Season's Greetings from the Fursons

The Fursons are about to take off to another state on a whirlwind 4 doggrandparent, 4 nephew, and 1 niece Christmas tour, but before we do, I thought I'd share this snippet of spirit. The dogs don't have a religion; they know only fulfillment of their basic needs: food, exercise, etc. and that's what they seek. And play—my dogs seek play: with each other, with their friends Lucy, Peaches, Jasper, and even tiny Molly. Well, they also seek some cuddling and belly scratching, and I swear I've seen all of our animal smile at different times. Lexa and DJ like to hear when they're doing good, and they love to run to the door, tails wagging when Robert gets home. So maybe they seek some affection, connection, and affirmation. Plus they all surround us when we sit down to watch tv, so clearly the pack is a kind of community they want to be a part of. Then there's that little slice of something else—if one of us doesn't feel well, or if one of the dogs hears a wimper or a cry, both dogs appear aware, concerned, ears cocked, eyes intently looking at the one in pain, not to mention the cats who will simply sit on and warm a sick person. Their actions if not their religion show a semblance of compassion and caring. I'm trying to learn as much as I can from the planet, and besides the range of smells and sounds I can't ever learn from the animals, I'll take that reminder. It doesn't take a building or a book to teach us how to be a good pack, make someone purr with complete trust, or have compassion for someone who's suffering. Let's spread that good feeling and those actions this season and into the New Year.

Season's Greetings from the Fursons, shown here in a ridiculous last-minute photo with Santa at Petsmart, where most passersby thought Lexa was gorgeous and DJ was our pet bear.

Spectator Sport

Lucy's back, this time only for a few days. The usual mayhem began instantly like a shot out of a gun: she and DJ began playing with a stuffed leopard, each pulling on one end, a canine tug of war over a fake feline. My cats naturally went into hiding—one downstairs and one in the closet, preferring a safe nest to the threat of getting underfoot or maybe being mistaken for an unfortunate toy.

But by day 2, the cats had reappeared, and were lounging on the dining room table like it was a pool side chaise. I was working on my laptop, and after a time, I realized they were watching. Not me—the show. My two cats were watching DJ and Lucy wrangle through their play; chasing, pulling, boxing (Lucy is a Boxer after all), jumping, sliming, you name it, the cats appeared amused. It was as if they had bought tickets and ordered drinks at the sky box above this new kind of gladiator. Johnny, normally somewhat fearful, was even dangling a paw above them, as if to say "keep 'em coming", "give us a good show, chaps!" while Charlie eventually moved to the floor, stretched out like a king, watching at home plate.

Finally, the dogs took a break—well, more like DJ took a break and trotted over to the front hall to lay down on the cool tile floor, panting. Lucy, Johnny, and Charlie, all watching, waiting for the next round.

Sometimes You Gotta Do One Just For You

I have a "contact" whose identity I'll protect by calling him/her "The Head of the Cat". This person surprised me last night, when "they" (I'll mis-use "they" to avoid revealing "their" gender) pulled out a cat hat. And put it on one of their cats. And then put it on the other cat. Unbelievable. Cats don't need hats. Especially not beanies with propellers and velcro chin straps to keep them securely in place. There were even ear holes for the furry, pointed cat ears to poke through.

The hat was placed on the cat with such matter-of-fact elan, such seriousness coupled with complete amusement, that I couldn't help but be totally entertained. The Head of the Cat didn't leave the cat hat on for long. They recognize the cat doesn't need or want, much less like, the hat. As soon as I snapped a few pix, the cat hat was removed, placed on the other feline model, then just as quickly removed—as if it had never happened. I was stunned by those few moments, and am still delighted with the evidence.

While my contact bought this cat hat and fitted it to their animals purely for their own delight, living this phrase "sometimes you gotta do one just for you", it became something for me too. So do something just for yourself, and see the positive effects it has on others. But don't leave the hat on for too long...no one wants to be caught in a beanie and have it posted online the next day.

