New Beginnings

  

  So we have acres of new places to walk Stella and I. We've mostly stuck around the neighborhood which goes on for blocks and blocks - to the park if you're traveling east and if you're headed west, you cross the river to downtown. One great new thing which I forgot all about is that there are sidewalks to walk on. It may seem silly but it's a nice change if you've been traipsing up and down suburban streets for four years. It isn't without challenges but I so far I love it and Stella seems to like it too. 

  One challenge is that there isn't grass just anywhere Stella decides to relieve herself. Sometimes there are hybrid rose bushes bordering fantastic gardens and other times there are crushed beer bottles or other unspeakable litter. There are also tons of  little picket fences right on the street, with variety packs of dogs behind them barking right at you, as you pass. We played that game yesterday with an audience of neighbors sitting on the porch. One of their three dogs turned into the Sherriff, jumping viciously up against the thigh-high fence. Naturally, Stella went after the dog. I didn't really blame her (too much). It did seem as if the dog was going to get us but she was set to drag me over the fence with her. It's fine, I usually try to work 6-8 seconds of complete chaos in a few times each day. The more embarrassing, the better.

  The photos below have nothing to do with this post. They came out of our new (temporary) garden in the back yard which is also fenced but thankfully ours is a lot more private at six feet. This mama Robin was teaching her chicks the basics yesterday, inside the fence, which I thought was truly brilliant since they were like bunch of toddlers, heaving around and flying into things. Today they're strong enough to fly to the top of the fence so they probably won't be here that much longer. I didn't realize any of this was happening until the chick in the lower photo hopped right up to Stella and started a conversation. I wish we had a picture of that. Mama bird put a stop to it rather quickly and basically ordered us into the house.

The Adoption

About the time we, the three of us got pretty good at all walking together like civilized animals, Diesel hit the mother lode.

The week between Christmas and the New Year, I got two serious inquiries about him. One was a note stuck to the door from a couple of my good neighbors (yes, they do exist).  I read the note, felt a little pang of impending loss but went ahead and made the call. He got a short interview from that call from friends of a friend, who happened to be looking for a dog. I passed my contact information on to them and waited. The very next day the rescue contacted me and said someone had called asking about Diesel. I had the idea that maybe it was the same person but that wasn't the case. Again, I passed the information along and a few days went by. Then, there was a message from someone we'll call Debbie on the machine. We spent about thirty minutes talking on the telephone and  I wondered after we finished, if Debbie was a hallucination I just had or a really mean joke.

You know how when you're a kid and you get a dog and some time passes how one day you come home from school and the dog is gone and one of your parents tells you that your dog went to "live on a farm"? Some - I'd say even many of you have heard this spiel - you're shocked and sorry, you never really saw the dog go or had a chance to say goodbye but of course it's a wonderful place where the dog can run and play and chase rabbits all day and though you feel just terrible somehow you convince yourself that what your parents said is true and the dog really is going to have a nice life there? Remember that story? This happened at my house more than one time although my mother will deny it to this day, none of those dogs ever went to any farm. They were all taken to the pound or dumped off somewhere or given away. I'll never know the details but it took a lot longer than I'd like to admit to figure out that "the farm" didn't exist and my dogs weren't hanging out at the barn in some canine Nirvana.

Guess what.

There really is a farm. And our friend Diesel found it or to be more precise, the farm found him. It was the second phone call. The dream I couldn't allow myself to have as a foster mom knowing it would obliterate all future candidates, called us right up on the telephone.

Diesel and I went over to Debbie's for a visit. We had a run in the pasture. We petted the horses and had tea - with fruitcake. I know what you're thinking. It was unbelievably good though, handmade-by-a-Louisiana-woman-type good. That was Tuesday. She filled out the application for Diesel and we all traded e-mails. 

It was then I started thinking seriously about Diesel's departure and our long history together. The neighbors, the police, him galloping through my flower beds in the middle of May, every May, his predecessor Buddy - who got hit and died slowly in front of my house the night before Thanksgiving and the rage I felt when his owner asked me to take care of it, because he just couldn't deal with it right now, how Diesel showed up weeks later - the rebound puppy, me already hoping for his liberation as he refused to become the bully his owner craved but howled insufferably on the chain, terrifying some of the dog walkers, regularly evading the dogcatcher and finally, how he won us over - me and Stella and all but the wimpiest of neighbors with his sincere loyalty and good-natured affection and now that I was thinking about it everything that's really good in a dog.

