Hypothyroidism

Guess whose thyroid is broken?

"Let's play with this half-eaten tennis ball!!!"



Routine bloodwork revealed this new ailment, which we can add to Dozer's ever-growing pile of health issues. The symptoms of hypothyroidism aren't particularly obvious: generally acting "under the weather," easily tired, weight gain, hair loss and skin infections. Dozer's old age and allergies produce the same symptoms, so we weren't thinking about the thyroid.

"OMG THROW IT!"

The solution is a simple one—one tiny pill every twelve hours for the rest of D's life—but it's amazing how difficult this seemingly simple task is. Mostly, we've had trouble being home at pill time. Right now we're administering pills at 6 AM and 6 PM, but because I've been at class and job-recruiting events on many days, and Byrd works until late, the 6 PM target isn't always hit.

"I believe I can fly!"

The treatment has made a difference. Dozer seems to have regained some of his goofy spirit, he's more interested in getting attention and pats, and he's even playing a bit with Star. All his joints still creak when he moves around, but he seems less "old."

"Here it comes again!"

Ironically, Dozer isn't the first family member with hypothyroidism. Byrd couldn't help but be a tiny bit pleased that Big D was taking after his daddy. "Now we both have to take pills forever!" he says.

"Ugh, now it has her drool all over it."

Doesn't our backyard look depressing? It's 100% dirt. We were responsible citizens during this severe drought and we didn't water our backyard grass at all... so it died. Nevertheless, we've just heard that our local water plant has broken, so the city has issued a formal emergency: no outdoor watering, period.

Neglected

So, yeah, I got accepted to the Masters in Professional Accounting program at the University of Texas. One of the top accounting programs in the U.S. I'm pretty much guaranteed a job upon graduation, as long as I keep my GPA above 3.5.

It's a really short master's program—I'll be done in about a year. The brevity translates into a brutal pace. This summer's classes are a mere five weeks, crash courses in tax and financial accounting. The grades will be based solely on three major exams in each class.
Five weeks. Six exams. I'm not very good at math, but these numbers spell disaster.

"Soooooo bored."

Needless to say, I've been cramming all day, every day.
If I survive these next few weeks, there's only one day of break between summer and fall semesters. No joke, my calendar goes: Saturday–final; Sunday–break; Monday–final; Tuesday–fall class. (Yes, I have a final on a Saturday.)

I rather feel as if I've just leapt onto the back of a bucking bronco.

Please forgive me for being rather absent these last few weeks. I'm desperately trying to stay on this horse. I'm neglecting all my friends and family... and even the dogs. It sucks.

"Too busy to cut my nails? How tragic."

Decisions, decisions

Happy New Year!

The holidays gave Byrd the opportunity to re-side the back part of the house. We're finally ready for exterior paint! (OMG OMG OMG)

The only question is, what color? We're partial to the green one.

Dozer was predictably naughty at the vet, for his eyelid surgery. He pulled out the IV when no one was looking. The techs ran a new IV, with a special cuff to hold it on more securely, and he pulled that one out immediately. At that point they decided to wait until he was asleep before running the IV. Anyway, the surgery went great, and Dozer's eyelid is almost healed already. Despite the success, Dozer was a whiny, pathetic baby for three days afterward. He has to get the stitches removed in a few days... I suspect that will be the most difficult part of the whole affair. Sharp implement + eyeball + squirmy dog = disaster.

I couldn't have two more different dogs. Star thought her dental cleaning at the vet was an amazing vacation. I dropped her off in the morning and she ran off with the vet tech, tail wagging wildly and ridiculously huge grin on her face. She didn't even look back at me. In the afternoon, she came out of the back wagging her entire butt despite her groggy stupor; crashed into a wall, the door, and the side of the car (with the same giant grin on her face); and did drunken zoomies in the backyard before collapsing on a dog bed to sleep it off. The dental was well worth it--she no longer has breath that would cause buzzards to circle.

I hope you all had a great holiday season! Here's hoping 2011 is a good year.

Dogs as smart as 2 year olds

http://www.livescience.com/animals/090808-smart-dogs.html

Dogs as Smart as 2-year-old Kids

LiveScience.com
Jeanna Bryner
Senior Writer
Sat Aug 8, 2:05 pm ET

The canine IQ test results are in: Even the average dog has the mental abilities of a 2-year-old child.

