What Do I Know?

Getting Along Like Cats and Dogs

A standoff, near the entrance to the kitchen

Cats and dogs weren't meant to live together, my dog tells me, and if the cat could talk, he would say the same. 

Regardless of this truthism, I have managed to keep peace, or near to it, for the last nine months while my daughter's cat has lived with us. It was supposed to be a temporary situation, but due to a housing situation no one could have foreseen, a fortnight has become nine months. And the cat who was once known as Basement Cat is now, well, Run of the House Cat. 

Not only does Tony the Cat have the run of the house now, he also roams atop countertops and tables, inside closets, and if he can pry open the garage door with his tiny (but strong!) feet, he goes in there too. 

Tony eyes Sparky, who is completely unaware that the cat is planning to stab him in the back.

And my reactive dog, who wouldn't tolerate a dog of the same size anywhere near, is fine with it. Sometimes. 

They grudgingly accept each other's company, but neither one is happy with the situation. Sparky is probably more willing to share space with the cat, since we properly conditioned him by giving him treats when the cat was near—thus he associates the cat with bits of Pupperoni. The cat, though, hasn't had as much conditioning, since cats don't have a reward center as highly developed as Sparky's. 

Sparky's reward center is huge. YUUUGGGE! His whole body, all 59 pounds, is basically one big reward center. He will do anything for a reward, including tolerate the presence of a rather spiteful cat. 

I've even taught him to embrace the human quality of Taking Turns. We play a game: I toss a treat for Tony down the hallway, he chases it, captures it with a paw, and eats it. Then I tell Sparky it's his turn, I toss a treat, and he gobbles it. Then I tell them it's Tony's turn, and so on, while each waits patiently, even Sparky, who'd normally be all over any food that gets tossed to the floor.

Yes, the dog who'll literally lift textbooks out of a box to retrieve a lost treat waits for the cat to have a go at a treat tossed to the floor. 

I never imagined this would happen when we first brought the two of them into close proximity, a basement door safely separating them. Sparky is highly reactive to squirrels, dogs, cats, anything that moves. But here we are, sort of co-existing peacefully. 

Of the two of them, it's the cat who's still got issues. He'll wait around the corner, and when the dog passes, his head carefully turned to avoid causing affront, the cat bats a paw at him, hissing when he misses. He'll sit in silence, glaring at Sparky, daring him to react—and until a couple of months ago, Sparky would occasionally take him up on that challenge, erupting in barking and giving chase—but only to the top of the basement stairs. He knows the basement is Cat Territory. He only goes down there when there's a tornado warning, and frankly, the tornado is less scary than the cat.

The only complaint Sparky has is when the cat claws at the furniture. He's like that kid in second grade who told her mom every time you called her a name. He whines, looking at the cat, then at me, as if to say, "Do you SEE what he's doing?! He's destroying our furniture! Make him STOP! Also I get a treat for telling, right?"

Who knew Sparky was such a snot-nosed little tattletale? I didn't even know dogs cared about furniture. 

Despite the occasional whine, the awkward hissing, the standoffs at the entrance to the Land of Plenty (ie, the kitchen), I'm quite proud of what we've accomplished with these two. In the beginning, when the dog wanted to chase and bark at the cat, and the cat wanted to shred the dog's face, I never thought we'd be at this point. I rank this as one of my top five accomplishments in life, maybe even the top three.

My furniture, though, is a lost cause.

Farewell to the Mother Country; Hello to the New World

Sparky bids farewell to England at Heathrow's Terminal 2

It's not yet been a week since we repatriated to these shores, not too far from the same Potomac River George Washington's ancestor sailed up after crossing the Atlantic the slow way. We came across much faster, on a United jet, the last one to leave on Friday afternoon. 

We chose United for their PetSafe program, which allows dogs to travel as checked baggage (with certain restrictions) and is especially geared for military and state department families who are relocating. The pet area of the baggage compartment is pressurized and temperature controlled and has enough room for five pets (but Sparky was by himself on the flight, which he prefers--more legroom). 

We weren't sure what to expect when we arrived at Terminal 2 for the flight. All we knew is that we had to be there 3 hours early, with the required paperwork. The whole event turned out to be quite well managed and not at all stressful. We filled out the paperwork and paid for Sparky's travel, then were able to keep him with us until about an hour before the flight, when we went with him through a special security where his kennel was swabbed. Then we said goodbye to him, trying to be cheerful, and went through our own security and then to our gate. 

(My last walk on British soil, I realize now, was the grassy area near Terminal 2, where we let Sparky relieve himself before the eight hour flight. I was too nervous to take note, frankly, of the fact I was leaving England for good, after ten years. If I had, I'd have watered the lawn with my tears.)

Once on board, we told Elle, the nice flight attendant, that we were traveling with our dog. She could tell right away how nervous we were, because she offered us Valium. Just kidding, she sold us a bottle (and then another) of red wine.

She also let the captain know that our dog would be on board (pets are loaded last). He talked to the baggage handlers who loaded Sparky onto the plane and reported back to us that all was well. 

We were pretty stressed after the week of packing, dealing with the house, and taking care of last minute details in England. I tried to watch a film but I was too nervous. Elle said that sometimes they hear dogs barking in the rear of the plane, so I asked her to let us know if she heard anything. When the flight was over, she told us she'd not heard anything. Still, I couldn't rest until I saw them wheeling his kennel out in the baggage claim, while I was waiting in line at Immigration. The border agent stamped my documents quickly and I raced toward Sparky. He didn't start whining until he saw us, but the attendant who was wheeling him around wouldn't let us open the cage door. 

Once we were near the arrivals entrance at Dulles, we let Sparky out and raced to find some grass outside, for his first pee on American soil.

This is Sparky's second "immigration"--he first came to England from Ireland, and now is an American dog, an American dog with a funny accent. He doesn't like the sweltering heat, or the thunderstorms that break overhead almost every evening, but he loves the abundance of squirrels and the woods near our house.

This land near the Potomac seems young to me, with wide open spaces (mostly in the medians of the highways, which are wide enough to build a housing estate) and garish churches made of brick, rather than aged stone. There are ditches rather than hedgerows and strip malls instead of high streets, and people here are downright eager to talk to strangers. 

