Leaving Pawprints Behind

Dear Rocky,

You were a good cat. You were one of the inspirations for this blog. You had a big personality, and a bigger heart, even if you didn't always show it.

May you find the things that made you happy, like:

• Lots of things to push off the table onto the floor like plastic fruit, diabetes supplies and satellite radios
• Drinking water from Mom's water glass
• Daily treats of chicken or salmon 'juice'
• Someone to pick you up to 'show' you where your food is on the dresser
• Finding bare toes to nibble (see 'chomp') on
• Rubber bands to chew
• Twist ties to chase
• That toy on a spring and stand that you liked to drag upstairs
• Kibble treats skittering across the basement floor to chase
• Ankles to rub against (but just barely touching, because actually touching is uncomfortable you know!)
• Finally, here's hoping you can come and go wherever you want - whether it be the other side of the door (why is it you always seemed to be on the wrong side of a closed door?), or go outside to roam as you wish

Things are sure quiet around here. We miss you and your little bunny puff of a tail, your big voice, your bigger personality, and all that made you special.

Your pawprints have left an indelible mark on our hearts.  

Rocky

May you Rest in Peace

March 1, 2003 - May 7, 2014

Dog Lesson for a Good Puppy

Here's a tip for those of you who might be, or might one day be in the process of training a puppy.

During the other morning's walk, one which for some reason Keeta and I found to be filled with dog encounters, we met yet another lady who was walking her puppy.

How did I, a blind guy, know it was a puppy?

That was easy. She told me she was training her puppy to sit. Proving her point, every few steps she would stop and say to the dog, "Sit." Of course I couldn't tell if there were any gestures or maybe slight pressure applied to the puppy's back end to enforce the command, but the voice was patient and consistent.

Still, I did see one way that her technique might be improved and for whatever my viewpoint might be worth I shared it with her.

"It sounds like you're doing a good job there," I said.

"Not so much," she replied.

"He's looking at me as though he doesn't know what I want or who I'm talking to. And he should know."

"Does he recognize his name?" I wondered.

"Oh yeah, he caught onto that right away. When I call him, he comes. That's why I don't know what's going on here."

"You might want to try speaking his name before you issue the command," was my suggestion, issued with the hope that the lady woudn't mistake me for a well intentioned know it all.

"Ruggles, sit," she entoned.

Ruggles complied instantly and I'm pretty sure he was rewarded with a cookie or two. Speaking a puppy's name before each command can serve a couple of purposes.

With a new puppy or any dog who is new to you and perhaps has a new name, the repeating of the name sound helps the dog to learn that the name sound belongs to him or her. Then, after the dog's identity is clear in its mind, the use of the name sound calls to its attention. The dog knows that the next spoken human words will be directed at him or her and will quite likely pay much greater attention to them.

Get into the habit of speaking your dog's name whenever you command them or even just talk to them. Your dog's name sound is music to his ears, unless of course your dog is a female, in which case it is music to her ears. Either way, chances are, you'll see improved results. Give it a try and see if it works for you.

Contributed by Larry Naessens

Another Furball?

So here's the story. Larry and I arrive home from vacation, and Steph greets us with, "Have a good vacation? Want a kitten? She's really cute!" Apparently a stray cat had arrived at her friend's place, promptly had kittens, who were looking for a home. Going fast! The calico is already gone, but there is a REALLY cute one that needs a home.

What parent hasn't heard that one. But after all, Petey needs a playmate... doesn't he? We're sure he does. Well, that's the best we could do. It was a weak moment for sure. Call us crazy.

So now we've adopted Maximus a.k.a. Maxi a.k.a. Max. See the M marking on her forehead? She's all of almost 3 pounds of energy (especially playing with her new sproingy toy), and loves to cuddle and purr. She's big on purring. And she's our newest and smallest addition to our household full of furballs.

How has she been accepted into our family so far? Well, after some spitting and hissing from Max, Petey decided to watch her from a careful distance, from inside the open kennel, just to make sure there were no surprise attacks. Rocky walked right up to her boldly for the proper nose-to-nose greeting that he knows is the right way to greet any new being in the house. Maxi wasn't impressed, and startled by the boldness, proceeded to hiss, but very soon got over that.

As for the dogs, that will be a work in progress. We took Maxi out to just introduce the dogs from a bit of a distance. Penny wouldn't look at her - as if to say, "If I don't acknowledge that being's presence, it doesn't and will not exist". Keeta hid behind Larry, and stayed out of view. Well, at least there was no growling or lunging, so I suppose a success of sorts. She'll be living in Steph's bedroom for now - a kitten playground of fun and games.

Now we know certain people in our lives might call us crazy. We know it, and are we're okay with that. But she's really cute, after all.

Maxi with the Best Toy Ever!

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Thoughts From a Dog Walk

As both Jamie and I have mentioned in a past post or two, my guide dog Keeta and I head out for a walk for an hour or so every morning. As a recently diagnosed diabetic, the exercise is great for me. Keeta loves it too, and to tell the honest truth I really enjoy walking.

Today, I happened upon a couple of other people who got me to thinking about different responses that can either help or hinder the individual who is being guided by a dog. In both cases, the folks who I encountered had the best of intentions, but one strategy succeeded, while the other didn't. Let me elaborate.

As Keeta and I walked along the sidewalk enjoying the weather, I noticed someone approaching. I really didn't give it much thought until, the person was passing in the opposite direction on my left. Just as she passed right next to me, the small dog, apparently held high in her arms chose that very second to inflate eager lungs and bellow forth directly into my ear. With no idea that the lady was even carrying a dog, I was instantly nearly airborn.

