We All Scream for Ice Cream

A few minutes after I took the photo for last week’s post, I discovered a pile of barf on my (semi) new Persian rug. It was Leo’s just-eaten breakfast.

He’s naturally a fast eater--you’d think the bowl of venison/chicken/lamb-patty-mixed-with-dry-food-and-three-supplements was fresh kill that he had to quickly ingest before other predators came along. Or that I starve him (I don’t; he’s at least five pounds overweight, maybe more.)

But that particular morning, I was trying to get a decent photo of him in his little red raincoat while he ate breakfast. He was inhaling his food as usual, but also shooting me suspicious glances. He doesn’t like the camera and having it pointed at him when he was eating must have stressed him out.

So when my gaze swept round the living room and landed on the pile of barf, I felt awful about it. What made it even more awful was that my Tuesday morning phone meeting had just started. Cell phone pressed to my ear, I knelt down to inspect it. (Again, it’s that mothering instinct to examine everything that goes in and comes out of our charges.)

When Leo saw that I found the barf, he decided he needed to have a look at it, too. He trotted over, sniffed at it and then proceeded to lick it. With the phone sandwiched between my ear and my shoulder, I tried to wrestle him away from the barf. But tug and pull as I might, he had decided this was something very delicious. Giving up in disgust, I turned my back to him for the rest of the phone meeting.

He does things that gross me out on a daily basis. There’s the nasty habit of eating poop. Not his own, mind you, but that of other dogs. And cats. Cat poop is his favorite; it’s higher in protein (or so I’ve read online). Our neighbor Bob has two cats that poop all over his lawn, much to his dismay. My fiancé jokingly offered up Leo’s services.

Then there are the things he does to embarrass me. There’s the ill-timed poop: when he decides to lay one down on someone’s lawn just as they come out of the house (I make a grand show of placing the poop bag over my hand and scooping it up). Or the flower garden romp: when he tramples into a flowerbed to sniff around like a blood hound hot on the coon trail, leaving me to drag him out just in time for the owner to pull up and shoot me dirty looks. Or the all-out mayhem induced by cats: he’ll break into a sprint to chase them (not caring that I’m dragging behind on the other end of the leash) or if the cat is bold and stands its ground, he’ll plant himself and bark his deepest, most menacing bark (which just ends up sounding like a bunch of empty threats).

But the most memorable embarrassing moment with Leo had to be last summer. We were out for our evening walk, trudging up a rather steep hill. Somewhere an ice cream truck was parked with its annoying ice cream truck song blaring away. Something about the ice cream truck song (it’s deliriousness? it’s forced gaiety?) always makes Leo howl, and this was no exception. Every few steps up the hill, Leo stopped and howled. I welcomed the rest, for it was a very hot day and a very steep hill.

When we reached the top, though, there was the ice cream truck. And there was a line of parents and kids waiting to buy ice cream. And there Leo decided to plant himself, and howl. He would not budge and he would not stop howling. I tugged at his leash. I pulled at his collar. I tried sweet-talking him with promises of treats. I tried enticing him with encouraging whistles. The ice cream truck continued it’s maniacal tune, Leo continued howling, and the ice cream eaters pointed at us and laughed.

I had to laugh, too. And when I buried my face in his fur (to laugh and to hide) Leo decided it was time to go home.

April Showers Bring May Impatience

The forecast for the next nine days in the Portland, Oregon area is rain. Sure, they vary what they call it: “Showers,” “Rain,” “Few Showers,” even “Cloudy” (meaning that water probably won’t be falling from the sky, but it’ll still be dark and overcast). It all adds up to the same thing, though: an absence of sun.

And an absence of sun bums me out. Call it Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), call it the wintertime blues, call it whatever you like—living in perpetual darkness just plain sucks.

Leo doesn’t seem to mind, though. If it’s raining steadily, he wears his raincoat. It has a collar that stands up on the back of his neck and pockets that say “Outward Hound.” When I first put it on him, I thought he looked like a vampire in a red cape. But then I realized it was something else, an image tucked way, way back in my memory banks: he looks like the Big Bad Wolf after he gobbled up Little Red Riding Hood, donned her cape, and went masquerading around the forest as a cross-dresser.

So while Leo and I trudge around in the rain, I pine for summer. I pine for long, hot, sundrenched days that seem to stretch on and on. I think fondly of the sundresses and skirts I’ll wear (forgetting, momentarily, that I’ll have to shave my legs). I mentally transport myself out of the here and now of rainy April to the here and decidedly not now of cheerfully sunny June.

