Living Like a Dog

Like probably about 90 percent of the people that live on this planet I'm continually searching for that magical formula that's going to bring me eternal peace and happiness or, at the very least, the desire to get out of bed and face the day. And after years of searching I think I've finally found it. Forget the self help books, the meditation, the yoga, the self medication with a bottle of wine - all I need to be happy is to take after Porter and live life like a dog. Not live "as a dog" (that would be quite the trick) but "like a dog."
And what exactly does it mean to live like a dog? After spending the last five days with a dog as practically my only company and having the opportunity to observe him for about 20 hours a day I have come to the conclusion that living like a dog simply means waking up every day and just accepting whatever the day may bring-good or bad - because there's not really much you can do about it. It is what it is.  Does a dog wake up worrying about what the other dogs at the dog park are going to think of him? Is he afraid he's too old and fat and slow to chase after the ball and that he's going to lose out to the younger, skinnier, faster dogs? Of course not. He simply goes out there and if someone throws him the ball that's great. He'll do his best to get it.  If he doesn't get that one he doesn't care because  there's bound to be another ball eventually and maybe he will get lucky and get that one.  Or maybe not. It doesn't matter because it's just a ball and as along as he's out there trying to get it that's enough for him.
And I love the way a dog can take the same route on his walk everyday but to him there's always a new smell to experience or something new to see that he might have missed the time before and that makes it all brand new. Or something as simple as walking the same route in reverse turns it into a whole different thing. How wonderful to be able to avoid falling into that daily rut when you're able to treat every day as a new one.

Dogs accept you for who you are. Just a quick crotch sniff or a nose in the butt is all they need to be able to judge that you're okay. They don't care that you're carrying last year's purse or carrying an extra ten pounds. As long as you talk to them in a nice tone of voice, give them the occasional scratch behind the ears and feed them at the same time every night you're pretty okay in a dog's book. And even if you do occasionally yell at them or forget to feed them until it's time for bed, that's okay too.  Because tomorrow is a new day. And all is forgiven.

Sleep Like a Dog

He's the epitome of energy. 

Everyone's heard the expression "sleep like a baby." While sleeping like a baby implies a deep, uninterrupted sleep, I think I would like to add another sleep expression to the American vocabulary with "sleep like a dog." We've got "dog-tired" so why not it's opposite "sleep like a dog"? Or more specifically "sleep like a chocolate lab." That's the kind of sleep I want - the kind where passing firetrucks with sirens screaming, smoke alarms and potential burglars don't even cause so much as an eyelid flutter. That's the kind of deep sleep I crave.
I've spent quite a few hours watching Porter sleep or sleeping with Porter and I'm continuously amazed at his ability to sleep through just about everything - except for Boots' nocturnal gymnastics. These past two nights have only reinforced to my why I deserted from the "cat person" camp and over to the "dog person" side. Cats are evil. I don't say that to be mean. I'm just stating a fact. Cats are the spawn of Satan and there's a good reason they were entombed with the pharaohs - it was probably a disgruntled king who just wanted to shut the damn thing up.
I wrote earlier this week that Porter and the cats have reached a new level of compatibility and that still holds true. But it doesn't prevent the felines from coming up with new ways to torment the poor pup in the middle of the night.

Here's Boots doing her "peeping kitty" act while
checking out the cats next door.

One of Boots' favorite activities involves jumping up on the wicker headboard of my bed and using it like a scratching post, waking both Porter and I from a sound sleep. And if that's not bad enough, she continues to do a tight rope act across the headboard, taunting Porter with her twitching tail, until he just can't stand it any longer and has to jump up and lunge toward the headboard, usually stepping on my face in the process. Even after the middle of the night interruption, Porter has absolutely no problems flopping back down and immediately falling back to sleep. I, however, am up for at least two hours.

