Hops in the Right Direction: Sometimes, You Gotta Play Mama Bear

I've gotten a few snide comments about my dog.  Usually it happens when I'm on a long walk or am out for the day with Prada, and I've got her in the belly bag.  Because you know, purse-dog stereotypes blah blah blah.  I've snarked back a time or two--in my polite way, of course.  It's amazing how far a, "yeah, it's great that there are more options for handicapped dogs these days, isn't it?" will go.  (Cue the stuttering and agreeing.  Because while plenty of people are willing to make fun of purse-dogs, not too many are willing to be an asshole about handicapped ones.  Kind of like people who are really nice--except to waiters.)  More often, I just grin at them to let them know I've heard and move on.

I don't think I should tell someone anything about their dog that I wouldn't say about their child.  Or, more universally, if you don't want to feel like an asshole, don't be an asshole.  Asshole.

Because sometimes, you've just got to play mama bear.

Naturally, assholes aren't limited to snarking on dogs with altered mobility.  Purse dogs, small dogs, dogs they've decided are a mean breed or just ugly, whatever.

Which leads me to an incident my dad described to me.  My folks were recently at a national invitational for rally obedience.  (Yeah, they got invited to nationals their first year doing it.  Dad and Linka took 3rd place in Rally 2, and tied for 6th in Rally 3, the hardest level.  Against the best dogs in the country.  Not too shabby, right?)  At the same event was a conformation show--the standard kind you see on Thanksgiving, for pure-breds only. 

Now, Linka is a pure-bred miniature schnauzer, but she has a small white line on her chest that disqualifies her from participating in conformation.  So Dad has no real reason to groom her within the parameters of conformation--Linka's got a cut on a variation of the standard, which is more suited to her active lifestyle/running around in the woods all the time.  Okay, okay, I'm done with the exposition.  Here's the actual story:

My mom was holding Linka during a break between rallies.  She wandered over to the conformation show to admire the dogs.  A woman with another schnauzer came up to my mom and asked, "What are you doing here?  You're obviously not here for conformation."

"No," Mama Bear said.  "We're not here for the frou-frou dog show--we're in the competition for smart dogs."

Hops in the Right Direction: It's Normal. Or Not, But That Doesn't Make It Abnormal--Just Confusing.

My dad and I talk dogs a lot.  He and his dog, Linka, are constantly training for the rally obediance trials they do, and of course Prada and I are always working toward new body confidence goals.  Needless to say, we never run out of things to talk about, and it's great to have someone to bounce ideas off of.

That's one of the best things about having a dog--I immediately have something in common with any other dog owner I meet.

And of course there's the pleasure and satisfaction anyone who has adopted a dog has.

But having a special needs dog changes things.  Not only do I have something to talk about with any other dog lover--which, as far as I'm concerned, is anyone worth talking to--I also have had a whole new world opened up to me.

Wait.

That sounds way too sappy, even for me.

How about this?

You know, having a tripod, is like, cool and stuff, because I never really thought before about how, like, it would make me a nicer, more compassionate person.  Dude.

(Okay, let's pretend I never wrote that.  That's atrocious.)

In all seriousness, though, having a "different" pet has made me re-evaluate the importance, even the necessity, of being physically normal.  Normal is what is.  My normal, and my normal with Prada, is different than other people's normal.  That would still be the case if she had four legs.  Or if she were the size of a Pyrenees.  Or if she were blind, or petrified of squirrels.

So, I figure that makes Prada no less not-normal than any other dog.  And maybe, by extension (it's a stretch, I know), that makes me no less not-normal than any other person.

Read This! The Enchanted Forest Chronicles by Patricia C. Wrede

I didn't read a lot of young adult fiction when I was a kid.  I kind of skipped straight from Goosebumps and Choose Your Own Adventure straight to proper novels meant for adults (a lot of fantasy, also some improper romance novels I sneaked from my Nana, who had one of those book club memberships).

Nevertheless, the school book fair was always one of the most exciting days of the year.  It wasn't like the Scholastic book club pamphlets we got every month--those just had books designed for my age group.  Boring.  The book fair had books for teenagers, and while ninety percent of them were in the Sweet Valley High type of genre (by which I mean, romantic word vomit), once in a while I'd come across a book that piqued my interest.

