Fifteen Golden Years

Fifteen years ago today, a litter of Golden Retrievers was born. Seven weeks later we chose a blond female from that litter and brought her home to join our family. Chardonnay is my first pedigreed dog and our oldest pet.

2-month-old cuteness

I blogged about our dog Chardonnay on her tenth and fourteenth birthdays and realize how fortunate we are to still have her in our lives on her fifteenth. Cancer is very prevalent in Golden Retrievers, so much so that Chardonnay participated in a study being done on her breed and cancer. It is hoped that her blood contribution from a non-cancer patient will help scientists figure what she has that the other Goldens do not.

However, this past year has been even more challenging for the old girl; mostly because her hind legs are so stiff they barely bend. Falling down is common and getting up takes time and effort. We started having laser therapy done on her a couple of months ago to make her feel better and that has helped her mobility some. The walks in the woods are less frequent, but she enjoys them at her own pace. Her hearing is almost gone, she has cataracts and seems to have dementia as well. She has had three seizures although they are spaced over a couple of years and not our major concern right now.

The one sense that still works with incredible accuracy is her sense of smell. Chardonnay still trolls for chicken droppings and poop left behind by herself or our other dog, Cory. Cory chooses to poop in the woods, however Chardonnay manages to sniff it out, even if she didn’t witness where Cory went in the midst of all the leaves on the ground. So the coprophagia instinct is still alive and well with her. Great. Chardonnay’s nicknames are Chardy, The Golden Goof, Blondie and Shithead.

Yesterday we had both kids, Tyler and Kelsey, and their significant others over for Easter dinner so we took advantage of the family gathering to celebrate Chardonnay’s birthday. I went a little bit over the top. When you realize you’re on borrowed time, you have an excuse to make the most of it. Last year, I took Chardonnay shopping at Pet Supplies Plus for her fourteenth. This year, I had picked up a small cake (about 6 inches in diameter) at Stop n’ Shop and had them write “Happy Birthday Chardonnay” with matching icing on it. I got numbered candles. And to honor Chardonnay’s true dining habits, I arranged three Tootsie Rolls in the shape of her favorite food on top. And before anyone criticizes me for feeding my dog junk food or chocolate, I'll defend myself; it takes an exorbitant amount of chocolate to hurt a dog, Tootsie Rolls have very little actual cocoa in them, and at her age Chardonnay has earned the right to eat cake. She eats crap, for Pete's sake.

Her very special cake, complete with Tootsie Roll turds

We all sang and presented Chardonnay with her very own birthday cake, candles unlit. I expected her to try to wolf the entire cake down, but she surprised us by licking the icing, unamused at the fake turds. Sorry, Old Girl, real ones were not an option.

Chardonnay enjoys her birthday cake

 

Birthday Girl

I note the birthdays of all my Maine Coon litters on my Facebook page. I tell my cats "Happy Birthday!" when it's their big day, but that's as far as the recognition goes. However, when the oldest pet in the house turned 14 today, I felt the need to put forth more effort. No, not the party hat and cake; she wouldn't understand and may even find it humiliating.


14 years ago - this photo is still on our fridge

For the past couple of years, I've felt we were on borrowed time with Chardonnay, our Golden Retriever. She's had a tumor removed. She's had one seizure, possibly linked to a brain tumor according to our vet, but that was over a year ago. Her knees are bad and her hips have atrophied; she's on medication and supplements to help her. She hesitates before getting up and navigating the steps. Her hearing is almost shot and her eyes are foggy. Her skin has several gross-feeling cysts the size of an engorged tick. I blogged about Chardonnay on her tenth birthday in part because I wasn't sure how much longer she'd be with us.

But once up, Chardonnay trots along happily. She still practices caprophagia with tremendous passion whenever the opportunity to eat poop arises. She can't hear us tell her to be quiet, but she can always hear Coraline barking at imagined intruders and joins in. She turned grey a decade ago, but has maintained her girlish figure of 83 pounds all these years.

 

I've never had a dog live this long before. I've never even had a purebred dog before Chardonnay. I know of many who have had retrievers (Lab or Golden) who didn't make it past 10 years old. Once in a while, I'll hear of one who lives to 16, but that's rare for a large breed. For me, Chardonnay's birthday is sentimental and an accomplishment.

So today, on Chardonnay's 14th birthday, I thought I'd take her on a shopping trip to Pet Supplies Plus. It's a perfect day for her breed; cold, fresh snow and freezing rain, adding to the snow that will never melt after our never-ending winter. Snow is Chardonnay's favorite element. If it were nicer weather for humans, I'd take her for a hike in the woods.

I brushed her, getting a couple of puppies worth of fur off. Gave her a mani-pedi while the others watched.

Next, I lifted her into the back of my car and off we went. Chardonnay loves car rides and meeting new people. Once at our destination, I helped the old girl out and we trotted into the store. When I announced to the sales associate that we were here to shop for Chardonnay's birthday, she proclaimed that meant she got a free cookie.

Getting her treat at Pet Supplies Plus

Everyone in the store petted her, and I'm sure Chardonnay assumed they all came to see her. She gets a bit miffed when kitten buyers come over and spend more time looking at kittens than they do her. We walked down the aisles, stopping to sniff all the food bags, treats and toys. I offered Chardonnay several toys; the stuffed chicken, the tug toy, a ball perhaps? Nope, just food thank you. She enjoys eating and napping the most these days.

Window shopping

We filled up our cart with the other items we needed, picked up a few more dog treats and checked out. Chardonnay got to eat another big cookie in the car, happily munching away while I drove home. Happy birthday puppy girl!

Happy Girl!

Out of My Way Already!

