Sunday, June 21, 2015

Things My Daddy Taught Me

As I did for my mom on Mother's Day, for Father's Day I have written down the things my dear Papa has taught me. Whether my dad intentionally set out to teach us these things or not, I find myself doing or referring to "Dadisms" quite frequently throughout my adult life.


Do stretching exercises at rest stops when traveling, ostensibly to keep the blood flowing, but mostly to embarrass your children and grandchildren.
Know how to check your car’s oil yourself.
Women should expect men to treat them with respect.
It’s “chimney” not “chimley”.
Real men cry.
When watching TV, conduct the theme music.
Be politically correct.
A change of key is called modulation; Barry Manilow was notorious for modulating. 
Exhale deeply and loudly when stretching to get everyone’s attention and/or make people wonder if you’re okay.
Flatulence in an enclosed space can be deadly and will be talked about for years to come.

When the accelerator cable on your 1972 VW Beetle breaks, take your screwdriver out of the glove compartment and adjust the timing on the engine so it idles fast enough to putt-putt at 20 MPH to the nearest service station.

For all major endeavors, have a Plan A, B and C.
When your teenager confides what she’s been up to, don’t freak out but instead tell her you’re glad she came to you. 
Precede your instructions with “May I suggest, “ so others won’t think you’re too controlling.
Don’t describe people simply by the color of their skin.
If you’re uncomfortable and someone can do something about it, speak up rather than put up.
Don’t put a spoon into a blender full of potatoes until the blades have completely stopped.

 
Stay in good physical shape so you can claim that you weigh the same as you did in college.
E-nun-ci-ate, ar-ti-cu-late and be correct in all things grammar.
Sing frequently and often around the house in full voice. My favorite? “She has freckles on her butt….she’s nice”.
You may over-communicate until others’ eyes roll out of their heads, but they can never claim they didn’t know or that you’re unorganized. 
Never hesitate to tell your family that you love them and are proud.
Even though you don’t really understand it, support your young daughter’s obsession with animals, especially her desire to have a pony. Later, warn her husband that she also always wanted a Jersey cow.

When napping on the couch, don’t react to anything going on around you, like when your young daughters apply make-up to your face or your 3-year-old grandson licks your glasses.

If you’re really angry at something your child did, warn her that you’re about to lose your temper.  Sorry, that always made me giggle (silently).
Embrace technology and learning new things.
Don’t attempt to do basic maintenance on newer cars; what you think are spark plugs are not.

Men can be feminists too.
Keep the “I Heart Dad” socks your daughter gave you for Father’s Day forever, always wearing them when you see her, even thirty-plus years later.


Happy Father's Day, Daddy!
 

