HinesSight

Most boring You Tube video ever? Not to chipmunks.

Everyone wants to be known for something. I'm hoping that my new You Tube video, "Dog stalking chipmunk," will become anti-viral. (see video below, after these explanatory remarks)

Meaning, anyone with an adorable cat can make a You Tube production that will garner millions of views. To be exact, 4,502,374 (until you click on "adorable cat" and add to the count).

But it takes a special dog, and owner, to make a five minute video that, depending on your sensibilities, is either (1) the most boring ever, or (2) a Zen-like exploration of the dynamics of motionlessness.

Immediately after uploading the video, naturally I entered "dog stalking chipmunk" into the You Tube search box to check out the competition. 

There's only two. And they are fakes, poseurs! Their dogs are not, repeat not, stalking chipmunks. They are chasing chipmunks!

This -- right here, seemingly for the first time on You Tube, hot off my FlipVideo -- is 100% genuine chipmunk stalking. With narration, to boot.

What else could you ask for? (unacceptable answer: "something interesting")

Do dogs try to cover, or spread, their poop?

When I told my wife that today's blog topic was dog poop, she said, "You're lucky that this is all you have to worry about."

Since at the time she was vacuuming the kitchen floor while I was perched at the counter with my laptop, sipping a cup of coffee and using Google to delve into the depths of dog poop behavior, I have a feeling that her comment had an ironic quality to it.

I'm unapologetic, though. Human civilization advances by exploring the natural world. And few things are more natural than pooping.

My interest in this question began a few days ago with a Twitter tweet:

Our dog pees profusely on a walk, leaving scent marks everywhere. Then poops & scratches with hind legs in ineffectual coverup attempt. ????

These seemingly differing peeing and pooping behaviors confuse me. However, our Shepherd/Lab mix, Serena, appears totally comfortable with her excretory habits.

Yesterday I asked a friend (and Greyhound owner), Hans, about this. He thought that Serena's half-hearted scratching after pooping was an attempt to spread her feces, not to cover them up.

This theory was shared by Eric, a fellow Tai Chi student with whom I started a dog poop conversation after class today. But I wasn't going to believe them until I checked with the Great God Google.

That's when things got confusing, which is why the title of this blog post ends with a question mark.

The first thing I found was that not much information about "dog poop cover" exists on the Internet. However, Google pointed me toward Dog Poop Calendar. This appears to be the preeminent source of dog poop information in cyberspace.

Here I learned about Niko, a dog who likes to spin in circles as he poops, sending feces flying all around. Whose behavior is very different from Sirius, a serious pooper who is fastidious and likes his privacy.

Yet the Dog Poop Calendar blogger wrote:

Both dogs would occasionally scratch ground with their back feet to cover the dog poop or mark their territory, though Sirius never did this until he saw Niko giving it a try. Now, with his obsession of privacy and desire to cover up his dog poop, he is careful to kick up grass and dirt at every opportunity, always with a silly grin.

"To cover the dog poop" and "mark their territory" -- opposite ends of the behavioral spectrum. Which was it? Or are dogs not bound by dualistic categorization, and embrace both covering and marking?

I pressed on with my Googling.

On Yahoo Answers I learned that supposedly dogs naturally try to cover up their waste so an enemy doesn't find them. But this doesn't explain why, most of the time, our dog makes no attempt to cover her poop. Or why dogs enthusiastically leave pee scent marks all over the place.

Answerbag didn't help much either. One person said about a related indoor behavior:

Dogs will be dogs. It's a territorial thing. I have a female Shih Tzu and she does the same thing, after she has done her business. She is just marking her territory. It's not neurotic, just a natural instinct of an animal behavior. It does not seem practical that they are trying to cover their scent, since they pee on everthing they can find and even where other dogs have been and they don't try to stratch and cover that up.

While another opined:

I always thought they scratch furiously and 'kick back' their hind legs as a covering motion. I guess this is your pup's way of 'flushing' his business. One possibility is that perhaps your pup is a deep thinker and was preoccupied and forgot to scratch and kick until he got inside.

Well, the Daily Dog Tip (from Dogster.com, which sounds like it would be a knowledgeable site) has a reasonable explanation:

So, why do dogs scratch with their hind legs after defecating? You might think the dog is trying to cover up his poop like a cat does, but it’s actually a way to mark territory, with the scratch marks in the ground pointing to the scent the dog has left.

This has the merit of consistency, melding peeing and pooping behavior in a pleasing fashion. Our dog is darn smart, but it's tough for me to imagine that she thinks (even instinctually): "pee is for marking," "poop is for hiding" when she goes outside.

So we've reached the bottom of the poop question barrel. Dogs are trying to spread their excrement when they scratch their legs. (Unless, they're not.)

Video of dogs playing: what the world needs now

There's a lot going on in the world at the moment. Russia and Georgia are going at it. Afghanistan and Pakistan are their usually messy selves. Economic indicators are looking worse.

So it wasn't hard for me to decide on my blog post subject tonight:

Dogs playing!

A few days ago the family pet, Serena, had an unexpected play date. A Golden Retriver'ish dog came to visit while we were at our cabin in Camp Sherman, Oregon.

I grabbed my Flip Video camera when I saw that Serena and her new friend hit it off instantly. Sometimes it takes a while for dogs to get into play mode. Not this time.

A tail-wagging, pouncing, chasing, wrestling frenzy ensued right after the first sniffs. Here they are in their You Tube'd play dog majesty.

It's too bad that people – and nations – can't get along so well. Serena and her companion were strangers just before they embraced the joy of dog play.

Sure would be nice if everybody could simply say to their neighbor "let's have fun together!" And mean it.

The Amazing Dog Hair Net Seed in Ear Preventer

I want to say, "Order now! Call the toll-free number within the next 30 minutes and we'll send you three, yes three, Amazing Dog Hair Net Seed in Ear Preventers for the price of one."

Except…we don't have a toll-free number. And this afternoon I paid $1.95 for a package of three hair nets at the Sisters, Oregon drug store.

So since Laurel and I would be re-selling them over late night cable TV for, say, $19.95 (plus shipping), you're better off buying them on your own if you want a more or less workable way of keeping seeds out of your dog's ears.

Here's Serena modeling our invention. I came up with the concept. Laurel did the final design work, figuring out how to use a plastic bag twisty tie to fasten the hair net under Serena's chin.

Our motivation for coming up with the Amazing Dog Hair Net Seed in Ear Preventer was having to make a rushed trip to a veterinarian office on Saturday, just before their closing time.

While on a walk with Laurel, Serena had run through some tall dry grass, likely chasing a chipmunk. She started shaking and tilting her head, the tell-tale (and obvious) sign of a seed in the ear.

Laurel was told by the vet that this can be a serious problem.

For one, the seed might work its way farther into the ear canal and possibly puncture the ear drum. For two, a dog can be driven so crazy by the irritation that the frantic head-shaking bursts some blood vessels. (There's probably "for three" and "for four" also, but this was enough to convince us that a quick trip to the vet was necessary.)

The PetClub UK web site has some good information on the subject. However, we didn't find a whole lot useful under "What can I do to prevent this from happening?"

The most obvious solution to prevent these problems occurring is to stop your dog from entering grassy fields. Stick to short, lawn-type grass and pathway walks or forested areas where grass seeds will be at a minimum.

By cutting your dogs hair, particularly around the toes, feet, arm-pits and ears you will have a much higher chance of spotting the seeds, and the seeds will have less chance of being able to cling on.

Carry out regular checks. Every day if possible, particularly after every walk you should check your dog for these. You may have difficulty spotting the smaller seeds, so comb your dog with a fine brush to doubly make sure nothing is clinging on.

A final note from PetClub UK: This is a serious problem that affects thousands of dogs around the UK and the world every year. Vet practices are often inundated with the same occurrences year in year out. Help them, help yourself and above all, help your pet. Check regularly and be aware!

Sure, that's good advice. But if you live in the country or frequently visit areas with tall dry grass, like we do, the advice to "stop your dog from entering grassy fields" isn't practical.

That's why we came up with our invention. Though it needs refining (version 1.0 slips off the ears fairly easily and needs to be re-positioned), it's better than nothing.

If anyone has a better idea, share it via a comment. Our dog's ears will be grateful.

Watch out for dog psychic hotline

Wanted to share some recent correspondence with the Oregon Humane Society, just in case anyone else shares a home with a malcontent dog.

TO: Humane Society Dog Psychic Hotline Coordinator
FROM: Brian
RE: Complaint received from our family pet, Serena

This is in response to your recent letter expressing concern about the reported "starvation" of our dog. As you can imagine, I was more than a little surprised to learn that the Humane Society operates a Dog Psychic Hotline.

However, this is Oregon. Guess I should have seen this bit of woo-woo coming. (Except, I'm not psychic.)

At first I was deeply skeptical that your hotline could be picking up messages from our dog. But after reading the intimate details contained in your letter about my, um, bathroom habits, I became a believer.

From now on, Serena is going to be kept on the other side of a closed bathroom door. In retrospect, I should have been suspicious when she suddenly started to follow me around everywhere I went in the morning.

Regarding her ESP-conveyed complaints of food deprivation, please keep in mind that, despite her pleasant appearance, this can be a darn devious dog. Underneath her laid-back half-Lab personality is a semi-sinister German Shepherd alter ego.

I have attached a report from Serena's vet that says she could benefit from losing three or four pounds. Our recent efforts in that direction likely have led to the baseless claims of imminent starvation received by your hotline.

Here is my response to Serena's most egregious statements:

(1) "Forced to forage for my own food every morning." Give me a break. She voluntarily goes out with me to get the newspaper. Sometimes she sees a squirrel and runs after it. That must be what her malevolent dog brain is communicating to your psychic, who, in my opinion, is excessively gullible.

When we come in, I immediately go to her treat drawer and prepare her pre-breakfast. Currently this consists of five small dog biscuits (three different kinds – each completely natural, costing more per pound than our own food).

I carefully arrange these on a small towel, to minimize crumb dispersal, and lay it out on a corner of the living room rug. Upon calling "Serena, your pre-breakfast is ready!," she slowly walks over to the biscuits. (Perhaps these ten or fifteen steps also are what she means by "foraging.")

A bit later, my wife feeds Serena her regular breakfast, a mixture of dry and canned food. Believe me, this dog isn't being starved.

(2) "Often given grass for dinner." Absurd. She must be talking about the broccoli that I chop up and sprinkle over her evening meal. Which consists of the same cup of dry food and numerous spoonfuls of canned food that she got in the morning.

Our seriously spoiled pet probably is pissed about the reduction from 1 ¼ cups after we got the weight loss advice from the vet. I never would have guessed that she was keeping track of how much went into her bowl. But after reading about what she told you about my bathroom habits, clearly not much escapes her.

