Just when things go smoothly for a while with Ben, he has to go and act like a dog again. Gracious, I wish he'd stop that! ;)
Yesterday I was sick, so I stayed home from work and had a chill day. Around 2, Ben and I went to the post office and then I took him to the dog park. When Ben goes #2, he runs about as far away from me as he can get, usually into the weeds or at least to the perimeter of wherever he is at. It is only there, off leash, that he will deign to fertilize the soil. Yesterday, same routine. I pick it up (as all good dog owners at the dog park do!) and notice it wasn't...well-formed, shall we say. I attribute it to the small amount of avocado I gave him with breakfast.
I had recently read that avocados were good for dogs, and that it made their coats shiny. However, I also know that they are high in natural fats, thus making them a bit hard to digest. No matter though, as I was sure he'd be feeling better after an avocado-less dinner.
Being that I wasn't feeling well, I went to bed nice and early around 10:30. At 11:45, I was woken up by the sensation of 45 lbs. of dog pouncing on me. I rolled over, mumbled "Go to bed." and ignored Ben's attempts to wake me.
30 minutes later, and the pouncing continues, despite the fact that I was ignoring him (that usually stops his antics). I put Ben in his crate around 12:15, but was still awake and listening to him pacing, pawing and crying at 1 am. I decided, against my will, that I would take him out to pee, and nothing more.
As I mentioned, Ben only likes to poop off-leash, and for me to "legally" take him off-leash, I have to walk along the road and into the woods. That wasn't happening in the rain at 1 am. I trudged downstairs as he pranced and wiggled and squirmed his way in front of me to the grass. It very quickly became apparent that he had no intentions of just squirting and going back inside; he was ready to do it all. He paced up and down the fence-line, staring longingly into the woods, whimpering and begging to be set free. After about 5 minutes of this, I decided, "What the heck?" No one was out, he'd stay right along the fence with me...No harm, no foul, right?
No sooner did I let him off-leash than he sprinted down the fence-line, through an opening in the bars and into the swampy/foresty area. I followed a little bit, panicking, because it was 1 am and Ben was gone. I quickly caught up to him, saw him relieving himself (and when I say relieving, I mean there was relief and joy written across his crazy little face). I assumed he would do his duty, and come back to me, ready to head inside for a peaceful night's sleep. WRONG!
Ben took off through the swamp, dashing around, leaping over tree trunks, splashing through puddles and muck, completely ignoring me yelling "Come here!!" I quickly realize that in order to get him, I would have to go to him, as he obviously had no intentions of coming back. I start down this hill into the swamp, sliding down in the wet grass, in my snow boots, and I get hit in the eye (twice) with a tall-weedy growth with pricklies on the end.
I kept muttering, "You have got to be kidding me. This isn't happening at 1 am. This has got to be a dream." However, when I then stepped in Ben's freshly-laid pile and smelled the rank odor of dog crap, I knew I wasn't dreaming. At that moment, as I was about to start cursing him and leave him to fend for himself, like a white phantom, he raced around the corner and ran straight up to me, tongue lolling and happily panting after his little run.
I snapped the leash on him and drug him inside. Once inside, out of annoyance, I put his bed in the laundry room and stuck him in there. I had no desire to continue laying awake listening to him pace and pant.
The gift-giving continued though. This morning, as I went to let him out of the laundry room to take him out, I was greeted, once again with that unmistakable stench. My gift to him? A tasty treat of avocado to make his coat shiny. His gift to me? Three piles of explosive diarrhea on the floor, floorboards and walls of my nice, clean laundry room. Later, this afternoon, he left me another present on the deck. OH-MY-GOODNESS. Will this ever stop?
I have learned my lesson. Ben will never eat avocado again. Ahhh....life with a dog.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
One week on, One week off
By the time I had found Kizmet and his brothers and sisters online, I had picked out two names already. One was for a boy, the other for a girl, regardless of personality or any other distinguishing factors.
I tend to really like Spanish. I will frequently speak in Spanglish and I like to think I could actually be fluent if I only tried harder. Regardless of the reason, both of the names I had chosen were shortened from Spanish words: Ami (Ah-mee), short for Amiga (friend) for a little lady. For a boy, I had chosen Ben, short for Bendicíon (blessing).