Calling on Dragons was just such a book.  It was the third in the series, and try as I might, I couldn't find the other books in the series that day.  But the idea of a fairy-tale princess who takes herself out of the fairy tale intrigued me enough that I bought it anyway--and I was one tight-fisted little kid.

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The Enchanted Forest Chronicles remains one of my favorite YA series to this day--one of the best things about fantasy novels is that the well-written ones never feel dated.

Dealing with Dragons begins the saga--we meet Princess Cimorene (one of my favorite heroines ever, and pretty much who I want to be when I grow up.  That or Betty White.), who doesn't like being told that proper princesses don't fence or learn magic or cook cherries jubilee.  So she runs away to volunteer captive for the dragon Kazul.  There, she cooks, cleans, practices her Latin, and kicks some evil wizard butt--all while sending well-meaning princes off to rescue other princesses.  (Something about a second-hand prince is just too perfect.)

In Searching for Dragons, Cimorene meets King Mendenbar, and that kicks off two books of twisted fairytale fun (wait till you meet Rapunzel...) and the kind of grand romance that doesn't make you want to gag or chuck the book across the room.

Finally, in Talking with Dragons (or maybe first, because the last book in the series was actually the first published), the adventures continue with Daystar, Cimorene and Mendenbar's son.

Oh!  And if you read this series, make sure you get your hands on Book of Enchantments, which includes the short story "Utensile Strength," in which our favorite family encounter the Frying Pan of Doom.  (This was a thing before the new Rapunzel movie.  Seriously.  Check out the publication dates.)

And you don't have to take my word for it that this series is one of the best:  It made NPR's list of 100 Best-Ever Teen Novels.  (Just ignore the Twilight series, and the list is a very good one.  Should I be embarrassed that I've read well over half the books on that list?)


(True:  I reread Dealing with Dragons last night.  Guess what I'm doing the rest of the week?)

Hops in the Right Direction: Paying It Forward--With a Giveaway!

Remember that time that my mom accidentally pet a 'possum instead of a cat?  And I implied 'possums are ugly monsters?  And then that led to this post, where I talked about marsupial fetishists collecting images for their pinup calendar?  And I unleashed this horror upon the world:

I'm sorry, you probably had repressed that.

Well, that calendar is now a thing, and you can get one FOR FREE.

Yes, that's right, a full, proper, 12 month, full-color calendar in all its perverted glory* can be yours.  FOR FREE.  All the images are brand new and created by my very very cool friend/cousin/faithful reader/marsupial fetishist Dianawesome.  Because she is awesome.

All I ask is that, in lieu of payment, you donate some time/money/old towels or other supplies to whatever animal shelter you like.  Then, email me at danathebiped@gmx.com with your address and details of how you helped a homeless pet.  That's it.  You could even lie about the help part if you really wanted, because I'm going on the honor system here.  In January, I'll post what we've all accomplished, and we can all be amazed and self-congratulatory over how fabulous we are.

Fabulous, right?

Because even though we're sick and twisted people, we've got squishy soft hearts.  And just in case you need a reminder of where to find your squishy soft heart, let me tell you a story.

In the spring of 2011, I adopted a three-legged Pomeranian with a slew of anxiety issues and a rapidly approaching "adopt by or else" date.  She was kind of raggedy:

But she had a great smile.  And she was terrified of being alone and also of slippery floors.  My friends and family gave me whatever rugs they could spare to help me accomodate her on my hardwood floors.

Fast forward through lots of obedience and relaxation classes for her, massage lessons for me, a ton of research about tripods and their bodies, and countless hours of training.  Fast forward to this Thanksgiving at my folks' house. 

Prada was in the living room on her rug.  Mom, Dad, and I were in the kitchen chatting.  And then this happened (which you might not be able to see very well, because it was taken on my old really dumb phone):

That's my dog on a hardwood floor, if you can't tell.  And this is why you should do something good.  Because every shelter pet that finds a home has a thousand little miracles in their lives, the most important being a family.  And also because 'possum faces on pinup girls are funny.  (And free!)