I note that Serena failed to mention what happens after she finishes her dinner. Allow me to fill in the gaps in her tale of gustatory woe.

Within a few microseconds of licking her bowl clean, our dog rushes over to me, tail wagging like crazy. We've got a little ritual going on here.

I walk over to the bowl, stare into its empty recesses, and intone, "Oh, my, what a good dog to finish all of your dinner. You deserve a treat!" I open the chewstick container and pull out a hunk of dried cow, anathema to my vegetarian soul.

Doing my best not to think about the karmic consequences, I make Serena sit and shake a paw, neither of which she does very convincingly. When the psychic transcribed, "Made to suffer horrible indignities in exchange for morsels of food," this must have been what our ingrate pet was referring to.

(3) "Always go to sleep hungry." Be aware that Serena really means "hungry for more." Before being put to bed in her own room, Serena jumps up onto a futon. My wife then croons dog baby talk while feeding her two large dog biscuits as a sleep-time snack.

I hope this puts to rest the starvation complaints you have received from our pet. I'd be interested to know what percentage of hotline messages received by your dog psychic turn out to be well-founded. In this case, for sure, you've been taken by a sneaky canine.

Sincerely, Brian

Images of 2006 Salem Dog Parade

Once again this year I guaranteed a loss for Serena in the Best Costume category by simply tying a bandana around her neck and heading off to yesterday's Salem Dog Parade.

I’d considered entering the dog/human look-alike contest, but couldn’t decide whether to dye my hair blonde or Serena’s fur gray. But this couple looked muy adorable even with different colored coiffures.

T-shirts and micro-skirts were, as always, popular on larger dogs. Next year we’re going to dress Serena up properly, I almost promise.

If I was an Oregon State fan, I’d caption this photo “A dog of an Oregon cheerleader.”

Anyone allergic to Cute needs to stay away from a dog parade.

Laurel, Official Humane Society Dog Walker Volunteer, took a shelter dog to the parade. “Shaggy” (don’t know its real name) attracted a lot of attention. Be nice if it’d pay off with an adoption.

A fetching Oriental look. For future dog dressing reference, I asked the owner how she was able to keep the hat on. She had a big roll of the secret in her hand: duct tape.

Pink ballerina skirts on big white dogs. A big cliched, but classic.

When I met up with Laurel at the end of the parade Serena showed just a teeny bit of jealousy toward Shaggy. All in good dog play fun, though. Sort of.

Here are two contestants in the Waggiest Tail contest. The little dog on the left won. While standing there taking photos, the M.C. asked me to show off Serena’s tail-wagging stuff. Pretty pathetic. Big tails just don’t move like little tails.

Lastly, I’ll fight against every instinct to the contrary and throw in a photo Laurel took of me and (half of) Serena. For the past few years, every time I look at a photo of myself I think, “Nick Nolte mug shot.”

Aside from Lyme disease and a drug reaction, we’re doing fine

For the first time, the dog and I are on our own at our Camp Sherman cabin. Laurel is off at a family reunion in Kentucky. So Serena and I are keeping things interesting by getting Lyme disease (me) and a Xanax drug reaction (dog). Or so I've diagnosed.

Hey, I’m looking at the bright side: it’s blogging material.

I was planning to write about how Lars Larson, the bozo conservative talk show host, thinks that the Surgeon General’s report on the dire health effects of second-hand smoke is a bunch of crap, because Lars took a glance at it via the Internet and has concluded that the 670 page study is, well, just blowing smoke. What an idiot.

But now that I have a disease to blog about, I’ve got to take advantage of it. For usually I’m abnormally healthy. When I get together with my fellow baby boomers I’m left out of the “let me tell you about my [fill in problem]” discussion. Which is just about all we late 50’s and early 60’s folks seem to talk about.

Finally I have my own story. About a week after our last trip to the cabin, Laurel spotted a suspicious growth on my back. “Oh my god, you’ve never had a bump in that place before. It’s irregular and discolored. You must have skin cancer!”

Well, I’m blessed with a wife who is exceedingly health conscious. And a bit prone to over-anxiousness.

Upon closer inspection with a magnifying glass, the “skin cancer” turned out to be an engorged tick. Following the instructions in a Lyme disease pamphlet we had lying around the house (Laurel is nothing if not well prepared) she managed to pull out the critter with some tweezers.

We put it in some alcohol. And I started researching Lyme disease. By email I asked the Oregon Lyme Disease Network for advice, saying that I probably picked up the tick while hiking or biking in the Camp Sherman area. I got a quick response from Theresa Denham, president of the network.

She told me that Camp Sherman has an higher incidence of Lyme disease than other areas and advised me to get the tick tested by the IgeneX laboratory. I sent the tiny demon off to them last Monday by express mail. Haven’t gotten the results yet.

My family doctor said that I should watch out for symptoms, most notable of which is a bulls-eye rash. This afternoon, after taking a shower, I saw what sure looks like that rash surrounding the tick bite. I’ll be seeking medical treatment tomorrow, for sure. The earlier antibiotics are given, the better. I was fortunate to have seen a tick, and to have been bitten in a clearly visible part of my body.

Of course, there’s a chance I don’t have Lyme disease. In that event, I’ll issue a blog retraction. But I’ll still be glad that I alerted people to the need to take precautions against picking up a tick.

There aren’t many reported cases in Oregon (here’s a national incidence map). However, an article in the Portland Oregonian discussed the controversy that is raging about whether under-diagnosis of cases (according to Lyme disease patient advocates) or mistaken self-diagnosis of cases (according to many physicians) is more likely to be happening.

Regardless, take measures to prevent tick bites. And know the symptoms of Lyme disease.

On the dog front, I can report that Xanax doesn’t do squat to relieve Serena’s thunderstorm anxiety. Yesterday, when the thunder started I gave her one 2mg pill. She spent several hours hiding in closets, under tables, and a desk.

Today, I maxed out the vet’s recommended dose (3mg, one and a half pills) and gave it to her about an hour before the thunder started. The difference was that instead of an anxious dog, I now had an anxious, stumbling, seemingly drunken dog. More interesting, to be sure, but no improvement.

This article by a vet about treating thunderstorm phobia points out some of the side effects of alprazolam (Xanax). I saw several of them this evening.

Serena definitely wasn’t herself. Not even her normal anxious self. In the space of a few minutes she first frantically tried to jump on top of me while I was sitting in a chair, then she curled up on the chair, almost instantly fell asleep, and started snoring loudly while I patted her.

I felt very paternal, sitting there with the head of a zonked-out dog in my lap, trying to soothe away both her thunder phobia and Xanax drug reaction. For a while I even forgot about my Lyme disease.

Which I might not have. When my wife phoned from Kentucky tonight she was incredulous about my self-diagnosis. “There are only a couple of dozen cases in Oregon each year,” she said. “You probably don’t have it.”

Well, we will see. Usually I like the feeling of being special. In this case, though, I’d be happy to be utterly commonplace.

(P.S. Forgot to mention that I'm going to try to find some herbal Rescue Remedy in Sisters tomorrow. It's supposed to work for dogs as well as people. Some dog owners say they've had success with it. Again, we will see.]

Listening attentively to the dog whisperer

We’ve become big fans of Cesar Milan, the Dog Whisperer. The Dish Network should be a fan too, because my wife upgraded our subscription to America’s Top 180 just so we could get the National Geographic Channel, home of Milan’s weekly program.

It was worth buying sixty more channels to be able to watch the Dog Whisperer, though. I’ve warmed up to him more slowly than my wife, but now on Friday evenings I’m right there with her on the television room couch.

Laurel’s interest in the Dog Whisperer was strong right from the start because she’s become a dog walker at the Salem Humane Society. She has to deal with difficult dogs every week. I just have to deal with our own mellow family pet, the aptly named “Serena.”

Even so, Milan has helped me become aware of how little I understand about dogs and how much I’ve been doing wrong in my daily interactions with Serena. Last night’s episode hit home for me when Milan gave a woman some advice about how to handle her overly protective and aggressive dachshund, Chocolate.

After he asked about what they’ve been trying, the woman’s daughter said, “She nags a lot.” Milan laughed and told them:

Yeah, but with dogs that doesn’t count. It’s just “blah, blah, blah, blah.”….In the dog world that really doesn’t count. Have you seen how Cinnamon [her other dachshund] disciplines Chocolate? [Milan makes a biting movement with his mouth]

…So a dog, when he controls another dog, he bites. And then he stays, and looks at him, or her, until the dog surrenders to what he wants. The dominant one never says, “Go to your room, now! You’re not getting a bone today.” That doesn’t exist in the dog world. Because we apply those concepts, we can accomplish what we want.

I talk a lot to Serena. “So, what do you think? Is it time to go for a walk? I wonder if there’s any dog in this house who wants to go for a walk. Hope I can find one. Do you think you might be that dog? Huh, do you?” And so on.

Actually, I often sound a lot more ridiculous than this. Both of us engage in “babytalk” with Serena. You wouldn’t believe what I say to her when I go downstairs to Serena’s dog room and wake her up in the morning. (Well, if you have a dog or cat, you probably will believe it, because most people do the same thing.)

Even before I started watching the Dog Whisperer I’d noticed that Serena is a lot more interested in what I’m doing around dog walk time than in what I’m saying. When I move toward the front door, or look like I’m about to change my clothes, she shifts into her excited “Let’s go, let’s go!” mode.

The cues she is responding to are almost entirely non-verbal. At the most, Serena seems to understand what “walk” means. But even that could be my imagination. So, in line with Cesar Milan’s oft-repeated tenet that dogs live in a dog world, not our human world, I’m trying to communicate with Serena more through body language and less through verbal language.

For example, Laurel (who knows a lot more about dog behavior than I do) has been telling me that I should always go out the door before Serena does to show my dominance. Usually I do, but when she’s especially enthusiastic about checking out the squirrel family after a long indoor stint I’ve been letting her squeeze by me.

No more. Taking my first faltering steps toward Dog Whisperer apprenticeship, I’ve begun to put my leg in front of Serena when she tries to push through the door first. I take a look outside, utter my “Run squirrels, run!” yell if any are in sight, and only then allow Serena to follow me.

Milan often says that it is a big mistake to treat dogs like people. They don’t want sympathy. They don’t want to be coddled. They don’t want kind words. What dogs want is to know their place in the canine/human “pack.” Dogs crave the security of a pack structure. If you don’t serve as the dominant pack leader, they’ll try to take the position because someone has to fill that role.

It reminds me of when Laurel and I took swing dancing lessons. We spent a good share of the time arguing.

Her: You’re supposed to be leading!
Me: What do you mean? I am.
Her: It doesn’t feel like it.
Me: Well, maybe it’s because I don’t really know what I’m doing. If you want to lead, go ahead.
Her: You’re the man. You’re supposed to be leading!
Me: I am.