And I do feel like a stranger, a stranger in my own land. 

I'll get used to it. I think. 

Stay tuned.

You've Read the Blog; Now Read the Book: What Am I Doing Here?

New release!

For the last few months, I've been working on a non-fiction project called What Am I Doing Here? I've kept it under my hat, since I wasn't sure I'd be able to pull it off. It's self-published, under my own imprint called Lavender House Publishing. (More about that later.) 

What Am I Doing Here? is a collection of blog posts from this site, plus a few extra bits, including a glossary. It focuses primarily on my experience here as an expat, an American slightly bewildered by Britain. There are chapters on the assimilation process (rocky), driving (smooth), language (still incomprehensible at times) and, of course, my dog.

In fact, I've dedicated the book to Bailey, my Golden girl and I'm donating the proceeds to the cancer charity Animal Cancer Foundation. Cancer in canines is similar if not identical to the same cancers in humans, so research in one species adds to our knowledge of cancer in other species. 

What Am I Doing Here? will be available in both print and digital. If you buy the print edition at Amazon.com, you can get a digital copy for only $.99 through Amazon's MatchBook program. They don't offer that at Amazon.co.uk yet. But the digital edition has some really colorful photos (as long as you have a color-enabled device), which aren't available in the print edition. 

I got the idea to compile my blog posts well over a year ago, and around that time I designed the cover, using a stock photo from iStockphoto.com. The rest of the book I edited, copyedited, and proofread myself, which I would never recommend to anyone. I used a Word template for the print edition, and made modifications to that as needed. The ebook editions were made using Jutoh, a program I highly recommend. 

In order to avoid the dreaded "Sold by Amazon Digital Services" in the product listing, I decided to create my own publishing imprint. I'd intended all along to call it Canterbury House, since that's the name of my house (isn't it charming how houses in Britain have names?). But when I searched the internet, I discovered there was already a Canterbury House Publishing.

So I scrambled for an alternative. While pondering several possibilities, I looked outside my office window at the row of lavender I planted, right in front of my house. Thus was Lavender House Publishing born. 

One day I may publish more non-fiction through Lavender House. I doubt I'll ever publish my fiction there, as I value the editing I received from my publisher far too much to want to go it alone.  

Here's how to find WAIDH?: 

Print:
Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk

Digital:
Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk,  Kobo, Barnes and Noble Nook, and iBooks USA / iBooks UK

Dogs Really Are Smarter Than Humans

Sparky coming when recalled. (Note the presence of water, but no bathtub.)

I've always hated comparisons of human intelligence to animal intelligence, which usually equate animal minds to that of a young human. It's just not true: animals, especially dogs, are much smarter than humans. Our dog Sparky continually outsmarts us, and we're not the dumbest of the breed. (I'd be happy to provide SAT scores as proof.)

The other day we were reminded of this rather pointedly. My husband went upstairs and then told Sparky to "Come!" I was sitting next to Sparky, and clearly, he heard the command, which was issued in a sharp, loud voice. Normally this elicits an immediate response, particularly inside the house, where there are no squirrels, deer, or cows to distract him. In fact, I'd place the odds of compliance to a recall command inside at virtually 100%. I did see his ears perk up—clearly he'd heard the command. That wasn't the problem. 

So then my husband called again. No response, other than a clear indication to me that he'd heard the command. He didn't budge from his sitting position next to me. Very odd, especially since I'd given him no indication that better rewards would be forthcoming from me. Again and again my husband called him from upstairs, finally giving up in frustration after four or five attempts.

We both wondered why Sparky decided to ignore the recall, which we've worked on so hard. Lately his recall has been a bit lax, especially while we're walking in the woods, so we've decided to get back to basics (we are, remember, highly intelligent creatures who know a thing or two about dog training, due to our amazing cognitive abilities and literacy skills). Calling him from inside the house is a no-brainer, a level one on the recall scale.

Yet clearly our dog had failed at this simple task. 

Then my husband called Sparky from the living room downstairs. Again, Sparky was sitting next to me, but this time he sprang into action upon hearing the sharp "Come!" He flew around the door and right to my husband, happily wagging his tail. He even seemed relieved that finally he was able to respond to the recall. 

What had happened? Well, we put our cognitive minds to work, and figured out what Sparky had already deduced: A "Come!" command issued from upstairs has a high probability—now—of ending in a bath. He does not like baths, even more than he likes whatever treat was on offer for a sharp recall. So he wisely decided to ignore the call to go upstairs. (I could almost see the gears turning in his advanced brain as he sat there, looking toward the voice he heard.)

We'd made a fatal mistake. Early on in recall training, I reminded my husband (who always gives the baths, using the tub upstairs) to never use our precious recall prior to a bath. Never, ever, associate the recall with a bad consequence, like a bath, or the leash snapping on, or god forbid, punishment. (You should train your dog that a recall might mean the leash snapping on, but then it goes right back off, with more off-leash fun time until finally the leash goes on for good.) 

But time passed, and my husband, with his superior cognitive skills, realized the best tool he had (humans are great at using tools, remember) was issuing the short word "come" when he needed to get the dog to a certain place, namely the side of the bathtub. So the last couple of times he bathed the dog, he brought a handful of rewards upstairs, called the dog, gave him some treats, and then plopped him in the tub for a hated bath. 

Human intelligence win! Train the dog to come, then use it for your own nefarious purposes. Right? 

How quickly we forgot how quickly dogs learn. After hearing his named called from upstairs—notice the key difference—only a couple of times, with the end result being, yes, a reward BUT ALSO the detestable experience of a bath, Sparky learned that he should never, ever, come when called by someone upstairs. 

This is why humans will never outsmart dogs. They are just too clever. 

My Heart Dog

Climbing a stile in Wales in 2007.

They say your "heart dog" is the one who's always in your heart. 

That would be my girl, Bailey Pink. 

Still think of her, every day, even though it's been four years now. I think maybe the reason she was such a part of me is because we could take her anywhere, and we did. 

She was always there, and then she wasn't. 

Please consider donating to the Canine Cancer Foundation if you've lost a beloved pet, or if you want to help find a cure. 

Scare Tactics

"Don't think you're getting past this door without treats."

