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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kidding. She is biting a lot less.

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

My, My, My, Fiona.

19 months wasn’t enough. 19 years probably wouldn’t have been either.

I should be grateful. When I pulled Fiona (then dubbed FiFi. Who names a Great Dane FiFi?) from the dismal East Valley Shelter, she had so much gray on her face I thought she was at least nine years old. After three weeks there, she was shutting down, and dying. I just wanted her to have a good place to spend what I assumed were her last few months.

After a brief introduction, the sickly, rail thin (87 pounds!) dog leaped into my car and promptly fell asleep. She was so skinny that the shelter had given her a Thundershirt. An XL, it was baggy and fit like a doggy crop top.

On the drive home I named her Fiona after my favorite, once- underweight baby hippo.

Once home, I let her out to meet Dalai, Jasper and Poppy. She immediately charged off with Jasper on her tail, zooming my round pen. At one point she leapt over Dalai. I began rethinking her age.

I gave her a choice of toys – I think it might have been the first time she’d had one – and she picked out a stuffed ball covered with multi-colored, troll hair and googly eyes. From then on, that ball was always in her mouth. After multiple washings, it wasn’t fluffy anymore, but it was still her favorite.

First and favorite toy. Never leave home without it.

The first night I put her in the spare bedroom, it had a nice double bed and food and water. No matter, she was not happy. She wailed all night long. By bedtime the following night, she had found a spot on my bed next to her new BFF Jasper. She stretched out, started snoring and that was that. She slept under my right shoulder from then on. At least she was comfortable.

My vet put her age closer to five than nine, removed a benign tumor and put her on a course of antibiotics that quickly cleared up her UTI. Almost immediately she started gaining weight. Within months, she was 157 pounds of healthy, glossy, black Dane complete with shiny white toes and a white stripe on her chest. There were some nasty old scars on her back, which upset me, but not her.

Fiona was happy, and that happiness was contagious. She was always smiling. Always. Even when I dressed her up for holidays.

Before coming to Casa Liveten, Fiona had probably never seen horses before, but she didn’t worry about them either. Except like every dog I’ve ever had, she learned that horse poop and hoof parings were delicious. A gastronomic feast!

She didn’t care about Tilly the cat either and shockingly Tilly actually liked her. A first for Ms. Cat.

M y office was her favorite place in the world. She’d settle in the sofa, dog bed or floor, sigh contentedly, and stay as long as I was working. Truth be told, Fiona’s truly favorite place was where ever I happened to be.

She loved me instantly and I loved her.

About a month after I got her, she got loose while I was walking Poppy. Furious at being left home (she didn’t know yet she was third on the walk schedule) she had pushed open the gate, and run straight for main road, probably looking for us. Her ID collar hadn’t arrived yet, so she just looked like some big, stray dog. People are afraid of big, black dogs, even if they are Fiona. I was terrified she’d be hit by a car or some crazy person would shoot her. Or she’d run off and be lost forever.

Some of my neighbors got in their cars and started searching for her while I went door to door on foot. Nothing. Not even a sighting. After an hour I went back to my house, to get Jasper and my car, and there she was. Sitting on the front porch waiting. She had finally found home and wasn’t leaving.

Fiona wasn’t always perfect: she and Dalai got into a few spats; once when I was 3000 miles away and had left my SUV at the airport. My long suffering dog sitter had to hire an Uber to bring Dalai to and from the clinic. It is not easy to get an Uber to take a Great Dane. Lesson learned: I leave the SUV when I travel.

The time that my neighborhood was evacuated due to wildfires, and yes, I was out-of-town again, Fiona happily piled into the Tahoe with the three other dogs, the cat (in a carrier), the bird cage and several tubs of dog food. (I so wish there was a photo of this clown car!) She loved to ride in the car, it didn’t matter where we were going or for how long. In this case, they all landed at a friend’s guest house, where once again, Fiona took possession of the most comfy lounge chair.

She took a moment to warm up to strange dogs (and she never did learn to like my neighbor’s American Bully), but the ones she loved, (Damali and of course Blue) she never forgot, and was a perfect lady. Of course, Jasper was always her bestie. They were never far apart.

Most of the time I walked her and Poppy together, since neither of them could go much further than a mile, and their pace– a saunter interrupted by lots of sniffing — matched. They would both come home and take a long drink of water and would be fast asleep by the time Dalai and I came back from her half block walk.

About a month into the Covid-19 lockdown, I noticed a lump on her breast. While old dogs get fatty tumors all the time, particularly when they are as fat as Fiona had become, I was pretty concerned. When female dogs are spayed late or not at all, they often develop breast cancer. She’d been spayed when she joined the family.

I kept an eye on it and it kept growing. In June I took her to my vet for removal. The biopsy came back as a nasty, rare cancer that doesn’t have a lot of positive outcomes. But he felt pretty confident that he got it all. For a few weeks we all went back to whatever passed for normal.

It didn’t last. She developed a series of new tumors and on July 4^th, she started limping. At first I thought she had sprained something out of fear. My neighborhood was a war zone, with people throwing M-80s from cars and in their backyards all times of day and night and they scared the bejesus out of her.

I tried all sorts of drugs, but she was getting more and more painful and was maxed out on medications. On the 23^rd, I had a doctor come to the house to end her suffering. She died with a quarter pounder in her tummy and her stuffed ball by her nose.

Jasper and Poppy are confused. Dalai hasn’t really noticed.

I have. There is no longer a huge, black, immobile lump snoring under my right shoulder. No one steals the covers and refuse to move. I can able to roll over at night.

