Happy New Year! And other Resolutions

With the beginning of 2022, a lot of folks have once again decided to make New Year’s resolutions. The things I swear to do every year are typical: lose weight, exercise more, eat better, make more money. You may have noticed that I have the same promises Every single year.

Obviously, I am sucky at this.

During the beginning of the pandemic (I call it 2020.1. For reference, we are now entering, horror of horrors, 2020.3), I, like everyone else was in lockdown.

Unlike a lot of people, I technically live alone. I say technically, because I share my domicile with two Great Danes, a fat cat and the backyard houses two spoiled equines. While I talk to them all constantly, and the dogs in particular talk back, none of them speak English.

During strict lockdown, it would have been nice to have an actual conversation with a human.

That led, over the past two years, to occasional thoughts of dating. I didn’t do anything about it, because dating sounds like work, and in some ways (okay, many, many ways) I am exceptionally lazy. But I did consider it. And then moved on.

It crossed my mind again during this latest holiday season. I went to a few, small, fully vaxxed and boostered gatherings. I observed (again) that my friends’ partners, are all extremely nice people. Granted, most of them have been married or together for decades, so I suppose if they weren’t good folk, they’d have been given the boot long ago. But still.

The fog of time has whitewashed most of the particular reasons I jettisoned most of my past boyfriends, or they did the same to me, but the one strong memory I have of them all is this; they were jerks. I stand by this as fact.

Still, if you watch (or write) enough Hallmark or Lifetime movies, you start to believe in the ‘power of holiday love.’ Which is insane.

This tree could be in a Hallmark Holiday movie.

While everyone will acknowledge that there is no home in the universe that has at least one Christmas tree in every room (it’s a Hallmark rule that t a fully decorated tree must be visible in every shot. And not the Melania Trump Games of Thrones kind either!), if you watch enough of these shows one might start to believe that there is a special someone out there for you. Even if you don’t own a bakery or flower shop in a picturesque small town.

Right.

Since I don’t own a bakery or a flower shop in a quaint small fictional town one of my big problems in dating is meeting someone.

Even before Covid, I never went to clubs (music venues don’t count) and barely venture out of the confines of my very comfortable home. (Didn’t I mention that I’m exceptionally lazy?)

When I do leave the house, it’s usually to the stable to ride. Fact: there are very few straight, single men participating in my sport. And none my age. Zero. Zip.

I also used to go to classes at the Y. Again, not a lot of gents in the desired demographic are taking yoga or Pilates classes. These days I work out online. My regular companions are the dogs or the cat. Sometimes both.

Dating apps are the go-to for most people. One of the big issues for me is writing a profile. In the past, when I have attempted to create one, I bored myself and gave up.

The slightly enticing thing about dating during lockdown was that it was on Zoom. This was great news: it was possible to do from home, and you only had to dress up from head to waist.

Still. I resisted.

Naturally, there is a book for people who are as clueless as me. It promises success. It’s called 121 First Dates.

121 dates? Hell to the no! Hard no!

I would have to meet 121 people! I do not like most people, and 121 is a shit ton of people. (And that’s making the huge assumption that there are 121 men out there that might be interested in dating me. Which is a big leap of faith.)

When I think about it, the best definition of what I would like, is an old-fashioned word: a helpmate. I interpret that to mean someone to help me fix shit.

For that, I can find a handyman. Also online.

Happy New Year!

Addicted to Brittanys: Jake

AKC Perfect Brittany Spaniel. NOT my dog. Notice that it is looking for trouble.

The AKC definition of Brittany Spaniel is okay as far as it goes: “The Brittany is lively and smart and has an upbeat, willing disposition.”

Hmmm. I’d take issue with a lot of that. They are “willing” as in if your wishes and theirs coincide, they are right there. But if they are busy (and they are always busy) when you call a Brittany,they will acknowledge you and keep doing what they were doing. (“S’up? I’ll get to you when I’m done. So, I’ll get to you eventually.”)

Brittanys are super smart, not average dog smart which can be frustrating. Who wants to have their furry friend constantly outsmart you?

Me apparently.

I am a Brittany addict.

I got my first Brittany -then called Brittany Spaniels- thirty-something years ago in the same way I have acquired most of the quadrupeds in my life: because I’m a sucker.

Jake had been adopted by an idiot friend and his stupid wife in the misguided attempt to save their marriage. Like many jackasses before them, and a zillion people during the pandemic, they didn’t think adopting a pet through. All they saw was that Jake was adorable, friendly and housebroken.

They didn’t consider that dogs need exercise, (Brittanys are HUNTING dogs. They need a ton of exercise) as well as food and water. My loser friend worked at home but he was lazy. Extremely lazy.

So when Jake, then barely a year old – a puppy really- needed more stimulation than a twice daily walk, and started to destroy couches and anything he could wrap his teeth around, they yelled, hit and confined him to the kitchen.

As I said, they were geniuses. Not. (And, I might not have to add, former friends.)

When they announced he was a bad dog and going to the pound, I stepped up to take him.

My exact words were, “I have no life anyway; so what difference does another dog make?”

That has apparently become my mantra. I might have it tattooed on my arm.

Jake and Keeper loved each other . A lot.

Jake’s entrance to our lives was dramatic. The first night he was in my apartment he chased Catcher the cat, scared my canaries, barked at Keeper the dog, ran out the front door (through the screen) and tore down the street with me running after him.

I eventually caught him, and with regular walks (about six to ten a day), a bunch of obedience classes, constant work and a lot of love, Jake became a charming, occasionally obedient dog. I adored him.

He was never the easiest dog: Brittanys never are. They are super sweet, and love deeply, but they are never going to be a Labrador. You either love them, or are exhausted and exasperated by them.

Personally I find them hilarious.

A few years after Jake joined the family I moved into my first house. He may or may not have been the driving force behind home ownership.

Regardless, the selling point of my new house with the giant back yard. The previous owners had left a kid’s fort behind. It was a nifty thing, with a ladder to the top deck with a slide on the front.

Within days Jake learned that if he climbed the ladder, it brought him closer to the tree branches, where the squirrels hung out. However, he didn’t like the slide and couldn’t go down the ladder.