See, I’ve never been good at being “present” and “staying in the moment.” In fact, I came to the conclusion during a therapy session in college that the present tense, like perpetual darkness, just plain sucks. You’re stuck in the present, forced to live it as it is unfolding. It is what it is and there’s no changing it.

In contrast, the past is so malleable, so dependent on fickle memory, so open to interpretation. The past begs to be messed with. In the retelling of our pasts (whether to ourselves or to others), we exercise supreme power. We choose to highlight this event or completely omit that one. We express how we felt at the time without acknowledging that the memory may have been colored by how we feel today, stuck in this present, retelling the event. And then there’s the “truth” of the memory: do we really even remember the event at all? Or is it a memory we’ve fabricated within ourselves, bolstered by family photos and the stories of other family members?

But let’s leave the past tense alone and move on to the bright, shining future tense. In the future, the possibilities are endless. My dreams and fantasies take place in the future tense, a realm where all kinds of wonderful marvels and ridiculous escapades very well could happen. (Like my fantasy of one day getting married and living in a house and having a garden; it’s happening! Or the dream I had where I was a rock star and Lyle Lovett came on stage when I was playing in front of millions of people and asked me to give him a haircut; it’ll never happen but I never wanted to be a rock star or cut Lyle Lovett’s hair, so who cares!)

The future is slippery and shiny, like an exotic fish—difficult to glimpse, impossible to grab a hold of. And, at least in my mind, it’s always sunny.

Pamper My Pooch, Jezebel

My dear friend Elissa has made a contribution to this blog once again. She sent me a link to Jezebel, one of her favorite sites, with details on a chance to win a grooming session courtesy of Animal Planet. Seems Animal Planet has a new reality show, “Groomer Has It,” and the contest is an excuse to celebrate. Not wasting any time, I prepared Leo’s submission:

“Dear Jezebel:
Meet Leo Mosquito Burrito. Leo deserves a grooming session for so many reasons:

Number 1:
He's a grouchy old man and like all old men, he stinks.

Number 2:
He's a Chow mix with the thick, tangled fur of a black bear. I've tried to bathe him myself. It was a cold, wet, soapy disaster. Giving Leo a bath is a job best left to a professional.

And number 3:
Leo was rescued by the Oregon Humane Society in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina. He was flown to Portland where he lived in the Humane Society shelter for 3 months before I fell madly in love with him and adopted him.

When I brought him home just over two years ago, he had heart worm, intestinal worms, arthritis and hip dysplasia. X-rays showed that he had suffered a broken rib earlier in life. A recent dental cleaning revealed that most of his teeth were worn to the gum line and three were cracked and had to be pulled (in the words of the veterinarian who cleaned his teeth, "It looks like he's been chewing on a chain for years.")

Leo is a tough old dog who has had a tough life. I've made it my goal to give him the most comfortable retirement possible. He's on a pricey raw meat diet, gets two long walks every day, and has his own couch, fuzzy blanket and pillow for lounging purposes (see photo). He also has a blog devoted to him.

Please consider Leo for the complimentary grooming session. He deserves to get his hair did, dammit!”

Yes, I shamelessly played the Hurricane Katrina card. How could I not? As if he couldn’t win based on the merits of his body odor, level of bathing difficulty and distinguished good looks alone.

As if! But a few days later Elissa sent me another link with the subject line, “It shoulda been Leo.” Leo wasn’t chosen. And I was mad as hell. I felt like a jilted stage mom. What do those dogs have that Leo doesn't?! How could Jezebel not recognize Leo's star power?

We aren't poor losers, though, so Leo and I would like to announce our official endorsement of Oslo. Oslo is currently in the lead and as a large, extra furry, extra stinky kind of dog, we feel this is a gal we can relate to. Please cast your vote for Oslo!

Old Dog, New Whisker

“Leo has a new whisker,” I announced to the Fiance when he came home from work one evening. (Sadly, this passes for conversation-worthy news when you work at home with only a dog for distraction).

The whisker seemed to sprout over night—a rebellious white whisker with a jaunty curve to it, ala Salvador Dali’s mustache.

You may think me overly observant in regard to Leo, a smidgen too attentive, perhaps slightly obsessive. Yet my observations don’t stop here.

I can also tell you the color and consistency of the bowel movement he had this morning. I can tell you what his bowel movement was like last night, too. This isn’t a result of grotesque curiosity or a scatological fetish. No, no.

Poop is one of the first indications of illness. You’ve got to keep tabs on these things. Mothers of infants know this; this is why they peer into diapers and take stock of the contents. Too hard? Too soft? A strange color? Any warning signs and signals lurking within?