*(True:  I feel obligated to point out that a couple of the calendar possumgirls turned out a little grainy.  They'll all be perfect next year, though.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Taking Advantage of the Circumstances (And Dealing with the Them)

While my new landlord has been rebuilding our fire escape/porches, Prada has been coming to work with me.  I am really ambivalent about this for a lot of reasons.

The Cons:

• Prada is already starting to expect to come with me everywhere, and throws a hissyfit if I try to leave her behind.  My neighbors are not amused.
• It's starting to get cold, and while my boss is very cool about Prada coming into the building every once in a while for a bit, she cannot be inside with me all day.  She spends most of the day sleeping in the car, bundled in her warm bed, with a blanket and in her sweater or fleece coat.  But I worry.
• She's starting to get a little tubby from all the treats my coworkers are sneaking her.

The Pros:

• She is getting a lot of great socialization with a lot of different people.
• We've been able to practice walking on "slippery" surfaces out in the warehouse--and we're starting to make a bit of progress.  (Woohoo!  She'll go a few feet at a time toward me!)
• I can cuddle her anytime I like, making the work days seem a lot shorter.

So.  I'm on the fence about whether I'm happy with the circumstances or not.  Regardless, there's nothing I can do about it, unless I win a million dollars and can afford to take her to doggy day care every day until the construction is done.  So I deal.  Because that's what you do.

I'm going to be out of town for most of next week, and my folks will be pet-sitting for me.  Hopefully, the week will act as a "reset" for the bad habits Prada has picked up, and if I'm very lucky, the construction will be done by the time I return.  Then I can start retraining Prada to remain behind calmly.

We'll figure it out, and we'll make it work.

That's what family does.

Hops in the Right Direction: It Goes Both Ways

I've written in previous weeks how it's important to me to advocate for adoptable dogs, and I've seen so many examples of people doing so much to help dogs in need.

Sometimes, though, it's the dogs helping the adoptable people.  Last Sunday, Linka (with my parents, of course) and lots of other dogs participated in the Canine2IronDog Event near Oak Forest, Illinois, and they were raising money for FOSCIK, a group dedicated to providing for the basic needs of orphaned and abandoned children in Kenya.

If you're a dog-lover, then you know first-hand how a dog can be so good for you, and everyone has heard stories of dogs saving their owners from fires, warning them prior to a seizure, or cheering a child in hospice, whatever.  This is the first time, though, that I've heard of a group of dogs doing good for a group people in this way, and it makes me so damn proud on so many levels.

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(And guess who took second in their division?)

Hops in the Right Direction: Come One, Come All

This weekend, I had the pleasure of joining my parents at a UKC rally and obedience event.  I've mentioned before that Linka and my dad do rally obedience, which is like an obstacle course with obedience challenges, but this was the first time they had tried classic obedience trials as well.

Needless to say, it went well.

The event was hosted by the wonderful people at the Northwest Obedience Club in Carey, Illinois.  If you want to meet a nicer, more welcoming group of people, well, good luck to you.  Several of their members act as rally obedience judges for both the UKC and the APDT (Association of Pet Dog Trainers), and get this:

Both associations allow amputee dogs to participate.  In the UKC, the tripod only needs to perform all the excercises exactly as they are printed.  A judge in the APDT may allow variations in the excercises with valid reasons.  So, for example, a judge may at their discretion allow Prada to compete even though she heels on my right side, which in formal obedience, is the "wrong" side, because she prefers a barrier (me) between her more vulnerable amputated side and the rest of the world.

Most of us dog-lovers only have one job for our furry friends:  to be really exceptional cuddlers.  There is a large minority, though, that really enjoys the challenges and cameraderie (and yeah, okay, ribbons) that can be achieved with performance dogs at obedience and rally obedience trials.  So it's pretty cool that several of these clubs recognize that even "handicapped" dogs can perform with gusto.

A Whole New Meaning to the Phrase "Double-Tap"

I did a rare thing this weekend--I took some vacation time.  My folks own property up in the northwoods of Wisconsin, a few of the most beautiful acres in the world, as far as I'm concerned.  Long weekends there mostly involve hanging out outside in one way or another.  We hit a couple of outdoor, dog-friendly art fairs, we took a short hike around Bond Falls (a dog-friendly path), and we went swimming on a dog-friendly beach.