Friday, April 10, 2015

Shopping for Spring Chicks


Spring will come, I promise. I know this not because of the weather conditions, but because the local feed stores are starting to get in baby chicks to sell.
For those who may be newer to the chicken fancy, there’s a multitude of information that can be found online. I still find Backyardchickens.com to be an invaluable resource for everything from preferred breeds to healthcare to coop designs.
Since I began keeping backyard chickens almost 6 years ago, I have acquired new chicks every year, one way or another. My original flock of nine has grown to 20. I have expanded in part because I like so many different breeds that I had to have at least one (or two) of each kind. My flock of 20 is represented by 10 different breeds of chickens. I like the variety I get with the different colors of eggs and having chickens that I can easily tell apart.
I have found that as my older girls decrease their egg laying production, it helps to have new pullets to continue to supply my family with eggs. Although hens are clearly most productive during their first two years, they will continue to lay as an older hen, just not as often. We have a hard rule to not cull our chickens as these are our pets. The older, and by older I mean three years and up, lay primarily during the longer days of spring and summer, then take a sabbatical starting in the fall. I look at it as the younger girls paying into the social security fund of the menopausal ones.
I have obtained chicks utilizing different methods; by ordering them online from a hatchery in the mid-west, feed stores, hatching my own eggs, mail-order from a breeder and directly from breeders at poultry shows. I have yet to attend a chicken swap meet, but that’s an idea too. I would prefer to get them all directly from the breeder as those chicks are generally most likely to fit the standard for the breed. I was amazed when I saw the Buff Orpingtons at my first poultry show as they were easily twice as large as our online-ordered Buffy. I also trust the health more from breeders as opposed to mid-west hatcheries, although I have no personal experience to support that.
I have, however, encountered a few issues when shopping for chicks at a poultry show. The breed I want may not be available or even at the show I choose to attend. I have had the best luck purchasing young adult chickens at poultry shows. I suggest Googling “Poultry Shows” to find show and swap meet dates in your area.
Most chicks purchased from a feed store originate from the big hatcheries in the mid-west. The feed stores are merely the middle man. They are already sexed to be all female unless straight run is indicated. Feed stores usually carry four to six of the more popular breeds. In Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York and other states, the law requires that buyers must purchase at least six chicks at one time. I was told this was to limit frivolous single Easter chick purchases and protect the chicks from those who are not likely to know what they are doing. Chickens are flock animals so a single chick is not going to be happy or healthy. I have been able to get around the six-chick rule with a couple of feed stores after I explained that I already had a backyard flock, it was after Easter already and I didn’t have room for more than three new chicks. Although you can have the immediate satisfaction of selecting your chicks at a feed store and taking it home that day along with all the supplies, the variety of breeds are limited. If you want a Polish Crested with its crazy Cruella Deville hair, a cute Silkie or a Marans hen that lays chocolate brown eggs, don’t look at Tractor Supply.
My very first chicks arrived from Meyer Hatchery in Polk, Ohio. The reason I initially chose Meyer was that it was the only online hatchery I could find that would ship as few as three chicks. Most hatcheries require a 15-25 minimum order, depending upon the time of year. With an online hatchery, your choices are much greater. I found it easy to pick and choose which breed and color I wanted, easy because the websites include descriptions of the chickens (personalities, cold/heat tolerance, egg color), hatch dates, and whether I wanted all female, male or straight run (mix of both genders).
If you do encounter a problem with a minimum chick number requirement, one can often find fellow chicken keepers to split the order.
My chicks arrived when they were two days old at my local post office. They had nesting material and heating packs in their special live chick box. Because newly-hatched chicks still have a yolk sack on their abdomens which provides them with 72 hours worth of continued nutrition, the best age to mail chicks is the day they emerge from their shells.
I have had limited success with hatching my own eggs. I don’t have an incubator, but the one thing a Silkie hen is good for besides looking cute, is sitting on eggs, no matter what the source. I have used my Silkies to hatch a friend’s pheasant eggs and eggs from other hens. The problems I experienced were infertile eggs (read rotten), a low hatch rate (only one out of four eggs ended up as a live chick) and not getting girl chicks.
Along with many of the chicken fanciers of the world, I only want female chicks or  pullets (young hens under the age of one year). Roosters are not necessary to get a hen to lay eggs, plus they have a reputation for becoming aggressive toward humans. Many towns have ordinances which will allow chickens to be kept in backyards as long as none of them ever crow. Crowing is not just a morning activity, but one that begins around 4 am and continues throughout the day. I have come to regard a rooster’s crow as nature’s music, but if we lived in the burbs, I wouldn’t want to subject my next door neighbors to the music blasting from my backyard.
Statistically, half of all eggs hatched will result in male chicks. It is a major disadvantage to be a boy in the chicken world. Realistically, people don’t need half of their chickens to be male. Hens not only lay the eggs, but they are quieter, gentler, and, if one is so inclined, better to eat. If the chicken reproduction world were as advanced as the dairy industry, the gender could be pre-determined. Dairy farmers also only need female calves, but they are now able to artificially inseminate their cows with semen that is already divided to produce only girls. My wish would be that scientists could come up with a way to ensure only female hatchlings and avoid a lot of the chicken gendercide.
There are those who proclaim the hatcheries to be the enemy because they end up killing the unwanted male chicks. The animal rights activists push the vegan agenda with their hatchery abuse videos. However, the video I’ve seen represents the factory farmers who raise chickens for the big companies like Purdue.  While I would agree that factory farming methods are disturbing and inhumane, not all hatcheries should fall under the same label.
The hatcheries that cater to the local farmers and backyard breeders seem to be a lot more humane in that they’re selling pets and heritage breeds. These hatcheries try to place as many boys as they can by having local sales. Some hatcheries use the male chicks as extra packing warmth with other chick orders. In the latter case, this means that if I ordered six Silver-laced Wyandotte pullets, I may also receive an equal number of little cockerels in whatever breed that wouldn’t sell.  
On the other hand, your local chicken breeder will also end up culling unwanted roosters, just at an older age. I’ve been to poultry shows where the breeders were trying hard to sell us roosters because otherwise they’ll end up slaughtering whatever cockerels they didn’t sell when they got back to the farm.
Some suggest that when ordering online to only order a straight run of chicks which is supposed to be an even mix of genders so as not to discriminate against the boys. Realistically, with so many people ordering pullets only, those who order a straight run may receive more than 50% male chicks. Until the day arrives where the only male chicks that hatch are those that are wanted, I try to be practical. It is much easier for me personally, since I don’t eat my chickens, to only bring in pullets to begin with.
As surely as the snow will melt and the mud will dry, little peeps will be arriving regularly. They may come to the post office, the feed store, the poultry show or with your neighbor. With so much cuteness and promise of the best eggs ever, it’s time to start shopping.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Bahamas vs. Connecticut


