Little Pup Lodge

A friend sat in on a training session for a dog who would one day hunt birds. She said the trainer showed up a with something that resembled a wooden car antenna. She didn’t the hit dog with it, but would lightly tap it on the back if it didn’t respond to a command. Creepy, okay, but what do I know about training a dog to hunt? Here was the really weird part of my friend’s story: The trainer never rewarded the dog when he did something right. She also emphasized to the dog’s owner that she must never reward him—not with a pat on the head, no treats, nary an “Atta boy,” or “Good dog.”

 

As far as I’m concerned, working dogs deserve to work. I’ve heard of too many Aussies and border collies dumped because they’re destructive or too manic, when the real problem is they weren’t given anything to do. If you don’t have time to provide three or four hours of exercise a day for those breeds, then go buy some sheep for them. 

But, no praise? Does that really make dogs more effective in finding birds?

 

A frequent hotel guest ended up in the shelter a few weeks ago. It’s easy to judge someone who gets rid of his or her pet until you know the whole story. Chance found his Forever Family a few years ago with a young couple and their children. But the couple divorced, the house was sold and a single, working mother of three who lived in a small apartment could not give Chance the kind of care he needed. Fortunately, we bartered services so she did not have to pay for his visits here.

 

The owner tried to make it work anyhow, since she and her children loved Chance. I watched how she agonized, feared for Chance, hated herself. Eventually Chance must have sensed something because he began to act out; a nip here and growl there. His habit of marking indoors grew worse. It was time.

 

Chance now waits at the Santa Cruz Animal Shelter for his next family. Let's hope this one will be forever.

 

Chance now waits at the Santa Cruz Animal Shelter for his next family. Let's hope this one will be forever.

Having a hospice dog means that the end comes sooner rather than later. But still we adopt, slide into denial and open our hearts much too wide. Sweet little Tex was euthanized Tuesday. Though blind, his eyes still gave him problems. We managed to fix one eye without surgery and then the other one went bad. His options were to live in constant pain or to have the eye removed.

 

 

 

 

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An unfortunate side effect of having a boarding service for little dogs is little-dog yapping. Neighbors have gotten a little… tense, especially when our hotel guests go off at 5:30 in the morning.

We have tried many, many things to stop this. Citronella collars. Spray bottles. And, of course, that familiar refrain, “quiet quiet QUIET!!” Nothing worked--until now. Whoever (whomever?) invented the “Pet Corrector” deserves a Nobel peace prize. It’s just a little can of compressed air that we spray when the dogs start their chorus of barking. One quick spritz and voilå, instant silence. The sound of hissing air definitely gets a dog’s attention.

 

If you decide to get your own canister of Instant Silence, for God’s sake read the directions. You DON’T spray it in a dog’s face or, in fact, anywhere near them. Five or 10 feet away works just fine. This priceless gift can be yours for only $9.99 and is found online and at finer pet stores everywhere.

The poor, beleaguered pitbull has once again made the news and not in a good way. Today’s San Francisco Chronicle reported that a pit bull attacked its owner, a pregnant woman.   I was shocked, shocked! to discover that the attacker was an unneutered male. The reason for the sarcasm? According to Santa Cruz SPCA Director Lisa Carter, 97% of reported dog bites are from have yeah zero as usual as Vioxx's unneutered meal sow's anyways as Monday's little reason intact dogs.

The pitbull breed elicits complicated feelings from me. I pity the pits for their rotten reputation, undeserved or not. I think of them as loaded guns—perfectly safe in the hands of responsible owners and dangerous as hell in those that aren’t. It certainly isn’t their fault and I can usually spot the ones to stay far, far away from on the beach. You may think of this time of year in terms of “beach weather” season. I think of it as “ very few reasons is because you are new because there is a to me okay mail you a link to the whole that he wasYoung Tattooed Dude in Wife-beater T-shirt with Unneutered Pit Bull” season. Not one to generalize, but I’m pretty sure those owners believe that a visible pair of dog testicles will somehow enhance their own manhood (which is probably really tiny and could use some enhancing).