So when the Fiance walks Leo, the first question I ask when they return is, “Did he poop?” The point of a walk is twofold: 1) to provide an opportunity to excrete waste (particularly solid waste) and 2) to provide exercise and fresh air. If Leo had a nice walk but didn’t poop, then the walk is considered only partly successful (and I fret and wonder why there was no pooping). The Fiance jokes that one of these days, I’ll demand genetic testing to confirm that the poop in the bag in the garbage can outside is indeed Leo’s—and not just some random dog’s he picked up to appease me.

Beyond the daily monitoring of what goes in and what comes out, I take note of his nose (wet? dry? warm? cold?), his eyes (always running due to entropion, but excessively so?) and his gait (stiffer than usual? any signs of limping?)

But the whisker—I didn’t see it coming. It blindsided me. It’s a sign of time passing, of Leo aging. He’s at least nine years old, probably older, and despite all that I do to keep him healthy and slow the aging process, he’ll only continue to get older. (Though maybe some of the anti-aging strategies outlined in "Lifestyle of the Century: Will You Live to 100?" will work for Leo.)

I’m feeling older, too. And the signs of time passing have snuck up on me, too. It seems I can go for months and months and see no perceptible difference in myself. And then BLAM! I look in the mirror one day and am startled to see that I’ve aged five years.

This aging process is a sneaky one; the years and the wear and tear seem to accumulate in some invisible part of me, only to surface all at once, seemingly over night. I note the dark(er) circles under my eyes, the (even more) lines around my mouth. I try to conjure up the face that used to look back at me at age 30, at 21, at 14. Have I really been all those faces? Am I a sum of those women now?

I wonder if Leo looks back fondly on his puppy days, or if there’s a recognition in his body, somewhere, that things don’t work as good as they used to. Probably not. That sort of longing and nostalgia is reserved for us humans, isn’t it?

So I’m going to give props to my old dog and try to learn something from him. And I'm going to try and make it sound clever and make it serve as an ending for this too-long post. Here goes: Acknowledge the whisker (or the wrinkle or the dark circle) and keep on truckin’.

Deep Tissue Massage Impostor

My friend Elissa sent this silly video to me with the message: “Nigel and Leo!” Nigel is her cat.

The video cracks me up to no end. And it got me thinking that maybe Leo could use a massage (though not by a cat; he’d sooner engage in extreme fighting with a cat than allow it to “massage” him anywhere). He has arthritis and hip dysplasia and judging by the looks of his x-rays, he’s probably in pain most of the time: the “c” joints in his hips have been worn to resemble more of an “l” joint. There’s nothing really left to support his back legs, which explains his stilted gait and overall clumsiness (stairs are a challenge).

The night I adopted him at the Humane Society, one of the volunteers who worked closely with Leo told me how they had brought in massage therapists to give the dogs massages. Leo had a reputation for being aloof and wary with strangers, she explained, but once the massage was underway, he stretched himself out and reveled in the contact.

When I was eight years old, I decided I wanted to be a masseuse. Something I saw on TV must have planted the seed—it was probably a soap opera. I used to pretend that I worked in a very fancy spa. First I would carefully fold one of our bath towels (it had to be a white one) over my left arm. Meanwhile, I would make my 5-year-old brother take off his shirt and lay face down on my mom’s ironing board. Standing on tippy toes, I would liberally pour baby oil all over his back. Then I would spread the oil around, give him a few rapid chops like I’d seen on TV and call it a day. (I was never quite sure what the towel was for but it came in handy for mopping up the baby oil.)

When I had one of many identity crises a few years back, the masseuse idea resurfaced. Why not leave my comfortable marketing job in San Francisco and become a massage therapist? I took classes in basic Swedish massage at night and quickly determined that a) I’m not comfortable touching people I don’t know b) I like getting massages a whole lot better than I do giving them and c) I just plain suck at giving massages.

My hands are always cold; that was the first hurdle. And I would get so nervous before giving a massage that my hands would tremble uncontrollably. Cold, shaky hands are not a recipe for a great massage.

But Leo doesn’t seem to mind my cold hands. And touching him doesn’t make me nervous. In fact, petting him is quite relaxing and enjoyable. Maybe it’s time to study up on canine anatomy and really work his muscles instead of just luxuriating in his thick fur. This time, though, I’ll skip the baby oil and the ironing board.

Flossin’ the Clean Chompers

For as long as I’ve had him, Leo has had foul breath, the kind that makes you recoil in horror when he gives you a kiss. I knew I should get his teeth cleaned but I balked when I heard the price: $360 minimum, plus extra if extractions were required.

Sheesh. Don’t people have anything better to spend their money on? (Shoes, for example?) That was my thinking. But after a conversation with his vet where she warned of the potential health problems that could occur as a result of plaque and tartar build up, much like in people, I decided it was time to drop the cash and invest in this old dog’s mouth.