Thus, Ben became his name. It seemed fitting and perfect for the sweet little dear curled up on my floor...If only I had given it more time, I probably would have re-thought the idea of naming him
"blessing."
That first week, my life settled into a pattern with little Ben; It was a pattern of focusing on him that continues to this day. I was house-sitting for my boss (who lived on the farm), so Ben and I had a chance to be together a lot and really bond. He was great as long as I paid attention to him. Watching a movie, he curled up on my lap and fell asleep, softly snoring. When I was trying to work, he oh-so-cutely pounced on my legs with a toy so I would play tug-of war with him.
Ben also got along famously with the three big dogs that lived at the house. There were two male labs, Jake and Ozzie, who loved having a wee one around to pick on. Ozzie especially seemed to enjoy not being the baby of the group, as he frequently stole chances to slide tackle or bark at Ben anytime we were outside. Kate, a loving golden retriever and the only female of the bunch, took it upon herself to "mother" Ben, as he was away from his own mom and pack and clearly needed her assistance. I suppose in her age, she mistook Ben for a helpless baby, and did not see the rambunctious toddler he was quickly becoming.
Nearly every time I set Ben down outside with Kate around, she would pick him up in her mouth and proceed to carry him off. To where, I never cared to find out. I always imagined she had noble intentions of taking him somewhere she could give him care and attention, rather than carting him off to be her own special plaything or snack.
Nevertheless, those three made it difficult for me to housebreak Ben. Each time as we stepped outside, I held Ben, wriggling and writhing in joy in my arms, as I tried to stealthily close the door behind me. I hoped that if I could get the door silently closed, and sneak over to the grass, Ben might actually have a shot at being able to do his business in peace, without fear of being slide-tackled or carried away by Mama Kate. Of course, Ben didn't actually help with the being quiet, pottying, going back to bed routine. Each time we stepped outside, he'd begin squirming and squealing and making little noises, which he does to this day. Of course, that brought the big dogs running to play.
So life went for a week or so, interspersed by exciting times of returning home and finding Ben had ripped the toilet paper to shreds (in the bathroom that I "puppy-proofed") or finding he had left little presents all over his crate for me (my fault for not making it smaller, I know).
By the end of the week, I found myself, my roommate and Ben all traveling to Nashville for the weekend, where Ben would then stay with my best friend until I returned from Italy, a week later. Though I knew she had little to no experience with dogs, and even less knowledge of puppies, I asked her to care for him while I was gone.
I missed his little furry body in my arms the whole time I was away, and I was anxious to get back to the States and hear how he had done. When Lauren picked me up from the airport, Ben in tow, I could tell by her readiness to give him to me that his little slumber party had not gone well.
"How did he do?" I asked. The only thing she said was that she hoped I hadn't expected him to be trained when I came back. Judging by her reluctance now to get a puppy, and her boyfriend's strong disapproval of Ben, I can only imagine he didn't follow the cardinal rule of vacations: Leave everything in better shape than you found it.
I tend to really like Spanish. I will frequently speak in Spanglish and I like to think I could actually be fluent if I only tried harder. Regardless of the reason, both of the names I had chosen were shortened from Spanish words: Ami (Ah-mee), short for Amiga (friend) for a little lady. For a boy, I had chosen Ben, short for Bendicíon (blessing).
Thus, Ben became his name. It seemed fitting and perfect for the sweet little dear curled up on my floor...If only I had given it more time, I probably would have re-thought the idea of naming him
"blessing."
That first week, my life settled into a pattern with little Ben; It was a pattern of focusing on him that continues to this day. I was house-sitting for my boss (who lived on the farm), so Ben and I had a chance to be together a lot and really bond. He was great as long as I paid attention to him. Watching a movie, he curled up on my lap and fell asleep, softly snoring. When I was trying to work, he oh-so-cutely pounced on my legs with a toy so I would play tug-of war with him.
