Meet Penelope, My Latest Dumb Decision

Because I am not known for thinking rationally when it comes to animals in need, I have acquired a Great Dane puppy. For those keeping track, she is now the third Dane living with me right now. She is the product of an irresponsible backyard breeder. (Is there any other kind?)

By the time the litter was five months old and the breeder had sold only two of seven pups, he saw the light and thankfully, instead of dumping them at a shelter, called a rescue for help. The rescue, Hand in Paw (consider giving them a donation please!) posted a notice about them and three of my friends immediately sent it to me. (With friends like these….Just kidding.)

Pen. Or one of her siblings, three were identical, at the breeder’s house.

Fast forward a few days and a friend and I were driving home from El Monte with a terrified puppy in the back. Puking.

Multiple times.

The puppy had never been out of her kennel except to explore the breeder’s yard while glued to the side of her identical twin this made sense. The puppy had never had a collar and didn’t know how to walk on a leash. The breeder carried to my car, all 71 pounds of her.

She was absolutely freaked out. Commence vomiting.

Back at my house, it took us almost 45 minutes of half carrying, and half dragging to get her into the house. Obviously this traumatized her even further, but it was late and cold and she couldn’t stay in the car. I fed her in her crate and she passed out on her new fluffy pillow.

Pen’s first night. Showing of one of Ruckus’ baby collars. It only took 15 minutes to get it on.

This led to a new problem. Once she was in the house, she never wanted to leave, but eventually she followed Ruckus out to the back porch and peeked out to the yard. For the first week she hid behind a potted plant and quietly took everything in.

The horses terrified her. Grass terrified her. Basically, everything terrified her.

Thankfully, she adored Ruckus immediately. Ruckus was thrilled to have a playmate, which helped the pup, now dubbed Penelope (Pen, never Penny) settle in. The first time Ruckus took T-boned Pen while they playing, Pen tore in the house, ran into her crate and wouldn’t come out for an hour. Eventually she cautiously came back out to play. Now she takes down Ruckus regularly.

I’ve always found Danes super easy to housebreak, most of mine are trustworthy by about 10 weeks. I expected Pen to be difficult since she’d never been indoors before coming to my place and had no clue about potty training.

But she absolutely loves Ruckus and Jasper and follows them everywhere including out the dog door. By the time we were together a month, Pen was house trained.

Phew.

Dogs are incredibly resilient, but I am astounded how quickly Pen adjusted to my house. While initially she would hide when new people came around, now she goes directly up to new people, and asks for scratches and pats.

Since Pen hadn’t had puppy shots or ever seen a vet I didn’t start working on leash training immediately, though I dug out one of Ruckus’ old collars for her to wear. She instantly learned how to slip out of it, so I bought a harness that could grow with her.

Not so easy for a Great Dane puppy gaining almost 10 pounds every two weeks. But with a lot of dedicated searching, I found one. Yay!

The biggest issue I’ve had is getting her to gain confidence outside my yard and walk on a leash. Parvo is rampant in Los Angeles so until she had her second puppy shots, I didn’t even try to take her outside my yard. This was far from ideal, and I’m paying for it now.

She is incredibly frightened of leaving my yard on a leash. After a week of trying, bolstered by lots of treats (for a vegetarian I buy a ton of Farmer Johns wieners) and patience, we had got almost half way around the block. She had even overcome her terror of the very scary fire hydrant. On the way home she was almost strutting.

She isn’t sure that the fire hydrant wasn’t going to eat her.

I was so prouder than a certain puppy was after digging a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in my backyard.

Then my neighbor’s dog ran up its fence barking. Now this was an itsy bitsy Chihuahua, and the fence was a good thirty feet away.

My now 90-pound, six-month-old puppy didn’t wait to check out where the scary barking was coming from. She literally turned tail and ran in the other direction. Since I was on the other end of the leash she didn’t get far. So she sat down refusing to move and shook like a little black leaf.

Now she will only comfortably leave the yard if Jasper accompanies her. He loves babysitting for a good reason: whenever Pen gets a snack, so does he.

It is slow going. After two weeks, we have only gotten three houses away.

Some days.

Other days a dog will bark or a car will pass and she sits won’t move even for a hot dog.

This too will pass.

I hope.

Pen has turned out to better than I had dared hope. She is a loves snuggling, plays until she is exhausted, adores Mighty and sleeps through the night.

A squad of Danes. (L to R) Pen, Mighty, Ruckus and Jasper in back.

Except for eating my brand new glasses, (all my fault, but still!) she is been pretty perfect.

I wish all my dumb decisions ended up this well.

Join A Parade!

Parades have never been my thing. I tape the Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade strictly so I can fast forward to the giant balloons trying to escape their tethers and fly free over New York.

I do, however, like weird parades. Like the one in August held near my Mom’s place in the Berkshire. Back in the day it used to be a pretty hoity-toity area. Actually it still is.

Anyway, before horseless carriages became affordable even for common folk, at the end of each summer season the super-rich would close up their forty room ‘cottages.’ They would literally parade through town in their fanciest carriages pulled by their snazziest team of horses on the way to the train depot. In the fashion of the ultra-rich they called it the Tub Parade. These days, the New Lennox Tub Parade continues, but most of the people aren’t one percenters, just crazy horse people.

I can relate to that.

There is one parade I try to never miss: the annual Chatsworth Xmas Parade. (Excuse me, the Chatsworth Holiday Parade. Even though there is nary a snippet of Hanukkah, Kwanza, EID or anything but Christmas. I guess they are trying.)

The route travels right by my street. But most importantly, it is full-on peculiar in the best possible way. Which is to say it reflects Chatsworth perfectly.

It usually begins with a fly-over by a bunch of old military planes. This is amazing, mostly because most Los Angelenos couldn’t find Chatsworth even with GPS. If they’ve ever heard of Chatsworth, it’s because Charles Manson originally set up shop here at the old movie ranch.

This year about 15 minutes after the flyover, the shenanigans began with a pair of six-foot tall T-Rex dinosaurs waddling down the route roaring and kissing kids. I have no idea why they were there, but it was super cool. None of my photographs came out, so you have to take my word for it.