The blizzard of 2015 is coming, a "Nor' Beaster" they say. The supposedly historic storm that will wallop the northeast, particularly the coast, has gotten everyone in a tizzy. Normally, being closer to the coast has the benefit of giving us six to twelve inches less snow than our neighbors will receive one hour west. My husband the boy scout has made his preparedness list: firewood inside for the woodstove, water jugs filled, batteries, bird feeders filled, chicken coop prepared. And of course, bread and milk. Don’t know why the last one; we’re mostly gluten free and lactose intolerant.

This morning, while the snow was still whispering of the threat to come, Jay and I cleaned out the chicken coop and put down lime, diatomaceous earth and fresh shavings. The dogs came out with us.  Our geriatric Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, lives for this kind of weather. Snow is heaven for a Golden. For Coraline, the short-haired Shar-pei mix, not so much.  She wears her pink jacket when it’s cold and has a low tolerance of the whole precipitation thing.

The chickens’ water and food dispensers were filled. The water and its heater were brought inside so when the storm hits, the girls and the new rooster, Sam, can stay closed up comfortably inside. They have a heater in their coop to keep the worst of the chill off, as long as we have power. As we worked, the chickens were everywhere we didn’t want them to be; in the way of the rake and shovel, clucking ahead of me while I focused on my tasks at hand. I finally asked Jay to offer them scratch outside to try to give me some room to work.

Sam and his girls

Coraline became tired of waiting for us to let her back inside, and as she has been known to do, let herself back in by pulling the door handle down. Cory will shut the door behind her, but only if we are there to instruct her. We were still working outside and didn’t notice the wide open back door for a few minutes. A couple of cats wandered out, marveling at the snow. I heard a “Crap!” and looked up to see Jay rushing to the door to close it, cats running back in as he approached. Cory was shut in the house. Fortunately, she doesn’t know how to open the door from the inside.

Back in the house and outside chores completed, Jay looked out the window and noticed a small bird that wasn’t acting right. At first it appeared that the tiny black and grey Chickadee was carrying a thread. Then it became apparent that it was entangled and tethered to the tree by the thread. Jay held the bird while I worked to get it loose from the almost invisible thread that was wrapped around its body. Even its foot was bound to a flight feather. The little guy was frightened, but still had the wherewithal to bite us. Fortunately, a Chickadee bite isn’t as powerful as that of a chicken. After about five minutes, the thread was separated and the Chickadee flew away. It would have been a great viral video moment had anyone been there to record it. We feel so fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time.

Most of the storm preparation completed, Jay went upstairs to take a call for work. I decided to fill the dogs’ five gallon water jug. I got our big red Maine Coon, Pipsqueak, out of the sink so I could fill the jug. She still hovered close by, supervising my actions. “Could you move?” I asked while putting her on the floor. Why do the animals always have to get in the way when I’m busy? They always seem to be right where I’m walking or about to sit.

I looked out the kitchen window as the snow gently covered the ground, dusting the black smoke cat who was wandering around the bird feeder. Crap! We missed one. Tina is our adventurous, and pregnant, female. I turned off the running water and rushed to put my boots and coat on. Jay called down to me to ask where the kitten was.  He couldn’t find little Kate in our master bathroom where she is supposed to be and her mother, Kiss, was frantic.  I had a new priority and yelled, “Tina is outside!” as I went out in the snow.

I circled the house, calling and looking under bushes. Normally if a cat gets out, it will instinctively hide under our deck. Our cats are exclusively indoors so the great outdoors terrifies them. Except for Tina, that is. She's an indoor cat, but a rebellious one. The last I’d seen of Tina was when she was leaving the bird feeder area and headed toward the front yard. Tina had kept several steps ahead of me and also circled the house where I found her sitting calmly by the back door once I caught up. Apparently the adventure had lost some of its fun with the reality of snow and cold. I opened the door and Tina sauntered in. Wiping the snow off of her coat, I lectured all the creatures surrounding me about the dangers of going out. Didn’t they know there was a blizzard coming? Be grateful you don’t have to live outside, dammit!

Jay called back downstairs. Did I know where the kitten was? Jeez! I had a good idea since I’d heard the cabinet doors under our bathroom sink opening and closing before. Under the sink, behind closed cabinet doors, we have a laundry drop to the washing machine downstairs. The drop is about two feet before the clothes land in the basket. I had done most of the laundry, but there were still dirty clothes in there. I reached up and opened the cabinet over the washing machine and pulled out the basket of clothes. Sure enough, cute little 5-week-old Kate the kitten sat there nestled in the laundry and looking very comfortable in her new bed. I took the kitten back to her anxious mother upstairs and, using a bungee cord, secured the cabinet doors.



Kate the laundry princess

Enough drama with the animals already! Can we just get on with the blizzard? Check back with me tomorrow to see if I need digging out.

Curse of the Skunk

Warning: this blog contains gross descriptions.  Do not read if you are eating.

When one is a parent, pet owner, cat breeder or just responsible for the care of others, there will be no shortage of challenging moments or messes to clean up.  You learn to go with the flow, accept the yin with the yang, cuteness and poop.  As pet owners, we sacrifice a bit of cleanliness, money, and orderliness for the love and completeness we feel by sharing our homes with furry creatures that have different agendas.  Raising children is similar up to a point; hopefully a child will continue to develop beyond the simple commands of “sit” and “stay,” learn to clean up her own messes, cost a lot more money, but in the end move out and live independently. 