Maybe that will matter if I can ever get to sleep again. Right now, it doesn’t.

19 months is not nearly enough.

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.

Man Makes Plans, the Universe Laughs

My favorite saying, because it’s true, is ‘man plans and the universe laughs.’ (My second favorite is courtesy of my Papa Harry, “Everyone in the world is crazy except you and me, and I’m not so sure about you.”) But I digress.

The first was made clear this past weekend. Most people have favorite sporting events, the World Series, the FIFA World Cup, or the Olympics. The day after the Super Bowl, the US practically comes to a standstill because so many people call in sick with hangovers.

For me, the event of the year is the Breeder’s Cup. The Breeder’s Cup has been around now for 36 years. I’ve watched and/or been to the last 20 years. It’s two days and 14 races of absolutely spectacular competition. It’s the best of the best from all over the world.

Over the last decade, six of my friends, all women who I’ve ridden with, so they pass the crazy test, have watched or gone with me. We’ve gone to Churchill Downs, where I cried when Zenyatta lost to the aptly named Blame in her second Classic, to Del Mar, and always to Santa Anita. When we couldn’t travel (Kenneland you were too damned expensive) we watched at whoever’s place had the best TV.

When it’s possible, I go watch the horses work in the mornings at least twice. I pretend it’s to watch and size up the visiting horses, but it’s more than that. It’s amazing. Disneyland for horse people.

This year I really needed some fun. Two weeks prior was my screwed up trip home, and on Monday morning as I was driving to the works at 5AM I heard about the Getty Fire. Wednesday, I got up to go, turned on the television and there was helicopter filming a fire surrounding the stable where I board Mickey. Okay, they were zooming in on the Reagan Library. That matters to me not at all, but at the base of the Library’s hill is my heart and soul – Lavender Creek Ranch, and it was literally surrounded by fire. Circled.

I ended up hitching up my trailer and helped evacuate some of the 1000 horses nearby. (My barn didn’t need my help. They make the Army look unorganized.) I’ve been in a lot of active fires, but this was among the worst. Eventually all of the horses, even those that were let loose to flee from active fire, were saved. A few goats and pigs weren’t.

When the Ventura County Sherriff’s’ Department sent us all home, I collapsed and called my mom. Her ancient little dog, Monty, who lives with me often, had gone missing the night before. As we were talking they found his body.

Good times. Not.

So I really needed some fun. Luckily, it was Breeder’s Cup 2019.

I had the weekend planned down to the moment. Friday, is the shorter program, with a handful of decent stakes on the undercard, and home to the Future Stars races: the Juveniles. It was a glorious day at the track, and I even won a little (very little) money.

Everything was set for the next day. The whole card was fantastic, but the race I was looking forward to the most was The Mile. It was set for the 6^th. One of my favorite horses, Omaha Beach, was going out as the odds-on favorite.

On Day Two, because racing starts earlier and lasts later, I decided to bring Jasper to Kathy’s homes to play with her dog, Damali, while we were gone. The dogs have known each other all lives and play together often. I hadn’t left Jasper there in almost a year, but he’d visited there just two weeks ago when we were evacuated. (See my disastrous trip to New England.)

The yard where we left them has a ten-foot wall, and we opened the guest house so they could get away from the sun. There were three or four buckets of water, since Jasper likes to stand in it, and Dalmali follows his lead. It was kind of a spa day for dogs. Or so we thought.

The dogs were the farthest things from my mind as we made our way to the Santa Anita betting windows for the first race at 11. I placed my bets and noticed that Kathy was on the phone, and Lise was quietly calling my name.

“Ah, Sharon,” she said in her best super-calm therapist’s voice. “Kathy’s neighbor just called. Jasper is loose and is running around the neighborhood. They can’t catch him.”

It took me a moment to process, but then we running through the parking lot. As we ran to the car (Kathy, poor thing was dressed for the day in heels and a big beautiful hat. I was in combat boots and a dress).

I heard her say to her phone. “His name is Jasper. He’s’ big but very friendly. Don’t chase him.”

It’s important to note that her street is just off a major cross street – Laurel Canyon Blvd. And Jasper had gone around the block, with several people in tow at least once.

I am very good in crisis. It’s later I fall apart. Instead of blacking out at the thought that Jasper Johns was running into traffic trailing a bunch of well-meaning people, I stepped on the gas. Hard.

We made it back to Kathy’s place in Studio City in less than 20 minutes. It’s usually about 35 minutes and change from Arcadia.

During that time I was calm. Kathy was not, and for some reason kept apologizing. It most obviously was not her fault. We were trying to figure out how he got out. The only thing I could imagine was that he climbed on top of a garbage can and jumped over the gate. It kind of seemed plausible.

Nope.

As we flew down the exit ramp to her house Kathy spoke to her neighbor again. Apparently Jasper ran back to her house, with the Good Samaritans following. Then he slithered under the gate. Like a snake.

The space between the gate and the driveway is less than five inches. Jasper is a full-grown, 135+ pound Great Dane. Okay then.

I started to laugh manically as we shoved them in the guesthouse. Jasper was shaking a bit, but otherwise thrilled we’d come back. We literally locked the door to the guesthouse with the dogs inside, and booked it back to the track to try and see the 6^th.

I predicted that we’d be pulling into the parking lot as the 6^th went off. It was one of the few things I got right that day. But Kathy got the race on her phone, and just as I parked, we watched , Omaha Beach fail to rally and lose.

The whole trip took about an hour. We missed three races. I had a couple of bourbons, maybe more. It helped.

Planning is overrated.