And that, my friends, is the real problem. Not pit bulls, Rottweilers or Presa Canarios, but males. Specifically, males who own male dogs. Before you write me off as a cranky old feminazi, let me repeat some of the reasons I’ve heard from men about why they chose not to neuter their dogs. One fellow said (and I swear to God this is what he said) that he did not want to take away his best friend’s ‘best friends.’ Others have told me that it’s unnatural, unhealthy, not fair. I just want to scream, “We’re not talking about YOUR balls, nitwit, we’re talking about the dog’s.”

Why do I single out men when it comes to this issue? I know that not all men think this way. But, I have yet to hear a woman spout the same protestations regarding why their dog has not been spayed or neutered. Main reason they don’t? Hubby/boyfriend will not allow it.

My heart goes out to that poor man who discovered his wife’s mauled body. But as tragic as that incident was, perhaps it will serve as a cautionary tale and convince at least one guy out there to neuter his dog. If he’s got the cojones, that is.

I hit my sartorial zenith around the time ripped sweatshirts and leggings paired with white pumps were considered cutting edge.   As the years ticked by and my passion for fashion faded, I began to envy those totalitarian nations like China and North Korea. They really had it going on, what with those blue pajama outfits everyone seems to wear. Why couldn’t the free world dress as comfortably without being cruelly mocked?

I could not predict that one day, far into the future, Crocs would appear on the scene and I would actually wear them. In public.   If I was that shameless, why not take the next logical step and suit up in hospital scrubs?   I’m not crazy; it’s not like I’d dress in those mint-green surgeon outfits. But think about the colorful tops nurses and vet techs run around in: super comfie, giant pockets for poop bags and easy wash and wear. With great fortune, I stumbled upon a yard sale held by a mother–daughter team of compulsive-shopper nurses. Between them there had to be at least, at least, 60 sets of scrubs.   At a buck apiece, I picked up five of them.

Instead of baggy shortsand and an old T-shirt, I now throw on a skort (another hot trend), one of my brightly colored scrubbies, a pair of earrings and I am ready to greet the day. My look is so fierce, Dolce and Gabbana wished they’d come up with it first.

When I took Tex home from the shelter about four months ago, I tried to convince myself I did not just adopt seven adorable pounds of future credit card debt. Denial being what it is, I told myself that I would not pay vet bills to prolong the blind, arthritic, heart-diseased Chihuahua’s life. Given that he was about 15 years old, I just wanted to give him a couple more good months before it was time to trot off this mortal coil.

 

Since Tex began to thrive with lots of love, quality kibble and many interesting hotel guests to hump, he decided to take death off his agenda.  He did not, however, dispense with other health problems. Tex’s right eye begin to give him trouble so we went to his vet ($107), who sent Tex to an animal ophthalmologist ($232), who put him on a medication regimen that was unsuccessful. Tex then had a keratectomy ($369) that got infected, requiring another visit to the eye doctor and more meds ($235). If this doesn’t work, he may need to have his eye removed ($1335).

 

I love Tex, but I’m starting to consider if that love comes with a price tag. For my beloved Oliver, there is no price tag. Though I would not prolong his life if he was in pain, I would move heaven and earth to fix whatever ailed him. To even question making that commitment to any of my other animal companions makes me feel like a much smaller person than I want to be. Let's hope this treatment works.

Pumpkin, Little Pup Lodge’s guest here on scholarship (a foster), shows no sign of graduating to her Forever Family anytime soon. Yes, she’s rather mature and yes, she has the mildest tad of a seizure disorder, but c’mon!   She’s freakin’ adorable and quite mellow, that latter quality sometimes in short supply for the Chihuahua breed.

 

It was time to put Pumpkin’s sales and marketing team into overdrive. That team being me, I put chin in hand and stared off into space waiting for a brilliant idea to strike. Many weeks of chin, hand and space later it hit: let the world know it just how adorable Pumpkin is. Admittedly, she has had just the tiniest struggle with her weight, earning her the nickname “Plumpkin,” but is not that pesky muffin-top the bête noir of us older gals?
 

I needed professional help and did not have far to seek. A mutual friend had introduced me earlier to Anastasia Torres-Gil, the designer behind MyFavoriteCouture.com, who makes fabulous doggy clothes and accessories out of recycled designer duds. Think: Prada, CBGB, Versace and Louis Vuitton. Anastasia and her business will be huge some day, I have no doubt. But she’s putting her heart into helping homeless dogs right now instead of trying to make her first million. To that end she and photographer Portia Shao of Positive Vista.com visit the SPCA about once a month to dress and take glamour shots of shelter dogs. When Anastasia showed me some of the results, I started posting a different photo on my Facebook every few days. Between her designs and Portia’s amazing eye, the photos are downright bewitching.
 