All of this reflection caused a minor league meltdown in the pet food aisle at Wal-Mart. It was warped and poetic, pain and joy all ground together with a discount mortar and pestle against the backdrop of Wal-Mart. It was as my young niece Katie likes to say: epic.

We are so happy to report that as of yesterday, Diesel has his very own family. It is made up of one woman, three horses, a female dog and three cats, a creek and a never-ending supply of rabbits, mice, horse manure and neighbor dogs to run the fence with. I'm guessing if you're a dog it just doesn't get any better than that.

 

 

Suburban Oddities

 My neighbors have an invisible fence. Their dogs charge us every day (up to a point).  Last Friday, they added a goat. I don't know if they just got tired of mowing the grass or what.  

Things I never said before I owned a dog:

"You can sleep in the bed when you learn to do laundry."

"Walk on the inside please. If one of us is going to get hit by a car, I want it to be me."

"If I come back in there and my bra is in your mouth, things are going to get ugly."

"I think it's time you got a job and started buying your own food."

"I didn't ask to go pee, you did. So pee."

"Stop barking. For God's sake, it's a goat."

Snoozefest

He sleeps on his back. Front paws pulled up tight against his chest, back legs splayed open, a proud display of his man parts, what's left of them. The tail wags when you look at him even if his eyes are closed. That cracks me up. It would be sweet even if you never heard the soft snore that goes with it all. Occasionally when he's dreaming he snorts and whimpers loud enough to garner the attention of his current girlfriend. She rouses from her own slumber and walks over to him, sleepy-eyed and swaying. Careful to pick out a spot just under his rib cage she punches him in the gut with her nose until he stops. Then she goes back to her own bed and lies down. He hasn't suggested anybody make him a sandwich yet but I'm sure it's coming.

Stella and I are headed to the fairgrounds this week if only for a quick peek at this year's incarnation. Ordinarily, we would've gone today but it hasn't stopped raining here for the last thirty hours.

We did get to dog sit this weekend for Banjo and Ginger so we managed a few laps in their pool on Saturday before the rain showed up. Diesel loves the water. I can't wait to take him to a lake.

That first day

I'd started taking him for walks a couple of weeks earlier when his owner was out of town working. If I had known he could be such a great walker, I would've done it a long time ago but his family gave up easily the few times they tried. His initial burst of energy told them he was too rambunctious to learn. Not true. Same with house breaking. I noticed on those early walks that once we were away from the house, he calmed down considerably and was a better natural walker than dare I say our resident protagonist, Stella.

That first day was exhausting for both of us. I took Diesel straight to the park and we hiked about two miles, the extra steep route I use when Stella seems to need a tranquilizer, then we went to the library (just to drop off books), the bank, and Sonic, for a hot dog - no bun. He loved me then, by God. He didn't realize we were celebrating both his freedom AND the end of his junk food diet. Truly, that's a whole blog post of its own.

Several people said I should change his name but I'm probably not going to. Not now. His new owner can do that. If I'd met him a few days ago, it would be easy but we've known each other for too long. That's part of the reason I decided to foster him myself, alongside Critter Cavalry, in Franklin (many thanks to Gayle and Candace for their help). His transition will be easier that way, he'll get to learn some manners from his friend Stella, she'll have a real job for a change. It's win-win. Oh and I almost forgot the most important part, somebody gets to end up with a pretty great dog too although we can't take much of the credit for that. Before last Thursday, my experience with Diesel was pretty superficial and like I said, rarely positive. I hadn't had a chance to know his personality. By the time we got to Sonic, I could tell Diesel was going to be fine, perhaps even outstanding.
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Liberation

Few people enjoy letting go of a pet. My neighbor was no different. He had deep feelings for Diesel despite what could be construed by many as evidence to the contrary. I mislead him at the outset but our goal was the same, a new future for a dog who was about to go from poverty to homelessness. At one point around two years ago, he gave Diesel to a guy he worked with and then about six weeks later retrieved him when he realized he was keeping him in a pen with an angry male dog. I believe his intentions were good but overuse of alcohol limits everything; financial, physical, and emotional resources.