I was particularly looking forward to the latter as this past winter, I'd purchased a life jacket for Prada but hadn't had the opportunity to give it a go yet.  Because Prada is usually uncomfortable in new environments, especially ones where she doesn't feel like she has her feet securely under her, I really didn't know what to expect of the excursion.  I needn't have worried.  Prada paddled her feet for a moment (she's got the instinct for swimming certainly), and then chilled out.  I mean, she relaxed so deeply she almost fell asleep.  I was pretty tickled to say the least.

We didn't stay long.  Even though the water was bathwater warm, it doesn't take much for little dogs to get chilled, and after about fifteen minutes, Prada started shivering and it was time to get out.  But hey, they were a very successful fifteen minutes--it may be time to look up one of the dog-friendly beaches in Chicago I keep hearing about.

Without the dogs, we went four-wheeling (sorry, it's a drought, I can't honestly say we went muddin'), and did some target practice.  My dad has this gorgeous 9mm pistol, a Colt MK IV Series 80, and I had the pleasure of emptying the better part of a clip at the tail end of the weekend.  I'm much more familiar with rifles (though I don't get much practice with those, either, but enough to know I prefer a little bolt-action rifle without too much kick), and after a brief run-down on the mechanics of it, I let loose. 

Our target wasn't exactly high-tech--just a hunter orange circle about four inches in diameter slapped on a pizza sheet, but it did the trick.  Or rather, it probably would have done if I could aim worth a damn.  I hit the tin maybe twice, but not the orange at all.  I'd never be able to hit a zombie in the chest, much less in the head.  I tended to hit a few inches below and to the left of the target--at least I'm consistent.

And now you'll know how to find me in the zombie apocolypse:  I'll be the one being run down by zombies missing their right testicle.

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(True:  I never quite understood why it is zombies need to be shot in the head.  Wouldn't fire work, too?  A flame-thrower probably wouldn't require such precise aim.  Just sayin'.)

Hops in the Right Direction: The Driving Force

My parents have a miniature schnauzer, and Linka is scary-smart.  My folks' biggest challenge with her is how to keep her occupied and challenged so she doesn't turn that brilliant mind to getting into really creative trouble.  She's really got a work ethic, too--I have rarely seen a dog so eager for work.

Talking with my dad last night, and the things they work on in their dog class (like how to sit-stay on a moving skateboard) struck me as being motivated entirely differently than the things we work on in my dog class (like how to down-stay even when I leave her sight momentarily).  And those class motivations are why they suit our respective dogs so well--Linka and Prada are motivated differently themselves.

Linka is a thinker.  If she sees something new, her first instinct is to go check it out.  She wants to learn everything there is to know about everything.  She has a cheerful disregard for her own safety, sometimes.

Prada, on the other hand, is a feeler.  I am not saying by any means that she is not a smart girl or a quick learner, but if she has to choose between checking out something new and interesting and feeling safe, she'll choose security every time.  This means introducing her to new situations slowly, or in a way that sets her up to succeed.

I've mentioned before that slippery floors are a no-go for her.  So, when we go someplace new, I toss her rug in the car, so she'll have a safe, familiar place to sit no matter what flooring situation we encounter.  Or, if a couple of kids want to pet her while we're on a walk, I'll pick her up into her "safe position" (basically tucked under my arm like a football--she'll tolerate pretty much anything as long as she's in that position).  This way, she feels confident that this new and probably overwhelming situation is going to be okay.  (Plus, I can steer little hands away from Prada's chest, which she doesn't like strangers to touch.) 

And when new environmental elements come up, I take advantage of them.  On a walk a few nights ago, we passed a yard that had an in-ground sprinkler system.  It made a sort of hissing sound that Prada shied away from, so I sat on the sidewalk near one of the sprinklers and fed Prada treats and just let her explore as far as she was comfortable.  On the few occasions that she's stepped on a manhole cover, I've praised her effusively and had a little treat party.  (Yes, passers-by do think I'm crazy.  Whatever.)

