Nothin' Says Lovin' ...

Something smells mighty good in here!

I found it. It's liver cake!

It's done!

May I please have some?

PLEASE!

It's so easy to be a hero around here.

LaPew Revisited

Today's episode was also written by Kathy Benninger ... another tale I am grateful I'm only reading about! Thanks for sharing, Kathy.
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It was three years before I was bothered again – a pretty good record when you consider where I live.

Once again it was in the early hours, around 3 a.m. and, of course, on a week night. Skunks, you know, have a daily calendar and only intrude upon your life between Monday and Friday. I had four (fur)kids then and thankfully only two were sprayed. This time the scent didn’t seem so overpowering and I was not asked to leave work although I did stink up the place a bit.

I followed the same routine, leaving work a little early so I could go home and bathe my kids. This time I didn’t have to stop at the store because I had the ingredients to my “concoction” on hand. We did the bathing and the clothes washing, and the house didn’t smell too bad. I believed that perhaps it was an older skunk this time who just didn’t have the same punch as that guy four years ago. But that evening I noticed that the smell of the skunk encounter was getting stronger and I wondered if perhaps my dogs had dispatched the little varmint and there was a body somewhere nearby. I vowed to go looking for a dead skunk out in the yard the next day when I came home from work. The search was fruitless. I found no skunk.

I’m puzzled now because the smell was becoming overpowering and seemed to center in the living room – although it permeated to everywhere outside as well.

This went on for about a week, me looking for the dead skunk outside, and not finding one, wondering why that scent lingered so strongly. I washed the dogs again that Saturday but on Sunday morning my home still smelled like skunk, especially in the living room. It wasn't until I walked behind my couch, to water a floor-standing plant that I noticed a black furry mass that I had not seen before – right behind the couch, where I sat every night to watch TV! It was that poor dead skunk that I’d been looking for in the yard for the past 1 ½ weeks. Oh my goodness. So, now let’s talk about the pros and cons of having a doggie door!!!

My story still isn’t done – it wasn’t two weeks after I found this skunk that we had another event, and the same two dogs were sprayed. At least this time, I did find the dead skunk out in the back yard – where every skunk should be – just, please, no more in my back yard.

Another little side note . . . I had only been at my new job for a couple of months – I’m sure everyone wondered if there weren’t some legal way to get rid of me!

Well, I made it through this season – but I’ll tell you, every time my kids get a little excited, after midnight, I’m expecting the worse.

Please believe me, if you’ve ever been bothered by skunks, keep the MAGIC recipe. It works!

Hound LaPew

Today's greyt tale is written by Kathy Benninger about her adventurous hounds...

In my eleven years living in a rural area, my dogs have had a few run-in’s with skunks. The very first time it happened was 3:00 a.m. on a workday. Both dogs came running in from outside, through the doggie door conveniently located in my bedroom. I woke up immediately, wondering what that horrible smell was (because at first it just didn’t smell like skunk, it smelled like a dead carcass, a really dead carcass).

I got out of bed, went to the front door, turned on the porch light and I saw the skunk, still in my backyard. So did my greyhound. Although he’d already seen the skunk, indeed, been doused by the skunk, the new sighting got him going again, and he went right back out there, got doused again and then, of course, ran back into the house.

I’ve heard skunks only have one really good spray per encounter. If that is true, this skunk was truly blessed. By now the house smelled so bad I was getting nauseous and decided to get out and go to work early. I dressed and left as quickly as I could.

As I performed my normal duties at work, I was amazed that I could be so stinky even though none of my clothes had been in direct contact with either dog. The clothes I wore were still making me nauseous.

The office building where I worked was fairly large, approximately 50 people working in little offices along hallways and in separate working spaces, some areas connected by closed doors. By 10 in the morning, the entire building smelled like skunk and I was asked to please leave NOW. I felt like Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons but instead of being followed by a cloud of dust, I was being followed by a cloud of stink.

I left work, as asked, and stopped to buy the ingredients for the MAGIC formula that I’ve found to work so well (16 oz. hydrogen peroxide, ½ cup baking soda, and 2 Tbsp. dish soap). This formula was given to me by one of the employees.

After washing the dogs in this concoction and also washing anything that would fit in the washing machine, the aroma soon left my home.

