I just finished reading The Pit Bull Placebo, Karen Delise's new book, and I was not the least bit disappointed. Chock full of the serious research and amazing insight I've come to expect from Delise (also the author of Fatal Dog Attacks: The Stories Behind the Statistics), this new book was impossible for me to put down.
I strongly, strongly urge you - if you are truly interested in the hows and whys of the pit bull stereotype - to go out and get this book. There is currently no other book like it out there. Delise talks about the history of the "dangerous breed" mythology, examining newspaper reports about dog attacks starting in the mid-19th century. Back then, Bloodhounds were the popular "bad breed." From there, Delise traces the rise and fall of several villified breeds, ending with a fascinating refutation of all the ridiculous myths that now belong to the pit bull. Never in my life have I seen such a thorough scientific analysis of the "pit-bull-bites-are-like-shark-bites" myth - and I could not contain my glee over her conclusion, which oh-so-subtly suggests that anyone who makes such a claim is most likely out of touch with that thing we call reality.
Along the way, Delise delivers an unparallelled smack down to the "bad boys of BSL" (by which I mean Kory Nelson, Paul Wesselhoff, and all those other myth-spreading, pit bull hating, downright lying fear-mongerers) that sent me into an unstoppable euphoria. You tell 'em, Karen! Their hateful, unsubstantiated stereotypes may get five minutes of fame in the papers, but your book grants their words eternal recognition - as the moronic rantings that they are.
Of course there's much, much more to this book. I can't possibly cover all the things she discusses and do it very well; I keep coming up with more and more topics that this book tackles quite successfully and I'd rather not just rewrite Delise's book.
This is a fabulous book for pit bull owners, politicians, journalists, and... well, and just about anyone else who has any sort of interest in pit bulls. I'm afraid I simply cannot give it the rave review it so justly deserves, as the sheer joy and amazement and wonder which I felt as I finished the book left me virtually speechless. In fact, I was so overwhelmed that I could only say "Wow" for half an hour afterwards. A few days later, I am still trying, and failing, to communicate my endless respect and admiration for Delise and the insane amount of research she has done (so that we don't have to, honestly).
Go out and buy the book and read it for yourself, that's all I can say. I promise you will not be disappointed. You can buy it online:
http://astore.amazon.com/happypitbull-20
Wow.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Stereotypes
I've been thinking a lot about the pit bull owner stereotype over the last several months because, frankly, it bugs the crap out of me. We all hate being judged by total strangers based on superficial factors (like the color of our skin or hair, for instance), but before I had pit bulls (late high school, perhaps), my biggest worry was that my manner of speaking made me seem too nerdy. I spent an inordinate amount of time practicing "cool" speak so I could fit in with my peers.
Now I'm quite pleased to be able to say that I am, quite honestly, a total nerd. I spend most of my life staring at a computer screen, whether it be blogging, gaming, writing, or website-building. My husband complains I spend too much time checking my email. I was WoWing for the better part of Memorial Day. I bought quite a few Christmas gifts at ThinkGeek.com (binary clock?? awesome!). My master's degree is in technical communication. That's boring stuff like writing software documentation, folks.
Yes, I defend my nerdly status viciously because it forces people to stop and examine their own prejudices when they find out that this nerdy, brainy, hard-working, talented goody-goody is also a proud pit bull owner. To most people, pit bull owners are drug dealers and criminals. I am a technical writer and used to be a bookkeeper/office manager. Yeah, that's right, I used to balance books for a small business. What a criminal! The only drugs I touch say "Advil" on the side (once a month, friends).
The stereotypical pit bull owner is a scary thug, a young weightlifting minority punk in baggy pants, a "wifebeater," a gold tooth or two, and a backwards cap. This stereotype's pit bull is a burly, squatty, muscular dog straining and lunging against its heavy logging chain "leash." The pair swaggers down the middle of the street, intimidating. But here I am, a pit bull owner, but unlike the stereotype I am pale as bone china (pasty, perhaps), weigh barely 100 lbs soaking wet, wear business casual clothing (nice button-up blouse, pleated khaki pants, cute shoes), and of course, female. My pit bulls are relatively leash trained--at least, they don't strain or lunge and I use a normal nylon leash and nylon collars--and we don't "strut" anywhere. I'm admittedly lazy; we don't go for walks very often. I play fetch with the dogs in my backyard, and Dozer puts on a show for the neighbors by doing flips as he catches his Frisbee.
Contrary to the antisocial stereotype, my husband and I are on excellent terms with almost all of the neighbors (the exception being two houses where blatant dog neglect occurred; I'm sure the neighbors figured out who called animal control). We are all dog people in this area. I've acquired a reputation as the dog rescue point-of-contact. My neighbors know that I work with animal control to catch stray dogs and I foster the occasional puppy or dog (this week, a hyper rat terrier). Pit bulls come and go at our house and animal control makes occasional appearances to pick up stray dogs (and cats) that I corral. Someone who is unfamiliar with my work might accuse me of dog fighting after the second or third new dog disappears (successfully rehomed, in fact).
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I must reiterate that it really ticks me off when people assume that all pit bull owners are scum of the earth. The pit bull stereotype is not my reality at all; far from it, I'm a normal American citizen just like every other American citizen, trying to live my life, work at my job, and play video games in my spare time. If I didn't have two pit bulls, I'd be just another face in the crowd. Come to think of it, it's because of my pit bulls that I am who I am today - a social, friendly, active, educated, ambitious, politically-conscious individual. But that's another story for another day.
Now I'm quite pleased to be able to say that I am, quite honestly, a total nerd. I spend most of my life staring at a computer screen, whether it be blogging, gaming, writing, or website-building. My husband complains I spend too much time checking my email. I was WoWing for the better part of Memorial Day. I bought quite a few Christmas gifts at ThinkGeek.com (binary clock?? awesome!). My master's degree is in technical communication. That's boring stuff like writing software documentation, folks.
Yes, I defend my nerdly status viciously because it forces people to stop and examine their own prejudices when they find out that this nerdy, brainy, hard-working, talented goody-goody is also a proud pit bull owner. To most people, pit bull owners are drug dealers and criminals. I am a technical writer and used to be a bookkeeper/office manager. Yeah, that's right, I used to balance books for a small business. What a criminal! The only drugs I touch say "Advil" on the side (once a month, friends).
The stereotypical pit bull owner is a scary thug, a young weightlifting minority punk in baggy pants, a "wifebeater," a gold tooth or two, and a backwards cap. This stereotype's pit bull is a burly, squatty, muscular dog straining and lunging against its heavy logging chain "leash." The pair swaggers down the middle of the street, intimidating. But here I am, a pit bull owner, but unlike the stereotype I am pale as bone china (pasty, perhaps), weigh barely 100 lbs soaking wet, wear business casual clothing (nice button-up blouse, pleated khaki pants, cute shoes), and of course, female. My pit bulls are relatively leash trained--at least, they don't strain or lunge and I use a normal nylon leash and nylon collars--and we don't "strut" anywhere. I'm admittedly lazy; we don't go for walks very often. I play fetch with the dogs in my backyard, and Dozer puts on a show for the neighbors by doing flips as he catches his Frisbee.
Contrary to the antisocial stereotype, my husband and I are on excellent terms with almost all of the neighbors (the exception being two houses where blatant dog neglect occurred; I'm sure the neighbors figured out who called animal control). We are all dog people in this area. I've acquired a reputation as the dog rescue point-of-contact. My neighbors know that I work with animal control to catch stray dogs and I foster the occasional puppy or dog (this week, a hyper rat terrier). Pit bulls come and go at our house and animal control makes occasional appearances to pick up stray dogs (and cats) that I corral. Someone who is unfamiliar with my work might accuse me of dog fighting after the second or third new dog disappears (successfully rehomed, in fact).
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I must reiterate that it really ticks me off when people assume that all pit bull owners are scum of the earth. The pit bull stereotype is not my reality at all; far from it, I'm a normal American citizen just like every other American citizen, trying to live my life, work at my job, and play video games in my spare time. If I didn't have two pit bulls, I'd be just another face in the crowd. Come to think of it, it's because of my pit bulls that I am who I am today - a social, friendly, active, educated, ambitious, politically-conscious individual. But that's another story for another day.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
SUMMER!
Today was my last class day of the semester. Summer's here at last! I start a new job on Monday at a publishing company; it's a temporary position, but that suits me fine because the job will end at about the same time that I graduate (December). Then I'll be totally out of class and ready to start searching for a "real" job. Hopefully by then I will have impressed the publishing company with my dedication and hard work so I will be given a good shot at a permanent position there.
We have a foster pit bull living with us for a little while until we can find him a new home. We call him Elvis. He's a really great dog. It's too bad we already have two dogs! I'm sure we'll find someone who can give him all the attention and love he deserves.
We have a foster pit bull living with us for a little while until we can find him a new home. We call him Elvis. He's a really great dog. It's too bad we already have two dogs! I'm sure we'll find someone who can give him all the attention and love he deserves.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Neighbor's friendship versus dog's life
I had to call Animal Control yesterday because of the dog a few doors down. He lives on a chain 24/7 and had managed to get the chain hooked on top of the chain-link fence so that he was basically stuck in a standing position; he couldn't get into his house, reach his water or food, or even lie down. I think he was actually stuck like that since the day before, because he kept me awake all night with his barking (apparently barking for help) and in the morning I finally decided to go see what the problem was. Now I feel really bad for not checking on him sooner, but even more shocking to me is that none of the neighbors closest to that house apparently noticed or cared!
Not wanting to piss these people off, as they are friends with our next-door neighbors, I decided to go next door before calling AC. Maybe there was a good reason why this was going on. Maybe someone had broken in, killed the family, and ran off, and the dog had gotten caught on the fence while trying to get at the perpetrator. But nobody answered the door and there was no sign of a break-in, and considering the dog had been barking like this since the wee hours of the morning, I think these folks probably just went out of town for the Easter weekend.
I was even more dismayed to notice that there was no food bowl anywhere in sight. Okay, maybe they had a friend coming by regularly to feed the dog. Maybe. I looked at the muddy enclosure, the paper-thin walls of the filthy dog "house", and the dog that should have been pure white and fluffy but was instead mud-gray and matted. I went toward the dog slightly, trying to see whether he'd be agreeable to my assistance, and he went nuts. I don't blame him; he was basically in a living hell. But I wasn't about to get bitten - or accused of trespassing.
Well, I wasn't just going to let that poor dog hang there. I went home and called Animal Control. Three officers showed up about 40 minutes later. I was back at home by then, but I could see the house from my window. To my great surprise, they didn't bother to untangle the dog from the fence. Instead, they slipped a leash around his neck (with some help from some dog treats), unhooked the chain from his collar - and piled him into their truck! Then they took quite a few photos of dog and enclosure, left a note on the door of the home, and drove off with the dog. I guess they had more concerns than I had anticipated; perhaps once they were able to handle the dog, some other problems became apparent.
