Enter the Cone of Shame

No one likes getting surgery.  For most folks, it's uncomfortable, expensive, and requires days or weeks of convalescence and rehabilitation in order to get back to one's former self.  But for dogs, it has an added component to it.

It is quite the fashion disaster.

It's a week before Thanksgiving and since the whole family has the week off from work and school, we figured now would be a good time to take the pups in for a myriad of surgeries we had planned.  It's not like I am a fan of surgery, it's just that I wanted to have them go under anesthesia once and only once, so let's get the whole combo platter now.  We had always planned to have them spayed and neutered, but Bodie was also sporting an umbilical hernia that we opted to fix now rather than when he was younger (again, for the one-anesthesia reason).  Since they were both having a belly-slice in the process, we also decided to do a preventative measure called a gastropexy, an incision that adheres the stomach to the abdominal wall which helps prevent stomach torsion in the case of bloat (another big-dog malady).  Not a great way for a puppy to spend the day but let's get it out of the way and move on, shall we?

The pups love going to the vet's office, as the girls there make a such a great fuss over them they feel like royalty.  Never before have I seen a dog who bounds out of the truck and runs up to the vet's office door, scratching at the glass in order to gain entrance.  If only these two had any idea what was in store for them on this particular visit, they might not be so eager.  But with typical puppy frenzy they danced and leapt all over Alyssa at the front desk and bounced merrily to the back room where we waved goodbye and prepared to see them again at dinner time.

This was a very long day. I paced the floor and worried the entire time, waiting for the phone to ring and for them to tell me all was well.  The vet assured me that the procedures were all pretty routine but is there really such a thing?  Finally by late afternoon we got the call that everything had gone great and the pups were awake and ready to come home.  The only thing on life support at this point was my checkbook. 

When we go to the office we were expecting to see two groggily-staggering, wide-eyed puppies wobble out to greet us, but instead they high-stepped it to the front waiting area and broke into a run when they saw us.  I figured they were probably not supposed to do that post-surgery, but I was so thankful nonetheless.  But as with most dogs who have had surgery or other procedures, they were not only sporting a pink shaved belly that stood out like a beacon against their shiny black coats, but also the most dreaded of dog accessories that man has ever invented.

The Cone of Shame.

Oh sure, the gals at the vet's office dressed up the cone with a jaunty ribbon of cute patterned fleece, but they still looked a cheerleader that had been sucked down inside her megaphone.  The pups, still working to rid themselves of the last of the anesthesia, could not quite figure out where the heck their peripheral vision had gone to.  Had the vet removed that, too?  They could hear each other but not quite see them, so they swung their heads from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of their sibling and/or us.  It looked like a canine version of Marco Polo.  I asked how long they would have to wear the cones and was told "oh, about ten days to two weeks."  Riiiight!  Let's see how long that lasts!!  Apparently the cone manufacturer underestimated the fact that puppies, not unlike humans, really do not like looking like dorks.

We got them home and they immediately made their way to the family room where their favorite blanket was already laid out for them.  I noticed right off that walking with a cone on your head was a little like knitting while wearing boxing gloves: it's generally do-able, but comical in the process.  Bodie headed into the room first, cutting the corner a bit tightly and catching the edge of the cone on the couch, bringing him to a sudden halt and knocking him off his feet.  He looked in vain for the culprit who would dare do such a thing to him.  I laughed a little at his plight just as Leila, upon hearing my voice, rushes over to me and plows the cone edge into my shins.  Ouch!  Not laughing now, I tell you!  I turn to take care of her and Bodie turns to me as well, ramming his cone into the back of my knees causing me to crumple like a house of cards in a high wind.  By now my kids are in hysterics and I'm crawling to the freezer for ice packs.  This was one side effect that was not mentioned on the after-care form!  I suppose I am being paid back for giggling at their cheerleader wardrobe.  It is, in a sense, their way of saying "nuts to you!" (especially from Bodie!)

The rest of the night was a fruitless effort to get them to just lie on the blanket and chill so they didn't bust a seam.  My daughter attempted to lie with them which worked for about two minutes until one dog decided to sit bolt upright for no apparent reason and try to run to God-knows-where, usually to be stopped by the cone edge catching on something and spinning them around again.  What was a long day was shaping up to be a very long night.  I spent the night lying on couch cushions on the floor with them, trying in vain to get them to sleep.  The tranquilizers the vet gave me to give them did nothing at all (yes, I was tempted to take one myself so at least ONE of us could sleep!) and by the next day the pups were back to their crazy couch-jumping, puppy-wrestling selves: all the things the vet told me to have them avoid for two weeks.