My last dog used to love Halloween—all those people, coming just to see her! And those costumes didn't faze her at all. She even loved giving out candy, as long as she got a few pieces. 

Sparky, who still thinks Mailman is the scariest goblin who ever broached the doorstep, is not quite so welcoming. We tag team him—one of us stays back with him, giving him treats, while the other answers the door and rewards the trick-or-treaters. Eventually I let him get closer, close enough to see they're carrying candy, not mail, and that they have no intention of putting any bombs or other incendiary devices through the mail slot. 

He's absolutely fine with candy carriers; just not mail carriers. 

Still, Halloween isn't a day I enjoy, even when I was a kid, so I'll be glad when it's over. Then the real horror starts—Guy Fawkes Day, with fireworks (which really do sound like bombs) going off every night for a week or two.

The explosions will be greeted by another explosion inside our house. Barking is the key, it seems, to getting rid of anything scary. We have tried to associate the sound of fireworks and the rare thunder with cheese, but it seems to be a losing battle. Turning on a fan, music, a TV, and going upstairs—which seems safer—is how we deal with it now, armed also with a squirt bottle of cheese. 

There's a concept in dog training of the "bomb-proof" dog. That was my first dog. She was confident and self-assured, never complaining, even when bone cancer was attacking her leg. Bomb-proof dogs are easy. They're easy to train, but then, they don't need to be trained, not in the same way Sparky does. 

Most dogs, I suspect, are more like Sparky, with healthy fears of both thunder and bombs. And mailmen. If there's a trick-or-treater who really, really wants a scary costume, I suggest a red vest, a pair of shorts, and a reflective mail bag. 

If Only We Could Have the After-Bath Fun Without the Bath

A damp blur

I gave Sparky a bath today. Afterward, he ran to the bed and wallowed in the sheets. (They're in the dryer right now.) Because all those towels I put on the floor weren't good enough, apparently. 

He doesn't like baths. But he'll suffer through them, quietly for the most part, dignified in his disgrace. Afterward, though, he's a damp, water-shaking dervish. He runs through the house, a grin stretching his mouth as he jumps from bed to bed, racing into my held-out towels head first, making quick u-turns that strip the sheets from the mattress.

You'd think I wouldn't have to coax him into the bath tub with bits of banana (it was the nearest thing handy). Not even the promise of becoming a "PRETTY BOY!" can entice him into the tub. Despite his retriever half, he's not much for water sport. 

Fortunately, he's not much for mud, either, and generally avoids it. (Unlike my last dog, who lived for muddy, stinky messes.) I actually think he's a little relieved to be clean and smelling like strawberries again.

Luck of the Irish

I wrote this as a writing assignment, in which I was supposed to write about an event in my life from someone else's point of view. That was a little outside my comfort zone, but then I had an idea. This is what happened on That Day:

That Day

I still remember That Day. I don’t want to sound melodramatic (though, being Irish, it’s in my blood), but there are moments when your whole life changes. I didn’t know it then, when the strange lady approached the car I was in, but this would be one of those moments.

Playing it cool as she neared the car, I carefully avoided her gaze. She was probably Bad News, like many of the people in my life recently. I’d had a string of bad luck. Two nights before, I’d been on a boat. The next night, I found myself sleeping in a car. I figured with my luck, this lady was probably going to put me on a train and send me off to the gas chamber I’d heard whispers about at the shelter.

My life had gone from cushy comfort to harsh reality the day my Old Man disappeared. Someone said “hospital,” but I just knew he was gone, and I was trapped in the garden. People went by, dogs and kids and strangers. I saw the mailman about the same time every day, and that’s when I learned that if I barked real loud, he’d disappear. Same thing with kids, dogs—they all took off once I barked a few sharp Irish curses.

Finally some people came and took me to a place that smelled like other dogs, with lots of even louder barking, desperate and angry sounds, threats I’d never heard. I hated it there. Looking back, I realize that was where I learned to despise my own species.

Then one day they scooped me up and took me to see a guy they called a vet. Next thing I knew, I was waking up, drowsy, with a gaping hole where my nuts had been. I knew they were interested in collecting my excrement for some strange reason, but I never thought they’d come for my balls.

It was about a week after that I found myself inside a van, deep in the belly of a boat. The sea was choppy all night, and then at dawn the van pulled off the boat and we headed for Bath.

I don’t like baths, but this was worse. When we got out of the van there were hundreds of dogs just milling around, in what would have been a nice park if the squirrels hadn’t already high-tailed it out of there. I heard someone call it a “reunion” but I didn’t know a soul.

A lady they called my “foster” tried to introduce me to her dogs, but I let them know straight away I wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship. I tackled the biggest one, and the others stayed clear of me after that.

Soon after, I heard someone on the phone, talking about an “emergency” and next thing I know I’m sleeping in the car, my first night in England.

I’d heard the English hated immigrants; now I was seeing their treatment of Irish migrants first hand. It got cold that night, but I was used to the cold. My coat had grown thick, matted and dingy, which made me look twice as big as I really was. That turned out to be helpful for scaring off other dogs.

The next day a man put me in his car, inside a cage. I suspected I was on my way to a deportation centre. I’d heard that’s where they sent immigrants who arrived without papers, and as a mixed breed, I was pretty sure I had no papers.

We stopped at a place with a lot of cars, where the smell of hamburgers hung in the air like tasty mist. The man disappeared, probably to pee in one of those large water bowls reserved for his kind, and when he came back the strange lady was there. I eyed her with my peripheral vision. She tried to smile, yet her face looked a little bleak, with lines of worry creasing her forehead. But there was a tiny trace of hope in her eyes when she took my leash and led me to her car.

There was no cage, so I lay quietly on the backseat, staring at her as we drove away. Was she a dognapper? A vet? An immigration officer? She said some words to me as we drove. I liked her voice: it sounded like she was trying to reassure me, but I’d been reassured before, just before they nabbed my balls.

We finally stopped driving, and when she opened the car door in front of the biggest house I’d ever seen, a man with a shaved head stepped out the front door. I ran inside, before they could put me in the garden. I used to live indoors, so I knew all about slippery floors and how not to piss on the carpet.