"Woof!" Keeta replied, not to be outdone. "Woo woo woof!"

The little guy who had just passed us from it's perch in the lady's arms apparently suddenly saw his position as unsafe. At least I assume that was the case as suddenly the lady shouted, "Ouch! You're hurting me! Bad bad bad little boy! Your wittle cwahzies are sharp and they hurt!"

She then mumbled something else that I won't print here as we run a family blog. And was it my imagination or did I feel Keeta's tail wag against my leg. Just a small wag and only one, but yes, I'm fairly sure that I'm right.

Keeta and I continued along on our walk, when we encountered yet another dog. How do I know? Well, the lady who was walking along nearby said, "I'm walking in the street with my dog." With those few words, I knew all that I needed to know. A few feet to my left was a person and a dog. I could then watch for any sign of Keeta's distraction and move along on my way.

The moral of the stories is a simple yet important one. If you're one of those wonderful people who treats your good dog to a good walk and you should happen to encounter a blind person with a dog, let them know that you and your dog are nearby. More often than not, the guide dog handler will thank you for it.

Contributed by Larry Naessens

Vacation Furballs

When August rolls around to the thirteenth of the month, it always crosses my mind that Fall is waiting to jump in and take over. I guess that rather automatic thought has rolled through my brain ever since I was a kid who didn't look forward to the beginning of school all that much. Well, the kid has been grown for quite some time now but certain concepts just don't change. So I think I'll distract my thoughts of appraching autumn chill with a look back at our vacation.

Last week, Jamie, the dogs and I spent a wonderful 7 days at a cottage on Eagle Lake, not far from North Bay. It was a bit chilly and a bit too rainy at times, but we still enjoyed ourselves. In fact, we enjoyed ourselves so much that we're thinking about making it a 2 week stay next summer. While there, we enjoyed meeting cottage owners Cathy, Morley and Caitlyn. And would it be a Naessens vacation if we didn't meet some new furballs along the way?

This year, the welcoming furballs were a pair of golden retrievers named Dexter and Riley. Dexter is 10, while Riley is a very active and interested 14 years old. Both met us at the car as soon as we arrived. Penny was a bit overwhelmed at first, launching an immediate search for a safe hiding place. But Keeta was ready with a play bow.

That first visit was Dexter's only stop, as his busy life just doesn't give him the time to socialize. But maybe Riley is retired, giving him time to drop by at least once a day. The funny thing is that he timed almost every visit for practically the very moment when we started getting dinner ready. It didn't matter that the dinner hour varied from evening to evening and Riley didn't seem to care whether we barbequed or cooked inside. There was Riley, standing at the screen door, wagging, and imploring for his share. After all, everybody who was anybody offered Riley a bite or two when he came around. They always had, hadn't they?

Well yes they had. In fact, we were the first cottage guests who were specifically asked not to feed Riley. Yes us, the furball pair who would gladly slip him a bite. But Riley's people determined that there would be no more.

Now then, before you judge these nice golden furball owners, let me tell you why they instituted this new anti-canine snacking law. You see, the week before our arrival, other folks stayed in the cottage that we called home during our vacation. Apparently Riley dropped by to visit them on a daily basis and they were happy to offer him a bit of a snack whenever he did. That worked out just fine until the day that Riley dropped by while his new human friends were enjoying some pepperettes.

If you're not familiar with these taste treats, let me tell you about them They're pepperoni sticks, spiced just right. Yes, they are definitely tasty people treats, and if Riley had the words he would tell you that they were a golden furball's favorites as well.

But when good old Riley ventured on home, there was suddenly a certain pungency to the air. As the evening droned on, the air thickened dramatically, making it harder for those around him to breathe with each of his blasts. To make matters worse, poor Riley was not feeling so well. In fact, for a while, his humans thought they were going to have to make a fast trip to the vet.

Eventually though, someone noticed the pepperoni on Riley's breth, and the folks who were his culinary benefactors supplied the details to explain poor Riley's mystery illness.

The good news is that Riley recovered fully and is now back to begging with all of his old enthusiasm intact. The bad news, where Riley is concerned, is that the buffet has now closed. No more begathons for Riley.

Contributed by Larry Naessens

Take a Pill!

It's been a while since I've posted. Well, I can only say that things have been busy - the kid has graduated, clothes for her new job have been purchased, Penny has been fasting because her condition has flared up again, and now Rocky is on antibiotics for some injury he has sustained.

The vet gave us some pointers about how to give a pill to a cat. He suggested that we wrap him tightly in a towel and just force it down. Now, anyone who has given cats pills would know, that is not a viable option.

We did try wrapping Rock in a towel to get the pill in, but let's just say that was not an option. I then tried hiding it in some tinned chicken (both Rocky's and Petey's favourite). After carefully removing all remnants of the chicken from around the pill, he left the pill untouched in the centre of the plate.

I now have an elaborate system of grinding the pill to a fine powder, adding the juice form the tin of chicken, adding some of the chicken pieces to cover up the wet pill powder. I also have to make a plate up for Petey (no pill in his), only then will Rocky entertain the idea of 'taking' that pill. I then supervise them both to make sure all goes down, and the right cat gets the medicine.

But this whole process of giving Rocky this pill reminds me of a joke that has been circulating for a number of years. I first read it many years when Rock was just a Little Rock. I thought I would share. I have taken some literary license to edit the original a little, tailoring it more to Rocky's disposition. For example, the original suggested that you cradle the cat - our autistic Rocky will never ever tolerate being cradled. He is either needs to be held on to firmly, or he's not having anything to do with it.