This meant that inevitably, I’d be working away in my office, which had a window facing the yard. Just as I’d get really deep into a piece, the sharp bark of a Brittany would pierce my concentration. I’d look out and there would be Jake, stuck on the top of the fort, screaming his head off, with Keeper barking at him from the ground.

Obviously I’d have to stop working and go outside to help., I’d climb the ladder and with Jake in my lap, slide down. Except since it was a child’s slide and I had an adult butt, it wasn’t much fun.

More than once we’d get stuck. He thought it was a blast. Me, not so much.

I found a nearby preschool that wanted the fort. It was gone within the month. Jake missed it.

Jake was the itchiest dog I’ve ever had. Naturally we went to a veterinary allergist. (I have 13 vets listed in my phone. Including the canine allergist, the small animal ophthalmologist, a neurologist etc. There is one human doctor’s number.) Turns out Jake was allergic to almost everything in Southern California, including dust, grass, and smog and native pollen.

I had a couple of options, the doctor mused. I could have him had a series of allergy shots, but given the breadth of his problems, it probably wouldn’t work. Or I could re-home him, to some place far from Los Angeles.

Neither were options. But, my parents had a lovely farm in the Berkshire Mountains of Western Massachusetts. The vet thought if he spent the summer with my Mom, it might help disrupt the allergy cycle.

Which is how Jake started going to summer camp.

I stayed almost a week to make sure he was going to be okay. I shouldn’t have worried. Jake settled in pretty quickly with my parents and their three dogs and several horse boarders.

In fact, he settled much faster than my folks. They weren’t used to a dog as clever as Jake.

The first night they left him in the house with the other dogs when they went out to dinner. They carefully closed up the house and drove away. Three hours later, when they returned, he was sitting on the front porch happy as a clam.

That first week I saw a chipmunk running across the porch. I told Jake to “go get it.” I never expected him to listen. But apparently he’d been waiting for that moment his entire life. That poor chipmunk never had a chance. Decades later I still feel horrible about it. Jake was ecstatically happy.

He loved his summers at the Farm. It also worked. He never had severe allergies again. And as a bonus, most of the chipmunks and squirrels that plagued the farmhouse moved on.

He figured out how to open the gate to the pool. He’d get out of the main house unless every door was closed and locked. And of course, no food could be left unattended. He’d never steal food while you were watching. Instead he’d pretend to be otherwise occupied. But once you looked or stepped away, the food was gone. Swallowed in a single bite.

Mom used to say that you could watch Jake figure things out. He’d just watch and look, and then – bam, whatever he was working on, he’d have the solution. If Jake had opposable thumbs he could have solved a Rubic’s Cube.

I have no doubt she was right.

Keeper and Jake were two of the cutest holiday Rein Dogs.

Spotless Dalai, The Bestest Girl. Part II

Dalai, proudly registered with the AKC as Spotless Dalai (I named her after the Dalai Lama in the hope that it would inform her behavior) settled easily into the household. Murray’s grudging toleration of her grew to fondness.

Eventually they developed into a gang. As long as Dalai realized Murray was the mob boss.

Murray liked Dalai, but not enough to give up his ball.

The only time I recall that they got into a bad spat was when we were loading into the SUV for agility class. Dalai pushed past him and started to jump into the truck. The Boss was having none of it. He grabbed her by the back leg and dragged her out. Instead of going to agility, we went to an emergency hospital to get her leg sewn up.

She deferred to Murray from then on.

Agility is not the default dog activity for Great Danes. Danes were originally bred to hunt boar in Germany, but sport is not the first thought when someone mentions Great Danes. Couches arIn my house dogs do agility. All dogs. I started with Murray when got bored of obedience classes.

Agility requires a lot of obedience, but it’s fun. And he loved it. So I did too.

My trainer was originally skeptical of Danes doing agility, but he was won over by Murray’s devotion to the sport. (Except for dog walks. Murray hated and feared dog walks.) By the time Dalai came along, Poppy had been going to class regularly, and depending upon her mood of the day, was either spectacular or spectacularly bad. More than once Poppy leaped off of the top of the A-frame to chase a squirrel. Her weave poles were spectacular.

In my house everyone goes to agility class.

So Dalai did agilty. She nailed jumps, turns, the tunnel and tire. Even the dog walk didn’t faze her. She was no Poppy on the weave poles, but was getting the idea.

We were at class one day when Dalai started limping. When she climbed into the car, she cried. We went directly to the vet.

By the time she got there, she was unable to move without howling in pain.

After a barrage of tests and X-rays, it was determined that she had severe disc issues so we were off to a specialist. The vet thought surgery was in order, but wanted us to see a neurologist first.

I was numb. By this time, my barely three-year-old dog couldn’t stand without pain.

As soon as I got home, I called the neurologist who was part of a snazzy emergency /specialty hospital in Santa Monica. She was booked for the next two weeks.

Dalai couldn’t wait that long.

I called the surgeon again, hoping she could pull some strings for an earlier appointment. She couldn’t.

One more call to the hospital, this time in tears. The receptionist took pity on me when I said that Dalai couldn’t wait two weeks. I’d have to put her down; leaving her in that kind of pain was unconscionable.

“Well…” she said. “You could bring her in as an emergency. Then she’d already be a patient and the neurologist would see her.”

With tons of tears (me) and crying (Dalai), we headed back to Santa Monica I got there and called to tell we were there and needed help. It took a bit to convince them that I needed someone with a gurney since Dalai couldn’t walk.

I signed a ton of paperwork and handed over my credit card. The neurologist would see her that day.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever see Dalai alive again. Or if I was doing the right thing.

By the time I got home (traffic on the 405 IS that bad), the surgeon called me to schedule for the surgery the next day.

Of course there were caveats. Usually this surgery is done on small dogs so there was no guarantee it would work on a dog Dalai’s size. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned that this was the first time the surgeon had done this on a giant breed.) Dalai would have to be confined and kept very still for months.

I gulped at the cost estimate and gave my credit card number.

I set up an X-pen in my bedroom, to keep her contained, but I never even closed it. Dalai was a perfect patient. She took her daily 12 (!) Tramadol, and tons of antibiotics without a problem and never moved unless she had to potty. She never used a towel sling to help her walk – instead she chose to hop and cry. It broke my heart, but that’s she was still stubborn.