My only saving grace, my only partner in crime to help keep them on the down-low was the same partner that had viciously attacked me on Day One: the dreaded Cone of Shame.  I would take it off the pups occasionally so they could eat, and that's when the silliness would commence.  They didn't seem to have a need to lick at their incisions so much as they just wanted to run.  But the minute that cone was shoved back on their heads and that jaunty fleece ribbon tied, all manner of self-respect went out the window and they embarrassingly moped to the blanket to plop down and glare at me.  It was like some kind of dignity-sucking contraption that even a four-month old puppy knows is worse than wearing white after Labor Day.  If they knew I was posting photos of them in it on the internet, they might never recover from the humiliation.

It has been a month and a half since their surgeries.  Their incisions have healed nicely, their hair has grown back and they are back to their crazy active puppy selves. Only now they weigh in at 50 pounds and when they come running at me and fly through the air to greet me, that cone-in-the-shin pain is the least of my worries!!  Sometimes I feel like climbing up into the attic and retrieving the cones just so I can get a moment of peace from these two!

But just like those paisley pants with the rainbow-striped shirt you wore in high school, some fashions are better left to quietly fade away.  I'm sure Bodie and Leila would agree.

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays!

from Bodie and Leila

and The Berner Life family

rip up presents and destroy tree in 3...2...1...

Operation Suds-A-Pup...The Sequel

So, the first time we gave the pups a bath, it was in the kitchen sink and took quite a bit of arm strength to hold them in.  The next time was in the sink again, and this time they were on to our evil ploy and fought back with all the wet wiggly maneuvering that only a wily puppy could manage.  This time it was obvious that there was no way these pups were going back into the sink.  The weather outside was not really conducive to trying the old turn-the-hose-on-them trick, so that really left only one alternative that I could think of: the bathtub.

Now, no dog worth their salt is going to stand happily and get doused with water in the bathtub, especially after they have made their opinion known about what they thought of the sink.  Furthermore, the bathtub is upstairs, and we have already established that mastering the climbing of stairs is a work in progress even when dry.  I figured that if they got up there and met the fate of being saturated and scrubbed and toweled, much to their dismay, maybe it would keep them from wanting to go up there anymore.  Hmmm, maybe I can turn this mission into a double bonus!  Clean dogs that stay downstairs!!!  This could be great!!!

Or not.

The kids and I made a big happy fuss about all the fun the dogs would encounter of they came upstairs with us, and they gladly obliged by bounding up the stairs (tripping only a few times) and happily bouncing into my bedroom.  They came into the bathroom and sniffed around.  I looked from the pups to the deep tub and realized I might have a bit of a logistical problem here.  If the pups decided they were not thrilled with the bath (hard to imagine, I know) and migrated to the back of the tub, I would not be able to reach them without climbing in.  Even if I did climb in, you know they would take advantage of my change in tactics to bob and weave their way to the front, over the edge and run dripping throughout the upper level of my house.  I was going to need some muscle on either side of the dog in the tub in order to pull this off.

Kids, get your swim suits on!  Mom has a job for you!

I for one am not a proponent of child labor in any form, but for as many times as I have slogged across the wet grass in the morning in my slippers and pajamas picking up steaming piles of dog doo while the kids watched me from the window (thanking their lucky stars it wasn't them, no doubt) I figured this time they can take one for the team.  They donned their suits, climbed in, got cups and dog shampoo at the ready, and happily called to the pups.  Smelling a trap, both dogs immediately turned tail and ran to the bedroom door, that luckily I had remembered to close.  I managed to herd them back towards the bathroom, where Bodie made the mistake of cautiously sneaking a peek over the bathtub edge to see what the kids were up to.  I came up behind him and scooped him up (no small task, believe me) and eased him over the granite ledge into the tub.  He popped back up like a jack-in-the-box, putting his front feet on the ledge and eyeballing his escape.  I barked to the kids to make their move, as time was fleeting.  They started pouring water on his back and working the shampoo through, making him slippery and even tougher to hold on to.  Finally Bodie just resigned himself to the fact that if he stood there and cooperated, the whole issue would be over much quicker, which it was.  In just a few more minutes he was rinsed off and "squeeged" by my seven-year-old slicking his hands along Bodie's back and tail, sending wet gobs of black hair flying all over the tub and walls.  Disgusting, but the least of my worries at the moment.  With great effort, I lifted Bodie out of the tub and tried to get a towel around him before he ran off but alas, was too slow.  He darted across the bathroom and danced all over my bedroom carpeting, leaving wet paw-prints trailing behind him which reminded me of the dance-step mats of yesteryear.  I finally body-slammed him to the floor and wrapped him in a beach towel, trying to wring out what little water was still on the dog and not in my carpet.  He was not thrilled, but that made two of us.