How to give a cat a pill

1. Pick cat up and hold it firmly. Take your forefinger and thumb and apply pressure where the jaw opens. Use your other hand to place pill at the back of his tongue. Shut cat's mouth firmly, and wait a few moments for cat to swallow.
2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind couch. Hold cat in left arm and repeat process.
3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.
4. Get a new pill, hold cat again with left arm, holding his paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten. This time gently massaging cat's throat from the top to bottom. This will force the swallowing reflex.
5. Retrieve pill from fish tank and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from yard for assistance.
6. Get out another pill, kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while prying mouth open (being very careful to avoid the gnashing teeth). Drop pill into mouth and rub cat's throat vigorously.
7. Check label and call Poison Control Centre to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink glass of water to take taste away. Apply bandaid to spouse's forearm. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Throw shredded clothing away and get dressed again. Treat blood stains in rug with some carpet cleaner.
8. Retrieve cat from curtain rod, and get another pill. Make note to buy new curtains and rod. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.
9. Wrap cat in large towel as you would swaddle a newborn, and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible. Imbed the pill into a piece of steak, and shove the steak into the cat's mouth, and squirt in water with a turkey baster to help wash it down.
10. Dry off and ask your spouse to drive you to the hospital for some stitches.
11. Call vet to ask for replacement pills, and pay for them. Relax, you've only got another 4 days to go.
12. Seriously consider getting a hamster the next time you are thinking about getting another cat.

How to give a dog a pill:

1. Wrap it in bacon.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

When The Rock Starts Feeling Rocky

Every now and again, Rocky, our Manx kitty, shows us that there is one way in which cats parallel people. Occasionally, humans require a chance to recharge the old battery. That’s what vacation time is for. But if vacation time doesn’t roll around in time, well, now and again one requires what those of the polictically correct persuasion term “mental health days”.

George Carlin could have had a field day with such an expression and, if I put my mind to it, so could I. This faithful scribe is not politically correct, as I see a world of difference between considering people’s feelings as opposed to the silliness of political correctness. But, like the puppy who chews his leash and wanders away, I’m straying from my subject.

We were talking about cats... specifically our boy Rocky. For the Rock, his need for an occasional day of solitary cathood, fits the term “mental health day” perfectly.

As one of us might have mentioned in this space, Jamie drives for over an hour to Toronto every day, while I stay home, working my own job and caring for the fur people. Part of caring for the kitties involves keeping them confined during the day so that they won’t sneak out when I let the dogs into the backyard. This could easily happen because the cats know that I’m blind and can skillfully and gleefully sneak past me without jingling the bells on their collars. It’s a real talent and they have cultivated it to silent perfection.

At any rate, normally we keep the cats together, but occasionally as the time nears to head for the kitty playroom, Rocky begins to wail like a toddler who has not seen a nap in far too long. His cry proclaims in full voiced complaint that if we leave him in the same room with his “brother”, he will just DIE! Brother Petey will tease him. Brother Petey will pounce on him! Brother Petey will TOUCH him! Horror of all time horrible horrors! “Please,” he begs, “anywhere but the kitty playroom! Just anywhere!”

On those days, Rocky becomes our Basement Hermit. He talks to no one. Some days he even hides among the this and that which collects down there. On those days, he is his own cat living in his own subterranean world where no one TOUCHES him.

After a day or two, maybe three and on one occasion, Day 5, he is happy to return to spending his days with his brother in the kitty playroom. Rocky truly does love his kitty brother... most of the time.

By the way, we are now experiencing Rocky’s third consecutive mental health day. Maybe tonight I can ask him how he’s feeling and he won’t reply by biting my big toe.

Contributed by Larry Naessens

Deconstructing Our Furball Personalities

I remember a comment that a friend of mine offered years and years ago, in fact so long ago that I remember the observation with greater clarity than I recall the friend. As the years fly by, it’s often like that with high school friends. Anyhow, she once observed, “Dogs are people too.”

A simple thought I guess, and at the time the kids we hung with had a good laugh at her expense. I neither laughed nor nominated the bit of philosophy as the insight of the year. I just filed it away as something worth keeping. OK, dogs aren’t really people in the strictest sense, but they mirror their owner’s personality with uncanny frequency. Haven’t you seen it yourself? Friendly person owns friendly dog. Snappy yappy person teaches their dog the same tricks by example.

There are exceptions, of course, and our current furballs are among them. In these days of pet rescue, we see many dogs who are at least in part a personality product of the abuse and neglect heaped upon them before they find their forever home. Both Penny and Keeta wear scars and I don’t mean physical ones. Still, as we work with them I see subtle signs that our girls do mold themselves to us, fitting us into their own daily rituals, anticipating our wishes as we work and play with them.

Of course I wouldn’t share my thoughts on that subject with Keeta. My border collie/lab guide dog believes herself to be her own invention. Further, she sees herself as the molder of her humans and she all but says, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

For instance, yesterday at the grocery store, a cart was in our way and Keeta slowed in her usual fashion, preparing to show me the cart. This is a part of the guiding process which must not be rushed. But in my effort to get around the other person without delaying them, I indicated to Keeta that I already understood the situation by commanding her to go around the cart before actually stopping to touch it.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong!” said guide dog Keeta. I could feel the rebuke in her stance.... in the way that her muscles tensed in disapproval. So, in that way, Keeta might be more intense than her handler. Still, she is very friendly and outgoing, just like me, if I might sound my own horn for just a second.

