Pet news items you may have missed

In my never ending quest to bring you--oh nevermind, I have a news feed. How hard is that?

Man Who Shoots Dog With Crossbow Gets 2 Years in Prison

Blind man and guide dog booted from flight

From the not-really-news-but-information department: Trainer to Stars Says Any Dog Can Learn New Tricks

What I love about baseball

Did you know baseball has a 'no fraternization' rule, Rule 3.09, which prevents players from talking to each other and being friendly while in uniform. It's the least enforced rule in baseball and for good reason. It's stupid.

Like when a guy gets a single, and while he's at first and waiting for the next guy to get to the plate he's often chatting with the first baseman, many times they are both smiling or laughing. I love that. What are they talking about? Good places to eat after the game? Making fun of the mascot? Comparing cell phone plans? Discussing whether the Kuiper belt that exists near the orbit of Neptune is in any way related to former light hitting second baseman Duane Kuiper? I always wonder what they're saying and wish we could listen in. But that would just make them self-conscious and I'd rather they feel free to enjoy themselves. I think it's part of what would make paying baseball the very best of things to do for a living.

Of course it could all be just a bunch of sophomoric teasing.

"Nice hit--for a girl."
"Say it, don't spray it."
"Your momma."
"No, YOUR momma."
 *makes farting sound every time the runner steps on first*
"Bite me."

A couple of years ago baseball asked the umps to start paying closer attention to it, for some reason, but I never saw one infraction called and never heard one announcer discuss it. It was a complete non-issue.

Well now they're talking about removing it from the books (I don't have a link but Buster Olney wrote it in a blog on a pay site that I saw referenced in another blog). Good for them. Let's keep making sports be about sportsmanship and community.

Except for Michigan. It's Wednesday and Michigan still sucks.

Good morning, snow. We've been expecting you.

 (This morning)

Okay so now it starts.

Every year there is a moment when the wind shifts. I know it's always changing direction but the prevailing wind make a subtle but important shift right about this time of year. I know when that happens because our back storm door becomes a little unrulier. Throughout the spring and summer and early fall it pretty much closes faithfully, except when there is a real storm brewing. But in November, sometimes a little earlier, it's held open even on days when the wind seems light. It's pulled out of my hand and pressed against the railing and when that happens I always look to the skies. It doesn't seem different, but it is. The phrase, 'Something wicked this way comes,' runs through my head. I feel a little pang in my chest.

That happened the last week of October. That is my signal that winter is here. The snow on the ground is merely reiteration.

An Interview with Tango

From time to time we like to interview adoptable pets from Pawsabilities: the Humane Society of Greater Akron.

 Meet Tango

From Pawsabilities' Facebook post: "In honor of Adopt a Senior Month, meet Tango! He is a handsome 7 year old Rottweiler that weighs about 70 pounds. He walks well on the leash and loves to play with squeaky toys. He needs a home where he is the only furry member. He already knows sit and down and would love to learn even more! This laid-back boy can’t wait to become part of a family!"

I stopped by Pawsabilities to get a better sense of what Tango was all about.

Me: Hi Tango
Tango: S'up?
Me: Thanks for making time to see me. What were you doing before I got here.
Tango: I was browsing the internet for a new squeaky toy.
Me: They let you work the computers?
Tango: I sort of insisted. I am a Rottweiler after all.
Me: I get it. So what do you do when you find one you like.
Tango: I bark once for buy it and twice for buy it this very minute.
Me: Wait, the description says you're laid back.
Tango: (whispers) I am but I have to act tough. I don't want to lose my Rottweiler card.
Me: (whispers) So you're really sweet?
Tango: Last person who called me sweet got bit on the face.
Me: You bit him?
Tango: No, not me. I licked him for being so nice. He next tried to hug a rogue chihuahua. Those guys are tough.
Me: Okay then, one last question. What qualities do you think you can bring to a new forever home?
Tango: Well, I'm a really good size, and I'm a Rott, which is a good kind of dog to have if you want people to know you have someone looking after your home.
Me: Well then good luck and thank you for your time.
Tango: BARK BARK
Me: No, I will not buy you a squeaky toy.
Tango: No harm in trying.

A small gift to you

If you had been here at precisely 5:00 pm today you would have seen this

 When I rounded the corner and saw this I thought it was on fire.  This photo does not do it justice.