My husband, Jay, is an avid fly-fisherman. Ties his own flies, Vice-President of the fishing club, and can tell you what kind of fish you’ll catch on what type of fly during a particular season. In short, Jay lives for fishing. Once a year he travels to Canada with his friend Curt to spend a lot of money trying to catch the elusive salmon. The weather stinks, the people are great, and he may catch one or two salmon if he’s lucky after standing in a frigid river for 8 hours. He has a great time and comes home telling me how he wants to take me there sometime. Freezing weather in the middle of nowhere, no matter how beautiful, is not my thing.  I can fly fish, but it’s not something I want to spend hours doing, every day.
This year Jay was invited to go fishing with Curt and join a mutual friend of theirs, Steve, who rents a house for 3 months a year. That’s great. I have no desire to hang out with these codgers. Both men are older than Jay, one is a hypochondriac and the other has no regard for his personal hygiene. However, Steve’s rental home is in the Bahamas, on a small island near Eleuthra which can only be accessed by water taxi. Steve also has a boat there. Much less costly, and ever so much more desirable a place to hang out doing nothing, especially since our snow is taking forever to melt this year. Still, I really didn’t want to go, not with that group. Plus I’ve been to the Bahamas before, twice (in my life before Jay) and it wasn’t in a one-bedroom cabin shared with three others.
However, saying I’m here in cold Connecticut while my husband is bonefishing in the Bahamas generally garners some sympathy.  Jay was actually feeling guilty about leaving me weeks before he left. Mind you, he still obsessed about the trip, packing a week in advance, buying a new fly rod, tying more flies than he would ever need, flies that only the mighty bonefish will take because the fish eat differently there. He was excited about going, yet definitely feeling  guilt not normally expressed before the Canada trips.
After Jay arrived at his fishing destination, he called every night to report in.  I found that I could counter every wonderful experience he was having in the Bahamas with one of equally opposite appeal back home.
 

First night’s report: “It’s beautiful here! The water is so blue.”
I responded with, “The snow is beautiful here too.”
“It snowed again? Are you serious?”
I took a picture of our newest winter wonderland and sent it as proof. “Yep. About three inches.”
Jay: “I’m tired from walking on the beach all day.”
Me: “I understand. I’m tired from shoveling snow.”
Next day. Jay: “I caught a barracuda!”
“That’s nice Dear. I caught a cold.”
Day Three: “We saw sea turtles and lots of sting rays.”
“That’s nice. I took the old, sick Hamburg hen to the vet to be euthanized today. She was suffering and I couldn’t watch her like that anymore. “
Day Four: “I’ve been doing a lot of the cooking. The other two aren’t very good in the kitchen. Steve almost set the grill on fire.”
Me: “Me too. And I’m not doing the wood stove anymore because I end up smelling like a camper.”
Day Five: “We ate out tonight. They serve a lot of conch soup here. The people are so friendly. We’ve been drinking a lot of rum drinks.”
Me: “That’s nice, Dear. My nose is sore and red so I’m making chicken soup. Later I’ll have orange juice mixed with cran-mango juice…plus vodka.  Then I’ll take a Benadryl before bed to combat my cold.”
Day Six: “I had a bonefish on the line but it broke off. Man, do they fight! It was so exciting; it ran my reel all the way out.”
“I bought new rain boots to walk in the mud to the barn because my old ones leaked so badly. ”
Day Seven: “Well, Honey, we’re on our way home.”
“Lovely. I’m going to a cat show in Canada next weekend. Would you like to come with me? Oh, never mind, you’d miss Opening Day for trout season.”
Jay: “Are you kidding? I’d love to spend the weekend at a cat show with you instead of fishing.”
Me: “Thought so.”
 