The Lake Life

The Fursons are back at home, after a week away at the lake. Robert and I bought a boat, got married, and spent a week by the lake. The photo you see here is of DJ, snoozing on the screened porch at our rented lake house. The floor of the porch was spray painted with stencilled nature images. The furniture is wicker, with floral cushions. The view directly out front, which you can't see here, is of a tranquil lake and distant mountains in upstate New York. To the left and the right are tree branches, housing the porch like a nest. Birds land just inches away and peer in. Off to the right, there is a small cement statue ensconced in the the leafy green surroundings.

Days on the lake are slow. Evenings with family and friends pick up the pace a bit, but during this week after our wedding, our days were spent on the boat, in the water, napping, and reading (the kindle for Robert, a book for me) on the porch. While the dogs rest because they are spent from romping by the shore, taking in the boat breeze, and chasing our niece and nephews; we rest because the days leading up to this week of lake life are packed with work and deadlines and meetings and making art and creating new projects. Here the dogs rest from the activity, for us, rest is the activity.

---------------
*ps: What we're reading?
Me: The Shipwreck that Saved Jamestown
Robert: The Elegant Universe

The Pupdate

Some dear friends have asked me the following extremely fair question in recent weeks: “What about the other dog?” Those of you who know Lexa, know that she is an unbelievably adorable, funny, slightly mischievous, and sweet Berner. (She’s shown here at last summer’s puppy party for the nieces and nephews in celebration of her birthday—complete with pupcakes, for real, and a hand-crafted party hat, which I can't take credit for.) She’ll be nine this August. I hesitated to post too much about her lately because we have been going through the detective process of finding out what was causing a small bump on the side of her eye. There were two primary possibilities: an inflammation caused by an autoimmune condition episcleritis, which is treatable, or histiocytosis, which for Berners is a dangerous condition akin to cancer.

There is excellent news: the final lab report came back saying that these cells do not show any sign of histio, so with a day surgery, various ointments, shots, and drops, Lexa’s eye is healing nicely. Despite my precarious merges into mid-day highway traffic, multiple visits to a canine opthamologist, and daily applications of medicine, Lexa has remained cheerful, even buoyant. Anyone who’s had a Berner knows that our time with them is a gift. Some would even say we are on borrowed time with Lexa, as most Berners live to be about 7 or 8 on average. But I think any time with a loved one is a gift. So go home and hug or call someone you love. Or you can just make a batch of pupcakes and pass them out at the bar. Whatever you do, share the love; it'll multiply on its own.

*post script: After an intial series of treatments by our vets [recommended! NE Veterinarians www.vetcor.com/salemma], the vet treating her said: “At this point, you may want to take her to an opthamologist.” Me: “Um, this may be really obvious to you, but do you mean a DOG opthamologist?” Him: [chortle] “Yes.” We had her checked out and treated further by Mass Vet, open 24/7 www.intownmassvet.com—which I highly recommend if you find yourself in a serious situation such as ours, or if your dog needs reading glasses.

The Raw Deal Or, Fortunately, Our Neighbor’s Brother Was a Butcher

So when we got a shipment of raw meat for the dogs, our neighbor loaned us his cleaver. Robert set up shop in the driveway: a butcher block balanced on his table saw, surrounded by a couple stacks of card board boxes with icy frozen meat; a scale for weighing portions and an assembly line area where 2 anchovies and a glucosamine tablet were added to each portion. Zip-locked and tossed into the freezer, a lean cuisine for pups ready to go.

First Sue came by as we were unpacking the cardboard boxes from the truck. She told us about her brother-in-law and then reappeared moments later with his cleaver. We were grateful; ours was child-locked in comparison. This tool was hefty, allowing the weight of the knife to gain momentum as it’s swung, and slice quickly and easily through semi-frozen chicken carcasses. Sue, a retired nurse, seemed unfazed by the boxes of chicken backs, necks, and frozen whole mackerel. Even the bag of tracheas (for treats!) didn’t cause an eye to bat. She jumped right in and started bagging the meat with me as Robert chopped.

Another neighbor’s two kids stopped by on their bikes. Their mom asked what we were doing and we demonstrated, featuring each step and describing the nutritional value of feeding our animals raw. Their coats are glossy; their digestive tracks are designed for raw meat, not rice products, etc. Soon, we had the nimble fingers of a 5 and 7-year old adding the anchovies and glucosamine tablets. They took direction and asked for no pay!