Next up were the first of six or seven high school marching bands. The groups come from all over Southern California. I think these teams are pretty impressive, but they don’t march in solid formation. Someone is always musically out of sync and there’s often a straggler or two.

None of these bands are going to punch a ticket to the Rose Parade, but they are having a blast and are super enthusiastic. So here they are. In Chatsworth.

Enthusiasm seems to be the only requirement of participation in this event.

There are a sprinkling of local celebrities chauffeured in sparkling convertibles. They drive down the street waving and grinning at the people lining the curb. Thankfully, the cars carry placards identifying the passengers, because most people don’t recognize the Principal of the Urban Planning Charter School. Maybe that is just me.

There are always a few Girl Scout Troops too. The little ones wander behind a couple of older girls carrying a banner. One kid pulls a boom box strapped on wheels blasting Christmas Carols. Trudging behind them are parents, usually carrying coats and sneakers for the kids to change into as soon as the marching is done.

There are also floats. Oh, my! The floats! They are mostly pick-ups covered with tinsel garlands pulling dressed up trailers packed with kids or adults from the sponsoring group. This year those included a group of girls readying for their Quinceanera, a bunch of small and possibly suspect churches, the local PTA, and my favorite, a flatbed featuring the members of a local karate studio who were practicing flinging each other around. To the tune of “Jolly Little Christmas.”

Usually, since this is Chatsworth, there are horses. It seems like everyone who owns a horse, mule or donkey hits the street. There are the people from ETI (Equestrian Trails International), Charros dressed in their finest gear, some actual parade horses covered from rider to hooves in sequins and of course a few mini horses pulling carts, zig-zagging down the street.

(I was extremely disappointed and annoyed this year the horses were missing. I’m hoping that it’s because it was pouring rain in the morning and they scratched out of fear that the horses would slip on the pavement.)

Near the end come the dogs. Search and rescue dogs, bloodhounds and drug dogs represent. Why? Why not?

Following the dogs and closing the parade is always Santa Claus. He doesn’t have a sleigh, but rides a beribboned, garland-covered hook and ladder fire truck.

Hot on the heels of Santa’s firetruck are always two street sweepers. Chatsworth doesn’t dick around when it comes to closing time.

Next year I swear I’m going to borrow a pick-up and some lights. Twinkle, Corrine and I are going to glide down the street with Jasper, Ruckus and Mighty in the back. We will be the Old Lady Dane Walking Society of Chatsworth.

It will be epic. We will fit right in.

Jiminy Cricket is A Fraud

Most people do not like bugs. Obviously, there are those odd ball folks who are etymologists, scientists who study bugs, but we all know they are, well buggy.

I realize that some insects are wonderful: bees, butterflies, lightening bugs and ladybugs… That’s about it.

I despise most bugs. They are icky, they make weird noises and they usually chomp you at every opportunity.

One of the reasons I can’t stand living in New England is that the summers are chock full of bugs. Everywhere. There are ticks, mosquitos, deer flies, horse flies and more ticks and mosquitos.

Much to my mother’s disgust when I was a kid I kept a can of Raid on my nightstand. I couldn’t sleep if there was a mosquito buzzing around. I’d rather keel over from pesticide poisoning then be hyperaware of buzzing all night. That noise still makes my skin crawl.

Other than Jiminy, the one bug I have never given a second thought about was a cricket. They are the background sound of summer nights at Mom’s farm. I hear them outside my windows almost every night in California, but they never mattered.

Until last month.

The first night I heard a cricket in my house I thought it was kind of sweet. Like everyone, I’d heard that having a cricket in the house was good luck. The second night it occurred to me that while having a living cricket in the house was lucky, a dead one probably wasn’t so good.

But I thought it would get itself out, the same way it got in, however that was.

I was wrong.

The third night I spotted the cricket on the floor, after it gave a few lethargic hops, I managed to trap it under a glass with a piece of paper slid underneath. I threw the furious bug outside into the garden and felt pretty good about myself.

Sharon Liveten: bug saver!

That changed later when I was reading in bed, and a giant cricket hopped on my bed. It surprised me and scared the crap out of Jasper. By the time I ran to get another glass it was missing. But I could hear it.

All night long.

The next night I caught three of stupid bugs. I’d throw one in the garden, and by the time I got back I’d find Ruckus staring at another. Every night one would leap on the bed. I don’t think it’s the same cricket, but the creepy thing could just be taunting me.

This went on for a few week. My friends thought I was overreacting. They have all had crickets in the house too. They thought they were charming.

When I pressed my friends for details about their bugs, it became apparent that they had had maybe one cricket in their houses. Once a year. Maybe.

I apparently had a thriving cricket farm. I started getting pretty good at capturing the things. They aren’t exactly smart. For almost a month I was catching and releasing anywhere from one to five crickets a night. Sometimes I’d still hear one in the house.

I am proud that I didn’t pull out any Raid inside or out in the garden to exterminate them. But I did think about it. A lot.

It’s been a couple of cricket free days, which have been lovely. But I haven’t let down my guard. I still keep a glass and a piece of paper next to the bed. I feel safer that way.

###

Meta, You Hardly Know Me!

I was sitting on the back porch on a recent Friday evening wearing my usual evening attire: ancient jeans, a t-shirt and worn sneakers. I was typically dirty after a day spent caring for the two horses in the backyard, the two house-horses, Jasper and Ruckus, as well as Bella the French Spaniel and Tilly the Cat.

That is to say, I was appropriately dressed for what passes for my life.

It was a lovely night in California. Temps were in the mid- 70s and there was nary a bug to be seen. If not for the ominous billowing black smoke clouds in the not-far enough- distance, it would have been completely delightful.

Black smoke less than two miles away is never good.

As I sat with an eye on the fire, my soundtrack was the reassuring and constant whine of nearby firetrucks and low flying, water-dropping helicopters. As one does in these situations, I scrolled aimlessly through Facebook and Instagram.

They are loud, weird looking and fight fires.

Obviously I was looking for distraction. But instead of news from friends, or photos of Great Danes, horses and memes, I was hit with a barrage of advertisements.