A vet friend who came to the house to do acupuncture and laser treatments on Dalai’s back and wounds and I moved my office into the house so she wouldn’t go outside.

It worked. She started to heal. Six months later she could wag her tail – something the surgeon told me she’d probably never do again.

She also could finally go for walks again. That’s how we met Werber family. They had just adopted Blue, a year-old blue merle Dane. Blue and Dalai bonded quickly and deeply. Most afternoons we’d either walk the Danes together, or Blue would come over to play. They’d chase each other around at astounding speed and leap and jump in the air. When they were tired of the zooms, they’d chase Poppy until she had enough and went into the house with Murray.

When Murray died, (at the age of 11 ½!) Dalai and Poppy bonded even more. They also fought. Poppy was a third of Dalai’s size, but four times as tough. Dalai occasionally thought she could push her little sister around.

She couldn’t.

The fights were short, dramatic and thankfully rare. They always ended the same way: a frantic drive to the e emergency vet with me explaining that my giant Dane had not only started a battle with a small spaniel, but had lost badly.

When Dalai was six, I decided that it was time to add a new Dane to the pack. Dalai didn’t so much jump with joy, when Jasper came home from Kentucky with me, as sigh in a ‘there goes the neighborhood’ way.

But they did play together. A lot. Their zoomies were something to see. Dalai was older but wise and Jasper was young but a dumb puppy. He’d run around the yard and she’d cut him off at the pass every time. They loved each other.

At some point Dalai had moved from sleeping on my bed into Murray’s big crate. She’d occasionally sleep with Jasper and I, but seemed to genuinely prefer the crate with its many orthopedic dog beds. She looked a little like the Princess and the Pea. Appropriate.

Dalai started being a geezer about two years ago. She had the lumps and tumors of old dogs, and her back legs were occasionally wobbly but she wasn’t in pain.

She was still Dalai. She ate, barked at whomever had the nerve past our yard, chased squirrels and ran out back to fuss at the horses. She still played, even when Ruckus arrived last December, Dalai would zoom around with Jasper and the puppy. She was just more strategic than fast.

That couldn’t last forever though. Last month she cried when she struggled to stand up in the morning. It wasn’t the same as when her discs first blew out, but for the first time since then, she was in pain.

Covid meant my regular vet couldn’t come to my house but I found a kind, gentle vet who did in-home euthanasia. I bought Dalai a McDonald’s quarter pounder with cheese which she ate daintily, then she sighed and passed peacefully in my arms. She was ready.

I wasn’t. The thing with the Bestest Dogs, and they are all the Bestest Dogs, is they just can’t stay with us long enough. 11 years is a long time, but it’s not nearly enough time.

Spotless Dalai, the Bestest Girl, Arrives

I don’t remember what fueled my search to get my second Great Dane. It might have been that I lost my latest foster-fail, Annie-the-Brittany. It might have been that I was worried that Murray-the-Dane was at six, aging, and I wasn’t at all sure I’d survive losing him.

(It wasn’t just me; one of my friends who was a shrink, used to shake her head and tell me I’d need to be institutionalized when he died. Not a particularly helpful statement I might add.)

At the time I didn’t have the connections I now have within the rescue and breeding communities. So I went to the three-day AKC Great Dane breed show. I was in heaven.

There were about 300 Danes of all colors and types. I saw some dogs I liked and talked to a lot of breeders. The two that really impressed me didn’t have any litters planned until the following Spring and already had long waiting lists.

I turned to breeders listed in an AKC forum that were in the general vicinity of California. I discovered a breeder in Northern California in a place called Grass Valley.

I talked to her a few times. She had two puppies, a stunning male, which I had to pass on because Murray, was, well, Murray. No males. She also had a delicate female with a lovely spotted head and just two spots on rest of her snow white body.

Done.

The world was very big. Dalai was very small.

According to my crack map skills, Grass Valley was just a smidgen north of San Francisco. Which meant that I could spend the weekend with my sister-from-another-mother, Tracy, and her partner who lived in Pacifica. I’d drive up Friday and on Saturday, we’d cruise up to Grass Valley and I’d pick up my puppy.

Easy peasy.

I managed to convince another friend, Kathy to go with me. She had never taken the 101 to Northern California. It’s a stunning drive filled with roadside attractions. It was going to be fun.

Our first sign of trouble was when we had difficulty locating the rental car company. It was supposed to be onsite at Burbank airport.

Nope.

Multiple phone calls and several U turns later we picked up the car and dropped off Kathy’s. We were on our way.

Road trip!

The drive up was indeed pretty. But it took forever. And ever. I also discovered that when I am behind the wheel I turn into a crazy suburban man on a family car trip circa 1962. That is, I don’t stop.

Kathy spotted a few places that, in retrospect would have been a hoot to check out. Those included the Garlic Festival. Unfortunately, I was in driving mode; there was no stopping allowed.

Did I mention that this was the beginning of September? Traditionally that weekend is miserably hot, and this was no exception. It was at least a zillion degrees. Something I mentioned every time Kathy pointed out a place to stop.

“That looks fun! Let’s check it out!” she would say.

“Too hot,” I’d reply as we whizzed by the exit.

This went on for many hours. Many, many hours

Eventually we got to the glorious coolness that is Tracy’s house in Pacifica. Wine and air conditioning were enjoyed.

Over dinner her partner Tyler asked where exactly we were going the next day. That is when I discovered that what is a mere half inch on a map, translates into three hours in the car.

Oops.

Not surprisingly, Tyler took over the driving. She got us to a nondescript home in Grass Valley with nary a U-turn or missed exit.

The breeder introduced us a gorgeous Mantle mom, who was the puppies’ mother, and then led us to the puppy pen. I bent down and before I even hit the ground, a mostly white Harlequin female jumped in my lap. That was that.

Dalai picked me.

She slept the entire ride home, except when we stopped for lunch. Since she didn’t have her shots, I carried her out of the car to a deserted area while the others picked up food. I plopped her on the ground where she immediately peed. I snatched her up, and she fell asleep.

When we got to Tracy and Tyler’s place, their two Dachshunds had mixed feelings about the large, clumsy puppy. The older Doxie ignored her; the younger chased her up and down the hallway till Dalai got tired.

I’d brought a crate for her, and I set it and a place for me on the floor in the living room. I expected Dalai to cry for her littermates, or whine all night. Nope. We slept till morning.