So if you want your dogs to grow up big and strong—on a diet their systems are designed for—consider feeding them raw meat, or a dry food with similar content. Purchased in bulk, it's actually less expensive than kibble. While feeding our dogs raw is not something we hold to all year long—we feed kibble from Evo at times when we haven’t had time to set up shop like this—it does seem to be better for them. And when you’ve got a village and a real butcher’s cleaver to help make it happen, all the better.

Check out Evo for great kibble (yes, nutritious AND delicious!): http://www.evopet.com/
and good pre-packaged raw food: www.omaspride.com/

There’s More Than One Way To Scan A Cat

That’s what my father said after I mentioned that I had microchips implanted in my cats. When I posted on Facebook that I’d had this done, the responses were: “Feline Borgs” and “Are they spies?” (My reply: “I can’t say”.)

I’ve written here before about my struggle about whether to allow my cats to be indoor/outdoor cats. Well, I’m still struggling. While Johnny wears his collar like a gentleman, Charlie refuses to wear his. He is the Houdini of feline borgs, and manages to extract all 16 pounds of himself from any kind of collar, every time. So I got the chip. But it migrated. Or at least that’s what I thought, a few days later, as I was petting him and noticed a bump on his haunch—it felt like a grain of rice, just under the skin. I looked up the details of the microchip, and that is exactly how it is described. The company I used claims to have developed a special non-migrating chip. I waited a few more days, and it was still there, so off to the vet we went. The vet tech (whom I adore big time) took Charlie in the back, then called me in shortly after.

“He’s fine,” he said. “See? He scans just fine.” And with that, he took a large scan gun and beamed it at Charlie’s shoulder scruff, and 14 digit code immediately popped up on the scan gun. I showed him where I felt the alleged migratory chip, and he felt it, paused, and told me that’s where they did the feline leukemia booster shot. Normally they do that shot in the shoulder, but since the cats were getting the microchip that day (injected subcutaneously), they got the booster in the haunch instead.

Mystery solved, cat scans just fine. Now explain this: since getting the microchip, Charlie’s been wearing his collar non-stop.

For more info on the Home Again microchip and to help lost pets in your area, check out: www.homeagain.com

Road Trip

Remember when you were a kid, and your family went on road trips? I was a kid in the 70s and we didn't have a lot of stuff. So long car rides were punctuated by Mad Libs, a tape recorder from which my sister played the Simon & Garfunkel concert in Central Park tape for as long as the battery allowed, some archived candy stored up for the trip, license plate games, and a series of signs we would write and hold up in the window: "Help! I'm not part of this family!" "Honk if you like M&M's" "What's your name?" as if the foxy boy in the next station wagon could answer before our cars drifted apart.

Our family had a light turquoise colored Gran Fury station wagon, and the way back folded up into a two-seater. My oldest sister and I would settle in back there; my middle sister appropriately stretched out in the middle seat to sleep; my parents were in the front.

This Fourth of July, Robert and I road-tripped to Maine. In the middle seat were two good friends (one of them might be Food Guy, and one of them might be a brilliant web developer who had been to Maine only once, spent a fortune at a roadside lobster shack and hadn't been back or eaten a lobster since.)

In the way back were our bags and someone's box of fireworks (legal in New Hampshire) packed compactly, along with our two large-ish Bernese Mountain dogs. Lexa mostly settled right in, but DJ likes to be part of the party—likes to hang out with the boys. Here's the result (click on play for the video below!). While this time around I was in the front seat, I found the dog visits to the middle seat to be as entertaining as Mad Libs, and as tender as a tinny recording of Me and Julio, followed by crowds clapping in a long-ago Central Park.

We All Do Bad Things Sometimes

When I have gone through difficult passages, I have been able to hold on to the idea of an internal gps­—an emotional compass that will guide me in the right direction. This is an intuitive guidance system, one that relies not on reaction to fear but on instinct to find what connects with my deepest self.