It’s questionable how much swing dancing we learned, but we sure got good at going around in circles.

HinesLand happenings, 2/2/06

Surely nobody is more interested in what’s happening with us than, well, us. And we know it, because we’re the happenings that are happening. For the rest of you, here’s some reflected HinesLand headlines.

Straight talk about cougars. A few days ago Laurel dashed out a letter to the Statesman-Journal editor about the newspaper’s biased cougar coverage. Lo and behold, it was published immediately. Perhaps her truthiness struck a nerve. A few days earlier David Cox made equal good sense on a similar subject: let’s leave wildlife alone; after all, they’re wild.

Ridiculous reaction to Muhammad cartoons. Over on my Church of the Churchless blog I’ve been writing about the Muslim world freaking out over some drawings of Muhammad that were published in a Danish newspaper (and recently reprinted in other European papers). Just when I think Christian fundamentalists take the cake, their Islamic brethren up the ante on crazy dogmatism.

Doggy door bell training. For about a month Serena the Wonder Dog has been undergoing intensive doggy door bell, a.k.a. Pet Chime, training. It’s not going very well, based on what I hear coming from downstairs every night as Laurel puts Serena out for a final potty break before the family pet settles in on her futon for sweet dog dreams.

“Do you want to go out? Do you? Press the paw. Press it! Go ahead, press it. Press it to go out.” This goes on for about a minute, then I hear a ding followed by: “OK, I pressed it for you. That’s how you do it. Next time you’ll do it yourself.” Maybe. But it’s been weeks now, and I think Serena has made the pet chime go off once on her own. Laurel is getting good at it though.

Highlander Hybrid tanks on first fill-up. It was pretty thrilling yesterday to pull into the gas station for the first fill-up of our newly acquired Toyota Highlander Hybrid SUV. A few minutes later I wasn’t so thrilled, after calculating the mpg by hand (for some reason the HiHy computer doesn’t show mileage for each tankful): 22.9.

Not so good, given the EPA city/highway rating is 31/27. But in the real world 4WD HiHy owners are reporting an average of 25.4 at last report. We’ve been getting about 10% lower mileage with our Prius during the winter, compared to summer. So hopefully HiHy will perk up its mpg as the weather warms up.

Dog kissing: the slobbery truth

Who says the passion has to go when people are in their mid 50s? Why, every evening around midnight there are two bodies entwined on the rug in our family room. The kissing is noisy and uninhibited; the pillow talk sweet and sentimental.

“Who’s got the cutest little tummy in the whole world? You!...Who’s my special sweetums? You!” I never get tired of hearing my wife coo these words, which are regularly interrupted by the sound of lips enthusiastically pressing against soft flesh.

This raw display of affection usually takes place while I’m brushing my teeth in a nearby bathroom. “You’re going to get a dog disease if you keep that up!” I’ll say to Laurel. “I don’t care!” is her invariable reply. “I’ll die kissing my sweet little Serena-kins before she goes to bed.”

Fortunately, we learned from last night’s 20-20 program on ABC that while it’s a myth that dogs have cleaner mouths from humans, they’re safe to kiss. Just keep in mind that when one dog meets another, their usual practice is to press lips to a part of the canine body that humans don’t kiss in public.

If this doesn’t bother you, then the expert advice was to kiss away, for the bacteria in dog’s mouths is species-specific and won’t harm humans (but if you’re thinking of kissing a dog in the Dominican Republic or a similar under-developed country, you should read this first.)

Unrelated to dog kissing, but still on the subject of Laurel, I wish to submit this photo in support of a claim that she is the World’s Most Matching Woman.

I took it at last month’s Corvallis Art Fair. Laurel ended up buying this coffee cup from an artist who said that the pottery was obviously meant to be taken home by her (note the perfectly matching cap also).

Animal instinct

Yesterday some neighbors were treated, if that’s the right word, to a display of our dog’s kinky sexual behavior. Well, probably “kinky” isn’t the right word either. It was just instinctual sexual behavior.

Heck, leave out “sexual” too, because it seems that female dogs who hump other dogs (male or female) are motivated by a desire for dominance, not sex.

Regardless, it still was disconcerting to be talking to a man and his pre-teen daughter while our dog and their yellow Lab calmly sniffed each other at first, then to look down and see that Serena had mounted Ginger and was pumping away with a sailor-on-shore-leave exuberance.

I muttered, “Ha, ha, got a little dominance thing going on here, I guess” and yanked Serena off of the considerably smaller and younger Ginger. Then I did the exact same thing three more times, feeling increasingly embarrassed as the neighbor girl watched our Shepherd/Lab mix climb on top of her sweet little pet.

Ginger eventually snapped, literally. That led to some growling and “Oh yeah! Let’s see who’s Top Dog!” posturing from Serena, which spurred me to head on down the trail toward home. Somewhat strangely, Ginger ran after us, tail wagging, seemingly now ready to play after having asserted herself.

The whole Serena-Ginger episode was largely a play of animal instinctual behavior. Serena is a spayed female. So far as I know, she has never seen a male dog mate with a female (unless she has some doggie porn stashed under her pad that she looks at after we’ve gone to sleep).

How does she know what to do? Serena has the sex act down pretty well, as you can see from this photo I took of a previous neighborhood escapade. Also, Serena was raised in Portland for the first year of her life. Yet she is expert at stalking field mice like a coyote, doing the “Gotcha!” leap from above just like I remember seeing on “Living Desert” Walt Disney shows.

Instinct. It’s a mystery. I thought I’d get some good answers from Google this morning, but I was surprised to find that solid scientific explanations were lacking about how animals act out complex instinctual behaviors. To say that these are genetic doesn’t explain much.

How the heck does DNA enable an arctic tern to make its way from near the north pole to near the south pole, and then back again? Some fledgling migrating birds leave before their parents do, yet somehow they get to the same place.

The mystery of bird migration has been somewhat unraveled by science, but to my mind learning some of the secrets of how birds navigate doesn’t begin to explain how that “how” is implanted in their instinctual repertoire. Yes, birds apparently use the sun, stars, moon, magnetic fields, and such to keep on track. Yet, how do genes make that happen?

I can understand how DNA produces a physical bird body. How, though, does DNA lead that body to perform amazingly complex instinctual behavior? Not to take away anything from dogs, but dog humping is nothing compared to bird navigating (still, it’s fascinating that Labrador Retrievers who haven’t had anything to do with hunting will spontaneously point completely on their own).

Some people get all mystical when they marvel at bird migration and other “How do they do that?!” animal behaviors. A woman finds Allah behind it all, while genetic memory that could explain past life regression also has been hypothesized. Me, I don’t know. As Isaac Armour says, every answer concerning the nature of life leads to more questions that take you all the way back to the beginning of time.

Go figure. When you get down to it, that’s my basic response.

This afternoon a heron paid our little pond a visit, the first time this has happened. We have a metal sculpture of a heron stuck in the ground. The real heron stood for quite a while looking at it. I hope it wasn’t falling in love. Eventually it flew away, perhaps to puzzle out the meaning of a two-dimensional member of his species who bore just a passing resemblance to the herons he’s used to.

Crazy animals. Instinct makes them do such bizarre things. I was expressing these sentiments to someone once, complaining about a robin who was pecking on our bedroom window every morning, believing that the bird he saw reflected in the glass was the real thing.

The guy listened to my rant, then said, “How is that different from Playboy magazine?” That shut me up. Hit too close to home.

People are animals too. We just are able to make up explanations for our animal instincts. Those explanations could be instinctual too, of course.

I wouldn’t be surprised if this weblog post was written by an animal who was driven by instinct to write about instinct. And you’ve been driven to read about it.

Things I know, things I don’t

(1) I don’t know why our dog, Serena, likes to lie directly in the hot sun when it’s over 90 degrees. Every afternoon, about 2:00, I let her out when I go to get the mail. She walks up to an area of brown cut grass under a bird feeder and plops down.

When I get back from the mailbox and call her, she just stares at me. Sometimes I have to drag her by the collar to get her to come inside. She seems to love being hot, notwithstanding being covered with fur. Does anyone have an explanation?

Dog web sites I perused say that dogs may dig a hole in hot weather to stay cool, but I couldn’t find any other examples of hot dogs who like to cook in the sun.

(2) I now know that homeopathy is a crock, something I’ve always suspected. A report in the Lancet medical journal reviewed 110 trials of homeopathy and conventional medicine (allopathy).

Sophisticated statistical analyses showed "no convincing evidence that homeopathy was superior to placebo, whereas for conventional medicine an important effect remained." Some alternative health care works, some doesn’t—like homeopathy.

(3) In one sense, I don’t know how it is possible for a man to be married to an absolute babe and still not be satisfied with her. Also, I do know, because it is the human condition to always want more than you have, no matter how good it is.

Consider the case of baseball star Jose Canseco, who used to be married to the knock-out Jessica Canseco. Jessica is featured in this month’s Playboy. As the saying goes, it’s hard to imagine that any (heterosexual) man would kick her out of bed. But Jose did, so to speak, having numerous affairs. He even spurned Jessica after she gave him a threesome with her and a female friend.

Moral: fantasies aren’t reality. Billy Bob Thornton reportedly said that sex with Angelina Jolie wasn’t so hot. Of course, nothing as insignificant as reality is going to come between me and my own Angelina fantasies.

(4) I now know that bouncing can be a fascinating job, thanks to the blog Clublife, billed as “An online narrative of the life of a bouncer at two of New York's most popular nightclubs.” Take a read and peek into a lifestyle far removed from our own life in the slow lane.

Images of the 2005 Salem Dog Parade

Caution: if your heart palpitates at the sight of cute dogs, do not look at any more of this post without a cardiologist’s permission.

But if you’re feeling adventurous, here’s some photos that I took yesterday at downtown Salem’s “Dog Days of Summer” First Wednesday celebration. Our dog, Serena, took part in the dog parade along with lots of other canines.

The parade formed on State Street next to Jonathan’s Oyster Bar. These cute puppies got lots of attention from some equally cute girls.

This golden retriever, Jake Beebe, got the award for best costume, masquerading as a black cat.

Not to take anything away from Jake, but Laurel and I think this bulldog bee should have won.

There were lots of little dogs in baby carriages. If I owned these guys I don’t know how I’d ever stop smiling when they had their curly tongues out.

I absolutely had to take a photo of this dog. He was wonderfully stationary. One thing I learned about dog photography yesterday: your subjects hardly ever stay still.

Oops. How’d this photo sneak in here? Obviously my eyes weren’t only on the dogs.

Dog yin and yang.

The dog parade ended at the Equitable Center, where a Waggiest Tail Contest was held. This was our best shot for Serena, since her costume consisted of a couple of bandanas and we didn’t hold out much hope for a Best Dog Trick award. Laurel did her best to get the tail wagging, but Serena was beaten out by a couple of shorter-tailed dogs with faster-moving appendages.