All this so she feels safe.  Because, of course, no one can feel confident in themselves until they feel safe in their environment.

Adopted dogs come in all shapes and sizes, but they all have one thing in common:  they've had an uncertain past.  It's up to us as their guardians to give them certainty in their surroundings and encourage certainty in themselves, whether that's through cerebral challenges like the rally obedience my parents do with Linka or through the positive associations (treats) linked with brave actions (staying while I walk out of sight).  Tailoring our methods by knowing what drives our dogs helps us set them up for success--the long-term-happy kind.

Judge, Jury, and Prescriptioner

Let me start this post by announcing that I am in my late twenties.  I haven't lived under my parents' roof since college, and I have been more or less financially independent since just a bit after that.

Also, my mom is awesome.

Also, periods suck.

Also, I hate my hometown drugstore.

Some years ago, when I did still live with my parents, I sat down with them to discuss the possibility of me going on birth control.  Because, you know, getting your period twice in one month is no fun, and also I'm a huge whore.  (I'm kidding on one of those.  I'll let you guess which.)  My folks, being reasonable and cool, agreed it was a good idea, and we never really talked about it again.

Fast forward to two summers ago.  I am visiting my parents for the weekend and realize I need to renew my prescription.  This is why I use a national chain drugstore--you can pick up your stuff anywhere.  My hair is growing out, and is a weird length where the only way I can get it out of my face is to put it in pigtails.

(This is probably when I should tell you that I look like I'm about twelve.  Especially when I'm in pigtails.)

I ask my mom to swing by Big National Drugstore on our way back from running errands, and of course it's no big deal to her.  She and I walk back to the prescription counter and I give my name and tell the pharmacist, a not-old man, which prescription I need refilled. 

He stares at me.  Then he flicks a glance at my mom.  Then he scowls at me.

"What's your last name again?" he finally asks.

I say it. 

"Can you spell that?"

I spell it, speaking slowly and clearly because I once worked as a receptionist, and hearing letters clearly isn't always as easy as you think.  He continues scowling at me, not typing or writing down my name.

"Can you spell that again?"

I do.

"One more time..."

(This is probably a good time to point out that I do not have a particularly long or difficult last name.  Sure, it's a bit on the Dutch side, but this is my hometown--plenty of other names like it.)

After he asks me to spell my name six times (I wish I were exaggerating), he finally turns to his computer and puts his hands to the keyboard.  He looks at me, waiting.  I spell it one last time. 

Very loudly.

Very slowly.

Very are-you-fucking-kidding-me.

He types.  He pulls up my info.  He sees my age.  He goggles and then finally does his job and starts filling my prescription.

(My mom held me back from throttling him.  Barely.)

Moral of the story:  Work more, judge less.

Asshole.


(True:  This.)

Round Up!

It's another long holiday weekend, y'all.  It's a time of honoring those who have fought and fallen for the brats we're grilling and the margaritas we're swilling, often with our families.

All.  Weekend.  Long.

Now, this isn't a problem for me, because my family is awesome (Hi, Family!), but I understand that some of you might need something to help distract you from the gene-sharers surrounding you, and I'm pretty sure it's illegal to mail tequila shots.  So, here are some links, pictures, and general things I find interesting to keep those of you unlucky enough to not be related to me occupied.

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I was fortunate enough to find Crimes Against Hugh's Manatees through Oh Noa.  Noa is unfailingly awesome in her suggestions of funny blogs, and right now, my brain power is so diminished that a tumblr/comic is about as much as I can handle.  Especially when it's as funny CAHM.  Read them both.  Laugh much.



I have no idea why I've waited several weeks to post this video, but it is awesome.  Also, this is about the level of drama that my life actually is right now.  (I know, I hardly ever complain here.  But besides the Jumper, the Dumper, and the Bumper, my freezer has broken and a contractor who goes by the name "Soup" called me, "pretty.  Kind of plain, but pretty.  Ish."  All in the last month.  I think I'm going to become a lesbian.  At least women are willing to be fake-nice.  Or maybe I'll become a hermit.  I'll let you know.)

