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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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I Want (?) A Puppy for Hanukkah

I had no plans to get a puppy. And, even though I enjoy the video, I really didn’t plan for a Hanukkah puppy.

With three dogs (and a cat, a canary and two horses) already sharing my little homestead in Los Angeles, more than one of my friends have questioned my sanity. It’s a fair query. But we all know the mental health ship sailed long ago.

But honestly, I didn’t expect to get a new puppy. Yet.

That isn’t to say I didn’t have puppy fever. I always have puppy fever. Doesn’t everyone? Their smushy puppy faces, pink tummies and new puppy smell… Who doesn’t swoon at a puppy?

Puppies are adorable. They are happy, innocent beings, full of joy and life. They wake up every day excited for what great, new things they will discover. Mostly they discover the joys of ripping up paper, chewing sneakers and passing out twenty minutes after eating.

Everyone needs a little of that in their lives.

I sure could. Particularly after 2020.

The pandemic, which cost the lives of family and friends and kept me from seeing the living ones since March, has been devastating. I also lost my five-year-old horse Faith, who had been with me since conception, and my dear Great Dane Fiona, who I’d only had for nineteen months. They died the same week.

But did I need a puppy? Need is such a loaded term.

People need food and shelter. But some of us also need dogs.

I had planned to wait until my two ancient canines, Poppy and Dalai, passed before I got a new dog. Dalai is a 10 ½-year-old Great Dane. Her hind end is weak and getting worse, and she has many small tumors, some of which are probably malignant. Understandably, she is occasionally grumpy. She is the Queen of Seven Hills Farm West.

Poppy is a 15-year-old mostly deaf Brittany with Cushing Disease. Last year she had a dramatic case of glaucoma that resulted in an eye removal. She tolerates other dogs, but her playing days are years behind her.

All old Ladies need a recliner of their own. This is Poppy’s.

Given all that, I was going to wait on an addition to the family.

Additionally, my friend Twinkle got a Dane puppy. Twinkle is a teacher, and her classes on Zoom coincide with my morning ride times. This meant I could take her puppy, Mighty, almost daily to play with the barn dogs, several of which were puppies. This is my idea of heaven.

I got my puppy fix and she could concentrate without worrying about Mighty tearing the house apart or driving her older dog Blue, crazy. Win-win.

Mighty should have fulfilled my need for a puppy. Perhaps if I was a normal person it would have. I have already established this is not the case.

I am very conflicted about purchasing a dog. I am a supporter of rescuing dogs. I know that shelter dogs are rarely dumped because of anything they’ve done. Somewhere along the line their owners have failed them. Badly.

All eight of my Brittanys, and two of my five Great Danes were rescues, but I knew my next would be a puppy. I had too much death in 2020 to adopt another ancient dog, and I believe that my grumpy old dogs would more easily accept and train a goofy puppy, than a confused, disoriented, senior. Since Great Dane puppies in rescue are slightly rarer than unicorns, I would be buying a puppy.

I had no plans to purchase a dog any in 2020.

Man plans, God laughs.

About three weeks after Mighty’s arrival on the scene, Dalai’s health declined drastically. Coincidentally, Jasper’s breeder posted photos of her four-week-old puppies.

At four weeks, the breeder called Ruckus, Zada.

This complicated things.

I like this breeder. She is super-responsible and only has a few litters a year. It helps that Jasper is the whole package: he is gorgeous, has a great temperament and so far (knock wood) has had no health issues.

The breeder had two females, and I had already decided on a girl. I told her to pick out the most passive of the girls, and I’d put a deposit on it.

Venmo sent, the deal was done.

There was still one more kink in the chain. The breeder and the puppies are in Kentucky.

In November when this was all coming together, I still believed that I was going to throw all of my dogs into the car and drive cross-country to see Mom for the holidays. I’d make a side trip to Kentucky to pick up the puppy, just like I had done for Jasper. Easy-peasey. And fun! (I LOVE Kentucky, if not their politics.)

Plans….

In December Covid-19 cancelled non-essential travel for everyone except selfish jerks.

