pregnant woman on their hands, so they asked me nicely to tuck my head between my knees and handed me a popsicle. 

The next day was Halloween, and as usual, I hadn't sorted out a costume for my dearest darling. She'd told me, in her lispy way, that she wanted to be a Fairy Princess, only she couldn't pronounce the letter F. A "Dairy Princeth" she would be, even if it killed me.

And before you ask, yes, we tried to convince her to go trick-or-treating as Frankenstein's monster. But when your little girl has had a terrible accident, and all she wants in the world is to be a Dairy Princeth, well, you do everything in your power to make her a Diary Princeth. 

I don't sew, but I drove to the fabric store, and we picked out some pink satin fabric and gauzy netting. I also had the foresight to pick up some elastic for a waistband. When we got home, I had a brilliant idea: I couldn't sew, but I could staple like a pro! In fact, I once had a summer job removing staples from documents. I got busy, stapling together a costume for my little girl. 

And that night, she was the most beautiful Dairy Princess that ever walked the streets of suburbia. 

Daughter Number One, holding court with her Jack-o-Lantern.

I never learned to sew, but I still have that stapler. And Daughter Number One has an inch-long scar on her forehead.

Friday Cow Blogging

Close Encounters of the Cow Kind

Last week the cows came back into the near pasture, for the first time since Sparky arrived. He had pretty much the same reaction Bailey did when she saw the cows for the first time: serious alarm barking. We've suspected Sparky was an urban dog, from the way the busy neighborhood streets and lumbering lorries scarcely faze him. After his reaction to the cows, I'm convinced he'd never seen them before. 

So I've spent the last week not only convincing him that other dogs are nice creatures, but that cows are our friends, too. As well as mailmen, delivery men, gardeners, and the workers from the end of the cul-de-sac. 

I'm like a one woman United Nations.

This photo was with my zoom lens. The cows had heard Sparky barking, and were staying far away, despite my enticement of apples and sweet talk. They don't seem to have very good recall. 

Cover Dog

We got a new bag of dog food today from the nice mailman (actually the Ocado delivery man, who had a French accent—possibly he's a refugee from the political unrest there). I'm trying to teach Sparky that the mailman doesn't need to be barked at, so it seemed like a good opportunity for some positive reinforcement: mailman = dog treats in bags delivered right to your door! 

But we were both amazed to find that the new bag of dog food had a picture of Sparky on it! 

Okay, it's not really Sparkydoodle, but it looks a lot like him. 

Yes, I do call him Sparkydoodle; why do you ask? 

We've been busy training. His issues with other dogs are well on their way to being sorted, and after he grabbed a bone in the street the other day we're learning Leave It. He's also learning that when I call his name there are incredibly yummy things in my hand.

And that mailmen bring yummy things right to your door!

Thank you, Mr Ocado Man! I will even forgive you for smushing my bread.

Queen Victoria Models Fab Dress in Windsor

THE look for 1887?

I guess this gives new meaning to Fashion Week. But then us amateur historians aren't much interested in fashion, unless it's at least 100 years out of date.

This statue of Queen Victoria in Windsor was unveiled in 1887, but I am just now getting around to noticing the fine detail on her dress. (See below for a detailed look.)

The larger-than-lifesize bronze statue cost £2500, which is about what a decent ball gown costs in today's pounds. 

This is also one of the few photos I took in WIndsor that didn't have an airplane flying to or from Heathrow, located a few miles away. Makes you wonder why William the Conqueror chose to build the castle so near a major airport. (They make the same joke about Stonehenge, built by a noisy A road, by the way.)

I suppose there's some significance to the floral design, but I can't find any information on the web. 

Friday Cow Blogging

Even cows get itches. 

When you gotta scratch your neck, nothing beats a garden wall, conveniently placed next to a cow pasture. 

More cows from Bourne End, aka Bovine Bonanza:

 

It feels so good, it's easy to ignore the crazy lady standing on the other side with a giant eye in her hand.

