Control the Dog -- or Me?

Can you believe it!? Awake at 2 a.m. and I'm thinking about yesterday's trip to the dog park with our two dogs. At two in the morning!!???

The youngest canine is Brandy Bojangles, a year and a half old Cocker Spaniel -- recently spayed -- which is why she could finally go to the park. Brandy usually barks fearfully and incessantly at the mere sight of another dog or human. Yet, once in the park, she took it all in without a sound.  

But this writing is not about Brandy.

The second dog is my husband's three year old, female, Dalmatian/Aussie mix named Zephyr. That afternoon Zephyr did something I had never seen her do before. She jumped up on someone, resting her paws on their chest, then quickly got down as I verbally directed her. But she did it again...and again...and again!...and...to more than one person.

Zephyr had caught me so off guard that I never even had the thought to physically restrain her from doing it again. Why hadn't I simply taken her by the collar, apologized, and walked away?

Everyone involved appeared both surprised and almost entertained by her behavior. It was obvious, that for some very uncomfortable moments in time, I did not have control of my dog. 

But this is actually not about Zephyr either.

Laying there awake in the wee hours of the morning, I became immensely disconcerted about Zephyr. That's when I realized the urgency of how much I truly need to regain control of a lot more than a dog. 

This is really about me, I thought.

Just like that warm engulfing sensation you feel when you step into a hot tub and slowly immerse yourself, I felt strangely comforted and even inspired by yesterday's episode. My mental muscles rejuvenated as I lay there pondering the benefits of a more controlled, more disciplined life.  

It was time to get up and lay out a plan.

To have reasonable control of things around me (including a dog), I must first take control of myself. And, control over the physical body begins with mental discipline, because the body won't quit until the mind gives in.

What a person thinks about -- considers, ponders and focuses on -- is what they become. That is a law. So I will tend to my moment by moment ponderings by giving greater heed to the kind of nutrition I'm feeding my mind with. That's fair and simple.

Diligently disciplining the mind will enable my physical body to attain the desired results I seek, for I cannot function well without significant physical endurance and vitality. This will also mean a balanced diet and exercise. 

I may have the good food and great cooking part of it under control, but there remains a very pressing need for me to concentrate on the exercise side of that equation. I am encouraged by knowing I am fully equipped for success.

Next, I can begin to branch out into my environment, to have better control of my surroundings. This will include my/our dogs, my home and yard, the care of my mother, and...even taxes. 

All these things have one essential aspect when it comes to control  -- the element of time. 

Time~~ (as defined by Juilius O'Hara -- Peter Lorre in Beat the Devil, 1953)

Time. Time. What is time?
Swiss manufacture it.
French hoard it.
Italians squander it.
Americans say it is money.
Hindus say it does not exist.
You know what I say?
I say, time is a crook!

Well, you know what I say? I say, I will need to be more assertive in how I utilize my time, because time is an irreplaceable commodity that requires stewardship.

There it is...all laid out. I cannot -- I will not -- fail. I can only succeed. I will regain the control I desire and need in my life. 

And...

       I will have the presence of mind to simply take Zephyr by the collar, apologize, and walk away.

Hearsay? Or Heartfelt?

How is it possible that one vet would refuse to take a look at my declining dog to see whether or not there was something that could be done to ease her pain; while another vet wanted to see her right away, do a blood panel, and even offered to keep her in the hospital overnight to give her one last chance of recovery? 

The first vet is spoken highly of by her clientele and is probably ranked among the top 5 out of over 100 local veterinarians. The second vet is perhaps not as highly favored in the community, and runs a walk-in clinic along with a not-for-profit service that caters to the tight budgets of many elderly pet owners. 

The first was our top choice after trying four other vets in the area over the past 5 years. After talking to her office staff and many of her customers, we were convinced we had found the best of "the best" for our 3 dogs -- not only quite capable, but a very compassionate vet also. 

At least that's what we thought up until our eldest -- a 9+ year old Cocker Spaniel [click here to read my 2011 post "G" is for Ginger] -- took a sudden turn for the worst.

Ginger had a Protein Losing Enteropathy we had managed to keep in remission for nearly 2 years through a carefully monitored holistic diet. But, the symptoms were back with even more vengeance than before.