It dawned on me that considering all of the noise about the precise algorithms social media platforms use to snoop on and target consumers, mine don’t know me at all. Which, considering the time I waste on these platforms while avoiding doing anything useful, is remarkable.

Meta, (Instagram and Facebook) in particular has obviously confused me with a really old, very rich woman with exceptionally bad taste.

Definitely worth over $1000. For someone else.

There was post after post of really expensive, yet frighteningly ugly dresses. I cannot remember the last time I wore a dress. It probably was last summer when the temperatures hovered the hundreds. The outfit in question was a cheap little sun dress that I bought a dozen years ago. Possibly at Old Navy.

Meta apparently also believes I need to accessorize the hideous clothing I would never buy. So there were dozens of commercials for pricey, horrendous looking sandals with towering heels and peek-a-boo toes.

I rarely wear heels these days, mostly because they get stuck in the sand when I take care of the horses. More importantly, I have never, ever, ever worn open-toed sandals. I have a weird phobia about my toes.

If Meta paid attention, it would know this.

Moving on.

Meta also offers me a zillion links to exercise apps. I will give them a little leeway here because I do online workouts. But only the free ones. (Shout out to “Yoga with Adrienne!”)

But apparently Meta not only believes I’m ancient, but that I’m virtually incapacitated.

As I scrolled I came across pitch after pitch for chair yoga, and seated aerobics, which I didn’t even know was possible. All were set to a background of what Meta must think is soothing music. It isn’t. It made me grind my teeth.

Which may be why they also send me meditation apps. Wrong again. I hate meditating. I get anxiety from Yoga practices that include it. So fail.

Perhaps that is why I also get the medication ads. Constantly.

I don’t know how to pronounce most of these wonder drugs, nor do I understand what they are for. But apparently Meta thinks I need them.

By now Meta should be aware of the fact that unless I can buy it in bulk at Costco, I rarely purchase medication. If do get non- OTC medication, it is usually a pain reliever prescribed by a doctor after a riding accident.

Meta doesn’t care.

It should. Because if it actually targeted me – rather than an arbitrary person my age – they might sell something.

I promise I would click on equestrian geared ads. Companies like Samshield which sells luscious horse show clothing or Helite which makes air bag safety vests for equestrians are things that make me drool.

Oh baby, baby! If I get three is there a discount?

Images I’d open would include photos of stern but serious veterinarians pushing expensive, trendy and often worthless horse supplements. Dramatic photos of before and after pictures of previously drab, but now glowing horses would totally suck me in.

The drug ads I’m interested in include Adequan and GastroGuard. You know, really expensive medications that I do purchase. For my horses.

If Meta’s fancy algorithms were accurate, I’d receive repeated offers from dog and horse insurance companies. There would be seductive ads showing brand new pickups pulling gorgeous shiny horse trailers.

Sigh.

Since I had time, I tried deleting the ads. Meta gave me a bunch of choices to click on telling them why I was doing so, but none included the option of, “this is a butt-ugly product” or “there is nothing about this that relates to me.”

Moreover, the more ads I deleted, the more they sent me similar ones.

After an hour or so down this rabbit hole, I was getting really annoyed. I looked up. The fire was almost out.

Phew.

What I’d really like from Meta would be a link to the amazing LA County Fire Department to thank them for keeping us all safe. That I’d use.

Bella My New, Perfect Old Dog

Bella the French Spaniel and perfect old dog.

About a month ago I got a new dog. Bella is actually a very old dog; she’s just new to me. At 14, she’s a super-senior.

I admit I don’t actually know her entire background, but she had been well taken care of and loved. I got her from NBRAN (National Brittany Rescue and Adoption Network) where she had been surrendered. Bella came with a sheaf of medical records dating back years.

My friend Monica regularly fosters for NBRAN. She had Bella for about six months and Bella was initially in rough shape. She was obese and could barely walk. According to the vet records, euthanasia had been discussed. Monica and her two younger Brittanys were up for the challenge. They got Bella walking, and eventually she lost some weight.

Bella is not a Brittany, she is a French Spaniel. And, let’s face it, she is really, really, old.

This is a photo of the breed standard of French Spaniels. Bella looks just like it.

Those were two big strikes against her when finding a forever home. People tend to go to a breed-specific rescue for that breed, but NBRAN is cool about taking almost-Brittanys. They have a lot of skill placing Brittany-mixes.

But rehoming old dogs is almost impossible. Most people want puppies, not elderly dogs with health issues. Potential adopters look at old dogs and worry about the loss, not what they bring.

Not me. As much as I love puppies, I adore old dogs. For one thing, geezer dogs have manners. They are housebroken. They don’t chew. And, if you are busy or lazy, they need far less exercise.

They are also very resilient. In my experience. I’ve adopted five extremely senior dogs and they just adapt. They show up at their new house, look around, settle, in and usually take over. They don’t have time for histrionics.

That doesn’t mean that they don’t come with strong opinions. Old dogs, like old people are bossy. But in a much cuter way.

Every elderly dog I’ve ever rescued had a very strict idea of when bedtime falls. Hint: it’s early.

My first elderly rescue Morgan, used to stand in the hallway around 8:58 and bark at me until I caved and went into the bedroom. Then she’d happily climb on her bed and go to sleep.

Bella is a little more subtle. Now a true Jewish dog, she uses guilt.

Around 8:45 she wakes up from her post-dinner nap and wanders around. She is 100% able and willing to use the doggie door, but when she believes it’s time to hit the sack, she ignores it. She walks around the kitchen –past the dog door- and strides back into the den. There she stops in front of me and looks pleadingly into my eyes. She repeats this behavior about four times or as long as it takes.

Eventually, I get up and ask her if she needs to go out. This brings the Danes out of their slumber, and a small riot occurs at the front door. I force my way through the scrum and the Danes fly out and get to business. Bella, the catalyst of all this, pauses on the stoop and looks at me like she has no idea why we are here.

I coax her out by walking down the driveway. She slowly inches her way onto the lawn. If I wait long enough, Bella will do one of two things. Either she will meander around and pee. Or – and this is far more likely – she makes a U turn and trots back inside.

