My Jumbled Jack Confession

Everyone knows puppies are  a lot of work.  They require the constant eagle eye.  Are they peeing?  Well, that depends.  Are you watching?  Because the second you crane your head away in a different direction, they are apt to squat.  Or so it seems.  Are they chewing?  Probably.  As long as you wear them out, they are good doggies.  And if you give them structure and be consistent with your instructions, they will obey eventually.  All it takes to raise a puppy is time and tenacity, and a few squeaky toys and chew bones to save your furniture and shoes.   And you are rewarded with fuzzy love for their whole lives.

The problem is time.  Or maybe more accurately: timing. 

For the past week everything in our lives had screeched to a halt.  D managed to fix the shingles, getting up on the roof a few days after work.  But with him up there, I had to be with puppy.  I tried to get some work done outside and let him run free but maybe he hasn’t figured out games yet.  And on Thursday and Friday a new and pushy part of Jack's personality emerged.  Jack suddenly would not play fetch with the ball you threw, he would come over and be immovably and directly in the way.  I tried to move some of the bricks and pull up some vines from the vine orgy pile, but the puppy was always where you needed to put your feet, or standing on the twigs you were trying to pull up, or picking up your trowel in his jaws and running off to hide in the honeysuckle (this was my least favorite puppy pasttime).  I did not want to play just then, puppy, so I would ignore him and in turn he would show his displeasure by nipping at my hands as I tried to work.  This is not acceptable dog behavior, so you’d have to correct him.  If I didn't pay attention to him he started ripping up bunches of grass by the roots with his teeth, bunch by bunch, rip rip rip (because grass offends him?).  He also started digging in the side garden, and dragging twigs and dead roots off of the pile and into the middle of the yard.  Jack, stop being a dick!  I said.  It did no good because puppies don't speak english. 

In short it was difficult to get the barest essentials done, even cooking.  While you were trying to cook dinner, doggie was knocking over the plants, or tearing the weather-stripping from the front door (facepalm), or thinking of peeing, or actually peeing.  This was Mr. Hyde Jack, who emerged in the last few days.  Dr. Jeckyll Jack just sat quietly with Mr. Fox, played catch, came when called, didn't pee in his cage and was a good boy.  That was the dog we brought home for the visit at the beginning of this week.  It was very confusing.  And as much as we liked him, were were starting to feel that he was very much in the way. 

After one month we still couldn’t find anything in the house, because we’re playing with the dog and Mr. Fox, and cleaning up pee, and going for walkies.  Just taking him outside on to potty was a ten minute ordeal because you had to take him out on his leash for potty time so that he  doesn’t confuse play time (not on leash) with potty time but he often got confused and wanted to play anyway, and wouldn’t potty.  The one on doggie-duty  would have to be stalwart and repeat “go potty, go potty, go potty” until finally his evacuation gave us almost as much relief as it did him.  

We hadn’t even had time to fold and put away laundry, all of our clothes were still in bins or laundry baskets. Boxes that we shoved into the basement a month ago are still down there.  That would be fine except there is waterproofing to be done, those boxes can't stay there.  We have the pile of concrete.  We have the valley of earth that needs to be re-built and sloped away from the house.  We need drainage pipes installed.  We need to pull up boards from the deck to re-grade the earth that is sending water to cascade into the side of the house (and into the basement).  The kitchen was only half put away with boxes in the middle of the floor containing whatever implements we inevitably were searching for.  The office was full of boxes and cords are strewn like tripwires in front of my desk.  The hall was full of boxes. 

D and I weren't convinced about keeping this dog.  No question he’s adorable.  But we have this practical (/heartless) side that says, “this is another project and we don’t need this right now.”  D’s moment of truth came when the dog began acting out.  Thursday and Friday were rough.  He was peeing in his crate, barking at D, willfully disobeying commands that we know Jack knows.  And when D was going to let him out he looked him straight in the eye and then peed on the floor (Jack peed, not D.  D is housebroken).  My moment came when we found that Jack had bit Max in the face. 