We have two dogs; a 13-year-old Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, and a 3-year-old Shar-pei mix, Coraline “Cory.”  Cory is a high-energy gray bullet with a strong prey drive.  As a large, geriatric dog, Chardonnay moves more slowly and takes many naps, but still enjoys adventure in moderation.  Although her knees are weak, her hearing greatly diminished and her mind seems to have dementia, Chardonnay’s worst quality is that she has never lost her desire for coprophagia; she eats poop.   

Cory, on the other hand, is the subject of this blog.  We adopted Cory for Kelsey, who begged for a puppy for her 16^th birthday.  She promised to take full responsibility for the puppy; housebreaking, puppy kindergarten, clean up any messes, etc.  Well, you can imagine how long that lasted.  Cory’s person of choice is Jay, my husband.  I am the mean one who doesn’t allow jumping up, pawing, barking, or other unpleasant behavior.  Jay tells the dog to get down while petting her and wonders why she still has bad habits. 

Jay recently went on his annual salmon fishing trip to New Brunswick with his buddy, Curt.  The day Jay left, I noticed that Cory had a large, hard bump on her jaw.  It was about the diameter of a quarter.  Even though Cory didn’t act like she’d been stung by rubbing her face repeatedly and the bump was much bigger than normally associated with a bee sting, I just assumed she'd been stung and didn’t think much of it.  

The next day, the bump looked the same and I mentioned it to Jay when he called from Canada to tell me about his first catch.  By late afternoon, however, the bump had tripled in size.  I had just come home from spending way too much money at Bed, Bath and Beyond for window valances when I realized that I was going to have to take Cory to the vet.  I had a sinking feeling that I was going to need to return my purchases in order to pay a vet bill.  I was right. 

My vet, Dr. Karen Brown at Stonington Veterinary Hospital, said Cory had an abscess on her jaw from where she had punctured it on something like a sharp stick.  It was too hard to drain so I was instructed to watch for skin color changes that might warn of a rupture, apply hot compresses and give her antibiotics.  Most of my summer I’ve had to deal with Levi the cat’s staph infection on his tail, which also formed an abscess, burst, was stitched, burst, and is taking forever to heal.  I joked that Cory and Levi were going to have to share a room where they can swap abscess stories. 

Cory with her swollen face

 

Cory clearly didn’t feel well.  She had a fever and the right side of her face was swollen uncomfortably.  I dutifully applied a warm washcloth to her jaw and babied her throughout the day.  Shortly before the dogs’ supper time (5 pm and Chardonnay starts campaigning an hour earlier to be fed), I let the girls out.  Living out in the middle of the woods has the advantage of not needing a fenced-in yard or having to walk the dogs on a leash; we just open the back door and let them go.  Since they learned the parameters of the yard from the invisible fence collars, they no longer wear the collar.  It works, most of the time.  This time, however, Chardonnay managed to find her favorite cologne, Essence of Bambi (deer poop) and happily applied it liberally to her face and neck. 

Great.  All I wanted to do was feed the dogs and relax and now I had to wash the stench off the old girl’s head.  I took a bottle of dish detergent and led Chardonnay back out to the garden hose for a lecture on hygiene as tried to wash off the crap.  That accomplished, I fed the dogs, but Cory didn’t come over to eat.  I found her hiding and upset because her abscess has started to ooze all over the side of her chest, leg and neck.  Not able to reach the hole from which the bloody pus originated with her tongue, Cory obsessively tried to clean what she could. 

I called the vet to see if this needed immediate attention.   The vet tech, Sherri, asked me to see if I could facilitate the draining by squeezing Cory’s cheek.  So there I was, phone tucked between my shoulder and face, straddling a nervous dog, holding a wet washcloth against her swollen cheek and trying to find the right pressure points.  Finally, a glob about the size of a dime came out of the small puncture wound. 

“Gross!  This is disgusting!  My husband should be doing this.  Cory is HIS dog and he’s in Canada fishing!”  Sherri laughed and reminded me that I had probably seen a lot more disgusting things as a cat breeder.  True, unfortunately.   Since it was already about 6 pm, Sherri asked if I could bring Cory to the office in the morning so they could suture a drain in the poor pup's face. 

As I sacrificed a washcloth to blood and mucus, I became aware of an aroma coming off of Cory’s face; skunk.  Seven months after her last skunk encounter, the water still activated the smell.  Anyone who’s ever had a skunked dog is familiar with this. 

Then I had a thought; what if the poor skunk that had lost its life in Cory’s mouth last spring had cursed the dog with its final breath?  It could have planted an alien skunk seed under Cory’s skin which was now hatching.  I envisioned the dog as Sigourney Weaver impregnated by an alien, but this time a skunk head (I hoped not the tail) would emerge from the side of our dog’s face.  It would be an extra mouth to feed, but think of the money we’d make on the talk show circuit.  Maybe we’d even get our own reality show, “Cory and Stinky - Two Heads, Two Species, One Body”.

The next morning, I took our grandson to school, a kitten to my other vet to be spayed 35 minutes in the opposite direction, then came home to get Cory and drove her to Stonington.  A lot of veterinary chauffeuring, but I got it all done. 

When I picked Cory up after her procedure, her swelling was mostly gone and she had a rubber tube which protruded from two places behind her jaw, vertically up, through her cheek then out the bottom near to where her original wound was.  She looked a lot happier, but weird.  I had already told my vet about my alien skunk theory, but when I saw the drain, I started joking about blowing in one end so Cory could make bubbles in her water bowl or taking her snorkeling.  My vet has concluded that I have a strange sense of humor.  Poor Cory.  She had gone through hell week and all I could do was make fun of her. 

Cory with her drainage tube. Note the tube goes through her skin and exits below her jaw.

By the time Jay came home Saturday night, Cory’s drain had been removed and other than a couple of residual holes in her face, she looked normal and very happy to see her favorite human.  Just a regular week here in the land of fur and feathers.