Then I have two choices. I can go into the bedroom where she waits patiently for her nighttime snack. Or I can try to be the boss and keep watching tv causing the whole dumb charade to repeat until I give up.

For a dog that used to have serious mobility issues, Bella loves her walks. Almost every day she goes out alone with me, or when I walk Jasper and Ruckus. Initially Bella liked to lead. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was marching there. Now she lollygags around, sniffing with the rest of them.

Before I adopted her, I introduced Bella to Jasper and Ruckus. I wanted to make sure that they’d all get along. It was a non-event; they all totally ignored each other.

My next concern was Bella and Tilly, my once-feral cat. Bella is old, but she is a Spaniel and they are bred to have a strong prey drive. If Tilly and Bella have not bonded, they have become comfortable roommates.

It was Jasper, and Ruckus who got crabby when Bella walked in and stayed. The first day Ruckus followed her around and yanked a chunk of fur out. Bella is exceedingly fluffy and wasn’t hurt.

She was scared, which is reasonable.

That first week I never left the dogs alone together. Whenever I left, I put a baby gate between them. Soon Ruckus stopped following her and Jasper stopped grumbling.

Jasper and Bella work hard in my office.

One day I returned from the barn and the baby gate was down. Only Bella could have knocked it down. All three dogs greeted me happily at the front door. We were on our way to a peaceable, if not quiet, kingdom.

She doesn’t care about Talen at all. He is careful around her.

Bella had never seen a horse before, but they barely register on her radar. They are very aware of her. When she wanders into the paddock they always – even when she is practically under their hooves – step carefully around her.

The only time I’ve seen a typical Spaniel reaction from Bella was when she noticed my neighbor’s chickens. She was fascinated. It’s a good thing there was a fence between them.

Bella’s eyes got huge and she tried to push toward them. Since chickens are chickens, the whole flock crowded up to stare at her, clucking away. Then Ruckus ran over and scared the birds.

Chickens fascinate Bella. The feeling is mutual.

Now, the first thing Bella does when she is out, is trot to the back looking for chickens. Sometimes she does. The chickens never remember her.

Pretty much everyone who meets Bella loves her. Well, duh, she’s a pretty awesome old dame.

My heart will break when she dies. But I knew from the beginning that our time together was limited. I know that when every creature– young or old – enters my life. I never get to keep them long enough.

To me, it is always worth it. This is particularly true when it’s an old animal, coming from a rescue or the pound. All I want is for them to have a comfortable place where they are loved to spend whatever time they have.

I don’t think I have failed my oldsters. I KNOW the only time they have ever hurt me is when they leave me.

A Clean House is the Impossible Dream.

It just seems like the horses live in the house. If they did the house would probably be cleaner; my barn is always cleaner than the house.

It should be obvious to everyone by now, that I am not exactly a domestic goddess. Unless by that you mean a collector of domestic animals. And, since I’m being honest, I can’t control most of them.

The really odd thing for someone who lives with a bunch of dogs, a cat and at least two horses in the back yard, I really love a clean house. In fact, when I had a real job that paid me on the regular, I hired an amazing lady who came every other week and made me place sparkle. It helped that she and my dogs had a deeply felt mutual admiration.

It was awesome. I’d leave a dump in the morning and return to happy dogs and a fresh smelling shiny house. Ah, memories.

I not only hate to clean, but I don’t cook. It’s not that I can’t – every two weeks I whip of two trays of turkey loaf for the dogs. I just find cooking pointless. I mean obviously I do eat and thoroughly enjoy it, especially if it’s bad and fattening. But to sit down, pick a recipe, go out and buy ingredients and take bunch of time just for me to eat in five minutes seems well, dumb.

I completely appreciate people who love to cook. They find it soothing and cathartic.

Not so much for me.

I tried it once. I did a trial run of one of those meal services. Every week I’d get a box with all of the ingredients for three meals and simple to follow recipes. Each meal was enormous, so I would divide all of them and be good for at least a week. My freezer was never so full. In theory, it was cheaper than shopping.

There were two problems. First, I’m a pescatarian, so I don’t eat meat (fish and dairy are okay). This wasn’t an option, so I chose vegetarian, because most of the time I am. The food lived up to every cliché about vegetarian eating. It was dull, boring and tasteless.

I am not a foodie, but yick.

Also, and I don’t know if it was just these specific recipes, or all recipes, because as I said, I don’t cook, but it took a huge number of bowls and prep containers. Literally every bowl and knife in my kitchen was in play. Which meant a ton of clean-up.

After a few weeks I cancelled and went back to my normal life.

One of my conundrums is that while I dislike housecleaning, I really enjoy having a clean house.

I’m not a pig. Mostly I’m pretty tidy. I never leave dirty dishes in my sink. Living in an apartment with a roach issue cured me of that. I learned really quickly to wash up immediately. Even so, every night my cat would go into the kitchen and bat around the bugs for fun.

Gross.

How can I have clean sheets? Please note that Monty is stepping on Jasper.

I also do laundry regularly. That includes changing and washing my sheets weekly. I love clean sheets. If I wasn’t so lazy I’d be like Oprah, and change them every three days. I suspect she has someone who does it for her. Sigh.

Sadly for me, tidy is not the same as super clean. I vacuum several times a week (remember all those paws that run in and out a will?) and throw out papers. What I don’t do often enough, is wash floors and dust my tchotchkes.

I can almost get away with it during the winter when the windows and doors are closed. But this year we barely had winter. It was 90 degrees for a few days in January. I left doors, windows and the catio open a lot. So a ton of dust and dirt from the paddock and yard migrate into my house. (A hummingbird flew in too, but that was kind of cool since I got it out unhurt.)

All of this is yet another reason to worry about climate change.

I went into a cleaning frenzy this week. I really did it up. Washed the floors. Scrubbed the bathrooms. All the dog stuffies went into the toy box. I even washed the shelves in the fridge and took out the produce drawers and washed them. Who knew that it was possible to take them out?

Seriously, I might have had a weird new variation of COVID. (COVID-Cleaning?)

I even emptied the cabinet where I keep staples. That was eye-opening. I discovered I had two cylinders of salt. I don’t use much salt. In fact, I use so little that I realized one of the containers was a store brand from where I went to college.