"Effing dog."

Jack's teeth sunk in above Max’s right eye and into Max’s ear.  We didn’t see it happen.  We didn’t know it had happened.  Then Max began to systematically box the dog whenever it came near him.  We were pleased the first time we saw it.  “Max is asserting himself!” we cheered.  Then it kept happening, and it was obvious that Max wasn’t neutral on Jack anymore.  Even going so far as to wait by the doorway, trapping the dog in the hallway.  Jack couldn’t get go near the doorway without getting thwapped in the head, and was too timid to go past Max.  This was a pretty big shift in their dynamic, we thought.  I picked up Max to comfort him, and saw the red marks where he had been bitten.  A pair of wounds like a vampire bite, where the dog had drawn blood. 

Animals need supervised interaction.  Dog requires attention and training.  We have jobs.  We have home-work that has to be done before winter.   Something had to give.  D admitted that even after about a week he hadn’t fallen in love with the dog.  If both of us weren’t absolutely sure about this, I reasoned, it wasn’t a good idea.  I relented to practicality, and agreed we should return the dog, perhaps to pick him up again in a few weeks and adopt him for real.  Or maybe we even pick a different dog.  A calmer dog.  And Jack was being a real pain.  And after all, I hadn’t fallen in love with the dog either.  Famous last words. 

I teared up and said my goodbyes to the doggie.  D & I petted him and held him, and my lip was all a-quiver.  And then we went outside and I began to cry.  And I cried in the car.   I teared up again when we got home, and D, desperate to cheer me up brought me a kitty to sit with me for a bit.  I was feeling really down.  I didn’t want to do anything.  But we had gotten rid of the dog so that we could get back to work, and so I got up and moving.  We got a lot done, I have to admit.  Almost all of the boxes are cleared from the bedroom and things are put away for the first time.  The kitchen is almost 100% unpacked, and we have a swath of empty boxes to tear down and throw away.  We even have some boxes ready to donate to Goodwill.  No question we've made one big step.

lap-cat

But I'm sad, which is why this post is un-edited and babbling.  Last night I missed the soft little puppy and his hilarious, big-footed romping, and the way he looked when he just sat with Mr. Fox, chewing on his fuzzy body absentmindedly.  No more  little floppy ears flipping inside out, making him look like a bat.  No more cuddle-face into my leg.  Last night felt very lonely. No walkies.  No squeaking of Mr. Fox.  I missed him this morning, if you can believe it.  You can’t oversleep with a dog.  Even me, and I am a chronic oversleeper if left to my own devices.  It’s just us now.  D and I, Yuuki and Max.  I don’t know if we’ll adopt Jack in the end.  Behavior issues to correct, definitely.  But a good dog.  I don’t know if we’ll go with a different dog.  An older, calmer one. We at least have to wait until after we have finally unpacked and handled the drainage issue.  Or maybe its best we just enjoy life with the kitties and forget this doggie nonsense.  For now, though, I can’t forget.

Trial Period Ends Soon

I’m a worrier.  And a commitment-phobe.  So maybe its strange that I wanted to go and bring a puppy home.  But it’s because I take commitments so seriously that I worry about them and am so tentative about entering into commitment in the first place.  (D doesn't know how lucky he is!)  Our doggie trial period is almost over.  I’m still on the fence as to whether to keep the dog or not. 

If Jack the Puppy weren’t a puppy it’d be a simple matter of whether he was capable of getting along with kitties.  None of the anxious eagle-eye preoccupation of house-training or me tut-tutting at pet interactions.  D and I never intended to get a puppy, we intended to eventually rescue an older dog (I mean like a one year old).  But who chose a puppy?  I did.  Because he is handsome and quiet and level of temperament and a snuggler.  But what are we getting ourselves into as far as training? 