Saturday, March 28, 2015

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!

Friday, February 13, 2015

Back to the Fold


Responsible breeders of purebred animals have an unwritten code of ethics to be available for the entire life of the creatures born in their home.  Many of us have contractual agreements with our clients to be notified in the event that they can no longer keep their pet.  Over the years, I’ve taken my Maine Coon kittens back as adults because of financial hardship/loss of home, divorce, major health issues in the family, and death of the owner.  In all of these cases, I was able to find a new home for the cat so they only had to live with us a couple of months.  Until now.
 
Part of the musical litter named Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La and Ti, Ray (Re) was kept and shown as a neutered male. He had mitral valve dysplasia pretty severely as a kitten so I wasn’t sure initially how long he would live. As Ray developed, his heart did too, and although he kept his heart murmur, his cardiologist no longer considered it life-threatening.  Dracoonfly Renegade Ray was shown to the title of CFA Grand Premier and TICA Supreme Grand Champion Alter. 
 
Six years later, I decided Ray would be happier if he could be a spoiled only child. He had become increasingly unhappy with some of the other cats.  I placed him with Ella, a widow who lived in a lovely elder apartment community.  Ella’s daughter, Linda, had been looking for an adult cat to provide companionship for her aging mother and Ray was a perfect fit.  I even went to visit Ray about six months after he joined Ella to check in on him.  Ray and Ella had bonded beautifully.
Last week, Linda informed me that her mother had passed. Linda couldn’t keep cats in her own apartment so would I take Ray back? She was overwhelmed with the death of her mother and needed to have one less worry. Of course, I’d love to see Ray again, I told her.
Just one thing, Ray isn’t well.  Just a couple of weeks before, she noticed he’d lost weight.  Her vet ran several  tests and an abdominal mass around Ray’s gall bladder was discovered last month. His prognosis was not good. Ray would be coming home to die.  Linda had her husband drop Ray off the next day, with all his toys, brushes, scratching post, food and litter. She included a thank you card with money to help with his medical expenses.
So now I have him, my big red “Ray Ray”, my “Rainman”; “Superman” to my granddaughter. He was gone for three years, but clearly remembered his old buddies Bugger, Bubba and Chardonnay. The rest of the clan isn’t too sure what to think of the intruder (he’ll be an intruder until he smells more like my house), but they’re getting used to it. He still looks like the 20-pound cat that left me, but feeling through his heavy coat to his body tells a different story. Ray has lost four pounds and he feels very bony underneath all that hair. Once we get all the mats out, his weight loss will probably be even more apparent.
Ray’s vet has transferred his records to mine and she’s in agreement that with his age, weight loss, the elevated white blood count and the mass, Ray probably has cancer. Gall bladder disease is extremely rare in cats so it’s not as simple as removing the organ. The only way to know for sure would be to do exploratory surgery and I don’t want to put him through that.
As a breeder, I track the health of my kittens, just in case a genetic problem presents itself. However, Ray is considered an older cat at nine.  His sire, dam and six littermates are all doing well.  Sometimes, shit happens. 
Ray still seems happy; he eats well and loves to have his head rubbed, but I know he’s stressed with all the changes in the past week.  His purr should reassure me that he feels okay, but I know that purring is also a cat’s way of managing pain so I can’t use that as a barometer.  I have to watch his appetite, his litter box, his activity level and track his weight.  He’s had diarrhea so that’s worrisome. So now I’m in charge of Ray’s quality of life, a job I’ve unfortunately learned over the years. I’m not one for heroics, nor do I ever want prolong the inevitable for my own selfish reasons.  In situations like these, I watch the cat closely and try to put myself in their place.  Ray’s time with us may be short this go around, but he’s still my Ray Ray.
 

Monday, January 26, 2015

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.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

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 16th 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.