Ben also got along famously with the three big dogs that lived at the house. There were two male labs, Jake and Ozzie, who loved having a wee one around to pick on. Ozzie especially seemed to enjoy not being the baby of the group, as he frequently stole chances to slide tackle or bark at Ben anytime we were outside. Kate, a loving golden retriever and the only female of the bunch, took it upon herself to "mother" Ben, as he was away from his own mom and pack and clearly needed her assistance. I suppose in her age, she mistook Ben for a helpless baby, and did not see the rambunctious toddler he was quickly becoming.
Nearly every time I set Ben down outside with Kate around, she would pick him up in her mouth and proceed to carry him off. To where, I never cared to find out. I always imagined she had noble intentions of taking him somewhere she could give him care and attention, rather than carting him off to be her own special plaything or snack.
Nevertheless, those three made it difficult for me to housebreak Ben. Each time as we stepped outside, I held Ben, wriggling and writhing in joy in my arms, as I tried to stealthily close the door behind me. I hoped that if I could get the door silently closed, and sneak over to the grass, Ben might actually have a shot at being able to do his business in peace, without fear of being slide-tackled or carried away by Mama Kate. Of course, Ben didn't actually help with the being quiet, pottying, going back to bed routine. Each time we stepped outside, he'd begin squirming and squealing and making little noises, which he does to this day. Of course, that brought the big dogs running to play.
So life went for a week or so, interspersed by exciting times of returning home and finding Ben had ripped the toilet paper to shreds (in the bathroom that I "puppy-proofed") or finding he had left little presents all over his crate for me (my fault for not making it smaller, I know).
By the end of the week, I found myself, my roommate and Ben all traveling to Nashville for the weekend, where Ben would then stay with my best friend until I returned from Italy, a week later. Though I knew she had little to no experience with dogs, and even less knowledge of puppies, I asked her to care for him while I was gone.
I missed his little furry body in my arms the whole time I was away, and I was anxious to get back to the States and hear how he had done. When Lauren picked me up from the airport, Ben in tow, I could tell by her readiness to give him to me that his little slumber party had not gone well.
"How did he do?" I asked. The only thing she said was that she hoped I hadn't expected him to be trained when I came back. Judging by her reluctance now to get a puppy, and her boyfriend's strong disapproval of Ben, I can only imagine he didn't follow the cardinal rule of vacations: Leave everything in better shape than you found it.
Monday, January 7, 2008
From the beginning....
When I was still in college, I decided it would be a good idea for me to get a dog - ASAP. I love dogs and had dreams of moving to the big city, living in a high-rise apartment, and primly walking my Great Dane down the street and through city parks. I rationalized that Danes were the perfect large-breed dog to have in an apartment: They only needed a couch and companionship.
Reality hit me when upon talking with my roommate, I realized I would be hard-pressed to find an apartment complex that allowed 130 pound dogs. I downsized. My next goal was just to get a large-breed puppy as soon as possible, never-mind the fact that I had no idea where I would be living or what a reasonable weight was for an apartment dog. I scoured Petfinder on a daily basis, looking for a puppy to train "while I had the time." Though I was in the throes of senior year of college, trying to graduate cum laude, preparing for a family vacation to Italy that would take me away for over a week, and looking for a job and an apartment, I believed I had more time to train a puppy at that point than I would after graduation.
Did I mention I was still living in the dorms, where pets were illegal? Although I had been successfully housing a turtle in a rubbermaid container, marked "winter clothes" to throw off the wily RA, I knew a puppy would be a little harder to hide. Also, I knew I wouldn't be welcomed home with open arms if I held a new little ball of fur in my own arms....My mother had clearly told me that.
Nevertheless, my puppy dream persevered. Plus, to be honest, I had visions of spending my final collegiate months at the softball field, watching friends play - cuddling with a puppy, laying out in the grass between the dorm complexes - cuddling with a puppy, studying late into the night- cuddling with a puppy. All of my visions for this dog included cradling this helpless little life in my arms at all times, nurturing him and building an everlasting bond. When my boss - who worked out of her home, surrounded by acres of land and populated with three fun-loving dogs - said I could keep a dog there until graduation, I pounced on the opportunity to get a puppy.