Make that three of us.

All this time, Leila had been watching this event play out like a Hitchcock movie.  When I finished with Bodie and turned to call Leila, her look said it all:  "Oh, HELL no!!!"  Her eyes wide, she backed away from me just far enough to get off the marble bathroom floor and onto the bedroom carpet where she promptly peed.  Lovely!  If she wasn't worthy of a bath before this, she definitely is NOW!!  She began running left and right with moves that would make an NFL quarterback envious, and after a merry chase I made my move, managing  to corner her and pick her up and plop her into the tub in one giant swooshing arc.  It's amazing how fast and flexible I can become when a.) I'm irritated by now and b.) I have a puddle of pee to clean up before it soaks into my carpet pad.

Now, you will notice that there are no photos of Leila in the tub with the kids. that is because unlike Bodie, she was not going to go down without a fight.  By "fight" I mean she was auditioning for the bucking bronco position at the Dog Wash Rodeo.  Flailing left and right, she managed to get both front feet on the granite ledge of the tub and one back foot before I could grab her and put her in a bear-hug so the kids could soap her up with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew.  Meanwhile, Bodie is jumping about and hollering as usual,  completely pissed that he is once again separated from his sister and yet hysterically pleased that it is her and not him again.  Leila manages to get one foot down the front of my shirt and into my bra, which was pretty much the game-ending move right there.  She is still slightly soapy but it's obvious that statute of limitations has officially expired, and I pull her out and extricate her from my sopping shirt and towel her off.  She darts away to join her brother who is fully engulfed into his "silly five minutes" that only wet dogs can enjoy.

I look back to my kids.  My daughter has scratches on her legs from Leila's madcap water ballet and my son looks like a Yeti, covered to the neck with black fur.  The ring around the bathtub could rival that of Saturn.  Troopers that they are, the kids clean out the tub while they are in it, then gingerly step out of there and directly into the shower where now it's their turn to wash away the dog grime.

I don't know how long it will be before I wash the dogs again, but it's obvious it won't be in my bathtub again!  I'm quickly running out of options.  The ridiculous amount of money the dog groomer charges to wash dogs is starting to look pretty damn cheap right about now.

I open the bedroom door and the dogs plummet down the stairs and run happily around the living room, chasing each other in celebration of their new found freedom.  I look back to the bathtub, where the descending water level had slowed thanks to a wad of dog hair blocking the drain, and no less than four beach towels lie in a soggy heap next to hair-covered swim suits.  I toss my Leila-soaked tee shirt on the pile and just chalk it up to another day in the life of two Bernese Mountain Dogs that occasionally need soap and water maintenance.  What other adventures could they have lying in wait for me in the future?

Forget I said that.

Stay tuned.....

Road Trip, Berner Style!

My dogs seem to think that they are the only dogs on the planet.  Their world up until now has consisted of a house that contains us and a couple of scrawny cats and that's it.  When we pass another dog on our walks, they perk up and stare dumbfounded, like they are viewing an alien spaceship landing.  When we walk past a fence that has a dog barking on the other side, their heads whip around and they search in vain for the phantom demon dog that is obviously out to get them.  Their ears go back and they quicken their pace in fear, with Bodie continuing  to frantically look over his shoulder like the soon-to-be victim in a Hitchcock movie.  I realize that they need some social interaction of the canine variety.  Now that they finally have all their puppy shots they are free to fully realize the  universe outside the laundry-room borders.

I figured that the local dog park might be a bit too much for these babes-in-the-woods, with the large and boisterous dogs that frequent there.  They somehow resemble convicts in the prison exercise yard, sidling up to newcomers with a sniff and a growl that says "Whaddaya in for?"  We may have to work up to that.  But they need to go somewhere where there are new dogs that are under control, and new people to make a fuss over them.

Time for a field trip to PetsMart!

The kids and I figured that would be a great place to start.  Pet-friendly, with dogs on leashes and lots to look at and new things to investigate.  Our local store here in town is usually not crowded and pretty laid-back.  I needed more dog food anyway, so it was the perfect plan.  What could go wrong?

Note to self: never say "what could possibly go wrong."

The kids and I loaded up the pups into the SUV (no small task, since the pups don't really have their sea legs yet) and off to the store we went. It was a Sunday afternoon and I figured there really wouldn't be too much going on there.  We pull up to the parking lot and the first thing I notice is cars.  Lots and lots of cars.  Uh oh.  Maybe I underestimated the number of shoppers who also uttered "what could possibly go wrong" before they left the house destined for the pet store as well.  Just getting the dogs out of the back of the SUV was an adventure, as they spooked and bucked at every passing car in the parking lot.  We managed to half walk/half drag them to the store entrance where the "whoosh" of the opening automatic doors turns Bodie to stone, refusing to move another inch.  When that dog decides he is not going, it's like trying to pull a barge across the desert.  Luckily Leila dances past him which  gave him the courage to at least stand up, which is all the break we needed to drag him forward.