It Stinks Being an Empty Nester

This past weekend was an emotional one as we moved Kelsey into her dorm at Lyndon State College in Vermont.  A lot of anxiety on Kelsey’s part, employing our abilities to be carriers of heavy objects up three flights of stairs, coaches and cheerleaders, but we got through it.  Now to face the reality of our new role as Empty Nesters.   After twenty-two years of centering my life around those of my children, what to do?

Monday morning.  Jay is scheduled for an umbilical hernia repair at Pequot Medical Center at 6:30 am.  He conveniently waited until after Kelsey’s move-in date.  A minor procedure, one I reminded him that I’ve had done on the occasional kitten at the same time it goes in to be spayed or neutered.  The kittens bounce right back, so a week of sick leave seems like overkill.  Nonetheless, I met the doctors beforehand and was asked if I would be waiting or wanted to be called.  Hmmm.  Would I have enough time to do some necessary grocery shopping, including driving home to put the food away?  The store, the medical center, and our house were all within a ten minute drive.  Absolutely, the nurse told me.

As I rounded the aisles at Stop n’ Shop, it was a bittersweet feeling.  For the first time in two years, I was able to freely select food that had gluten in it.   Both of my children have Celiac Disease so their gluten free diet has changed my approach to shopping and dining.  I splurged and picked up some deli rolls.  I also got a package of tilapia, not because it’s a gluten-containing fish, but because Kelsey is a picky eater.  We now have more options for our dinner table without kids to consider. 

I quickly finished shopping and got home, letting the dogs out for a quick potty break while I put groceries away.  It had been an hour and a half since I’d left my husband in his johnnie and paper shower cap so I figured I had just enough time to get back.  The nurse called then and said Jay was just getting out, take my time.  I said I’d be there in ten minutes. 

I called the dogs, but they seemed to have disappeared.  I figured our Golden Oldie Chardonnay was trolling for treasures (chicken poop) and went outside to find them.  I didn’t see the dogs, but I smelled a distinct aroma…of skunk.  I heard our energetic young mutt Cory barking down the driveway by the stone wall and I knew.  We were skunked.

It’s never convenient for your dogs to challenge a skunk, but when you’re trying to get back to the medical center, you don’t have time to deal with two stinky dogs.  This is the first I’ve ever had to deal with a skunked dog and I did what most people would do…I freaked.  All I knew was that I needed to leave, but what to do with the dogs?  Cory was rubbing her face on the door mat, her muzzle covered in a path of slobber from the irritating spray.  There was no doubt she’d been sprayed head on.  I wiped her eyes with a wet paper towel and put her in her crate.  At least that should keep the little instigator from contaminating anything else, I thought.  Chardonnay didn’t seem to have taken a direct hit.  I don’t have a crate for her anyway so I had to take my chances. 

Remembering the nurse telling me to take my time, I figured I’d use an extra 15 minutes to visit Pet Supplies Plus for some magic skunk odor remover rather than drag Jay with me in a drugged-up state.  I got there right as the doors were opening, desperation in my eyes, skunk smell on my clothes.  They were out of de-skunker.  Now I not only felt rushed, but I was irritated with the world.   Everyone was in my way, the lights were all red, and I stank.  My car stank.  Obviously, one can be victimized by a skunk just by walking through the invisible mist they leave floating in the air.  I received a text from Kelsey, letting me know that she needed me to mail her bobby-pins (the good kind), tank tops, her hair dryer and an assortment of other needs.  I took a moment to tell her to get a ride with her roommate and go shopping for herself.

I was so distracted by my skunk thoughts, that I missed the turn for the medical center and didn’t realize it until a couple of miles later.  My exasperation screamed as I turned the car around.  I’ve only been to Pequot a million times (usually for Kelsey), so how could I miss it?  Once there, I was escorted back to my groggy husband who was holding an ice pack to his belly.  He looked up as I walked in.  “I smell skunk.” 

“Funny thing happened while you were in surgery.”

The nurse helped Jay into our van and poked her head in.  “Oh yeah, I can smell it.”

As I pulled into our driveway, Tyler called, panicking because he thought his student loan was still messed up.  Not a good time.  It’ll be okay.  Whatever happened to not having to deal with children?

After I got Jay upstairs and settled into bed, I set back out in search of de-skunking solution.  Petco was also out; not a good sign when the manager said he’s been trying to get more in for two weeks.  PetSmart, my third attempt, had two bottles of Natures Miracle De-skunker left.  I bought both.

I tied the dogs out and covered them in the solution, roughly scrubbing Cory and lecturing her that maybe the shivering cold well water from the hose would teach her to leave pretty black and white rodents alone.  After the baths, my back was killing me and my jeans were soaked, but I was relieved to find that at least the de-skunker solution worked.   The dogs didn’t even smell doggy.

Next, I had to tackle the smell in the house, but it was hard to tell what part of that came from my own clothes and what was from a dog touching various surfaces.  I left my clothes outside as the washing machine was already occupied by the dog bed and the door mat, mopping the floor in my skivvies wherever the dogs’ path had crossed.  I even used the Nature’s Miracle on the back door and my purse.   After I finally showered, I was able to breathe more freely.

From the bed, Jay expressed feeble remorse that he wasn’t able to help me bathe the dogs and de-stink the house.  I was so taking his Percocet with a shot of vodka after this. 

Coraline the Skunk Hunter
 

Shave and a Hair Cut

This year I decided to give our Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, her annual haircut myself.  I purchased professional clippers last year and have used them on a couple of the cats who became matted.  Finally, it'd gotten so hot last week and Chardonnay looked so pathetic with her tongue hanging out, I decided to go for it.  I ended up covered in dog hair, hot and sweaty, with a sore back.  Our new puppy, Coraline, savored her naturally short and cool doo and made my job more challenging.  She eventually became so obnoxious  that she had to be banned from the barber area. 