Regardless, I'm glad they took the dog. When they unhooked the dog from the chain, that dog transformed. He went from hostile to overjoyed, his tail wagged like crazy and he wiggled up against the officers for petting as they took photos. He was so glad to be rescued from that nightmare, and so happy that someone was actually paying attention to him for once.
Byrd worries that when the owners come to pick up their dog from the shelter, AC will name me as the person who reported the problem, and that this will make several neighbors angry at us. Frankly, I don't care. Who wants to be friendly with someone who advocates cruelty to animals? The dog would eventually have strangled himself when he collapsed from exhaustion, dehydration, exposure, and starvation. Anyone who's okay with that is no friend of mine. I'd rather pay a little fine to AC and get my dog back safe and sound than come home from vacation to discover my dog hung himself and none of the neighbors did anything about it.
Not wanting to piss these people off, as they are friends with our next-door neighbors, I decided to go next door before calling AC. Maybe there was a good reason why this was going on. Maybe someone had broken in, killed the family, and ran off, and the dog had gotten caught on the fence while trying to get at the perpetrator. But nobody answered the door and there was no sign of a break-in, and considering the dog had been barking like this since the wee hours of the morning, I think these folks probably just went out of town for the Easter weekend.
I was even more dismayed to notice that there was no food bowl anywhere in sight. Okay, maybe they had a friend coming by regularly to feed the dog. Maybe. I looked at the muddy enclosure, the paper-thin walls of the filthy dog "house", and the dog that should have been pure white and fluffy but was instead mud-gray and matted. I went toward the dog slightly, trying to see whether he'd be agreeable to my assistance, and he went nuts. I don't blame him; he was basically in a living hell. But I wasn't about to get bitten - or accused of trespassing.
Well, I wasn't just going to let that poor dog hang there. I went home and called Animal Control. Three officers showed up about 40 minutes later. I was back at home by then, but I could see the house from my window. To my great surprise, they didn't bother to untangle the dog from the fence. Instead, they slipped a leash around his neck (with some help from some dog treats), unhooked the chain from his collar - and piled him into their truck! Then they took quite a few photos of dog and enclosure, left a note on the door of the home, and drove off with the dog. I guess they had more concerns than I had anticipated; perhaps once they were able to handle the dog, some other problems became apparent.
Regardless, I'm glad they took the dog. When they unhooked the dog from the chain, that dog transformed. He went from hostile to overjoyed, his tail wagged like crazy and he wiggled up against the officers for petting as they took photos. He was so glad to be rescued from that nightmare, and so happy that someone was actually paying attention to him for once.
Byrd worries that when the owners come to pick up their dog from the shelter, AC will name me as the person who reported the problem, and that this will make several neighbors angry at us. Frankly, I don't care. Who wants to be friendly with someone who advocates cruelty to animals? The dog would eventually have strangled himself when he collapsed from exhaustion, dehydration, exposure, and starvation. Anyone who's okay with that is no friend of mine. I'd rather pay a little fine to AC and get my dog back safe and sound than come home from vacation to discover my dog hung himself and none of the neighbors did anything about it.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Garden Festival Fun
On Sunday, Byrd got me up bright and early, bought me donuts, and took me to the Zilker Botanical Gardens for the 50th Annual Zilker Garden Festival. We may not have landscaping at our house yet, but I love to go peruse the vendors' wares and ask questions of folks with greener thumbs than my own. This morning we were one of the first people to the festival, and by getting there early I laid claim to the only white-flowered wisteria I've ever seen, and certainly the only one for sale at the show, for a mere $35. I felt it was the crown jewel of the festival, and I think I was right; as Byrd lugged our prize to the exit, heads turned and people pointed and whispered at this unusual plant.
It's here that, in years past, I bought daylilies for my mom and bamboo for Byrd. The bamboo had since grown to ridiculous proportions in a huge tree pot in our backyard. I admit, we were terrified of it. This black plastic pot, which was almost 3' in diameter and 2' high, had started to bulge on one side. On Sunday, after consulting with the bamboo vendors at the festival, we decided it was time to tackle our fears head on. The bamboo needed to be divided for everyone's sake. It was such a monstrosity at this point that we couldn't move the tree pot, and we were worried that the creature was going to be rootbound.
Bamboo is, of course, notorious for spreading like wildfire across any open expanse of soil, and we didn't dare unleash ours. I had thought it was the clumping kind, which doesn't spread nearly so quickly, but yesterday when we rolled up our sleeves to address the problem, we discovered that my memory was totally in error. After taking a hacksaw to the black plastic, Byrd and I managed to peel the pot away. In the dirt, instead of tubers from a clumping bamboo, we saw woody roots--runners, the sign of a spreader.
Several hours later we had hacked up most of the bamboo. I carefully selected three small healthy sections to go into three medium-sized (portable, manageable) planters. The rest was chopped small, tied with twine, and placed on the curb for trash pickup. The extra roots went in the trash, and the soil that could be salvaged was spread out in low spots near the back gate.
So, until the day we finally get our landscaping taken care of, we have a jungle on our small back porch! Three pots of bamboo, a small white wisteria, a large purple wisteria, a young Sago palm, and a huge elephant ear. This morning I spotted some extremely fat bumblebees inspecting the new wisteria (our purple one didn't really bloom this year, I'm not sure why). It smells lovely, of course.
It's here that, in years past, I bought daylilies for my mom and bamboo for Byrd. The bamboo had since grown to ridiculous proportions in a huge tree pot in our backyard. I admit, we were terrified of it. This black plastic pot, which was almost 3' in diameter and 2' high, had started to bulge on one side. On Sunday, after consulting with the bamboo vendors at the festival, we decided it was time to tackle our fears head on. The bamboo needed to be divided for everyone's sake. It was such a monstrosity at this point that we couldn't move the tree pot, and we were worried that the creature was going to be rootbound.
Bamboo is, of course, notorious for spreading like wildfire across any open expanse of soil, and we didn't dare unleash ours. I had thought it was the clumping kind, which doesn't spread nearly so quickly, but yesterday when we rolled up our sleeves to address the problem, we discovered that my memory was totally in error. After taking a hacksaw to the black plastic, Byrd and I managed to peel the pot away. In the dirt, instead of tubers from a clumping bamboo, we saw woody roots--runners, the sign of a spreader.
Several hours later we had hacked up most of the bamboo. I carefully selected three small healthy sections to go into three medium-sized (portable, manageable) planters. The rest was chopped small, tied with twine, and placed on the curb for trash pickup. The extra roots went in the trash, and the soil that could be salvaged was spread out in low spots near the back gate.
So, until the day we finally get our landscaping taken care of, we have a jungle on our small back porch! Three pots of bamboo, a small white wisteria, a large purple wisteria, a young Sago palm, and a huge elephant ear. This morning I spotted some extremely fat bumblebees inspecting the new wisteria (our purple one didn't really bloom this year, I'm not sure why). It smells lovely, of course.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
MySpace gives me flashbacks
Why do I feel physically drained after spending the last two hours roaming through MySpace? It's not my first rodeo; I visited the social networking site about three years ago when I heard about how popular it was becoming. I expected something amazing, something I couldn't live without... and I was seriously let down. I went back today while doing research for a media/advertising class, holding out some serious hope that MySpace had a miraculous transformation.
Oh, the pain. As it did years ago, MySpace reminds me of a gaudy, hellish trainwreck of early 1990's websites. That's right, you remember back in the days when "good design" meant:
Which leads me to this final question: WHY? What the hell is the big deal? Sure, I get that you can make your own personal space and post cursory shout-outs on friends' pages, but let's look at the bigger picture here. What the hell is the point? And why does anyone else really care? Sure, I found a truckload of pit bull groups on MySpace (more groups for pit bulls than any other type or breed, in fact)... but I've found larger, more organized, more mature, thoughtful, socially beneficial, carefully monitored pit bull discussion groups outside of that chaotic hellhole. When it comes to pit bulls, weeding out the crap is extremely difficult in the first place; a trip to MySpace only makes that crap much, much more prolific, much more ingrained, and much more difficult to sort out.
Conclusion: MySpace sucks. You wanna make friends? Get a hobby and join a local club. Do some volunteer work. Go out with workmates. If you're going to seek friendship on the Internet, please, for the love of all that is holy, learn a little bit about good webpage design! I'm talkin' to you too, corporate America.
Oh, the pain. As it did years ago, MySpace reminds me of a gaudy, hellish trainwreck of early 1990's websites. That's right, you remember back in the days when "good design" meant:
- A massive background image that made the overlying text impossible to read.
- Text outfitted in neon green to battle against the background image.
- Neon green font resembles medieval handwriting, size has been set to "Infinitely Tiny," and for good measure, font styles "Bold" and "Italic" added.
- A MIDI that immediately launches "Wind Beneath My Wings" at a volume that violates OSHA standards, with no clear way to turn it off
- Dozens of adorable .gifs, preferably of cartoon animals holding flowers
- Lots of blinking, flashing, shining, and rotating things, as if the page was designed by a crow
- Page layout so whack it requires horizontal scrolling
Which leads me to this final question: WHY? What the hell is the big deal? Sure, I get that you can make your own personal space and post cursory shout-outs on friends' pages, but let's look at the bigger picture here. What the hell is the point? And why does anyone else really care? Sure, I found a truckload of pit bull groups on MySpace (more groups for pit bulls than any other type or breed, in fact)... but I've found larger, more organized, more mature, thoughtful, socially beneficial, carefully monitored pit bull discussion groups outside of that chaotic hellhole. When it comes to pit bulls, weeding out the crap is extremely difficult in the first place; a trip to MySpace only makes that crap much, much more prolific, much more ingrained, and much more difficult to sort out.
Conclusion: MySpace sucks. You wanna make friends? Get a hobby and join a local club. Do some volunteer work. Go out with workmates. If you're going to seek friendship on the Internet, please, for the love of all that is holy, learn a little bit about good webpage design! I'm talkin' to you too, corporate America.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Current Obsessions
For no particular reason, here are the things I'm completely obsessed with recently:
1. The smell of fresh garlic. Not the taste. Just the smell.
2. Mahjong Titans. So what if it's on my husband's fancy new computer? He'll never know I've been using his machine... unless he checks the high score list.
3. The song "Sweet Escape." Not obsessed in a good way - it's been stuck in my head for three days and I'm starting to lose my mind. Curse you, Stefani.
4. Japanese. Lately I've literally been craving the sound of this language the way people crave chocolate. Listening to J-pop helps obsession #4, but it only makes #3 worse. If you've ever listened to J-pop, you should know exactly what I mean.
Things I thought I would be obsessed about but I'm not:
1. Windows Vista. Pretty screensavers, pain-in-the-ass security. My husband can have it; I'll wait.
2. Tenacious D Movie. Haven't seen it yet and don't really feel the need to. I'm either less of a fan or more of a cheapskate than I thought.
3. Veronica Mars. A friend of mine insists I'd love the show. She even has a pit bull for a pal. But the name of this show turns me off. I keep thinking "Kim Possible." Blargh.