Forward momentum turned out to not be a problem seconds later, when the throng of people in line at the checkout stand, combined with the pet adoption set-up right by the front doors with barking dogs and excited children sent both pups into overdrive and they bolted forward at a gallop, vaulting my kids behind them.  With ears back and eyes like saucers, Bodie charged down the main aisle, making a hard right at Parakeets and Goldfish, then cutting back through Hamsters and Lizard Goods.  My ten year old daughter was holding on for dear life. 

Meanwhile, Leila was burning a path through Cat Food and Kitty Litter, when my seven year old son finally brought her to a halt in front of the Martha Stewart Pet Accessories display (Really?  Martha Stewart??)  All this time, Mom Of The Year here was pushing the empty shopping cart and snapping pictures while my kids tried to wrestle the pups.  Shortly after, we were joined by my daughter and Bodie, the former trying to hold back tears where Bodie had wrenched her wrist in his Kentucky Derby qualifying run.  I sat her down on a 40 pound bag of Beneful so she could catch her breath and gave control of the cart to my son while I took the reins of these ridiculous racehorses.  I held them tight on short leashes to let them know we were not going to have a repeat performance of that little number, thank you very much. 

By now the dogs had figured out that not only was no one in the store trying to kill them, but there was some serious good-smelling stuff in here!  They investigated the rawhide bone display and marveled at the squeaky-toy aisle.  By now some shoppers had stopped to give them a pet and tell them how lovely they were, and the two of them ate it up.  They were officially rock stars now, and they knew it!  False modesty be damned!

By now I had secured more dog food into the cart and the kids had picked out some new dog toys to add to the 40 or so already at home and we made our way to the check stand.  That is when a store clerk told us to wait, she needed to get one of the store's dog trainers over here.  I paled for a minute...what had we done?  Okay, my dogs were both the canine equivalent of the Tasmanian Devil but hey, they are just puppies and this is their first field trip.  At least they didn't pee all over the place.  Then a pretty girl named Sarah appeared with a binder in her hand and was talking to another clerk about the difference between a couple of dog breeds.  She looked at Bodie and Leila and beamed.  "I've never seen them as puppies before!" she said and came over and made a big fuss over the pups who licked her furiously.  Bodie rolled over onto his back, exposing his boy-parts to the ladies (charming) and Leila peed all over everyone (charming times two!)  Then Sarah explained that she had a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, which is the short-haired cousin of the Bernese.  From behind the counter emerged an enormous Bodie look-alike, who calmly sauntered over and sat down.  I was speechless.  Bodie and Leila looked up at this creature like he was a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon.  It was amazing (and just the slightest bit daunting) to see what my two would someday look like.  This was Buddy, the three year old Greater Swiss.  My two kids couldn't get enough of him, scratching him behind the ears and under his chin.  Then Buddy lied and the floor and rolled over, legs akimbo just like Bodie had done moments before.  Good God, they ARE related!  Sarah explained that she had gotten Buddy as a rescue when he was two years old and already a mighty size.  We tried in vain to get a good photo of the three of them together, Buddy sitting patiently while my two danced a jig around him.  Seeing this wonderful fellow was worth the trip and all the hilarity that ensued.



The pups with Buddy



We made our way back to the SUV and heaved in a 40 pound bag of dog food and two 40 pound wiggly puppies.  We climbed into the car where my seven year old exclaimed with a giant exhale, "Well, that was an adventure!" 

That's putting it mildly, kid!

Loyal, Trustworthy, A Trip Hazard

It's nice to be loved.

How does your loved one show that they care?  Do they bring you flowers or make your coffee?  What about your pet?  Do they bring you the morning paper (for those who still subscribe to the old-school way of getting their daily news) or curl up in your lap and purr?  These two pups show me they love me in such a special and thoughtful way.

They try to kill me.  Daily.