This would have been so much easier on me if we had a dog grooming table

Let go!

Good thing they make puppies cute

"Chardonnay, let me get that hair off your tongue for you."

"You're not going to try to turn me into a Golden Retriever with all that hair are you?"

Bad hair day, but it's okay as long as we don't show Chardonnay a mirror

I got tired and let Chardonnay keep the mohawk for a few days before finishing the job.  She looks slightly better than in the above photo.  I know it doesn't look professional, but at least I saved $70 and Chardonnay feels much cooler now.

Loss of Sanity or.... We Got a Puppy

After raising our Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, I promised myself that I would never get another puppy.  The next dog would arrive in adult form, housebroken and with all its brain cells in gear.  This is what I told my fifteen-year-old Kelsey repeatedly last year when she started asking for her own dog.  She wanted a small dog, one she could carry. She loves teacup-size Pomeranians.  Jay and I don't regard anything smaller than our cats as "real dogs".  I can't stand yippy dogs.  We compromised.  We could get a puppy as long as it wasn't a small breed. 

One of the major reasons I opened up to the idea of adding a second canine to the family has been the realization that our beloved Chardonnay is getting older.  Even though she's pretty healthy, her hips are starting to bother her, she's already had a benign tumor removed and her sire died at the age of eleven.  Chardonnay is ten.  The thought of losing my precious Golden Goof eventually makes my eyes tear up every time.  I prefer the idea of having an overlap, hoping that perhaps Chardonnay can teach a new dog how to behave in our household; no excessive barking, chasing cats or chickens and a tolerance for small children. 

Thinking we'd save money and a life by not going to a breeder, Kelsey looked on Pet Finders for a rescue and found a litter of Shar Pei mix puppies.  We ended up going through Help Save One based in Rhode Island.  After completing an application and putting down a deposit, we got very little feedback other than being told we were approved.  During the process of waiting to hear about our selection, getting auto replies to my email enquiries, being told originally to pick her up from transport at 3 AM in a McDonald's parking lot, then finding out the puppy we'd reserved was not a girl as promised, but a boy....I was tempted to back out many times, but was afraid I wouldn't get a refund.  

I had reservations at the idea of getting a puppy whose mother was a registered Shar Pei.  Although they are adorable with their wrinkly faces, the breed can be aggressive if not trained properly.  I rationalized that most Pit Bulls and Rotweilers I've met have been very friendly, sweet dogs so the breed is not always a determining factor. I also have a personal aversion to a dog whose natural tail carriage is over its back, exposing what I don't want to see every time it walks in front of me.

Nevertheless, we started recording the Dog Whisperer show and bought Cesar Milan's book, How to Raise the Perfect Dog.  I was mentally preparing myself to be a pack leader.

This was to be Kelsey's 16th birthday present a month early.  She agreed, as most kids do who have to beg, to be responsible for the puppy's care, training, save money to pay for the spay surgery, etc.  Kelsey picked out the solid black puppy on the website named "Believe".  She had this image of opening a wrapped box with a puppy inside and being surprised.  Kind of silly, but I went along.  I wrapped a copy paper box, top separately from the bottom, handle holes punched out for air, complete with a ribbon.  I took it with me, along with a regular carrier, and met Pam from Help Save One at the Mystic Friendly's around 11 AM.  Still a seedy process compared to going to a breeder's home, but much better than 3 AM over an hour away. 

As I mentioned, the black puppy turned out to be a male, a fact determined only after Pam took the puppies out as she had no idea which one was ours.  I can sex kittens with 98% accuracy at birth, 100% by two weeks.  Most vets can't claim that level of accuracy with kittens, but puppies have pretty obvious gender differences from the beginning.  Since these puppies were raised at a veterinarian's office in West Virginia, I don't blame the rescue organization for the error as they didn't even see them.  If someone wrote it down wrong, it should have been corrected.  Only two of the litter in the back of Pam's SUV were girls.  I'm glad that I at least got to see the whole litter as it made it easier to narrow down the breed of the father.  Judging by the heads and high white with brown freckles on some of the puppies, I'd say Dad was a hound, perhaps a Pointer.  I had to call Kelsey and tell her the dilemma.  The question was, was it more important to get a girl, or to get a solid black, more Shar Pei looking dog?  Kelsey chose the dark girl, a mushroom colored puppy with white on her chest and toes and a long, straight non-Shar Pei tail.  The puppies smelled like urine (they'd been in a car for over 24 hours) and complained loudly.  Although odoriferous, Kelsey's choice was happy to be held and gave me a bunch of kisses.

When I arrived at our driveway, I stopped and took the stinky, yelping puppy from the the carrier and put her in the gift-wrapped box.  Then I continued on to the house (our driveway is a quarter-mile long).  I called Tyler and instructed him to bring his sister outside.  I tried to present my daughter with her gift and sing Happy Birthday, but I became verklempt.  Figures....dogs make me emotional.  Kelsey's expectations were low after my phone call, but fortunately she loved the puppy at first sight.  "She's so cute!"  My birthday song failed, but cuteness prevailed.

After offering food and bathing her new baby, Kelsey finally settled on the name Coraline, "Cory" for short.  Kelsey has had two sleepless nights and I've gotten out of bed more than my share, but it's getting markedly better every day.  Cory only barks when she's crated and realizes she's alone.  She's quickly learning to settle in quietly when going into the crate.  She's not yippy at all.  Chardonnay loves her, but tires of the puppy exuberance at times.  The cats vary in their degrees of welcome as Cory's method of play is a big rough for them.