4. My new treadmill. Seemed like a convenient way to exercise, but it's pretty boring facing the wall for 30 minutes a day. I wonder if my husband would agree to wall-mount my computer in front of the 'mill?
1. The smell of fresh garlic. Not the taste. Just the smell.
2. Mahjong Titans. So what if it's on my husband's fancy new computer? He'll never know I've been using his machine... unless he checks the high score list.
3. The song "Sweet Escape." Not obsessed in a good way - it's been stuck in my head for three days and I'm starting to lose my mind. Curse you, Stefani.
4. Japanese. Lately I've literally been craving the sound of this language the way people crave chocolate. Listening to J-pop helps obsession #4, but it only makes #3 worse. If you've ever listened to J-pop, you should know exactly what I mean.
Things I thought I would be obsessed about but I'm not:
1. Windows Vista. Pretty screensavers, pain-in-the-ass security. My husband can have it; I'll wait.
2. Tenacious D Movie. Haven't seen it yet and don't really feel the need to. I'm either less of a fan or more of a cheapskate than I thought.
3. Veronica Mars. A friend of mine insists I'd love the show. She even has a pit bull for a pal. But the name of this show turns me off. I keep thinking "Kim Possible." Blargh.
4. My new treadmill. Seemed like a convenient way to exercise, but it's pretty boring facing the wall for 30 minutes a day. I wonder if my husband would agree to wall-mount my computer in front of the 'mill?
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Really Great Day for No Particular Reason
I think it's bizarre that some days seem to go really, really well - even when it's not a holiday, no one's having a party, and I didn't win the lottery. No, nothing particularly fantastic happened today, but it was still a really nice day.
Today Byrd came home from work early (OMG), we put front porch lights up (OMG), the weather was gorgeous, and I got to see our resident bat swoop around in the evening twilight as we finished up the lights. You're thinking, eh, so what? Consider the following: Byrd worked 100 hours last week. I teased him that the dogs barely recognize him anymore, but truthfully, when he's working that much I feel like I've married a ghost. And we haven't had front porch lights since we built the front porch - almost two years ago. And bats are really really cute and they eat lots of mosquitos, which makes me a HUGE fan of bats, and especially excited that a bat has decided to live in a little decoration on the front of our house. I hope he brings a few friends!
The icing on the cake, though, was that Byrd and I spent almost 8 hours together, made several very important decisions involving money, the house, and his computer, worked on a household project... and despite the fact that home projects and monetary decisions are two things we tend to get into fierce debates ("fights") about, we did not even bicker the tiniest bit today. Not even a raised voice or an irritated tone.
Byrd bought me a plant to kill (because there's no garden to plant it in yet, but I really wanted it anyway) while we were at Lowe's looking at porch lights, and he smiled cheerfully while I pretended to hammer invisible nails into the porch siding (I need the practice). My nickname for Byrd is Mr. No Man, because sometimes it seems like everything out of his mouth is a variation on the word "NO." Tonight was a total change, however. Tonight he was Mr. Yes Man.
In exchange, I gave Byrd the encouragement and justification to order a brand-new computer from Dell. I do admit this was at least partly for selfish reasons... I'm sick and tired of troubleshooting the homemade computer he currently uses. Byrd was thoroughly pleased, though, because his nickname for me is The Tightwad - I hate spending lots of money on things that I don't think are necessary... and Byrd likes to buy some really unnecessary things. But tonight I even let him upgrade his new computer with the more expensive video card and extra memory. At first I was struck by intense fear that Byrd would go bananas when he realized I wasn't going to try to "reason" with him (control him), but he actually exercised extensive self-control during the customization part of the purchase, passed on several upgrades, and even downgraded a few things to reduce the total cost.
After much thought, I've come to the realization that I'm probably too controlling when it comes to spending money. I read somewhere that money matters are the #1 thing that married couples fight about, and we're no exception. I've got to loosen up a little. Byrd and I will probably always have different spending priorities and we just need to learn how to compromise with less fuss and more trust. I know, easier said than done... but at least today we took a solid step forward toward a more harmonious marriage. Maybe that's why today was such a good day!
Today Byrd came home from work early (OMG), we put front porch lights up (OMG), the weather was gorgeous, and I got to see our resident bat swoop around in the evening twilight as we finished up the lights. You're thinking, eh, so what? Consider the following: Byrd worked 100 hours last week. I teased him that the dogs barely recognize him anymore, but truthfully, when he's working that much I feel like I've married a ghost. And we haven't had front porch lights since we built the front porch - almost two years ago. And bats are really really cute and they eat lots of mosquitos, which makes me a HUGE fan of bats, and especially excited that a bat has decided to live in a little decoration on the front of our house. I hope he brings a few friends!
The icing on the cake, though, was that Byrd and I spent almost 8 hours together, made several very important decisions involving money, the house, and his computer, worked on a household project... and despite the fact that home projects and monetary decisions are two things we tend to get into fierce debates ("fights") about, we did not even bicker the tiniest bit today. Not even a raised voice or an irritated tone.
Byrd bought me a plant to kill (because there's no garden to plant it in yet, but I really wanted it anyway) while we were at Lowe's looking at porch lights, and he smiled cheerfully while I pretended to hammer invisible nails into the porch siding (I need the practice). My nickname for Byrd is Mr. No Man, because sometimes it seems like everything out of his mouth is a variation on the word "NO." Tonight was a total change, however. Tonight he was Mr. Yes Man.
In exchange, I gave Byrd the encouragement and justification to order a brand-new computer from Dell. I do admit this was at least partly for selfish reasons... I'm sick and tired of troubleshooting the homemade computer he currently uses. Byrd was thoroughly pleased, though, because his nickname for me is The Tightwad - I hate spending lots of money on things that I don't think are necessary... and Byrd likes to buy some really unnecessary things. But tonight I even let him upgrade his new computer with the more expensive video card and extra memory. At first I was struck by intense fear that Byrd would go bananas when he realized I wasn't going to try to "reason" with him (control him), but he actually exercised extensive self-control during the customization part of the purchase, passed on several upgrades, and even downgraded a few things to reduce the total cost.
After much thought, I've come to the realization that I'm probably too controlling when it comes to spending money. I read somewhere that money matters are the #1 thing that married couples fight about, and we're no exception. I've got to loosen up a little. Byrd and I will probably always have different spending priorities and we just need to learn how to compromise with less fuss and more trust. I know, easier said than done... but at least today we took a solid step forward toward a more harmonious marriage. Maybe that's why today was such a good day!
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Sick as a... Dog?
Today I was sick as a dog. (Isn't that an odd saying? I wonder how it came about.) It's terrible to be sick on a weekend, especially when you've got a to-do list as long as your arm, though I admit I wasn't planning to do anything on the list anyway. But there's a difference between being forced to procrastinate and choosing to do the same. I hate to be forced into anything.
And I hate feeling sick. I think the dogs knew (perhaps the fact that I spent the entire day in bed clued them in). They were very quiet all day, and Dozer even refrained from his typical attention demands, which usually involve lots of whining and, when silent, an adorable pouty gaze that he knows I can't resist. Whenever he gives me that look, I have to pat his big white head and kiss his little furry cheek no matter what I'm right smack in the middle of.
Today, as I sat in bed typing on my laptop or flipping through TV channels, I would sometimes look up to see the D peering at me quietly over the foot of the bed. When it became apparent that I could not reach him all the way down there at the foot, he moved up to sit beside the bed, and rested his head on the mattress next to my hip with a little sigh. Then I could lean over and hug and kiss him to my (and his) heart's content. He was so sweet and so concerned (and clearly bored to tears, poor fellow). I guess you could say that Dozer is my "therapy" dog!
And I hate feeling sick. I think the dogs knew (perhaps the fact that I spent the entire day in bed clued them in). They were very quiet all day, and Dozer even refrained from his typical attention demands, which usually involve lots of whining and, when silent, an adorable pouty gaze that he knows I can't resist. Whenever he gives me that look, I have to pat his big white head and kiss his little furry cheek no matter what I'm right smack in the middle of.Today, as I sat in bed typing on my laptop or flipping through TV channels, I would sometimes look up to see the D peering at me quietly over the foot of the bed. When it became apparent that I could not reach him all the way down there at the foot, he moved up to sit beside the bed, and rested his head on the mattress next to my hip with a little sigh. Then I could lean over and hug and kiss him to my (and his) heart's content. He was so sweet and so concerned (and clearly bored to tears, poor fellow). I guess you could say that Dozer is my "therapy" dog!
Monday, February 05, 2007
When You Really Gotta Go, Cut Out the Middleman
Here's a cute story. Or perhaps it's sad, because it just proves how boring and predictable our lives are. My husband and I often spend time in our respective offices. My office is upstairs with the dog crates and dog food. His office is downstairs, off the hallway that leads to the back door, which opens out to the dog potty area.
One evening after nearly an entire Saturday spent with each of us holed up in our offices, Felanie came to me groaning and snorting, which is her way of saying "Dinner time!" And I saw that it was, in fact, time for their dinner, so I got up and poured food into the dogs' bowls, and they wolfed it down like the fat little monsters they are. This is part of the evening routine.
What I expected next was for Felanie to come to me sniffing and "whispering," which is a noise like a hushed bark, a sign that she needs to go out and potty. (I would like to say that Dozer is smart enough to do this too, but frankly, he's not. He just tags along behind Felanie with an all-purpose whine that essentially says "I second her motion, whatever it is.") Then I use our telephone intercom to call down to Byrd's office and ask him to call the dogs down and go outside, because his office is right next to the back door.
This is the routine. I have never understood why the dogs come to me to be let out; Byrd is the one who ultimately opens the door if he's down in his office. But they have always, always, always come to me, as if they thought that I was the reason why Daddy took them outside (and I guess they would have been right).
Anyway, this particular evening I was waiting for Felanie to come ask me to be let out and was surprised at how quiet it was in my office. I looked around and noticed that both the dogs were missing. Then I heard a noise coming from downstairs, and as I listened harder I could hear Byrd's TV muttering faintly, and just a little louder than that, Felanie's "whisper" (which wasn't really a whisper anymore because she had to be louder than the TV). On cue, Dozer seconded: Whiiine. Then I heard Byrd say, "Okay, okay, let's go potty." And the back door opened.
For the first time ever, the dogs did not come to me to ask Daddy to let them out to potty. Clever old Felanie, she just cut out the middleman altogether. Now they have a new evening routine. Ask for dinner, eat dinner. Check to see if Daddy's in his office. If yes, ask him to let us out... if no, go find Mommy.
One evening after nearly an entire Saturday spent with each of us holed up in our offices, Felanie came to me groaning and snorting, which is her way of saying "Dinner time!" And I saw that it was, in fact, time for their dinner, so I got up and poured food into the dogs' bowls, and they wolfed it down like the fat little monsters they are. This is part of the evening routine.