Cleaning a dog’s teeth is no simple task. Like surgery, it requires general anesthesia and monitoring of vital signs. I dropped him at the vet’s office early in the morning, after a quick walk and no breakfast (the first assault to his system that day). In the afternoon, the vet called to tell me that the procedure had gone well but that Leo’s teeth were badly worn. “It looks like he’s been chewing on a chain for years,” she said.

Well, he probably had been chewing on a chain for years—in New Orleans, I explained. She went on to tell me that three of his teeth were cracked and beginning to get infected around the gum line, and so had to be extracted (bringing the cost up to $460). Yikes! I’d had a bunch of dental work performed recently myself, so the sensation of having teeth pulled was still fresh in my mind (double yikes). Poor Leo.

When I went to pick him up, his eyes were glazed and he was bouncing off the walls. Apparently, he’d been given something to bring him out of the anesthesia. He was agitated and restless in the car on the ride home. I decided to skip his evening walk and brought him inside.

Leo is always hungry, and always underfoot when we’re trying to make dinner. He’ll position himself wherever you happen to be chopping the onions, peeling the garlic or grating the cheese, waiting for any small tidbit to drop from the sky and become fair game.

With no breakfast and three teeth missing, he was hungry as ever. But the vet had warned that anesthesia can cause nausea so I was advised not to feed him that night.

Dinner was not in the cards for old Leo—the final assault of the day. As we went about our dinner prep and ate our dinner and cleared our plates, Leo wandered slowly behind us, head hanging low, stopping now and again to stare at the floor.

Poor guy. He looked like Eeyore. A sad, broken Eeyore with gleaming white teeth and minty fresh breath.

Alas, Leo will never appreciate the importance of good dental health (and if you have any doubts, you should take a look at the findingDulcinea Dental Health Web Guide), but I will certainly appreciate a healthier dog and better-smelling doggie kisses—a far better investment than new shoes, eh?

So About My Dog…

In 2005, I decided to move from San Francisco to Portland for a lot of reasons, loneliness being one of them. Portland felt smaller, slower, friendlier. I envisioned myself living in a little house with a yard and getting a dog who would take long walks with me in the gloomy Oregon rain. Surely I could live happily ever after there?

And so in between the online hours devoted to job-hunting and burrito-finding in my new city, it was dog-searching time. The Oregon Humane Society (OHS) was my favorite bookmark. I looked at the photos and profiles of each and every dog on the site—every day, sometimes several times a day. Whenever my new neighbor came by and found me mooning over the dogs, he said, “Oh geez, she’s looking at her doggie porn again.”

“But look at this one!” I pointed at my computer screen. He was an older dog, a chow chow mix with a giant, goofy head that made me laugh. His profile was equally captivating: “Leo has a big personality. He is fun loving and comical, but definitely likes things on his own terms. We expect him to bond closely with his person and be a great friend. He'll also give lots of kisses.”

I was smitten.

But also unemployed. With my savings rapidly depleting, I was afraid to get a dog until I had a job. So my long days spent trolling the Internet (and visiting Leo’s profile) continued. October rolled into November rolled into December and my online visits to Leo began to be filled with dread: would he still be there? Would someone else adopt him before I could?

On January 4, 2006, my phone rang: I was offered a job. And the next moment I was in the car, speeding to the Oregon Humane Society.

When I found Leo, he was sleeping. His back was pressed to the front of the kennel, black fur sticking out between the bars. Unlike the other dogs who rushed to greet me as I walked by, full of showmanship for the prospective adopter, Leo just snored.

I sat down beside him, afraid to touch him in his sleep, and glanced up to see a sign on his kennel: “I survived the Louisiana Flood Waters. I am a dog that has been brought from the South as part of the Hurricane Katrina pet rescue.”

I had heard that OHS was rescuing dogs from New Orleans and bringing them to Portland to find new homes for them. Yet until that moment, I didn’t know that Leo was one of those dogs. Suddenly it felt like so many tiny, interconnecting threads had brought me and this old dog together.

Leo was from New Orleans; I had lived in New Orleans. Hurricane Katrina brought Leo to Portland; I moved to Portland on the very day that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. I first heard of the Internet’s existence when I lived in New Orleans; it was on the Internet that I found Leo. His name is Leo; my astrological sign is Leo....

...admittedly I got a little crazy with this “interconnectedness” thing. But as I sat there next to this dog and contemplated all the quiet decisions and momentous events that had led to our paths crossing in this place at this time, I felt like we were part of a grand web.

And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I had found my rainy weather walking companion.