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Have you guys seen this video?  Ashleigh and her dog Pudsey are pretty darn talented, not to mention super cute.

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Text From Dog.  Read it and don't laugh.  I dare you.

Happy Memorial Day!


(True:  My grandfather, John Gardner, served in the Air Force and was stationed in the South Pacific during World War II.  I'll be remembering him this weekend, but my gratitude goes out to all the people in the armed forces and their families.  God bless.)

Third Time's the Charm, Right? Right???

Last week was the Trifecta of Awful:  The Jumper, The Dumper, and The Bumper.  I was taking care of the last this morning.  I had gotten rear-ended by a motorcyclist Friday morning, but fortunately no one was hurt.  I did, however, get a good-sized dent in the hatch and lots of scratches in the bumper.  My insurance company has a corporate office and an affiliated repair shop not too far from here, and that's where I headed this morning.

My appointment was scheduled for 7:30.  I remembered this at about 7:05, as I stood in the shower.  I also remembered that I didn't have directions for how to get there.  And that I haven't arranged for Internet in the week since I've been back in my own apartment.  It was already 7:35 by the time I called my mom (Hi, Mom!) to ask her to MapQuest the directions for me.

Because I was already late, of course I got lost.  (Go big or go home, I always say.  And I had a better idea of how to get back on track to where I was going than how to get home again.)  I finally got there at quarter to nine.  Fortunately, people in the insurance industry know that if you're there, you're already having a crap day, and so Insurance Man Jason was really nice about it.  A few minutes later, I had the rental car and was ready to go.

I just needed to get one box leftover from my recent abrupt move out of my car.  Then I ran back in the office and handed over my keys.

Oh, and I needed my lunch, too.  Back to the office I go, re-collect my keys, get the lunch from my car, and hand them back in again.

Crap, what about my phone charger?

Screw it.  Aaaand that's pretty much my new mantra.


(True:  I have help at work again!  I may actually be able to post semi-regularly--woohoo!)

Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts

Note:  Names have been omitted to protect me from people who know where I live.

Note the Second:  Any rodents harmed in the making of this post would have been dead of old age by now anyway.  It was quick, and more painless.

For the animal, anyway.  Rather less so for the people involved.

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Gophers.  They are a problem on a farm, where they burrow in fields.  Those burrows can collapse under the weight of machinery and cause damage--not something you want on a several hundred thousand dollar machine.  Their gnawing damages crops.

Year ago, an older man used to offer his son fifty cents for every gopher he killed.  As the younger man was concluding the first meeting of his new girlfriend and his parents, he saw a gopher run into its burrow out in the adjacent field.

The young man grabbed a shotgun, a baseball bat, and a bucket of water.

(This is not going to end well for any party involved.)

He gave the the bucket and the bat to his girlfriend and stationed her next the the hole he'd seen the gopher go into.  Searching out the other end of the burrow, he planned on shooting the gopher flushed out by the water poured down the girlfriend's end.  In case the gopher decided to go for a swim and come out the girlfriend's end, she was ready with the bat.

(Can you see what's about to happen?)

Now, this girlfriend was a sporting type, and went along with this plan.  That might not have been the best idea.  Especially given the fact that the man got a little overeager after the flushed gopher ran, half-drowned, out the girlfriend's end of the burrow--

He took the shot.  (At the gopher, not his girlfriend.)  With a shotgun, I might remind you.

The gopher exploded.  All over the girlfriend.  Who had a baseball bat in her hand. 




Via   (Except with squishy gopher guts instead of bolts.)


Later, the man's father, who usually gave his son fifty cents a gopher, gave the girlfriend a whole dollar.

Best part?  She married the guy.


(True:  A woodchuck would chuck all the wood he could if a woodchuck could chuck wood.)

Jemma recommends a bath.  Or twelve.

Hops in the Right Direction: Who You Gonna Call?

No, probably not the Ghostbusters, unless your dog's missing leg has come back from the dead and is stalking your family.  (Actually, call me for that.  I want pictures.)

The point is, although I like to pretend otherwise, I am by no means a dog expert.  Like every aspect of my life, with Prada, I am winging it.  And when I run out of "winging it" ideas and need advice, I have a short list of people I trust to give it to me straight.