What I expected next was for Felanie to come to me sniffing and "whispering," which is a noise like a hushed bark, a sign that she needs to go out and potty. (I would like to say that Dozer is smart enough to do this too, but frankly, he's not. He just tags along behind Felanie with an all-purpose whine that essentially says "I second her motion, whatever it is.") Then I use our telephone intercom to call down to Byrd's office and ask him to call the dogs down and go outside, because his office is right next to the back door.
This is the routine. I have never understood why the dogs come to me to be let out; Byrd is the one who ultimately opens the door if he's down in his office. But they have always, always, always come to me, as if they thought that I was the reason why Daddy took them outside (and I guess they would have been right).
Anyway, this particular evening I was waiting for Felanie to come ask me to be let out and was surprised at how quiet it was in my office. I looked around and noticed that both the dogs were missing. Then I heard a noise coming from downstairs, and as I listened harder I could hear Byrd's TV muttering faintly, and just a little louder than that, Felanie's "whisper" (which wasn't really a whisper anymore because she had to be louder than the TV). On cue, Dozer seconded: Whiiine. Then I heard Byrd say, "Okay, okay, let's go potty." And the back door opened.
For the first time ever, the dogs did not come to me to ask Daddy to let them out to potty. Clever old Felanie, she just cut out the middleman altogether. Now they have a new evening routine. Ask for dinner, eat dinner. Check to see if Daddy's in his office. If yes, ask him to let us out... if no, go find Mommy.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Waiting For the Dogs to "Turn"... Still
From my pit bull website I get nice emails from nice people and nasty emails from nasty people. When it comes to the nasty emails, I'm frequently surprised to get them, since they usually come from some person who has clearly done no research or critical thinking whatsoever, yet this person nevertheless takes it upon themselves to write an elaborate email to an absolute stranger (me), the contents of which are generally a combination of threats, myths, stereotypes, personal experiences, and so forth. Now, I'm not one to back down from a worthy opponent, but I prefer to match wits with someone who is at least equally knowledgeable and has something to contribute to a genuine conversation - not Joe Schmoe who's getting his "facts" from his beer buddies and the newspaper. So I try very hard to ignore or discard the really nasty emails, and occasionally I'll try to correct the misinformation someone tries to pass off as fact if I think it might do some good. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.
One of the most common and frequent threats I receive tends to be the "I can't wait until your 'sweet' pit bulls turn on you!" Usually this precedes or follows some suggestion that one day my dogs are going to maul the entire neighborhood or some nonsense like that. Never mind that Felanie has already had eight whole years, and Dozer six, with ample opportunities to "turn" on me and countless other people.
When I first got Felanie, I totally bought into the any-minute-now-ticking-time-bomb theory. I was incredibly nervous around her for months. "Today could be the day that she flips out," I would think. In the back of my head (and I still remember it clearly to this day) I recalled a video I had seen on television. In the video, a reporter was chatting amiably while sitting next to a police dog. Seconds later, bam! Out of nowhere and for no apparent reason, the dog lunged at the reporter's face. I thought, "That could be Fel. One minute everything's fine, and the next, my face gets torn off by a bloodthirsty beast."
But day after day, month after month, and year after year went by. Nothing happened, except that I got a lot smarter. My fear drove me. I did a ton of research about dog behavior and dog attacks. And finally I understood what all the behaviorists and trainers kept telling me. "If you just learn how to read dog," they'd say, "then you'd never have this silly fear. There are always warning signs, there is always a reason." Years later I saw the same video clip of the police dog and the reporter. And as I watched it, I could see all the signs, and I knew the reporter was going to be bitten. Now that I could read dog, it was oh-so-obvious.
Meanwhile, as I got smarter, Felanie got older. She's been through dozens of baths and nail clippings without so much as a whimper. She's been through surgery and misery at the vet's office. She's watched me vacuum the house hundreds of times. Byrd and I have had our fair share of loud, furious arguments. We've had thunderstorms and massive remodeling projects. We've had a number of family get-togethers and total strangers come into our house. There have been, in sum, literally thousands of opportunities for Felanie to bite me for a perfectly justifiable reason (like fear of the nail clippers), and, similarly, infinite opportunities for her to bite me or maul me for no reason whatsoever, for her to "turn" on me. But it hasn't happened. Felanie's chin is now cinder-gray and her aging hip joints are more tender than ever. I catch her sleeping in the sunshine in our living room like a big kitty. She's eight years old and has become a very graceful, mellow, quiet old lady. I can't help but wonder how anyone could possibly think that this dainty old lady could "turn" on anyone... her best opportunities passed by years ago, and all she wants now is to sleep the days away.
Not to exclude dear Dozer, he is six years old, but he hasn't aged as quickly as Felanie. He's still a playful, rowdy, and clumsy fellow, and when playing he can be dangerous simply because of his sheer size; he requires more management in general due to the fact that he is both larger and more active than Fel. But like Felanie, he's endured so many trials of temperament that I have no fear of him ever "turning" on me either. I know his likes, his dislikes, and his limits. I can read him very well; he is quite the dramatist and likes to make his feelings known to everyone in a grand style. He's had six solid years to maul us all (and has even had some opportunities to chew up some little kids) and has simply failed to do so.
The simple fact is that very, very few dogs ever really "turn" on people. There's always a reason, always a warning. Millions of pit bulls (and millions of non-pit bulls for that matter) have lived to a ripe old age without "turning" on anyone at all. I expect my dogs will cross that rainbow bridge in the sky one day as really, really old dogs, after having lived a full life as beloved, faithful family members. Alas, a lot of nasty emailers will be sorely disappointed when my pit bulls pass on without biting anyone. I suppose it's good for those nasty people that, assuming my dogs have an average life span, I won't be able to say "I told you so" for many happy years to come.
One of the most common and frequent threats I receive tends to be the "I can't wait until your 'sweet' pit bulls turn on you!" Usually this precedes or follows some suggestion that one day my dogs are going to maul the entire neighborhood or some nonsense like that. Never mind that Felanie has already had eight whole years, and Dozer six, with ample opportunities to "turn" on me and countless other people.
When I first got Felanie, I totally bought into the any-minute-now-ticking-time-bomb theory. I was incredibly nervous around her for months. "Today could be the day that she flips out," I would think. In the back of my head (and I still remember it clearly to this day) I recalled a video I had seen on television. In the video, a reporter was chatting amiably while sitting next to a police dog. Seconds later, bam! Out of nowhere and for no apparent reason, the dog lunged at the reporter's face. I thought, "That could be Fel. One minute everything's fine, and the next, my face gets torn off by a bloodthirsty beast."
But day after day, month after month, and year after year went by. Nothing happened, except that I got a lot smarter. My fear drove me. I did a ton of research about dog behavior and dog attacks. And finally I understood what all the behaviorists and trainers kept telling me. "If you just learn how to read dog," they'd say, "then you'd never have this silly fear. There are always warning signs, there is always a reason." Years later I saw the same video clip of the police dog and the reporter. And as I watched it, I could see all the signs, and I knew the reporter was going to be bitten. Now that I could read dog, it was oh-so-obvious.
Meanwhile, as I got smarter, Felanie got older. She's been through dozens of baths and nail clippings without so much as a whimper. She's been through surgery and misery at the vet's office. She's watched me vacuum the house hundreds of times. Byrd and I have had our fair share of loud, furious arguments. We've had thunderstorms and massive remodeling projects. We've had a number of family get-togethers and total strangers come into our house. There have been, in sum, literally thousands of opportunities for Felanie to bite me for a perfectly justifiable reason (like fear of the nail clippers), and, similarly, infinite opportunities for her to bite me or maul me for no reason whatsoever, for her to "turn" on me. But it hasn't happened. Felanie's chin is now cinder-gray and her aging hip joints are more tender than ever. I catch her sleeping in the sunshine in our living room like a big kitty. She's eight years old and has become a very graceful, mellow, quiet old lady. I can't help but wonder how anyone could possibly think that this dainty old lady could "turn" on anyone... her best opportunities passed by years ago, and all she wants now is to sleep the days away.
Not to exclude dear Dozer, he is six years old, but he hasn't aged as quickly as Felanie. He's still a playful, rowdy, and clumsy fellow, and when playing he can be dangerous simply because of his sheer size; he requires more management in general due to the fact that he is both larger and more active than Fel. But like Felanie, he's endured so many trials of temperament that I have no fear of him ever "turning" on me either. I know his likes, his dislikes, and his limits. I can read him very well; he is quite the dramatist and likes to make his feelings known to everyone in a grand style. He's had six solid years to maul us all (and has even had some opportunities to chew up some little kids) and has simply failed to do so.
The simple fact is that very, very few dogs ever really "turn" on people. There's always a reason, always a warning. Millions of pit bulls (and millions of non-pit bulls for that matter) have lived to a ripe old age without "turning" on anyone at all. I expect my dogs will cross that rainbow bridge in the sky one day as really, really old dogs, after having lived a full life as beloved, faithful family members. Alas, a lot of nasty emailers will be sorely disappointed when my pit bulls pass on without biting anyone. I suppose it's good for those nasty people that, assuming my dogs have an average life span, I won't be able to say "I told you so" for many happy years to come.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Happy Holidays!
Happy Holidays to all! We had a wonderful Christmas with about 14 family members at our house, and it was very lively and loud all day.
I would like to praise my dogs publicly for their exemplary behavior on Christmas day. Dozer was a bit excited at first, thinking everyone was here to play with him. Then we shut the dogs in the bedroom to keep them out of the way during mealtime, and that was greatly disappointing to them. After the meal and gift-opening, we let the dogs out to open their presents and mingle with the crowd, and they behaved fairly well. Dozer had a very hard time containing himself at the sight of his new toys and I did have to warn him a few times to calm down, but really the problem was the weather. It was too wet and muddy for him to go outside to play with his toys, several of which were really outdoor toys for throwing and chasing. So he had to play inside, very delicately, and that is very difficult for a rambunctious, clumsy, huge dog like him.
Felanie was actually quite interested in the toys while they were still wrapped, and she nosed the packages and sniffed them while I opened them for her. Then once they were unwrapped, Dozer, who had been ignoring us, suddenly realized that these things were toys, and he swept in to grab them all. Which was fine with Felanie; she promptly turned her attention to all the guests and went about sniffing them all and licking their socks.
Then when we began the family game time (we played Tripoley and Scattergories in particular) - which in my family involves an insane amount of good-natured screaming, bellowing, shouting, and clever rhetorical arguments - the dogs quietly went back to the bedroom all by themselves. Several people commented on how good they were, and I admit I was pretty surprised that they voluntarily avoided all the excitement. I know Dozer ate one illicit food item - a potato chip that had fallen on the floor - and also pulled one of his new toys, a rope toy, off the countertop (a serious rule violation) and snuck away with it. But I let that slide since he was otherwise very well-behaved and only bothered the guests when he needed to go out and potty.
The day after Christmas, the dogs slept soundly the entire day and expressed no interest whatsoever in doing anything.