But this place had stairs, and some more rooms on top of the stairs which confused me at first. And then they opened another door and I saw the garden...that’s when I first suspected my luck was changing for the good this time. This was the garden of my dreams: plenty of trees, a stream, an apple tree just loaded with sweet smelling fruit, and the scent of squirrels everywhere. I checked it all out carefully, sniffing every inch of the fence in case there was a way to get out. I smelled another dog, long gone, but I could tell she’d been happy there and, more importantly, well fed.

Then I ran back inside—no way was I getting trapped in a garden again, not even one with its own food and water sources. But the lady didn’t seem to mind; in fact, she started giving me treats! She kept saying my name, then dropping nuggets on the ground when I looked at her.

Easiest meal I’ve ever earned.

She seemed especially pleased when I lowered my rear to the floor after she said the word “sit.” I liked pleasing her—a strange sensation that settled in my belly, right next to the nuggets of tasty food.

I decided I’d call her Nice Lady, and later, the other guy Big Head, especially when he put a giant helmet over his head and took off on a motorbike. (I wish those dogs at the shelter could see me now, living with a cool dude who rides a motorcycle!)

After I ate, Nice Lady stroked me, which felt pretty nice, but when she started to pull at the mats, I let her know I wasn’t okay with that. She left me alone, but I could see her eyeing them. She wrinkled her nose a lot, too, whenever she caught my scent.

She and Big Head used a lot of words I didn’t know, but I’ve learned much of their language now. It sounds a bit like Irish, without the rich rolling Rs.

Not long after I came here, Nice Lady got in her car and left. I was frantic: what if she was gone for good? Then Big Head put my leash on and we went out, so I helped him look for Nice Lady. I peered in every car I saw, hoping to find her. Big Head apologized to the people who were surprised to see me jumping on their cars. I was so desperate to find my Nice Lady I didn't even do my Business, but she'd seemingly split for good.

After we got home, she walked in with some food she’d scavenged from one of her sources, and I jumped on her to let her know how worried I’d been.

Big Head told her he was never again taking me for a walk after she’d driven off.

Looking back now, that day when I met Nice Lady and Big Head, that was the day my Irish luck finally kicked in. Sometimes I remember how scared I was, how I thought I was going to another Bad Place. I’ve seen a photo of me taken that afternoon: my eyes were the size of a food bowl.

Another thing I didn’t know then: Nice Lady was just another foster lady and I wasn’t supposed to be Her Boy, but somehow, I changed her mind. I think it was that day when she left in the car. She didn’t know how much I loved her, but once she did, she decided that “emergency” on that day was really just Fate, barking at the door.

By Sparky, age 4, approximately

Today is Sparky's "Gotcha Day." Three years ago he came into our lives, totally unexpectedly. He never left. 

If you're interested in fostering or rescuing a dog from Ireland (and you live in the UK) check out Irish Retriever Rescue. They bring many dogs over from Ireland, where the shelters are overflowing due to uncontrolled puppy mills.

 

The day Sparky's luck changed

Rainy Day Games for Childr...Err, Dogs

Sparky plays hide-and-seek

It's raining today, and our usual morning walk doesn't appeal to either Sparky or me. I decided to play a game instead. 

I started playing Hide and Seek with Bailey when she was a pup. I'd hide a sock or some object and have her find it. These days the game's evolved to hiding treats, 4-5 at a time, in our living room. I tuck them behind flower pots, on top of an iron pig, behind a fireplace candle, on a low bookshelf, in the middle of a rug—dogs primarily use their noses to find things, so hiding it in plain sight is almost as hard as hiding a treat behind a curtain. 

I use bite-sized treats, since he'll want to consume them and quickly find the rest. If you're worried about calories, use part of the daily ration of kibble or other food. If your dog likes carrots or other low-cal food, that would work too, though they probably don't have as much of a scent. (Perhaps you could rub them with something smelly—tuna, or a smelly dog treat.) Sometimes I let him smell the treats I'm about to hide—he seems to appreciate this, as it gives him a better idea of what to look for. 

Often I will point to a hidden treat, since the point of the game isn't to outsmart him. Dogs are especially adept at understanding a human's hand gestures, and encouraging their understanding isn't a bad idea. 

We play about five rounds of this, then I let him know the game's over by giving him a cookie or something small. 

Another version of Hide and Seek is the old-fashioned kind that you played with your children. I go hide, usually in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and call out "Come find me!" It seems much harder for him to find me than to find treats, for some reason. I often have to giggle or make a noise; otherwise he won't look behind a door or wherever I've hidden myself. 

One trainer, Patricia McConnell, says that ten minutes of "mind-games" are as effective as a longer walk in stimulating your dog's brain. I don't know if that's true or not, but a bright boy like Sparky appreciates having an opportunity to use his brain and his nose. While I'm no fan of treating our highly domesticated dogs as if they were still living in the "wild," I do think that devising activities that work with their natural abilities helps us both. 

Especially on rainy days.

The Weird Incident of the Unhidden Bone

A bone in the other side of his mouth, Sparky looks for a hiding place.

Sparky's acting very weird. About a half hour ago I gave him a bone. He took it outside, as he often does when I leave the back door open. I went out to say "hi" (with no intention to take his bone, I swear!) and he got up and moved to the side of the house. I peered around the corner, and he came back, with the bone in his mouth, and went to the other side of the house. I figured I was making him nervous, so I came inside, but peeked out the window. He was walking around, with the bone in his mouth, as if he were looking for a place to put it.

So I waited about ten minutes, and then looked outside. He was at the back of the garden, by the fence, looking a little bit like he'd been caught in the act. 

I took a photo, since I'd gone outside thinking to get some good shots of him on a sunny day (rare around here!). He walked to the side of the house again, with the bone in his mouth, and I went inside and called my husband, describing the dog's behaviour. I interspersed my commentary with talk about the manufacturing report I'd been reading, since I didn't want Sparky to overhear and become suspicious. 

Then I watched through the window as Sparky went into the rose bed appeared to bury his bone.

That was all about twenty minutes ago. I just peeked, and he's got the bone again, looking for a safer spot to hide it I guess. Maybe he overheard me telling my husband on the phone what he was doing and figured he better outsmart us.