• Example 1:  I cut Prada's nail too short and now it won't stop bleeding and oh god do I need to get her to the emergency vet and I am the worst pet mom ever? 

 I call my mom.  She's a life-long dog-owner, she went to school to be a vet tech, and she's great at calming me down when I'm freaking the freak out.

• Or, Example 2:  Is that a pimple?  Does Prada seriously have a pimple?  Can dogs even get pimples?  Maybe it's an ingrown hair or folliculitis.  Or cancer.  Shit.  It's probably cancer. 

To the vet I go.  I try hard not to panic before absolutely necessary, but if it's health-related, I want to know asap what's going on. (Don't worry, it's just folliculitis.)

• Example 3:  Most dogs will let you pet them.  But hands make Prada so freaking overexcited!  What do I do?  I just want to pet my dog!

Here's where I go beyond the "Yes, Dana, we already know all this because anyone who owns a dog knows to go to the vet when the dog is sick so shut your trap" part.  See, the training facility I go to, Animal Sense, has a blog.  I've linked to it before, but I will again because of one very special feature on that blog:  "Ask a Trainer."  That's right.  You type in your question, and they answer it, and it's awesome.  You don't have to be an expert.  You don't have to be their customer.  They're cool like that.  This week, they answered my question.  You can see it here. 

So many good dogs with well-intentioned owners end up in shelters, and often that is because of behavioral issues.  Maybe, if more people had good resources for helping them learn to integrate their dogs into their life successfully, that number wouldn't be so tragically high.

Lots of shelters offer low-cost or no-cost seminars, like preparing your dog to acclimate to a new baby, or no- or low-cost microchipping or vaccinations.  Local expos are a great way to learn what your area has to offer and maybe even score some freebies!

Point is, the resources are out there.  You don't have to be an expert as long as you know where to find them.  (By the way, I love research.  If you need a hand, let me know.  Finding all these links took me about twenty minutes, and some of that time I was fooling around of Twitter.)

Karma is a spunky little angel who only needs one resource--you!

The Warm and Fuzzies

Ahem.  You may have heard--I grew up in the country, on a bitty little hobby farm (i.e., my parents weren't professional farmers, we just had lots of farmtype animals).  A good half my stories from my childhood come from interesting interactions with these farmtype animals, or those animals that just wandered into the barns to mooch food.

Let's meet some of my childhood companions, shall we?

'Possums.  We had them.  Not on purpose, but the oversized rats seem insanely attracted to cat food, much like the aliens in District 9.  They're about as cute, too, but much less sympathetic.  My mom was feeding the barn cats one evening, and either the power was out or she hadn't bothered to turn the light on.  In any case, she was in the mostly-dark barn, and when one of the cats wound its way around her ankles, she bent down to pet it--and came face-to-face with a 'possum who just wanted some lovin'.

Wanted:  Cat food and some sweet, sweet love for "attractive" single monster.

Shudder.

Sunny is way cuter.

Words of Wisdom

My Nana was one cool lady.  An Air Force wife, she lived all over the world, working as a volunteer nurse and substitute mom for those men who needed a warm meal and a place to feel at home on Sunday afternoons.  She navigated her life as if she were in a tank, plowing over any obstacles in her path.  Even when the Alzheimer's got really bad, and her stories became more and more outrageous, she was always the hero of those stories.  I loved her to pieces.

One of the best things about Nana is that she always gave it to you straight.  Oh, didn't you like what she had to say?  Then you shouldn't have asked, dummy.  So a couple of years ago, when I was agonizing over whether or not to move to Chicago, I asked her for some advice.  She gave me words to live by, Nana-style:

"Suck it up.  You're a Gardner."

Damn skippy I am.

What's your last name?  Because Bud would like to borrow it for a while.  Just for ten, fifteen years or so.

It's a Lot Like Life in the Mob, Except Nobody Dies.