I would like to praise my dogs publicly for their exemplary behavior on Christmas day. Dozer was a bit excited at first, thinking everyone was here to play with him. Then we shut the dogs in the bedroom to keep them out of the way during mealtime, and that was greatly disappointing to them. After the meal and gift-opening, we let the dogs out to open their presents and mingle with the crowd, and they behaved fairly well. Dozer had a very hard time containing himself at the sight of his new toys and I did have to warn him a few times to calm down, but really the problem was the weather. It was too wet and muddy for him to go outside to play with his toys, several of which were really outdoor toys for throwing and chasing. So he had to play inside, very delicately, and that is very difficult for a rambunctious, clumsy, huge dog like him.
Felanie was actually quite interested in the toys while they were still wrapped, and she nosed the packages and sniffed them while I opened them for her. Then once they were unwrapped, Dozer, who had been ignoring us, suddenly realized that these things were toys, and he swept in to grab them all. Which was fine with Felanie; she promptly turned her attention to all the guests and went about sniffing them all and licking their socks.
Then when we began the family game time (we played Tripoley and Scattergories in particular) - which in my family involves an insane amount of good-natured screaming, bellowing, shouting, and clever rhetorical arguments - the dogs quietly went back to the bedroom all by themselves. Several people commented on how good they were, and I admit I was pretty surprised that they voluntarily avoided all the excitement. I know Dozer ate one illicit food item - a potato chip that had fallen on the floor - and also pulled one of his new toys, a rope toy, off the countertop (a serious rule violation) and snuck away with it. But I let that slide since he was otherwise very well-behaved and only bothered the guests when he needed to go out and potty.
The day after Christmas, the dogs slept soundly the entire day and expressed no interest whatsoever in doing anything.
My ICL Experience, Part II
I believe I have received the best Christmas gift anyone could get - the gift of unassisted sight. I can see almost perfectly without glasses or contacts. Yes, I have 20/20 sight in both eyes, though the left eye (which was the weaker one) is a tad nearsighted and has slight astigmatism as well. This may still be temporary. The second eye operation went even better than the first, and I can see through my right eye perfectly. I had no downtime at all with it, really, though everything was orange-colored for the first day (perhaps due to the sun-bright light that they shone into my dilated eye while the operation was going on).
It's a miracle to open my eyes in the morning and see everything around me as if I'd slept in my contacts. I can get up and take the dogs straight outside without bleary-eyed groping for glasses or stumbling over camoflauged gray blobs of dog toys and shoes. It's glorious to stay up late at night, laying on my side with my face pressed deeply into my pillows, watching television or reading - something I could never do when wearing glasses. For the first time, I want to go to the DMV, aching to wipe away the restriction on my license ("With corrective lenses") that no longer applies.
I thought I would sit and have a good cry about this newfound freedom after I received it - I certainly cried with joy and hope at the very notion of such freedom, many months ago - but it wasn't like that in the end. It is wonderful, but it's not a sudden and miraculous change of the sort that invokes tears of elation. It's slow and time-consuming, and I find myself asking, "Should I cry about it now? Is it over and done?" And I reply, "No, no, I'm still putting drops in my eye. My left eye is still improving. I need to go to the DMV. The miracle isn't over yet."
Edit 11/27/09: I've posted a three-year update about the ICL here: ICL Surgery Update: I have glasses
It's a miracle to open my eyes in the morning and see everything around me as if I'd slept in my contacts. I can get up and take the dogs straight outside without bleary-eyed groping for glasses or stumbling over camoflauged gray blobs of dog toys and shoes. It's glorious to stay up late at night, laying on my side with my face pressed deeply into my pillows, watching television or reading - something I could never do when wearing glasses. For the first time, I want to go to the DMV, aching to wipe away the restriction on my license ("With corrective lenses") that no longer applies.
I thought I would sit and have a good cry about this newfound freedom after I received it - I certainly cried with joy and hope at the very notion of such freedom, many months ago - but it wasn't like that in the end. It is wonderful, but it's not a sudden and miraculous change of the sort that invokes tears of elation. It's slow and time-consuming, and I find myself asking, "Should I cry about it now? Is it over and done?" And I reply, "No, no, I'm still putting drops in my eye. My left eye is still improving. I need to go to the DMV. The miracle isn't over yet."
Edit 11/27/09: I've posted a three-year update about the ICL here: ICL Surgery Update: I have glasses
Saturday, December 09, 2006
My ICL Eye Surgery Experience, Part I
I recently got a relatively new eye surgery called ICL or IOL surgery performed on my left eye. I wanted to share my experience with others via my blog in case there's someone out there who's considering the procedure. ICL basically puts a contact lens inside your eyeball. It's a new option for people with terrible nearsightedness (like myself) who are not good candidates for Lasik (like myself). However, it is a bit more involved than Lasik because it's a surgery. Also, like any surgery, results vary and there are risks. It might really turn out great, or it might cause an eye infection or a cataract. Anyone who is considering this needs to do their homework. Please keep in mind that this is just my own personal experience. Your situation and your results may be very different.
For almost twenty years, I've been very nearsighted. My left eye was -12.5 diopters before the surgery and my right eye is -11. I have always been dependent on glasses or contacts, but lately I've become frustrated with both. With my glasses, even the thinnest lenses were still very thick and the area of perfect vision through the lenses was very small. The glasses gave me headaches, slipped down my nose, and scratched up easily. My contacts frequently dried out, blurred, or fell out. I got dust and dirt caught behind my contacts, and my eyes itched a lot. I preferred contacts anyway because they gave me perfect vision and good peripheral vision, while my glasses did not.
When I heard about the ICL procedure several years ago, it hadn't been FDA approved yet, but I liked the idea of putting the contacts inside my eyes. Then I could have good vision without the constant hassle and irritation.
FDA approval of the procedure occured last year. The ICL surgery is expensive (about $10K) and is almost never covered by insurance, so it is way out of the budget for most people and it certainly isn't something you can just get done on a whim. I talked to my eye doctor about it and he agreed to send me to a center in Houston (I live near Austin) to see if I was a good candidate. Scheduling the entire procedure was a bit difficult. The surgery requires lots of doctor appointments, like so:
Some people may wonder what a YAG iridotomy feels like. Let me tell you, so far that has been the absolute worst part. First, the doctor puts drops in your eyes to contract your irises. This gave me a horrible migraine and I had to take several aspirin. Then they numb your eyes with more drops. Then you sit in front of this machine and they put a circular lens coated with gel into your eye, aim a laser through it, and pull the trigger to ZAP your iris. The zap is very unpleasant and the doctor has to carefully zap each iris about six times - two holes, three zaps per hole. It was surprising, a bit painful, and caused me to flinch each time the laser zapped. If you have ever had laser hair removal on your body, then I would say this was very similar, except inside your eye and without the burning hair smell. The leftover gel was truly a major hassle since you aren't allowed to rub it out of your stinging eyes. I had to dab at my eyes for hours and hours as the gel slowly made its way out. I was squinty and my eyes felt sandy and irritated for days afterwards.
The surgery a week later was a piece of cake, though I had to fast overnight so I was pretty hungry. I went to the surgery center, waited for several hours in an icy cold, totally packed waiting room, then got called in to a bed. They stabbed an IV in me, got me hooked up to some crazy machines, put a star in black marker over my left eye, poured drops in my eye, and made me lay there for a while. Because I was cold and hungry and a bit stressed out, I was shaking a lot. When they wheeled me into the operating room, the anesthesiologist started the drugs flowing to get me to stop shaking, and it really pretty much knocked me out instantly. I vaguely remember any of the operation, though I remember a nurse telling me I needed to wake up and put on my shoes because it was time to go home. I went back to the hotel and slept for several hours.
My eye felt just fine, though. After I woke up, and over the next couple days, my eye felt like normal, and I could even see out of it almost as well as if I had a contact in my eye (which I guess I did). It's been three days since the operation and my eye feels just fine. It's a bit blurry because the surgery causes temporary astigmatism and some swelling, but the doctor said that should go away in a few days. My vision is getting better every day. I have to put lots of drops in it throughout the day and I wear an eye shield in bed. I'm not allowed to bend over, pick up heavy things, go jogging, or do anything that might put pressure on my eye or jolt it. The worst part, though, was that I couldn't wash my hair or face for two days after the surgery! Bleah!
I'm wearing a contact in my right eye so I can function. The difference is noticeable, though. My right eye gets itchy and irritated by the end of the day, but my left eye is happy as a clam. On the other hand, my left eye's vision is somewhat blurry, so I am depending on my right eye to confirm what my left eye can only suspect. I am hoping that the difference between the two eyes will narrow somewhat as my left eye heals up and the astigmatism goes away.
In three weeks I will post Part II, which will be after the surgery on my right eye. We'll see how my left eye turned out and what I can expect from both eyes in the end. Will I still need glasses or contacts or have I finally been set free?
Edit 11/27/09: I've posted a three-year update about the ICL here: ICL Surgery Update: I have glasses
For almost twenty years, I've been very nearsighted. My left eye was -12.5 diopters before the surgery and my right eye is -11. I have always been dependent on glasses or contacts, but lately I've become frustrated with both. With my glasses, even the thinnest lenses were still very thick and the area of perfect vision through the lenses was very small. The glasses gave me headaches, slipped down my nose, and scratched up easily. My contacts frequently dried out, blurred, or fell out. I got dust and dirt caught behind my contacts, and my eyes itched a lot. I preferred contacts anyway because they gave me perfect vision and good peripheral vision, while my glasses did not.
When I heard about the ICL procedure several years ago, it hadn't been FDA approved yet, but I liked the idea of putting the contacts inside my eyes. Then I could have good vision without the constant hassle and irritation.
FDA approval of the procedure occured last year. The ICL surgery is expensive (about $10K) and is almost never covered by insurance, so it is way out of the budget for most people and it certainly isn't something you can just get done on a whim. I talked to my eye doctor about it and he agreed to send me to a center in Houston (I live near Austin) to see if I was a good candidate. Scheduling the entire procedure was a bit difficult. The surgery requires lots of doctor appointments, like so:
- First visit - tests and more tests to make sure you are eligible
- Second visit - YAG iridotomy, which puts tiny holes in the iris. The contact lens (ICL) will block the normal flow of liquid in the eye, which could raise pressure in the eye and cause glaucoma. These holes in the iris provide an alternative route for liquid to ooze around, preventing pressure buildup. You must get an eye pressure check one hour after the YAG.
- Third visit - Surgery to put a lens in the first eye. Must be one week after the YAG iridotomy. A few hours after surgery you must go back for a pressure check.
- Fourth visit - A post-op check to make sure everything looks good. The day after the surgery.
- Fifth visit - A one-week post-op check to make sure the eye is healing up.
- Sixth visit - Surgery to put a lens in the second eye. Must be about two weeks after the first surgery. A few hours after surgery you must go back for a pressure check.
- Seventh visit - A post-op check to make sure everything looks good. The day after the surgery.
- Eighth visit - A one-week post-op check to make sure the eye is healing up.