He seems smart.  I bet every dog-mommy says that.  But he comes when we call him, at four months old after having him for less than a week.  (So there.)  The first couple of days he was able to perform on command when I told him to “Go get Mr. Fox!!”  But ever since he slept with Mr. Fox in his cage, he pretends not to know who Mr. Fox is.  Hm. 

  The first dog I really remember well (not our first dog though) is Lucky.  Lucky was and is to this day, a standard to which I hold other dogs.  He was sweet, good, obedient and just so adorable.  I do not recall not one problem we had with him.  He shed a lot, but that’s, you know, innate.  He was a furball.  He didn’t chew overmuch, only on his own toys, never stole our shoes, never ruined any furniture or rugs.  He almost never went potty in the house.  I can’t even remember him doing it, though I’m sure he must’ve.  He would ask you to go out.  He would ask you to come in.  We left him the run of the house when we were gone and were never given cause to regret it.  He love-love-loved to see you.  Lucky was a Shetland Sheepdog, a breed that even my grumpy brother still loves.  Perhaps this standard may be unfair to other dogs. 



not Lucky, this is the petfinder Sheltie (here)



Tasha is my parents’ dog for the last umpteen years. I didn’t live with this dog long before I left for college, but when I was there she really irritated me.   She’s old and tired now, and she comes when she’s called so I like her a lot more.  But she was the white devil.  She is allegedly a husky, but looks more like a goberian to me. (One of the goberians at Dog Breed Info,  Miya, is an example of the hybrid, and is a dead ringer for Tasha).  Tasha would not obey unless you screamed at her, and even then not much.  She didn’t come when you called her.  She would pull and heave against the leash as if you were a sled and somebody had just said “mush.”  She routinely jumped the fence to wander the neighborhood like a hussy.  When my mother would lie on the couch sometimes the dog would jump up and stand on top of her, just because she could.  She tore up whatever pleased or displeased her, nothing was sacred.  She ate the cookies I made for my mother that were in a box tied with string after pulling them off of the kitchen counter, where my parents never put food.  She peed on everything in a shower of disdain for the laughable concept of human dominance.  This is too low to set a doggie standard.  (sorry dad)

Shelties are apparently #6 on the list of Brightest Dogs, in the book The Intelligence of Dogs by Stanley Coren.  (according to Wikipedia) 

Labs are #7.  Jack is half lab.  Apparently in this group, “Brightest Dogs,” like shelties and labs, dogs require fewer than 5 repetitions to understand commands and will understand it the first time you give it to them 95% of the time.  Awesome.  Jack, go do some laundry! 

But Jack is a mix of lab and Aussie Shepherd. 

Australian Shepherds are #42.  heh heh.  Of “Average Working /Obedience Intelligence.” Requires 25 -40 Repetitions to understand commands.  Will understand a command the first time you say it 50% of the time.  Aussie shepherds are only three spots away from huskies, #45.   eek. 

The other day there seemed to be more evidence that he was trying to herd one of the cats.  He ended up knocking Max paws over whiskers, but i don't think it was rough on purpose.  I think he and Max will figure out their relationship in time.  Sometimes Max meows at Jack and Jack will shy away. 



OMG both on floor at the same time



Can we balance work and social lives without neglecting this dog?  It's doable.  How can we ever get unpacked and situated when I’ve constantly got to keep at least one eye on Jack (because he isn’t pooing on a schedule and now I don’t know when he has to poo.  Originally he poo’d about five minutes after he ate.  Now he’s not.  So today I didn’t wait for him to poo outside, I just left him outside for a few minutes while I made coffee etc.  Maybe he poo’d fifteen minutes after he ate, and I was getting ready for work and didn’t see it.  If a poo falls in the forest and I’m not around to see it, does it make a difference?  Specifically, in his urge to poo in the house?)? 