Does salt go bad? I didn’t know, so I put it back on the shelf.

There was also an unopened package of food coloring, and three boxes of brownie mix. I like to bake occasionally, so I kept those too. Ditto for the vanilla, the cupcake tins and birthday candles.

As I looked around my clean house I was so pleased with myself that I took the dogs for a walk.

We were only gone for about an hour, but when we returned the place was covered with dust and ripped dog toys.

I blame Tilly the cat.

Ruckus is a Big Girl Now

A lot of people think I’m a good pet parent. I guess I am, but mostly I am just a worrier. A big ole’ Jewish Pet Mother.

Ruckus is 18 months old, which for me – and most responsible Great Dane owners- means one thing: it is time to get her spayed! In Ruckus’ case, she will also have a gastroplexy. Gastroplexy, or stomach tacking, is just that, the stomach is surgically attached to the body wall, to help prevent bloating.

Bloat is a particularly nasty condition where the stomach fills with gas and can twist, causing extreme pain and necrotic tissue. If not treated promptly, and sometimes even if it is, the dog can die. Large breed dogs are particularly prone to it. When I was researching dog insurance I discovered that bloat is so common in Danes that it is almost considered a pre-existing condition, and therefore rarely covered.

Dandy.

I didn’t do a gastroplexy, on Murray because I’d never heard of it. He was the only Dane I’ve ever has that bloated. After a terrifying (and super expensive) week at the vet, he survived, but I’ll never chance it again.

Murray post surgery just because he was gorgeous.

Because it is major surgery, I usually do the gastroplexy when my dogs are being spayed or neutered. That way we both only have to recover from surgery once.

There was never a question that I would fix her. I love puppies, but there are already far too backyard breeders which leads to way too many Great Danes looking for homes through no fault of their own. (Interested in one? Call me I can recommend a rescue in your area.)

Ruckus as a puppy from a responsible breeder.

Also, who am I kidding? As I told the neighbor who has never forgiven me for neutering Jasper, I’d keep all the puppies! Which would lead to an entirely different set of problems.

There are also serious health reasons to spay and neuter as well; it greatly reduces the probability of breast cancer. Fiona wasn’t spayed when I got her and her death from breast cancer gutted me. I would do anything in to prevent that from happening again.

Fiona wasn’t spayed until I got her when she was at least six. Metastatic breast cancer killed her.

Great Danes generally shouldn’t be spayed before they are 18 months when their growth plates close. This meant, in Ruckus’ case, we both had to go through one heat cycle.

Yuck.

It had been about a decade since I’d had a dog in heat. I had forgotten, if I ever did, that a Great Dane’s heat can last four weeks. I considered myself lucky that Ruckus’ was only three and a half weeks.

23 days. Almost a month.

I thought I was prepared because gone online and compared doggie diapers. I ordered a huge box of disposable XXL disposable doggie diapers, thus proving that had I had children, I wouldn’t have been a ‘green’ mom.

Ruckus hated them, and they fit awkwardly. Even the hole for her tail wasn’t big enough. She learned immediately how to yank them off.

I got back online and after some research on Dane sites, ordered nine pairs of patterned, washable, Dane-sized XXL diapers. I paid extra for overnight delivery. These fit better, and actually stayed on. She went through a minimum of three pairs a day. Thank goodness I have a washing machine.

While she was in heat, Ruckus was confined to my house and back yard. The front yard has high, secure fences but I didn’t want any horny dogs breaking in to visit her. Specifically the aforementioned next-door neighbor’s somewhat mean, intact Anatolian Shepherd.

Ruckus couldn’t go to the barn to play with all her dog and human friends. She couldn’t go on her daily playdates with her bestie Mighty. She was miserable.

Ruckus looked cute in diapers but hated them She even went to Tilly for comfort and she’s afraid of Tilly.

She did not keep it to herself.

When I got Ruckus I circled mid-March 2022 on the calendar as the earliest she could be spayed. In early March I called my trusted vet. All those decades ago when Dalai was spayed, he spayed her and brought in a surgical colleague to do the gastroplexy. That was pre-Covid and pre-veterinarian shortage.

This time he recommended a couple of surgical centers where both operations could be done simultaneously. They were both great clinics – unfortunately I have had pet patients at both. I picked the closest one. I called to make an appointment and scheduled an evaluation that Saturday.

Like so many vet clinics in LA, this one is in a sprawling non-descript mini-mall near the freeway. It began as one office and had taken over the entire space. Except for a small laundromat and tellingly, a cash machine.

Because Ruckus has spent her entire life under Covid restrictions, she is a little less socialized than I like. She has gone to obedience classes and walks or goes to the barn almost every day. She travels with me a lot and has gone to horse shows with success.

Ruckus is still a full-blown mama’s girl. She is super clingy around strangers. The most she does is bark, but most people and dogs are justifiably intimidated by 120 pound dog barking ferociously at them. Even thought she usually hides behind me while carrying on.

Ruckus has never had a bad vet visit. She has only been a few times for exams and shots. But she is very suspicious. So when the vet tech – all five feet of her – came to collect Ruckus, she was not happy. Ruckus barked, whined and whimpered. I escorted her to the clinic door at which time she plopped her butt on the ground and refused to budge. I gave her a shove and pretended to walk into the building. When she got through the door, I turned and fled.

While Ruckus was getting blood tests and an EKG, the surgeon came out to talk to me. She was very nice, if a bit young. Okay, very young. But she came highly recommended, so I felt okay.

Shortly after I heard, well, a Ruckus. I could swear that the vet tech’s feet never touched the ground as my girl came flew through the parking lot to me. It’s a good thing that the tech thought she was wonderful. I guess she was;, when I wasn’t around, Ruckus had perfect manner.

The surgery is scheduled for Friday. I suspect it’ll take a lot out of me too and not just financially.

Not that I’m a worrier or anything…

Talen: It’s A Good Thing I Love Him

There is a grisly old horseman’s rhyme that goes:

One White Sock, Buy Him,

Two White Socks, Try Him,

Three White Socks, Deny Him,

Four White Socks and a stripe on the nose, cut off his head and feed him to crows.

