Singer's View of the Weekend

I had planned on grooming Singer this weekend myself, I really did. But then other chores and tasks filled my agenda, so I went to the Internet to see if I could find a groomer with an opening this weekend. I lucked out and found a groomer who had an opening Sunday morning. Her shop was a few miles out in a little town called Fitchburg. I was motivated. And Singer needed it!  As you can see from these pictures, taken afterwards, she looks good.

When I went to pick her up, the girl who runs the cash register asked me if she could take her picture with her phone and I said sure. Singer was standing on her grooming table and she shook her head impatiently. I called her and whistled to get her attention, but she gave me this haughty look, like "You don't know what I've had to put up with here this last hour..." and then she again shook her head, so I don't know if the girl got a decent picture or not. But she was good natured about it. On the way out, she nosed another dog waiting to be groomed and I imagined she was transmitting doggy code, "You better watch out for this one...I hear she's from Iowa!" She held her head up high and quick-stepped out of there, not giving any of the other lowly dogs a backwards glance.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression about Singer, she is such a sweetheart, she actually trembles with submissive joy when I come home sometimes. And she prances around the house in happiness other times, so glad to see her family. But she is rather snobbish to strangers. She deigns to allow a stranger to pet her, then noticeably backs off. She gets this distant look in her eye, like she is comparing the stranger to one of her servants back at her mansion. Not that we are rich, but I always wonder if she is reflecting some subtle key she is picking up from me, or if she is just naturally aloof. I asked Jeff about it, and he reminded me that we were told about her "princess" nature when we got her, but still. We don't think of ourselves like this at all. And Saylor wasn't like this, she loved everyone equally. But I guess, like children, some dogs have individual personalities that seem to come from nowhere.

Yesterday, I walked Singer in Garner Park, that lovely hillside park with prairie and woods and even a pond off the trails. A man approached me and I thought, political volunteers are even swarming the parks this weekend looking for voters before the election. But actually, he was a park ranger, I learned after I took my earbuds out and took his card. He explained that this park was a "no dogs allowed" park, and owners were subject to $114 fine. I looked around and started adding up the fine money for him and came up with over $500. He assured me that he didn't want to enforce the law, but he did ask me to contact my alder about proposing a fenced in dog park. Of course, I agreed. He said the idea of a three acre fenced park in the wooded area near the pond would allow dog walkers like me to enjoy the park and we wouldn't be breaking the law. I went home and emailed my alder, expressing my support and offered to give my time if needed. I sent a copy to Josh, the young park ranger, who emailed right away with an "awesome." I still think he acted more like an Obama volunteer than a government worker.

I hope we can construct a dog park. This park has been a favorite for Singer and me, and Saylor's before her. I still worry about allowing Singer to run wild and free with other dogs, but I know she longs to run. It breaks my heart that she hasn't been given the chance since coming into our home to run, but I just haven't been able to trust her to always come immediately when I call her. And I hope the other dogs don't size her up as a prima donna just waiting to be taken down a notch or two. I guess that's my real worry.

Sunset Velvet Head, Twinkie and Bingo Bango

These are just some of the names Jeff and I have made up for Singer. We’ve spoiled her greatly and love her so much. Does this mean she is a “dependent” and we are “the government” because we provide her with food, shelter and love? In other words, is she part of the “47% who don’t pay taxes”? Yes, I guess she is. When I started this blog, I promised myself I wouldn’t get political, but these times are just too compelling not to weigh in. Sorry about breaking my promise.