Often, when I give Sparky a bone I hide it in the living room, and he enjoys finding it before he eats it. This time I didn't do that. 

I wonder if he wishes I had? 

I know dogs hide their bones sometimes. It's almost a cliché, the dog hiding a bone. But Sparky's never done it. He's not really into clichés, preferring to be an Original.

Now he's inside, having safely hidden the bone again. See that look of innocence?

"Bone? I don't know nothin' 'bout no bone."

On a related note, if you want to see where I buy his bones, our local pet shop, Desborough Pets, was a location for a couple of scenes in this BBC comedy, Not Going Out (based on Three's Company). The show itself is kind of stupid, but if you're into dumb BBC comedy, you might like it. Except for the part where the rabbit dies. Both rabbits, actually.

See? Britain can be a scary place for pets. No wonder Sparky decided to hide his bone, just in case.

Update: 

After dinner we went outside, and Sparky wandered down to the stream, where he started digging something from the muddy bank. His bone. It was waterlogged and soft, since it was rawhide. He shook it to shake the dirt off, then ate it. 

Finding his bone in the stream bank.

Eating the waterlogged bone. What a weird dog! 

Dear Lady: Your Dogs Are Out of Control

This is what a dog under control looks like: returning to me after I call him.

Here's the deal: If your dogs are coming after mine, regardless if one is wearing a muzzle, I'm going to say something to you. I've taught my dog not to react the way his instincts told him to, by barking and lunging at dogs when he's afraid of them, and instead use other means of communication to tell other dogs he's not interesting in engaging with them. It's now my duty to protect him when he's doing the right thing, and your dogs aren't. If your feelings get hurt in the process, too bad. My dog—and his training—is more important to me than your feelings. 

Today at Black Park there were lots of dogs, since it was a nice Bank Holiday Monday. Most were fine; Sparky goes wide on the path or swerves into the brush to avoid meeting them face to face; something he (and most dogs) consider rude. 

But then two boxer-like dogs come toward us, one wearing a muzzle. The white one goes after Sparky, who has swerved into the brush, so Sparky comes toward us, looking for help. That's when the other dog joins in the "fun", and both dogs chase after Sparky, who I've motioned to run forward in an effort to avoid confrontation. I also put my hand out toward the two boxers, hoping to halt their progress or at least alert their owner to the fact there's a problem here: I don't feel comfortable around large dogs any more than Sparky does, frankly, especially when I see one has already been deemed aggressive enough to wear a muzzle. 

When the dogs pursued Sparky, I told the lady to call her dogs. At this point, I was a bit angry that she hadn't already done so, as anyone else would have immediately if they noticed their dogs becoming too interested in another dog who was clearly trying to avoid them. She shouted that he was wearing a muzzle. "I don't care; my dog doesn't like to be chased!" I replied. 

Then I told her she needed to teach them recall, since in my experience, the number one reason owners don't recall their dogs when necessary is because they know they can't, and they want to avoid embarrassment. 

After this she called me a stupid bitch, and I just laughed. Because she's the one who's stupid. If your dog is wearing a muzzle, there's even more reason to teach recall: One day a dog will take offense to your dog's rude behavior, and will respond with a bite. Or two. Your dog won't be able to reply with his teeth, which is going to make him pretty angry, and more likely to snap the next time he's out without a muzzle. A dangerous situation you've created by not keeping your dog under control—and by this I mean preventing him from practicing rude behavior around other dogs or people. 

My number one loyalty is to my dog, not to your feelings. I'm also American, and I wasn't bred to avoid confrontation the way so many of your fellow British countrymen are. I will tell you off next time you allow your dogs to chase mine, and publicly embarrass you if that's what it takes. I'll also be happy to explain how you can teach your dog recall: it's not hard. If I can do it, anyone can. 

Your dogs will be a lot better off, and so will your feelings.

But if it makes you feel better to call me a stupid bitch, go right ahead. I've been called worse when defending dogs in your country.

Teach your dog to stop on a dime and return to you when you whistle or call; it will save you lots of grief one day.

Hey, Mister, Your Dog Is Not Being Friendly!

When Sparky wants another dog to ignore him, he turns his back and pretends to be looking into the trees. Most dogs get the message, but some are as clueless as their owners. 

I had to yell at some guy in The Camp today when a Dalmation wouldn't get out of Sparky's face. After yelling for the owner to call his dog, I walked over and told him to enroll in a recall workshop. He had no idea why he needed to, even though his dog was busy ignoring him when he yelled "Murphy!" Murphy had found a young cocker spaniel to play with, and the two of them kept trying to get Sparky (who we'd put on a lead) to join in. Sparky, of course, has no desire (or know-how) to play with other dogs, so when they got too close he barked at them in an effort to make them go away. Probably my attempts to move the dogs out of the way was riling him up even more, since he thought he needed to help me out.

Anyway, after arguing with the guy, and explaining to him that we try really hard to keep Sparky from reacting like that and his dog being in his face didn't help matters, he told me that it simply wasn't a problem if Sparky went after his dog. It would teach Murphy a lesson, he told me. 

The problem is, Murphy was just as likely—even more so, in my opinion—to "teach a lesson" to Sparky. Sparky's a 'fraidy cat. He's never escalated into bite mode; as soon as a dog looks at him funny he runs crying in the opposite direction. It wasn't likely that he was going to teach this bold Dalmation a lesson.

When I was trying to get Murphy's attention, I knew I was dealing with a dog who wasn't going to back down. He wanted a good sniff of Sparky, and he was determined to get it, regardless of the frantic barking he was hearing.

But the owner had no clue. He was convinced his dog was just being "friendly" and when I told him he needed to teach his dog some manners he probably wrote me off as a stupid American (insert slander here)—well, I've been called worse. 

So we kept Sparky on the leash (he was perfectly happy to be close to us) and went around the Camp until we found a space clear of ill-mannered dogs. 

The Camp has become as bad as a dog park in the States, all because so many owners think it's fine for their dogs to run up to other dogs, head on, and try to engage them in play. It's a shame that we can't enjoy our time there without having to be on guard, unlike in other places where dogs generally go on their way without running up to every dog they meet. There's something about a semi-enclosed space, even one that's several acres wide, that makes dogs and their owners think nothing of interrupting their ramble to have some one-on-one action with other dogs and their owners. They just get too bored there, walking around in giant circles. 