We are lucky here. The setting sun graces the barn, the pond, and the trees across the pond, such that several times a year I am struck awed by not only how beautiful it is, but by how short lived these moments are. This one lasted all of 90 seconds, only long enough to pull the phone out of my pocket and dash off half a dozen pics before the light quality changed just enough to go from jaw dropping to meh.

Henri Cartier-Bresson was famous for "The Decisive Moment" in photography, that one instant where all the elements in the frame are in the perfect spot. He was great at anticipating the decisive moment and capturing it on film. If you spend as much time as Bresson taking pictures you put yourself in position to see many hundreds of decisive moments every day, and sometimes you get to capture some on film (or iPhone). But for most of us the decisive moment is pure dumb luck, as this was for me (yes, I know that technically this is NOT a decisive moment in the strict Cartier-Bresson tradition). 5:00 is quitting time and I was leaving. A thousand things could have delayed me 90 seconds and who knows how many of these I've missed over the years.

People that came at 4:49 did not see it. If they came a minute after 5 they missed it too. It turns out I was the only one here. I wish you all could have joined me. This is the next best thing..

It's not easy being a pariah

I love Saturdays in the fall. Ohio State football. Go Bucks! But today is what they call a 'bye' week, which, to borrow from The Princess Bride, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

bye¹

bī/

noun

noun: bye; plural noun: byes; noun: by

1.

the transfer of a competitor directly to the next round of a competition in the absence of an assigned opponent.

2. Golf -- one or more holes remaining unplayed after the match has been decided.

Nowhere does it mean a week off. A week off is called an open week. I am, it turns out, among an overwhelming minority who understands this and tries to stand his ground. But I know it's no use. We have already lost when The Worldwide Leader can't even get it right and has no motivation to do so. It's like this is a piece of terminology that sounds all official and when you say it it makes you sound like an insider. People will never stop saying it because it's cool and easy.

Still, I sometimes correct people, much to their annoyance. I am the snotty, elitist grammar police that everybody wants to beat up.

Unwitting victim: "The Buckeyes have a bye this week.
Me: "Really, they're in a tournament?"
UV: "What?"
Me: "Are they playing in a tournament?"
UV: "No, they're not playing at all.:
Me: "Oh, you mean they have an open week."
UV: "That's what I said."
Me: 'You said 'bye' when you really meant 'open. You see, 'bye' means the transfer of a competitor directly to--"
UV: "Whatever, dude, get a life."

See?

(The first three links are awesome BTW.)

How we talk to dogs

 I don't know about you, but there are things I say to my dogs in private that I would never say in public. In public I'm all, "You're a fine specimen of a canine, Leo my good fellow," and in private it's, "Whaddagoodbubsiesdogmywiddlepuppypuppy."

In that light, enjoy!

The Story of Custard (part 1)

(Custard, the great orange kitty, left us on October 31 just short of his 19th birthday. I will post about him a few times this month.)

The Story of Custard (part1)

In 1995 a man named Joe boarded a cat with us. The cat, named Custer (like the Little Big Horn general), was a gift from his children to keep him company. But he traveled a lot and didn't really like the cat so he offered me $50 to find him a home. I got to liking him and so we took him, and the $50. We renamed him Custard.

He lived the first portion of his life upstairs, where Katie the Doberman wouldn't go. Katie wasn't a terror to all the cats, but for some reason Custard couldn't get comfortable with her. When Katie died, Custard thought his luck had changed but we got another Doberman, Kendall, who took over the role of Custard tormentor. 

Custard really wanted to come downstairs, and whenever we put the dog in her crate he would join us. When we began to crate Kendall less and less, she would sleep on the couch, and Custard would creep down the stairs, peek at Kendall on the couch, and sneak over to us, never failing to have an eye or an ear or a whisker tuned to the dog. Kendall knew the game too. Invariably she would pop open an eye, then leap off the couch just as Custard flew back up the stairs. 

Kendall lived a relatively short life and we got yet another Doberman, Titus (Ty), who didn't give off the same threatening vibe as the previous two. It didn't take Custard long to figure out that Ty was just a big loveable galoot, and Custard became a full time downstairs cat. This is when he really started to shine.

Custard loved people. He loved being held and he loved sleeping in laps. He also loved people food, often staring at us during dinner, begrudging our every bite. He was vocal, chirping whenever you entered a room, said his name, or woke him up with a pat on the head. And his purring machine started the moment you picked him up.