Anyone that has been to Wellington, Thermal or just watched a super flashy hunter with lots of chrome win everything, knows the above is pure BS. Still, I am starting to believe line three, if not four. (That is just nasty.)

Case in point is my dear sweet, beautiful, pasture ornament, Talen.

I bought Talen in 2017. He was supposed to replace Mickey, who, for a lot of complicated and bullshit reasons, was not working out. (That itself is a long, long, story that I am still too traumatized to discuss. I still own Mickey. Enough said.)

Talen came into my life as a unicorn. He was stepping down from his job as an International Derby horse. Miraculously, he was also a super easy ride who could, in the parlance, take a joke. That means amateur-friendly. A horse that wouldn’t hold dumb mistakes and miscues against me. I need that. Badly.

It’s a bonus that Talen is pretty. He is a 16.2 chestnut warmblood with four white socks and an adorable broken white stripe on his face. See the above rhyme.

Talen should have been the perfect AA hunter for me. And he was. Until he wasn’t.

Because unicorns don’t exist.

Four months after I bought him – the day before we were leaving for our first show together – he came up lame. Really lame.

He stayed that way.

Months of lay-up, vet visits and tests followed. On the advice of my vet, I he shipped up to Alamo Pintado Equine Medical Center for even more high quality and expensive exams. I am, extremely lucky to have access to Alamo. It’s an incredible clinic with amazing vets, surgeons and the latest in diagnostic equipment.

Alamo Pintado is a beautiful place. Just the name gives me PTSD.

Unfortunately, I have never sent a horse to Alamo and had it come home with a positive diagnosis. I realize that’s because Alamo is usually the clinic of the last resort. My horses go there with difficult cases that my regular vets either can’t quite pin down or don’t have the equipment to confirm.

But still whenever I speak to Dr. Carter Judy, I descend into a downward spiral. It’s not his fault; he is kind, thoughtful and a great vet. He just never gives me good news. Never.

That trend continued with Talen. Turns out he has a progressive degenerative disease in his pastern. The disease has a name -because I definitely Googled it – but my PTSD made me forget it. In layman’s terms, his pastern was collapsing.

All sorts of things can go wrong in a pastern. Talen has several.

This is not a good thing. The pastern joins the foot to the leg. If it’s broken, so is the horse.

My vet tried hard to fix him. She even accosted speakers at veterinary conferences looking for cures. That led to a bunch of experimental treatments, but after nine months, there was no improvement in his condition. ( But I believe he is a subject in a peer reviewed veterinary paper. )

At least he didn’t continue to deteriorate. He can walk, but has a significant limp at higher speeds. He seems comfortable which is all I care about now. Besides, moving fast was never his preference.

Luckily I was already living in my little ranchette in Chatsworth. So I loaded him up and trailered him to Seven Hills Farm (West,) to spend the rest of his days with my other pasture ornaments, Lucy and Desi.

The view from my office: Talen and Lucy waiting for lunch. No matter what time it is. They are always ready.

Talen is an easy going horse and quickly found his place with the others. He also has a sense of humor. I can always catch him but he makes the farrier chase him around for a while. Once he decided to be caught, the game is over, and Talen reverts to being the perfect gentleman.

He knows the sound of my cars. Even though he can’t see me, when I pull in the driveway, he whinnies to greet me. I think he is grateful that I didn’t put down, which I could have.

For Talen, every day is a gift. In that way he is kind of inspirational.

But lately, keeping him healthy – and alive- is a challenge. During the pandemic he got so fat – I know that is my fault – he foundered, which can be a death sentence. A strict starvation diet – at least he thought so – and medications were prescribed. I got almost 200 pounds off of him in six months.

He is bitter, but breathing.

Last summer, he colicked for the first time ever. Four times. Colic sounds simple and can be just a gas-caused stomach ache. Or it can be an impaction. Either way, it can kill them if it isn’t resolved quickly.

The first times it happened was at 6:00 PM on a Friday night. Of course it was, because means that vet’s emergency farm call was super pricey.

Repeat my new mantra: it’s a good thing I love Talen.

The vet and I decided that his tummy troubles were relatively mild and caused by wild summer temperature swings. He could be treated with medication. She left me with with potions, pastes and injectables. For the rest of the summer Talen couldn’t take an evening nap without me running out to take his temperature.

All went well until January, when the vet came for some routine health maintenance. Both horses needed their teeth checked and vaccinations. No big deal.

Since Talen was drugged for his teeth, I asked the vet to clean his sheath. I went into the house to get something, and when I returned the vet looked worried.

“Um,” she said. “There is something really wrong here. Come and take a look.”

Those are words you never want to hear from your vet.

Talen had contracted Equine Papilloma Virus. On his penis. EPV almost always develops into cancer in, and he had a number of suspicious spots. The poor guy had to have biopsies taken. On his penis.

Ouch.

The biopsies results were deemed ‘worrisome.”

I was presented with three options:

I could do nothing, and let nature take its course. Um, what are my other choices?

I could amputate his penis and do a resection of his urinary track. It’s a huge, major, painful surgery with no guarantees. Nope. Not doing that to my old man. I didn’t even consider that one.

The last alternative was chemotherapy. It seemed reasonable: slathering cream on the affected areas every two weeks for a total of seven treatments. That one! I pick that one!

Thankfully, horses (and dogs) do not react to chemo like people. They do not get exhausted, nauseated or just plain ill. They have few side effects, and rarely react in a negative way. But, like for people, chemo doesn’t always work.

It was worth a try. You know, because I love him.

The vet did the first two treatments to show me how. It seemed simple. All she did was tranquilize Talen, clean his sheath and wipe it with chemo cream. Easy, peasy.

Not so much.

Talen is a shy pee-er. He doesn’t like to pee in public. When he has to go, he runs into a stall and does his business in private. He is exceedingly suspicious about anyone grabbing his dick. He would have been a terrible breeding stallion.

I was dreading treating him because, yuck, but a horse girl has to do what a horse girl has to do. So every two weeks I pull on my big girl boots, dig out rubber gloves and get to work.

This involves a process: Take a deep breath and give him an oral tranquilizer. Wait ten minutes and follow up with a tranquiliizer shot. But not enough to make him lose his balance.