Cassie is ready to move into Cory's crate

If we survive Coraline's puppy hood to ever look at another dog in the future, unfortunately my preference  won't be to go through a rescue organization.  I know they're trying to do the honorable thing and it's a lot of thankless work, but I need more reassurances and guarantees.  Still, we'll make it work for the new family member.

Don't wake the baby!

How Much is That Doggie in the Window?

We were dog-less and I was looking for a Golden Retriever-type dog.  A mix or a rescue would have been fine, but I wanted a guarantee of the Golden personality.  Our last dog, Riesling, had to go after he bit 5-year-old Kelsey on the face.  We needed a dog that had a gentle nature, trainable, and a large breed.  Sorry, but small dogs just aren't "real dogs" to me. I called the shelters and rescue organizations with no luck.  Finally, I found a Golden Retriever breeder who had two female puppies remaining, a blond and a red.  My next task was to convince my husband Jay that we were ready to get a puppy when we had just recently put a deposit down on our first Maine Coon kitten. 

Of course, Jay argued that it was too soon, too much money.  I was planning on starting a Maine Coon breeding program with the kitten I would get in June and a dog would be a problem, he protested.  I countered with how well socialized our kittens would be by growing up around a dog and children; it could be a selling point.  Besides, you just got your bonus, right?  I ended my phone conversation with my husband by asking, "So you want me to call the breeder and tell her we're coming tonight?" and Jay caved. 

Knowing that I wanted the blond puppy, I made sure that we got to the breeder's house before her next scheduled appointment for a puppy buyer that evening so I could pick first.  This was in 2001, before everyone had websites and Internet access.  The two puppies were much larger than I expected for 7 weeks old, weighing in at 14 pounds each.  While I signed papers and talked to the breeder, Jay and Kelsey (Tyler was at a baseball game, oblivious to what we were doing) held our choice, a darling blond Golden female puppy.  When I came back outside, I found my formerly reluctant husband holding the puppy like a baby, tears running down his face.  Jay realized then how much he already loved her, our precious new family member. 

Chardonnay at 2 months, trying out the swing

The rest of the family agreed with my name suggestion of Chardonnay.  I was into the wine theme and had had the name in my head for some time.  We brought Chardonnay home and the real work began.  Golden Retrievers are a mouthy breed, chewing anything and everything.  Our wooden steps at the front of the house have been gnawed down.  Our picnic table benches have rounded edges.  Tyler's action figures were dismembered.  Shoes, socks and anything left on the floor were destroyed.  It's a minor miracle that with everything Chardonnay ate, she never had a problem with passing it.  She pooped out pieces of plastic and the Spiderman doll's head in the yard.  We had her crate in the kitchen and later put up a gate to keep her in the kitchen.  She chewed through the gate twice.  Now Goldens are supposed to be one of the more intelligent, trainable breeds, but our dog wasn't completely house-broken until 8 months.  I don't want to hear from anyone whose puppy was housebroken at 8 weeks and never did anything wrong.  I swear Chardonnay was mentally challenged up until her first birthday, when I finally began to see signs of intelligent life. 

As a puppy, Chardonnay liked to play by nipping our heels with her sharp puppy teeth, leading to her being banned from outside family sports most of her first year. I often felt like I was chasing a toddler around, constantly cleaning up after her, sticking my hand into her mouth to pull out whatever non-edible item she was eating, yelling reprimands, buying rawhide by the bag to keep her occupied, chasing her down outside to put her back in her crate....she was exhausting and frustrating to live with. I often threatened to put her outside for a year until she grew up enough to listen.  I promised myself then that I would never get another puppy. The only thing puppies have going for them is their undeniable cuteness.

Chardonnay has given us a couple of scares.  One of the more memorable times was when we took her to the pond at the Westbrook Fishing Club where Jay frequents.  It was winter and a great time to ice skate and ice fish.  Chardonnay's favorite ice game is "grab the hockey puck and run".  Jay had warned the kids to stay on the pond and not to try to walk across the frozen stream below the dam because that ice wasn't as safe.  He forgot to tell Chardonnay that rule and sure enough, she fell through the ice, about 10 feet away from the bank.  Since I'm married to Mr. Safety, we all knew better than to go out on the ice ourselves to pull Chardonnay out of the water.  If the ice can't hold a 75-pound dog, it certainly won't hold an adult human.  Most of her body was submerged, her head and shoulders held up by her front legs hanging on to the edge of the hole she'd created.  Jay tried throwing a lasso around her several times with no luck.  Goldens are bred for swimming in cold water, but after a while Chardonnay started to whine.  I worried that with the extreme cold of the water even she could suffer from hypothermia, get tired and go under.  Our dog would be swept under the ice by the current.  I was haunted by images of my children watching their dog die right in front of them.  Finally, someone remembered there was a row boat nearby.  The kids and I carried it down to the stream where we were able to lay it across the ice and Jay could reach down from the boat safely to haul her up.  Not knowing how cold she'd gotten, I ran Chardonnay up to the fishing hut where we had the wood stove going and she enjoyed an Oreo cookie snack while she warmed up.  Within a few minutes, Chardonnay was ready to go out and chase the hockey puck again, her brush with death forgotten.  

Racing Jay and Ben down the hill this past winter

The other time when we were afraid of losing our dog was two years ago when I found a large tumor under her tail.  I blogged about that event in "Mother's Day".  Cancer is prevalent in Golden Retrievers and although Chardonnay's tumor was benign, the fear of what might have been reminded us of how much she means to our family.  I was made aware of this again just yesterday when Logan, a fellow Golden and service dog who I've blogged about before, lost her battle with cancer at only five years of age. 