Both agreed to let Pumpkin and me crash one of these photo shoots. She was a bit nervous, as many first-time models are. But admit it, is she star material or what? I will now wait for the hordes to come begging to adopt her, and I will be extremely choosy. Only the best for my princess.

 

 

  *All photos courtesy of positiveVista.com

  *All outfits courtesy of MyFavoriteCouture.com

Molly first visited about a year ago. A sweet and gentle poodle, she had a couple of problems; a tad of incontinence and failing eyesight. She loved to retrieve tennis balls though she had a hard time figuring out where we threw them.

A year later Molly’s incontinence got better, but her eyesight is virtually gone. She still loves retrieving balls so I’ll aim for her foot and slowly roll one towards her. Once she feels it she pushes it back towards me with her nose.   When I roll one and miss, Molly wildly sniffs the ground around her to find it. If it’s more than 3 feet away, chances are she won’t. Wanting to help, I’ll quickly retrieve the ball myself and bring it back so she will not get frustrated.

Good Golly, Miss Molly

Yesterday a couple of my other hotel guests wanted to play fetch so I pitched the ball across the enclosed softball field we visit and watched as they raced to get it. I looked over at Molly to see if she was upset that I had directed the ball somewhere else. But Molly was already barreling across the field, clearly convinced she might get the ball before the other two. No matter that she was headed in the wrong direction.

It seemed that Molly was not the one who was frustrated. She was having fun. The game was about the game, not the outcome of the game. Yet another Zen lesson from our four-footed gurus.

Having run the gamut of dog repellents from citronella spray to Tasers, I finally found one I think I trust. It’s safe, harmless and effective: a stun gun.

Perhaps I worry more than most people about the safety of my dogs, but there is good reason. The hotel guests are tiny little things and much too vulnerable for me to relax and let down my guard. As a result, our morning beach walks just stoke my stress level rather than soothe my nerves.

Shockingly enough (sorry),  anyone  can own a stun gun; no background checks, no classes required. A Google search turned up , Stun Guns Cheaper so I gave them a call. A very nice man named Rick pointed me to the “Streetwise” 4,000,000-volt stun gun baton. Lightweight and about a foot long, it’s easy to carry and long enough so I can keep my hand out of any ensuing brouhaha.   And, my baton comes with an LED flashlight. And, it’s a deal at $39.95.

I'm all amped up!!

 Rick made an interesting point. The stun gun's crackle alone is enough to stop about 90% of the dogs. This makes me very happy because if, god forbid, I do have to use it on an attacking dog, I know I will immediately need to shock the owner as well. No matter how dangerous his dog is, an owner just does not take kindly to having his dog zapped with a stun gun.

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Most of the guests who check into Little Pup Lodge initially exhibit some degree of separation anxiety. We have many ways to work with this: Rescue Remedy (a homeopathic treatment for anxiety); diffusers of Dog Appeasing Pheromone (D.A.P.), which is reported to make dogs feel like they're back with their nursing mother; hugs and kisses if wanted and space if they are not.

 My latest foster, Pumpkin, showed up at the Lodge as if she had lived here forever.  She cuddled up in my lap and was ready with puppy kisses 20 minutes after arrival.    Little Pup Lodge is Pumpkin's fourth home this year; 3 foster homes and one permanent home that only lasted three months.  For reasons too obvious to mention, Animal Shelter Relief has a very generous return policy.  This woman was vague on why she needed to bring Pumpkin back to, but in the future we will think long and hard before our animals will go home with someone who already has an infant to care for.

 Just like children shuttled from one foster home to another, dogs learn to adapt. And, like children, they may show affection but they don't waste time on forging a bond.  Why get your heart broken when the person you become attached to just… disappears?

Pumpkin  has not been easy to place. She's a “Two-Strike” dog—older and saddled with a health condition. No matter that she's around nine years old and Chihuahuas  often live as long as 19 or 20 years. No matter that she has a mild seizure disorder easily controlled with cheap medication.