How, you ask, could such fuzzy, lovable bundles of joy be so treacherous?  Maybe it's puppy paranoia, or maybe it's just that they associate me as the giver-of-food and provider-of-treats, but these two will not let me out of their sight for a minute.  Everywhere I go, they must go too.  Not by my choice, mind you, but they must think that they are going to miss out on something amazing if I go solo into another room. Many is the time I have narrowly avoided a twisted ankle or wrenched back trying to not to fall over them or step on them when they tangle with my feet.  Even when they are curled up on the rug, supposedly asleep, and I quietly get up and try to tip-toe away, their ears perk up and maybe one eye will slyly open, and before I know it they are getting to their feet and the march begins.  I have even tried saying "Stay!" and backing away, but they just look at each other as if to say "Is she serious?" and away they go.  I'm almost embarrassed when I try to explain I'm just going to the bathroom...really no need for an escort, thanks all the same.

Case in point when they came in from their outside romp one morning and were otherwise occupied with chewing on each other's ears.  I casually wander into the kitchen to fix some breakfast.  They stealthily sneak up behind me, silent as a ninja (no small task for a bouncy puppy with three metal tags on their collars), only to have me turn from the kitchen counter and suddenly stop short so as not to step on the black furry blobs directly at my feet, my English muffin flying off my plate and across the room like a whole-wheat Frisbee, landing with a thud on the floor (butter side down, naturally).   Or when I sit in the oversized computer chair in my office with no dogs in sight, only to be blocked in two minutes later by two giant lumps sleeping on the carpet.  They are strategically lying in such a manner that I cannot push my rolling chair back, as there is not enough room for me to do so without rolling over a tail or ear.  Of course, rather than try and scoot them away enough to gain suitable exit, I try to shimmy between the desk and chair arms and step over them so as not to wake them.  This rarely works but the one time it did I managed to sneak out of the office, letting sleeping dogs lie, only to have two fuzzy shadows tracking me by the time I made it to the fridge.

This ability to not go anywhere alone in the house is a little like an episode of "Big Brother, Canine Edition".  They look up at me like there is some sort of action item required of me that I am not privy to.  I don't think it's separation anxiety so much as it's just the need to keep an eye on me.  While I appreciate the fact that they seem to enjoy my company, I have come close to squashing one or both on many occasions while carrying a large box I can't see beneath, or dousing them with hot coffee as I turn from the pot on the counter.  If I sit on the floor to fold laundry, forget about it.  That means my lap is open season and one (sometimes both!) magically appear and climb up into it, blocking the view for miles.  At forty pounds, these guys are hardly considered lap dogs anymore, although they apparently did not get that memo.

I wander into the kitchen, ducklings in tow, to grab a soda and then plop on the couch.  Dog at feet?  Check.  Other dog on couch with me because she pretends not to know the "Off!" command?  Check.  I get up again to get the fleece blanket from the other couch.  Jingling I.D. tags give me a musical accompaniment  for my journey.  Back to the couch, foot warmer there on cue, knee warmer again pretending it's her God given right to curl up on the couch with me, where she can get a better view.  Right about then my husband comes home from work, keys working the front door lock.  Ears perk up, maybe even an inquisitive woof escapes from one, and they spring into action, racing to the entry way to see their favorite Dad, tails wagging.  Suddenly I'm chopped liver!  Hey, remember me?  The one you've been following all day?  I have been demoted from "She We Adore" to "Persona non Grata" in the length of time it took him to take off his jacket.  He says he hearty hellos to the bouncy noisy livestock at his feet.  "These dogs love me!" he says.  "I wish they could be with me all day!"

I just smile.  Be careful what you wish for!

Moving On Up (But Not Down)

The writers of the puppy training book I bought obviously do not think a puppy bigger than ten pounds exists on this planet.  They cheerily tell me to not let my puppy have run of the whole house in the beginning,  and to confine him or her to their crate whenever possible.  Okay, I understand the need for a pup not to run pell-mell throughout the entire house, but when your puppy is the size of a Shetland pony colt and you have not one but two of them, you would need to buy a crate the approximate size of a Sears tool shed and then have that much free room in your house to put it.  If I lived in a Beverly Hills mansion, this would not be an issue.  But I don't live there.  I have a comfy suburban 2,700 square foot two story house with an adequate-sized laundry room on the first floor that now doubles as a makeshift dog crate.  It works for the time being (except on laundry day) but as each day goes by, it becomes readily apparent that the laundry-room-as-crate is a temporary fix.  The sooner these puppies get used to the rest of the house and don't pee in every corner of it, the better.

We have now gotten to the point where the pups are roaming the first floor freely, except at night.  For their own safety (and my sanity) I have kept a baby gate at the bottom of the stairs to keep them from going up there.  The kids' rooms are in a constant state of upheaval, looking like a very isolated California earthquake hits there daily.  Not the best place for a toy-chewing, sock-ripping nosey puppy to explore.  But the dogs see us go up and down there all day and are quite curious as to what exactly we are hiding from them.  There is obviously a gross injustice afoot and they aim to get to the bottom of it.  So they decide to use the most evil, diabolical,  defenseless weapon they have in their arsenal:

Giant brown puppy eyes.

