Oh how Junie loves Cleveland.
Probably more likely, June loves my parents' house. She can stretch her legs, she gets to play with my nephews and their dog Dewey, and life is full of grass she can run in and endless couches to nap on. It's a dog's dream house.
Getting there and beginning our week-long vacation this past week, however, was frought with things I worried about and she clearly did not.
First of all, two days before we left, while I was at work and June was trying out a day all to herself, uncrated in the apartment, she ate an entire chicken carcass and other detritus out of the garbage. Now, before you add to the sizable book of people who have said, "Oh you need to be careful of cooked chicken bones..."--yes, I know. That chicken was wrapped as tightly as possible and awaiting take-out to the trash...this was not so much a deterrent but an invitation and challenge, clearly. So for two treacherous days I examined more of her poop than seems possible. Of course, when the enormous amount of salt, fat, and gristle she ate stopped her up, my stress level ramped up tenfold. Now, how was I going to look for blood-streaked stool signifying permanent bowel damage and her immanent death by chicken?!?
Second, about a month into her tenure in my house (and oh what a car-ride filled joyfest that first month was!) June developed crazy car sickness. Literally every time in the car she would barf. On an empty stomach, on a full stomach, with the windows open, with the windows closed and AC on; the details of circumstance didn't matter--something, anything, and sometimes nothing would come up and she'd look at me with her miserable barf face and wonder when she could get out of that pukey machine I made her ride in. This was a bigger concern than the chicken-carcass constipation: we needed to drive happily for 6 hours. She'd been clocking about 10 minutes before projectile vomiting (although impressively neatly and tidily) in the back seat.
Thusly, armed with my credit card and steel will to make this trip happen, I went to Petsmart (on my own which always seems a lost opportunity) and $96 dollars later I emerged with treats, chewable stress relievers, spray stress relievers, some new toys, and a great recommendation for Dramamine as a cure-all (as it had always been for me too!). Emboldened, I initiated a plan that was basically a "Let's Make this Work" plan of no return.
On this side of our two lengthy car rides and a week in Cleveland I'm happy to report that, as it most often seems with dogs, everything worked out (figuratively and literally) just perfectly. The car rides were a non-issue. The combo of treats and Dramamine (1 pill for my medium sized doggy) seemed to do the trick and Pukey McPukerton had no trouble--not even one dry-heave to report. She also started jumping back into the car on her own which was a huge coup for me as obviously the treats re-wrote some of the "bad vibes" of that barf-machine. As for the bowels--they're COMPLETELY FINE, I'm pretty sure. Nothing but brown, moist, and robust have been coming out of that butt for the past four days and she seems completely fine so the Great Chicken Carcass Incident of 2016 (hopefully, there will just be that one) is over. Let's close the book on that one.
My takeaway as a new dog owner is this: dogs are pretty durable little dudes. So watching the signs from behavior and general countenance were key. And Katie, for god's sake, stop stressing out so hard. It's all gonna be fine. And Dramamine really is a cure-all for dogs and me alike--although driving with the windows helps too...which was actually more enjoyable than I ever thought possible for so long.
All is well, vacation is over, but the capers, I'm sure, are sure to continue in the least-expected ways possible.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Coming and Going, Vol. 1, Issue 1
I write this as June is adorably curled up on "her" couch, getting ready for evening slumber.
Actually, she's snoring already. Loudly. Reason being, I'm home.
One of my greatest fears in getting a dog falls in the category of dog-single-parenthood: the reality is, I have to leave the security and wonder of my apartment on practically an everyday basis. Clearly, I work, I play tennis, sometimes the 1-2 friends I have demands I go out to dinner. I must oblige. Which means, Junie is home alone. Like Kevin Arnold in December, she doesn't take this lightly or without a flair for the creative.
To be clear, I've tried crate training. She jail-broke in the most fascinating ways imaginable. June's not a lithe little thing but, wow, she's resourceful. After basically destroying her metal crate bar by bar, I've decided that it must've been a message. "Katie," she disdainfully mutters, "I can handle myself while you're gone. And I really want to sleep on the couch."
"Okay, okay," I think to myself as I leave my house with her out and about. "What could she possibly get into?"