And Penny? Well since Jamie works away from home and my job keeps me tied to this computer for the most part, I’m also Penny’s handler during the day. Jamie has mentioned that our Penny came to us with a big distrust of people who she didn’t know. Her initial response has been to growl when she sees a stranger. That has held true whether said stranger happened to be spotted through the living room window or from the other side of the backyard fence.

In an effort to decrease the growlies, we’ve been calling her to us and making her sit, whenever we hear that audible sign of her fear. These days, she’s growling so much less that even the neighbours are noticing. And when she does let a rumble slip out, leading us to call her name, she now trots over and sits, even before being told. The best news of all is that Penny’s tail now wags much more than it used to wag. A sign that she is taking on more of her peoples’ demeanor.

Cats on the other hand are another story. When Rocky joined our family he was my first cat ever. I was determined that he would learn to behave according to my dictates. Yes indeed, he would come when called and learn to follow simple commands.

OK, though a really good idea, it didn’t quite work out that way. As Jamie has mentioned here, Rocky comes to me about half a dozen times a day, demanding that I follow him to his food bowl and “show” him that there is food in it. Do I tell him to go get his own food and quit bothering me? Yeah, I really ought to do that. Instead I have to pick him up and set him in front of the bowl. Well, maybe I don’t have to, but it’s really the only time he will let me touch him, so I play along.

Rocky is himself and my impression is that who he is has nothing to do with us. But, if he encounters someone who shows interest in striking up a conversation, Rocky is always willing to have a good cat to human talk. If we make a sound similar to any that he makes, he’ll usually answer. We don’t know what we’re saying and for all I know he could be suggesting that we go play in traffic, but he does converse.

And Petey? For the most part, he is the picture of innocence, the forever little boy. He can make a game out of just about anything and finds cardboard boxes to be sources of endless delight. He trusts most everyone once he gets to know them and would never turn down a good scritch. Both of our aquariums are like interactive TV to him, while Rocky just doesn’t get the fishy attraction. In the Rock’s world, fish are to eat, not to watch.

While we’re talking cats, Rocky would like to point out that Petey is no angel, as he does enjoy running up to the big cat, giving him a poke and then running away, inviting a game of chase. This, as Rocky defines it, is touching and is therefore forbidden. But Petey doesn’t really have a handle on the concept of something being forbidden. That’s OK though because Penny will happily deliver consequences when Petey positions himself on the wrong side of the law.

Dogs and cats... if dogs are people too, then it must also be said that cats are cats. Make no mistake about it. Aside from that, all I really know for sure is that my world is a far better place with dogs and cats in it.

Contributed by Larry Naessens

My First Furball

Wow, what an intro! After reading Jamie’s excellent buildup to my official entry into the furball field, I spent a few minutes thinking about who in the world I am and what I might have to offer here. A few minutes is pretty much all I’ve allotted for that part of the project. Time to get on with getting on with it, don’t you think?

So, during that few minutes of reflection, what did I come up with? Nothing profound, that’s for sure.

I guess you could say that I know a little bit about this and that. Now and again, when this or that pushes my interest button, I look into learning some more about whatever it is. That pretty much defines me as the work in progress that I suppose I will always be. I do have an old university degree in “broadcasting and the cinematic arts”. Or I guess you’d have to say that I used to have one. The diploma got ruined years back in a storage shed flood along with high school year books and a bunch of other memories that I’ve either virtually cataloged somewhere or virtually forgotten.

But let’s wander along the path a bit further. Since leaving the broadcast industry, way back when radio stations were still housed in caves forged from rock, everything I’ve put my hand to has been pretty much self-taught.

As Jamie mentioned, I’ve written a bit and now here I am writing a bit more. I’ve also learned how to restore audio from old recordings and launched a media transfer business based on that knowledge. Then we have the bits and pieces of experience that I’ve collected as a true gift from a lifetime of living with dogs. For me, the house isn’t quite complete until there is at least one canine companion around the place. Personally I prefer the company of two, and would happily explore living with three, to compliment our pair of cats, but that’s just my own personal and perhaps excessive preference.

These days I work with an exceptionally brilliant guide dog who I helped train, but I didn’t start out with a pup who stood proudly on the top rung of the intelligence ladder.

Jingles moved into my kidhood home when I was 7. On Christmas morning my sister and I awoke to hear her yapping and yowling puppy protest over being confined in a large cardboard box. “We got a dog!” I shouted before hurling the covers aside and racing downstairs to meet my new friend. Thus began eleven inseparable years spent with my very first dog, Jingles the cocker spaniel.

It wasn’t long after moving into our house that Jingles set about teaching us who she was and how she looked at life. As winter gave way to spring, she took to jumping up on the screen door for a peek at the outside world. “Bark bark,” she would comment, before cocking her head in a listening pose. “Bark bark bark!” More listening, then a growl, high pitched and really more comical than fierce. A renewed volley of frenzied barks invariably arrived on the tail of what passed for her ferocious roar, accompanied by a kind of doggy dance. My folks hated this aspect of the performance as it was punctuated by claws digging into the screen while the din grew deafening.

It was my Dad who finally figured out what all the shouting was about. Jingles, our new puppy for whom we had such high hopes, was barking at her own echo. When her shrill voice bounced off the house across the street, Jingles seemed certain that an invisible dog was challenging her, calling her out as it were. So it seemed only reasonable to answer the challenge. That is precisely what Jingles did... again and again and again. We figured that when puppyhood gave way to Jingles the grown up dog, she would leave her ear splitting habit behind, but she never did.
My point here is that if you have a dog, cat, ferret, or whatever else goes through life with you as your own special furball, feathered friend or whatever else, intelligence is not a required ingredient for love. Jingles the cocker spaniel proved it.