When DJ, most likely in the unfiltered spirit of play, makes a choice that is not acceptable—such as snatching an unopened bottle of seltzer from the table—he knows it. He knows what the reaction will be from me. A mouthful of plastic, while fun and exciting, is not always the best choice. There is no indicator of truthfulness more clear than the eyes. After one glance at my eyes, his avert and he avoids any further eye contact. His big lumbering body, jumps and darts, still trying to escape to the couch (a kind of “home base” for him) with the seltzer bottle, but he won’t look me directly in the eye because he knows I disapprove.

Next time you are wondering which way to head or where your own integrity and instinct want you to go, just look yourself in the eye. Dogs know.

Hide and Seek in the Sun

Here in the Northeast, the sun has been hiding behind clouds and rain for weeks now. In honor of the one sunny day in weeks (this past Saturday), and to help us remember that warm summer feeling, here’s DJ covered in a towel—my own version of Dog Hide and Seek. While initially executed for my amusement (ie, How to make a large-ish dog disappear? Cover him in a beach towel! Where’d he go?!)  but DJ joined right in, seemingly delighted when I lifted the towel up to reveal him, I think because he sensed it was a game, and my intention was fun. 

Researchers have found that dolphins studied off the coast of Honduras, “seem to deliberately make their games more difficult, possibly in order to learn from them”; and also noted that adult dolphins modulated their game when playing with young dophins, so younger animals could fully participate and progressively improve. Dolphins in captivity have been observed to have created 317 different forms of play.  Researchers surmise that “play facilitates the development and maintenance of flexible problem solving skills. If this is true, play may have evolved to enhance the ability to adapt to novel situations.” And that, “Although dolphins of all ages participated in games, most of the newly invented ones came from the youngsters themselves, the group wrote, providing evidence for a contribution of games to dolphin “culture.””

(For more, check out: www.world-science.net/exclusives/051107_dolphinfrm.htm. If you want to see it for yourself but can’t get out to Discovery Cove to swim with dolphins before lunch (www.discoverycove.com), check out: www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMCf7SNUb-Q.

In a human-centered world, it’s easy to assume that because we invented the Mac, tetherball, and proms, that the ascendency of our species is guaranteed and we have the 411 on how to play. But dog (and cat) lovers everywhere already know better: what we know and sense is just the tip of the animal iceberg. Creatures across the world have fundamental survival needs, and one of them is to play, discover, explore in order to understand, grow, and make a day feel good. Ask your dog. Mine agrees and would roll his eyes at our obvious science and wonder why I’m not playing tug of war instead.

Take Your Dog to Work Day

Today DJ has gone to work. Not the traditional carting work which he was bred to do, but instead today he is interning at an ad agency in Boston's South End. This concept is actually rooted in the US feminist movement and was launched in 1993 when MS Magazine created "Bring Your Daughter to Work Day",  designed to expose girls and young women to various career paths and encourage professional aspirations. In 2003, the gender divide was relieved and now multiple organizations promote "Bring Your Son or Daughter to Work Day" in order to expand young people's interests and potential paths.

Um, "Bring your Dog to Work Day" has no such application. While allegedly DJ has filed a few expense reports and created a couple spreadsheets so far today, probably the value of this event is more in the contact between animal and humans, and the simple reminder to do what you love, love what you do, and keep it all in perspective.

For more information and inspiration, check out:

www.takeyourdog.com/

and

www.daughtersandsonstowork.org

When Living By the Seashore...

We have a friend* who just recently moved from the city to the small seaside town where we live. Having made a similar move, from New York city to this small town, I can relate. At first it’s too quiet. Too clean. Everyone is in shape, or at least seems to exercise regularly—and probably takes a daily multivitamin too. Families seem neatly shaped, stacked in place with perfect parents, offspring, and every possible possession, from stroller to Subaru, necessary to propell that family forward for the next twenty years till the children go to college. You feel funny, like you might suddenly and loudly curse in Starbucks for no reason, or that your library books (if you roll that way!) will be monitered, or that the music coming out of your apartment windows will reveal you to be what you really are: a city person misplaced in a small, beautiful, town.