- More visits - as needed or determined by the doctor
Some people may wonder what a YAG iridotomy feels like. Let me tell you, so far that has been the absolute worst part. First, the doctor puts drops in your eyes to contract your irises. This gave me a horrible migraine and I had to take several aspirin. Then they numb your eyes with more drops. Then you sit in front of this machine and they put a circular lens coated with gel into your eye, aim a laser through it, and pull the trigger to ZAP your iris. The zap is very unpleasant and the doctor has to carefully zap each iris about six times - two holes, three zaps per hole. It was surprising, a bit painful, and caused me to flinch each time the laser zapped. If you have ever had laser hair removal on your body, then I would say this was very similar, except inside your eye and without the burning hair smell. The leftover gel was truly a major hassle since you aren't allowed to rub it out of your stinging eyes. I had to dab at my eyes for hours and hours as the gel slowly made its way out. I was squinty and my eyes felt sandy and irritated for days afterwards.
The surgery a week later was a piece of cake, though I had to fast overnight so I was pretty hungry. I went to the surgery center, waited for several hours in an icy cold, totally packed waiting room, then got called in to a bed. They stabbed an IV in me, got me hooked up to some crazy machines, put a star in black marker over my left eye, poured drops in my eye, and made me lay there for a while. Because I was cold and hungry and a bit stressed out, I was shaking a lot. When they wheeled me into the operating room, the anesthesiologist started the drugs flowing to get me to stop shaking, and it really pretty much knocked me out instantly. I vaguely remember any of the operation, though I remember a nurse telling me I needed to wake up and put on my shoes because it was time to go home. I went back to the hotel and slept for several hours.
My eye felt just fine, though. After I woke up, and over the next couple days, my eye felt like normal, and I could even see out of it almost as well as if I had a contact in my eye (which I guess I did). It's been three days since the operation and my eye feels just fine. It's a bit blurry because the surgery causes temporary astigmatism and some swelling, but the doctor said that should go away in a few days. My vision is getting better every day. I have to put lots of drops in it throughout the day and I wear an eye shield in bed. I'm not allowed to bend over, pick up heavy things, go jogging, or do anything that might put pressure on my eye or jolt it. The worst part, though, was that I couldn't wash my hair or face for two days after the surgery! Bleah!
I'm wearing a contact in my right eye so I can function. The difference is noticeable, though. My right eye gets itchy and irritated by the end of the day, but my left eye is happy as a clam. On the other hand, my left eye's vision is somewhat blurry, so I am depending on my right eye to confirm what my left eye can only suspect. I am hoping that the difference between the two eyes will narrow somewhat as my left eye heals up and the astigmatism goes away.
In three weeks I will post Part II, which will be after the surgery on my right eye. We'll see how my left eye turned out and what I can expect from both eyes in the end. Will I still need glasses or contacts or have I finally been set free?
Edit 11/27/09: I've posted a three-year update about the ICL here: ICL Surgery Update: I have glasses
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Apparently Pit Bulls Aren't Allowed to Behave Like Dogs
I saw a clip on Youtube today that showed a pit bull "attacking" a child. I think this was from SpikeTV, but I'm not sure what television show it was. A narrator described the whole event as it unfolded. He used incredibly sensationalized language throughout, leaving the audience under the impression that this poor child was going to be torn to pieces by the rampaging maneater.
Meanwhile, what was really happening in the clip was 100% human error. The dog was obviously just playing; at first it jumps up on the child, wagging its tail in greeting. The child panics and runs (and if this kid had ever had any dog safety education he would have known better) and the dog sees this as an obvious invitation to play chase. The dog chases the child over several vehicles, bounding playfully, tail wagging. The panicked kid then tries to hide behind an adult. The adult swings at the dog wildly, and the dog sees this as a fun game too and dances around just out of reach, still trying to get at the kid, who is clearly, to the dog, playing a fun game of hide-and-seek. The dog grabs at the kid's pants several times.
Then the most "vicious" part of the attack. The kid falls down, and the dog manages to bite the poor kid's head. Yeah, that probably hurt, but have you ever seen dogs playing? They bite each other on the head all the time. This is just a dog having a great time with a playmate. The dog immediately lets go and bounds off. The kid's clearly not too badly hurt; he starts running again!
Finally a policeman intervenes, but things just get worse because the cop's an idiot too. The dog grabs the kid by the pants and drags him down. The cop grabs the kid and starts pulling against the dog, and wow, now the poor kid is a tug toy. The dog's still having a great time, tail still wagging. The cop, like the other adult and the kid, is apparently terrified of this dog because he won't touch it. Instead, this guy decides to shoot the dog. So he pulls out his gun and fires it at the dog's head... which is attached to the kid's pants which are inches away from this child's leg. One sudden tug on the pants in the wrong direction and the bullet would have hit the kid, not the dog.
Obviously, once the dog is hurt, playtime is over. The totally confused and injured dog seeks comfort from the humans it was playing with, but the cop points the gun at the dog, and it wisely decides to go away. The video ends there, with the smug announcer thanking the fates that the heroic police officer was there to save everyone's lives.
The whole thing nauseated me. The three humans in the video were flat-out stupid. If anyone who knew the first thing about dog behavior had been present, there would have been nothing to videotape. The kid started the whole thing by running away. The adult (parent? dog owner? not sure) should have swallowed her fear, grabbed the dog by the collar, and established control, not waved her hands limply at the dog. The police officer should have grabbed the dog, not the kid. And someone should have called animal control! At least they (usually) know what they're doing.
And someone in the media needs an earful for the absolutely propogandist narration. That's right, scare us and shock us, make us believe we're actually seeing a child get mauled, but god forbid you actually use this opportunity to educate us about dog behavior and how to avoid situations like this.
I am positive that this whole incident happened because the dog was a "scary, evil, vicious" pit bull. That's why the kid ran away in the first place, and that's why the adults were unwilling to touch the dog. If the dog were a Lab or something like that, then everyone would have been calm, and the dog's behavior would be "cute", and everyone would have had a wonderful time. Idiots, all of them.
Meanwhile, what was really happening in the clip was 100% human error. The dog was obviously just playing; at first it jumps up on the child, wagging its tail in greeting. The child panics and runs (and if this kid had ever had any dog safety education he would have known better) and the dog sees this as an obvious invitation to play chase. The dog chases the child over several vehicles, bounding playfully, tail wagging. The panicked kid then tries to hide behind an adult. The adult swings at the dog wildly, and the dog sees this as a fun game too and dances around just out of reach, still trying to get at the kid, who is clearly, to the dog, playing a fun game of hide-and-seek. The dog grabs at the kid's pants several times.
Then the most "vicious" part of the attack. The kid falls down, and the dog manages to bite the poor kid's head. Yeah, that probably hurt, but have you ever seen dogs playing? They bite each other on the head all the time. This is just a dog having a great time with a playmate. The dog immediately lets go and bounds off. The kid's clearly not too badly hurt; he starts running again!
Finally a policeman intervenes, but things just get worse because the cop's an idiot too. The dog grabs the kid by the pants and drags him down. The cop grabs the kid and starts pulling against the dog, and wow, now the poor kid is a tug toy. The dog's still having a great time, tail still wagging. The cop, like the other adult and the kid, is apparently terrified of this dog because he won't touch it. Instead, this guy decides to shoot the dog. So he pulls out his gun and fires it at the dog's head... which is attached to the kid's pants which are inches away from this child's leg. One sudden tug on the pants in the wrong direction and the bullet would have hit the kid, not the dog.
Obviously, once the dog is hurt, playtime is over. The totally confused and injured dog seeks comfort from the humans it was playing with, but the cop points the gun at the dog, and it wisely decides to go away. The video ends there, with the smug announcer thanking the fates that the heroic police officer was there to save everyone's lives.
The whole thing nauseated me. The three humans in the video were flat-out stupid. If anyone who knew the first thing about dog behavior had been present, there would have been nothing to videotape. The kid started the whole thing by running away. The adult (parent? dog owner? not sure) should have swallowed her fear, grabbed the dog by the collar, and established control, not waved her hands limply at the dog. The police officer should have grabbed the dog, not the kid. And someone should have called animal control! At least they (usually) know what they're doing.
And someone in the media needs an earful for the absolutely propogandist narration. That's right, scare us and shock us, make us believe we're actually seeing a child get mauled, but god forbid you actually use this opportunity to educate us about dog behavior and how to avoid situations like this.
I am positive that this whole incident happened because the dog was a "scary, evil, vicious" pit bull. That's why the kid ran away in the first place, and that's why the adults were unwilling to touch the dog. If the dog were a Lab or something like that, then everyone would have been calm, and the dog's behavior would be "cute", and everyone would have had a wonderful time. Idiots, all of them.
Why I'm a Dog Person
I caught this strange article online today...
Dog saves owner, dies trying to save cat - Yahoo! News
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061018/ap_on_fe_st/pet_fire
Stupid cat. Although, if the dog was so clever, why didn't she just leave the cat and get out while she still could?
Don't get me wrong, I don't hate cats. I'm just not a "cat person". When I tell my pet to get off the bed, I want it to remove itself from the sheets the way a flea leaps to a new host... not the way cold molasses clings to the bottom of the jar, and not with a dirty look that would make my sailor-tongued husband blush.
We had four cats for a while (fostering homeless kitties until we could find them permanent homes). They were fine, but not nearly as fun or cuddly as the dogs. Sure, Percy enjoyed a good cuddle and he was really into the feather stick... but Dozer loves a good cuddle, plays fetch, and cares about everything I do and everywhere I go. The cats wouldn't have cared if I had never come home from work - as long as they still got fed somehow. If the dogs were in it for the food alone, I doubt they would come running every time my chair squeaks. I doubt they would follow me to the laundry room or eyeball me sideways while I take a shower ("Oh my god, is she really doing that voluntarily?"). And why on earth would they linger just outside the room I'm vacuuming, with a mixture of fear and devotion in their little doggy eyes, trying to stay close to me without getting too close to that monstrous machine?
The dogs make me feel worthy and worshipped. The cats made me sneeze.
Yes, I love animals. (Roaches excluded. They know why.) I love snakes, ferrets, bunnies, rats, alligators, bats, and bees. I love cats too. Animals are cute and interesting and unique. But there's only one kind of animal that I really want to share my life with. I want a pet that will cuddle with me, play with me, love me, and obey me. Yep, I'm a dog person!
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Dog Fur
My head hurts. Bad. It hurts every night. Well, every night after I've spent the entire day on the computer. And today I spent the entire day writing a four page midterm on rhetoric. So you get nothing clever from me tonight. Instead, I'm going to comment on dog fur.
Dozer is not a purebred "pit bull" of any sort. There's no freakin' way. His fur is too damn... furry. Felanie's fur is nice and short and bristly, and she only sheds a little bit. Dozer is a totally different story. His 1.5" long fur is nothing but misery for me. He sheds. And sheds. And sheds. I could brush him for hours and he'd still shed. When we bathe him, his white fur clogs the drain in a rat-sized ball. When I brush him - outside, always outside - it looks like snow (we live in Texas so it doesn't take much white ground cover to get us excited about snow). When I vacuum our tan carpet, it gets darker as the white fur peels off the surface.