For the record, that's the dumbest question in history. If I left her in a bare room with only hardwood floors and four painted walls, she'd figure something out, get into it, existentially transform it, and then chew it to death.
So I've become accustomed and actually impressed at some of her choices. My most favorite to date, though, is thus:
This past week, I caught on to the fact that she was dragging things out of the bedroom to examine in her "lair" comprised of the space under the dining room table between all of the chairs. Three days in a row, I'd come home to find pieces of my clothing in her lair: one shoe, a t-shirt out of the laundry, a winter hat I've been looking for for 3 years. Not destroyed or mangled, just there. Essences of me.
Knowing this, I figured out how to successful close my bedroom door whose handle falls off every time you try to use it. As it turns out, a quick but gentle sweeping motion will latch the door without making the inside doorknob fall of which, in turn, creates about an hour of panic-cum-annoyance at figuring out how to get back into the bedroom.
"What's the little one going to do now?!?" my sinister interior monologue questioned. "Maybe now just laying on the couch will seem much more appealing."
Ah, no. I came back from work and climbed my three flights of stairs eagerly, hoping to find June on her back on my couch just chillin like a villain. Instead, when I unlatched the two locks on the front door and opened it, there she was to greet me, bark collar askance, wagging her bizarrely long tail in huge circles.
Stepping in to my apartment I felt both the pride and surprise of that high school quarterback who's house has been Charmin-ed excessively by over-enthusiastic cheerleaders the night before. Running all through my dining room, around chair and table legs, draped over my couch, and through my coffee table was one long, uninterrupted thread of the double roll of Charmin I had just put in the bathroom that morning. It was like Christmas in August. And it was masterful. And graceful. And there she was, wagging that enormous tail with a look on her face that was nothing short of, "look what I made for you!"
As I wove over, across, through, and below the extremities of my furniture, gathering up in a heap that one single thread of toilet paper otherwise unspoiled, all I could think was, "touche, June. Touche." I have an artist in my midst. Now how to appreciate it.
The next morning, the bathroom door was closed. June saw that as a mere hurdle and not the end of the road. She only has 4 other rooms and a multitude of closets to explore.
Actually, she's snoring already. Loudly. Reason being, I'm home.
One of my greatest fears in getting a dog falls in the category of dog-single-parenthood: the reality is, I have to leave the security and wonder of my apartment on practically an everyday basis. Clearly, I work, I play tennis, sometimes the 1-2 friends I have demands I go out to dinner. I must oblige. Which means, Junie is home alone. Like Kevin Arnold in December, she doesn't take this lightly or without a flair for the creative.
To be clear, I've tried crate training. She jail-broke in the most fascinating ways imaginable. June's not a lithe little thing but, wow, she's resourceful. After basically destroying her metal crate bar by bar, I've decided that it must've been a message. "Katie," she disdainfully mutters, "I can handle myself while you're gone. And I really want to sleep on the couch."
"Okay, okay," I think to myself as I leave my house with her out and about. "What could she possibly get into?"
For the record, that's the dumbest question in history. If I left her in a bare room with only hardwood floors and four painted walls, she'd figure something out, get into it, existentially transform it, and then chew it to death.
So I've become accustomed and actually impressed at some of her choices. My most favorite to date, though, is thus:
This past week, I caught on to the fact that she was dragging things out of the bedroom to examine in her "lair" comprised of the space under the dining room table between all of the chairs. Three days in a row, I'd come home to find pieces of my clothing in her lair: one shoe, a t-shirt out of the laundry, a winter hat I've been looking for for 3 years. Not destroyed or mangled, just there. Essences of me.
Knowing this, I figured out how to successful close my bedroom door whose handle falls off every time you try to use it. As it turns out, a quick but gentle sweeping motion will latch the door without making the inside doorknob fall of which, in turn, creates about an hour of panic-cum-annoyance at figuring out how to get back into the bedroom.
"What's the little one going to do now?!?" my sinister interior monologue questioned. "Maybe now just laying on the couch will seem much more appealing."
