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Ruckus is a Big Girl Now

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

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

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

Dandy.

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

Murray post surgery just because he was gorgeous.

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

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

Ruckus as a puppy from a responsible breeder.

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

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

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

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

Yuck.

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

23 days. Almost a month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did not keep it to herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that I’m a worrier or anything…

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I Got A Puppy For Hanukkah.

The puppy I bought from Jasper’s breeder.

A friend recently called me the voice of reason. I laughed, and laughed and laughed.

I’ve been called a lot of things, but, considering I could practically open my own petting zoo (doesn’t that sound awesome!) reasonable, is not one of them.

The latest example of my lack of, um, clarity, is my decision to get a fourth dog, a third Great Dane, to add to my pack.

I deluded myself into believing that I needed this puppy. That part was easy.

There was one serious bump in the road. In addition to, well, THREE Great Danes.

Obviously, I needed a black Dane to fill the huge hole left when Fiona died.

The problem was getting her from her bucolic origins in rural Kentucky, to my crazy homestead in Chatsworth.

With Covid raging, picking her up myself, was not an option. Due to financial and moral considerations, I wasn’t going paying someone else to fly her either. Apparently “puppy escorts” are a thing among people of a higher economic echelon than me. (Note to self: check out possible job option.)

That left me the horrible realization that my 7 ½ week old puppy was going to be in a crate and transported as cargo from Nashville, the closest airport to her home in Kentucky. There are no direct flights from Nashville to LAX, so she would go first to Dallas, and from there land at LAX. At 6:20 PM.

There were no less awful alternatives, so on the day she was due to arrive I swallowed deeply. Xanax washed down by my less-good bourbon worked just fine.

I started getting the house ready for the first puppy in four and a half years. I pulled out a smallish crate, washed it, added a few blankets and a stuffed doggie with a heartbeat and heating pad.

I put it in my bedroom between Dalai’s huge crate and Poppy’s medium one. Nothing says sexy like a bedroom with three huge dog crates. And dog slobber on the walls.

I checked with the breeder to make sure I was supposed to pick them up at the cargo area, not the main airport. I was.

That all took about a half hour, which left me plenty of time to I sit around and chew my fingernails.

At 5 PM Twinkle picked me up. She said it was so I could put the puppy—who I thought I’d name Maeve- on my lap for the drive home. I think it was really so I wouldn’t cause a crash since I was such a wreck.

Either way, I was super grateful.

We arrived right on time. The one good thing about Covid is that rush hour traffic, even a week before Xmas, is almost no-existent.

American’s cramped cargo building was filled with people, waiting in a line. When I got to the front, the guy gave me a form to fill out with all of the puppy’s flight information, her shipper, breeder and everything but my social security number.

Without looking up from the computer, he told me that there were two puppies, and that it would take about 20 minutes for them to be transported from the airplane to the cargo area.

I waited. And waited.

By 7:30 most of the room had changed over. Even the lady from the funeral home claiming human remains had come and gone.

It was strangely reminiscent of being at the DMV. It smelled the same too.

The guy behind the desk stopped meeting my eyes.

was getting frantic.

I didn’t want to piss him off, so I turned my freak-out down to a seven when I approached the desk.

“Just checking on my puppy.” I said.

He looked up without making eye contact, before he started hitting the computer keyboard in what appeared to be a completely random manner. “Hmmmmmm.”

“Hmmm?” I said, trying not to panic.

“Hmmm. Let me call over there and try and find it. One of them is here.”

“What?!!!!” It came out as a squeal. I do not think I have ever made that sound before. I’m not sure that humans have ever made that sound.

He glared at me. “I’ve located it. The dog is at priority parcel. It is over at the airport. Baggage area 4. That’s where you should have gone.”

It was now close to 8:30 pm. My poor terrified puppy that had been in a loud, scary crate for more than 12 hours.

Normally, the week before Xmas, particularly with the monorail construction, it takes an hour to get around the circle at LAX. We made it in 15 minutes.

I zipped into the priority area, and saw a small crate with a cowering, exhausted puppy. I checked that the pup was alive, which it seemed to be.

A smiling gentlemen came out of the office, “They told me you were on your way.” He had sheaf of paperwork which he matched with the paperwork on the crate. I signed a bunch of things and grabbed the crate.

At the car I pulled the puppy out, popped a tiny collar on her and tossed the crate in the backseat. I settled her on my lap.