While I feel bad for my guests' fear of the unfamiliar, confused why their human has gone away, I also know they are very lucky dogs.  Sometimes, separation anxiety is a good thing.

Not only did I attend a lecture by the Dog Whisperer, I also got an hour consultation with him the following day. No, not that one but Paul Owens, the "Original" Dog Whisperer.

There are probably dozens, if not hundreds, of dog trainers around the country who were inspired by “The Horse Whisperer,” Nicholas Evans’ bestselling novel about one man’s intuitive way with the equines. But it has really boiled down to two canine Whisperers: Cesar Millan; rich, famous TV celebrity and trainer to the stars; and Paul Owens–not as rich, not as famous and very, very different in his approach to dogs.

After listening to Paul, I had to kick good ol’ Cesar to the curb. According to my former guru, it’s all about leadership: you are the alpha, your dogs the omegas. It’s about rules, boundaries and expectations. Paul’s the antidote for people like us, owners who will never be pack leaders and are sort of crappy at discipline. For him, it’s all about praise with lots and lots of treats. Not that he didn’t espouse the “I’m the boss,” style at one time, but 30-some years of yoga and a few trips to India taught Paul that perhaps kindness and compassion would work better.

Paul offered brilliant suggestions to help de-stress Oliver when the hotel guests drive him crazy. They’re easy to do and fun for both of us. And they work. Paul Owens resonates with me, but I’m not going to drink the Kool-Aid again. Gurus are so ‘60s.

…That would be pretty much everyone. The Lodge, for all its lovely furnishings and warm hospitality, was not designed for the biped type of guest.

 

Human visitors prefer to eat at a dinner table, which they will not find at our establishment. Although we offer a perfectly good coffee table to eat off of,  some find it a bit distracting that their plate is eye level to four or five sets of yearning eyes. They become testy when our hotel guests crawl over, around and through them to reach the contents on said plate.

We're always surprised when people expect us to do something about it. Hey–the dogs paid to be here, you didn't. End of discussion.

 

When one is raised in a military family, and a slightly alcoholic one at that, one learns a to create and maintain an impenetrable façade:  everything is okay even when it’s not.  Especially when it’s not. Eventually, one may find therapy, thousands and thousands of dollars worth of therapy, and will begin to acknowledge the truth behind the happy face.

Last month or so  around this time, things were definitely not okay. A dog attacked one of my hotel guests down at the beach. This hard reality really screws with my façade, but it seems I have nothing to blog about until I tell the truth.

Cosmo the Yorkie was on a leash; the other dog was not. The other dog belonged to a very good friend of mine so the pepper spray was still holstered.  Lacy, a spaniel-mix, was  a sweet, wonderful girl  99% of the time.  But that other one percent of the time a screw wiggled loose in her wiring and some other dog paid. I moved fast, so the rescued Cosmo ended up with only a couple of puncture wounds and a $250 vet bill.

My friend paid for the Yorkie’s vet bill and then made one of the hardest decisions in her life: She had Lacy euthanized. I know she loved her dog more than anything else in the world, just like I love my sweet Oliver.  Although it was the only ethical choice she could make, she has not been the same since.

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This is an exciting, fulfilling position for the right person. Applicants must love to stick their nose in other peoples' business in the following ways: If an owner doesn't pick up his dog's poop, rush over and point this etiquette breach to him in no uncertain terms. If a pickup is spotted with a dog in the back, follow it to the ends of the earth, if need be and point out the dangers as well as illegality of this. Be prepared to eat crow after discovering the dog was safely restrained, after all. If an owner is correcting (the new word for disciplining) her dog in a way that you deem faulty,  be willing to approach and demonstrate the right way (i.e., your way). You must be willing to offer unsolicited advice on feeding, potty training, medical issues and any other tidbits of wisdom to each dog owner encountered.  They may appear annoyed, but they will appreciate your insight later down the road.

As one who has recently  retired from this career, I must warn that it can be frustrating at times, especially when recalcitrant dog owners refuse to respond to completely reasonable demands.  With the aid of a self-help group designed to help cure controlling personalities, I have now stepped into a delightfully stress-free world.  Repeating that old adage, "It's none of my business," many times a day, I am continually amazed at how well people do even without my input.  No longer exhausted from fixing that which is not broken or telling others what to do,  I have  more hours a day to enjoy my little hotel guests.