I really like spending time with him.  I’m working with him on some commands, and it’s a long-term process.  I love it when he obeys (that’s what she said).  We take walks in the evening now, he and D and I, in this great little sliver of time with no electronic devices or other distractions.  Just us in the new neighborhood.  I really enjoy this time, be it full of conversation or just quietly companionable.  And the other day he butted his head against me and crawled in my lab and snuggled like a kitty.      

I think one week is such a short amount of time to see how pets interact.  It took Yuuki longer than that when we re-found Max.  And now the cats haven't chased each other around at all, because they’re wary of the dog and not free to be themselves.  Time is almost up and the answer is not apparent to me.  sigh.

Wikipedia also says, “Aussies also do best with plenty of human companionship: they are often called "Velcro Dogs" for their strong desire to always be near their owners and for their tendency to form intense, devoted bonds with select people.”  That seems like a pretty good description.  I also want to see if he yawns after I yawn.  Lucky used to.  :)

*MORE* concrete?!

Trying to do work with a puppy underfoot is both awesome and tedious.  It's awesome because you've got this cute little fella to break up the monotony and he wants to bring you the squeaky ball for you to throw every minute or so. 

 nom

This is what vine orgies look like

It's tedious because you cannot get into any kind of task-oriented groove because a dog is bringing you a squeaky ball for you to throw every minute or so.  In short, its kinda more enjoyable but without the same return on the time investment.  But its time double well spent, if I may. 

So taking advantage of the break in heat, I've been out trying to clean out the patches of dead vines that look like the photo above.  Apparently a previous owner had let these vines do precisely whatever they wanted.  Undisciplined, they refused to get jobs, called over many friends and had a kegger, which degraded into a debauched vine orgy, the remnants of which are still woven into our backyard.  Now its an impressive nest of knots all up on the side of the house (mostly removed now, see previous post), and in this patch at the side of the yard.  Another previous owner had decided to kill all the vines, had to poison them three times to do it, tried to pull them up, and mostly failed.  Apparently he found it annoying, and so he left it there.  For us.  Thanks, buddy. 



1/3 less crappy looking than original pile



There is not only vines in here (Lyme disease awaits as well, I'm sure).  Bizarre detritus has erupted forth as the knot-pile divulges its secrets.  A rope (::cringe::), a broken pair of swimming goggles, a pane of transparent plastic (broken and sharp, naturally), oh, and concrete.  There's a swath of concrete buried underneath the vines.  I don't know what it was yet, still too many vines to get a good look.  And no doubt many more treasures await. 

detritus-gathering

Doggie tried very hard to be helpful, not only by distracting me, but also by standing on the very sticks and vines I was trying to remove by tugging them free.  He sensed my displeasure, I think, and also bit some sticks intermittently.  Coming to my rescue, eh?  Gentleman Jack.  Wait.  I think that refers to something else...

D has been working on fixing shingles on the roof

If we've got to work outside, at least the heat broke.  Through the worst of it, I've kept an eye on all the plantlife at the house.  The plants in the front had me concerned a bit, but now that its a more reasonable temperature outside, I became even more so.  They haven't grown at all.  No new leaves, nothing happening.  I wondered why, but kept watering, all the while internally moping about how $hitty this whole gardening thing has turned out, in spite of my lofty green aspirations. 

Well, I finally got around to weeding the front beds the other day.  The very first weed I tugged on came up along with an entire carpet strata of mulch and such.  Which is weird, right?  I lowered the lot of it, thoughtfully.  Then I lifted again, higher this time so I could peek underneath.  This is what I saw.

What. The. Eff.

Here in front of the house I have uncovered an ugly truth.  There is less than half an inch of mulch plus a ghostly layer of something akin to soil, and then there is a giant, submerged concrete slab, significantly recessed in relation to the concrete porch square.  The layer of substrate is so shallow it isn't even as deep as my first knuckle. 