It was the day before the winter solstice -- that time of year when the noon sun is at its lowest level above the horizon. About mid-morning, Ginger let me know it took all she had within her to simply lift her head up a few inches above my lap.

I put a call into our new vet.

We were all set to just drive to the clinic, when vet#1 returned my call. I told her how I knew my little girl was on her last leg, but I just wanted to make sure she wasn't in too much pain -- that she was comfortable. 

To my surprise and dismay, this person had the nerve to scold me. Something about a typical case of IBD (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) and me needing to get serious about treatment.

Is she for real?? I thought. She admittedly had never seen Ginger, and was looking at 2 year old blood work -- not a biopsy. You've got to be kidding me! Serious about treatment?! 

I phoned the other vet.

Vet#2 saw us right away and wanted to do fresh blood work. Our dear little fighter was severely anemic, so we all decided it best to leave her in the hospital overnight. 

When the phone rang that morning, I knew who it was before I answered. Yes, it had been in the wee hours of that winter solstice, December 21st, that Ginger quietly and comfortably finished her epicurean escapade with life. 

Heading out the door, we grabbed her favorite dusty orange afgan -- the one she always dragged to the front door to tell us "take me with you" when we were leaving in the car.

The vet only charged us for the blood work. No office visit. No exam fee. No hospital charges. Only for the blood work that confirmed we had done everything possible for our little Ginger Girl. Unbelievable!

There was one place in the backyard Ginger was always forbidden to go. We called it "the pit." Relentlessly, she'd head to that spot to eat grass or sniff out some unknown critter. Then we would clap our hands loudly for her to get away and she would jump and run like it was some sort of game. 

Talking things through, it only made sense to us for the "forbidden spot" to be her final resting place.

Wrapped in her favorite afgan, together with her most favorite toy, we placed her in her most desirable spot in the yard, topped off with a headstone! If there was ever such a thing as doggie heaven, this would be it!

As far as vets go...I guess there's hearsay compassion, and then there's heartfelt compassion. As you can about guess, the only similarity between those two is they both begin with the word "hear." Quite seriously, when it involves our other two dogs, the choice is obvious. 

We are so thankful to God to have had those 4 and a half years of healing with our beautiful rescued Ginger Girl (who actually rescued us). And thankful too, for the years ahead with our Zephyr and Brandy Bojangles, who have helped us to move forward...

...just second nature for a dog. :~)

"G" is for Ginger

2008 proved to be quite an eventful year for me. 

The four of us -- my mother, my husband, his mother with her Bijon Frise, and me -- all moved into this little green remodeled ranch-style house built in 1980. Nothing too fancy, but it was home.  

In fact, some of you may have read the story of how my husband dug a hole for the koi pond in the frozen, mud-packed, March earth amidst the roots of the aspen trees just outside our front door. 

By July we needed to replace our teal 1993 Ford Crown Victoria, so we chose to lease a new red Mazda CX-9. A wise choice, but I'd never recommend acquiring a new car in the first year after closing on a home.

What's all this have to do with "G" for Ginger!?

Well...not even a month later, we found ourselves looking for a way to break up boredom, when I suggested driving down the road to where an animal rescue tent had been set up...just to take a look. So that's what we did...with one exception.

I was ready to leave when my husband informed me that we didn't drive down there just to go home empty handed. Yikes! This really wasn't part of my plan to break up boredom. I turned towards him and said, "But there's only one dog here that I'd be interested in...that tiny female blonde Cocker Spaniel." She just sat there -- upright, sort of regal-like -- quietly observing everything going on in the midst of all the chaotic hub-bub. 

We soon learned how that little dog had lived her entire 5 years as a puppy-mill mommy, still showing evidence of nursing her last litter. The only home she had ever known was a wire crate about 2 feet off the ground. Sadly, green grass, toys and a vet were foreign to her, as was good food and exercise. That made it a done deal.

Once home, we  began to try on a dozen or more names over the next few days. The Rescue had named her Chloe, but that was not going to work for us. We finally chose Gingersnap, but decided to shorten it to Ginger. Somehow, it just seemed to fit.

So...they call this the kitchen.

Actually, I kinda like this grooming thing.

All mine!

This is a... toy.

They let me pick my bed out all by myself!