She was scared, cold, and shaking like a leaf. So was I.

I gave her some of the food that she came with, and a little water as well. She gobbled it and passed out.

Twinkle looked at me as we drove. “She doesn’t really look like her picture. She doesn’t look black. She looks like Mighty.”

Practically the only picture I have of Mighty standing still. Nine weeks old here.

Mighty is a beautiful silver with tan points. In the picture my puppy was black with tan points, and had a white stripe down her chest. This dog was light and had no strip. I wasn’t worried.

I was just glad she was here and alive.

At my place Twinkle carried her in the back yard, while I let the dogs out to meet her. They were unimpressed, and she was thrilled. Big dogs she understood.

By the time everyone got settled, it was about 11. She was definitely silver, not black.

When the phone rang, I didn’t recognize the number, and didn’t pick up. Two minutes later, it rang again. This time I answered.

“This is (mumble) from the airport.”

“Uh huh.”

“You took the wrong puppy. Your puppy is here. The other people are mad.”

It took a second for it all to fall into place, but it made sense. This puppy was not the one I thought I was getting. But all the paperwork matched…

I assured the guy that I’d take the poor thing back, but it would be at least another hour. He said he’d tell the people.

I threw the filthy crate in the back of my SUV, plopped the exhausted, confused puppy on my lap and headed back to LAX.

The puppy immediately fell asleep and as we passed the Getty Center, the guy called again sounding slightly desperate. I assured him that I was on my way, and asked him to make sure that my puppy had some water and food. He told me that the other people had taken her out, so they probably fed and watered her.

When we arrived the guy met me out front. He was practically apoplectic. I handed him the sleeping puppy, but he asked me to put her in the crate.

“We’re not allowed to touch the dogs.” As he walked away with her, I remembered the collar. He said the people would take it off. He disappeared into the airport.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually he came back out with a crate. Inside was a black puppy, shaking with fear. She was cold and soaked in urine. I pulled her out of the crate and was wiping her off when what appeared to be a homeless woman with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and hear ran up to me. Screaming.

She kept yelling, “You have dogs don’t you? “ She also cursed. A lot.

I ignored her until it finally dawned on me that she was the other puppy’s owner. Maybe she was worried that it had come in contact with unvaccinated dogs. I assured her that I had dogs, but they were all up to date on their shots, so the puppy would not get ill.

“That crate was filthy! How could you leave a dog in that filthy crate for two hours?”

“Huh? I just got home when I got called. I didn’t have time to clean it. I barely had time to feed, water and clean the dog before I came back. Besides, the puppy was on my lap except when we got here and the man had me put her back.”

She kept screeching.

If I hadn’t been holding a limp, obviously dehydrated, starving, cold puppy I’d have said more. Possibly I’d have slugged her.

I was pissed. It was obvious she had not given the dog water or food. She took it out and shoved her back in her filthy soaked crate for those two hours.

Instead I put the pup in passenger seat and offered her food and water. She gobbled some kibble, drank and whimpered I put the seat warmer on and she curled up and went to sleep.

We made it home around 1 AM.

My dogs were shocked and disappointed that the first puppy, which they were delighted to see leave, had been replaced with another one.

I stuffed her into her crate, and we all went to–sort of – sleep.

Poppy ignores the puppy, in the hopes she will go away again.

By morning, it was clear that the puppy’s name was Ruckus. That is certainly what she had created upon arrival, and for the foreseeable future.

Dalai spends a lot of time trying to hide from Ruckus. It doesn’t work.

I got my puppy for Hanukkah.

With that, I guarantee no one will ever call me the voice of reason again.

Right now, three Danes on the bed is simple.

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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…

Sleeping with Giants (and Other Fantasies)

When I first got Murray Great Dane, I was living the dream. We spent our days hanging out with my three hipster best friends in a cool psychedelically painted micro-bus, catching bad guys. Just kidding; that’s Scooby Doo and Friends.

In reality, after doing extensive research on Great Danes and discovering fun facts like they have nothing to do with Denmark and were originally bred to hunt wild boar, I searched extensively for the perfect specimen. Still kidding! I acquired Murray the Dane from my friend whose Dane got it on with a another Dane while my friend wasn’t looking.

I knew nothing about Great Danes other than my Dad had one when he was young and that Murray was adorable, needed a home, and his parents were beautiful. So I plopped him on my lap and we drove home to introduce him to my three Brittanys.