True to my persuasive argument with my husband, having a Golden Retriever has been a positive selling point to potential kitten buyers.  I have had kitten buyers tell me they will wait for one of my kittens because they also have a dog and it's important to them to have cat-dog harmony.  Chardonnay is an important part of their socialization, enabling my kittens to walk into a new home without a fear of dogs.  She also considers it part of her job to clean, snuggle and occasionally play nursemaid to the kittens. 

"You can try all you want, but I'm telling you guys I don't HAVE any milk!"

Our neighbor has a year-old Standard Poodle he's trying to train.  The other day he was walking his dog and Jay was walking with Chardonnay.  Chardonnay sat on command beside Jay while the other dog jumped excitedly at the end of her leash like Tigger from Winnie-the-Pooh.  Our neighbor chastised his dog, "Why can't you act like Chardonnay?"  Jay replied, "I hate to break it to you, but it took ten years to get her like this."  Actually, it didn't take that long.  Other than Chardonnay's bad habit of jumping on new acquaintances and coprophagia obsession, she's pretty well-trained.  I can point to a spot on the floor where I want her to be and she'll sit there.  She will usually stay on command even if I go out of sight.  Chardonnay will even stand still without any restraint or a collar on while I bathe her with the freezing cold water from our garden hose.  She only chews on her own toys now, though she will occasionally still grab my shoe if she feels I'm ignoring her, smiling as I go after her to retrieve it from her mouth.  Chardonnay doesn't chew on the shoes; she just relocates them for her amusement.

I've blogged before about how Chardonnay defies her breed's nature to hunt; she not only doesn't bother our chickens, but protects them from predators.  I was talking to another chicken hobbyist and Golden Retriever owner the other day who lamented about how many chickens her dog had killed.  I naturally bragged about Chardonnay and how good she is with our hens.  Jay and I have often said that we'll never get a dog as wonderful as Chardonnay again.  When the day comes to add another dog (and it'll be an adult), we'll have to lower our expectations.

Happy Tenth Birthday Chardonnay!

Another Installment on Waste Management

Warning: Do not read this if you are eating or easily disgusted. Our dog, Chardonnay, is a beautiful animal with long golden fur sprinkled with gray, brown eyes and a happy expression. She makes you smile just to look at her. True to her breed, she very social, loving all people and animals. Some animals, like the squirrels, foxes, and deer which share our area are sport to her. She loves to give chase, but would be disappointed if she caused harm to come to one. When I first introduced the chicks to the outdoors this summer, Chardonnay was naturally curious and wanted the chickens to run so she could pursue them. I firmly explained that they were part of the family and after time, she became bored with them as playmates. When the chickens have their free range time, I often put Chardonnay outside with them for protection against any lurking predators. Even though the Golden Retriever was bred to hunt fowl, Chardonnay knows that the chickens are to be protected from harm, not chased. It is amazing how well she understands enough to overcome any predatory instincts she may have; not all dogs can do this. I trust her completely with the chickens even though they are still somewhat cautious around the dog, especially when she runs around the yard like a nut.

Chardonnay especially loves the new pullet, our Jersey Giant named Thelma. Thelma's personality is more Maine Coon cat-like around the dog and unlike the others, she is not intimidated by a 75-pound canine. This has led to a different kind of relationship between dog and bird. Chardonnay follows Thelma around the yard, nose to butt, waiting for a "treat" to plop out. Thelma is Chardonnay's Pez dispenser with a chicken head on it.

I've written previously on Chardonnay's obsession with poop. This behavior is common enough that it actually has a name, coprophagia. It means "one whose breath smells like crap". Down south, one would say a person with halitosis has the "zackleys" meaning their breath smells exactly like their ass. Seriously, the tendency to eat poop is pretty common in dogs. The theories dogs do it range from improper housebreaking, mother's instinct to clean up their puppies' smell, poor nutrition to boredom and stress.

When we had a rabbit, my research taught me that coprophagia is a natural behavior to them as well. The reason? Recycling. If a rabbit pellet is hard and dry, all the nutrients are gone and the rabbit leaves it alone. If the pellet is soft, they send it through again in order to glean every last bit of nutrients. Although gross, this instinct has probably kept many wild animals from starving. Rabbits, however, don't hunger for the poop from other animals. Dogs like poop from any creature it seems. Deer poop is the worst because not only will a dog sample it, they will also roll in it, picking up deer ticks and a stench like no other in the process. Although Chardonnay's brain rules over the hunting dog instinct, we have no such luck with her recycling nature. She's part of the family, but she's still a dog.

Birthday Blizzard

On December 20^th not only was it my birthday but we got between 14 and 16 inches of snow; pretty major for our part of Connecticut. My mother has always loved to tell me stories of my birth (each one is special if you're a parent). What I remembered this year was that it snowed the day I was born also. It's not that extraordinary for it to snow in December, but when you're born in New Orleans, it becomes more of an event. So it was only fitting that we got snow, however Tyler did comment as he was shoveling the cars out that I could have asked for a little less.


The snow came all the way up to our dog Chardonnay's belly. Snow was invented for Golden Retrievers; if it's wet and cold, they are in their element. If it smells like crap, well that's a doggie bonus. Chickens are another story. We (read "Jay") shoveled a path around their coop, but it was too much to clear out their whole area. The chickens found that if they dared to fly, they would land in the soft fluffy stuff and stay there, completely immobilized. Ever the opportunist, I took pictures of their plight before rescuing them. The chickens have had to remain confined in their fenced-in area until a few days ago when the snow melted. The chickens celebrated their freedom by scratching up the yard and basically running acluck.