In Training

Sparky takes a bow.

"Good boy!" That's the most oft-heard sound around here these days. Sparky the foster dog came with some behavior issues, mainly barking and jumping up, with the occasional humping thrown in. He knew next to nothing as far as commands: "Sit" seemed vaguely familiar to him, but that was it. 

He's also dog reactive. That means if we see a dog while we're walking, Sparky lunges and barks. In fact, this is the reason I have him in the first place. His original foster family had three dogs, and Sparky could not be trusted around dogs. 

So, first things first: we taught him to Sit. Then to Stay. And then Come. We're now working on Down. His Stay is really good. I had been babying him, taking baby steps away from him before returning to reward him. But then I went outside to watch my husband work with him, and to my amazement, Sparky was staying at a long distance. 

Leash walking is a mixed bag: He seems to have some concept of Heel, but for the first five minutes our walks are a strain for both of us. I suspect he lived in an urban environment, since he definitely knows to Wait at a street crossing, until I say Cross. In fact, he'll wait as long as necessary, sitting patiently while cars pass. (There's some road construction in town, so many drivers are detouring around our neighborhood streets.) He's also not at all bothered by other people, loud lorries, or wheelie bins. He also Waits patiently for people with pushchairs (strollers) to pass. 

Sparky is obviously a very intelligent dog. But teaching commands is easy. We're not having quite as much success with the behavior, though I'm pretty sure he knows now that the proper way to get attention is to stay on all fours. He just can't remember that in the heat of the moment. And it's hard for us to remember to turn away from him when he jumps. Our instinct is to yell "Down!" and push him away. (Of course this is confusing, since we're teaching him another meaning for the word Down.) 

We had houseguests over the weekend, and this is when it became clear that Sparky needs better social skills. It's easy to be fooled into thinking a dog is well behaved when he is, 90% of the time. It's that 10% that can cause good dogs to meet bad ends. We hope to get that percentage higher and higher.

Since there's construction going on at the end of the street, Sparky hears lots of strange noises all day. Most of them he barks at. So I reward him for Quiet (this is why I have a jar of treats next to me right now). He might possibly be learning that an initial bark is rewarded by my barking "Quiet!" and him getting a treat, but at least he does quiet down now. Before, he just thought maybe I was deaf, so he barked a lot to let me know there were monsters outside.

I spend a lot of time reading dog training articles and watching videos online—where were these nine years ago when I trained my first dog? But so far I'm just one very confused human: there are as many methods for teaching loose-lead walking as there are types of harnesses and collars. Most of them are too difficult for me to grasp—I'm notoriously uncoordinated. All these detailed instructions remind me of online instructions for physical exercises, which I can never figure out. Left foot where? Right hand how?

I can't dance either. 

So yes, I'm the one being trained here. I feel like a remedial kindergarten student most of the time. We have had some unexpected success: When Sparky first arrived, he wasn't interested in playing. Oh, he seemed playful, but he didn't really know what to do with a toy. He would chase after it, but run right past it. When we put a toy in his mouth he ignored it, preferring to mouth our hands instead. Fortunately, he has excellent bite inhibition—really, really excellent bite inhibition. (By the way, if you don't know why your dog should have bite inhibition—i.e. a soft mouth, this blog post will explain that.)

But now he's playing eagerly with toys. He loves his new ball, and I've found several old toys that were in good enough condition (having been gently used by my very spoiled dog) for him to play with, and even shred to pieces. (He's never once put anything in his mouth that I haven't given him, not even a slipper—maybe he was punished as a pup for tearing up things?) He won't play tug strenuously yet—he prefers to give up and kiss us instead. But I'm so happy to see him streak after a ball, then run back to show off his prize. 

And when he finally chewed off stuffed Barack Obama's legs, I was thrilled for him. 

All in all, Sparky is a very good dog. Maybe one day he'll teach me to dance.