Last time I was here Porter and I spent half of a night together in my bed before I ended up putting him back into his crate. This time, however, he's yet to sleep in his kennel and we snuggle together in the bed, back to back, like an old married couple. His snores and snorts are comfortably similar to my husband's and strangely, even though Jack's snores drive me to the couch, Porter's don't bother me at all., And while Jack suffers from restless leg syndrome and his legs twitch all night like he's running a marathon, Porter's occasional leg twitches only cause me to wonder what it is he's dreaming about. Is he in doggy heaven chasing a plump rabbit across a green field? And what exactly does doggy heaven look like? Would it be endless fire hydrants and rawhide bones on every corner? Or are his leg twitches caused by his dreams of being chased by a larger, more aggressive dog who has figured out that despite Porter's large size he's just a big marshmallow? Whatever the cause, Porter just sleeps on, blissfully unaware that every pharmaceutical company in the world would probably love to be able to recreate his canine narcolepsy and put it into pill form. 
I'm sure it would a bigger hit than Ambien. And instead of causing you to max our your credit cards with late night Home Shopping Network purchases you don't remember making, the worst that could probably happen to you is you'd wake up with an overwhelming urge to chase a cat. 

The Right Side Wag

It's 5:30am and I'm awake. Why aren't you?

I’m back in Napa again, wearing my dogs-sitting hat for the next six days while Jason and Sarah explore another island in Hawaii. I think after three times of providing this service, I should be able to add it to my resume under the heading of “professional dog-watcher and house sitter.” Perhaps this could be a whole new thing for me – I could give up the whole hotel gig and just hang out in people’s houses and watch their pets while they go off and do fun things.

Coming back here after eight months and getting reacquainted with Porter is a bit like getting back together with a boyfriend that you used to date but broke up with. You kinda remember all of the things he liked and didn’t like and all the things you loved about him but it takes a little time to get back to that place where you feel really comfortable with him again.

Fortunately Porter is a dog and not a man, so it took all of about five minutes and one crotch sniff (mine, not his, of course) and we were back to where we left off in April. If only human relationships were that easy to maintain.

Porter has changed a little bit since the last time I saw him. He’s changed from an overly-energetic pup to a more mature dog but he’s still perfectly capable of enthusiastically dragging me across the kitchen floor when we’re playing tug of war with his green dog toy. The dynamics between Porter and the cats, Boots and Stella, have changed as well. Where before the cats played an elaborate game of hide and seek in the house to avoid Porter, only appearing briefly at breakfast and dinner time, they seem to have reached a détente where they can all be in the same place together without the fur flying. In fact, Porter and Boots shared my bed during my mid-afternoon nap today; Boots curled up on one side of me and Porter stretched out along the other side, my body a fleshy Berlin Wall separating West Canine and East Feline. It was pretty amazing.

In preparation for my dog sitting adventures, I started reading a book called “Inside of a Dog” that is an insightful look at exactly what our furry friends see, hear and think and how they interact with their “humans.” One of the interesting things I learned is exactly what it means when a dog wags his tail in a certain direction and at a certain speed. Dog behaviorists claim that happy dogs rapidly wag their tails to the right, while they typically wag to the left when they’re interacting with someone new or feeling uncertain.  I’ve been watching Porter’s tail since I’ve been here and he’s definitely a “right wagger.” I take that as a good sign and I think it bodes well for the rest of our time together. 

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

When I'm away on vacation, I'm all about doing new things and having new experiences - whether it's trying new food or conquering my fears about parallel parking. Then again, sometimes there are certain experiences that you know you can only do while you're away from home because certain people at "home" would be very unhappy and frown immensely upon hearing about said experiences. There has been something that I've wanted to do for a long time, but I've never been able to because my husband would get very, very upset with me. But, since he's not here, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to have this certain experience and get it out of my system before I go home. 

That's right, I slept with... a dog. 

Now I'm not talking about having the dog in the same room as you, sleeping on the floor beside the bed. Oh no. I'm talking about having the big, hairy beast in the bed with you, slobbering and shedding hair all over the place and stealing most of the covers. 