As we left, I decided I should print out Suzanne Clothier's excellent article "He just wants to say hi" and place it on the cars parked there. I've often wondered how I could get other people to realize that their "friendly" dogs aren't so friendly—to other dogs. What looks like friendliness to us is extreme rudeness to a dog, especially to a dog who's busy telling the other dog in no uncertain terms that he'd like them to stay away.

Sigh. I'll probably never do it, and besides, we have other issues to work on with Sparky. Like his behavior in the car. We've planned a trip to Devon, and we hope to take him with us, but only if we can keep him calm in the car. I firmly believe in the power of positive training to work miricles, but so far we haven't had any success; if anything, the problem is getting worse. So I'm calling the vet next week to talk about medication. 

I'll post an update, for those of you who tune in to read about Sparky's progress...I know this blog has gone from being an eclectic, niche-free blog to being The Life and Times of Sparky, but this is my world right now. Well, that and my latest book. I think my next book will feature a dog's point of view. 

Because I've got a great understanding of that, now that I've learned to hear what Sparky is trying so hard to say. 

Sparky the Irish Rescue Dog

Sparky, running to us during a recall at the Camp. 

Today is a special day for Sparky: it's St Patrick's Day, and unlike us, (and many Americans) he can legitimately claim to be Irish. 

I've written before about how he came to us from Ireland but if you haven't heard, head on over to my author blog and read his story. 

"Sparky needed a home and needed one fast—he’d had to spend his first night in England in a car."

Good thing we found each other. He's enjoying some corned beef right now. Well, it's actually a bone, but he doesn't know what corned beef is any more than I do. 

Also, I don't think actual Irish people eat that anyway.

Sparky's 12-12-12 Adventure with Theobromine

Sparky, still crazy.

Having had it on good authority that the end of the world was coming on or about 12-12-12, Sparky decided that, what the hell, eating a large quantity of high grade chocolate was a better way to go than fire and brimstone or whatever the Mayans anticipated. 

Unaware of his plans, I went out shopping. My husband came home, took him for a long walk, and when I returned, there was nothing to indicate the dog had found the Green & Black's I'd hidden for Santa's stocking stuffing. Neither of us went over to turn on the TV, or lounged on the sofa, where evidence of Sparky's crime was scattered in plain sight. Sarah Lund could have found this crime scene without her torch even, yet somehow we missed it. (We'd make lousy TV detectives.)

But that night, we should have known something was wrong. Normally Sparky settles down at bedtime, after a stuffed Kong to relax him. But on the night of the 12th, we were serenaded by a squeaky toy, while Sparky roamed the room, whining every time his toy fell under the bed. We muttered a lot about "that crazy dog", yet neither of us realized his behaviour indicated he'd ingested something odd, not even when he got up twice during the night to go pee.

I really should have known better. 

It wasn't until the next morning, when I heard a noise in the living room, that I discovered the evidence of his chocolate binge. The remains of both Green & Black's packages were shredded, fortunately with the printed weight and ingredients still intact. Together they added up to 360 grams, a combination of 85% and 70% dark cocoa solids. 

Now, Sparky's eaten chocolate before, with no ill effects. But that was always milk chocolate, or semi-sweet chocolate buried in cookies. Not hardcore, high grade, luxury chocolate, and not 3/4 of a pound. 

I had to get my husband to do the ounces-to-kg calculations, using several websites on chocolate toxicity in dogs relative to their weight. There was a lot of math involved, figuring out how many milligrams of theobromine (the toxic ingredient in chocolate) he'd actually ingested. Most of the websites were US-based, rating the sorts of chocolate available in America. I know that dark chocolate in the US is usually 60%, but even then it was clear that the amount he'd had was above the level at which 50% of patients die.

Yet unless we'd missed it in the dark, he'd shown no signs of vomiting or diarrhea, the symptoms of chocolate toxicity. Only excessive playfulness, as well as excessive thirst. 

I rang the vet clinic and arranged to bring him in before they opened. His heart rate and temperature were normal, but since the half life of theobromine in dogs is 17.5 hours, the vet advised giving him activated charcoal to absorb any of the poison still in his intestines. He seemed surprised that Sparky had had no other ill effects from what could have been a deadly cocktail of theobromine and caffeine. Different dogs have different tolerances—no one should assume their dog is equally immune to the effects of dark chocolate.

Back at home, Sparky had a bad case of the zoomies—running around in big circles in the garden, a look of bliss on his face. Theobromine highs are pretty cool, as long as you don't know the danger of inhaling.

I started the day wondering if I'd be losing another dog in December, and ended the day grateful our crazy dog was still crazy, and alive. 

And the world didn't end after all.

Recall: Practice in Perfect Surroundings

Sparky returns to "check in".

Yesterday we took Sparky to Burnham Beeches, an ancient woodland not far from here. It was a nice change from Black Park, where we usually go for dog walks on the weekend, and not as busy, due to a footrace that had just ended. Most people were leaving as we arrived. 

As we do, we brought along some high value treats and our whistle, intending to do some recall training while Sparky ran off lead in the woods. While there are livestock pastured in the park, they're located behind a fence in a different area from where we were walking. 

The walk was lovely—the beeches are still mostly green, just starting to turn yellow, so it was easy to convince myself it was still summer. (That is, if I ignored the inches of mud that sucked at my hiking shoes, stirred up by the runners that morning.) 

After a few solid recalls, we were starting to feel confident that Sparky was attentive and listening for that whistle. Then he blew it, so to speak. My husband blew the whistle just as Sparky spied a squirrel. I saw his head turn left, and he took off, away from us, leaving us stamping our feet in frustration. (Okay, we weren't literally stamping our feet. We were actually cursing but this is a family blog.)

We continued to explore the footpaths, rewarding Sparky when he returned to us after his little sprints through the trees (we call this "checking in"). Then we whistled again, in a situation where we were sure he'd return, and he did. Back to, well, square two. Or three.

Running so fast he's a blur!