Or she did. That’s when I discovered that Dalai was a floor-rattling snorer. Most Danes are, but she was the loudest I’ve heard. I think Tracy and Tyler could hear her from the other end of the house.

The drive home was hot.

We only stopped when Kathy’s insane and hysterical employer called and we needed a cell signal. That happened regularly because a birthday cake was not what she hoped. Apparently was a life-changing disappointment and she felt it the need to rant. Incessantly. Her temper tantrum went on for hours (It was another clue that the rich are different from you and I.)

Our other sign it was time to stop was when Dalai would wake up and fart. I’d pull over, take her out, she’d immediately pee and we’d be on our way.

By the time we got home it was dark. I put Dalai in the backyard and tried to let the other dogs out individually for polite introductions.

Great idea. Not so realistic.

Poppy, Quattro and Murray barreled outside and surrounded her, sniffing intently. Naturally, the two Brittanys tried to play with her.

Murray was not thrilled. In fact he was a little shocked by her appearance. Shocked, I tell you.

Big surprise.

Dalai, on the other hand, loved him.

END PART 1

Ruckus Meets The World

I’ve been working hard to ensure that Ruckus the Great Dane puppy has as many new and varied experiences as possible. Covid lockdowns slowed us down, but now that things are opened up, we are going places.

Literally.

At eight months, she hasn’t been to a restaurant. Yet. At that age Jasper was a regular at a few LA dining spots. Taking a Great Dane to eateries is a little more complicated than, say, bringing a Chihuahua along for the festivities, but we got pretty good at it.

In before times, not all eating establishments had outside dining areas, and what they had was usually fairly small. While a small dog can tuck under a table, a Dane, even a young one, tends to sprawl into the aisles.

Which means that the dog in question has to be incredibly good natured and agile, because they may get stepped on. They also should be super cute, so the wait staff turn to mush when they dodge around them, rather than get angry and bitter.

Jasper is charming, and let’s face it, he is adorable. Wait staff melt at the sight of him.

Jasper at eight months eyeing a glass of Chardonnay in an LA restaurant. Wait staff love him.

Whenever I take my dogs anywhere, it’s like travelling with a toddler. While I don’t need a bassinet, or a car seat, I bring practically everything else. I have the doggy equivalent of a diaper bag even if we’re just eating out or going to Starbucks. Bowls? Check. Chew toys? Check. Bully stick? Check. Poop bags? Never leave home without them.

Ruckus was six months when she went her first out–of-town horse show. This meant we were going to have to stay overnight somewhere. The show was located in one of California’s wine regions, which meant that there were a lot of hotels and Air B’n’Bs. Once I added Ruckus to the mix, the choices dropped dramatically.

I had a pick of three.

One was a suite at a resort located on a gorgeous vineyard. It featured a variety of well-reviewed restaurants, a spa and a pool. Nightly wine tastings. It sounded dreamy. All for a mere $600+ a night.

Next.

There was also a La Quinta, which are decent hotels and the entire chain is dog friendly. It was, however, almost an hour away from the show. I had a few 7:30 am classes and was planning to stay to watch the late classes.

Nope.

Then there was an Air BnB listing. Located on a small ranch, just minutes from the showgrounds, it was just a room and a connected bathroom. There was a $50 dog cleaning fee, which is normal at hotels if you bring dogs. There was no size limit on the dog, which can happen.

I booked it.

While I was packing the car the night before we left, it looked like I was getting ready to move. Or were bugging out in a war zone. All my gear fit into a small duffel bag and a hanging bag for my show coats, shirts and breeches.

Ruckus? Her kit included three bowls (one water and food bowl for the room, one food bowl for the show); a large container of kibble; a cooler to keep her turkey loaf chilled until we got to the room; a bag of toys; biscuits; two dog beds, dog towels and a sheet to cover the bed to protect it from dog hair since of course she sleeps with me. And of course, poop bags.

At the last minute I looked at the listing again to ensure there was a small fridge and coffeemaker. But I was horrified to notice that the space featured a spanking new beige carpet. Beige! I added a painter’s drop cloth to cover the rug. We were going to be spending our days at a horse show, even the best of which are filthy, dusty and often muddy all at once.

Ruckus being a Very, Good, Dog at the Temecua Horse Show. Photo by London

When I arrived and the Air Bnb host watched with amusement that slowly turned to terror as I unloaded my clown car of stuff. I think she was afraid I never going to leave.

It was all good. We got a rave review because that room was spotless when we left.

Ruckus on the drop cloth that covers the Air B’n’B bed. And her own blankie.

I don’t always bring that much stuff when I take her out in the world, but there’s always a lot. Last week my friend Twinkle and I took Ruckus and her puppy, Mighty (also a Great Dane) to the amazing dog beach, Hendry’s just north of Santa Barbara.

We weren’t sure how much the puppies were going to enjoy it; sometime the waves and the noise upset dogs. But it was crazy hot in the Valley and we figured if we spent 45 minutes there, it would still be better than being at home.

We packed a bucket for water; five bottles of water, four towels, poop, sunscreen (for us and the dogs) and a sheet to spread on the sand while we all rested.

The latter was unnecessary. They never stopped. As soon as we crossed onto the dog part of the beach and removed their leashes, they were off.

Ruckus ran straight into the water with Mighty at her side. They jumped over a wave, landed and bounced into the air and chest bumped each other like drunken frat boys. About that time Mighty realized he was neck deep in water and practically levitated out, and ran for the beach. Ruckus followed but stayed in the surf.

About then the puppies noticed that there were packs of dogs playing in the water and zooming around the beach. So they just joined in.

Most of the dogs were good-sized, Labs, Goldens and big mixes, none were as large as our house horses. A couple of the dogs stopped and stared, but soon they were all tearing around after each other like lunatics. Mighty stayed on the beach as did a few of the other dogs. Ruckus was all about the water. Beach to water, water to beach. The zooming never stopped.

When their playmates owners took them home, I thought our puppies might need a break. They had other ideas and found different friends further down the beach.

Much to our surprise, both dogs came instantly whenever we called them. But they never stopped running. Even when they knocked me into the water, they just leaped around me. Ruckus was pretty excited that I’d joined her in the surf.