Titus also died young and I like to think that Custard was proud to have outlived three Dobermans. We stopped getting Dobermans, and maybe part of that was that we didn't want Custard to have to go back upstairs if it turned out to be like the first two. But even though we have two (very cat-friendly) dogs, and two other cats, this was Custard's house for a long time, and I'm glad he lived long enough to enjoy it.

 

Things I learned today from my Digg feed

When the Google Reader (GR) was discontinued earlier this year, its devoted users were left to find an alternative. While there were several news readers out there, none really did it the way GR did, and the alternatives were just not that acceptable.

Along came Digg, the news aggregating website. They heard the cries and made it their mission to replace GR with a reader that would please the hard core GR orphans. I have to say it's mainly as good as GR (Old Reader is actually the most GR-like of them all but I couldn't get it to work on my iPhone). I find the iPhone version of GR to have a couple of annoying deficiencies but overall it works.

As such I ended up with the Digg feed in my reader. Which is fine. I find at least one article a day there that makes me glad I have the feed. Here are some things I learned today:

Science discovered a new ligament in the knee: this is a bit disconcerting. I mean they've been studying the body for how long now? And they missed something?

1.3 million people in Norway watched knitting on TV:  It's on something called SlowTV, and they plan on airing a Day in the Life of a Snail. I'm not making this up.

Corgis are becoming extinct: Better not tell that to Aurora's new mayor.

America has more prisoners than teachers:  This is misleading (as is the wont of so many internet headlines). There are more prisoners than high school teachers. They don't list all teachers. I wish they would just give us all the info instead of the info that supports their narrative.

Who knows what I'll learn tomorrow. 

And, hey! There was at least one pet related item.

Dreaming

I don't remember my dreams very often but last night I had one of those dreams that starts and then you wake up and try to go back to sleep and it continues, like it's been recorded on a DVR and you can't shut it off, and you doze off and wake up a couple of more times and it still keeps playing.

It started with me in Solon, at a house with someone I don't really know. We were on the deck when a bank of gray clouds rolled in and the wind whipped up, and among the clouds were these little patches of clouds that darted around really fast. Then everything sort of exploded in a giant wind storm and we dove for cover, and when it was over there were eight of us in a barren landscape as far as we could see.

In that way that dreams work, it was clear to us that an alien culture had destroyed modern life on Earth in order for us to return to our roots and start over. But then the logistics started to get in the way. How were we supposed to repopulate the Earth with only eight people? I couldn't remember the math but I thought you needed more to make it viable. Also how were we supposed to go from cozy homes and a Wal Mart on every block to absolutely nothing? No fire, no tools, no materials? How do we even make clothes? And water. Early man started with fresh water; he could drink from any water source, anywhere. Never mind the bacteria, which we could adjust to after a period of uncomfortable bowel issues, but the pollution would make it seriously unpotable.

Then we decided that the aliens would know better than to leave the fate of the Earth in the hands of eight people and that if we started walking we would find another group, and then maybe another. That's when I woke up. But I've been thinking about it all day. I'd like to think we could figure out a way to survive in that scenario, but there would have to be certain minimums. We would need good water.

So if any of the aliens are reading this:

Dear aliens who are coming to save the Earth at the expense of most Earthlings,

Please leave us water, some basic tools, and many, many seeds. And comfortable shoes. I need comfortable shoes.

Thank you.

Kind of a weird post, I know. Sorry. There is no lesson, really. Dream interpreters could tell me what it all means but I'll just chalk it up to imagination.

Eenie, meenie, miney, mo

Tomorrow we vote for a mayor here in Aurora. There are six candidates, which seems like the most I can remember. The past few elections have seen Mayor Lynn McGill pretty much steamroll the competition, but since he stepped down a few months ago, the field is wide open. Everyone, it seems, wants to be mayor of Aurora.

I have been asked by more than one candidate, (but not, oddly, (or maybe fittingly), the person I intend to vote for), to put a sign in my yard. My answer, as it has been for the past 20 years, is no. We do not allow political signs, for people, for issues, for anything. We would probably not allow a sign that said, "Don't text and drive," not because we are worried that one of our clients is a huge fan of causing accidents, but simply because it eliminates having to draw a line somewhere above zero. Not that I don't like a good debate, but it's easier to not bruise feelings when the policy is unbending.

