Calvin the Walkies monster

Calvin is kind of a jerk on walkies. Technical term: leash reactive. But I prefer jerk.

I freely admit this, and have done the following to make him less of a jerk:

-Obedience class. He is an AKC certified Canine Good Citizen! . . . Who sounds like he wants to tear your throat out should you have the great misfortune of encountering him on walkies

-Books. Zomg. The books. I have read The Books. All I got was a burning desire to become a nun at New Skete, half the national debts-worth of reading material, and a confused jerk of a beagle.

-Putative correction. Leash corrections and shake cans. Note: fellow stupid humans, DO NOT DO.

-Positive feedback. Still. A. Jerk. Now with more treats.

-Panic.

-Ignore wretched behavior. Because the books would have me believe that dogs don’t parse good and bad attention. They’re 13 year old humans like that.

-Develop Walkies-related anxiety.

-Bang my head repeatedly off hard things. Acquired headache, ongoing beagle jerkiness.

-Shout. The Beagle will not be outbayed.

Last week I happened to find yet another book that looked promising: Feisty Fido: Help for the Leash Reactive Dog by the Doctors Patricia McConnell and Karen London. I read (and loved) McConnell’s

The Other End of the Leash

so I figured it was worth a shot. I have no idea if it will work, but it gives me something to do, in any event, and it seems not only simple, but entirely practical. Essentially, she has you work your dog gradually toward an “auto watch,” such that every time he sees another trigger–dog, person, dog and person–he immediately looks at you, because you have been training him to “watch” and pumping him full of chicken and lamb jerky. And the book covers just about every real world situation you might encounter during and after training, so it avoids the pitfall of so many of The Books, which just sort of tell you to pump your dog full of roasted chicken, but fail to get really specific on the timing or what they should have to do in order to justify me roasting a chicken for my dog.

Note that it covers just about every real world situation. It does not cover them all. But this revelation should not be construed as a shortcoming of the authors, nay. It’s just that the authors have never been to my neighborhood and thus can’t realistically be expected to account for the very particular sort of stupid that thrives herein. To wit . . .

This morning, at the end of a nice long walk with intermittent training sessions, and only 50 yards from the house, coffee, cardamom buns, and Cal’s morning happy pill, a woman across the street exited her house with her poodle. Walking toward us. Since we cannot yet handle this situation, prudence dictated that we 1) flee from it and 2) opportunistically use it to our own best ends. So we executed a 180 and scurried away from my Ikea-scented kitchen for the relative safety of the pool parking lot. Ducking down to the pool would, I figured, allow this woman and her dog to continue on their own walkies without an 8am solo beagle symphony. And the scurrying allowed us enough distance that I could occasionally turn 180 back toward them, and then shove jerky down Cal’s throat for remaining sane in that one second window of poodle-viewing before once again turning away. Hurrah and everyone’s happy!

Except that, apparently, woman and poodle had an agenda. And that agenda was *not* to walk unmolested through the neighborhood. Oh no. Poodle needed a swim. But from the pool, there is no escape–it’s one way in, same way out. So I stood, with an affect that I hoped suggested that I had an insane beagle that might possibly have an appetite for poodle, in the center of the pool driveway, facing the entrance. And I furiously shoved treats in Cal’s face while woman and poodle stood 50 yards away in the center of the driveway’s entrance, facing us, as the entire neighborhood sprawled to their right practically begging to be trod by poodle toes.

But no. I’m trapped and she clearly will be smote if she does not proceed DIRECTLY to the pool and so we had ourselves a little face off. Me standing, not budging, funneling jerky into the face of a beagle. Her standing, also not budging, appearing to be irritated by my budgelessness. It lasted about a minute, before she finally walked off into the neighborhood (note: I won! I won!), and we proceeded back up the drive and toward pastries and canine SSRIs.

So, naturally, she turned around and intercepted us at the head of the driveway.

*insert angry, baffled face here*

So, note to Drs. McConnell and London: avoiding the situations for which your dog is not prepared only works if those situations don’t cluelessly stalk you into dead end driveways.

At least I will eventually get to nominate my entire neighborhood for the Darwin Awards.