I’ll never forget the hot summer night nearly eleven years following that super special Christmas morning when Jingles was the star of a seven year old kid’s Christmas dream come true. Now the kid was eighteen. It was one of those nights when heat pressed down on the world, promising rain but never quite delivering.

I couldn’t sleep for contemplating the next day when I would begin training with my first guide dog. Excitement held sleep at bay, but sadness left its own mark. Jingles, by then elderly and in failing health hated other dogs in all shapes and sizes. I knew this for the fact that it was. Jingles was my dog, for eleven years, my only dog. But I was a blind kid who needed to be able to find my way around a large university campus. I knew that a white cane was a fine option for many, but I also knew that the cane and I would never get along all that well.

The hot summer night droned on and sleep was still a far away non-visitor. I knew why. But as I lay there, listening to train whistles sound their call, followed by the rhythmic rumble of wheels that rolled around a distant corner of the night, I hadn’t a clue as to how to square things with my conscience and more importantly with a dog who had given all she had to a kid who sometimes took her for granted.

Finally, I crept out of bed and slipped down to the kitchen where Jingles slept. That night I had a long talk with my long time companion. I explained to her why I needed to start building a life with a new dog and why it just couldn’t wait until she moved beyond a life that was, for her, already clouded with too much pain.

I don’t know how much of that night was spent in talking with my friend and I’ve long since forgotten exactly what I said, but one image is clear - her cocker spaniel head with the ears that probably heard less than half of what was said to her remained raised for the entire conversation. To this day, I believe she understood every word. To this day, I still smile when I think of Jingles, my very first furball.

Contributed by Larry Naessens

Sharing the Stories

Everything that doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. And later on you can use it in some story. ~~Tapani Bagge

I would like to welcome our newest feature writer on staff. Okay, maybe staff is understating it a bit. But I would like to welcome Larry who has kindly offered to help me out, and keep this Furball place busy with posts. Larry has been my mentor and my critic. He has been published. He's my number one fan and is now my partner in more than one way. Best of all, he's okay with the fact that the pay around here is just plain lousy.

Larry will provide a new and sometimes quirky perspective to this Furball space. He's our resident dog whisperer and trainer. He patiently shows Rocky his food bowl for the 1,545,222nd time, and offers a lap to Petey whenever he wants it. He always looks out for the best interests of our fish (his last words to me as I rush out the door - did I remember to close the fish lid. He knows how much Petey loves it when I forget to close the lid after feeding time). You'll also find out that he has a lot to share about music, and can often 'name that tune' on the 2nd note.

I know that sometimes I post infrequently, and cause my loyal fans to wonder if and when Furballs will come back. But sometimes life just gets in the way. So I hope you enjoy what Larry has to share, because he's got plenty to say, and he's pretty good. Above all, I hope you will tune in to enjoy both of our views on our Furball world.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

The Swedes Have Landed

This morning started very early, with the huge crash of thunder at about 6 a.m. Keeta isn't the biggest fan of thunder. She desparately tried to lobby her position that we should really check out what was happening out there. Maybe someone was trying to steal our garbage cans... or I don't know what. She was doing her working dog best to convince us to just do something!

A mumbled command or two later, "Keeta, go back to bed!!", she grudgingly lay back down, with another 15 minutes to go before the alarm.

But with the rain this morning, and the rain clouds not too far away, and the fact that it is the last day of May, I am in the mood to share some shiny happy Swedish music that I've found.

Now did you know that there is a Swedish Invasion in music out there? Who knew?! Today's music is brought to you by a Swedish group call The Charade. They have a happy blend of dark lyrics and Martha and the Vandellas doing Heat Wave (check out their myspace page at myspace.com/thecharadesweden for "The World Is Going Under" - I couldn't find that one to share with you).

However, I did find one song of theirs to share and I hope it will usher in a little late spring sunshine to scare away some of those unhappy grey clouds still hanging around after our morning thunderstorm. I'm sure Keeta will be grateful for that.



Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Petey's Passion

Our Petey loves the game of Toilet Paper Party.

At our house, we like to use those big megarolls of toilet paper, and Petey thinks those are the best. The bigger the roll is, the better. The toilet seat is the best place to work from. He sits on the seat, and with his paws, proceeds to quickly unroll it - and shred it in the process. Apparently a huge shredded pile, left on the floor to be found later, is best. Often if we are caught up in our daily activities, we don't notice, but if you listen, really listen, you can hear the deep rumble and rattle of the toilet roll holder, emanating from the bathroom upstairs.

But there's a game even better than TPP. TPP can be played anytime the bathroom door gets inadvertently left open, but this other game can only be played when a new critter arrives in the house.

This morning I could hear Petey talking enthusiastically upstairs. I saw him sitting at attention, ears perked forward, looking with anticipation at the closed bathroom door. I believed he was trying to convince the Kid to let him in to play a good game of TPP. I should have suspected otherwise though, because that game is best played alone. Those humans always spoil that game whenever he gets caught.

But when The Kid finally emerged, I heard her tell Petey that the spider didn't want to visit him. I then realized that his apparent enthusiasm was actually all about his Best Game Ever, Bug Huntin'.

In this game, Petey will see a bug, doesn't matter what kind - crawly or flying, perhaps somewhere close to the ceiling. Game time!

Sometimes a new unidentified spot on the wall, or a bit of a cobweb can also inspire the game, but we won't talk about my housekeeping transgressions here. Back to the Bug Huntin'.