Dakota, too, is part of this crowd, a “moocher” as the media is calling these people. They were originally described as people who don’t pay income taxes by Governor Romney, and so therefore not of his concern in getting elected. His argument is so full of flaws, I won’t go into it, but suffice it to say, I don’t agree with him. So what does this have to do with my pets, or anyone’s pets? I think there are some distinct parallels. Pets are like are our dependents, yes? And they don’t pay taxes and sometimes act like “victims”. But do they really become so passive and just lie around waiting to be fed? I don’t think so. Take Dakota, for example.  Every morning he meows at about 5:30 in the morning to get our lazy butts out of bed. He sounds like a cranky drill sergeant and sometimes even makes his meow lower by a few registers for dramatic effect. He deserves an Oscar for the emotion he puts into it. Sometimes I can coax him up to the bed and I pet him while holding him down. But he soon breaks out of my arms and goes right back to his “job”—which is to get us out of bed!  I would argue that he isn’t being driven by a “victim” mentality, but he is motivated by a sense of entitlement, that’s for sure. And who can blame him, if he’s hungry, to want us to get up and feed him? But he is uncompromising about the time—can’t he just let us sleep a little longer? Please?

Singer takes a more assertive approach, also without a “victim mentality”—she paws my face until I get up and let her out. She doesn’t wait around or whine or bark, she just gets in my face, literally. But somehow, I don’t mind that approach as much. I can’t tell you why, exactly, but to get a scratchy paw in the face just seems preferable to a mournful meow that swoops low like the resinous sounds of a cello. The sound is grating, to say the least. More than once I’ve imagined throwing something at him to shut him up. So, to carry the analogy further, I guess we find people who “complain” about their circumstances more annoying than those who “get in our face” about it, right? Is it okay to become aggressive but not complain? Wait, that’s not right, either. Back to the drawing board:  we’re all dependent on one another and our pets expect a certain amount of care from us, just as our children or others who are dependent on us do. And I guess it’s up to us to work together with them to decide just how much we can do.

Now back to my original thesis—Sunset velvet head, twinkie and bingo bango, these are all terms of endearment that we didn’t just dream up out of thin air and apply to an empty vessel. They are inspired appellations because of the love we feel coming from our loving dog, whose essence of devotion, love, loyalty, fealty is real and of value. The same goes for Dakota, whose purring soft love pours out of him like a reliable engine. They are not takers, they are givers. 

Son of Luxor, Daughter of Dante

My pets are from some illustrious stock. Dakota Moon’s father was named Luxor, after the Egyptian city known for its “high social status and luxury, but also as a center for wisdom, art, religious and political supremacy,” according to a History of Luxor (Thebes). Luxor was a registered Triple Grand Champion with The International Cat Association. He was a big ragdoll, officially a blue bicolor, while Dakota takes after his mom in coloring as a seal bicolor, and is rather small for his breed. But his front paws are the same as his father’s—splayed outward. He also has a great temperament. Still he’s a bit of a prima donna. Lately, he’s been demanding different kinds of foods, he gets finicky really easily these days. So I have to rate the kinds of foods he likes, trying to please him. He soon tires of even his “favorites.” Next, he’ll demand only freshly cooked meats warmed to the perfect temperature. Such a spoiled one. Is that what his people had in mind for future generations when they chose the name Luxor for their cat? The epitome of luxury, he is surely a premium prince. This is a chicken and egg argument, but did we spoil him because of his father’s name or was he spoiled despite his name? Who knows? Maybe a little bit of each. Dakota means “friendly” in the Sioux language, by the way.

There’s an advertisement featuring an Irish setter with the caption, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” That always makes me think of Singer. She has doleful eyes set in an almost perfect face that just make you love her. And her father, speaking of elegant, is Dante’s Inferno, a champion who made it all the way to Westminster when Singer was two years old. Singer’s heritage, like Dakota’s, is top of the line, and her conformation, athleticism, and health show it.

Sometimes I imagine Luxor, who is now old (born in 1995 so he would be 17 years old) and Dante, who is at least middle aged, meeting each other. What would they be like together? Singer is so respectful of Dakota, and it came without any training or little prompting, so I have to wonder if she didn’t sense Dakota’s standing in the world somehow. Dakota, who was so equanimous even during Saylor’s trying puppy years, has now turned pretty competitive and jealous. Whenever I take Singer outside to throw some balls, Dakota meows to go out, too. If I pet Singer, Dakota wants equal time. Now I keep a special mouse toy on a string in the cupboard for Dakota up above his food. I play with him to help him feel special, while Singer watches like the princess she is. Saylor would never allow me to play with Dakota, she would always grab the toys. But Singer knows that Dakota feels threatened by her, so she watches with a ton of grace and good will.

