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.