Training tip: It's important not to teach your dog that it's okay to ignore the whistle, so it's best not to blow it when you think he won't comply. You must incrementally increase the distraction level at which the dog will return..."incrementally" being the key, and most difficult to judge. 

Sparky's not 100% reliable with recall yet, but he's reliable in many situations. Which proved helpful later, as we were walking down one of the wide paved paths. We saw a family of adults coming toward us, and as they approached I heard the young man cry out as if distressed. A woman comforted him, and it was obvious that the young man was mentally handicapped. My husband and I both realized that he was likely expressing fear of the dog running around, so we quickly called Sparky, put him on the lead, and walked off the path, heading parallel through the woods so the distressed man couldn't see the dog.

We had judged the situation correctly: The woman called out "Thank you!" as we passed. Even though I knew Sparky would not have bothered the people—he gives strangers a wide birth—it was important to get him under control, and thankfully, our training paid off. He came right to us when we called him, even though I'd just seen a squirrel running up a tree. As soon as we passed we let him off lead again and practiced more recalls. 

We've been in situations where we wished other people had better control of their dogs—a strange dog is chasing Sparky, jumping at him, trying to engage him in play, while the owners call in vain. I want to yell at them to learn how to recall their dogs, but I've been there too. Until we had Sparky, I didn't know how important a good recall was. Our previous dogs were generally well behaved, and a so-so recall worked most of the time, and when it didn't, there was no harm done. 

Now we're acutely aware of how some dogs and some people—not to mention cows, sheep, and horses—would prefer not to have an uncontrolled dog nearby. While your dog may be perfectly safe, someone else is not feeling safe.

So we're going to keep at it, using stinky sardines or whatever gets the job done. 

Fortunately we have these beautiful, ancient woodlands to practice in. 

The ancient beeches of Burnham Beeches

What Kind of Parent Are You?

I saw this at the Roald Dahl Museum in Great Missenden. 

When you grow up and have children of your own do please remember something important

A stodgy parent is no fun at all

What a child wants and deserves

Is a parent who is 

Sparky

I'm sure I've always tried to be a sparky parent. And also a good parent to Sparky. 

For more about the Museum, check out my other blog, where I've posted more images of Roald Dahl's comments on writing. It's a great place for a writer, of any age. 

Friday Cow Blogging

Sparky gets a cow lick.

I remember when I was excited about seeing cows on our walks in the countryside—that was when I had no worries that my dog would run barking after them. (A tactic known as "worrying livestock" here in the Countryside Code.) These days, I keep an eye peeled for any signs of livestock or horses, knowing my dog will, if he's off lead, run after them. (Even though I'd never had any real evidence that he'd react like this—we've been careful to only walk where there's no livestock—I knew in my gut that Sparky would react to other animals the way he used to to dogs.)

We went last week to a livestock chase prevention workshop (we were the only ones there) held at Company of Animals. He didn't show too much interest (he was on lead the whole time) and was offered treats whenever he looked away from the sheep. He actually got nose to nose with some small horses there. We were encouraged, yet I still had no illusions that he'd not give chase if let off lead. 

So when we came upon these cows at Queen Anne's Ride in Windsor Great Park, I was glad to have an opportunity to practice our new "look away" skills. Although, frankly, I was busy taking photos, and I forgot to reward Sparky when he looked away. We did reward him with the "life reward" of creating distance between him and the object he was afraid of—the cows.

In hindsight, we probably let him get a little too close for comfort, and we probably let the lesson go on a bit too long. Because after he spent a few minutes meeting the cows close up, as in this photo, he decided to bark at them when one of them moved suddenly. (You don't think cows can move suddenly? Yes, they can. And they weigh around a thousand pounds each, so the idea of suddenly moving cows should worry you. Especially if you're a 50 pound dog.) 

So we walked away from the cows, and then we saw three horses, turning in front of us to walk ahead with their riders. They were walking slowly, so they didn't get move of sight, and then my husband had the not-too-brilliant idea of letting the dog off lead, since they were 200 yards or so in front. Sparky hadn't even seemed aware of the horses, so I didn't object. Big mistake. Sparky took off after them, not responding to our whistle or calls. 

The horses were turning down a lane, heading toward a stable, and we heard a bark in the distance. Then Sparky came running back toward us at full speed. We don't know what happened, but we didn't see the horses bolt, thank god. And he apparently only wanted to warn them off, but still--it could have easily ended in disaster. 

People ask me why I'm working so hard on Sparky's recall (which is actually very good), as well as on his general training. This is one reason. There are few places here where there are no horses, and no livestock. And we really enjoy taking him on walks, but not when he has to stay on lead the whole time. It's not nearly as much fun for us, or for him. But we can't risk another horse chasing incident, or risk him slipping inside a pen with sheep or cows. 

So we're taking it slower. No more off lead countryside walks until his recall is 100% and he's had more experience with the "look away" behaviour that gets rewards. 

Now, I didn't mean to turn Friday's Cow Blogging into another dog training story, so I'll leave you with more photos of these lovely gentlemen. 

I'm pretty sure these were steers, even though I didn't investigate their parts. 

They were a beautiful dark brown color, and were blinged out with gold earrings.

This one seemed the bravest of the lot. He really wanted to investigate Sparky, and Sparky wanted to get information about the cows as well:

Smells like grass!

Birthday Dog!

Sparky watches while I grate carrots for his birthday cake.

We celebrated Sparky's third birthday on Friday. When we got him a year and a half ago he didn't have a birthday. Since I didn't need mine anymore, I gave my April birthday to him. But last year I was traveling in The Netherlands on that day, so he didn't have much of a birthday. We made up for it this year. 

I was going to make a cake, using the recipe I baked often for my last dog. But the cake turned into cupcakes, which kids like more than cakes, I hear. 

Blow out the candles, Sparky!

I let him lick the spoon. But he still didn't have any idea what a "birthday cake" was. (After a few birthday celebrations, my last dog knew full well what a birthday cake was. Which is why she once snatched the St Patrick's Day cupcakes we'd made the day before, for a completely different occasion. She heard "birthday" and decided to save us the trouble of making another batch for her.)

The recipe isn't vegan, as written (my dogs have never been vegan). But you could easily leave out the egg. And substitute maple syrup for the honey, unless you choose to leave out the sweetener altogether. 