It was Thursday morning when I agreed to pick Diesel up. I got up at five-thirty made some coffee and took Stella for a walk. I assumed she would spend much of the day confused about why I was suddenly having awesome fun playtime with that big sweaty dog across the street. Over the years, she and Diesel had come to an agreement. He was welcome to come sniffing around her as long as he didn't charge us like a bull at which point she was going to go all Lara Croft on the side of his head and end their relationship once and for all. He understood.

There were photos to deliver that morning to a client who had just celebrated her own dog's first birthday with real birthday party. That afternoon included a beautiful little luncheon and all manner of doggie paraphernalia; nine dogs and twelve or fourteen humans. There was a lot of "Oh, that's the cutest thing I've ever seen!" and "Isn't that the cutest thing you've ever seen?" conversation. It was without question the polar opposite of what this week had become. Driving across town with Stella to deliver the photos I told her things in her world were about to change only this time, it wasn't going to include a bunch of nut-ball kittens.

When we got home I put her in the house and carried her leash back out the door with me. I walked across the street to Diesel's yard and as always he barked his regular greeting alerting my neighbor who emerged from the basement door. When I asked if I could have the chain he seemed surprised but gathered it up, put it in a box and carried it over to my car. He bent down then with a heavy heart and hugged his dog, told him that he loved him and assured him that he was going to a better place to live, all of which was true.

Diesel seemed anxious but cheerful about the whole transfer. He bailed into my car all seventy-one pounds of him, like a fifteen year old boy. I asked my neighbor for the first time if he did okay in the car (brilliant on my part). I knew he'd been in a car but not often or recently.

"Great," he said, "he loves to ride in the car."

"Oh good," I said "I'll let you know how he's doing."

"Thanks Sue, see you later," he said, "Bye Diesel."

I gave him a minute to make it home and started the car.

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The story of Diesel

There's a dog I haven't talked about.

He lived across the street from us for the last three and a half years. I think I've never mentioned him because I didn't have much good to say. His future was always unpredictable and very much at risk. His predecessor didn't fare well and it was easy to see this dog was headed the same direction. Speaking honestly about him now could get me in a real bind with his extended family but I've resigned myself to thinking what I did was for the best and that in the end, even the dog's owner would understand. I know. Countries have fallen under the same rationale.

Diesel, his name is Diesel, was still technically a puppy when I got Stella. He was about nine months to her three. His owner was one of those guys who really wanted a big macho dog, a pit bull if possible, to help promote his tough guy image. Interestingly, he didn't need a dog at all to get that idea across. He's not a small guy. I'm guessing 250-265 lb. He spent enough years in jail to have procured the full catalog of tattoos. He was released as inmates are all too often, without any rehabilitation whatsoever yet he wasn't a bad guy at all when he was sober. When he wasn't sober, things became problematic. He regularly came home from working, had a few beers, and let Diesel out of his tiny pen to run the neighborhood. This dog used to (and this is funny looking back on it but at the time it wasn't funny at all) charge me and Stella and not knowing his intentions, Stella would go berserk snapping and growling at him whereupon he'd look momentarily confused and then trot UP ON MY PORCH and empty his bowels. To say that I didn't like him was an understatement but at that time it was easier to just project my anger onto the dog.

When Diesel got big enough to escape the pen, his owner put him on a tow chain. He isn't a pit bull, by the way, he's some sort of Lab mix. I think that's when many of the dog walkers and neighbors started to soften on his behalf. They'd sneak down the driveway and give him treats just to make sure he had water in his bowl. They called rescues and others who were inclined to help dogs escape such situations. They (and I) called the police and Animal Control numerous times when my neighbor was drinking and either let him run or beat the snot out of him for some unknown infraction. For the record, listening to a big dog get a beating will drive a dog-loving person clean over the edge. That's the day I vowed to take the dog if and when the opportunity arose. It took a long time but that day finally came a week ago.