Am I dreaming or is this real?

Looking good and knowin' it : )

Practicing my new "p-l-e-a-s-e?"

This is where I learn tolerance.

Aaahh... MY chair!

Didn't know I'd fit under here so nicely :)

You moved MY rug.

Get off!?

Let me think about this...

Okay... but I want it back.

Finally, where it's supposed to be.

Do you want to... play?

They say I'm a little... dear?

Well, there it is. In a mere 6 months we had managed to move into our own home, lease a brand new car, and rescue a dog. Yes, 2008 was quite an eventful year indeed, as were these last two with our Ginger.

"D" is for Doughnuts

While growing up, my hometown had an absolutely dynamite bakery called Ralph's. To this day I have never found any other place quite like it. They had everything, and everything they had was melt-in-your-mouth goodness.

My oldest brother and I would always save enough money to stop at Ralph's after a Saturday matinee, for our mile-walk home from the theater. The custard filled raised doughnut dusted with powdered sugar was my favorite, but the warm raised and glazed ones with the holes ran a close second. Totally yummy!

By the time we had reached home, the evidence was gone. It always seemed to puzzle Mom that I didn't have any appetite on movie day - how can just a candy bar and small popcorn, over 5 hours ago, ruin your supper?

Many years later, I was living in Houston, Texas, when I discovered a pretty amazing bakery less than half a block from work. At each morning break, having skipped breakfast, I would find myself at this enticing little shop ordering my all-time favorites to take back to the office. (Being in my early twenties and skinny, I figured it was no big deal at the time)

One particular hungry morning, having just spent my very last penny on my scrumptious delights, I had to leave them on my desktop while I met with my boss in his office. As we talked, out of the corner of my eye I noticed the office mascot, Brother Slick, get up and leave the room. Wrapping up the details, I headed back to my desk.

My eyes raced around the room then back to my desk. No doughnuts! It had to be a practical joke. I asked everyone at the office. No one had seen anything...no one had a clue! I was so dismayed I was nearly heartbroken. My absolute favorite custard filled raised doughnut dusted with powdered sugar -- gone!! 

That's when I noticed the evidence. The powdered sugar was on my chair and on the floor. Even more was found a few feet away, but then it seemed to go cold as the white powder trail came to an abrupt halt. I looked up and there he stood -- the remaining white dust all over his muzzle. Our mascot, Slick, was my boss' black lab, and the evidence was undeniable. The little crook!  

You dirty little black devil doughnut eater! Those were MY doughnuts, I told the dog. Amidst the background of muffled laughter, I was trying very hard to keep a straight face. Meanwhile, thinking he was just living up to his name, Brother Slick moaned and belched and sauntered back to his nook in the boss' office and lay down -- satisfied.

Review: Conversations with My Dog

I often coin the phrase "conversations with a dog," referring to what my husband and I both do when we are in relaxing conversation or enjoying a movie, and our attention is diverted by our lovable Cocker, Ginger, thinking she needs to get in on it. More than once I've commented that I thought this quip would make a great book title, so today I googled it. I found one written by a motivational speaker and author I was quite familiar with, so I read it. Here is my review of Conversations with My Dog by Zig Ziglar:


When deciding to read Zig Ziglar's book, I think there are 2 necessary ingredients the reader must have:

1) You don't want this to be your initial exposure to Zig Ziglar; i.e. you would have to be somewhat acquainted with him, at least through his other books, to know what to expect from these conversations. Then, they actually become quite humorous.

2) You would need to have some understanding of what it is to own, love and live with a small dog. Without that experience, it would be more difficult for the mind to actually understand and "allow" these particular conversations.

Having said this, I believe that small dogs (such as his Corgi) would not be so verbose, as he makes his out to be, especially if they're beginning to tire or get frustrated. I also believe it would've been more effective to introduce the human-comparisons in each scenario as reflective thought at the end of the day - away from the dog - rather than interrupting my suspended disbelief, at that somewhat intimate moment in time when the conversation is taking place with his dog. Each incident would then have been more of a fabled tale or anecdote with the moral given at the end of it all, making it much easier to glean the gems of insight and truth.

Sometimes I feel we, as writers, need to do just one more re-write, for that is where truly great writing lies: in the re-writes!