But I give our friend props. Within a month, he’s worked on a friend’s sailboat getting it prepped to go in the water, he’s discovered and grilled a new kind of marinated meat from the local grocery store, and he bought his dog Lucy this collar. 

It took me living here about as long as I’d lived in Manhattan in order to loosen the grip on metropolis pace—and that’s with a few years in Brooklyn as a transition before moving here. I embraced the suburban supermarket instead of the deli at the corner, but it’s taken some time to get into the pace of “town”. Once here, the city still appeals. But there’s no need to wear it. Where we are is alright by me. 

*okay, you guessed it, the friend is "Food Guy", whose cuddly yet stylin' Boxer Lucy is staying with us this week.

Personal Trainer

If you need a personal trainer of the calorie-burning, gym-sort for your dog, get a Boxer. And when I write Boxer, I mean a dog like Lucy. She’s our house guest this week, while her owner “Food Guy” is in Europe.

Our two Bernese Mountain dogs generally enjoy a life of leisure with one or two moderate walks a day. When Lucy is here, it is like watching a drill sargent in action: she has DJ up and boxes him into submission and exhaustion within minutes. After that she trots, nay skips, over to one of two open wooden boxes where we keep dog toys and selects a toy as if she were a personal trainer picking out weights or medicine balls to shred her client’s muscles with. She brings the selected toy to panting DJ and I swear I can almost hear her grunt, “C’mon, let’s see what you got!”

At the end of the day, our dogs sleep soundly, slobberingly, and gratefully it seems. Lexa, the senior dog, perhaps grateful for a distracted and depleted puppy in training. And Lucy? Dreaming of the next round.

Pranic Puppy

I’m no yoga expert—I’m a yoga grazer. I like going to all kinds of classes and learning from all kinds of teachers. One thing is clear and consistent however, and that’s the feeling of prana. The energy or chi that spreads through my blood as I move through poses, and lingers afterwards.

When I wake up and head to brush my teeth in the morning, both dogs usually sleepily roll on their backs, lifting their giant gracious paws in the air, offering furry bellies for rubbing. After I sat in yoga “awakening my pranic energy” by patting my own arms and legs, I realize dogs ask for and receive this awakening naturally, instinctively, by offering themselves up, paws in the air.

Letting Go

My father used to write for Parents Magazine, back in the 1970s. One article he wrote was about watching my older sister jump off the high dive, from a float in the harbor. He was worried about her: how deep was the water? What if she landed funny? What if she got scared up there? But he encouraged her, shouting up to her to take the leap! Of course the ocean water was deep enough—cold, but deep—and my sister was an avid swimmer so she landed and swam back to the float just fine.

My kittens are now 2 years old, and this year at their annual check up I decided to get them the feline leukemia shot, which will protect them if they become indoor/outdoor kitties. I sense that they are bored inside. Both are a bit overweight—plump, glossy, and slow moving. But when they watch the window, see an insect, or hear a bird, they come alive: alert and engaged. So I decided it is finally time to give the big outdoors a try. I realize I need to treat this transition with care; make sure they know their surroundings, not force them, observe them at first. And I realize it’s a hard decision that will potentially open their world up dramatically, but also provide new threats and dangers.

Seeing Johnny take his first (supervised!) sniff around the deck today confirmed the decision. He did not want to go back inside. He batted then bit a dried leaf, tasted the thyme from the herb plantings, listened to the birds, stretched in the sun...in fact, he actually made a small growling noise when I lifted him to take him back inside. I think he’s ready, I just wonder if I am.

Why our cat thinks he owns our dog

When DJ was a puppy we crated him. DJ is the first dog I’ve had from puppyhood on, so crating seemed very much like “caging” or “locking up”. The reality is however, as most dog experts will tell you, their crate really can become more like their room: a place for quiet time and an opportunity to rest and feel comforted.

DJ’s crate was placed in the bedroom, just below the windows which look out onto the street: an ideal location for a cat to make his habitual perch. And Charlie did. By day, he would watch the neighborhood’s comings and goings; by night, while DJ shifted and settled, Charlie would watch him intently and occasionally dangle a paw at the 20-lb, 30-lb, then 40- and 50-lb Berner puppy. DJ seemed unconcerned and was probably absorbing so much about the world, that a cat hovering above him nightly was the least of his concerns.