Oh, well, We still had a good time. Serena wished that we had stopped at this table, though, and taken home something she could have a really good time with.

Our dog’s play date

Serena didn’t have to find this cute boy Basset Hound through an online service like Dog Play Date. No, she picked Sam up the old-fashioned way while on a walk with Laurel and brought him home.

We were pretty sure unattached Sam belonged to a neighbor. But nobody answered the phone when we called them, so Sam and Serena had time to get better acquainted in the dog yard. Laurel and I chaperoned their first date.

They started off with some dancing.

Then had their first kiss.

After that, things started to heat up pretty fast.

The sexual tension was palpable.

Yet, whew!, they ended up just being friends.

Blow-drying dog paws

You might think that we have reached a new level of pet pampering, given our new habit of blow-drying Serena’s paws several times a day. She does seem to like it. And we do pamper her.

But we’re doing this on the advice of her vet, for on three paws she has some sort of bacterial infection —that first appeared to be a fungus among us (ah, it feels good to write those words; I don’t get to use that wonderful term often enough). We’re reluctant to give her antibiotics, so are trying to clear up the problem by reducing the moisture that breeds bacteria.

By the way, as my fingers were poised over the keyboard to begin writing this post synchronicity popped up in the guise of a phone call from a Pet Medical Center employee. She wanted to know how Serena’s paws were and if we had any questions about her treatment.

Never in my life have I gone to the doctor and then gotten an unsolicited callback from his or her office enquiring about my condition. One day may all Americans receive as good health care as our dog enjoys.

When I am kneeling on the floor with a blow-dryer, dutifully warming each of Serena’s infected paws to a suitable temperature, not too hot and not too cold, just like Goldilocks would have wanted, I can’t help but think of the Discovery Channel program that we’ve been watching in bits and pieces: “Living With Wolves.”

Serena is a close relative of the wild wolf, but her pampered pet status makes this lupine ancestry seems more distant than it really is. Wolves don’t repose on futons; Serena does. Wolves don’t have a dinner prepared for them each night that features dog food topped with finely chopped broccoli and parmesan cheese; Serena does.

However, an interesting recent article in TIME magazine, “Honor Among Beasts,” describes how an ethologist discovered that there is lot more going on in dog play than is readily apparent. Marc Bekoff’s research found that the familiar “play bow” (hind end up, forelegs stretched forward, eager expression on face) is common to wolves and coyotes as well as dogs.

Further, the play bow is just the beginning of a complex series of interactions between playful animals. The article says, “Canine play is actually a complex social interaction in which the participants constantly signal their intentions and check to make sure that their behavior is correctly interpreted. Dogs that cheat—promising a playful bite but delivering a harsh one, for example—tend to be ostracized.”

This is right in line with the theory of evolution, which predicts that animals other than humans also would have some form of morality, albeit more rudimentary than that of Homo sapiens.

Thus it really isn’t so strange to treat our pets like people. In the grand scheme of evolutionary history, they’re not that far removed from us.

Free kittens with purchase

I am so happy that our dog neither (1) knows how to read, nor (2) has a credit card. If both of these things were true, Serena’s account would be maxed out to the limit with buys from this Salem establishment.

Bad Dog Police case file: Serena

Date of report: 4-26-05.
Location: South Salem
Alleged violation: excessive digging
Suspect: Serena, a Shepherd/Lab mix, a.k.a. “Wonder Dog”

Dispatcher notes: Received call at 4:15 pm from man identifying himself as suspect’s owner. Said his dog needed to be scared straight. Incoherent babbling about “rooting!, rooting!” made it difficult to determine details of situation. Assigned case level 1 priority; determined address and forwarded to Bad Dog officer in area.

Officer notes: 4:32 p.m., arrived at suspect’s home. Met in driveway by excited owner who kept saying, “She’s over there! Hurry, before she licks off the evidence!” Followed owner around side of house.

Suspect encountered lying down next to hose. Made no attempt to escape. Appeared unnaturally ecstatic. Asked suspect if she was high. Responded, “Just high on life, officer.”

Owner yelled, “Look at her paws! She’s high on digging for field mice!” Told owner to back off, that I’d ask the questions here. Paws did appear dirty. Asked suspect to explain. Replied, “I just had my paws done. Don’t you love the dusky brown highlighting!”

Took sample of substance covering front paws. Visual and tactile inspection strongly suggests dirt. Laboratory results needed to confirm.

Hair loss and probable dirt streaks observed on muzzle. Owner claimed suspect is chronic rooter. Suspect retorted that owner is chronic liar. Growling ensued. Told owner I’d have to book him if he didn’t quiet down. Suspect said, “Just make sure that he feeds me before you take him in.”

Told suspect that she’d be the one in dog jail if she doesn’t change her behavior. Asked her how she’d like to be somebody’s bitch. Said she already was one, so no big deal.

Wrote suspect a citation for rooting and dirty paws. After wagging tail in sarcastic manner, added additional charge of Dog Police insubordination. Told owner to call again if problem recurs. Suspect’s unrepentant attitude not encouraging. Will keep on watch list.

Dog news flash: Retriever retrieves!

More accurately, this headline should read: “Half-retriever retrieves!” That’s why this story, documented by the photo, is such big news for us.

For we have spent the past four and a half years with Serena, a Shepherd/Lab mix, whose independent German side overshadows her compliant retriever side when it comes to bringing balls and sticks back to Laurel and me (see “What you’re missing if you don’t have a dog” for details of my Buddy Ball travails).

Lately we’d noticed that Serena had become even more retrieving-resistant than usual. Partly this was due to the allure of spring smells, notably the scent of newly active field mice, gophers, and other denizens of the fields that adjoin our dog exercise area. And partly it seemed due to dog laziness.

Whereas previously Serena would “retrieve” (in our experience this word always should appear in quotation marks when used in connection with a dog that has significant German Shepherd breeding) a ball or stick a few times half-heartedly before deciding there were more interesting things to do in her dog life, now she either would run right by the thrown object on her way to greater pleasures, or would collapse in feigned exhaustion as soon as she reached it.

Since Serena still needs to lose weight, and I’m having difficulty stopping myself from sneaking bits of cheese into her evening meal (notwithstanding the vet’s advice and Laurel’s admonishments), bringing her already deficient retrieving skills back up to their usual “D” grade level was important from a health standpoint.

Also, from a “who’s the top dog?” standpoint. A long time ago I accepted my role as Serena’s handmaiden, but Laurel—who knows much more about dog training than I do—correctly recognizes the need to show Serena who is in charge in our three-animal pack (I know that I’m #3; the battle is between Serena and Laurel for the first and second spots).

A mere half-hour of dog training on our lawn proved that, just as in politics, a little bribery goes a long way in getting the behavior that you want. This was the first time that Laurel had combined clicker training with Serena’s favorite jerky treats.

Using Pavlovian conditioning when Serena brought the stick back, (a click followed by a treat, then just a click as a stand-alone "reward") it wasn’t long before our Wonder Dog was dropping the stick right at Laurel’s feet (Admission of Photographic Dishonesty: this shot of a mouth to hand retrieval was staged for dramatic effect, since Serena wouldn’t be this obedient on her own for all the jerky sticks in the world).

I just hope this doesn’t give Laurel ideas for training the other recalcitrant animal in our household. I’m not wild about hearing a clicker every time I forget to close a cupboard door, clean out my toothbrush, or leave food unwrapped. However, I guess it all depends on what sort of a treat I get along with the click.

Not our dog’s best week

Poor Serena. First, she got cut running her heart out to retrieve the Buddy Glow Ball that I had thrown. Then, she got poisoned (sort of) when Laurel gave her a Gabapentin (Neurontin) pill instead of the Amoxi-capsule antibiotic that the emergency vet prescribed after stitching her up.

Here’s a phone number that every animal owner should have ready at hand: the ASPCA Animal Poison Control Center, 1-800-548-2423 (or 1-888-426-4435). Our local vet said that if we wanted to pay $50 for a consultation, we should call the center and learn how serious taking 100 mg of Gabapentin would be for a dog.

Both medications were in similar green bottles, so Laurel absent-mindedly picked up the wrong bottle as she was in the midst of telling me something. It wasn’t until after Serena had swallowed the butter-encased Gabapentin and she took a glance at the container that a cry of “Oh my god I gave her the wrong pill what are we going to do!” echoed in our kitchen.

While Laurel phoned our vet I raced off to my computer to Google “Gabapentin dog.” I quickly learned that Gabapentin/Neurontin was used to treat dog seizures with doses of 100 to 300 mg every eight hours. The only problem was, Serena doesn’t have seizures. So our vet advised that she be given a quarter cup of hydrogen peroxide to make her throw up both the pill and a full meal that she had just eaten.

All three of us felt terrible as Serena retched on the linoleum after a few minutes. Well, two of us felt worse than the third, since Serena was the one throwing up, Laurel was the one poking through vomit looking for the pill, and I was merely still searching for information on the Internet about how Gabapentin would affect a healthy dog. Once we reached the Poison Control Center (after being on hold for several minutes--not desirable for such an entity) we were told that the Gabapentin dose was so mild, the vomiting wasn't necessary. Well, we can't blame the vet for playing it safe.

A couple of lessons can be gained from this experience. One, if you have a pet, be sure to have a poison safety kit on hand. Fortunately we had some hydrogen peroxide that wasn’t too far past its expiration date, because it worked. There must be other ways to make a dog throw up, but giving Serena the quarter cup of hydrogen peroxide was easy and effective. Sticking a finger down a dog’s throat seems like a decidedly less desirable option (especially if you’re interested in keeping all of your fingers).

Two, practice mindfulness. Laurel wasn’t fully conscious of what she was doing when she opened the pill container. I act similarly, often. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve parked the car, started to walk away, and then thought, “Did I lock the car?” I always go back to check. And I always find that I’ve locked the car. But I wasn’t conscious of locking the car even though I was pressing the “lock” button.

How much do we do without really knowing what we’re doing? Life is too short to be gone through unaware. And unawareness also is too dangerous for dogs and other living things, as evidenced by what a difference picking up one pill bottle rather than another makes.

Serena is fine. Her cuts are healing and she’s even back to playing some Buddy Ball (I’ve put cushioning around the edges of the well house roof in case our dog ever is unaware again of where she’s running).

[Note: the original version of this post had the Poison Control Center recommending that Serena be made to throw up, whereas actually it was our local vet. I've corrected what I mistakenly first wrote because I didn't want to leave an impression that the Center failed to realize that 100 mg of Gabapentin is a mild dose for a dog.]

Serena needs “Extreme Makeover, Dog Edition”

Laurel has started to call Serena “Frankendog.” The stitches she got last night at the Salem Emergency Vet clinic do indeed have a Frankensteinian quality, but we’ve been told that she should be left with only a slight scar.