It wasn’t the safest way to drive and definitely not a good precedent to set. From then on, Murray was a Velcro dog. Soon, (like days later) he couldn’t fit under the steering wheel, but he was always as close as physically possible.

Murray may have been my first Dane, but he was far from my first dog. So the first thing we worked on was potty training. If you use a crate, a dog door, and have a pack of well housebroken dogs, training is a snap. Murray was completely trustworthy by the time he was 10 weeks old.

After that he never had an accident. When he was older, though, he did have a lot of ‘on purposes’ when he was literally pissed at me.

As soon as Murray was safe to roam, he was on my bed at night. Of the four dogs, the only one who refused to sleep with us, was Morgan. She was an old Diva when I adopted her, and she had RULES. One was that ladies absolutely did not sleep on the bed.

Her other unbreakable commandment was that she went to bed at nine pm. That would have been fine, but Morgan also believed she could not retire to her chambers alone. Lady or not, she would bark and carry on until I finally got a tiny television for the bedroom and we’d all join her at nine.

When Murray was small he needed help getting on my queen-sized bed so I’d pick him up. By the time he was grown, he’d established his place directly to the right of my head where he’d remain all night. The Brittanys all tended to wiggle while they slept. They’d begin the night at the bottom of the bed before rolling their way to the top, squished next to Murray and me.

All of them except Oliver felt they had to stay in direct contact with me at all times. In the winter this cut down considerably on my heating bills. It was less desireable in the summer. When it was hot, I’d try to get away from them as I slept. They followed.

Occasionally, the inevitable happened. The first time Murray, by then full-grown and 140 pounds, pushed me to the floor he was so thoroughly offended by the thunk I made when I hit the ground that he barked. When he realized that I had disturbed his beauty rest, he shot me a huffy, injured look.

At the time I thought I was miserable. In hindsight those were the good old days.

Presently I live with three Great Danes and Poppy the Brittany. Poppy, bless her, never stays on the bed at night. She hates being touched when she’s sleeping and has been known to bite the offender. She starts off the night in her crate and then wanders the house. She always ends up by my side of the bed, and more than once I’ve stepped on her tail. Oops.

Dalai the Dane prefers to sleep in her giant crate. Except when she is frightened such as during Santa Ana winds, or if there are fireworks, or when she has a nightmare. Then she hovers over my face breathing loudly until I make room for her on the bed.

Jasper has slept with me since the very day I got him, when he absolutely refused to sleep in his crate. He howled. He cried and screeched as he slammed himself repeatedly into the crate door.

I wouldn’t have cared, but I got him in Kentucky, and we spent his first few nights at my Mom’s place. His vocalizing woke the entire house, so I gave in and put him on the bed. Instantly he curled up next to me, sighed happily and fell asleep. In the morning, he quietly played with his toys until I woke up and took him outside. He had arrived impeccably housebroken. At seven weeks.

Jasper at seven weeks, of course he slept anywhere he wanted to.

Obviously, he still sleeps on the bed.

When I broke Fiona out of the shelter, I tried her in a crate but she was miserable. But she was content to sleep on any one of the floofy dogs beds on the floor. It was great.

I don’t remember why – perhaps I was drunk- but one night I invited Fiona on the bed. From that moment forth she shoved Jasper out of the way and fell asleep on my right shoulder. When she was 87 pounds, it wasn’t that big a deal. But as she got healthier (she’s now a sturdy 154 pounds) it became a problem.

Once Fiona is asleep, she is immobile. She becomes a 154 pound sack of furry cement. Cement that must at all times be touching me, preferably with her head on my neck. Snoring loudly.

Jasper gets into bed last and is continually shocked that Fiona has taken the ‘good’ spot. He gets around this by plopping his butt on her side, and sliding down next to her. It looks like they are spooning. It’s sweet.

Except that they, like Murray, push in their sleep. I begin each night carefully situating myself in the middle of the bed. By 2 or 3 am, they have commendeered the covers and I am hanging onto the mattress by my fingernails.

Moving them is almost impossible, since together they weigh more than 300 pounds. Instead I usually get up and go to the other side of the bed, and try to get back to sleep before they notice I’ve moved.

It’s a king-sized bed. So Jasper, Dalai and Fiona fit. Sometimes they let me in too.

If you think this is insane, and you are correct. I don’t think that Shaggy has this problem with Scooby Doo.

But he is a cartoon Dane.