In the end, I didn't have to take him. It took about two weeks. It cost me a three dollar pack of tobacco and some groceries. His owner was about to be evicted and thankfully chose rehab over homelessness or jail. He surrendered him to me, based on the fact that I told him I had a friend who was looking for a good dog. Over the last couple of years, he'd offered up the dog a few times but none of the rescues I contacted back then could take him right away. Seeing as alcoholics change their mind every few minutes, each time I tried to secure the dog's freedom, everyone was busy. This time, I sent out nine or ten e-mails. Three people responded and one of the rescues agreed to take him on. When the moment came to collect him, I couldn't help myself. I stood there with a straight face and lied my ass off. Kinda'.

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You talkin' to me?

There's a yard we pass regularly with two dogs in it who are under the supervision of an invisible fence. There's the original mixed breed dog, yellow, (maybe) eighty-pound big barker and an additional well behaved, brown, pit bull. We call the barking dog Chief for no other reason than he seems to think he is one. Occasionally, if Chief is feeling extra brave he'll get to the boundary of the invisible fence and just say something along the lines of "fuck it" and burst on through, running the line of his own yard and smack talking us until we're out of sight. Stella used to respond to his outbursts but now she just passes by without so much as a nod. This of course, makes him crazy. The pit bull might stand up and watch but it never barks or appears agitated in any way.

So the other day we're walking by and Chief comes tearing across the yard at us as usual. He gets about halfway to us and Stella makes a beautiful little ninety degree hop to square off in his direction. He freezes. She then proceeds to pick up the newspaper in his very own driveway (I hadn't even noticed) and slinging it with her head by it's flimsy plastic wrapper murders it right in front of him.

About five seconds into this colorful display, she apparently feels my amusement and begins slamming it on the ground repeatedly until the plastic is shredded, now barely able to contain its herniated contents. She stops and stares at Chief who is not surprisingly, still frozen.

"Drop it," I whisper, and she does. Then she pees. At this point, I can no longer contain my laughter. We turn to walk away, with Stella leaping like a little gazelle (because that's what she does when she knows I love her) and we don't hear another peep out of grouchy old Chief.

The road goes on forever..

and the party never ends. ~Robert Earl Keen

Well, it is officially spring here at Casa de Stella.

Just in case anyone is inclined to debate the issue, I submit the first in a short series of posts that have little to do with raising dogs and everything to do with cats and nature and so-called "animal rescue". Before we move on to the good stuff, I should say that although I've occasionally managed to tease out the negative aspects of various local pet owners on this page, that doesn't always translate to them being bad people. There are most certainly other factors involved, things I don't personally know about in their lives and things that they themselves can't control so I'd like to go on record as saying this isn't about them so much as it is about things moving forward, whether you're ready for them to or not, whether you're qualified to handle it or not and whether you like it or not. One day you're bored out of your mind and the next day it's your turn to get thrown into the swamp; you swim, you get out and you clean up the mess and maybe you're still alive and wiser than you were when you started. Maybe.

With that in mind, somewhere in the neighborhood of last Thursday, a light bulb went off over my head. It blew out immediately because of a little thing called denial. I think my exact words at the time were: "Oh God, no".

Domino, our (catnip junkie) squatter from the neighborhood recently took up what seems to be permanent residence here. My original cat Gigi isn't that crazy about her but she and Stella are sweet on each other so I decided to extend her lease. Her owner still leaves food out on the porch (presumably for the one cat that stayed on) but all of the cats and probably a raccoon or two, stop by regularly for a meal. They eat here at my house too, so life is pretty good. I noticed the other day that both Gigi and Domino had put on a couple of pounds and I threatened to cut them off if they weren't able to regulate their own impulses. Gigi is going on nine years old and according to Domino's (former) owner, she's about three, a "rescue cat" who lived in an apartment prior to their moving here sometime the middle of last summer.

So one morning not long ago, we all get up and Domino stays in bed half a day and I didn't think much of it. Then for a couple of weeks she takes to napping at my feet when I'm sitting at the computer and I don't think anything of that either. Then one day she starts drinking water and she does it probably five times that same day and now I'm worried. My last cat died of kidney disease and excessive water drinking was one of the first symptoms. Domino isn't losing weight though, in fact, quite the opposite. In my mind that rocks the boat back to another wonderful cat I lost to a strange illness that causes cats to retain fluids until they literally drown in them. So I ponder this for a couple of days and while I don't have a lot of experience with dogs I tend to think I'm fully proficient when it comes to felines and therein lies the problem. With those two exceptions, my cats have lived long and carefree lives. No diabetes, no cancer, no seizures, nothing - save a few scrappy tom cat encounters and the occasional hairball.