One day, the lights of heaven shone on me. I had been scouting out dogs at a local Humane Society because they didn't do home-checks: A real plus for me, considering I didn't exactly have a picturesque home situation for a puppy. One day, they posted a litter of puppies that sounded great. "Yellow Lab mother, Great Pyrenees Mix father...Large breed dog that will stop traffic....They are cute, cute, cute!" Thus began my love-affair.
He was one of a litter of puppies that had been taken from their owner when she couldn't care for them any longer. I was assured the mother was a Yellow Lab; the HS volunteer had seen her when she went to pick up the puppies. The father was unknown - a milkman- but I was willing to agree that the little fluff ball was a Great Pyr mix, meaning he would be large. Perfect.
I went to Petsmart on a rainy, dreary Saturday and met the pups, two guys and three little girls. Both of the males were calm, cuddly, and very anxious to sit on my lap. After about an hour of playing with them, I chose Kizmet, the calmest of the crew. He was bound to be beautiful, big and cuddly, after all, he only wanted to be near me! Furthermore, a friend confirmed it when she said, "He's going to be a Mama's boy. I can tell."
I knew I had found THE ONE. I fitted him with his new collar and leash, gathered him in my arms and took him "home." So began my life with the terrorist.
This is his photo I saw on the Humane Society website. Who could resist that face?
Reality hit me when upon talking with my roommate, I realized I would be hard-pressed to find an apartment complex that allowed 130 pound dogs. I downsized. My next goal was just to get a large-breed puppy as soon as possible, never-mind the fact that I had no idea where I would be living or what a reasonable weight was for an apartment dog. I scoured Petfinder on a daily basis, looking for a puppy to train "while I had the time." Though I was in the throes of senior year of college, trying to graduate cum laude, preparing for a family vacation to Italy that would take me away for over a week, and looking for a job and an apartment, I believed I had more time to train a puppy at that point than I would after graduation.
Did I mention I was still living in the dorms, where pets were illegal? Although I had been successfully housing a turtle in a rubbermaid container, marked "winter clothes" to throw off the wily RA, I knew a puppy would be a little harder to hide. Also, I knew I wouldn't be welcomed home with open arms if I held a new little ball of fur in my own arms....My mother had clearly told me that.
Nevertheless, my puppy dream persevered. Plus, to be honest, I had visions of spending my final collegiate months at the softball field, watching friends play - cuddling with a puppy, laying out in the grass between the dorm complexes - cuddling with a puppy, studying late into the night- cuddling with a puppy. All of my visions for this dog included cradling this helpless little life in my arms at all times, nurturing him and building an everlasting bond. When my boss - who worked out of her home, surrounded by acres of land and populated with three fun-loving dogs - said I could keep a dog there until graduation, I pounced on the opportunity to get a puppy.
One day, the lights of heaven shone on me. I had been scouting out dogs at a local Humane Society because they didn't do home-checks: A real plus for me, considering I didn't exactly have a picturesque home situation for a puppy. One day, they posted a litter of puppies that sounded great. "Yellow Lab mother, Great Pyrenees Mix father...Large breed dog that will stop traffic....They are cute, cute, cute!" Thus began my love-affair.
He was one of a litter of puppies that had been taken from their owner when she couldn't care for them any longer. I was assured the mother was a Yellow Lab; the HS volunteer had seen her when she went to pick up the puppies. The father was unknown - a milkman- but I was willing to agree that the little fluff ball was a Great Pyr mix, meaning he would be large. Perfect.
I went to Petsmart on a rainy, dreary Saturday and met the pups, two guys and three little girls. Both of the males were calm, cuddly, and very anxious to sit on my lap. After about an hour of playing with them, I chose Kizmet, the calmest of the crew. He was bound to be beautiful, big and cuddly, after all, he only wanted to be near me! Furthermore, a friend confirmed it when she said, "He's going to be a Mama's boy. I can tell."
I knew I had found THE ONE. I fitted him with his new collar and leash, gathered him in my arms and took him "home." So began my life with the terrorist.
This is his photo I saw on the Humane Society website. Who could resist that face?
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