Ah, no. I came back from work and climbed my three flights of stairs eagerly, hoping to find June on her back on my couch just chillin like a villain. Instead, when I unlatched the two locks on the front door and opened it, there she was to greet me, bark collar askance, wagging her bizarrely long tail in huge circles.
Stepping in to my apartment I felt both the pride and surprise of that high school quarterback who's house has been Charmin-ed excessively by over-enthusiastic cheerleaders the night before. Running all through my dining room, around chair and table legs, draped over my couch, and through my coffee table was one long, uninterrupted thread of the double roll of Charmin I had just put in the bathroom that morning. It was like Christmas in August. And it was masterful. And graceful. And there she was, wagging that enormous tail with a look on her face that was nothing short of, "look what I made for you!"
As I wove over, across, through, and below the extremities of my furniture, gathering up in a heap that one single thread of toilet paper otherwise unspoiled, all I could think was, "touche, June. Touche." I have an artist in my midst. Now how to appreciate it.
The next morning, the bathroom door was closed. June saw that as a mere hurdle and not the end of the road. She only has 4 other rooms and a multitude of closets to explore.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Meet June
This
is June.
As you might see from the picture she is adorable. Maybe too cute for her own good like tween YouTube celebrities and baby seals. Things this cute get away with just about anything.
That's definitely the truth for June. But don't let her fool you. She's got a brain too. She's at least a double threat and if you count her front paws that she adeptly works like hands with opposable thumbs, she's in solid triple threat territory.
But seriously, how cute is she?
June and I met on a fateful day in, you guessed it, June. Just a few short months ago I had no idea the whirlwind about to hit my already chaotic apartment and, honestly, life. But about 4 minutes into a shelter visit, she groggily put her head on my knee and looked up at me with eyes that said, "Please just get me outta her because I want to take a nap in peace."
Sold.
2 hours later, June was shedding profusely and drooling all over my front seat. I was freaked out. She was freaked out. And then, we were a pair. I can't imagine that's going to change anytime soon.
I've been regaling my mom, a diehard dog lover, with June's tales since then and we've already got a solid volume of classic stories that feel in need of sharing. June is just a young, 1-year old dog living city life and she's one of the bigger characters I've ever met. So when the suggestion came that I should commit to writing her noteworthy adventures because they're funny, I thought, "Not really what I expected to write about but why not?"
It definitely won't be boring.
Because with a favorite sleeping position like this:
how could the awake times be anything but full of life and quirkiness and mirth? She's her own woman, this dog, and she's not apologizing.
She's my favorite. Her stories will make her your favorite too.
"What a piece of work you are!" I always say to her, picking up wet, shredded pieces of whatever that poor, destroyed thing was that she just dessicated.
She just wags her tail in a big circle and doesn't seem to disagree.
As you might see from the picture she is adorable. Maybe too cute for her own good like tween YouTube celebrities and baby seals. Things this cute get away with just about anything.
That's definitely the truth for June. But don't let her fool you. She's got a brain too. She's at least a double threat and if you count her front paws that she adeptly works like hands with opposable thumbs, she's in solid triple threat territory.
But seriously, how cute is she?
June and I met on a fateful day in, you guessed it, June. Just a few short months ago I had no idea the whirlwind about to hit my already chaotic apartment and, honestly, life. But about 4 minutes into a shelter visit, she groggily put her head on my knee and looked up at me with eyes that said, "Please just get me outta her because I want to take a nap in peace."
Sold.
2 hours later, June was shedding profusely and drooling all over my front seat. I was freaked out. She was freaked out. And then, we were a pair. I can't imagine that's going to change anytime soon.
I've been regaling my mom, a diehard dog lover, with June's tales since then and we've already got a solid volume of classic stories that feel in need of sharing. June is just a young, 1-year old dog living city life and she's one of the bigger characters I've ever met. So when the suggestion came that I should commit to writing her noteworthy adventures because they're funny, I thought, "Not really what I expected to write about but why not?"
It definitely won't be boring.
Because with a favorite sleeping position like this:
She's my favorite. Her stories will make her your favorite too.
"What a piece of work you are!" I always say to her, picking up wet, shredded pieces of whatever that poor, destroyed thing was that she just dessicated.
She just wags her tail in a big circle and doesn't seem to disagree.
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