But then again, I think these guys both have some inbred trailer trash in their lines somewhere. They both have proven they can be little outlaws and get in trouble with the likes of alley cats and ghetto dogs everywhere. Just tonight, Singer was licking up the floor with gusto for every drop of food she could scavenge. And Dakota loves to curl up in the darkest of corners, as if he were dreaming of being a hobo cat, owned by no one. Just when you think you get them figured out, they fool you. Just like a good novel that you can’t put down.

One more thing: Singer has a mesmerizing soul mate in the neighborhood. We were walking as usual and a man across the street starts waving at me (I usually am listening to my iPod, so I don’t pay attention.) I finally looked at him and his black and white standard poodle, then looked ahead to where he was pointing. I couldn’t figure it out, I saw nothing. I took out my earbuds and he hollered, “There’s a rabbit up ahead.” Then I noticed his dog, mesmerizing, just like Singer does. I laughed and pointed at Singer and told him they were both mesmerizing. He thought I was a dumb female and said they were pointing. Well, I knew that but…I like my description better. We both stood and waited while our dogs mesmerized until the rabbit decided to run away.

Animal Spirit Transfer

Singer, forever known now as the “Walk Witch”, becomes transformed by her daily walks. It is unchanging, the transformation, even if the circumstances are varying from day to day. Even though we might take a different route, or the weather is cloudy one day, steamy hot the next, she falls into the same rhythms during her walk. The first bunny she sees, she stops to mesmerize for several minutes:  her head erect, her nose twitching, her eyes focused. Sometimes her paw steps slowly, silently forward, inching toward her prey. Her elegant legs twitch in excitement—she is drinking up the essence of her bunny, who is motionless in terror, its black eye transfixed on the sight of that big red dog stalking just a few feet away. The bunnies never even consider running away at this time, it’s as if they’ve all made the assessment:  “My life is over—I could never run from that fast dog.” It also seems the very molecules that float in the air above the bunny are somehow absorbed by Singer. She is doing a sort of Vulcan-like transfer of animal spirits, I believe. And the transformation is completed as she suddenly comes back to the present, her walk, and she moves energetically forward at a pace that pulls at her long flexi-lead, so that I am straining to keep up.

I wonder just what is involved in this complex transaction of animal spirit to animal spirit during these walks. It seems that, whatever the process, it energizes Singer and she takes the rest of the walk at a brisk speed, somehow happier. I feel like a slow child, struggling to keep up with my super fast nanny, who has decided to embark on an ambitious exercise program for her chubby charge. “Come, come,” Singer might say in an English (or Irish) accent, “Hurry it up!”

I cannot help but admire her athletic movements several feet ahead of me. She slices through the air, whether it is wet-blanket humid out, or still and foggy just before rain, she moves at a business-like pace. The other dogs on our walk always stop to look at her; some bark energetically, trying to get her attention. She may get her guard up, and start to growl, at which point I carefully steer her across the street. Suddenly, I think of myself as being in charge again, instead of her, and I think of the near-miss of a vicious dog fight. I am always so relieved. Singer hardly takes any notice. She is on a mission:  “Come! Come!”

Other times we will meet our neighbors, who may stop to pet Singer and talk to me for a few minutes. Singer is aloof towards most people. I excuse her frosty manners, saying that she is just tired from her walk. But privately, I wonder why she is not a people dog, like Saylor was. She is incredibly bonded to me, I know how much space I take up in her canine mind: more than 90 percent, I’m sure. I know she lives and breathes by my wishes and actions. I can’t make any movement in the house without Singer trotting down from her couch to come check out my actions, see what I’m doing. It’s kind of a daunting relationship—sometimes, I actually invite Singer to “go see Daddy” (Jeff) so that she stops trying to paw me, or lay on my feet.