An open letter to the inconsiderates of suburbia: Leash your @%!& dog (and bring the cats in while you’re at it)

Dear People,

There are two, and only two, non-negotiables in my life: A) my cats are never outside, and B) my dogs are ALWAYS on lead or fenced in. If my cats or dogs are free range, something has gone very, very wrong, and I am either panicking somewhere, or lying in a pool of my own blood.

My reasons for this strict policy of containment are simple and, also, twofold: 1) It isn’t safe for my cats and dogs to be on the lamb, and 2) I’m not an asshole.

Re: 1) Safety

People Who Aren’t Me drive like idiots. This goes double for Georgians. I’ve seen more domestic roadkill in 6 years of this state than in the entire preceding 25 years of my life, combined. It’s possible–likely, even–that the roadkill count is the fault of the Georgian-preferred method of disposing of unwanted pets, the time-honored “driiiive ‘em out to the kun-try and leave ‘em on th’ road” technique, but that’s a rant for another time. The fact remains that the society we humans have created for ourselves is non-compatible with the sort of responsibility I feel I owe my domestic critters. Now, if you don’t care that your companion animal gets squashed or maimed by Bubba Behindthewheel, that’s none of my business, really. I’m judging you. Harshly. But there’s naught I can do. Stupid don’t fix easy.

Re: 2) Doctrine of non-Assholeishness

In proximity to civilization–certainly in cities and suburbs, like mine, which have *leash laws*–leaving your dog(s) off-leash and uncontained is possibly the single most inconsiderate and entitled act of douchebaggery this side of assuming that I don’t mind your kids playing in my backyard. It is rude, it is dangerous, and holy mother, it is SELFISH.

Because here’s the thing. When you refuse to leash your dog, as required by law, you are openly stating that you feel your right to DISOBEY A LAW supersedes my right to lawfully and safely walk my dogs. And I just want to know why you think you have more rights than I do? But hey, don’t take my word for it that you’re a jerk. Maybe take theirs too. Or the word of any number of the respondents to that post from people who have been in similar situations. Hell, since you have two hands free–because neither of them is controlling your dog–just work the Googlefu on your smart phone: “off leash dog attack.” Read any of the 1,520,000 search results.

And for those of you who read this and think, “This doesn’t apply to me because reasons,” let me just debunk some of your more popular excuses right here.

1) “Don’t worry! They’re friendly!” This is the one I run into most often. And let me tell you, that is great. I mean that sincerely. Everyone should have a happy, well-socialized dog. My Karmann is a stunning example of just this sort: loves everyone and every thing without hesitation. Lives to slime you with licks. Fabulous. I am pleased for you. Earnestly.

But has it really never occurred to you that my dog . . . isn’t?

Is it so ridiculous for me to ask you to take one hot second to consider that maybe I *want* to have a happy, well-socialized dog but, due to circumstances rather beyond my control what I *do* have, in Calvin, is a leash-reactive beagle who is terrified by dogs–however purportedly friendly–barreling toward him? And that I am working, hard, to train him to become that dog, but every time you fail to consider anyone but yourself and *your* precious pup, you set my training back and, essentially, help to deny my dog the happiness and gregariousness that you so celebrate in your own dog? Who made you so important?

If it sounds like I’m whining, let me divest you: I don’t want your help, or your approval. I don’t want you to like me or my dog or to go out of the way to make either of our lives easier. I don’t want training recommendations, or platitudes, or offers of assistance. I am not entitled to a well-behaved dog.

I just want you to obey the damn law. Why is that hard for you?

Why are you above the law?

2) “They’re on my property!” That’s great! Until they aren’t. Then they become my problem. Thanks ever so much for shirking your responsibility and instead forcing me to shoulder it.

3) “Your dog started it!” Got this one yesterday, when Calvin the Shouty Beagle shouted at 2 off-leash dogs rushing at him. One second they were on their property, the next second, they were chasing us down the street while I dragged my howling, now training-impaired hound behind me.

Pro Tip: this is actually why the county leash/containment laws exist. They protect your dogs from my dog’s unmannerly outbursts, by ensuring that they can’t take off after my dogs. If your dogs had been leashed or contained, you wouldn’t have had to chase them into traffic. You see how that benefits you?

Legally, I am golden here. My dog can be as big a jerk as he wants to be and I am never responsible for your off-leash dogs’ reaction to it. Now, does that mean I *like* that my dog is a jerkwad? That I glory in your inability to chase down a wiener dog in under 200 yards?No! I would love for him to *not* be a jagoff, but our training is going to take 6 times as long if you refuse to follow the law and instead allow your dogs to give chase.