Serena got hurt when she ran into the metal roof of our well enclosure. Caught up in the spirit of our litigious age, I’ve been wondering whether the Buddy Glow Ball that I was throwing in the dark for Serena to retrieve contained a consumer warning on the original packaging: “Caution. While this dog toy is designed for nighttime play, do not throw in the direction of sharp objects.”

I suppose we should have thought of this ourselves, though, so I’ll let the Buddy Glow Ball manufacturer off the hook. During our regular evening dog outings frequently I would hear the ball hit the well enclosure with a “thunk” as Serena bounded off to fetch it. Last night I heard a louder “thunk” than usual, but assumed it was due to the clear cold air.

Actually, it was due to Serena running head first into a corner of the roof. I didn’t know she was hurt, so I kept on throwing the ball a few more times. When we got to the light by the front door I noticed cuts and blood on her face, so off to the Emergency Vet she went.

The vet on duty said that dogs are amazingly tough and resistant to pain. A person who suffered such an injury, such as me, would be crying like a baby. Serena didn’t even seem to know that anything was wrong. I guess this is an artifact of dogs’ wolf heritage: if you want to survive in the wild, it’s good to have a high pain threshold.

Serena is still the beautiful Wonder Dog to us, stitches and all. Yet if we get a call for her to be on “Extreme Makeover, Dog Edition” as a result of this posting, we’ll answer it gladly. Of course, first ABC has to realize that an animal plastic surgery show would be a great idea (if they pass on the concept, we’ll pitch it to Animal Planet).

This isn’t an original idea, though. A vet in Sao Paulo, Brazil, already has a thriving cosmetic dog surgery practice. If you ever open up a branch in Salem, Dr. Brito, be sure to let us know.

Oh great, our dog is fatter

I have some bad news for the throngs in the blogosphere who have been anxiously awaiting an update on our dog’s weight reduction program after reading my initial "Oh great, our dog is fat" posting six months ago. Serena just got a new Pet Health Report Card, and things aren’t going so well. All because of me, supposedly.

The green highlighting on the Report Card was put there by Laurel to grab my attention. And the “so no more cheese!” entry in the “Weight (Abnormal)” category also can be attributed to Laurel, since the only way the vet could have found out about this canine nutrition supplement that I have been adding to Serena’s dinner is if someone in our household snitched.

Given that Serena can’t talk (and even if she could, would never do anything to jeopardize his cheese treats) and I didn’t go to the vet appointment, the snitch is pretty easy to identify. I sensed another subtle clue that it was Laurel when she yelled at me, after returning from the Pet Medical Center, “I wish you could have been there to hear what the vet had to say about Serena’s weight!”

Me? Little innocent me? Putting on my most innocent expression, I said: “What do you mean I should have been there? You and I both feed the dog.” “Yes, but you are the only one who adds chunks of cheese to her bowl.”

OK, that’s true. But as I wrote last June, my initial caloric calculations were that Serena would experience a net loss in weight by my giving her some small chunks of cheese each night, per the formula NWC = CC – TWE (in layman’s terms, Net Weight Change equals Cheese Consumption minus Tail Wagging Exertion).

I had figured that the calories Serena burned up wagging her tail while I got the cheese out of the refrigerator, cut a few slices, chopped the slices into tiny chunks, and scattered the chunks on top of her regular dog food would be greater than the calories in the cheese. However, apparently my formula needs some refining, since the experimental results from the vet’s scale show a weight gain of 3.7 pounds from June 21 to December 30.

We had friends over for a New Year’s Eve party last night. I asked the first dog owners who walked in the door, Hans and Laura, if they thought Serena was fat. If I got a “no” from them, then I was going to ask the first lawyer who walked in the door what my chances would be if I filed a malpractice suit against the vet who wrongly diagnosed our dog as obese.

But after both of them felt Serena’s rib cage, I got two responses of “Yes, she’s fat.” So I’ve given up on plans for the lawsuit. Still, I still don’t believe the diagnosis. Doesn’t this look like a wonderfully thin dog to you?

I’m complying with Laurel’s orders though, and have just been putting a miniscule sprinkling of parmesan cheese on Serena’s dinner. This is necessary, I believe, to ease her through the symptoms of cheddar cheese withdrawal. We’re also reducing her regular dog food a bit.

Today is Serena’s birthday. The Millennium Dog is five! She got an extra large chew stick for dessert a little while ago. On your birthday, calories don’t count.

What you’re missing if you don’t have a dog

Oh, you poor cat owners. If you came home late tonight from a class, as I did, your pet probably greeted you with a meek “Meow” (if he or she even deigned to wake up). You then poured some kibble in a bowl, went on to prepare your own dinner, and now you and your cat likely are sitting in front of the TV, kitty contentedly purring on your lap.

How sad. You are missing out on the "joys" of dog ownership (note the ironic quotation marks.) Let me give you an example of what having a dog can add to your life. Specifically, a large mixed breed dog named Serena, a blend of energetic German Shepherd and mellow Labrador Retriever.

That blend isn’t much in evidence when I go to free Serena from her outdoor kennel, where she has been cooped up for all of two and a half hours. The liberators of Paris were not greeted with so much enthusiasm, believe me. Serena is bouncing up and down in the kennel even before I have the outside door unlatched, for she knows that when a light goes on downstairs, freedom is soon to follow.

I’m hungry. I’d like to eat while reading the Oregonian that I just picked up. No matter. My destiny is fixed as soon as Serena bounds inside and starts leaping around in the living room like a kangaroo on speed. For she knows that Brian-coming-home-at-night means play time, and she will not let me rest until Buddy Ball is taken out of the pantry dog toy box.

Buddy Ball, formally known as Buddy Glow Ball, is her favorite toy. It is large, a Shepherd/Lab mix mouthful. It is soft, offering the joyous simulation of chomping a furry baby bunny. And it glows in the dark after you shine a light on it. Which doesn’t mean much to Serena, but means an awful lot to me, since often I end up doing more of the Buddy Ball retrieving than our 50% supposed retriever.

To be fair to Serena, many nights she brings Buddy Ball back to within a fair approximation of where I threw it. If I don’t have to walk more than twenty feet to pick Buddy Ball up, as Serena dashes madly on to the next anticipated throw spot, I’m happy.

The nights I’m not happy are when a cat, or a deer, or any other animal with an unbelievably fascinating scent has wandered around our rural home not long before Serena and I venture out for playtime. For then we engage in our ritual Kabuki play, dog and man acting out the same roles night after scent-filled night.

I throw the ball into the darkness, helpfully shining my not-so-bright LED flashlight onto the distant grass and brush to aid Serena in her retrieving. Not that she needs this help, probably, since I suspect sound and smell are the senses she mainly uses to pounce on Buddy Ball.

Which she does. Until she is distracted by a more alluring, and sentient, prey potential. Cat! Deer! Close, for sure! I can catch it if I run fast! Now! Go, go, go!!! Serena bounds off on one of our trails, Buddy Ball in mouth. Briefly. Invariably she drops Buddy Ball not long into the chase, but far enough away so that she is out of sight in the no-streetlight country night.

“Where’s your Buddy Ball, Serena? Get your Buddy Ball! Come on, Serena, bring back Buddy Ball.” So goes my mantra, a dog owner pleading into a now dogless countryside. I can’t hear Serena. I can’t see Serena. I’m alone with my flashlight, acres of potential Buddy Ball dropping spots, and an irrational (because Buddy Ball is rarely lost for good) fear that, at $6 or more a pop, losing one Buddy Ball a night is going to seriously strain our family finances.

So I decide to start looking for the elusive Buddy Ball while waiting for Serena to return from her chase. I keep calling—“Come find Buddy Ball, Serena”—but with less vocalization.

For there comes a moment when I remember that if I can hear the cat lovers who live on the lot next to us softly calling “Muffy! Dinnertime Muffy!”, they can darn well hear me yelling, “Serena, come here, you worthless dog!” I don’t like the thought of them fondling Muffy as they stand on their deck listening to me call my disobedient pet. “I sure am glad we just have cats; Brian is coming in loud and clear tonight” the Mrs. surely is telling the Mr.

Eventually Serena comes back. I’m still searching for Buddy Ball where I’m guessing Serena dropped it. She sits on her haunches, tail wagging, tongue drooping out of a dog mouth that has a happy hot-from-the-chase expression. “Where’s Buddy Ball, Serena? Help me find Buddy Ball!” Serena now is as motionless as a stone Buddha. Serene, as (very) occasionally she lives up to her name.

I’m starting to get exasperated. This play time is not so fun for one of the players anymore. I keep on poking through the trees and brush, foggy dew falling off the leaves onto the back of my neck. It’s dark. It’s cold. And I haven’t had dinner yet.

I turn around to yell at Serena again. She seems to sense my darkening mood. She gets up, trots over to an entirely different part of the yard from where I had been searching, reaches down, picks up Buddy Ball in her mouth, and trots back to me, dropping Buddy Ball her habitual twenty feet away.

Serena looks at me as if to say, “This is as close as a half-German Shepherd is going to bring a ball, guy. If you want closer, you should have gotten a Border Collie.” I don’t care. I’m just happy to see Buddy Ball again, who had stopped glowing quite a while ago, the Buddy Glow Ball creators apparently not having tested their invention with a mixed-breed retrieving-challenged dog who lives in the country and is easily distracted.

I go over to Serena, give her a pat, and say “Good dog. You found Buddy Ball. Let’s go have some dog food.” I roll the ball one last time down our driveway toward the front door, Serena close behind. I wash her muddy paws with a garden hose, as Laurel has instructed me. I carefully wipe and dry them with a dog towel. We go inside. I fix Serena’s dinner: dry food, wet food, chopped broccoli, a sprinkling of her favorite white cheddar cheese.

“Food, food!” I say. Serena runs to her bowl. “Shake!” She half-heartedly raises a paw, which I grab as she lunges toward her dinner. I still haven’t had mine. But who cares? I’ve just experienced the joy of owning a dog. Who needs to eat when I’ve just been filled with such delight?

Pampered pet, humbled husband

First, yesterday’s post about our dog’s overheating may have alarmed the many admirers of Serena the Wonder Dog, the Hines Family Animal Companion (we eschew calling her our “pet,” this being terribly Homo sapiens-centric, though the verb form of this word accurately describes how we spend much of every evening).

Hopefully this photo that I snapped this morning when I went in to the dog room to wake her up will reassure anyone concerned about her welfare. Serena has an entire futon on which to sleep in her amazingly cute contorted dog postures. This is her famous “straight arm” pose, a favorite. About a week ago Laurel switched her futon covering from a teal sheet to this more harmonious earth tone design, into which Serena blends nicely.