I got up one morning to let them out for their morning constitutional, and after enthusiastic greetings were exchanged and the morning poop was picked up, I climbed over the baby gate in order to go upstairs and get the kids up for school.  For some reason I stopped and turned around, only to see two very sad, confused faces staring up at me.  How could I have made such a fuss of them a minute ago and now abandon them?  At least that's what they thought.  Ears wilted and giant shiny eyes the size of hubcaps glistened up at me.  I was losing my willpower rapidly.  Then Leila figured it might help (couldn't hurt!) if she uttered a solemn "Wooooooo....." in my direction.  That did me in.  That, and the idea of how hilarious it would be to wake up my not-a-morning-person 7-year old by having an energized, tongue-wagging barrel of fuzz leap onto his bed at 6:45 a.m.  I pulled down the baby gate and set it aside, opening up this whole new world to the pups to explore and conquer.  Welcome to The Stairs and all its magical wonder!!!!

They were less than impressed.

They sat there staring at me blankly, not sure of exactly what their action item was here.  Leila looked at the stairs and then back at me as if to say "You want me to climb that?"  Bodie took advantage of her hesitation and pounded up a few stairs, stopped, and then realized he was stuck.  He then managed to make it to the top where he sniffed around and then proudly looked back down at his sister, laying down the challenge.  Not to be outdone, Leila tentatively worked her way from step to step until she got to the second-to-last riser where Bodie pounced on her like only a brother can.  She managed to sidestep him and work her way to the top where she whipped around and shot him a look that would freeze fire.  Then they both finally realized they were in a whole new realm, and commenced exploring.  And yes, one of them (they won't say who) had to commemorate the occasion by leaving a puddle at the top of the stairs to mark this historic occasion.   Gee, thanks.

After the kids were awakened and silliness expended, we all headed downstairs for breakfast.  The pups were not sure just exactly how to do the staircase-shuffle in reverse.  Bodie took a tentative step onto the first riser, changed his mind and backed up again.  Leila just sat there, giving her best Paris Hilton look, waiting for someone to carry her down.  Tipping the scales at about 37 pounds now, that ain't gonna happen anytime soon!  We watched as both dogs attempted to make their way down, hopping from riser to riser with ears flapping and feet together.  Not exactly graceful, they looked like two bulldozers on a motocross track.  Bodie managed to make it to the bottom where he then turned and gleefully hopped back up in order to torture his sister who was only partially down.  She was not amused. 

Bodie hopped down again as if to demonstrate. Hey, I'm getting the hang of this!  Leila got about half way down and then sat down, refusing to budge.  She looked like a castle gargoyle, with her backside on a riser and her front feet on the step below that one, glaring down at us at this insult to her dignity.  At our coaxing (and the threat of Bodie bounding back up to harass her again), she finally bounced to the bottom, where Bodie gave her a congratulatory kiss before pounding back up the steps again for another assault.  Leila dutifully followed the kids into the kitchen, pretending she had never heard of stairs or the mystery that lies at the top.

Since that day, the pups have gone up the stairs a number of times, and the downhill climb is always the same knuckle-biter scenario.  Every time I point the video camera on them to film the hilarity, Leila stops and sits, refusing to be part of this demeaning charade.  I know the time will come soon enough where they take the stairs two-by-two and are up and down in mere seconds, especially when I don't want them up there.  But in the meantime, it's like watching a toddler take their first tentative steps.  It's funny, awkward and cute, but you also know it's the start of them growing up, and they will never be at this silly stage again.  Enjoy it while you can still roll your eyes and smile about it.

Stay tuned....

Sibling Rivalry? Not in This House......

I read on the internet that when comedian Russell Brand married singer Katy Perry in India last month, he rode into the ceremony on an elephant, but the elephant's sibling had to walk beside them as well, as they are fraternal twins and can't be separated from each other without each having a panic attack.  I can understand not wanting an elephant to have a panic attack at your wedding...talk about a party crasher!  I can also understand the bond that siblings have in the animal kingdom.  It's a strong and sometimes impenetrable force that we mere humans are just going to have to live with.  I have a bond with my sister but it's not like I'm going to come unglued if we are not in the same room together.  (sometimes I come unglued when we ARE in the same room but that is a story for another time!)

I guess I should have read the puppy care book a little closer before I decided on my two fuzzy kids.  It suggested getting two puppies so they have someone to play with and keep them company, but to avoid getting two littermates, as the bond is so strong there that they have no need for you, the unofficial pack leader.  Not that it would have made a difference, I suppose, as when we took one look at these guys we were hooked regardless of what the $10 puppy book had to say.  But it does bring up a valid point.