4) “My dog is brilliantly trained and does not need a leash!” Just know that this translates to: “I have a relatively easygoing dog and I totally deny the existence of unforseen circumstances.” You are the one I fear the most, because you haven’t got the good sense to recognize that you’re full of poo.

5) “Leashes are cruel! They are the equivalent of tying a dog out in a yard for it’s ENTIRE LIFE! It is unnatural! Dogs were born to run free! Leashed dogs cannot get exercise and you should be stripped of your dog stewardship privileges for encumbering your animal thusly!” I invite you to inform my dogs of this. Say, when I run with Calvin. Or when I work on leash maneuvers with Karmann. Or when I have them sniff out treats in the backyard. Or at any point on either of their twice daily 2 mile walkies. Trufax: when I walk my dogs, on leash, at an informal heel, they are not only getting physical exercise, they are engaging their minds to stay on heel, or to avoid the cats, or to sit when we work on intermittent sit drills.

Your off-leash dog is just wandering around pooping everywhere. Behold his dignity.

And as for the cats . . . you don’t want to keep a litterbox in your house? I don’t want my yard to be your cats litterbox. Simple as that. If you are unwilling to keep a cat inside, you probably don’t need a cat.

In closing, I really would love to know why you’re more important. Why you have the right to endanger other people and their pets, or to sully the lawns of your neighbors.

Who made you so goddamn precious?

Cheers.

A greenbean in 4 steps, by Karmann

1. Gently take proffered green bean
2. Transport greenbean
3. Lovingly deposit green bean in most recent bed, completely unscathed
4. Leave immediately

See also:
Blueberry in 4 steps, strawberry in 4 steps, carrot in 4 steps.

Meet the critters: Nigel

The red-headed stepchild. Aliases: Winston, The Fluffy One, Mr. Fluffypants.

Nigel is . . . special. He is what happens when you begin to muse aloud that maybe your solo Mortie Cat needs a friend with whom to spend those long workdays. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” you think, while drying your hands on an antique linen tea towel, surveying your peaceful domicile and possibly preparing to make very charming cupcakes. Little kitten friends, you imagine, quietly napping in fluffy heaps around the house. Grooming one another lovingly. Cleaning each other’s little kitten ears. A kitten friend to make snuggling so appealing that Mort no longer feels the need to trounce across your face at 3am. Oh yes. How lovely that would be!

Two days after you think that, colleagues bring to work the softest, fluffiest, strawberry blonde kitteh ever to walk the earth. He has the prettiest aqua eyes that peer out meekly from his travel bucket. Imploring you. Beseeching you. “Look at these adorable tufts of fur between my toes,” they say. “Have you ever seen anything so painfully adorable? Wouldn’t you like them to stroke your forehead gently on nights that sleep eludes you? Wouldn’t my fluffy apricot-ness contrast in just the most aesthetically pleasing way with your resident stripey cat? Am I not the most preternaturally calm kitten you have ever seen in a travel bucket?” Those eyes. They say so many things. Good things. Sweet things.

And then your colleagues tell you that they need to relocate the cat because he’s a crazy runaway that zips into their house like he owns the joint, they don’t like cats, and nobody in the neighborhood will claim him. And you dismiss the fleeting suspicion that maybe his eyes are fibbing just a little because ohmygodhe’sjustthecutestthing!

But you are not the only one smitten. Colleague One lives alone and maybe a cat would be good for him. So you demur, and he takes the cat. But you ask about the cat, and Colleague One gives strange, evasive answers. And he asks you if you’re still interested in having the cat because it’s maybe just not the right cat for him. And then he finally comes to you and confesses that, for two weeks, he’s been avoiding his house because when he’s there the cat is just. so. needy. Oppressively needy.

And then Colleague Two steps up and says that, if you don’t want the cat, she will happily take it because she lives in the country and her barn cat has just been eaten by a coyote and she could use a replacement.

So you take the cat, to save him from becoming a snack.

