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Covid Outlier No More

I am always late for the party. If the cool kids do something, eventually I catch up. Usually when most people have moved on to the Next Big Thing.

This time that meant I got Covid in March of 2023. I feel a little like Paul in All Quiet on the Western Front.

I mean isn’t Covid over?

I didn’t even feel terrible. Other than one day when I only got out of bed to feed the horses and dogs, and never changed out of my pjs, it wasn’t that bad.

The dogs LOVED sleeping on the bed with me for nearly 24 hours straight. So there’s that. (Let me bust one myth: Covid did not interfere with my sense of smell. At all. That would have been a plus, since I was sharing close space with three extremely farty Great Danes.)

Ruckus refused to accept responsibility for her gassiness.

As for me, I was just tired. I also had leg cramps from being squashed by the giant immobile dogs, but that is a whole other story.

I felt like I had a bad cold. You know, stuffy head, an occasional cough, sneezing and a runny nose. So very sexy, I know.

Because I was pretty good about wearing masks in public, I hadn’t even had a cold since before Covid started. Which was why all of the test kits that the government sent out in 2021 were sitting untouched in my medicine cabinet. I used one. It lit up like a Christmas Tree.

Naturally, I didn’t believe it.

I had a COLD damn it! Anyway the tests had expired. Normally I don’t believe anything goes bad on the expiration date, but since I was grasping at straws, I checked online and sure enough, the internet said that expired tests often give false positives.

The internet is always correct, right?

Still, the next day when I ran out to pick up a few essentials at the store, I wore a fresh new mask. And bought a thermometer. (Side note: I have THREE horse thermometers, but none for humans. Horse people understand.) And a new test kit. Just in case.

I had a lot to do that day so after I shopped, I cleaned the barn, spent a few hours mowing the grass, and a few other equally necessary tasks before it was scheduled to rain again.

I was tired, but it’s a push mower. (Don’t judge me: it was cheap. And so am I.) Finally I sat down and took the test.

I set a timer and then my sister-in-law called. I assured her that I didn’t have Covid, but I was being cautious. We talked for a few minutes, hung up and the timer went off.

Two dark lines.

NOOOOOO!

I was so incredibly pissed.

For one thing, I had been so careful. Not only was I still the Queen of the Masks (in stores and other crowded places) but even more important, except for going to the barn, which is outside, I rarely did anything involving other people. (Anti-social? Or just careful? You decide.)

I do know exactly when I got Covid. I had to fly back East for the funeral of my beloved uncle. When my sister-in-law met me at the airport I told her that I was the only one wearing a mask and someone a few rows behind me hacked up a lung the entire way across country.

At the time it seemed funny. Now, so much.

It’s well-known that I’m not a hugger, but funerals are an exception. So I hugged everyone.

This meant that my positive test had greater implications than for just me. I had visions of being Patient Zero at the funeral. This was not a pleasant thought.

Thankfully, neither my 92-year-old Mom, nor my Aunt, who looks and acts like she is in her 40s, but is almost twice that age, seemed to have picked it up. Nor have any of the other attendees, geezers or whipper-snappers.

One day post-positive, I spent an hour trying to connect on a video call with my doctor to see if, in the words of the slogan, “Paxlovid was right for me.” After the technology failed numerous times we ended up connecting on the phone.

I was already getting better and had no pre-existing conditions, so apparently Paxlovid was not right for me.

But I was giving instructions to quarantine for a few more days, drink liquids and rest.

At least the dogs were happy.

As usual a little late to the party/ So far 2023 has sucked too.

Featured

Meet Penelope, My Latest Dumb Decision

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

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

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

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

Multiple times.

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

She was absolutely freaked out. Commence vomiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some days.

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

This too will pass.

I hope.

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

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

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

I wish all my dumb decisions ended up this well.

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Join A Parade!

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

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

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

I can relate to that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be epic. We will fit right in.

Featured

Meta, You Hardly Know Me!

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

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

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

Black smoke less than two miles away is never good.

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

They are loud, weird looking and fight fires.

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

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

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

Definitely worth over $1000. For someone else.

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

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

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

If Meta paid attention, it would know this.

Moving on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meta doesn’t care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

Phew.

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

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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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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.

Featured

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.

Featured

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.

Featured

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.

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