Bodie takes his job as "big brother" quite seriously.   He can be away from her, in a different room in the house or in the yard, but it has to be HIS choice and on HIS terms.  A human forcing the separation is simply not acceptable.  Case in point, when Leila got a stick caught in her throat, and I thought we were going to have to rush her over to the vet to get it out.  The kids and I put Bodie behind the baby gate in the laundry room where they sleep, put Leila on a leash and rushed out the door.  The kids held Leila's leash while I locked the front door, and even from the front walkway I could hear Bodie frantically barking and hitting the walls, going completely ape shit at having been separated from the pack.  He is usually the quiet one in the duo, but that is partly because with Leila it's hard to get a word in edgewise.  By now, Leila is patiently sitting on the grass, having spat out the stick a few minutes ago on her own but we were all too frantic to notice.  She is looking at us quizzically, with a "Whazzup?" look on her face, so I figured a high-speed chase to the emergency vet was probably not needed.  We went back into the house where Bodie was still hysterically voicing his displeasure.  We put Leila over the fence and he was all over her like a second skin, with a sideways glance in my direction that needed no interpretation...he was pissed.

For some reason, when it comes to forced separation of the two, so far it's been Leila who needs to be pocketed away for one reason or another and Bodie is left behind.  When Leila needed ear drops put in each ear (a task I really don't recommend unless you have a suit of armor and six burly dudes to help hold her down) Bodie got so involved that we had to take Leila outside and leave Bodie inside so we could deal with one frantic dog and not two.  Bodie became unglued again, throwing himself at the window so he could see her and barking what could only be a string of canine obscenities.  The only good part of this whole scene was that even Leila was amazed at his bravado and stopped squirming enough to stare back at him through the glass and I could squirt in the medicine while her focus was elsewhere.  I may have to re-enact that special moment when I have to do it again next week.

The funny part about Bodie and his sibling-separation anxiety is that the rest of the time he is so mellow and really doesn't get worked up at just about anything.  The cat comes walking right past his nose....meh, no big deal.  The leashes come out and it's time for a walk....yeah, whatever.  Dinnertime....no, after you.  So when he does go into his "Demon Seed of Chucky" devil-dog routine, it is a bit of a head-turner.

The cute, tiny, 20-something technicians at the pup's veterinary clinic  first saw the pups as little 9-week old fuzzballs and have watched them grow into lanky, pre-teen fuzzballs.  They comment about how Bodie is coming out of his shell each time they see him, and is slightly more adventurous.  So imagine their surprise last week at the pup's visit when they had to take Leila into another room for a urine extraction (to check for a UTI as a result of her poop-eating antics) and sweet, mellow Bodie completely loses his shiz and goes nuclear.  From the waiting area in the front lobby I can hear him going ballistic from somewhere behind the closed doors, as I am sure everyone in a three-block radius could as well.  The little blonde vet assistant comes out to the lobby, wide-eyed and looking like just a little frazzled, as if someone just set off a firecracker right next to her.  "Uh.....they're all set now!" she blurts, trying to regain her composure.  Maybe she thought I thought they were abusing my quiet, timid Berner behind closed doors?  Although I was enjoying her discomfort immensely, I decided to let her off the hook.  "Sounds like Bodie had fun!" I chortled.  "Yes" she replied, "they seem to have a little bit of separation anxiety."  "Ya think???" I laughed.  I assured her this is not the first time has protested his sister being squired away against his wishes, probably won't be the last.

That being said, I am obviously going to have to alter my training tactics going forward with these two.  The book says to teach them to walk properly on a leash separately before taking them out together so they learn the ropes without distraction.  I think Bodie's hair-raising rant back in the house would be a distraction to just about everyone.  The puppy trainer at the pet store said to bring them to classes separately....yeah, I don't think so.  Bodie has definitely defined himself as the elephant at the wedding, and the rest of us are going to have to deal with it.  In a way, it's kind of comforting that Leila has someone willing to go completely postal in order to protect her, even though she takes full advantage of it in her flirty, starlet way.  When she is chewing on his ear or stealing the toy right out of his mouth, he looks to me as if to say "See what I have to put up with?"  My answer to him is always the same: "You love it and you know it!"

 

 

He Can Dig It

Some people have dogs who can jump a tall fence in a single leap.  Others have dogs who can fetch the morning paper without drooling on it.  I have a dog who thinks he can dig through solid granite.

My son thinks Bodie can see his reflection and is trying to get at "the other dog."  My daughter thinks he is digging a "nest" to sleep in.  I think he is auditioning  for "Berners on Ice."  Whatever the goal, he tries it every night and it's funny as all get-out.