So, you may have heard my car died.  Well and truly.  My weekend was spent getting a new one, which went like this:

Saturday:  Get up at 4 a.m., take the train to Milwaukee.  Get picked up by parents, driven an hour and a half to the town where my credit union is.  Convince them to lend me money.  Informed the credit union closes at noon.  Crazy car shopping ensues.  Miss the twelve o'clock deadline.  Become convinced that life is ruined forever.  Find a car.  Praise god that car dealership is owned by someone my family has known for a long time, and he will let me drive the car home with just the down payment and the promise that the credit union thing will be figured out.  Discuss mutual cousins with the dealer.  Go to next town over.  Have tea and pie with Grandma.  Send camera-phone pic of new car to The Squeeze.  The Squeeze receives a picture of a spider.  Send camera-phone pic of new car to The Squeeze.  The Squeeze receives a picture of Prada.  Give up.  Decide phone is retarded or about to rebel Terminator-style.  Go to parents' house.  Realize I need insurance.  Mom calls insurance guy who lets us come over to his house to write my policy.  Interupt his dinner.  Realize insurance guy also taught my hunter's safety course in middle school.  Get insurance, two memo pads, a letter opener, a pen, a calendar with a guide to the best fishing days, and a reaffirmation of the second ammendment.  Feel awesome.  Go back to parents' house. 

Sunday:  Crash.  (Sleep-wise, not the car.)

So, here are some pics of my new car:

As you can see, the hatchback-style gives me a lot more room than in my old coupe, and the steering wheel is set low enough for short people to see over without sitting on the yellow pages.

The power locks and power windows are a nice upgrade, too.


(True:  "I know a guy.")

Bella oughtta know a guy, too.

A Family Portrait

My parents have a Deutch Drahthaar.  That's a real thing.  A dog, in fact.  Close cousin to the German Wirehair, but more everything.  Bigger, smarter, more athletic...  It's like having a ninety pound two-year-old in the house.  Drew is a working dog, and up until recently, he's been unemployed.

See, Drahthaars are hunting dogs, and that's what my dad wanted to do with Drew.  However, Drew has seasonal alopecia.  The leaves fall off trees, all the hair falls off Drew's sides.  He'd scrape the bejeezus out of himself if he went hunting.  Fortunately, my dad is a problem solver.

Last weekend, Dad showcased the new job he'd gotten for Drew:



Clockwise from the top:  The Brother-in-Law, Drew, Dad, My Sister the Lawyer, Me, Prada

That's a repurposed Radio Flyer, y'all.  And Drew is pulling me.  Actually, this is when we first started out.  About ten seconds after this picture was taken, Dad handed me the reins, and Drew took off running.  Just imagine it:  bouncing along in a Radio Flyer after a dog, going about fifteen miles an hour.  That's way faster than I can bike.



This is when everybody finally caught up with us, a half mile down the road.

 Drew isn't tired here.  He's just distracted by some birds.  In case you think this is all Drew is capable of:

See that sweater Drew is wearing?  I totally made that.

The neighbors think my family is crazy.  Clearly, though, my family is just crazy-cool.

(True:  That first picture is taken on the main street of my hometown.  I did mention I'm from the boonies, right?)

Dora approves of creative solutions.

An Affair to Remember

My cousin got married this weekend.  She and her new husband kind of geeky, so they're good peoples.  Even cooler, their exit processional was the theme music from Indiana Jones.  Even coolest, they had three cakes.  One was a very pretty traditional tiered cake, but I didn't take a picture of it because I was distracted by these beauties:



Featuring Han Solo frozen in carbonite chocolate.



Featuring an exceptionally dapper R2D2 and his bride, R2DTwoette.  (Try saying that without chuckling.  I dare you.)

The best part?  My cousin, the bride, made Han Solo frozen in carbonite chocolate and Mr. and Mrs. R2D2.  How cool is that?  Pure chocolate yummmm.  I got a Han Solo--possibly the bestest wedding favor ever.

My family is awesome.


(True:  I was chatting with the bride as she licked the frosting off the lightsabers and action figures on the chocolate-frosted cake.  She suddenly stopped mid-sentence, looking alarmed.  "I just licked Hans Solo's butt."  Edit:  It's Luke Skywalker's.  That might be worse.)

Wink wink indeed, Midnight.