I do allow signs for contractors who have just finished a job, like Vitale Asphalt, or Auburn Fence, or our handyman, John Jarmusik, if he had them. That's just good business. (Note to self: what if I sent home yard signs with people that said, "I just boarded my dog at the Aurora Kennel?")

So anyway, there are six candidates and I know three of them. One was on a committee with me (and taught government to my kids), one coached my daughter in softball or soccer when she was younger, and one brings their pets here. The other three seem like decent folks with good ideas and it's hard to know which fiscally responsible, community responsive, 'I love Aurora,' candidate to choose. Well, except for me. I've already decided.

But I'm not telling.

Toronto Scorecard

We spent the weekend in Toronto visiting the daughter (who is engaged to be married as of a few days ago). Many of you remember her for her poop scooping abilities. She is also a heck of a PR professional.

Some helpful travel tips:

Even though Google maps says it takes 5 hours to get there, you need to add an hour for customs and Toronto traffic, which is maddening. Build in an extra 30 minutes for when border traffic is heavy, then make sure it's ok if you're still 30 minutes later than that.

In Toronto, stay off of Eglington for a while. The construction of the subway is making a mess of traffic.

Make sure to tune in to local news about the mayor. Mayor Ford allegedly pulled a Marion Berry by allegedly (I'm going heavy on the 'allegedlys' just to be safe) smoking crack and going one better by being caught on camera. Unfortunate city rules don't provide for the opportunity to kick him out, making a mockery of the office and likely shutting down Toronto politics for another year.  Hell, they may even vote him in again.

Gas is $4.68/gallon when the going rate in Aurora is $3.09. Buy gas in Buffalo on the way and just enough in Canada to get you back across the border coming back so you can buy it in Buffalo again. Buffalo, BTW, was $3.30.

We seem to have good luck with the Rainbow bridge coming back in terms of wait time. So I am asking you all to use the Peace bridge so the Rainbow bridge stays clear. Thanks.

If you take the Rainbow bridge home and need to stop for food, I recommend Uncle Joe's Diner in Hamburg, NY. very near the intersection of Route 75 and I 90. Good pie which we refrained from trying this time around. NOTE: they get points off for playing Christmas music on November 3.

If you're disgusted with the Krispy Kreme's that they sell at the gas station, then the Peach Road exit in Erie has an actual Krispy Kreme store, where they bake them fresh. The Missus and I split a glazed doughnut that was probably 30 seconds out of the oven. Mmmm. 

A year and a half ago I didn't even have a smart phone and now I cannot wait to come back across the border so I can use it. Voice and data charges are prohibitive on our plan so all we can do where there is no wi-fi is text and check the time. We're going to look into the cost of temporary service upgrades for trips.

Toronto is a terrific city. Go there and have some fun.

Another post that makes us wonder why more dogs don't revolt against the whole 'man's best friend' thing.

Since I've had exactly 4.7 minutes today to compose a blog post, I'm going to take a shortcut. I really prefer writing my own material when possible, but today I'm pulling something silly from the internet.

Without further ado, 34 Dogs That Hate Halloween

Blog-a-Palooza is off and running

A couple of years ago someone had the bright idea to make November National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo), in the fashion of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), except for people who don't intend to write just one giant story. The plan is a post a day for the whole month. I did it two years ago but skipped last year. The writing muscles are twitching for action but the brain is screaming, "I don't have any ideas." The brain tends to use all caps and excessive exclamation points, as in, "I DON'T HAVE ANY IDEAS!!!" My brain has never taken 'Strunk and White 'or the rules of shouting on the internet seriously.

So, this is post number one, on day number one. Consider yourselves warned.

But, we begin Blog-a-Palooza 2013 with a note of sadness. Yesterday we lost one of our furry friends. Custard, the grand orange kitty, came a few weeks short of turning nineteen. He'd taken a turn during the past few days and last evening we helped him along.

I'll tell Custard stories this month, but not tonight.

Another beautiful day on the high side of the grass

 I have a friend who says that every time you ask him how he is. "Another great day on the high side of the grass." He says this because he came a lot closer than many of us to the other side of the grass. He's a cancer survivor.

This is what the high side of the grass looks like today at my place. I like that he tries to remind us there are two sides to the grass. I like that I sometimes remember to pay attention. Like today.

October is (was) National Dog Adoption Month

Okay so I almost missed it. But it's not too late.You can still adopt a nice, furry friend, from the adoption facility of your choice (go ahead, I'll wait).