Last Thursday, Domino threw up in the living room. I picked it up in a napkin and when I walked back into the room I found she was relaxed but lying flat on her stomach with her chin stretched way out in front of her. I hadn't ever seen a cat lie down in this position. She looked like the top of a long, fat exclamation point.

"Domino" I said,"it might be time for you to go to the vet little girl."

And with that I reached down and picked her up. There it was: "Oh God, no!" I set her down immediately, like she'd caught fire or something and studied her with a disbelief that would last two more days. Her girl parts were engaged.

Colorful words followed. All this time I assumed she'd been spayed because she was "a rescue cat." She stayed out all summer and fall and now that she is living with me and her real parents are (oh did I forget to mention?) moving out of state - she's managed to go out and get herself in trouble. Suddenly I remembered a day back in early January when she bitched me out at the back door. At the time, I compared it to a cat in heat but without all the rolling around on the ground. A day later, she was fine. If you all will please excuse me I have to go now and hack up a hairball myself.

That was then
Today is Tuesday.. I'll be very surprised if we make it forty-eight more hours. Meanwhile, she's busy practicing her new mama skill on a pit bull. I'll keep you posted on the state of the white bedspread. (Update: I removed the bedspread for now and replaced it with a giant towel)

The double-dog dare

There's a three-toed cat next door who answers to the name of Millie. She came with the new neighbors who moved in not too long ago. Her siblings include two look-a-like cats, one junkyard dog on a chain (a pit boxer mix I think), a little boy - barely walking and a baby on the way. Prior to their moving in next door to us, the cats lived in an apartment and now they live outside 24 hours a day. Their owners leave food out for them, as far as I can tell but they've quickly learned (Millie in particular) to get their loving from other sources. She and the other two cats have developed a thing for Stella. Whenever we go outside, they parade over to our yard and start rubbing up against her until she begins to vibrate. Occasionally, she's overwhelmed by it but mostly she just enjoys the attention and goes about her business with them in tow. Here's a sneak peek.



A couple of nights ago, I headed out the door with Stella and as we exited the house, Millie ran in the door. She wasn't around when we returned and I actually forgot she was in the house for awhile. Later on, when I went looking for her, I found her, sound asleep - in Stella's bed. Stella walked into the room, sat down in front of the bed and put on her dejected face. I half-heartedly told her get in bed with the cat. She wasn't enthusiastic about such a request despite my double-dog dare and a short lecture about the potential of added warmth and companionship. She finally did get in it but chose to sit instead of lie down. I could see the whites of her eyes the entire time so it wasn't very long before I let her off the hook. She sprang out of the bed like one of those Calaveras County frogs and barked at the three-toed cat.

Thoughts on the origin of the "double-dog dare" from Michael Quinion.

Fingers Crossed

Two spays, two neuters, four combo tests,
Seven FVRCP shots, hook worms, eight doses of dewormer,
One dose of antibiotic, three vacuum cleaner bags,
Fifty-four POUNDS of cat litter.
Carried to a trashcan - in one pound bags.

Five trips to the vet.
Eleven pounds of cat food. One very nice cat-sitter.
Fifty-thousand fleas. Sure, I'll repeat it:
Fifty. Thousand. Fleas.
That's an estimate; I stopped counting and started
going off my nut at twenty thousand.
Four doses of flea medication. Five, if you count my own cat;
who by the way, didn't have a flea all summer long.

I officially hate my neighbor now, but I'm trying to work through it.

Praise Jesus and knock on wood, as of tomorrow, Roy, Buck, and Lulu
are about be out of my basement; for a little while anyway.
Mama isn't far behind.
Run, don't walk over to PetSmart at Hundred Oaks and get yourself one.
They couldn't be any healthier than they are right this minute.
They're really sweet too.
And well-behaved.
They haven't turned over or climbed a single thing.
Swear.