(video and commentary courtesy of my seven-year old)

Operation Suds-a-Pup

Neither of the dogs we had earlier were into re-landscaping.  Sure, Misha would dig the occasional den to curl up in, and Jack laid waste to an entire row of corn stalks one day while I was at work, but for the most part they and the back yard plants had an understanding: live and let live.

Until now.

I know that puppies have a natural curiosity for just about everything and like to explore and in some cases destroy.  But these two have set their sights on a certain member of the plant family that they deem unacceptable landscaping specimens and at the same time great fun:  the agapanthus.

Admittedly, I hate agapanthus.  I have several in the yard, quite large ones in fact, but they were there when I moved in 13 years ago; I claim no responsibility for actually choosing them in the nursery.  They always remind me of gas stations and low-budget motels.  They are a popular meeting facility for snails, and anyone who has ever broken off a leaf or stem knows they ooze a clear, sticky fluid the consistency of hand sanitizer only nastier.  About the only redeeming quality this plant has is that it is bulletproof: needs little water, is evergreen, pretty much keeps to itself and throws up the occasional big blue firework of a flower and calls it a day.

But "bulletproof" apparently does not mean "berner-proof."

Bodie and Leila attack this plant like it's both their worst enemy and Disneyland all rolled into one.  They leap into it, ripping and tearing, leaves flying everywhere like a pair of single women fighting for the bride's bouquet.  The once domed-shaped bush is now flat in the middle and crying uncle. Sometimes Leila sneaks under the canopy of cascading leaves and attacks from beneath.  The agapanthus has definitely met its match.  But it does have a defense mechanism: it can go to the compost bin happily knowing it has covered both dogs in sticky oozy slime.  Take that, hairy destroyers!!

Needless to say, the dogs don't come in until the ooze has dried onto their fur and looks like they have been run over by snails.  Add to the fact that they have then scampered through dirt which stuck to the ooze and Bodie also managed to roll in the one pile of dog poop that Leila neglected to eat, and there is really only once course of action left for these two: bath time. 

I wasn't really quite sure how to give these dogs a bath.  They are still about the size where they can fit into the kitchen sink (although not for long) and that would certainly be an easier reach, so we all set out towels, puppy shampoo, and of course the camera.  This was definitely going to be a family affair.  We started with Bodie since the poop-rolling incident boosted him to the top of the priority list.  He wasn't thrilled but seems resigned to the fact that this was going to happen.  He made a half-hearted attempt to escape a few times by putting one paw on the sink edge and was not at all surprised when my husband gently put the paw back down and continued lathering him up.  He seemed more peeved that I was taking pictures of the event than the actual watering-down itself.  After finishing him up and wrapping him a towel baby-style, we handed him off to my daughter for a rub-down and dry. One down!

Leila was next.  Much to the surprise of no one, she took one look at wet Bodie and then at us coming for her and she bolted from the room.  Once caught, she spread all four feet in four different compass-point directions in order to avoid being lowered into the sink.  This dog was not going down without a fight!  She worked hard to get those sticky snail-trails and was not ready to part with them, apparently.   After a brief struggle, it was obvious this was going to be a two-adult operation, so I handed the camera to my 7-year old son to document the moment (hence the artistic-impression photos).  With both my husband and I holding her and trying to suds her up at the same time, she was not going to win this battle but was making it quite clear she was not a fan.  I thought she would shake wet soapy droplets all over both of us just out of spite.  We finally gave in and called the job done (half-assed as it was) and commenced with the drying portion of this comedy routine.  That lasted about thirty seconds before she took off like a shot and ran full speed throughout the room in what my British mother charmingly calls "having a silly five minutes."  Not to be outdone, Bodie joined the mayhem, and two wooly wet puppies are rampaging through my house, rubbing up against my couches and generally making the entire house take on the aroma of Eau De Wet Dog.  Suddenly the agapanthus slime doesn't seem so bad after all.

To tally up the carnage, the agapanthus now looks like a bald man with a bad comb-over, my husband's tee-shirt is soaked down the front, my kitchen counter is flooded and the Tinkerbell character on the kids' towel I grabbed to dry them off with is covered in black fur and looks like the bearded lady at the carnival freak show.  The dogs, however, are clean and soft and Bodie no longer smells like Leila's backside.  but where is Leila now?

I go into the back yard and clap my hands for her.  A shiny black head with brilliant white blaze pops up from the center of the wounded agapanthus, tail wagging, a long leaf stuck to the side of her head.  I pinch the bridge of my nose.....I feel a migraine coming on.