For a city girl, that was quite an experience – and definitely one that I will remember forever.

To be continued ...

The Dutchess Wins Again

And speaking of getting them to eat vegetables (or anything) … there’s Frosty.

The Carrot Chase is SO far beneath the Dutchess. Such silliness only elicits a squinty–eyed, “boy, you’re really weird” look at both me and the other gh's. Frosty’s a dog of a thousand expressions and dinnertime really brings out the best (or worst) of them.

You see, Frosty is really not that interested in dinner. She is almost painfully thin and, believe me, we’ve tried all the tricks. Most of them work once or twice but any particular trick will never work three times in a row. Fortunately, Brent and I are pretty good at thinking up new tricks. I suspect she finds the whole thing vastly entertaining.

We always give our greys a good brand of kibble and top it with some special delight. Our arsenal has included satin balls, sardines, cheese, vanilla yogurt, Campbell’s soup, bottled gravy, “stinky cat food” (usually liver), beef or chicken broth, tuna, corned beef hash, and grated meat sticks (the Natural Balance doggy variety). The one that works best consistently is boiled chicken. We boil chicken legs and thighs, take all the bones out and serve them chicken soup over their kibble.

Still, Frosty will eat two or three meals well and then the next one – same mixture – same presentation – we get “the look”. For those of you who’ve had young children, it’s the “I don’t care if I don’t get dessert – I’m not eatin’ this” look…

A couple years ago I had an inkling she was getting bloated as she ate, so I started burping her. Yep – that’s what I said – burping her. She’ll stop eating, give us another of her looks and we’ll gently pat her on the sides until she burps. Doesn’t mean she’ll necessarily finish her dinner but it works about half the time and it clearly makes her feel better.

Fortunately, she is a sucker for cookies. The homemade peanut butter dog cookies are the favorite, but she’ll also gobble down “cardboard cookies” – those nasty little rock hard milk bones that have probably been in some warehouse for months. She’d eat the whole box. So she gets lots of cookies to keep her from disappearing altogether. Other special treats include hard boiled eggs and ice cream on Sundays.

Any questions about who’s in charge at our house?

It's All About Presentation

Arlo will eat anything - all the things that wouldn’t surprise you, but also many things that might. Like green peppers, potatoes, apples, bananas and carrots. Tory, on the other hand is pretty squeamish about non-traditional dog tasties. But as we’ve all learned from the Martha Stewart show, it’s all about presentation.

Let’s take carrots as an example. Arlo will beg for those little snack-sized carrots as long as there are carrots in the bag. His crunching naturally brings the other two pups running, but once within sniffing range, Frosty will snort in disgust. Whether the snort is about the carrots or the fact that Arlo’s inhaling them is debatable. Tory is a little less disdainful, but she still isn’t inclined to put one in her mouth. Unless they’re scurrying across the floor. Really!

I tossed Arlo a carrot the other day. Naturally it bounced off his nose because he doesn’t get the “catch” thing. It hit the floor and bounced and he bounced right after it, and then pounced on it like the mighty hunter he imagines himself to be. The bouncing really got Tory’s attention so I tossed a carrot down the hallway and she took off like a shot in hot pursuit. Guess it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Greyhounds + anything moving = a race

I was amazed to see that when the carrots were “presented” this way, there was no pausing to sniff and assess edibility. Nope. Tory pounced and snarfed and eagerly looked to me for more.

Catch the carrot has become quite the game at our house. It's a retired greyhounds version of wild hare coursing but (as long as we’ve vacuumed recently) they don’t have to deal with hairy prey.

Yeah, I amuse easily. But so do the hounds … and it gets them to eat their vegetables. Score one for the humans!

Greyhound Zone

Two years ago, when we were building our new home, there were endless hours of searching for just the right doors, doorknobs, doorstops, windows, trim, drawer pulls, cupboard knobs, flooring, carpeting, paint colors, doorstops, faucets, toilets, sinks ... and on and on.

Two of those grueling days were spent at Sears, choosing appliances. New appliances were included in the building loan so we felt like kids turned loose in a candy store. Perhaps you've experienced the illusion of wealth - when you're spending somebody else's money - followed by the shocking reality of paybacks. And we all know what they say about those. But I digress.