Petey starts talking and chirping away, as if to convince said bug to come down from its safe haven in an upper corner of the room. He wants it to come down so he could poke at it, play with it, and perhaps eat it. But he's never mastered the art of stalking.

Our Rocky was a good hunter in his day, when he freely roamed the neighbourhood. He has caught his share of hapless mice, and an occasional baby bird. However, he apparently doesn't care that Petey's bug hunting technique is a little off.

There's nothing stealthy about Petey's technique. Petey loves the idea of the hunt, but he isn't very good at it. In fact, on more than one occasion, when the bug misjudged its ability to escape Petey, he would become the victim as a tiny bug snack. However, not realizing where it had gone, Petey would proceed search for the recently consumed bug, and re-examine every place where that bug had been. So the game continues, often long after the bug ceases to play.

Back to our eight-legged friend this morning. By this time, Petey was apparently trying to get at that spider, who had managed to crawl into a small dark space in the door frame. But that does not fool our Pete, who knew that if he just kept working at it, he would either dig his way in, or convince the spider that it wanted to come out again.

For a long while, the spider became his obsession; his mission. In fact, it became Petey's passion. Let the games begin.

Petey is bug hunting from our bedroom window. This vantage point offers a bit of a challenge to the game because of the screen.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Here We Go Again

I know I've been letting my fans down - I have approximately 6 fans after all, and I virtually disappeared without a trace! I'm back now though, although maybe with not the same frequency until I can get life under control.

There's been a lot on the go here, and if you are one of those who look forward to my posts, please accept my apologies. And if you are seeing me here for the first time, I'm sure it isn't a problem at all.

At the moment, Penny is sick again, and it's probably the pancreatitis acting up again. Last week while walking, she deaked out to the side, and we heard the ominous 'crunch crunch'. Just a couple, and the first thing I did was reach down her throat to retrieve whatever crunched. To no avail.

So the waiting game began, and she did pretty good until yesterday, when we had to take her off all food - but she's drinking. But not doing well. She's still struggling through it so far, without needing to go to the Doggie ER, but she's a sad puppy and we're sad owners. And tomorrow we're off to our vet.

And it seems that no one around here can stay healthy either.

As you may know from some of my other posts, I have Type 1 diabetes, and now Larry has been struggling with his own recent diagnosis of Type 2. You know I thought I knew all I needed to know about this - after all I've been dealing the better part of 20 years. And now that I've recently started using an insulin pump, I've had greater control and flexibility.

But I've discovered that I don't know as much as I thought. Type 2 is similar, but it is indeed quite different in how it behaves, both in the body and in diet restrictions. Who knew!

There's an irony here... somewhere, and I think in more ways than one. But I'm not looking too hard. When I find it, I'll certainly share.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Round 1 Begins

Penny has issues. But have I told Penny about Lando? Maybe all about Congo? How about Jethro?

If any of these ex-guide dogs were here, they would tell Penny to shape up. Jamie wins. I fully expect that Penny will be shaping up. These otherwise talented guide dogs didn't make the grade. But first let's review the Guide Dog history in our family.

Jethro was a maniac. He was Larry's first guide dog from Canine Vision Canada. Jethro had Timbits on his mind. Jethro sulked when he was told he had to behave. He was a very bad car rider, and would lunge from one side of the car to the other, which from this driver's perspective, didn't make driving easy. Jethro stayed for a little while, and then was soon retired to a life of being a regular (albeit spoiled) dog.

Enter Lando. Guide Dog #2 from CVC. Lando was very big and very sad. Lando had issues, which amounted to my little carpet cleaner pooping out, if you get my drift. Lando would retire to his bed, and we'd find him a while later, well, let's just say he was aromatic. Enough said. Lando stayed for a few months, and then was soon retired to a life of being a regular dog, with his Puppy Parents. Lando really loved his Puppy Parents, and is a much happier dog for it.

Then there was Congo. Congo was a Chocolate Lab. Congo loved to play. That's all Congo wanted to do, was play. Keep Away was his most favourite game in the world... a great game to play with our Resident Blind Guy. His second favourite game was Chew The Remote Control into a Million Bits. That got expensive. After a re-training session or two, Congo was retired to a farm, where that's all he needed to do. Play. Life is good.

Now Penny... she's a handful. But she has some lessons to learn. She had better learn... or... well, okay, we love her to bits, but she's got some learnin' to do. Penny had a rough start in life, originally a shelter dog, and has always dealt with fear issues. However, poor Penny deals with these issues totally inappropriately. It's hard not to compare her to Keeta, the Wonder Guide Dog. But we reluctantly admit it, we've babied her some since she arrived. She flunked puppy school... twice. She's had a session with a dog whisperer. But we've let the lessons slide. This Winter didn't help at all. I haven't been getting out with her to reinforce proper doggie etiquette. She makes a lousy guide dog, especially with her fears, and she's too short anyway, so Larry can't take her out.

So now I'm armed with my equipment. I've got the remote control spray collar charged up and have just bought a special collar for walking. Some might say it's extreme, and that may be so. However, Penny's behaviour is extreme, so I respond in kind. We went walking last night, and after a couple of reminders, she pulled up her bootstraps. She was the perfect Doggie Walker. Just like she should be.

But let those other dogs be a warning... this may be only Round 1, but I do win.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Dogs in the 'Hood

The Dog Walkers are finally out. Another Sure Sign of Spring. Larry goes out every morning, early. Apparently that's not a favourite walking time for Dog Walkers in the winter. But he informed me today that they're back, and out and about. A good and sure sign of Spring.