The last time I was here dog-sitting, Porter was expressly forbidden from climbing up onto the couch and certainly he wasn't allowed on the bed. He spent his slumbering hours in his huge crate in Jason and Sarah's bedroom and seemed none the worse for it. However, as it usually happens, as time passes, rules are relaxed and, in some cases, just downright thrown out the window. Jason told me a while back that Porter was occasionally given the green light to climb onto the bed but it was usually after Jason had been out having a few cocktails and the disciplinarian in him went by the wayside. Sarah echoed those sentiments and now that she's working from home and the bed sometimes functions as her desk, I get the feeling that Porter spends a great deal more time on the bed than anyone will let on. 

So, with that in mind (and since no one told me I couldn't) I decided to let Porter share the bed with me a couple of nights ago. Initially, he looked at me like I had lost my mind but then he placed his muzzle on the edge of the bed and looked up at me with those big brown eyes (eyes up, nose down is the quintessential dog-begging posture) just waiting for me to repeat myself. When I patted the covers beside me he took a running jump from the doorway onto the bed and proceeded to climb all over me, bathing me in slobber. He finally settled down and within minutes he was letting out big, doggie snores. In fact, the whole experience reminded me a bit of sleeping with Jack - very similar snoring, strange noises and the occasional strange smell emanating from the other side of the bed. But, all in all, not an unpleasant experience. I felt very safe and secure having my furry bodyguard next to me, although I don't really know how effective Porter would be as an attack dog - probably he'd just lick the person to death. 

So there it is out there in the open - I've slept with a dog and I'm not ashamed.

On the Road

I discovered the other day that taking a long drive with a dog in the back of the car is a lot like taking a long drive with a child. In both cases, about five minutes after you pull out of the driveway they’re already asking “are we there yet?” Except with a dog you don’t get the whiny voice – you just get the perpetual whine that goes on and on…and on…that even turning up the radio and opening all the windows won’t hide.

On Thursday, Porter and I hit the road for Point Reyes and the Point Reyes National Seashore. According to MapQuest it was just an hour and a half away from Napa and I couldn’t be this close to the Pacific Ocean without getting some sand in my Tevas. So I herded Porter into the back of Jason’s new Chevy Equinox (with its automatic transmission – yeah!) and we joined the light traffic headed west toward Petaluma. The first five miles went smoothly, although I did experience a bit of anxiety when a California State Highway Patrol car pulled in behind me and followed for about three miles – even though I was going the speed limit and breaking no laws I still had that churning feeling in my stomach. It was at about that time that Porter started with his whining – nothing major, just enough to let me know that he wasn’t really happy to be back there. Between frequently checking the rear view for the red lights to come on, reading my MapQuest directions and Porter’s little symphony I was already stressed and we hadn’t made it out of Napa yet.  So I called on one of the skills that I have learned over all those years of raising three children called “selective hearing”. Or, more plainly, I just ignored him. Eventually he decided that his whining wasn’t going to be enough to make me stop and let him out so he settled down and was mercifully quiet – for about 10 minutes. Then the whining became more insistent and louder so I figured that perhaps he had a legitimate reason for doing so and I pulled over to the side of the road to let him out on the leash. Even though we had taken a potty break before hitting the road, he watered a patch of California poppies forever and I felt a bit bad for ignoring him.

Then it was back into the car again and we made it to Petaluma before the whining started up again. Since we were in the middle of dairy country and surrounded by endless fields dotted with cows, I tried distracting him with one of the tricks that always worked with the kids called “look at the cows.”

“Porter, look at all those cows, look at those big black and white cows,” I called out idiotically for, of course, he couldn’t have cared less about the cows. I kept up that silliness for about five minutes and then turned up the radio and sang along, hoping that my melodious voice would calm him down. He’s obviously not a Springsteen fan…