The puppy needed to leave the week before Xmas, I needed a plan B to get her to Los Angeles.

Located deep in Kentucky but a few hours from Nashville airport, the breeder has shipped puppies all over the country, so that seemed like a plan. She also had another puppy coming to Los Angeles.

This would be a no-brainer for most people. Most people are not neurotic freaks. I however, am.

I am no fan of flying dogs in cargo. With the help of Xanax and an elaborate strategy I have flown with Poppy in the belly of a plane. My tactics involves kissing up to the pilot, flight attendants and cargo people by bribing them with expensive candy and charming notes.

That only works if I’m on the plane.

I flew Jasper home on my lap, but, Covid. There was no way I was flying back and forth to Nashville pick up a puppy, even for this puppy. Nor was I, as a friend from a obviously different economic situation suggested, going to pay a human to fly her to me.

(Full disclosure, 15 years ago I did fly back and forth to Albuquerque on morning to get Poppy from the American Brittany Rescue. That was pre-Covid and I had a zillion frequent flier miles. Neither of which count now.)

The little one was going to have to go it alone.

To Be Continued…

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I’m Getting Dumber. It Must Be the Pandemic. Right?

Jasper spots Talen minding his own business.

I swear I’m not a frivolous asshat whining about having to wear a mask and social distancing during the pandemic. Believe me, with more than a 300,000 Americans dead, masking up and maintaining space is the least I can do to help keep people safe.

But there is one issue that is grating on me. I’ve never exactly been a genius, but I swear, the longer this pandemic lockdown goes on, the dumber I’m becoming. It’s getting embarrassing.

(I’m not as stupid as the man screaming, “Wearing a mask is a muzzle.” Hey dickwad, I can hear you. You are not muzzled. Unfortunately.)

I haven’t descended into complete that jerk’s level of dumb yet, but I can see it coming. For instance, let’s look at a purely fictional situation. Let’s just say Jasper is being particularly annoying by barking at Talen to try and get him to snark back. The barking goes on. The horse’s ears pin and he shakes his head at the dog. This continues for a while. I honestly think this is how they play with each other, since either of them could easily walk away.

It would be cute, but it gets loud and I have neighbors. So I yell at Jasper.

Nothing makes a dog shut up faster than someone yelling at them, said no dog trainer on the earth. But it does make me feel better. And quite obviously, I’m not a dog trainer.

What doesn’t make me happy is that I run through a list of names, many of them belonging to long-dead dogs, before I remember the dog’s name.

Jasper: Bark! Bark! Bark!

Talen: Snort! Stomp!

Sharon: Damn it Murray, Rocky, Fiona, Poppy, Dalai! God Damnit Jasper! Yes, Jasper! Shut Up!

Naturally the dog keeps barking and the horse keeps snorting. However, I’m so mortified that my neighbors may hear this insanity, that I go silent.

It isn’t just names that are disappearing.

I have driven past the freeway exit to my house three times in recent memory. I like to believe that this is because I have BIG, IMPORTANT THOUGHTS happening. That would be a lie.

It’s because I’m trying to recall something really vital, like the last time I saw the Rolling Stones. (The only thing I do know it that it wasn’t at the Geezerfest in the Desert a few years back. So maybe it was Dodger Stadium? Or one of the club dates? Who knows? Damn it. But I do believe the opening act was Lukas Nelson and the Promise of the Real. Or not.)

I admit I do have one huge fear about my memory. I envision that I’m old and stashed in some old people’s home and visited by absolutely no one. It will be my own fault because I won’t be able to place anyone’s name. I’ll recognize (maybe) my nephews, but their names will be gone.

Instead, all of the circuits in my head will be clogged with minutiae about bands, like the line-up for the initial line-up for the Hothouse Flowers. (Liam O Maonlai, Fiachna O Braonain, Peter O’Toole), the lyrics for “Angel From Montgomery,” and every song ever recorded by The Replacements (not including bootlegs- no one except maybe Bill Holdship knows that.). I’ll also remember names of Grand Prix riders of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s and of course their horses (Rodney Jenkins, Anthony D’Ambrosia, Frank Chapot, Idle Dice, Sympatico and Good Twist.) There are also major racehorses and riders from decades past as well (Cigar, Ruffian, Zenyatta, Shoemaker, Jerry Bailey and Julie Krone.) filling the empty gray matter.