Don't get me wrong, I love Dozer to death. But I wish, oh how I wish, that his fur was more like Felanie's. I love to pet Felanie. I know I won't end up with dog fur all over my shirt and in my mouth. Whenever I hug or cuddle with Dozer, I get dog fur painfully embedded in my corneas. When I get out of the shower, Dozer loves to press up against my legs. He has spent the last half hour worried that I'm never going to come out of the Shower of Torture. I spend the next three minutes cursing and picking dog fur off my damp legs and out of the bath towel.
Yet another reason to love pit bulls - nice short fur and minimal shedding. I guess I'm fortunate that Dozer isn't 100% Lab (or whatever). I'm sure it would be worse.
Dozer is not a purebred "pit bull" of any sort. There's no freakin' way. His fur is too damn... furry. Felanie's fur is nice and short and bristly, and she only sheds a little bit. Dozer is a totally different story. His 1.5" long fur is nothing but misery for me. He sheds. And sheds. And sheds. I could brush him for hours and he'd still shed. When we bathe him, his white fur clogs the drain in a rat-sized ball. When I brush him - outside, always outside - it looks like snow (we live in Texas so it doesn't take much white ground cover to get us excited about snow). When I vacuum our tan carpet, it gets darker as the white fur peels off the surface.
Don't get me wrong, I love Dozer to death. But I wish, oh how I wish, that his fur was more like Felanie's. I love to pet Felanie. I know I won't end up with dog fur all over my shirt and in my mouth. Whenever I hug or cuddle with Dozer, I get dog fur painfully embedded in my corneas. When I get out of the shower, Dozer loves to press up against my legs. He has spent the last half hour worried that I'm never going to come out of the Shower of Torture. I spend the next three minutes cursing and picking dog fur off my damp legs and out of the bath towel.
Yet another reason to love pit bulls - nice short fur and minimal shedding. I guess I'm fortunate that Dozer isn't 100% Lab (or whatever). I'm sure it would be worse.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Our Digital Poltergeist
My misery knows no bounds. I'm stuck using my ancient laptop, the one that takes twenty minutes just to boot up. I've lost years worth of emails, photos, files, research, writing, and school work. The digital poltergeist ate my desktop computer. Not once, but three times in the last month... and counting.
It started a month ago on a Sunday. My computer shut off abruptly in the middle of a game. The power button no longer worked. The poltergeist had moved in.
Three weeks, two motherboards, two CPUs, two memory sticks, two computer repair centers, a power supply, a video card, a hard drive, a new case, a backup power source, and over $1500 later, I finally had a brand spanking new machine, custom built by my loving husband and given the thumbs-up by a repair center. It ran beautifully, and it was fast!
One week later on Sunday - yesterday - in the middle of a game, the computer shut off. I smelled burning. It refused to turn on again. My husband replaced the power supply. The machine came on - and something popped so loudly I yelped and ducked. The machine turned off. I started to cry.
At the repair center they replaced the motherboard, the CPU, and the memory stick (for the third time). The machine booted straight into Windows. They sent it home with a very smiling, relieved me.
This afternoon, in the middle of a game, the computer gave me the Blue Screen of Death and a bewildering error message... then rebooted so fast I didn't have time to write the error down. When Windows reappeared, it informed me that it had just recovered from a fatal error. I clung to the word "recovered" and took a deep breath. It had recovered.
Five minutes later the machine displayed the Blue Screen, gave a totally different error, rebooted, and informed me that it had "recovered" yet again. I left the computer on and went to my temp job feeling extremely ill at ease. I would troubleshoot the software after work.
When I returned home, the machine was still running... but there was nothing on the monitor. I shoved the mouse, clicked keys on the keyboard... nothing. I hit the reset button. The computer died. I pushed the power button. By itself, the machine started up, died, started up, died, started up, and idled. Nothing came up on the screen. Nothing beeped. The lights glowed, the fans hummed busily, but nothing really happened.
I turned the power off, paused, cursed, prayed, then tried to boot one last time. Well, it might not have been the last time, except that this time the machine didn't power up at all. It was dead. Again.
I took my possessed computer, the parts boxes, and all the receipts and warranty info back to the repair center. It will be another week and another $75 before I even find out what's (theoretically) wrong (this time).
My friend plays a priest on World of Warcraft... Maybe I'll get him to come over to my house and sprinkle some holy water around my office. A nerdy problem deserves a nerdy solution, after all.
P.S. In the meantime, don't expect me to update my websites. It ain't happening on my decrepit laptop, that's for sure.
It started a month ago on a Sunday. My computer shut off abruptly in the middle of a game. The power button no longer worked. The poltergeist had moved in.
Three weeks, two motherboards, two CPUs, two memory sticks, two computer repair centers, a power supply, a video card, a hard drive, a new case, a backup power source, and over $1500 later, I finally had a brand spanking new machine, custom built by my loving husband and given the thumbs-up by a repair center. It ran beautifully, and it was fast!
One week later on Sunday - yesterday - in the middle of a game, the computer shut off. I smelled burning. It refused to turn on again. My husband replaced the power supply. The machine came on - and something popped so loudly I yelped and ducked. The machine turned off. I started to cry.
At the repair center they replaced the motherboard, the CPU, and the memory stick (for the third time). The machine booted straight into Windows. They sent it home with a very smiling, relieved me.
This afternoon, in the middle of a game, the computer gave me the Blue Screen of Death and a bewildering error message... then rebooted so fast I didn't have time to write the error down. When Windows reappeared, it informed me that it had just recovered from a fatal error. I clung to the word "recovered" and took a deep breath. It had recovered.
Five minutes later the machine displayed the Blue Screen, gave a totally different error, rebooted, and informed me that it had "recovered" yet again. I left the computer on and went to my temp job feeling extremely ill at ease. I would troubleshoot the software after work.
When I returned home, the machine was still running... but there was nothing on the monitor. I shoved the mouse, clicked keys on the keyboard... nothing. I hit the reset button. The computer died. I pushed the power button. By itself, the machine started up, died, started up, died, started up, and idled. Nothing came up on the screen. Nothing beeped. The lights glowed, the fans hummed busily, but nothing really happened.
I turned the power off, paused, cursed, prayed, then tried to boot one last time. Well, it might not have been the last time, except that this time the machine didn't power up at all. It was dead. Again.
I took my possessed computer, the parts boxes, and all the receipts and warranty info back to the repair center. It will be another week and another $75 before I even find out what's (theoretically) wrong (this time).
My friend plays a priest on World of Warcraft... Maybe I'll get him to come over to my house and sprinkle some holy water around my office. A nerdy problem deserves a nerdy solution, after all.
P.S. In the meantime, don't expect me to update my websites. It ain't happening on my decrepit laptop, that's for sure.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Karma in a dog's mouth
Instead of organizing my office, mowing the lawn, doing my assigned readings for class, or any of those other responsible things I should be doing, I thought I would take some time out (also known as procrastination) to tell a memorable story about Felanie. This story should be considered in light of the sometimes unreasonable "dangerous dog" laws that are becoming more and more common in response to a percieved national dog bite crisis.
Especially notable is a trend among the media to make a dog bite sound absolutely horrific, even if the victim suffered mere bruises and scratches. Terms like "mauling" and "vicious attack" are used to describe dog bites that barely break the skin. Dogs are labeled "dangerous" or "vicious" after displaying what is actually a very natural behavior. I am not trying to ignore or belittle the rare very serious cases where a dog really does go "overboard" and a person is seriously injured or killed as a result. However, the vast majority of dog bites are not the brutal affairs we make them out to be. Usually the victim's most lasting scars are mental, because dog bites are - to the naive especially - a shocking repudiation of the social folklore that gives dogs the title "Man's Best Friend". That is to say, we take threats from dogs - whether it be a bite or a growl - very personally. Such threats are a violation of the trust implicit in the relationship between the species which we romanticize at every opportunity.
If you have read anything about Felanie, you know the brief history that follows, but I think it's important to place this story in its proper framework. Felanie's previous owner was a real jerk. He mistreated her, failed to socialize her, teased her, and encouraged her to be aggressive. Felanie became a Nervous Nelly. Everything frightened her, even a sideways glance from a stranger. If something unusual happened, Felanie had two possible reactions. The first was to bark incessantly while maintaining a safe distance from the odd thing. The second was to run and hide. She was a very fearful dog, and constantly on edge, which was a dangerous state to be in. Despite all her owner's shortcomings, however, Felanie still clung to him. He was all she had.
Of course, Karma has a way of biting you in the butt, quite literally. The story as it was told to me goes a bit like this. Felanie's owner managed to lock himself out of the house one night. However, to his pleasure the bedroom window on the first floor was unlocked, so naturally he decided to enter the house in that manner. The bottom of the window was at about chest level, and rather than jump up and tumble inside head first in an unelegant manner, Fel's owner decided to go in legs first. He lifted the first leg over the sill, pushed himself upwards, and was lowering himself in backwards when he realized the dark bedroom was not empty.
Felanie had been watching this bizarre event from the corner of the room. In the darkness, she could only tell that someone was entering through the window, not the identity of the intruder. As the shadowy figure started to slink in, she jumped up and began to bark loudly. This was quite unorthodox! The intruder laughed a little and continued in, and Felanie finally did something that she felt would make her owner very proud, since it was a behavior he constantly encouraged in her and was disgusted that she never did it: she leapt forward and clamped her jaws down firmly on the intruder's buttocks. In the next second she realized that the clothing of this stranger smelled quite familiar, and the howling coming from this person actually sounded a lot like... her owner.
I didn't ever learn whether the bite actually broke the skin. I suspect it was just a little nip designed to frighten off the intruder, not to inflict serious damage. But it was a bite nevertheless, and as a result I can't honestly say that Felanie has never bitten anyone. But as far as I know, that jerk was the only person she has ever bitten, and I admit I'm a little proud of her for setting some justice loose on his behind - whether that was her intent or not. You reap what you sow, and Felanie's owner certainly got the behavior he so badly desired... perhaps not in the manner he expected, but certainly in the manner he deserved.
When I obtained Felanie by accident, I recognized her growling and barking for what they were: fear-based behaviors, potentially dangerous because of her low threshhold for fear. Through socialization and training she has completely turned around. For instance, during the remodeling of our house I took the opportunity to habituate her to people climbing in and out of windows and even walls. I can't say she is completely free of fear - small children are particularly terrifying for her and thunderstorms make her shake and whine - but her much smaller set of fears are highly manageable and far more acceptable.
Dogs that bite aren't all determined to do as much damage as possible. They aren't all dangerous or deadly. They are simply trying to tell us something: "Leave me alone." "Stop doing that." "This is my space." "I'm scared of you!" Most bites are merely warnings; they are not intended to do significant damage. As Felanie demonstrates, a biting dog is not necessarily a bad, dangerous, or vicious dog. It is a dog that has not been properly trained or socialized and feels that there is no other option except to resort to a natural reaction in an effort to protect themselves or defend their space.