Then ignore him while he gets sleepy on the crossties. After 40 more minutes, get out a bucket of warm water, set out cotton for cleaning and the chemo cream. Finally pull on the gloves.

I look exceedingly professional.

Looks are deceiving.

Talen gives serious side-eye when he suspects it’s treatment time.

Then it goes like this:

His eyes shut and he starts to snore a little. I give a quick peek at his undercarriage and see the tranquilizers are working. I gently start to wash his sheath. His eyes jerk open and he pulls it up with as much horsey outrage as he can muster.

I walk away and begin grooming Lucy to give him some space . Meanwhile I keep looking over at Talen. For the next 30 minutes we play peekaboo. He relaxes, I drop Lucy’s brushes in the dirt and dash over. Talen tenses up. I walk away and the whole process repeats itself.

It takes about an hour before I manage to get the chemo cream on the required areas. Finally, to the relief of both of us, I put him back in paddock and clean up.

As I head into my office to do real work, I glance over at Talen. He stands in front of the gate where I’d left him, fast asleep. Completely relaxed. Totally dropped. Not a care in the world.

I told you he had a sense of humor.

We only have to go through this four more times. It does seem to be helping. Cross your fingers.

That nasty poem reverberates in my head every time I do this. Truth be told, I probably will never buy a horse with four white socks and a blaze again.

I really do love Talen. Even in a wooly winter coat.

But I really do love him.

The Best Laid Plans- Part 2

We left the hotel promptly Sunday morning. GPS told us that the farm where Layla was staying was just 15 minutes from our hotel. We celebrated; we were on track to easily make it back to Three Wishes before dark.

Naturally we got lost. It was the GPS’ fault; it kept directing us down closed dirt roads.

When it became obvious that we were going to be 40 minutes late, I checked in with Leah who owns the farm to keep her in the loop. That gave her enough time to lightly sedate Layla before we left. (Layla IS only two and had never traveled alone or in a two-horse trailer before). After a false start, and some encouragement from an elderly Quarter horse that Laurie wanted to keep, Layla stepped in in my trailer and we were on our way.

I’m a neurotically careful driver when horses are onboard. (Kristin Mulhull claims I drive like an old lady when I have horses in back. Since we’ve hauled her horses cross-country four times, I guess she would know.) This time was no different. Whatever GPS said our time would be, I allowed two additional hours to include gas stops and my general pokiness. We were still on track to be home before 5.

Laurie plugged in the audio book of Trevor Noah’s “Born A Crime” which distracted me from my shipping neurosis. I even managed to keep to a fairly consistent 70 mph while listening to my future ex-husband. (Sadly, Trevor doesn’t know this.) If you haven’t heard or read it, do. It’s brilliant: entertaining and educational.

We stopped for gas every few hours and I checked Layla who was quietly munching her hay. I guess she was resigned that this was her new life. She seems to be that kind of horse.

Around 4 o’clock we came to the base Grapevine. It’s really, really, really steep. Most people know of it because whenever it snows, the CHP closes the road because so many cars and trucks get stuck on the climb.

The sign of big fun ahead on the Grapevine.

I moved to the far right lanes to join the slow big rigs chugging up the hill. Slow and steady. We were doing fine.

Until almost the crest of the hill.

Suddenly my coolant light went on. It became more and more insistent as I continued, and began flashing at me. I saw signs for a rest stop in a quarter mile, and pushed on. I was damned if I going to be stuck on the side of the Grapevine with a horse in back.

My Aunt always said god protects children and idiots, and so I guess I agree. Somehow we made it to the rest stop. As we limped into truck area of the rest stop I was peering smoke billowing from the engine.

Even I knew this wasn’t good.

I am pretty calm in an emergency. Denial helps. A lot. To that end, I initially convinced myself that I when the engine cooled off, I could add coolant, and be on our way.

A lovely trucker who was in the same situation, said we could use water instead of coolant. This was good because I didn’t have any coolant and the AAA dispatcher firmly told me that their drivers could not carry liquids of any kind. Huh? But I hadn’t the energy to question her.

I just happened to have a crate of Fiji water in the back that was given to me by a friend. (Sidebar: It’s not that my friend loves Fiji water; though it is tasty. Her home was previously owned by an Influencer sponsored by Fiji. Crates of the stuff have magically appeared at her door for more than a year.)

I will always be grateful to Fiji water.

While we waited, I offered Layla some Fiji water. She wasn’t interested. Simultaneously, Laurie poured a bottle of it into the radiator. The radiator didn’t want it either; it ran right though and created a puddle on the ground.

Definitely not good.

I called AAA and for the first time ever, got a rude dispatcher who informed me that none of this her problem. After I begged, the she did give me the number for a local company that might be able to help.

Wrong. That woman wished me a snarky ‘good luck” before hanging up on me.

Annaliese was going to meet us at the farm, so I called to warn her that we were in trouble. She’s also good in an emergency, and gulped and quickly texted me a list of haulers to call. (Normally she’d have come herself, but she is recovering from a fairly horrific arm injury.)

The first person I called to was super kind and willing to help, but didn’t have a hitch that would work between his truck and my trailer. He turned out to be a neighbor. We are going to meet up for some beers soon.

I sounded better than I was. It was pitch dark and giant big rigs were flying in and out of the rest stop around us. I was verging on a panic attack, but I couldn’t lose control. I still had a two-year-old in the back.

I needed to fix the problem but I was at a complete loss.

So I called Mark. Technically, Mark is our farm manager. He is married to my horse trainer and didn’t get the memo that when I joined Team Edelweiss that he got me as a questionable bonus. In the four years I’ve been there, Mark has rescued me and my horses a lot. A whole lot. Way beyond the call of duty.

When I called, he had just arrived in Thermal, so he couldn’t come get us himself. But being Mark, he took control of the situation. Within 15 minutes, Cassie and Darren of Haulin’ Hooves were one their way to rescue us.

Thankfully, Layla had fallen asleep. At least one of the three of us was completely unfazed by all of this.