Posse

(clockwise: Minnie Pearl, Buck, Roy and Lulu)

Speaking of cats, we seem to have inherited a flock of them from my irresponsible neighbor, Judy. Today is her birthday so again I'll refrain from telling the world exactly what I think of her behavior. Back when her son impulsively gave her a kitten for Thanksgiving - I saw this entire scene play out in my head and now here it is, larger than life, just two weeks shy of mine and Stella's much anticipated trip to Baltimore. We're scrambling to find homes for a mama cat and three kittens (I hope you all will call me if you're looking for a new best friend and feel free to pass this link on to anyone in the Nashville area or anyone on the way to Baltimore for that matter. They're free but if I get a vibe that says you won't spay or neuter the animal, or generally love the socks off of it, the deal is off and I walk away with the cat. Furthermore, I'm not optimistic about their future although I may agree to officially foster this clan if I can find them a babysitter from September 5-11. At this point I can't think of who to call exactly. In my circle of friends, the exact right person may not exist. If anybody has an idea on that I'd love to hear it too. Meanwhile - neither Stella nor Gigi have seen the kittens. Gigi is kind of fired up about there being one cat in her basement, let alone four.

It's amazing the mother cat is so great considering how young she is and that she's been living on macaroni and cheese for the last eight months. Wish us luck :)

Ginger Snaps

This is Ginger on the left. Ginger is a lovely Boxer who lives down the block from us with her spirited and much younger boyfriend, Banjo. Like a lot of younger boyfriends, he keeps Ginger young and working hard to stay on her game. Very positive. Now if you happen to be a female dog and you come around batting your big old innocent puppy dog eyes at Banjo, it's a safe bet that sooner or later, Ginger is gonna' pop open a can of Whip Ass.

Enter Stella.

It was six-thirty Sunday morning and beneath the clear summer weather and the early birdsong, I knew better. Most everyone in the neighborhood was still asleep or tending to their hangovers. Stella and I took our time walking down to their house and she was really happy when we turned into the driveway instead of cruising on like we normally do. The lot of us had walked together a few times. I let the dogs out and fed them. Ginger was fine for a few minutes and then Banjo joyfully wedged himself between the two females. Everything after that went in deafening slow motion. Ginger launched herself like a rocket at Stella and Stella tried to run. There was tumbling and a lot of smack talk but very little mouth to body contact. Thank God. Banjo went along for the ride. The second I pulled Ginger off of Stella, it was over and the three of us sat there in the driveway, grass-stained and bleeding (very minor, Ginger scuffed her face on the concrete).

I imagined sleepy people in the houses all around us, getting up and plodding off to their respective bathrooms muttering curse words about a dog fight that might have been a dream.

Around the 'hood

Me and Stella went to the dog park yesterday for a while. There was only one two-and-a-half year old English Bulldog there. Very fat. Her owner came there to have lunch and to let her "run around for a while". The two of them shared a good many saltine crackers, some cheese and a couple of Smokey Joe beef sticks. The Bulldog paid no attention to Stella. She sat at her owner's feet waiting patiently for handouts.
Stella (oddly) sat at my feet (sans leash) and watched them. When the Bulldog waddled away, Stella ventured over to try her hand at the begging. This was a new experience for her as she doesn't ever beg at home (I know, sounds crazy right?) So there she was and I knew the guy was going to give her something without so much as a glance in my direction. After a minute more of reading his book, he reached over, petted her head and handed her a saltine cracker, which - God bless her - she dropped on the ground and left there. It was all I could do not to stand up and cheer. Now, don't get me wrong, I'd have let her have the cracker. Some of you may recall she was brought up on pizza. I was just happy he hadn't offered her that shrink wrapped heart attack they call a beef stick.

There's a new dog that moved into the house that joins our back yard. I don't know it's name yet but it barks a lot. The new owners put up a privacy fence but since their yard is on a hill and my yard is on an opposing hill, the only real view the dog has - is my yard. We don't have a fence but I do some gardening and Stella is usually out there with me, rolling around in the grass, which drives the cooped up neighbor dog insane. Maybe we'll take them a basket of muffins and talk about a play date.