Excellent.

Here is a graphic with lots of cool information, compiled by the American Veterinary Medical Association's 'U.S. Pet Ownership and Demographics Source book.' Among other things, it tells us that Arkansas is the number 1 dog ownership state in America. Ohio is not in the top 5.

Also, the top names are Max (male) and Bella (female). When I mined my own database a couple of years ago Max was number 1 but Bella (and it's variations) were number 6, and was the number 3 female name behind Maggie and Molly. But my database lags behind the newly named dogs and also accounts for a lot of dogs who are very old and passed away.

I can almost guarantee the number 1 name for a chocolate lab is Hershey.

Another fact the graphic pointed out is that Hispanics have a higher rate of dog ownership than any other group.

So enjoy even if you don't celebrate Dog Adoption Month by getting a dog, consider making a donation to a rescue facility near you. But if you do get a dog, I predict you will name him Max. Go ahead, you know you want to. It's a pretty great dog name.

Taking a Minute to Pine about Some Good Old Days in Toledo, Ohio

My dad was a veterinarian who held three jobs. By day he worked rabies control for the City of Toledo. In the afternoon and on Saturdays he owned a small private practice. And by night, during the racing season, he was the State Vet at Toledo Raceway Park, a harness racing track. My sister and I sometimes had to go to work with him when my mom was busy, which meant we hung out in hot, dirty track barns, with itinerant horse groomers and trainers and drivers, until after midnight. There are probably people who would raise an eyebrow at that sort of environment for kids: late nights, gambling, drinking, swearing, loose women and randy men. But we were pretty well grounded. We just hung out, exploring the corners and shadows as kids are wont to do, and trying not to get into too much trouble.

Later, we each got jobs in the State Vet barn working for our dad. It was good pay back then--about $5 an hour when the minimum wage was under $2. We didn't have titles but my sister called herself a 'pissette.' Our task was simple: stand in a stall with a sterile jar on the end of a pole and wait for the winner to pee.  But horses wouldn't necessarily pee on command; there was art to it: Knowing how and where to stand, shaking fresh straw, whistling in low tones to distract them from other noises. Watching for the signs of imminent release. Hiding the pole until the last possible second. Making sure we were quick enough to not get shorted but not too quick to startle them into stopping. Knowing when to tie them up and when to let them free; when to use blinkers and when to not. And knowing when to hide in the secret room with the sliding panel. Even after all that, sometimes the horse would outlast us and my dad would have to draw blood from a neck vein.

I also worked a couple of summers in the horseman's cafeteria, where I washed dishes, mopped floors and developed a crush on the boss's daughter. Contrary to what you may expect, I never got a single betting tip worth a damn.

I bring all this up because today Raceway Park is no more. The current owners have decided to close down live racing and now you can only catch simulcasts from other tracks. But there is nothing like live racing, with the sound of the hooves on dirt and the smell of sweaty horses and used straw. Cameras cannot capture the violence of the jostling coming out of the gate, the angling for advantage going into the clubhouse turn, the grueling breadth of the back stretch, or the brewing storm as they explode out of the final turn and head for home. It all looks so flat and distant on TV, and if you've ever stood at the rail, if you've ever been close enough to feel the draft as they passed or see the nostrils flared as they reached for the wire, you will know that simulcasts can never replace live racing.

But this isn't about live racing at Raceway Park, which I really don't care about. They tore down my old high school and built a new one. They tore down my junior high and replaced it with riverside condos.  King's Taste is long gone. They moved the library, Canal Carry Out is now called Edgewater Bait and Tackle. I shouldn't complain, since I haven't been 'home' in a long, long time. It's just that as I'm getting older, it's hard to watch the pieces of my youth systematically disappear, is all I'm saying.

Speaking of dogs who are heroes (con't)

Just another reason to admire the selflessness of dogs (Kleenex™ alert)

http://www.cnn.com/video/data/2.0/video/us/2013/09/26/pkg-guide-dog-dies-to-save-boy-from-car.wxia.html

Welcome to Fall

You may or may not be as happy as this guy,




but it's my favorite season: The weather is cooler, the Buckeyes are playing, it's perfect dog weather, and the trees are getting ready to put on a show. The enjoyment is short lived, lasting only until the winds shift and November smacks us in the face. But until then I'm going to make a pile of leaves and see if my dogs want to play. You're welcome to join me.

Best pit bull fight ever