Proving that not all superheroes wear capes, Cassie and Darren pulled into the rest area less than 90 minutes later. After they unhitched my trailer. I limped my SUV to auto parking and stuck a note on the windshield pleading with the CHP not to impound it.

By the time I got back, Carrie and Darren had attached a hitch that worked between my trailer and their truck and were ready to go. Laurie and I climbed into the nicest truck I’ve ever seen, and the five of us were on our way.

It was an uneventful drive, though I think Cassie and Darren got tired of me thanking them every thirty seconds.

The only glitch came when it was time to get Layla out. My lead rope was in my truck at the rest stop, so when it was time to unload, I borrowed one. Unfortunately, in the dark Cassie grabbed a dog leash with a quick release, and as Layla was exiting the trailer it did. Loose, she trotted off in the dark before stopping to graze. It took about a minute before Darren caught her.

Honestly, after traveling for more than 11 hours, I think Layla was just glad to be out of the trailer and moving under her own steam.

Layla is prettier than this photo shows, she has serious winter hair.

I’ll say it again: she is an amazing two-year-old.

Annalise tucked her into a stall for the night and generously gave Laurie and I a ride to my place. The next day the ever-kind Laurie drove me back to the rest stop to rescue my car. A wonderful AAA driver picked up the truck and brought me to an amazing mechanic. He told us that the Grapevine was known locally as The Car Killer, which explains the six service stations at an exit in the middle of nowhere. Then the mechanic replaced my radiator on the spot, and we were on our way.

That night I finally lost it. I shook, and shook and shook. And then got some bourbon.

I did learn several lessons from this debacle.

You never save money when you think you are going to.
I have amazing, terrific friends.
All of the truckers we dealt with -including one who saw the trailer and pulled off the freeway to check that we were okay- were incredibly kind.
I owe Layla’s life to Mark, Cassie and Darren. Animal people are the best.
I am never, ever going back to Sacramento again unless it is in an airplane.
I don’t think Laurie will ever travel with me again. I hope she is still my friend.

I was – am—very, very, very lucky. It could have been so much worse.

Gratitude is real.

Layla is fascinated by the foals in the next field.

The Best Laid Plans (Part One)

It seemed like a good idea in the beginning. The worst plans usually do.

Obviously, I’m not too smart. I have five horses; two are ridable.

Because of all of those horses, I was trying to save money.

Which is why instead of having a commercial shipper bring my two-year-old filly from Sacramento to Los Angeles, I decided to haul her home myself.

A little background is probably necessary.

About four (ish) years ago, my heart horse Lucy’s first foal was coming three. Faith was big and looked like a five-year-old. I was concerned about putting her in a training program that would push before she was physically ready.

In the convoluted way my mind works, I decided to breed Faith. Sort of.

Bear with me. I adore foals! I really loved having Faith as a foal. She was a hoot to play with! She came when she was called and loved attention. She was like a giant dog I didn’t keep in the house. But because Lucy could no longer carry a baby and I knew she was talented and well-bred, I used Faith as a surrogate to carry Lucy’s baby. But with a different stallion. It was a little weird, but it gave Faith an additional year to mature before going to work for a living,

All went mostly well – there were a few hiccups along the way; she was a horse. Faith gave birth to a lovely filly; Layla.

After Layla weaned, Faith went into real training. Just as I was starting to ride her regularly, Faith developed neurological problems (likely from her sire,) and had to be put down.

I have still not recovered.

Thankfully, Layla has been great. A bay with a single white sock and a few white hairs on her face and a troll-doll forelock, she initially remained at Three Wishes Farm where she was born, in nearby Santa Rosa Valley. It’s close enough for me to visit a few times a week.

Bliss. I brought carrots and played with her a few times every week. That constant handling, and some professional training is way Layla is super friendly, and mostly well-behaved.

But last year around this time Layla was asked to leave. It wasn’t because she was a pain in the ass – or maybe it was. She had taken to jumping out of the pasture when the broodmares bugged her. Or she bothered them. I only have her word that it was their fault.

Good news: she can jump. Bad news: neither Annaliese -who owns and runs Three Wishes- or I liked finding Layla on the wrong side of the fence along the road.

Layla needed to find a new place to live.

I moved her to where my show horses live. It’s a gorgeous place, and there were three other babies to share the field. Granted, those were ponies and Layla towered over them. In the beginning they shunned the big girl, but after a while, they became a tight herd. And I got to play with her every single day.

It was too easy. But then the farm’s owner wanted all of the babies out. A nice place was found, with the bonus being that it was a lot cheaper. The downside -for me at least – was that the new ranch was in Sacramento.

That’s a really long way from Los Angeles. Like five to seven hours away.

I wasn’t going to be able to visit her every day, or even weekly. Or monthly,

Five months later, I realized I missed her desperately. Layla needed to come back.

By this tie Annaliese had a new place with bigger, much higher fences. We were invited back.

It was going to be really, really expensive to hire a hauler to go to Sacramento to pick Layla up. But I have a trailer and an SUV to pull it, so I conned my dear, long-suffering friend Laurie MacDonald that spending a weekend driving up and back to Sacramento would be an entertaining jaunt.

Road trips usually involve fun stops at weird roadside attractions like the biggest ball of string. Or the avocado museum or something. The 5 North from Los Angeles to Sacramento – it’s the 5 the whole way- has none.

Zilch.

Some people stop at Harris Ranch, a BEEF restaurant located literally next to the stockyards, but both Laurie and I are vegetarians. As we passed thousands of cattle squashed into pens waiting for their demise, I focused on the road and Laurie closed her eyes.

We did make one one stop that didn’t include gassing up: Pea Soup Anderson’s restaurant. Anderson’s, for those who don’t live in SoCal, is sort of a Danish version of Cracker Barrel. And they have great veggie pea soup.

And a windmill. And an insane gift shop. It’s legendary.

We made it to our hotel near the Sacramento Airport. We wandered around the weird location (six hotels, some very odd townhouses and acres of sprawling big box stores) before returning to the hotel to eat a Jimmy John’s veggie sub Johns and a suck down some white wine while watching the Janet Jackson special. Team Janet!

According to GPS, the Ranch where Layla lived was less than 15 minutes from the hotel. Easey Peasey!

END PART 1