Even through the winter, though, there are dogs on the inside wanting out. Dogs in the neighbourhood:

• Ellie and Storm - Storm is the older quiet Lady of the 'Hood. Sometimes though, a little crabby attitude seems necessary. Her newest family member, Ellie, is a very young, adventurous, but very sweet doberman. I think Storm demands that Ellie is just so.
• Ivan and Igor - Ivan and Igor are always yelled at by their owner, in a heavy Russian accent, "IVAN... IGOR..." (I must say, not the first names that come to mind for Miniature Schnauzers). They always ignore him... as if to say, "Yes, those are our names... whatever". But Keeta would like to show them "what for" with much bravado
• Jack and Jerk - First off, Jerk isn't Jerk's real name, but it sounds so good. Her name is actually Jinx, and is the willing companion to Jack. Jack is a little terrier with a nasty disposition. We met Jack first when he attacked one of our previous guide dogs, Dylan, who had to go work for someone else because of the attack. Keeta feels that she had to defend Dylan, and has forever since, REALLY hates Jack.
• Albert - Albert's owner walks through the green space behind our house every Sunday morning. We hear, "Albert ... Albert ... Albert". Apparently either Albert is deaf, or at least conveniently deaf. Keeta gives Albert a piece of her mind every time he goes by.
• Car Starter Dog - His bark sounds just like a car starter gone bad. Keeta doesn't really have much of an opinion about Car Starter Dog. We just think his bark is too funny.
• Yard Dog - She's the big Rotty who is always in the backyard, I think really wants to play, but can't get out, and has a big scary bark. Keeta doesn't concern herself much with Yard Dog. Yard Dog is just always been there.
• Window Dog - Actually, Window Dog has now moved away, but we loved Window Dog. She was always inside, and lived a couple of houses away from Yard Dog. Yard Dog would alert her that a "Dog Is Coming", and she would wait for us, and then run from one window to the next, and back again, thumping against the wall and glass, just trying to ... well... I don't know what, but she was very excited.

And today there was Fella. Larry and Keeta met up with Fella, a new dog to the neighbourhood roster of dogs. This is the story as described by Larry:

One who made me laugh is a little guy named Fella. Like Penny, Fella likes to bark bark bark at the top of his little lungs whenever he sees another dog. What really made me laugh though is Fella's mummy, a lady who sounded as though she left her younger years behind sometime back. With every bark, Fella's mummy responded by speaking his name with ever-increasing alarm.

So we heard: Fella, Fella. Fella? Fella! FELLA! With every utterance of his name sound, Fella barked louder and with more enthusiasm as though to say, "I know what you want and I'm barking just as loud loud loud as I can!"

By the way, Keeta ignored him as not worthy of even a second glance.

And now you know the Dogs in the 'Hood. I expect we'll have more Dogs in the 'Hood stories as the Spring and Summer comes upon us.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Another Sure Sign of Spring

Today I am going to share a dog story with you. It also contains some very good advice.

In my post of a couple of days ago, I shared the Sure Signs of Spring that I've noticed. And today, I noticed another Sure Sign of Spring, which is the de-stink-tive aroma of skunk in the air.

As preface to this story, all I can say is, thank goodness Keeta has only downed dead squirrel (to my horror and disgust, by the way). Anyway, I'm happy to report that she has never tried dead skunk, and I hope to keep it that way.

NT sent this article to me today, and I knew that this would be the perfect place to share it. It appeared recently in the Manitoulin Recorder, a small community paper from the Manitoulin Island. I don't know who wrote it, but perhaps if NT still has the article, he could share, or maybe the author chose to be Anonymous*.

Not to change the subject completely, but has anyone ever experienced the joy one gets when their dog eats a dead skunk?

We recently found out just what a truly remarkable event this can be in one's life. We can only assume that the poor dog didn't realize she was eating not only a skunk carcass, but also the intact musk gland.

In the interest of clarity, it should be pointed out that dogs are apparently incapable of digesting musk glands. These noxious nodes seem to make their way through a dog's digestive system until they reach a point where they can begin to function as nature intended.

Unfortunately nature never intended for this function to occur in an enclosed bedroom... repeatedly... all night. If only there was some way we could have captured the essence of the sweet nocturnal emissions that we were treated to, then people could understand the suffering that was ours for a night.

Quick word of advice, never ever let your dogs dine on skunk, or if they do, make sure they sleep in the kids' room for the night.

*I can only imagine that after a night of basking in the musky scent of skunk, the author of that article would certainly be well known around town, and have many offers of tomato juice... and not for the purpose of drinking!

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Sure Signs Of Spring

As I was driving home through a snow squall this evening, it occurred to me that Spring must MUST be on the way. I'm sure of it, and there are signs. So I've just compiled my own list of the Sure Signs Of Spring.

Sign #1

Keeta has been playing Director General in the dog run. With Spring comes the Green Space Walkers and their Trusted Dogs who walk through the green space behind our house. Keeta demands that they pay her proper attention, and will stand her post, just waiting for them to come by so she can comment in her Big Dog Voice.

Sign #2

Penny has found her little patches of warm sunlight. In the long winter months, the sun has been so weak, that she would just curl up in her nest of blankets. But she's now stretching out in her favourite sunlight patches - one in the family room and one in the living room. She's also been staying out in the dog run longer than she used to. She doesn't have the great big undercoat that Keeta sports, and she hasn't been staying out for long this cold winter. Poor Keeta just doesn't understand why she can't be her Ensign to her own Director General. She doesn't understand that Penny's pink underbelly must just cringe in the snow.