When we discuss dangerous dog legislation, we must take care to differentiate between the truly dangerous dogs versus dogs who are not dangerous but simply need better care and guidance. Felanie was one of the latter, and upon transfering to an owner who actually cared about her and wanted a better future for her (me), she really transformed into a wonderful, sweet, loving, obedient dog.
Especially notable is a trend among the media to make a dog bite sound absolutely horrific, even if the victim suffered mere bruises and scratches. Terms like "mauling" and "vicious attack" are used to describe dog bites that barely break the skin. Dogs are labeled "dangerous" or "vicious" after displaying what is actually a very natural behavior. I am not trying to ignore or belittle the rare very serious cases where a dog really does go "overboard" and a person is seriously injured or killed as a result. However, the vast majority of dog bites are not the brutal affairs we make them out to be. Usually the victim's most lasting scars are mental, because dog bites are - to the naive especially - a shocking repudiation of the social folklore that gives dogs the title "Man's Best Friend". That is to say, we take threats from dogs - whether it be a bite or a growl - very personally. Such threats are a violation of the trust implicit in the relationship between the species which we romanticize at every opportunity.
If you have read anything about Felanie, you know the brief history that follows, but I think it's important to place this story in its proper framework. Felanie's previous owner was a real jerk. He mistreated her, failed to socialize her, teased her, and encouraged her to be aggressive. Felanie became a Nervous Nelly. Everything frightened her, even a sideways glance from a stranger. If something unusual happened, Felanie had two possible reactions. The first was to bark incessantly while maintaining a safe distance from the odd thing. The second was to run and hide. She was a very fearful dog, and constantly on edge, which was a dangerous state to be in. Despite all her owner's shortcomings, however, Felanie still clung to him. He was all she had.
Of course, Karma has a way of biting you in the butt, quite literally. The story as it was told to me goes a bit like this. Felanie's owner managed to lock himself out of the house one night. However, to his pleasure the bedroom window on the first floor was unlocked, so naturally he decided to enter the house in that manner. The bottom of the window was at about chest level, and rather than jump up and tumble inside head first in an unelegant manner, Fel's owner decided to go in legs first. He lifted the first leg over the sill, pushed himself upwards, and was lowering himself in backwards when he realized the dark bedroom was not empty.
Felanie had been watching this bizarre event from the corner of the room. In the darkness, she could only tell that someone was entering through the window, not the identity of the intruder. As the shadowy figure started to slink in, she jumped up and began to bark loudly. This was quite unorthodox! The intruder laughed a little and continued in, and Felanie finally did something that she felt would make her owner very proud, since it was a behavior he constantly encouraged in her and was disgusted that she never did it: she leapt forward and clamped her jaws down firmly on the intruder's buttocks. In the next second she realized that the clothing of this stranger smelled quite familiar, and the howling coming from this person actually sounded a lot like... her owner.
I didn't ever learn whether the bite actually broke the skin. I suspect it was just a little nip designed to frighten off the intruder, not to inflict serious damage. But it was a bite nevertheless, and as a result I can't honestly say that Felanie has never bitten anyone. But as far as I know, that jerk was the only person she has ever bitten, and I admit I'm a little proud of her for setting some justice loose on his behind - whether that was her intent or not. You reap what you sow, and Felanie's owner certainly got the behavior he so badly desired... perhaps not in the manner he expected, but certainly in the manner he deserved.
When I obtained Felanie by accident, I recognized her growling and barking for what they were: fear-based behaviors, potentially dangerous because of her low threshhold for fear. Through socialization and training she has completely turned around. For instance, during the remodeling of our house I took the opportunity to habituate her to people climbing in and out of windows and even walls. I can't say she is completely free of fear - small children are particularly terrifying for her and thunderstorms make her shake and whine - but her much smaller set of fears are highly manageable and far more acceptable.
Dogs that bite aren't all determined to do as much damage as possible. They aren't all dangerous or deadly. They are simply trying to tell us something: "Leave me alone." "Stop doing that." "This is my space." "I'm scared of you!" Most bites are merely warnings; they are not intended to do significant damage. As Felanie demonstrates, a biting dog is not necessarily a bad, dangerous, or vicious dog. It is a dog that has not been properly trained or socialized and feels that there is no other option except to resort to a natural reaction in an effort to protect themselves or defend their space.
When we discuss dangerous dog legislation, we must take care to differentiate between the truly dangerous dogs versus dogs who are not dangerous but simply need better care and guidance. Felanie was one of the latter, and upon transfering to an owner who actually cared about her and wanted a better future for her (me), she really transformed into a wonderful, sweet, loving, obedient dog.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Dog Language
See? I told you I would have trouble keeping up with this blog! I won't even promise to do better. I blame summer school, World of Warcraft, too many good books to read, full time temp work, volunteering at the humane society, and anime for my inability to find time to write in this blog. So there.
Tonight I only have a little time for a short but interesting story about my recent experience with dog/human communication. Let me set the scene first. My best friend, who I'll just call "S", was over one day housesitting for me while I was at work and our washing machine was being repaired. I'd just like to say, for the record, that it took Sears an entire month to finally repair our practically new front loading washing machine. More on this in another post, perhaps. Anyway, when "Uncle S" (as we call him to the dogs) comes over, he becomes Official Dog Entertainer because he's actually willing to go out in the hot, bug-filled backyard and throw a slimy, sticky, slobbery ball (albeit while wearing a rubber glove) for the dogs to fetch. Uncle S doesn't know a whole lot about dogs and is really more of a cat person, but I know he is at least interested in our dogs to some extent, since the vast majority of our visitors prefer not to play with two huge pit bulls.
Anyway, after I came home we set out to cook dinner since my husband and sister and cousin were all coming to eat, and while dinner was cooking we went out back and played fetch, but not for long. Within five minutes, since it's Texas and it's summer, we were covered in mosquito bites and extremely hot, and Dozer was panting as if he might keel over any minute, so we all went back inside. I got out the ice tray to put ice in the dog water bowl. The dogs don't particularly like to eat ice, unless it is frozen chicken broth, and in this case it was just plain, clear ice, so when I dropped some on the floor, neither dog went for it.
At this point I didn't want the ice to melt and get water all over the floor, so I shoved it toward Dozer hoping he would eat it. He ignored it completely; he was too preoccupied with breathing, which is hard to do when you have a red rubber ball crammed entirely into your mouth and you won't put it down! Anyway, seeing his rejection, I turned to Felanie, pointed at the ice, and said "Fel, since Dozer is too hot, why don't you go ahead and have that?" Felanie dutifully picked the ice up and chomped on it.
Uncle S commented with great surprise that my words seemed awfully abstract, yet Fel clearly understood what I wanted her to do. Never mind that seconds later, Fel dropped the ice on the floor and went off to find something more interesting to chew on; the point is that she had responded very accurately to a lengthy sentence that contained no trained commands. Did Felanie really understand all the babbling words I had said?
Of course, after I thought about it for a while, I realized that my body language had probably said far more than my voice in that circumstance. In fact, dogs are superb readers of body language (ours and other dogs). When I leaned over slightly and pointed at the ice, that was the cue that Felanie picked up on. Leaning and pointing means "I'm referring to this object" and my encouraging tone of voice probably led her to the conclusion that I wanted her to do something with it. And what else could she possibly do with a piece of ice except put it in her mouth? I don't think she understand a single word I said, except her name. If I had done everything exactly the same (same movement, same tone of voice) but I said "Felanie, do you like cheese as much as I do?", Felanie probably still would have picked up the ice, because that was what I was pointing at.
Yes, dogs are smart, but not in the same way humans are. We have complex verbal skills, but that gets us nowhere with dogs. Dogs read our body language and our general tone; they don't care as much about what we say as how we say it. A good thing to remember when we are interacting with dogs, don't you think?
And that's all I have time for tonight. Until next time!
Tonight I only have a little time for a short but interesting story about my recent experience with dog/human communication. Let me set the scene first. My best friend, who I'll just call "S", was over one day housesitting for me while I was at work and our washing machine was being repaired. I'd just like to say, for the record, that it took Sears an entire month to finally repair our practically new front loading washing machine. More on this in another post, perhaps. Anyway, when "Uncle S" (as we call him to the dogs) comes over, he becomes Official Dog Entertainer because he's actually willing to go out in the hot, bug-filled backyard and throw a slimy, sticky, slobbery ball (albeit while wearing a rubber glove) for the dogs to fetch. Uncle S doesn't know a whole lot about dogs and is really more of a cat person, but I know he is at least interested in our dogs to some extent, since the vast majority of our visitors prefer not to play with two huge pit bulls.
Anyway, after I came home we set out to cook dinner since my husband and sister and cousin were all coming to eat, and while dinner was cooking we went out back and played fetch, but not for long. Within five minutes, since it's Texas and it's summer, we were covered in mosquito bites and extremely hot, and Dozer was panting as if he might keel over any minute, so we all went back inside. I got out the ice tray to put ice in the dog water bowl. The dogs don't particularly like to eat ice, unless it is frozen chicken broth, and in this case it was just plain, clear ice, so when I dropped some on the floor, neither dog went for it.
At this point I didn't want the ice to melt and get water all over the floor, so I shoved it toward Dozer hoping he would eat it. He ignored it completely; he was too preoccupied with breathing, which is hard to do when you have a red rubber ball crammed entirely into your mouth and you won't put it down! Anyway, seeing his rejection, I turned to Felanie, pointed at the ice, and said "Fel, since Dozer is too hot, why don't you go ahead and have that?" Felanie dutifully picked the ice up and chomped on it.
Uncle S commented with great surprise that my words seemed awfully abstract, yet Fel clearly understood what I wanted her to do. Never mind that seconds later, Fel dropped the ice on the floor and went off to find something more interesting to chew on; the point is that she had responded very accurately to a lengthy sentence that contained no trained commands. Did Felanie really understand all the babbling words I had said?
Of course, after I thought about it for a while, I realized that my body language had probably said far more than my voice in that circumstance. In fact, dogs are superb readers of body language (ours and other dogs). When I leaned over slightly and pointed at the ice, that was the cue that Felanie picked up on. Leaning and pointing means "I'm referring to this object" and my encouraging tone of voice probably led her to the conclusion that I wanted her to do something with it. And what else could she possibly do with a piece of ice except put it in her mouth? I don't think she understand a single word I said, except her name. If I had done everything exactly the same (same movement, same tone of voice) but I said "Felanie, do you like cheese as much as I do?", Felanie probably still would have picked up the ice, because that was what I was pointing at.
Yes, dogs are smart, but not in the same way humans are. We have complex verbal skills, but that gets us nowhere with dogs. Dogs read our body language and our general tone; they don't care as much about what we say as how we say it. A good thing to remember when we are interacting with dogs, don't you think?
And that's all I have time for tonight. Until next time!
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