(Pro tip: my Samsung phone was in my back pocket. I immediately ran for the towels and removed the case and dried it off. Except for a few glitches that didn’t last, it was fine. A friend tells me if it was an iPhone, it would have been done.)

They were the absolute epitome of doggie delight.

After a couple of hours, we clipped their leashes and literally dragged them away. If I didn’t insist on taking her home I was afraid Ruckus would play till she collapsed. She had such intense FOMO that she didn’t even take a drink until we were back at the car.

Ah, the car. Oops.

She leapt in, and while I was trying to dry my butt off (I hadn’t brought a spare pair of shorts and I was still soaked from hitting the water) she saw a small dog being led by a proper looking lady. Delighted to meet yet another pal, she leapt out of the car to greet it.

In the ensuing 30 seconds, she terrified the owner, spooked the tiny dog, who then growled and confused Ruckus. Her feelings were hurt, but she came right back to me.

The lady was incredibly nice about the whole thing.

Lesson learned. Never leave the tailgate down with Ruckus in the car. Even if I’m standing there. Even exhausted, she is fast.

That was practically the last time Ruckus moved all day. As soon as we started moving, she fell fast asleep. Mighty took a little longer to get comfortable and spent most of the drive home struggling to keep his eyes open.

So far, she has had a blast and been pretty good every time I take her somewhere new. Next up, a restaurant.

They almost all have outdoor patios now.

I Need to Socialize. Or, The Things I Do For My Dogs

Ruckus on arrival at eight weeks fit under a chair.

When the pandemic started getting real, and lockdown hit, the biggest complaint lots of people had was that they missed other people. I couldn’t relate.

I don’t think of myself as an introvert, but I was positively giddy that it was literally against the law for me to attend a party just to spend my time nursing a single beer, and hanging with the host’s dog until I could sneak out.

I like some people, but I have yet to meet a dog I hated. Or one that made me feel bad about myself.

During the worst of the pandemic, a lot of people became lonely and got dogs to keep them company. Obviously, I didn’t have that problem. In March 2020 I had four dogs, a cat, a canary and five horses. I had almost too much company. Almost.

Even a year into the lockdown, I wasn’t talking to myself. If there were no people around and words were coming out of my mouth, I was speaking the animals. Does it matter that most of the time they don’t listen?Neither do most humans.

Since Dalai the Dane and Poppy the Brittany have transcended into “ancient dog” territory, I was thinking about adding a puppy to the mix long before the pandemic. Jasper was four and a half; that’s the when I like to introduce puppies. He was no longer a puppy himself, but he still liked to play and would enjoy having a playmate.

By the time when Ruckus the eight-week-old Great Dane joined my pack in December, I had really thought the whole thing through. I was ready.

I might have been ready for Ruckus to join the pack, but Jasper took a little convincing. Here he is trying to hide from her.

Ruckus came from the same reputable breeder as Jasper. I had my terrific dog school on standby for puppy classes. Also, by happy accident there were three puppies (two cattle dogs and a black and tan coonhound) at the stable that she could meet up for playdates. My friend Twinkle has Mighty the Great Dane puppy, who is two months older than Ruckus and always up for playing.

Mighty and Ruckus were pooped out from a playdate at the barn. But dang, they are good in the car!

Ruckus also came almost everywhere with me so she’d be comfortable in the car and for long drives.

This puppy was going to be great with other dogs, used to being left at the barn while I rode, at ease in the car. I was pretty darn smug about Ruckus. I was so busy patting myself on the back for socializing her properly that I missed the big, giant elephant in the room. The Pandemic.

D’oh.

In California, Covid-19 was rampant during the winter of 2020-21. The hospitals were packed. Every day the number of infections and deaths from the virus – contrary to what some Fox News/ Newsmax hosts and a certain orange president would have you believe – rose exponentially.

So, while Ruckus went everywhere I did, we weren’t going very out very much. We went to the barn and she played with Mighty almost daily, but she didn’t meet a lot of people.

On a good week I’d see maybe eight people mask-to-mask. During the worst of the pandemic, the only people stopping by my place were delivery drivers, and they just tossed packages over the fence and ran away.

Ruckus wasn’t getting well socialized.

I’m particularly touchy about socializing Danes because of my dearly departed Murray. Murray was a lot of things: gorgeous, devoted to me and an agility beast. But a lot of people just he was just a beast.

It was completely my fault.

I was so terrified of Murray contracting Parvo, which is/was so out-of-control in Los Angeles, that his paws never touched the ground outside of my yard until he was fully vaccinated. This was not a good thing.

He became a somewhat fearful dog. He was dog reactive and terrified of children and men. The former because I am also terrified of kids, and the latter because even then I had no social life. (Sensing a pattern here?)

At his peak Murray was about 140 pounds. While that’s a medium sized Dane, it’s still a lot of dog. Especially when he was scared and wanted to get out of Dodge. I was lucky; his go-to was to run from his fears, not towards them. He once nearly dragged me into traffic because a woman wouldn’t believe that Murray was terrified of her five-year-old.

So I worked with him. A lot. I learned how to distract him. I learned how to keep his attention on me at all times. I learned that his love for agility gave him confidence and he became less reactive. He was always a lot of fun, but always being on alert was exhausting for me.

I never wanted to have an even partially un-socialized dog again.

When I got Dalai I took her everywhere. She went to the barn because there were only a few dogs and they were all vaccinated. As soon as possible we went to training classes. I walked her daily to the nearby Elementary School at the end of classes. (I was worried that I’d get called out as a predator: “Hey kid, would you please pet my puppy?” No one ever noticed which is a whole other problem…)

That was all great until the newest tenant in the apartment building next to my came with a sociopathic little kid. The brat would call Dalai to the fence and then throw shit at her. Needless to say, in no time Dalai became a child hater. Unlike Murray, who would pull me into the street to get away from small children, I have no doubt that Dalai, if left to her own devices, would bite them. Even in her dotage, I never leave alone with people under 15.

right to left: Dalai, tiny Ruckus, Jasper on what my bed.

By the time Jasper came along I had moved to my current place. The neighbor kids are great and willingly patted him every time they crossed paths. So did everyone else. Jasper is a little skitty when he first meets new people, but never, ever scary.