As I consider this, it’s not all that surprising that I have to go into the house three times to grab my mask before going out, and that I rarely know my right from my left. There is an almost limitless amount of useless knowledge filling my head.

I may not remember any of my passwords, but the stuff I do know is highly entertaining. At least to me.

And, since in the days of Covid-19, I’m my main audience. So I guess I’m good.

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BFF Friends, Canine and Otherwise

I’ve often mentioned that my dogs have a better, more active social life than I do. It’s funny- and sad- because it’s true.

Pre-pandemic, my social butterfly, Jasper had regular playdates with numerous dogs including Damali the GSD and Olive the Black and Tan Coonhound. But his absolute bestie, hands down, is Blue the Great Dane.

I met Blue and her people, the Werbers, not long after I’d moved to Chatsworth. I was walking Poppy the Brittany, and spotted Matti walking Blue.

It’s not often that you see Great Danes, so of course I introduced myself. When Matti accepted an invitation for a Dane playdate neither of us had any idea that I wasn’t getting just a playmate for Dalai and Poppy, but an urban family for me. Whether or not they wanted us.

At the time Blue was about a year and Dalai was four. They hit it off immediately, chasing each other around and tormenting Poppy. (No worries – in those days Poppy gave as good as she got.) When Poppy was sick of being harassed, she just came over to us and sat down. Game over.

When Jasper came into my life, Blue would come over and play with him and Dalai. Life was good.

Dalai has aged, and is now a very wobbly 9 ½. Poppy is now 14, has only one eye and is mostly deaf. Neither of them run or chase around much anymore, so it’s mostly just Blue and Jasper on playdates, and if they are left to their own devices, they just lie next to each other and sleep like big Danish lumps. Not much playing or exercise going on.

These days, particularly with social distancing, Blue, her (and Matti’s) mom Twinkle, and Jasper and I mostly go for walks. That’s fine for the Danes. They just want to hang out together. I like catching up with Twinkle, so it works for us too.

Even on days when I’m not walking with Blue and Twinkle, Jasper tries to drag me down her street and walks past under protest. When they are waiting on the corner, he goes nuts.

Jasper, who is normally a perfect gentleman, yanks the leash out of my hands when he spots Blue and gallops over to her squealing. In turn, Blue starts leaping and diving like a dolphin until they catch up. They spin all over each other and run around in a circle.

It’s adorable.

Lately thanks to the quarantine, we have been walking together almost every day. The dogs know the route and sometimes make questionable decisions while Twinkle and I are talking.

Lately the hounds have been deciding when it’s time to cross the street. They gently pulling in that direction until we find ourselves where they want to be.

Then there is the weed shop. The outer door is usually open (weed is considered an essential business in Los Angeles) and almost every time we pass, Blue and Jasper take a hard turn inside. Apparently they have an order waiting. The stoners inside don’t seem to care.

Both dogs are mostly very well-behaved. They like almost all people and dogs, though occasionally Blue will take offense to something (a man’s ugly hat, or a particularly annoying little yappy dog) and will clearly voice her opinion. Jasper is usually willing to participate in mayhem, but on the whole they are both mellow dogs.

Pedestrians react in distinct ways when they spot a pair of giant dogs. Some folks are pretty sure that the dogs, who usually haven’t even noticed their existence, are going spring to life and eat them. Others are fascinated by them, and can’t keep their hands off the dogs. Blue and Jasper generally like that a lot.

There are also those people who shout, “Are those horses?” None of us like them.

The dogs seem to believe that it is their civic duty to check out every smell and gobble up all trash and food they can seize. Recently Twinkle got a piece of chicken out of Blue’s mouth, and Jasper swallowed it before it hit the ground. Blue was obviously wounded by Jasper’s traitorous action. There was a lot of side eye given, but she forgave him.