And you spend the next 9 months keeping your Mortie Cat and this cat, who you’ve named Nigel, separated because they hate each other with the fire of a thousand filthy litterboxes. You have innumerable vet consults because the Nigel Cat suddenly, randomly loses control of his back legs, and he falls off of things, and because oh, those fluffy paws you dreamt would pet you to sleep? He actually employs them to wrap himself around your head in order to try and chew out your eyeballs. But only when nobody else is around to see it. And only when you’re sleeping. So everyone begins to think that it’s you who suffers some sort of neurological impairment and not the damned cat.

The next two years of your life are napless and filled with cat fights all because of you and your tea towel daydreams.

And then, one day, it just stops. The crazy aggression just . . . goes away.

Or, rather, it turns into obsessive licking, and most of the charming grooming sessions you dreamt of are carried out on other humans or to the great detriment of your favorite sweaters and fleeces, but you don’t care because you no longer fear sleeping and, eventually, you catch the cats posing as The Rape of Europa on your papasan chair and all is somehow right with the world.

So much shame, so little paper

Yesterday, I discovered Dog Shaming.

Today, Calvin discovered dog shaming.

 

Of course, you can lead a naughty dog to humiliation but you (apparently) cannot make him face forward. Under any circumstances.

Meet The Critters: Mortimer

Mortimer is the Original Kitteh. A gateway critter. A furry Lay’s potato chip with legs. A cat before his time.

Mort the Concept was conceived in 2001, when Schmoopie and I crossed Mortimer Street. “Mortimer. That would be a good name for a cat. Let’s eventually have a cat named Mortimer.” Schmoopie either actively agreed or failed to disagree, I don’t specifically recall. Nor do I recall who actually suggested Mortimer, the street, as a potential catnym.

But that isn’t the point.

The point is that, through one innocent utterance, wheels–great, crazy, cosmic wheels with giant gears and pulleys that make creaking noises–were summoned into action and a notion advanced by fate until, one morning in the early fall of 2004, a teeny, tiny striped kitten was discovered lying on his back in his litterbox at a PetCo adoption event. And in that wee kitten, so casual and comfy, was Mort the Concept realized in Mort the Cat.

We picked him rather like a produce novice picks a melon: “That one. We’ll take that one.” followed by the huckster’s–or, in this case, the cat rescue coordinator’s–strong suggestion that we, you know, pick him up. Maybe give him a squeeze. So we did. It was a very cursory affair. I held, I squeezed, I passed him over to Schmoopie who also held and squeezed, all while Mort the Cat seemed thoroughly unimpressed with his inevitability.

Us: Yes. Mortimer. *squish* It’s him. It’s him. *squeeze* Yes.
Mort: wtf? Put me back in my litterbox.

In what I now realize to be the World’s Most Expedient Adoption, Ever, our references were checked and we returned later that afternoon to procure Mortie and his necessaries, including a little stuffed lion-tiger hybrid that we named . . . Tiger (we were unprepared for him.)

And then we dropped off the kitten and, the following day, went out and picked up a surround sound system, which we tested. Exuberantly and extensively. With many action movies.

I mention this because of the kitteh Mortie has become. He is loud, aggressively affectionate, outgoing, loud, opinionated, comically dominant, and also loud. He runs the house, serves as a perpetual alarm clock, sets his own feeding schedule as it suits him, owns all of the critters like a boss, occasionally snatches spare ribs and giant chunks of Thanksgiving turkey directly from the plates of unsuspecting humans, and comes to Nigel’s rescue when he “mistakenly” allows Karmann too much familiarity. And I’m pretty sure it all has to do with settling in to new digs amidst the sounds of shit blowing up and people shouting from all directions. Poor thing probably thought we moved him to Sarajevo.

These days, Tiger’s cute little head is sort of squashed in and caked with dehydrated kitten spit, but Mortie faithfully totes him to bed every night while yelling to announce both that he has Tiger and that they are now proceeding to bed. Every morning, Tiger is carried lovingly into the living room and spat out somewhere Mort can keep an eye on him while he takes his daytime leisure. And I faithfully wash him when he gets too creepy. In Woolite. Fretting all the while that I will disrupt the heady stew of cat-spit-and-pheremones that I’m sure he’s worked really hard on crafting to just the right pungency. My greatest fear is that Mortie will one day shun Tiger as the result of a too-thorough cleaning. I can’t be responsible for breaking up that friendship.

Often, Tiger goes swimming in the dogs’ water bowl. I think it’s the kitteh equivalent of a dead fish on the their doorstep.