On this particular day we were after a dishwasher. Who knew there were so many features we'd lived without for so long? We finally settled on a good middle-of-the-road model but added the Turbo Zone feature, guaranteed to get even the grungiest pans sparkling clean. Uh-huh.

Fast forward a couple months. We and our new doors, windows, trim ... and appliances are now installed in the house. After dinner one evening, we're loading our new dishwasher and Brent puts in the frying pan with all the little pork chop crunchies burned on the bottom. I had my doubts and I said so. But my wonderful (naive) optimistic husband insisted this is just the scenario for which we paid and extra $100. He was convinced the pan would come out sparkling. Uh-huh.

Fast forward again to the end of the Lakers game. The "clean dishes" light is on. Here is where the rubber meets the road. I will admit the crunchies had turned to soggies but, bottom line, they were still there. So much for Mr. Turbo. Probably too late to get our $100 back. But that's not the end of the story. For those of you who have been sucked in by a sales pitch, I'm here to tell you, redemption is on the way. What you need is ... a greyhound.

Meet Arlo. Crunchies are no challenge. Dried on peanut butter is a snap. Egg yolk on breakfast plates? No problem! He's willing, he's handy, he's a perfectionist, and he even does silverware.

Dudes! Don't pay extra! Forget the Smart Wash, Pots & Pans, and Turbo Zone buttons. Get yourself in the Greyhound Zone and you'll never again have to worry about those embarrasing smudges your dishwasher just doesn't get. Guaranteed!

An interesting little aside, Arlo has a brother whose name is Turbo. I understand his specialty is garage doors. Perhaps his mom will share his talents with us?

"Sing, Cissie!"

In the short six months that both our ten year old grey girls, Cissie and Josie lived with us, they became friends. I don’t mean snuggle-on-the-couch friends or romp-and-run friends. Josie’s “noble queen” outlook on life would brook no such nonsense. Cissie’s stubborn independent streak didn’t include outright affection. Neither would admit they needed or enjoyed each other but their connection was clear to me.

They kept track of one another. One rarely went out the dog door that the other didn’t follow. They took turns leading the forays around the back yard. In the summer, their sunny napping spots were never far apart. Theirs was a nonchalant togetherness. They were like a pair of comfortable old shoes – each completed the other.

Then in September 2001, Josie became desperately ill and was diagnosed with liver cancer; she succumbed to it on October 27. The morning of her last day it was clear to me that she’d had enough. She and I went to the park alone for one last slow walk. She sniffed all the usual places, marked them like always, we lay on the grass for a while and gazed at the blue sky, and then we took our last ride together to Dr. Patty’s office. I held Josie in my arms on a fleece pad as she very peacefully released her last breath. The loneliest feeling in the world is walking out of the vet’s office with your broken heart and an old friend’s collar in your hand.

When I got home, Cissie met me at the door and her nose went right to the collar I was carrying. She focused those liquid black eyes on my face and the pain in them matched my own. I sat down on the floor, gathered her into my arms and sobbed as I told her Josie was gone.

These moments were the only time I ever felt need from Cissie. She was filled with the same pain I was feeling and she needed a way to release it. Intuitively, I put my head back and began to howl. Any other time I’d have laughed at the look on her face. It took only moments before she pointed her nose heavenward and took up the lament for Josie. We howled together until we were both hoarse, then Cissie, Buddy and I all got in the car and, drove to a nearby trailhead for a long walk up into the mountains.

Later that evening, Cissie sidled up to the couch where I was sitting. She again looked me directly in the eye and let out a low rumble in her throat. I said, “Sing, Cissie!” That’s all it took.

From that day on, those two words, “Sing, Cissie!” were her cue. But Cissie, that free spirit, didn’t only sing when she was asked. She quickly began singing any darn time she felt like it. First we’d hear several seconds of a low grumble, her version of tuning up, and then she would launch into a song of indeterminate length. And once that first note was out of her mouth there was no stopping her until the last note was sounded. All you could do was be patient. We could count on her breaking into song at least once during social get-togethers, or when we were on the phone, or occasionally in the wee hours of the morning. It was annoying. It was charming. It was Cissie.

Grief is a great creative force. It has been inspiring artists since the beginning of time. So it was with our sassy little brindle girl. It was grief that gave Cissie voice. It was song that healed her brokenness. It was joy that kept her singing all the rest of her days.