Second, in writing about the frequent “told you so!”s I hear from Laurel, in which she corrects my many erroneous conceptions about the world, I may have left readers with the impression that this is a bad thing, that I long for a subservient, docile woman who will unthinkingly agree with everything I say and obediently comply with everything I ask her to do. Well, I do have to admit that this sounds pretty appealing. But only for a little while, like a few hours a week in the bedroom.

The rest of the time I want a woman who is herself, not me. Otherwise I’d feel like I was married to myself. What’s the point in that? “Yes, yes, yes” would get boring. I like the unpredictable mix of “Yes, no, yes, no you bozo!” Recently I ran across a great (and possibly tongue-in-cheek) quotation from Rumi’s Fihi ma Fihi where this incomparable Sufi mystic speaks of the spiritual benefits of marriage (to get the full impact of this passage recall that Muhammad had at least ten wives).

God most High and Mighty showed the Prophet [Muhammad] a narrow and hidden way (to refine himself), and that was to marry women, so that he might endure their tyranny, listen to their absurdities and let them ride roughshod over him….The way of Jesus was to struggle in solitude and not to gratify one’s lust; the way of Muhammad is to endure the tyranny and grief inflicted by men and women. If you cannot go the way of Muhammad, at least take the way of Jesus, lest you be altogether deprived.

“Fahrenheit 9/11” heats up audience (and our dog)

In our never-ending marital “told you so!” competition, my wife beat me two to one last night. We went to see “Fahrenheit 9/11” at Movieland in downtown Salem, and as the 7:45 pm showing time grew near I told Laurel that we should leave earlier than usual, since the movie was proving to be hugely popular among die-hard liberals—who, like almost everyone, love to be exposed to communications that confirm existing strongly held beliefs.

Drawing myself up to the full height of my Alpha Male Head of Household Kingly Dominant position in our relationship, about 6:45 I emphatically decreed with my most authoritative masculine tone of voice that we had to leave by 7:15 at the absolute latest. Of course, this proclamation had the usual effect: at the exact time I had said we should be in the car, Laurel slowly pushed her chair back from the table at which she had been leisurely eating a bowl of curry, and languorously went into the bedroom to change. And then, with equal calm, into the bathroom to put on makeup.

I walked around in the living room, making loud jingling sounds with my keys as I muttered, “Any time you’re ready…any time…we should have left by now.” “It’s Wednesday,” I heard in reply. “There won’t be many people at the show.”

I memorized Laurel’s words so I could repeat them back to her at an appropriate moment, which turned out to be at 7:48 as we stood at the rear of a darkened theatre looking at the backs of many, many heads. I don’t like to sit close to the screen, but last night our walk down the aisle to the front of the theatre was triumphal for me. I don’t think I ever said “told you so!” Didn’t need to. The looming-ever-larger screen did my speaking for me.

It was great to see so many Salemites out mid-week for this Bush-bashing film. Of course, what else is there to do in the evening in Salem but go to the movies? (Answer: stay at home and watch TV). From our fifth-row seats we enjoyed listening to the frequent laughs and catcalls as Michael Moore exposed some fresh idiocy of George W. and his administration. At the end of the movie there was healthy applause, a good sign for Kerry’s chances I think, as his liberal base certainly is getting fired up from “Fahrenheit 9/11.”

So did our dog. Which led to Laurel tying me in the “told you so!” sweepstakes upon our return to the car. Serena had been left alone in her outdoor fenced kennel for most of the afternoon, so I felt sorry for her and insisted that she’d be happier coming along with us to the movie. Well, more accurately to the parking garage. Before we left Laurel said that it was too warm a day to leave a dog in the car. I assured her that Serena would be just fine in a shadowy parking garage with the windows in our Prius rolled down a inch or so.

And as we walked back to the car I could see, from some distance away, that Serena indeed was fine, if by fine you mean “standing up in the rear compartment, panting with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, a ‘Someone Save Me!’ expression on her face.” Given this admittedly arguable definition of “fine” I guess I could see why Laurel rattled off a few emphatic “told you so!”s when we got the rear hatch unlocked and felt a rush of warm interior air.

Hey, I’ve never had a physics class. How was I supposed to judge the convective balance between the outflowing body heat of a mildly overweight dog and the inflowing air from mildly lowered windows? And after sucking down what was left in a water bottle Laurel had (thankfully) left in the car, Serena’s tongue retracted to its normal non-panting position, none the worse for wear.

I still was plagued by a mild case of guilt, however. And I am the Driver of the Car when Laurel and I travel together (I also am the Remote Control Holder, these two unexalted titles being bones that Laurel throws to my masculine self to chew on, thus helping to disguise the power that she wields over every other aspect of our marriage). So I lowered the left rear window so Serena could stick her head out and inhale the wondrous odors of downtown Salem while further lowering her body temperature.

This was a fatal error, as it broke the tie. As soon as Serena’s nose passed beyond the vertical boundary of the window glass I heard, “Haven’t I told you that it is dangerous to let dogs stick their head out? Stuff can get in their eyes. Do you want me to call the vet and have her talk to you, or do you believe me?” “Yes,” I softly replied, hastily putting the window up to less than dog nose width. “I believe you.”

That’s what I said outwardly. Inside my head the Husband-Wife scoreboard was brightly flashing the evening’s final “told you so!” score: Brian 1, Laurel 2. “Damn! Another loss!” I reviewed my unsuccessful game plan and made mental notes about where scoring opportunities could be found in the future. Tomorrow is another day. Win some, lose some. Well, for me as for most men it’s “win some, lose many.” Women simply play the game too well—not a fair competition at all.

Oh, great, our dog is fat

While it might seem that a Pet Health Report Card isn’t the most fascinating thing in the world, actually there is a quite a bit of interest here. Laurel handed this to me when she returned from Serena’s semi-annual “wellness exam with preventative care” (it runs two pages, but the “Urogenital” section is on the second page and I wanted to preserve at least a semblance of Serena’s canine confidentiality; the condition of her sex organs is between her, us, and every dog in the world who comes up and sniffs her).

First, I was struck by how much more informative and detailed this report is, compared to what I get when I go for my annual physical. Plus, I’m pretty sure my photo isn’t in my medical chart—though I have to say that Serena was captured in a mug shot pose that isn’t very flattering. Second, Serena has these semi-annual wellness exams, um, twice a year. Which is twice as often as I see my doctor. And when Serena goes to the vet with a health problem we get a follow-up call within a couple of days, someone pleasantly inquiring about how Serena is doing and whether we have any questions about her treatment regimen.

By contrast, I could be on death’s door and I still wouldn’t be able to reach my Salem Clinic family doctor directly by phone, since all calls go through a central switchboard where you leave a message for the doctor, which then apparently goes straight to a shredder so Dr. Too Important To Be Bothered, M.D. doesn’t have to risk being late for his golf game by spending a few minutes phoning a patient. The notion that my doctor would actually call on his own to ask how I am is, of course, beyond imagining. But not for dogs.

So Serena gets better health care than do lots of people in this country, and most people in the rest of the world. Maybe this is just one tiny, itty-bitty part of the reason why America is both so respected and so despised by those beyond our borders. We treat our pets better than millions upon millions of people are treated in third-world countries. This doesn’t mean that Serena should get worse care, of course. Let’s raise the world health care water and lift all ships.

Serena is, by the way, a Lab/German Shepherd mix, as evidenced by her drooping ears. The Pet Medical Center has her down as a German Shepherd, which is what she admittedly looks like (apart from the ears). Personality-wise, though, she is very much a Lab. For which we’re eternally thankful, having spent the 1991-2001 decade with visions of bite-induced lawsuits going through our heads every time the UPS guy or mailperson came to the door. Tasha, our previously dearly beloved psychotic pet as I liked to call her, was a purebred German Shepherd. Give me a Lab/Shepherd mix any time (unless, I suppose, the time was when I was being attacked by a 250 pound meth freak with a baseball bat).

When Laurel came back from the vet she yelled out “Serena is overweight!” as if this was totally my fault. As if the chunks of cheese I sneak into Serena’s dinner every night, or the extra dog biscuits I give her when she looks bored in between meals, are going to make any difference. I’m confident that these treats actually cause her to lose weight, because her tail wags so vigorously when I’m getting them out, and that has to burn up lots of calories.

We did get a cheery “Great job with weight loss!” in the “Appearance, Weight, Temperature” section of this report. On her last wellness check Serena had ballooned up by at least five pounds more, so we have indeed been making progress. Maybe next time we won’t have any red marks on the report and I can pin it on our refrigerator with a magnet, a big gold star pasted on the weight section. Then I’ll celebrate by giving Serena a huge chunk of cheese.

Trying to keep up with the border collie

I have to assume that Laurel is trying to keep our dog up with Rico, the really smart German border collie who knows the names of 200 objects and has language skills comparable to a young child.

Otherwise, why would she suddenly engage in a frenzy of obedience training today with Serena, the most recent (and still very much ringing in my ears) example being a 45-minute walk in the Metolius River countryside punctuated by virtually non-stop calls of “Serena, closer!” “Serena, no!” “Serena, heel!” “Serena, stay!”—depending on what out of control behavior Serena was exhibiting at the moment.

Laurel and I have different dog control standards, which makes me thankful that we’ve never had any children together. I suspect that, if we had, early on I would have been banned from going anywhere alone with the little tyke(s)—unless I was accompanied by a responsible adult, me not falling into that category.

Yesterday we got to Camp Sherman well after sunset, and Serena needed some exercise. I jumped on my mountain bike while Laurel was cleaning up the cabin and rode down a gravel road, then on a trail through the ever-darkening woods, and back on the road to the cabin. Serena ran along happily with me, and sometimes she ran along happily without me. But I always had at least a vague shadowy idea of where the family dog was when she was off checking out a deer or squirrel smell.

“Where did you go?” Laurel asked when I got back. “On a bike ride with Serena,” I replied. “Did you take a leash, a whistle, a flashlight, and her training collar?” “Um, no, I forgot.” I got the Jackie Gleason look I remember so well from the “Honeymooners”: Next time, Brian, you’re going right to the moon! But with no physical clenched fist. Just the mental version.

I probably am too casual with Serena on walks. But we both have been. On walks we’re always amazed to encounter other people who have a dog actually walking along with them. Usually Serena is only in our immediate vicinity during a few nano-seconds when geometric necessity demands that she race by us in the course of the frenzied, manic, “there’s a fresh smell just ahead!” circles she traces around us as we walk placidly along.

Well, not so placidly now, given the near-constant canine control calls Laurel has started to utter. She’s trying to reduce the radius of Serena’s racing from the current fifty yards to a dot in the distance, to what seems to me a wildly unrealistic fifty feet or so. I wish Laurel luck. She’ll need it, because as soon as I take Serena out for a walk by myself, all that training is going to start to unwind.