Now I'm not baffled as to why the hostas haven't gotten any larger.  I'm gobsmacked that they've survived this long.  The former owner, the august Commander Cut-Corners, knocked down a crumbling concrete planter.  (this is what I surmise)  He decided he didn't wanna work anymore, and so he hid the last few feet of concrete underground with a few handfuls of mulch, the soil is so sparse it appears to have been an accidental addition.  He set some (starving) hostas on top, and then he just left it there.  For us.  Thanks again, sir. 

So what do we do with-

The debate continues, as to whether we keep Jack the Puppy (possibly Argos), or return him to the dog rescue. 

Don’t get us wrong, this dog has adorable puppy features, which are an innate defense against owners giving him away.  Cuteness, obviously, in spades.  He fetches (sorta).  He comes (frequently but not always).  He trips over his ears when he’s in a hurry (heh heh).  And last night he went to bed in his crate with none of the high-pitched, piteous, operatic crying we were cringing at the thought of growing accustomed to.  What a champ. 

He and Max have little western showdowns whenever one strolls close to the other.  For a moment there is a standoff; they meet each other’s eyes and they freeze.  The tableau holds, and I stop whatever I’m doing, and the background music ceases, and a tumbleweed bounces through my living room.  And then the standoff is broken by the puppy springing into the air, boing, to which Max responds by either batting Jack in the face, bad dog!, or Max gets startled by the boing and backs away and puppy gives chase.  Or sometimes the puppy gets too bored with the staring contest and has to go find Mr. Fox to chew on. 

The boys

I love to see Max stand his ground.  It’s not so much a risk of doggie aggression out of Gentle Jack, it’s the risk of our boys being scaredy-cats.  If they run, Jack with think it’s a game and chase them, and the kitties will relegate themselves to doggie playthings, instead of full-fledged members of the family, at least an equal of Jack.  In pack mentality, the cats need to be up closer to the top of the totem pole, or they’ll be unhappy.  Already Yuuki has taken to avoiding the floor entirely when Jack is free in the house.  Yuuki’s aversion to conflict is disheartening, although no surprise.  But then again, sometimes he goes taking flying leaps at Max, or chasing him around the house.  We know he has it in him to be the spirited hunter.  I'm not kidding myself that he and Jack will be besties, I just hope the dog doesn’t intimidate him too much. 

In other news, I've just been told we’ve killed a squirrel. 

Not on purpose.

D has been going back to the house at lunchtime, checking up on Jack and letting him outside to be free, at least for this first week, because he’s probably plenty stressed in this new atmosphere.  I myself tried to do this too.  (Wouldn’t that be lovely!  Lunch with my boys!  Psh.)  My commute is a tad longer, and I just ended up driving in a big circle from work to home and then turned right around and come back to work.  Anyway, D found that our groundhog cage had finally caught something.    Not a groundhog though.  I haven’t seen one since we got Jack, nor have I seen any further damage.  Of course our tomato has yet to produce any more fruit, though it has flowered since the attack. 

We caught a squirrel.  Not what we had hoped to trap, but then again, squirrels too would wreak havoc on our gardens.  So D was trying to figure out what he should do with the little rodent.  While he pondered this, the squirrel snapped.  Apparently he went completely bonkers and began ramming the cage continuously with its head.  D is not being one to cruelly torment an animal, but the squirrel was soon lying in the corner of the cage convulsing, blood coming out of its mouth.  He called me at work to tell me what had happened and asked if I was mad at what he’d told me.  I wasn't but... you know.  Normally a disclaimer on our daily lives might read, "no animals were harmed in the production of this day," but today we can't say that and I feel that's a shame.  So he very kindly lied to me and told me that all of a sudden the squirrel had gotten his second wind and would likely be up and out of the cage before I get home.  I’m sure he will too.   He'll be free.  On a farm.  With other squirrels. 

Totally.

Cutesy squirrel clipart from Daily Clip Art

Super squirrel from Neatorama.