Now that things are opening up, Ruckus is going out and meeting more people. At six months, it’s a little later than I’d planned, but she’s getting there. She goes to dog school. She goes to Tractor Supply. To Petco. To Lowes.

Intermediate Dog School Graduate. She even got a star!

The big test will be in a couple of weeks. We are both going to a horse show. When I’m riding, she will be with her buddy Olive in a pen. The rest of the time she’ll be with me. We’re staying in an Air B’n’b. I’ve warned the host, and have paid a dog fee.

I figure by the time the weekend is over, both Ruckus and I will be completely socialized. Or at least as good as either of us are going to get.

Ruckus is ready to meet and greet! Jasper has to stay home though.

I’ve Forgotten How To Behave In Public

Los Angeles, where I live, is starting to open up a bit! Yay! On top of that, I’m vaccinated! Double yay!

I’ve come to the conclusion, that as much as I have supported the closures and definitely kept up pretty strict protocols for the safety of myself and others, this couldn’t have happened a moment too soon. I fear that I forgotten how to behave in public.

I’m not quite at the completely inappropriate stage yet – I’ve yet to mouth off at idiot strangers , but a few more months of quarantine and all bets would be off. Especially at the chin maskers.

The first time I entered a Target store in more than a year, I walked around with my mouth gaping (but covered.) I felt like a refugee from a Third World country. So many products! So bright! I was in sensory overload and wandered around for an hour before leaving without buying a single thing.

I personally don’t care that Dodger Stadium is allowing fans inside, and I’m not really ready to hit a movie theater, but I was giddy to head to Santa Anita. The track opened to the public for the first time in over a year on two weeks ago on Friday. The next day was the Santa Anita Derby.

Naturally, I went.

Because of the social distancing and capacity rules – it was only open to 25% capacity – reservations were required and My friends and I reserved a table in the usually hoity-toity Terrace Turf Club.

Well, la de da, you might be thinking. Maybe not.

At least temporarily, Santa Anita has dumped the dress code requirements for the Turf Club, so we were free to wear anything our hearts desired. Since this was practically my first foray out of the house, I decided to up my game. A bit.

I dumped my tired jeans, trashed sneakers and ratty Breeder’s sweatshirt and instead pulled out black pants, a nice sweater and Doc Martins. I felt like I was dressed for the Met Gala.

In normal days a snooty ,old and male maître di would have led us to the cloth covered table with decent china, fresh menus and crisp Racing Programs. This time, a bored, masked teenager pointed us vaguely in the right direction and wished us luck. Ordering would be done via an app.

It should have been smooth as silk. We only needed to download the app to access the food and beverage menu, and then take a photo of the QR code glued on the table so the server would know where to deliver the items. It was simple. Not quite.

Santa Anita has notoriously bad cell service, particularly when there are crowds. The overwhelming comment during most Breeder’s Cup events is “can you get service?” The answer is always “no.”

It took us the better part of a half hour, working two phones with different carriers before we could download the app and order our now badly-needed drinks. Finally we got confirmation that the order had gone through. Success!

It was finally time to focus and get down to the business at hand. Horses were coming onto the track for the second race. Unfortunately, programs, like the china, silverware, napkins and menus, were missing. So was the incredibly helpful person who usually floated around giving betting information and handing out extra programs.

No worries. I figured, the maître de would have a pile of them. Nope.

The only place to get programs was back at the admission gate.

I’m glad I didn’t go for the Met Gala stiletto heels. (That’s a joke. I don’t own any. But plenty of people were tottering around on them.) I jogged back to the entrance, grabbed three programs and ran to the Turf Club.

I got back just in time to get to the betting windows, exchange pleasantries with one of my favorite tellers and place my first losing bet. We were both so relieved that we were back after a year’s absence he didn’t give me a hard time about my picks. In retrospect, I wish he had.

Back at the table, I squished past the people in the next table – six feet apart my ass! and settled in.

Gone were TV’s on every table of the Turf Club that broadcast not only the Santa Anita races, but the Saddling Barn, the Walking Ring and many other tracks. Which is how the Wood Memorial, an important Derby Prep race running in Aqueduct was almost half over before we realized that it was being shown on the infield Jumbotron.

No wonder the man in the next table was so grumpy when I blocked his view as I pushed past him to my chair.

Oops.

After the Wood concluded, (whoopie Bourbonic!) a masked server brought our bottle of Procecco and three glasses. In an attempt to be attractive, the disposable glasses were tall and had slightly rounded bottoms. This might have worked if they were made of hefty glass, giving. It didn’t work so well with plastic.

Remember those children’s toys, Weebles? (“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!”) Except these glasses fell down really easily, sending alcohol everywhere.

Almost before the server had disappeared, taking extra napkins with her, the first glass tipped over. Okay, somebody accidentally hit it with an elbow. Turf Club tables are pretty small. They are especially tiny when crowded with programs, Racing Forms, eye glasses, bottles and drinking glasses.

We mopped up the mess, carefully drying what we hoped would be winning tickets. (They weren’t.)

It wasn’t long before another full glass hit the deck. And then another. The good news is that with the spectacle we were making, the people in the table next to us moved as far away from us as they could. Social distancing achieved!

I’m not sure how I became the designated bettor, but I was the one who kept running back and forth to the ticket window, clutching everyone’s money and scribbled notes. Most of the time I did it correctly. In my defense the two times I screwed up someone’s bet (wrong horse, wrong placement) the mistake came in, so everyone was happy.

We were pretty careful about masking. The Turf Terrace is outside, but when we weren’t drinking or eating, we masked up.

Expect for that one time I ran to the window moments before post time. It wasn’t until I returned and sat back down at the table, that I realized I’d forgotten my mask. I was mortified. And yes, the next time I bet, I tipped my friend the teller well.

Being back at Santa Anita was so incredibly comfortable and at the same time, completely weird.

We even found our car in the gargantuan parking lot immediately. A first for Derby Day.

That’s why it kind of made sense that a guy on a motorized skateboard wearing a jet pack passed us as we drove home.

LA is getting back to normal. Thank god.

The Further Education of Ruckus and Me

I am a huge believer in education, particularly when it comes to my animals. (We won’t even discuss the constant training my horses receive, other than to point out that it mostly serves to repair all of the damage I do every time I ride.) Every one of my dogs — except for Keeper, who pretty much arrived trained at birth — has gone with me to dog school.