This is an unusually popular job, so apply now. Or not. Since I don't tell people what to do anymore.

 

 

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Sometimes the stress is just too much. Not for me, of course, but for my beloved Oliver. Imagine going from being an only child to surrogate brothers and sisters parading through your life. So, I do what all the other yuppie parents do: arrange a play date. Invest in Quality Time. Build his self-esteem by reminding him that he is special, very special.

I'm thinking deep, real deep thoughts.

 

At eight years old, my little guy's idea of a special, esteem-building playdate is the same as mine--anything that involves food. We are fortunate to live 45 minutes from one of the greatest towns in the  universe, as far as dogs and their humans are concerned. Carmel, home to Clint Eastwood, artists and the fabulously wealthy, was also voted  the most pet-friendly town in the United States by dogfriendly.com. And, wherever rich, intelligent people homestead, so do wonderful restaurants.

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The ancient, blind Chihuahua I'm pretending to foster has made a rather Lazarus-like revival.  Which is both good news and bad news. Tex now trots along on our walks like a dog half- (or more realistically, one-fifth) his age. Tex refuses to be leashed for his walks, insisting on following the rest of us by smell instead of sight. He loves to play with stuffed toys and jumps with joy when he knows he's going for a car ride.

Send me a tex message!

Unfortunately, the geriatric Chihuahua's  still-intact family jewels mislead him into acting like a furry Hugh Hefner, convinced he is still a virile hunk. But without the Playboy empire, a reality TV show and a bucket full of Viagra,  Tex has had miserable luck getting the Shi-Tzus to even give him the time of day. He will also attempt to mount male dogs to prove his dominance. When the six-pound wonder tried it with Corky the Corgi who, not noticing,  walked away, he had the distressing appearance of a mosquito hanging on to a beach ball for dear life.

 

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Santa Cruz is weird. Some of it is bad-weird (panhandled every 10 feet on the main street, a cannibalistic serial killer running amok), but much of it is good-weird. Sort of like a Berkeley-by-the-Sea, we citizens here have an enormous tolerance for anything out of the norm (except the aforementioned cannibal).

That “do your own thing” attitude may be what allowed me to chuck the criminal-defense investigator career and create Little Pup Lodge. And indeed, it is more pleasant spending my days with Shi-Tzus and Chihuahuas rather than with alleged murderers, rapists and pedophiles.

However, my mid-life career change pales in comparison to others in this town. I recently ran into a true role model of reinvention as I strolled through the Saturday morning Farmer’s Market last weekend. Right past the rainbow chard and to the left of the Clementine tangerines my hero was holding forth to a small crowd of stunned onlookers.

   Singing the blues.

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The ancient throwaways; they’re the ones that break my heart. Our local animal shelter manages to find homes for the stray dogs, the surrendered dogs, even the severely abused dogs. But the old ones? And particularly the old, old ones? A snowball in hell has a higher survival rate than the shelter’s canine senior citizens. Which explains why a geriatric, blind, heart-diseased, dentally-challenged Chihuahua has taken up residence at Little Pup Lodge.

Since Cody had been adopted, I had room for another foster. The shelter suggested I take Helena, a five-year-old rat terrier, because she had begun to injure herself from kennel stress.

Helena

 

As we were leaving, my neighbor and friend Ericka noticed the skinny little dog in a cage kept separate from the rest. I truly wish she hadn’t. I took one look at those sad eyes in that old face and knew I was in trouble.

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A beach buddy told me about a little Chihuahua she'd seen periodically running loose on 26th Avenue. Although any road would be dangerous, this one is a veritable autobahn from Portola Drive to the beach. Rather than go into a tirade about how irresponsible the dog's owner was (as I have been known to do), Patty approached the woman to find out what was going on. The answer was not that simple.

 

Lori had promised a dying friend that she would take care of her dog Sugar when she was gone. It was an oath easier made than kept. Lori had an old Lab who often shoved open the door to lie down in the front yard, thereby giving Sugar plenty of escape opportunities. The Lab did not like the Chihuahua. In fact, no one liked Sugar. Lori said she loved it, but the beleaguered caregiver also admitted she was not really a little-dog person.

 

Hey neighbor, can I borrow a cup of Sugar?

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