Speaking of insane, last night there was a female fox in our neighborhood who was out trolling for men. These critters make a noise not easily forgotten by humans and other animals. It's an understatement to say that it sounds like someone is murdering puppies and the screaming seems to go on forever. Knowing what it is doesn't make it any easier to hear it either. I'd be surprised if nobody on the street behind me called the cops. When it first started, Stella jumped up out of a deep sleep and started trotting through the house hyperventilating and occasionally crying out into the darkened windows. Before long all the dogs in the neighborhood were barking and it went on for ten or fifteen minutes. I hope she got got lucky so we don't have to go through that again.

A year ago today, Stella was coming home from her first knee surgery. I hope we don't have to go through that again either but I'm looking forward to us finally getting to walk in some decent weather for a change.

Shopping Tip
I want to mention a couple of dog-friendly antique shops I found in Nolensville, TN on Friday. The Roost and Three French Hens are side by side and owned by the same pair of women. These ladies did not hesitate for a single second to invite me and the Pit Bull into their shop. I was pretty impressed. Next Saturday is the Buttercup Festival in Nolensville so be sure to stop in and see them if you go. Here's a link to their blog and a map to get you there.

Note to self:

Some things to remember about this past weekend

1. First off, let me just say in my defense: it is impossible to pass a dog with a wig in your hand and NOT try the wig on the dog. If one should decide to photograph the dog however, it is imperative that laughter be kept to a minimum. Trust me, there will be plenty of time to laugh later. (same goes for people, btw)

2. One of Stella's best things is walking through a crowd. The Lawn and Garden Show was at the fairgrounds last weekend so we went over and followed the parade of visitors through the parking lots for fun. We also navigated the long lines of people who were waiting to buy tickets. She did great as always and we celebrated our success by running like mad women back behind the race track.

3. On sunny Saturdays, apparently it's fun to go over to (local coffee house) Fido where you can sit outside with your pup and enjoy a coffee. All the tables were taken so we didn't sit but according to the body language of one guy, we'll call him Stinkeye, Pit bull-type dogs (I'm being funny there, I love that expression, what is a "pit bull-type" dog?) may not be all that welcome anyway, so we kept moving. Stella did a little low key rubber-necking and I didn't mind. We probably walked a mile through Hillsboro Village, well past Vanderbilt and back again.

4. Then on to school where she had words with a shepherd mix who got in her personal space. Both dogs and owners recovered nicely.

5. Stella has almost no separation issues. At class we're up to two minutes. Out in the world, we're up to about fifteen minutes. I have more anxiety than she does when we're apart.

6. Beware of strange dogs galloping after you on suburban streets. Later, we went for a walk around the block and a good sized (maybe 75lb.) dog came running out from between two houses. It climbed all over Stella and then went from being over-excited to aggressive in the blink of an eye. It tried to bite her twice. I stepped between them before Stella could react and made the dog's options very clear. It went trotting off. Five houses down, a beautiful little French Bulldog came blasting out of yet another yard. It didn't try to start a fight though (thank God) and its owner retrieved it immediately.

7. If I haven't said it lately, Latina moms are way cool. We got out of the car at the ball park on Sunday and from a distance I noticed a Mexican family moving in our direction. There were two women and five little children of various ages. I moved Stella aside and put her into a sit. I was surprised to see that they didn't plan to go around us, they planned to stop and pet Stella. Naturally, they had a two year old with them who was terrified of dogs and they hoped to use Stella in the same way I hoped to use their other kids. As luck would have it, I had a pocketful of liver treats so it was win-win. We hung out with them for fifteen or twenty minutes and Stella ended up charming the frightened kid and getting more than one belly rub out of the deal. She walked away a different dog. I'm not saying it was permanent but she had a sweet look in her eye that told me she felt really good about it all. We celebrated with a swim in the creek.


Speaking of wigs...

Idle threats

My darling (teenage) dog Stella,

As you know, we don't have a fenced in yard. You are welcome to blame me for this but it should be noted that I lived here long before you did without need of one. I am however willing to cheerfully - stop eating lunch again, and take you outside at your insistence, for the third time in two hours, but let me say this: If you don't pee this time, if you insist on pursuing your hobbies i.e. eyeballing the cat, snorking up ants, or staring at airplanes - I am going to beat your six-thousand-dollar ass right out there in front of the neighbors, the trash man, and several of your dog friends. ¿Entendido?

Love, Mom

There are some good suggestions here about how to keep cats from digging in your garden, Stella has a different suggestion but we needn't go into it.