As has been repeatedly pointed out, it’s not just the dogs that need to learn.

The late, great Murray the Dane, was so well-educated that he had the equivalent of a canine PhD. That was primarily because while Murray was super easy to train, he was extremely dog reactive. Dog school, particularly the terrific one I use, (shout out to J9sK9s !), was a safe, smart way to teach us to work through it.

While Murray never got to the point that he loved strange dogs, with hard, constant work, we were able to go anywhere safely. He was once attacked by a pack of Chihuahuas and pugs — yes, I know- but instead of killing them – which he had every right to do -I put him in a sit- stay until I dispersed the nasty, biting monsters. And he did.

Murray competed quite successfully in agility, which is all off leash. More than once at competitions other dogs went after him, but he never responded. It was always the littler dogs. Napoleon syndrome? Or was it just that all the dogs were smaller than he was.

Naturally, I signed up Ruckus for classes as soon as she was fully vaccinated. Her best buddy, Mighty, and his person, Twinkle, also signed up for the class.

This was either the best, or worst idea either of us have ever had. They definitely have less interest in listening to us when they are with each other. Who can blame them? We are so much less fun.

This school believes only in reward based training. This is not only more humane than the old dominate/alpha dog methods of the past, but is scientifically proven to be more effective. That makes sense – a happy pup is much more likely to enjoy and retain training than a fearful, terrified one.

We started school a couple of weeks ago. It meets on Tuesday nights at 8 pm.

This is a problem.

Ruckus is very much a morning puppy. She wakes up plays, naps, goes to the barn with me. plays there, and then naps again. She usually has a late afternoon burst of energy and dinner. After that, she’s pretty much down for the count.

This means that I after I pack her stuff for class, which includes a water dish, training treats, toys, poop bags, etc. (taking her places is like moving a human baby), I -have to wake her to put her in the car, where she promptly falls asleep again.

Ruckus is never pleased to be woken up for class.

Twinkle and Mighty live a block away from us so we carpool. When Mighty and Twinkle join us she wakes up and two of them wrestle the 15 minutes it takes to get to class.

The school we attend is over a laundromat. The parking lot is busy even at night and is not particularly well lit.

The first night we unloaded the dogs and their accoutrements and all four of us briskly walked to the door. I opened the door with the one finger that wasn’t loaded down with stuff. At which point Ruckus slammed on her brakes, spun out of her collar and fled into the parking lot.

A black dog in a dark parking lot filled with people and cars. Fun!

I dropped our crap and purse and ran after her. Thankfully, she is a big mama’s girl and was terrified; after what might have been the longest minute of my life she let me grab her.

I carried her wiggling, miserable, deadweight into the hall and slammed the door behind us. Together we climbed the stairs with Mighty bringing up the read.

We were late, and class had begun, but everything stopped as we walked in.

No one can say we don’t know how to make an entrance.

She freaked out again when the teacher – a lovely lady, but a stranger – bent down to pat her. When Ruckus recovered from the shock, she realized there were four other puppies in the room. They were all accompanied by strange people. Who were looking at her.

We maneuvered into our space while Mighty, who has regular visits from family and grandchildren, and is not quite as delicate as Ruckus, went to his spot on the far side of the room. He wasn’t happy either. Until the assistant put screens up blocking their view of each other, they locked pleading eyes and paid no attention to us.

The dog nearest us was a lovely, 10-month-old yellow lab puppy. It might be half kangaroo. It kept bouncing up over its screen to check out Ruckus.

I thought it was hilarious, but Ruckus, never having met a marsupial dog before, was scared and quite vociferous. Her barking set off Mighty, and immediately the room was filled with all the other puppies leaping and yowling.

Okay, not ALL the others.

There is one mini Australian shepherd that is perfect. It does everything with grace and style. Quietly and the first time. I think it’s judging all of the uncouth puppies and their owners. Mostly the owners.

I don’t want to spread conspiracy theories, but I believe it’s a ringer. It’s not really a puppy and I am certain its owner is professional dog trainer. Just saying.

Honestly, during class I don’t have time to worry about it. In that room, Ruckus has full on puppy ADD. What we can do somewhat effortlessly at home is a no- go in school. 30 seconds is the longest she can concentrate.

The only comfort I have is that Mighty is equally distracted.

I spend most of class getting her attention away from the full length mirrors (she can’t figure out who that other black puppy is) or trying to keep her from crawling over the screens to find Mighty.

The class is only an hour, but by the time it’s over, we are both exhausted.

I’m pretty sure the instructor needs a drink when we finally coax Ruckus and Mighty down the stairs and the door slams behind us.

I get it. But she might want to get over it; Ruckus is definitely looking at following in her in Murray’s footsteps. I see her on a doctoral track.

Ruckus is a genius. I see a future PhD candidate.

My Animals Are Not Out To Get Me. I Think.

Several of my friends swear by animal communicators. You know, those people that say they can speak to animals. I have my doubts, but after hearing the reports from some of my friends after these readings, it seems some of these Dr. Doolittle heirs may be on to something.

My question lies more with my friends than the psychics. My pals really want to hear their pet’s opinions.

Not me. What if I found out what my animals really think? What if they hate me?

Animal Psychic: Mickey, why did you blow the left lead at the horse show? Sharon is worried that you are hurt.
Mickey: If you had to schlep that blubberbutt around a course and try to decipher what the hell she is asking me to do, you’d miss the lead change too. Tell her to lose a few and learn to ride. And more snacks might help. Lots more.

AP: Okay…

Mickey: Tell her verbatim. And I need a new halter.

That’s just Mickey. I tremble at what the dogs might have to say. I think the discussion might center primarily on goodies, or lack there of.

However there is one thing I do know. Contrary to what some of my friends and family members believe, I don’t think any of my fur family are actively trying to kill me. It just sometimes appears that way.

There is an old joke about Great Dane owners based on the idea that we will all be found dead on the floor after tripping over our dogs in the dark. That is not as funny as it sounds.

My late beloved Murray probably did more damage to me than all my other dogs combined. It was never, ever, on purpose.

It’s a fact that Murray loved me more than life itself. But stuff happens.