But man, every day I am so glad to have her. She is such an incredible animal. She has brightened my life so much, and I love her so very much. As I love Dakota, my sweet kitten, who is getting on in years. Both are such precious pets.

The Walk Witch Gets Her Wish

Singer is my walk witch. She never lets a day go by without reminding me in her subtle way that she wants to go on her walk. Doesn’t matter if Jeff or Nate have already given her one—she has to have a walk with me. Every single day. No matter how brutal the heat, or how tired I am, she wants her walk with me.

She’ll give me looks, wait patiently until I get up and then try to lead me to the front door. Wagging her tail, she’ll look at me as if I’m a dense child: “Do you get it? Walk?” she seems to be saying as she looks at me so expectantly. I might hurry on, as I did tonight, busy with dinner preparations. She’ll lie down in the kitchen to wait, watching me.

Like a witch, she’s actually plotting her next move. I have a daring thought: I think I may be able to sneak off after dinner to the deck and get some writing down. As I walk to the door, Singer’s right by my side, like a horse trotting to first place. She blocks the door to the deck. I stand aside and let her out first. She prances around the yard, checking out her favorite chipmunk sites, and I think, “Good, she’s happy.” I boot up my laptop.

She runs over to the deck, jumps up on the table and looks down at me, her ears hanging forward as she looks right into my face. Her eyes have a disapproving look, as if she is an old crone coming out of the woods, wondering if her potion has taken effect yet. “Singer,” I push-pet her back, but she paws at me. First one paw, then she tries the other one. She tries to paw my laptop, so I stand up and walk over to the railing, setting my laptop precariously on the railing. I get a few minutes of work done. She is still on the table, watching, waiting. Her patience is admirable.

I try to sit back down again, and the walk witch tries another tack. She starts lovingly licking my thigh, slowly at first, from top to bottom. It tickles. “Singer…” I try to brush her away. Finally, I look at her, laugh, and give in. The walk witch gets her wish.

Yesterday, a Sunday, it was too hot outside to groom Singer on the deck. So I set up a card table in the cool basement and worked on her. She loves the stripping comb now, which I use every week to keep her under coat thinned out. She sometimes lays on her side and I will slow down and work on her, remembering how I used to love taking care of my dolls as a little girl. I loved to brush their nappy rough hair, dress them, talk to them, bathe them. I would use my allowance and buy them diapers and dresses at the neighborhood drugstore. Teary Deary was a baby doll I especially loved. Singer Bell Ringer is my baby doll. She loves her weekly massages, and I love to brush her fur until it shines and smooth out all the tangles so that her fur lays nice and flat. She has a sort of curl to her coat, which is hard to manage—I suspect there are show products that get the curl out. But her weekly grooming sessions leave her coat looking more uniform, less clumpy, and definitely more shiny. She always takes a jog around the yard after we’re done, and I admire how beautiful she looks as she makes her way around the yard. She’s my walk witch, but I can never say no to her for long.

Singer in the Sky with Diamonds

Yesterday The New York Times had an article about how animals like to get high. Really. And it was written by a doctor! Who has written a book in collaboration with a veterinarian! She has this theory that animals are a lot more like people than originally thought. She even had a fancy name for it, zoo…something or other. Latin for animals and then the last part of it was for people. Pretty cool.

So, I was thinking. We judge people pretty harshly for using drugs, right? We think, they had a choice, they could’ve chosen NOT to take that first pill, or snort, or drink. Then they get hooked, and get into trouble and become a drag on society. Now we know that animals like to get high or drunk, too. Researchers have determined that animals wait until the fruit on the bushes has become “winey”. Then they gorge themselves. Or in one case, there’s this cocker spaniel who was always scratching the door to go out. The owners decided to follow him to see what was so enticing. They lived in the country, apparently, because little cocker spaniel beat a trail to a pond where a bunch of frogs lived. They watched as the little doggie started sucking frogs until the skin color came off, then spit them out. He would quickly slurp up another one and do the same thing. The frogs are of a certain species that have a toxin on its skin that is hallucinogenic. Little barkster would go home thereafter, and lie around, spacey and glassy eyed for hours until he would do it again. And again. Interesting. Now we need rehab for doggies?