I'd recommend brushing your dog's teeth after a cupcake or too. Cake-like substances are the worst for sticking to teeth and gums, and it's important to establish oral health early. 

Right.

Sparky waits patiently...for about three seconds...until he hears "Take it!".

But I firmly believe in a birthday cake every year for our dogs. They only live once, and that life is sometimes all too short—I realized this when I saw that the original post of this birthday cake recipe was for my dog's fourth birthday. By then, she'd already celebrated half her birthdays. 

Here's the recipe again, with a few clarifications, and instructions for cupcakes (which are really more like muffins. And completely human-grade, so enjoy them yourself if you wish). 

Dog Birthday Cake

1/4 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup cooking oil
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup shredded carrot
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup honey (optional)
1 egg

Preheat oven to 350F. 

Mix the peanut butter and cooking oil. Add the flour and baking soda, stirring until smooth. Add the remaining ingredients and mix quickly. Add a little water if needed to make a smooth batter.

Spoon batter into muffin tins (this makes six generous muffins). Bake for 15 minutes. Insert toothpick to test for doneness, although your dog won't mind if it's a little mushy. If necessary, bake for another few minutes.

If you'd prefer to make a cake, spoon batter into a greased 9-inch round cake pan and bake for 30 minutes.

Frost with soy cream cheese, or yoghurt, or cottage cheese, or go all out and put Cool Whip on top. They only live once.

A Proper Walk at Queen Anne's Ride in Windsor

An overcast day, but perfect for a walk with a sore toe.

Today we needed a grassy place to walk the dog, one with easy access to the grass that didn't involve walking across a lot of pavement. And of course it needed to be livestock-free, and no surrounding wooded areas to entice Sparky to chase squirrels, thus re-injuring his paw and allowing him to become more focused on squirrels than on our recall efforts. 

A week ago he injured his paw pad while chasing squirrels in Black Park, one of our favorite walking spots. My husband, who stayed with him while I was away, noticed he had an easier time walking on the grass after that, so he kept him home and exercised him in the back garden. A few days later, he took him to the Camp, where he could easily access the grass, but Sparky ran off after squirrels in the trees that surround the Iron-Age hillfort, and re-injured his poor toe. Back to the back yard, for several more days.

But this is a dog who really needs his exercise, and by today we couldn't see any redness on his toe. So we cast about for safe places to go. We thought of the Long Walk, which is a great spot in Windsor Great Park for walking and horseriding, but there's a paved lane down the middle. After poking around on the web, I found the parallel Queen Anne's Ride in Windsor Great Park, which doesn't have any paved areas and with a single line of trees at the sides of the "lane", it seemed like a perfect place, at least from Google maps. There even appeared to be off-road parking right next to the area, right off the A332. 

So we loaded up the dog, our whistles, our super-duper recall treats (this time it was roasted chicken) and we headed to Windsor. I had heard that the Queen sometimes walks her corgis on Queen Anne's Ride, but when we got there there were very few walkers on the long grassy stretch, and none of them seemed the least bit royal.

It was perfect—fenced, for the most part, on either side, with about 50 or 60 yards between the fences, and an endless stretch before us. This served to keep Sparky relatively close to us, though he really wanted to cross into the open fields on either side of the fences. And worryingly, there were two horses and riders, in the deer park on the other side of the fence. Sparky looked interested, but he came right away when we called him over to us, and he never barked at the huge beasts, even when they took off at a trot. 

Checking out a dead tree, the enticing deer park on the other side of the fence. 

The few dogs we came across, he simply ignored, and they gave up on engaging him pretty quickly. Our only problem came when we saw what looked to be sheep off to the side when the fence on the right ended. 

Sheep would be a disaster for our part-Border Collie. So we leashed him up, and approached the area carefully, both of us peering through our thick eyeglass lenses to see what those prone spots were in the grass. 

Boy were we embarrassed when we realized the "sheep" were actually tufts of daffodils. 

(In our defense, daffodills here are REALLY big and fluffy!)

We let Sparks off lead again, and he happily ran through the field, ignoring the threatening daffs. 

Daffodils? Or fluffy sheep?

At the top of the rise, we looked back, and there was Windsor Castle, in the distance. I suppose the Queen is busy with Easter duties this weekend, though she spends most weekends in Windsor, with the corgis, as many tourists who've seen the Royal helicopter land during a tour of the castle can attest. 

Looking back toward Windsor Castle

Though the weather was miserable for Easter weekend—in the 40s, and overcast, we were glad to get out and have a proper walk. Once again, we realized how lucky we are to live in southern England, where the only threatening lifeform is a clump of prone daffodils.

A Very Smelly Recall

Recall in the snow

We're really working hard on improving Sparky's recall, with the help of a workshop we've taken at Company of Animals. They've given us some great tips for improving recall. It turns out I was on the right track, but I just needed to do more of what I was already doing: better treats, more exciting recalls, and generally making myself even more of a beloved (and benevolent) human. If I am the source of all good things, he'll want to be sure to be near me, despite the lure of squirrels. (Here's a video by Company of Animals on "canine currency" that explains how to improve rewards.)

Although I thought I was offering high-value treats to Sparky whenever I whistled for him to come, it turns out there are even better treats than roast turkey. 

Now, being vegan, I'm not exactly thrilled at putting any kind of meat in my hands, and I drew the line at sardines. Except that's the thing that Sparky loves most. His recall has improved even more since we rewarded him with a sardine each time he raced up to us. 

Fortunately there is such a thing as rubber gloves. 

The video above was taken at the Camp, a local Iron Age hillfort where we frequently walk Sparky. It's surrounded by trees and brush, and beyond that, fenced gardens. So it's a safe place to work on recall skills. 

Sunday is our last session of the workshop. The last time we went, Sparky was fascinated by the llamas that came up to the fence. They proved to be the perfect distraction, which we needed to get Sparky's recall to the next level, where he would return to us despite a high level distraction. (In the wild, sheep, horses, and of course squirrels are real-life distractions he'll have to learn to ignore when we call him.)

As we discovered, when it was turkey vs llamas, the llamas won. But when sardines entered the picture, we suddenly had a dog totally focused on us. 

A very smelly victory, but still, a victory.