Dog agility is not usually considered a dangerous sport. Yet I have a scar on my face from teaching Murray to run through a tunnel. Someone held him in front of the tunnel entrance while I stood at the exit, calling him. If I had stopped to consider how terrified he was of strangers, I might have calculated the speed he would use to get through the tunnel to me when they let go, and I’d have stepped back a bit. Instead as soon as he was released, he ran as fast as a giant dog doing the army crawl through a tunnel could go, and knocked me down. I walked away with a nasty cut and a bloody nose.

You would have thought that experience would have taught me something. But no.

When we taught him to climb the dog walk, Murray made it to the top before he realized how far off the ground he was. He looked down and saw me alongside him, albeit, five feet below. He made the obvious Murray choice, and jumped down, fully expecting me to catch all 145+ pounds of him.

To say that he flattened me, is putting it mildly. I had a few impressive bruises but his trust in me was shaken for a long time. He only did a dog walk once again, four years later at a trial. I was so shocked I forgot the rest of the course.

My riding accidents are usually my fault as well. If you are sensing a theme, you are correct.

People ask me, since I have been riding horses since childhood, why I still take lessons. The simple reason is that I am an idiot. As shown above, I never seem to learn.

No matter how many times I ask Mickey to do the impossible and leave a stride (or two!) out before a jump, he wisely ignores me and chips instead. Plop, I fall off. D’oh.

As I said, I’m not bright.

The only time I have been hurt by a horse on purpose was as few years back. I was jumping a horse I had leased that morning. The jump was perfect. Then he propped hard on landing. Naturally I flew off and landed really, really hard.

It was not my fault that I broke my pelvis. It was a deliberate move on his part.

That’s not normal. Most my accidents are more like the incident last week.

I was lifting Ruckus, now 50ish pounds, into the SUV. Since I needed leverage as I picked her up, I put the bulk of her weight on the cast covering my wrist. She chose that precise moment to push off and leap in the air to reach up and lick my face.

Instead she clobbered my chin with her surprisingly hard head. The impact split my lip.

Not her fault. Or at least not on purpose.

If I do go missing, please have someone check my house. More than likely, I tripped over a dog, who then sat on me, and I passed out while they were licking me.

I don’t think the pets are intentionally trying to hurt me. But you might want to call an animal psychic just in case.

####

Sleep? What’s that? I have a super cute puppy instead.

In the five weeks since Ruckus flew into my life and took over, I’ve been reminded of several facts:

I need a lot of sleep.
It’s a good thing I never had children.
This is most important. All animal infants and most human babies are adorable. This is so adults are less likely to murder their young due to exhaustion.

Jasper was my last puppy. That was four and half years ago. He was the easiest puppy in the world. Ever.

That is my story and I’m sticking to it.

It helped that he arrived mostly housebroken and immediately slept through the night. If he did wake up before I did, he played quietly with his toys until I got up to feed the horses. He also never, ever chomped me with needle-like teeth while he was playing or because he was overtired.

None of that may be true, but that is how I remember it. The fact is, when babies grow up, all we remember is that they were cute they were and how adorable their pink tummies ad paws were. I am sure that human parents have similar memories.

With that in mind, Ruckus has been a shock to my system.

To her credit, she also arrived mostly housebroken. She pees immediately when she goes out, and usually poops. I can count the number of accidents she has had in the house on one hand.

I am not discounting this in any way. I have had terriers. They become housebroken if, and when they feel like it, and they usually don’t. I know I am super lucky.

But.

Jasper slept on my bed from the moment he arrived. I crate Ruckus because of Jasper. He’d have had a fit if he had to share his space as soon as she arrived. By the time she moves out of the crate and onto the bed, he will be fine. I hope.

Ruckus has been great about going to bed, at least after the first few days. She is very vocal, and at first, shared her disapproval of her den by screaming herself to sleep. Because she is so young, that didn’t take long.

Now she walks into her house, moans and groans for a minute and then literally starts to snore. Great Danes are intense, world champion snorers. I have three. It is very loud at night.

If Ruckus wakes up and has to go out, she moans louder and barks. Once outside, she immediately takes care of business and goes back into her crate and back to sleep. This is pretty amazing.

Unfortunately, in her first weeks in California, she woke up to potty three times a night. Occasionally, just as I finally fell back asleep, one of the other dogs would have to go out. There seems to be some canine rule that prevents them from waking at the same time. There were a few days I was up five times.

I understand that humans with infants can go through this for years. This is another reason why I don’t have kids. I don’t know how mothers of infants survive until their children are grown.

I realize that most of those people are young. Obviously, I haven’t been young for a very long time. Lack of sleep made me feel even older. I was taking more naps than my 90-year-old Mom.

I could barely function. I was exhausted all of the time. The bags under my eyes had bags.

I spent most evenings propped in front of the tv. Reading was beyond me. I simply could not process the printed word.

I was reduced to watching things like the “The Nanny” and “The Big Bang Theory” because they used small words and spoke clearly. Still, some of those episodes were beyond my feeble brain’s ability to process. I mean, why exactly did the rich guy hire a fired beautician off the street to be a nanny? And what’s the deal with the rich guy’s business partner? Oh never mind. I’m overthinking.

The other thing I forgot, and no one reminds you about, are puppy teeth. This is an important omission.

Like most babies, puppies discover their world by sticking everything in their mouths. Once they have grabbed it, they chomp . Human babies do not have teeth, they have slimey gums, which may be gross, but are not painful.

Puppies actually don’t have teeth either. They have a mouth full of razors inside a Pac-Man head that aims like a laser for any exposed hands or appendages nearby.

Dog trainers tell you to always carry a toy and stick that in the puppy’s mouth. Maybe that works for a particularly slow or dumb dog. Ruckus however, can spit out a toy and grab a hand at lightning speed.

For weeks my hands, and occasionally my face, looked like I had been playing catch with barbed wire. The only good thing about having a broken wrist is that even puppy teeth can’t penetrate a cast.

Last week a miracle happened. Ruckus slept through the night.

It was like a rainbow ended at my house and the pot of gold was on my pillow.

Of course, she was the leprechaun guarding the pot with knife-like teeth when she did wake up.

Kidding. She is biting a lot less.

Soon I will forget this whole time. Except for the super cute pictures, of course. Those are forever.