I figure that since Laurel never had any children of her own, she might as well get a taste of what child-rearing with a husband is like. Ah, I have so many fond memories of coming home from an outing with my daughter and overhearing the conversation in the kitchen as Celeste excitedly told her mother about her day. When I heard “Your father let you do what?! Where is he?!” I knew it was time to get my innocent face on.

Luckily, dogs can’t talk. Even Rico. And if Laurel somehow succeeds in training Serena to communicate what goes on during our man-dog walks together, I’ve got a few chew stick bribes up my sleeve that should quash any tattle-taleing. “Woof! Brian had me on the leash the whole time. He didn’t let me chase anything. Our walk was so boring. Woof! Can I go play now.” Good dog, Serena.

Serena, our Tai Chi Zen dog

Last weekend we saw more evidence of the marvelous powers of Serena, who, in addition to being astoundingly beautiful and amazingly intelligent, has canine Tai Chi and Zen down to a “T” (bone, she could only wish, if she wasn’t the animal companion of strict vegetarians).

Just as an outdoor fire is called Kentucky TV (as we were told by real live Kentuckians), so is Serena’s view out of a living room window of our Camp Sherman cabin Dog TV. For it faces a wood platform by the fire pit, under which live a flourishing family of chipmunks. Laurel leaves almonds by the holes that lead under the platform, luring the increasingly chubby chipmunks outside to fill their cheeks.

Serena watches intently. Periodically she comes up to us and turns her head toward the door, a non-verbal plea: “Let me out. Chipmunks are calling.” When we finally succumb and open the front door, she usually doesn’t rush pell-mell to the platform. Wise Dog knows better. Instead, she goes into her Tai Chi mode.

This is one of her four Tai Chi postures, the right-rear-leg-moves-as-slowly-as-growing-grass pose. She also has variations for her other three legs. Exceedingly graceful, eyes focused intently on the chipmunk who is standing beside its hole, gnawing away on an almond, she takes minutes to move just a few feet. We stand at the kitchen window, once more awed by Our Baby.

There finally comes a moment at which Serena seems to know that she has reached the Motionless Point, the place some five feet from the chipmunk hole on the perimeter of her hoped-for prey’s Dart Zone. She moves even deeper into her canine Zen No-Mind. Absolutely at rest. One focus: chipmunk.

Something breaks the spell. Dog. Chipmunk. Hard to determine. A five-foot leap takes longer than a five-inch dart. No matter. Chop wood, carry water, stalk chipmunk. One thing at a time. Now, become one with the hole. Stillness. Zen stalking. Wait for the within to reveal itself.

Kinky sexual behavior

With a title like that, I’m pretty sure this weblog posting will be read. Especially accompanied by the titillating (to dogs, at least) photo of Serena and her new canine boy-toy, Rocco. Yesterday, in freezing weather, made worse by an even-more-freezing wind chill, I dedicated myself to capturing this rather rare animal behavior: a spayed female humping away on a neutered male, who, by his expression, is either in a state of erotic pleasure or, more likely, complete bemusement.

So here we are, with several inches of snow/ice on the ground, and freezing rain coming down right now, and we’ve got to also worry about our dog’s sexual identity. Fortunately, I found some info via Google that reassured us that Serena isn’t as bizarrely caninely kinky as I thought at first. This vet, for example, gives some reasons for a female dog starting to hump another animal—in the case he addresses, a male cat, which is decidedly more kinky than a male dog, so I guess Serena is normal by comparison.

It is, though, still rather disconcerting to watch your sweet little girl puppy pumping away on a male dog like a sailor on shore leave who has been at sea for six months. Probably this is just dominance behavior, though it certainly seems like something else is going on between Serena and Rocco that approaches some sort of doggie romance. When she is on a leash, he walks beside her, and they playfully nip at each other’s muzzles almost as if they are kissing. Then, Rocco will lie down on his back, spread his legs, and Serena will jump on top of him.

Laurel spoke to Rocco’s owner a few days ago, and told the woman what was going on between our “children.” She was aghast: “That’s sick!” she cried. Knowing her attitude, I felt a little funny taking photos of the two dogs yesterday within view of Rocco’s house. It being so cold, and needing to remove my gloves to take a picture, I wanted to get an explicit photo as soon as possible. So Laurel spurred Serena on: “Get him, Serena! Get him! Jump on him! Show what kind of a studette you are!” Hopefully the cold air didn’t result in sound carrying all the way to Rocco’s house, or we may be facing a canine sexual harassment suit, which I suspect isn’t covered under our umbrella insurance policy.

Lust and longing at the dog park

Last weekend Laurel and I took the family pet, Serena, to the dog park at Minto-Brown Island. A “dog park,” for those not educated in canine arcana, is a place where dogs are allowed to run free, leashless, though still theoretically under the owner’s voice or psychic control. This was the third time, I think, that one of us had taken Serena to the dog park for some socializing. But this was the first time that I fully realized that the dog park has much social appeal for humans also.

When we let Serena out of the car, she ran happily into the large grassy dog park field, which, this being a sunny (if cold) day, already was filled with other dog parkers—both of the canine and homo sapiens variety. The dogs have no problem making new friends. Male or female, young or old, purebred or mixed breed, large or small, all it takes is a few sniffs (mostly of private parts) and some sort of mysterious social order is established. Serena knew who she wanted to play/wrestle/chase with, and who she didn’t want to play/wrestle/chase with. Even with all the dogs running around madly every which way, with some being excluded from a play group and some included, there was no fighting, no apparent hurt feelings. One big happy dog family. Which included the owners also.

Normally, if you encounter a few dozen strangers in a large field, you will exchange just a few pleasant words (“Hi,” “How are you?”, “Nice day, isn’t it?”), and that will be the extent of the socializing. But if you put a few dozen dog owners into a field, along with their dogs, even though they have never met each other, extended conversations start up almost instantly—the human equivalent of sniffing private parts, I guess. We learned the names, breeds, favorite activities (such as chasing cats, not a big surprise), and other characteristics of quite a few dogs. Knowing that there was about the same chance of Serena bringing back the tennis ball that I wanted so desperately to throw, as of me winning the lottery, I temporarily adopted retriever-appearing dogs, with the full consent of their owners (who, when the dog refused to bring the ball back to me, would say, “Don’t feel bad, that’s just what she does with me also.”)

Dog parks are one of the few places, other than sporting events, parades, or concerts, where strangers can instantly bond through the glue of a strongly shared interest. I wish there were more places like this in Oregon, and our country. When I spent a college semester in Zadar, Yugoslavia, way back in 1968, I was struck by how Zadarians (or whatever they were called) would “promenade” in the evening along this historic city’s sea wall. Women would walk in one direction, men in the other, providing lots of opportunities for subtle (and not so subtle) flirting. By contrast, where in Salem can you find more than a few people on the street after 6 pm? We have no public meeting places, bars and nightclubs being a pitifully inadequate substitute.

So, thank heavens for dog parks, where canine connoisseurs can commingle comfortably. Even when their dogs are attempting, um, to commingle in a much more intimate sense. It is a great ice-breaker to be exchanging some small talk with another dog owner, and then look down to see that one of your dogs is mounting the other one. This seems to have as much to do with dominance as it does with sex, something that I’m just learning, having moved fairly recently from the cat side of the best pet tracks. Though Serena is female, there was a lot of swinging both ways. A male would try to mount her, then she’d try to mount another female, and so it would go in various and sundry sexual combinations.

At some point I couldn’t help but think of Arnold Swartzenegger. He reportedly engaged in very much the same sorts of animalistic groping of strangers as what goes on in a dog park all the time. But the dogs don’t file sexual harassment suits, nor do their owners. Everyone just smiles and says, “No, Rover, don’t do that to her.” Understand, I’m not excusing Arnold, but maybe we people would be happier and more relaxed if we remembered that we are animals also, and accept that animals instinctively will act like animals—even if they have a Ph.D., or a Rhodes scholarship. The dog park has some lessons for us, perhaps.

Dining tip/Triathlon win

First, a dining tip. We heartily recommend, whether you are a vegetarian or not, the “Garden Plate” dinner selection at the Black Butte restaurant—where we just celebrated my second birthday dinner, ten days after the first celebration with my sister and brother-in-law. One difference this time: I had to buy my own dinner. Another difference: as good as DaVinci’s restaurant in Salem is, this Garden Plate dish was really spectacular.

Since we want Black Butte to keep offering the Garden Plate, and our waiter said it took some serious lobbying from the waiters/waitresses to get the chef to make a decent vegetarian dish, it is important—no, essential—for anyone who drives by Black Butte Ranch on their way to Sisters or Bend to stop by the restaurant and order the Garden Plate. Several years ago Black Butte had a fairly good polenta dish. Then they sold out completely to the meat/fish lobby and had absolutely nothing vegetarian on their menu. We had to beg and plead, like the second class citizens vegetarians often are, for the chef to make us a pasta dish with some vegetables on top—something we easily could have made on our own.

Now, though, the Garden Plate is an oasis in the otherwise barren vegetarian land of the Black Butte menu (OK, I think there also is a fettuccine alfredo, but that is so clichéd as not to even count). Fresh off my palate, I can accurately describe the marvelous Garden Plate: soft tofu with a crisply breaded covering, nicely fried; a grilled portabello mushroom; asparagus; sweet tomato relish; yellow squash; zucchini—all immersed in a subtle sauce, accompanied by a just-right dipping sauce. As full as I am, it makes my mouth water to remember our meal of an hour ago.

I was impressed by how, when I repeatedly took one slice of the tofu crisp and combined it with one slice of the portabello mushroom, then dunked the two-slice forkful in the dipping sauce, I ended up my meal with precisely one slice of tofu and one slice of mushroom left. It is this sort of culinary precision, combined with the creativity of the whole Garden Plate presentation, that makes Laurel and me realize that, as cooks, we aren’t worthy to butter the toast of the Black Butte chef. May he live long and prosper, and forever serve the Garden Plate to Central Oregon visitors such as we.

On a more active note, I am pleased to report that Serena and I won the human/dog Camp Sherman Iron Species Triathlon yesterday. The only shadow cast over the radiance of our win was the minor detail that we forgot to announce to anyone but ourselves that this event was being held. Still, our accomplishment deserves high praise and much publicity, which I am trying to take care of myself in this fashion.

The Iron Species Triathlon started out with a four-mile man/dog hike from our cabin to the Alingham Campground and back, walking (and in the case of Serena, running, after squirrels, chipmunks, and anything else that moved, or smelled like it had moved in the last twenty-hour hours) briskly. Man then jumped on a mountain bike and rode, with dog running ahead/behind/to each side for three miles up to the head of the Metolius River and back.