Just when I had reached the end of my bag of tricks, we had reached Point Reyes and climbed into the fog covered hills. I saw a sign for a trailhead and pulled into the parking lot, only to discover one of those signs despised by dog lovers everywhere – the “No Dogs on Trail” sign. We stood at the trailhead and I had a brief moment of rebellion where I considered going in anyway. But, being married to a police officer, my law-abiding side won out and we just took a brief stroll around the parking lot and then headed down the road to another park and another “No Dogs on Trail” sign. Really? For a state that touts its outdoor, healthy lifestyle, it sure doesn’t seem to be too friendly to man’s best friend. Our last stop, literally at the end of the road before I had to turn around, was Kehoe Beach. I let Porter out of the back and was thrilled to discover that yes, dogs were allowed. Jackpot! We trotted down a beautiful trail surrounded by fields (and cows) that quickly turned into beach grass. We crested the hill and there, spread out before us, was a beautiful sand beach and the Pacific Ocean -and dogs. Dogs of all shapes and sizes running after birds, chasing Frisbees, and furiously digging holes in the packed sand while their owners looked on contentedly. I think Porter was a bit overwhelmed by it all because he stood by my side looking up at me in confusion.

“Go on buddy. Go have fun,” I told him and he bounded off after a flock of sea birds at the water’s edge. We walked the length of the beach and Porter played in the surf with another Lab for a while. We stayed at the beach for about an hour and I enjoyed the smells, sounds and sights of the Pacific.  I was also dreading the trip back home and all its attendant whining. I shouldn’t have worried though, because Porter was so tuckered out from his running and playing that he could barely make it into the back of the Chevy and he slept most of the way home. I actually got to enjoy the scenery on the drive back and this time, I played the ‘look at the cows’ game with myself. And it was fun.

Back in the Doghouse

I landed in Napa Wednesday afternoon for my 10-day gig watching my favorite grand-dog while Jason and Sarah head to Mexico for a much needed vacation. Keeping in mind that it’s been two years since I was here last, I really didn’t expect much of a doggie welcome. I mean, really. Dogs have no sense of time and being gone for 5 minutes is the same as 5 years in their doggie brains. And to dogs every person that walks through the door is a “new” person and worthy of all kinds of happy jumping and licking, even if you just left them two minutes ago. Porter greeted me enthusiastically when I walked in, his tail wagging like a semaphore as he tried to jump up on me and put his massive paws on my chest. I’d like to think that maybe he did recognize my smell just a little bit but I’m sure it was more of the scent of the Southwest Airlines pretzels on my fingers that he was excited about.

And speaking of smells…apparently Porter has developed a bit of an issue with “expressing himself” or more particularly, expressing his anal glands, because his smell greeted Sarah and I when we walked in the house yesterday afternoon, lugging my suitcases. I won’t go into the particulars of this because, really, you can go your entire life without knowing about this canine malady. Jason had already suffered through the brunt of the smell since he beat us home. He was so excited/aggravated about Porter’s wet behind and noxious odor that it took a full five minutes before he gave me a welcome hug. Apparently Jason had come home to find Porter with his tail dripping wet (“like he stuck it in his water dish,” Jason said) and emanating a horrible smell (“like something dead,” Jason said). From what my son told me, this isn’t the first time Porter has “expressed himself” and had to go to the vet to take care of the problem with a horrible sounding “anal gland expression.”  I honestly didn’t know that this was an issue for big dogs; I thought it was only little dogs that had to suffer through that occasional humiliation at the vet’s office. But apparently big dogs have issues too.

Since Jason and Sarah were leaving the next day for their trip and wanted to make sure Porter was okay before they left, Sarah and I took Porter up the street to his vet so he could be checked out and further “expressed.” Sarah said it usually requires an office full of people to keep Porter under control during this quick procedure (or just about anything that has to be done to him). It seemed like just mere moments before the vet tech came back out and said that everything seemed fine, although a “certain area” of Porter’s appeared to be rather red and raw looking. She gave us a tube of antiseptic ointment that needs to be applied twice daily for, you guessed it, 7 days (the entire time Jason and Sarah are in Mexico).  

When I think of being a grandmother I picture diapering my grandchild and tenderly rubbing baby lotion on a smooth, pink baby behind while my grandchild gurgles happily. But since my grandchild at this point is a hairy, 76-pound chocolate Lab, I get the honor of rubbing antibacterial ointment on his anal area for the next 7 days, all the while thinking of Jason and Sarah lounging on the beach in the Mexican sunshine, drinking cheap beer, while I’m trying to back Porter into a corner so he can’t escape. What better way to strengthen that canine/human bond…