One house along the way has a particularly lush lawn. Every day both dogs collapse on it in ecstasy and roll around moaning in pleasure. We have to tug them, leaving two huge Great Dane sized dents in the grass. I wonder what the homeowner thinks happened.

When we get to Blue’s corner, I usually have to drag Jasper away. Blue stands and watches until she can no longer see us.

Great friendships are rare. Jasper and Blue are lucky. So am I.

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The Dark Months

I don’t know why we turn the clocks back every Fall, and I’m not even sure what it’s called. (The dark time? When everything goes bad? Months of depression?) I know I could just Google the answer to both questions, but that’s a digression I’m not willing to make right now, when I’m just warming up to a good rant.

You may have guessed that I hate it when it’s dark in the morning and pitch black at the crack of 4:30pm.

No one else in my household like it either. Every morning the horses begin milling around, looking for breakfast at what they think is their normal meal time, except instead of 6:30, it’s now 5:30.

At about the same time, Dalai wanders over my side of the bed and stares at me looking for a flickering of my eyelids which might mean I’m awake. If there is none, she leans over and breathes on me until I blink. As you can imagine, that works. My movement causes Fiona and Jasper to wake up and they in turn stir up Poppy and the birds.

If I’m lucky, by now, it’s 6am. Arguing with them does not work. Neither does pleading.

“C’mon,” I beg, burrowing under the covers. “Just ten more minutes.”

That is Dalai’s signal to take her paw and yank my covers off. She’s not kidding anymore. She’s awake, hungry and has a full agenda. She has stuff to do.

So up I stumble and let them all outside. Before I even make it to the bathroom, they are all back and surrounding me. Staring.

Owning Great Danes means never peeing alone.

The thing is, once I’m up in the morning, I don’t even mind being awake. I actually kind of like it. The neighborhood is quiet, and if I don’t turn on the TV or check my phone, I can pretend all is right with the world.

Right.

The worst part of the time change comes later in the day. In what used to be the afternoon. Like say 4ish. When the sun is already setting.

During most of the year I feed and then walk the dogs around 5. It gives my brain a break, and since I walk each dog separately, I get some bonding/training time with each one. It’s somewhat meditative. (Until Fiona spots the dog up the street and tries to fence fight. Then it’s loud and aggravating for everyone.)

Unfortunately, since dogs do not carry time pieces, they start nagging me for dinner about the same time as I feed the horses. Even if I can fend off the pathetic looks of four starving canines for another hour or so, by the time we start walking, it’s dark outside.

I live in an area of Los Angeles that was once more rural than urban. It’s not like that anymore, but sidewalks are still far and few between. This is not good, because even with speed bumps in the road, people drive really fast. I guess they are in a rush to get home before their bedtime.

Additionally, a long time ago, Murray the Dane and I were hit by a car while we crossed the street (in a SCHOOL ZONE, no less). So I’m a little gun shy about walking at night, even though I deck out the dogs in reflectors and carry a flashlight. If someone could smack into a giant black and white dog and me in broad daylight, it could easily happen again at night.

Oh, and my big brave Danes are generally afraid to walk at night. There are scary things out there in the dark. Like coyotes, hawks and squirrels. Or blow-up Santas.

I can’t help it, but once it’s dark outside, it feels like the day is over. Literally, I’m ready to eat dinner and go to bed. Except that it’s 8:30 pm.

The dogs don’t help. Instead they (I mean Dalai and Jasper)often go into the bedroom, and hop on the bed and start whining for me to join them.

I know I’m being difficult but I don’t want to go to bed at 8:30. Or even 9:30. But I’m embarrassed to tell you have many times I’ve given into to them, just to shut them up.

I gave in and Googled it. Apparently this period of the year is called Standard Time. Which makes no sense, because under what lunatic standard does a day end at 4:30?

Changing the clocks was first suggested by Benjamin Franklin to give everyone more time to work in the summer. So we can thank him for that. Moving the time back was apparently the work of someone who owned a candle factory. Why else would they want us in the dark endlessly?

Sigh. I have plenty of time to ponder this