The third leg of the Iron Species Triathlon came when Serena and I returned to the cabin and took naps, each of us visualizing swimming a mile in the Metolius. At least, that’s what I did, and I assume Serena held up her end of the last leg of the Iron Species Triathlon. Since the Metolius is too damn cold to swim in, we necessarily had to make the final event of our hike/bike/swim Triathlon a virtual contest, rather than have it take place in physical reality. All in all, we were proud of our performance, and look forward to repeating as champions in the next running of the Camp Sherman Iron Species Triathlon. Our confidence is high, especially since, once again, we have no intention of publicizing the event before we’ve finished it.

Why dogs don’t invent computer chips

Recently Laurel excitedly pointed out to me a news item about dogs sharing 75% of human DNA, or something along those lines. I wasn’t impressed, since I knew that chimpanzees and people are 98% genetically similar, which makes our dog a much more distant relative. And the more I play “buddy ball” with Serena, the more I am convinced that even that 75% may be a decided overestimate. For those unfamiliar with dog play paraphernalia, “buddy ball” is the brand name of Serena’s light-up-in-the-dark ball, the light-up feature being a necessity given her underdeveloped retriever skills, as it allows me to throw the ball for her at night and be able to find it myself, and then throw it again—to myself.

Occasionally, however, seemingly at random, Serena does manage to bring the buddy ball back to the general neighborhood where I am standing. This usually happens when I am standing at the top of our driveway, which descends fairly steeply into the carport that holds our two cars. When I throw buddy ball down the hill into our lawn area, Serena doesn’t run back up the hill with the ball, because this would be too much work. Instead, she runs sideways, ending up at the edge of the carport, where, night after night, we play out the same frustrating drama.

“Bring it here, Serena! Bring it here!,” I yell encouragingly from the top of the driveway. Serena looks blankly at me, wondering what I’m talking about. “Bring it here! Good dog, good dog!” I wave my hands excitedly, like Laurel has told me to do, since this is supposed to make Serena eager to please her excited owner. Serena chews her buddy ball cud for a while, then begins walking slowly up the driveway. We both know what is going to happen. But I play out my role, and she plays out hers.

“Good girl, that’s it! All the way, bring it up all the way to me!” Maybe I’m too verbose, and should just use guttural German commands (Serena is half German Shepherd, the half that walks slowly because she feels like it), but I always feel the need to spell out exactly what she should do. Serena trudges up the driveway, then, universally, pauses almost exactly halfway up. She looks at me standing at the top. Then she looks back at the two cars at the bottom. Then she opens her mouth, drops the buddy ball, and watches it roll down the hill until it comes to rest precisely under one of the cars, having caromed off the garage door and rebounding with just enough kinetic energy to reach the most inaccessible spot in the carport.

I stare at Serena. I mutter, “You useless pet!” under my breath. I trudge down the hill, get down on my knees, reach under the car, and retrieve the buddy ball. Then I walk back up the hill and throw buddy ball again. And the game goes on. What amazes me, almost as much as my being willing to put up with this crap night after night, is that it never dawns on Serena that dropping the ball on a sharply inclined driveway is going to make the ball roll far away. Wouldn’t evolution have given dogs some insights into what happens if you drop a round bone, say, on a steep mountain? Wouldn’t dog genes be selected for that understood it is better to drop things that might roll on a flat place, rather than a round place? I think these sorts of thoughts every day, as I walk up and down the driveway, retrieving Serena’s ball so I can throw it for her again without her having to break much of a sweat.

And I wonder how it came to be that dogs are so much less smart than we humans. I wonder and wonder while walking up and down the hill so Serena can have some pre-dinner exercise, and I continue wondering as I take her inside to fix her dry food/canned food/broccoli/cheddar cheese chunks meal, and I wonder still as I give Serena her chew-stick dessert if she has cleaned her bowl (which, to be honest, she gets even if she hasn’t). How did we humans get to be so smart, and dogs so dumb? Well, I can’t spend any more time pondering this question. Serena just came in and gave me her “let’s play” look. Can’t keep her waiting.

Serena renaming not in the works

At least, the past few days have convinced us that the family pet definitely shouldn’t be renamed Thor, a.k.a. the Viking thunder god. Notwithstanding Serena’s proud half German-Shepherd bloodline (the other half being Labrador, though her Lab DNA must be missing all retriever instincts, given how much time and energy I spend retrieving tennis balls), we’ve learned that she is a total dog-wuss in the presence of thunder and lightning.

Here in the Camp Sherman environs of central Oregon, we’ve had some impressive thunderstorms the past few days. (A few trees reportedly caught fire on Black Butte last night, but were quickly put out by smokejumpers.)

Serena has spent several hours curled up, and trembling, in whatever areas of the cabin most look like a lair to her at any given thundering moment. First, she headed for her portable kennel, but that apparently was too close to some windows. Then, we found her lying on my meditation pillows, in a bedroom closet that I’ve appropriated for my deep spiritual practice, which some might casually dismiss as sleeping while sitting cross-legged if they weren’t aware of the subtle transformative mystic energies being contacted in my seemingly somnolent state.

Perhaps this is why Serena felt so safe perched on my pillows and Indian shawl, which we quickly replaced with her faux sheepskin dog pad. I shut the closet door halfway, to enhance the cavelike feel, and Serena made it through the thunderstorm in fairly good dog-spirits. This afternoon, more rain and thunder drove Serena under the small desk on which my laptop computer sits, to nestle, trembling again, against my legs as I tried to write some emails.

Dogs are good for lots of things, including licking up spills on the floor that you otherwise would have to take a sponge to, and also reminding us of the Magical Side of Nature. If we didn’t know what thunder and lightning was (and I barely do, I have to admit), we humans too would either be curled up in some womblike place of shelter, or rendering sacrifices to Thor. Sometimes it seems that knowing too much leads to knowing too little. Maybe Serena’s reaction is the proper one—fear and trembling in the face of natural powers we can’t control, and barely understand.

Laurel and I went for a mountain bike ride yesterday afternoon, just as the storm was gathering strength. We rode along the beautiful single-track trail behind Metolius Meadows while thunder boomed and nickel-sized raindrops fell on us. We felt very small. Two little people in a great big quasi-wilderness, watching the wildness of a thunderstorm flash and crash overhead. It was great. It was real. It wasn’t bullshit make-believe like so much of human life is. It reminded us that whatever we think we humans are, we aren’t much, compared to the Forces of Nature than could wipe out each and every Homo sapiens in a heartbeat. Serena instinctively knows this. In this way, our dog is smarter than we are, and we have much to learn from her.

[Note: I do not have any inside information from the Forces of Nature that they are preparing to wipe out each and every Homo sapiens in a heartbeat. However, general justification for this statement is contained in this paragraph from a book I’m reading, “The Universe Story,” by Brian Swimme and Thomas Berry:

When we examine the nature of the universe we find galaxies with a violence so intense that we cannot account for it scientifically: great spikes of energy blasting across hundreds of millions of miles from the center of our galaxy out through its member systems. Speculation points to black holes of monstrous dimensions generating such extremes of energy from the center of our galaxy. Our own Milky Way galaxy might be capable of generating such a death spike. If such an energy blast does erupt, we will not learn of it much before it reaches us. Even now, a wall of plasma could be rifling towards us at millions of miles a minute; with such stupendous power it would not even notice the Sun and Earth as it scattered us into elementary particles in its inexorable flight of destruction through the stellar systems.

Erotic Serena.

click to enlarge

Because of the bad economic times, we're thinking of branching out into some other entrepreneurial directions. As part of our market research, we'd be interested in the level of interest among HinesSight readers of tasteful pet-erotica. We have a live-in model who works for almost free (dog biscuits are cheap), and Laurel loves to snap photos of her in alluring poses. We're pretty sure a pet-erotica web site would be legal (though one never knows with Ashcroft around) but the question is: how much would people pay to view it? This is one of those secret passions that few like to talk about, but if you know an admirer of pet-erotica, or are one yourself, let us know your opinion of this potentially lucrative venture. Of course, if we pursue this, we'll need some additional models. Pet owners, keep a camera handy. Who knows, your gerbil might be the next digital centerfold on our new web site.

Human training with Chuck-It

We often hear, "be careful of what you want, for you may get it." The summer after we got Serena the Wonder Dog I took her down to the dog exercise field at Minto Brown park, where I admired the tennis ball hurling gadget that a woman was using. While I was throwing Serena's ball just a little way down the field, plus running the risk of throwing my shoulder out with every not-so-mighty hurl, she was effortlessly catapulting her dog's ball far past my distance, and with much less effort. To top it off, she didn't have to bend down and pick up the ball after her dog trotted back and laid it at her feet.

So I was thrilled when Laurel came home with a Chuck-It a while back. It almost didn't survive its first day with us, since Serena immediately decided that it had a higher use as a plastic chew stick, than as a ball-chucking device. However, the pieces she gnawed off didn't impede the functionality of Chuck-It, so Serena and I have been training with it for several months. I'm pleased to report that in this relatively short time I've learned how to retrieve tennis balls from amazingly far distances, sometimes when they're hidden in thick wet grass, and have lost several pounds to boot. Serena has learned how to manipulate and control a human being, or, more accurately, she has honed her already ample skills in this area.

This afternoon offered a good example of how well my training is coming along. Standing at the top of our lawn area, I'm able to Chuck-It a tennis ball with excellent accuracy all the way down to, or even past, the large oak tree at the other end of the lawn. The Chuck-It web site says that throwing distances of 150 feet can consistently be achieved with their product, and I will testify to that. This is half the length of a football field. So, every time I walk all the way down the hill to the oak tree to get the ball that Serena has run after, sniffed, and then left alone to go pursue some other more interesting Wonder Dog activity, and then walk back up the hill to repeat the process, I am walking close to 300 yards, which has to be excellent exercise. "Thank you, Serena," I try to remember to say every time I trudge down and up the slope. "Because you have such a recessive retriever gene in your German Shepherd/Labrador heritage, I am reaping wonderful aerobic rewards."

Still, once in a while I wonder whether it really is appropriate for a man throwing a ball for a dog to get more exercise than the dog does. But that's a humancentric thought which I try to dispel as soon as it arises. We are equal members of equal species, Serena and I. If it works out that Wonder Dog trains me to retrieve the ball, while she has her fun running after it and then leaving it where it lays, who am I to say that this is not part of the rightful natural order of things? After all, I also am trained to jump up and give Serena her dinner-time chew stick dessert when she puts her paw on my knee while I am comfortably reading the paper on the couch, and Laurel is trained to rub her stomach until Serena falls asleep when she presents herself for her late evening pre-bedtime patting session. Ah, its great to have gone to dog-training classes. Now we know just how to respond when Serena wants us to do something.

Canine perfection

Canine Perfection, the Sublime Platonic Form of Dog--Serena! (serenely posing near the headwaters of the Metolius River, with Black Butte in the background)