We used to have an old diabetic dog who loved to eat the raspberries. We worried about his blood sugar, but maybe he was actually waiting for the alcohol effect?

Singer seems to be more like a dope fiend these days. She loves to get out to hunt her chipmunks. She can’t wait sometimes to get out there and scout out her backyard. It’s funny. Today, we woke up with her snuggled between us—she was worried about the thunder and lightening, which didn’t wake me up, but apparently she heard it. I groaned as I got out of bed, seeing the rain. How would we get her to go outside before we have to leave for the day? I got the umbrella and she slinked out the door after much cajoling. Then she sniffed some hostas, not really interested, as the rain pelted her. She tried to become interested, but just couldn’t. I called after her to go potty, several times. But she just couldn’t. So I let her in, wiped her off with a towel and decided to get ready. She followed me like rocks rolling down a hill. I couldn’t get rid of her. Then I remembered that during our last vet’s appointment, I had mentioned Singer’s severe thunderstorm phobia and Dr. Pam gave me some sample pills to try. They were over the counter natural “herbal remedies”--tryptophan, theanine, and some other stuff in them. I gave her two pills and decided to wait. She paced. I finished breakfast and took a shower. She was looking outside longingly when I came out. It had stopped raining so we tried again.

This time she patrolled her yard in a more natural way, with her head up. I hated to see her slinking before, such an unnatural pose for her. She went to all the usual spots and didn’t sniff out any chipmunks, then came directly when I called. She had not gone poop yet, but she did pee. Whew. I think the pills were starting to work.

So I thought about it. She knows that she was supposed to go potty, but she couldn’t help it. Her nervous system had become hijacked. I wonder if Singer would become a drug addict if she were allowed? Probably.

We took our girl to Disneyland on Saturday

For two hours, we explored the trails along Picnic Point, on the university campus. It’s a gorgeous piece of land, with beaches, woods, prairies, and miles of trails, trails, trails full of a variety of species, both plant and animal. The weather was gorgeous on June 2 here. Singer saw waves lapping on beaches, packed earth rooted trails lined with huge old trees—cottonwood, beech, linden, tall ponderosa pine, oak. The smells were terrific, I could tell, as she darted her nose left and right on the grounds. She looked out onto Lake Mendota and watched the waves coming in to shore, as if she were waiting for her beau to come home from a fishing trip, and noted the fishy scent in the air, although not too bad yet. The waters were not yet choked with algae and looked pretty clear. We stopped at several fire pits where firewood is stacked for students who come here at night and on the weekends. Nathaniel and his friends come here often to enjoy a camping experience in the city. We haven’t been here for years and wondered why the long absence. I remember taking Saylor here once.

Alas, I had forgotten my camera. There were several shots that would’ve been perfect, with the sun just right, the background of lake, beach, sun spots dotting the woods with bright light, tall grasses in prairie, and the birds singing in our ears. It was heavenly for humans, too. These pictures are taken off the university's website for Picnic Point.

Singer loved it very much, I could tell, and strained to be let loose from her leash. By the time we got back to the car, she was panting and hot, and ready for a long drink. 

On a minor note, we found that someone had hit our car trying to back out of the tight parking spot. She was waiting for us, a note on our windshield, when we got back. She was nice enough to leave a note, and it was a minor scratch that popped out the left rear panel a bit, so we will have to get it fixed. Still, it was such a nice time, and I know that Singer appreciated it as well. The next day I expected Singer to be pawing me at her usual time, around five in the morning, begging us to take her back. 

Instead, on Sunday while we were reading the paper, Singer was emboldened to try to dig up a chipmunk in the backyard again, this time at the retaining wall that we just had rebuilt at great expense…! We will have to keep a more careful eye on her when she’s in the backyard. I bet she had visions of chipmunks and squirrels from Picnic Point in her head as she tried to undo the entire landscaping of our yard. I was able to repair it, and possibly the chipmunk will decide it’s not worth living here and leave for good.