It seems however, that Charlie was perhaps doing something I didn’t realize. As I read NOW about how to establish and maintain alpha position in relation to a dog, I think back to Charlie's earliest training of the dog, and I consider his relationship to 138-lb DJ now. Charlie always sits at a level above DJ and when DJ comes too close without permission he gets a swat from the cat paw. This inspires the dog to get low and stay humble. Charlie occasionally leans in to DJ’s massive head and takes a nibble on his forehead—but the affection is given only when the cat chooses. Just to be sure he understands fully who’s in charge, when DJ turns away to lay down, Charlie drags his claws through the dog’s black coat, keeping a souvenir of his pet for himself.

We all speak dog

Some may find it a curious fact that our dog speaks Chinese. We discovered this one day when one of us repeated a phrase we heard on tv: "shi shi". We used DJ's nickname Furse (pron. 'Fur-Sah'-- see blog #1), and said, "hey Furse, shi shi!" He responded just as he had to the phrase when it came from the tv speakers: with a cocked head and curious penetrating gaze. As if to say, "What was that? Go out? Now?"

We laughed and tried it again. My knowledge of Chinese is limited one lesson I had in the 9th grade when I learned to say "Ni How Mah? (How are you?) Heahn-How! (I'm fine!)" and also the fact that tones change the meaning of the word—even one syllable can mean something completely different when said with a different lilt. 

So, "Furse, shi shi!" became "Shi shiii? Furse?"  and "Furse! shi SHI!" Every time he responds, looking at us with an "I'm on it!" or "You got it!" or "Really?" look on his face.

Hence we gradually became convinced that if we speak fake-Chinese to him, surely he must understand the real thing. After all, it's said that dogs can comfortably comprehend up to 200 commands. If this is true, we're on our way. Any suggestions for the next phrase in Mandarin?

post script: If this inspires you to write a children's book with this idea, don't even bother—get a snack and watch the NASCAR Pocono 500 instead. One of the world's most adorable books ever has already been written on the topic . I discovered it a couple months after we realized DJ speaks Chinese. Where? in the gift shop of Portland, Oregon's Chinese garden of course. What a find! Check it out for yourself: 

www.powells.com/cgi-bin/biblio?inkey=2-9781840595048-1

And while you're virtually visiting Portland, check out the gardens!

www.portlandchinesegarden.org

Introducing the Fursons

We are a family of 6: my fiance, our two Bernese Mountain dogs, and two cats. For some time we have called our home Animal Kingdom, but with time comes new names.

The most senior member of Animal Kingdom is Lexa. She is a beloved 8.9 year old Berner in amazing shape. While she lounges gracefully most of the day, given the opportunity she'll leap up and down at the prospect of a good walk. Lexa's full name is Newcastle's Lexa Pip!

Our other dog (a year and half old, 138 pound Berner) has a variety of names: DJ Puppy is his given name. The name didn't intend to stand for anything other than "disc jockey"-- in the weeks leading up to getting him, we pictured a Berner puppy with giant headphones (after a late night seeing the amazing DJ Bassnectar!). However, like Lexa, he has a more formal name which includes the breeder-- and that is: DeGrasso's Joyful Mystery.

After bringing 17 pound ball of puff DJ Puppy on a whirlwind tour to meet nieces, nephews, and granddogparents at Christmas, one week after we got him, a 3-year old nephew intending to say "He's so furry!" instead said "He's so furzy!" Furzee stuck, and soon became the faux-Icelandic "Furse" (pronounced Fur-sah).

The other morning Robert got up before me and let the dogs out. He came back to the bedroom and announced "The Fursans have been out, but have not yet had breakfast!"

Well, meet the Fursons. Within a week, this agile proper noun has comfortably fit our family like a warm furry coat...big enough to include everyone, even the two cats: Charlie and Johnny Perez.

PHOTOS:
1. Lexa and DJ now
2. Lexa and DJ 2007
3. Charlie
4. Johnny Perez