In my last blog, I mentioned how hard it had been to integrate our Jersey pullet, Thelma, into the rest of the flock. The snow did the trick. With the snow surrounding the chickens, they were too freaked out to consider picking on the youngster. Thelma is now one of the girls. They still chase her from time to time, but it's not constant harassment like before. Good thing, because now Thelma is larger than the Hamburg hens. Soon, she'll be bigger than the Americaunas and Shanaynay, our horny little rooster. It'll be interesting the first time Shanaynay tries to breed Thelma; probably similar to when the neutered European Burmese cat tried to breed our 16-pound Maine Coon girl. He couldn't quite reach, but they both enjoyed the attempt.

 

Into the Woods

We live on 3 plus acres which are secluded in the woods. Our property backs onto a Ledyard park which provides us with more isolation and a nice trail for hiking. Once the colder weather moves in (which it did in force recently; there was snow in northwestern parts of the state) and the horseflies and mosquitoes are gone, it's a good 45-minute hike through the woods with Chardonnay, our dog. Chardonnay is enthusiastic about these hikes, running ahead then checking back with us, chasing scents and the occasional deer or turkey. Since most of my shoes are slip-ons and I never wear shoes in the house, Chardonnay knows that if I sit down to actually tie a shoe, a hike is forthcoming and she starts her Scooby Doo bark in anticipation.

My favorite times to hike are in the fall when the leaves are still up and in the winter right after a good snowfall. The spring gets iffy when the mud is bad as it then becomes a challenge to keep Chardonnay from wallowing in the black stuff. Failing to keep her out of the mud results in the next challenge of bathing a dog with water from the hose that's so cold it hurts. Doesn't seem to bother Chardonnay as her motivation in life is to be cold and wet (and stinky), but not so much for us humans. The other challenge is to get the ticks that she's collected off of her before she comes back in the house. I often joke that we're going out tick collecting when we hike. Don't forget we live in Connecticut, the origin of Lyme disease (the disease was identified in Lyme, CT). Chardonnay has tested positive for Lyme disease twice, but her human family has so far escaped. Don't worry, she's also on Frontline year round to combat the little parasites.

Do you know what's it called when the wind blows and a swirl of leaves come down like snow?....Leaving (my word, thank you very much).

A few weeks ago a mountain lion was spotted on the park property next to us. My initial response was "Cool!" Then I thought, uh not a good predator to have around chickens. We have electric netting around the chickens, but big cats are probably better jumpers than coyotes and foxes. Nevertheless, Chardonnay and I set out in the woods to look for signs of a mountain lion, armed with the knowledge that big cats are much shyer than other large predators and tend to be afraid of dogs. I don't think I'd go by myself without Chardonnay. She's a Golden wimp, but the wildlife doesn't know that. To them, she's a 75-pound challenge with a big bark who smells like she has a human companion. To date, we have never had a problem with coyotes coming into our yard and I have to believe it's because they smell Chardonnay.

The hike through the park property is one large circle which has a couple of historic landmarks. One is a well and the other is the remains of a cellar foundation. The New England states have stone walls which were built by settlers trying to clear the stones off the fields so they made stone walls to divide property, hold the livestock in, etc. It looks very similar to the stone walls dividing up the sheep farms in England, hence the reason we are "New"….really original guys. When you see the magnitude of what they accomplished hundreds of years ago with no machinery to lift and stack the stones, it's very humbling.


It's part of our routine to look down the well to see if Timmy is down there (Lassie reference) and for Chardonnay to jump on "her rock" and pose for a moment. She'll go for 6 months without going on this trail, but she always remembers we expect her to jump on the rock when we come back to the woods in the fall.


I had played all the what if's in my mind in the event we actually came across a mountain lion. Would Chardonnay chase it up a tree so I could take pictures with my cell phone? My story would be in the newspaper and I could be a local celebrity for a day. Or would it run away so fast that Chardonnay wouldn't even see it (she has missed turkeys, pheasants and deer running ahead on the trail). Or would the lion sneak up behind me, Chardonnay obliviously up ahead chasing a squirrel, and jump me? Would she come to my rescue at the sound of the commotion or keep chasing the squirrel? Would the lion really be intimidated by a human with a large dog or take us both down? Would I have time to dial 911? And if I did, would there be a signal?

Nothing so exciting happened. No signs of a mountain lion were seen by my untrained eye. No kitty paw prints in the mud, no large litter boxes or big cat poop and no reaction to a new scent by the Golden Hunter. Maybe the big cat wondered off to new territory, but it'd still be kind of neat to see it.

Our Lion Cub for the Day

No, we didn't really get a lion cub; I just wanted to get your attention.

Suzan and John brought their service dog, Logan, with them last weekend to visit the kitten they are getting from us. Logan (shown below to the right of the lion) does all kinds of publicity and professional work because she's a very well-trained Golden Retriever. Logan demonstrated her service dog abilities by picking up Suzan's cane and bringing it to her. See more of Logan on her blog.


Ignore the dates on the photos; I didn't reset the date on my camera after recharging the batteries.

Logan brought her lion head costume so Chardonnay could borrow it for the photo shoot. We figured she already had the perfect lion tail and hair cut so why not exploit her look?

Chardonnay the Golden Lion

Awww!

"Hey Dude! Logan! Where'd you go?"

A Golden is a Golden. Our cats didn't blink when Logan came in the house. Ray snuggled up to her immediately. Maybe Suzan and John will get a red Maine Coon next time......

UPS - The brown tabby going to live with Suzan, John, Logan and their other cats.

Check out UPS and his sisters on my Kittens Page