Sign #3

Rocky is insisting he HAS to go out. He has been an indoor cat for the better part of 2 years now, but every Spring, he starts to plan his escape. Last weekend he managed to pop out twice. He stopped in his tracks once outside the first time, like he didn't know what to do with this newfound freedom, however, that made him really easy to catch. The second time, he paused and then started to run, but I scooped him before he could get far (good thing, because he's a fast one!)

Sign #4

Petey has always been an indoor cat, but even he is saying that he HAS to go out too. He begs, meowing in his most pitiful pleading voice, please PLEASE can he go out, as he stretches his long body trying to reach the door handle, as if to show me what he wants. If only he had an opposable thumb and some fingers. Last summer I used to take him out on leash at night. He's a most perfect leash walker, even better than the dogs. But whenever a car goes by, he becomes absolutely panicked and must get back as fast as his little paws can take him, with me running a distant second to him.

Conclusion

So Spring is definitely coming. Really.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Penny's Snit

I'm onto Penny. She had that wool pulled over my eyes... or more accurately that underwear pulled over my head (her personal fave), and every night she dutifully tells me she really REALLY has to go out to do her business. And lately it's been ramping up to 2 times a night. I'm not at my best at 3 in the morning, and obligingly let her out. She always did her business and came right back, so I think, she must have needed to go. I'm so gullible, and she was laughing under her little doggie breath.

On reflection, I realized that she really can make it through the night. After all, she's 2-1/2 years old. She gets let out one last time around midnight, and chances are she'd be good until 6, when we get up. That's what I figured out anyway.

So I've gathered my sleepy wits around me and just told her, "No! Get back to bed", in the best semi-intelligible mumble that I can muster. I've now managed this for a few nights, and she has grudgingly shot me a look over her shoulder that clearly said, "You don't really mean that", and head down, went back to bed.

To add to a sad doggie situation, this morning it was raining. Penny hates the rain. She has always hated the rain. And cold rain is the worst. When she was younger, her alternative "spot" has has always has been on a warm dry rug. What's the problem with that, I'm sure she wondered. That wasn't so fine when she was 6 months old, but understandable, and little puppy pees are pretty manageable. But they're definitely not so fine at her age. Luckily she gave that up at 2 years old, and hasn't resorted to that yet.

But it doesn't change how much she hates the rain. And it doesn't change the fact that I have stopped letting her out in the middle of the night. And she told me what she thought of this. When I told her it was time to go out, she responded with a little low grumble under her breath, directed at me. No tail wags, no happy good morning greeting. Nothing. Penny was definitely making a statement, and it wasn't pretty.

So it's official. Our Penny was in a snit.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Let The Games Begin

Today we have a Rocky story. You see, Rocky has us both wrapped around his little paw.

And it started innocently enough. He will cry at the top of the stairs, as if to tell us that he can't remember where his food bowl is. So when we go to see "what's wrong", he will rub our ankles, nibble on any accessible and vulnerable toes, and then down the stairs one of us will trudge, just to show him his bowl, which in all likelihood, already has food in it.

Once downstairs, there is the obligatory rub around the ankles again, and he jumps up to his counter - better yet if he's picked up, and he's shown the bowl. He likes that. He purrs. Rocky rarely purrs. And we do it because he doesn't like to be touched, unless he is hungry or sleepy, and this is one of the few times he seems to actually like us, and he seems truly happy.

He's got some other funny quirks too. To set this up, the cats have one of those food dishes that is made up of two food bowls, and we always make sure there is kibble in both. We make the assumption that the two cats can eat at the same time if they like, or choose whichever bowl has the most kibble. Seems easy enough. Apparently that's not the way it works.

Rocky will only officially acknowledge the food in his right bowl. Actually both cats will eat out of the right bowl. He ascertains that the kibble in the left bowl is no good. But you can just take a handful of kibble from the left bowl, and put it into the right bowl, that kibble is now okay. He can eat that kibble out of the right bowl. But a good kitty must not eat out of the left bowl.

So that's the way it is.

But there's a new twist on this little game. Today, Rocky was crying at the top of the stairs. All right. Down Larry goes to show him his kibble.

But something is different. There's no ankle rubbing. No nibbling toes. You see, a certain other cat, our Petey, was busy in the litter box. Rocky cried, as if to say, "Make that cat get out of the litter box."

Note that there is another litter box there. But Rocky apparently wanted the litter box with the cover. Not the uncovered litter box. And the chosen box was being defiled, right when he wanted it, and he wanted Larry to do something about it. Now.

Of course, Larry didn't do anything about it. As far as he was concerned, Petey had about as much right to use the litter box whenever he wanted - that you gotta do what you gotta do. Besides, there was another one right there.

It could have ended right there, however, as if to say it was okay to Rocky, Petey finished up right then, and exited his temporary domain.

And in Rocky's eyes, it worked. He had brought Larry down to get Petey out of the coveted box, and sure enough, Petey got out. I can just see where this is going. What began as a simple food game, is now becoming something of a problem.

And if you know something about cats, and they don't like their litter situation, they might just leave a certain present for an unsuspecting person to step in.

And now a rather unpleasant precedent has been set in our household, and Rocky knows he has the upper paw.

Contributed by Jamie Naessens

Rocky's Favourite Video

It's a slow day today, so I will play Rocky's favourite video, The Mean Kitty Song, starring Sparta and his owner, Mr. Safety. Rocky says Sparta reminds him of Petey, and sometimes I wonder who's being mean to who when Rocky and Petey are in their room upstairs, and I hear the thundering of their footsteps over my head... what is really happening up there? Anyway, he hopes you enjoy Mean Kitty.



Contributed by Jamie Naessens