The finding is based on a language development test, revealing average dogs can learn 165 words (similar to a 2-year-old child), including signals and gestures, and dogs in the top 20 percent in intelligence can learn 250 words.

And the smartest?

Border collies, poodles, and German shepherds, in that order, says Stanley Coren, a canine expert and professor emeritus at the University of British Columbia. Those breeds have been created recently compared with other dog breeds and may be smarter in part because we've trained and bred them to be so, Coren said. The dogs at the top of the pack are on par with a 2.5-year-old.

Better at math and socializing

While dogs ranked with the 2-year-olds in language, they would trump a 3- or 4-year-old in basic arithmetic, Coren found. In terms of social smarts, our drooling furballs fare even better.

"The social life of dogs is much more complex, much more like human teenagers at that stage, interested in who is moving up in the pack and who is sleeping with who and that sort of thing," Coren told LiveScience.

Coren, who has written more than a half-dozen books on dogs and dog behavior, will present an overview of various studies on dog smarts at the American Psychological Association's annual meeting in Toronto.

"We all want insight into how our furry companions think, and we want to understand the silly, quirky and apparently irrational behaviors [that] Lassie or Rover demonstrate," Coren said. "Their stunning flashes of brilliance and creativity are reminders that they may not be Einsteins but are sure closer to humans than we thought."

Math test

To get inside the noggin of man's best friend, scientists are modifying tests for dogs that were originally developed to measure skills in children.

Here's one: In an arithmetic test, dogs watch as one treat and then another treat are lowered down behind a screen. When the screen gets lifted, the dogs, if they get arithmetic (1+1=2), will expect to see two treats. (For toddlers, other objects would be used.)

But say the scientist swipes one of the treats, or adds another so the end result is one, or three treats, respectively. "Now we're giving him the wrong equation which is 1+1=1, or 1+1=3," Coren said. Sure enough, studies show the dogs get it. "The dog acts surprised and stares at it for a longer period of time, just like a human kid would," he said.

These studies suggest dogs have a basic understanding of arithmetic, and they can count to four or five.

Basic emotions

Other studies Coren notes have found that dogs show spatial problem-solving skills. For instance, they can locate valued items, such as treats, find better routes in the environment, such as the fastest way to a favorite chair, and figure out how to operate latches and simple machines.

Like human toddlers, dogs also show some basic emotions, such as happiness, anger and disgust. But more complex emotions, such as guilt, are not in a dog's toolbox. (What humans once thought was guilt was found to be doggy fear, Coren noted.)

And while dogs know whether they're being treated fairly, they don't grasp the concept of equity. Coren recalls a study in which dogs get a treat for "giving a paw."

When one dog gets a treat and the other doesn't, the unrewarded dog stops performing the trick and avoids making eye contact with the trainer. But if one dog, say, gets rewarded with a juicy steak while the other snags a measly piece of bread, on average the dogs don't care about the inequality of the treats.

Top dogs

To find out which dogs had the top school smarts, Coren collected data from more than 200 dog obedience judges from the United States and Canada.

He found the top dogs, in order of their doggy IQ are:
Border collies Poodles German shepherds Golden retrievers Dobermans Shetland sheepdogs Labrador retrievers

At the bottom of the intelligence barrel, Coren would include many of the hounds, such as the bassett hound and the Afghan hound, along with the bulldog, beagle and basenji (a hunting dog).

"It's important to note that these breeds which don't do as well tend to be considerably older breeds," he said. "They were developed when the task of a hound was to find something by smell or sight." These dogs might fare better on tests of so-called instinctive intelligence, which measure how well dogs do what they are bred to do.

"The dogs that are the brightest dogs in terms of school learning ability tend to be the dogs that are much more recently developed," Coren said. He added that there's a "high probability that we've been breeding dogs so they're more responsive to human beings and human signals." So the most recently bred dogs would be more human-friendly and rank higher on school smarts.

Many of these smarty-pants are also the most popular pets. "We like dogs that understand us," Coren said.

We also love the beagle, which made it to the top 10 list of most popular dog breeds in 2008 by the American Kennel Club. That's because they are so sweet and socialable, Coren said. "Sometimes people love the dumb blonde," Coren said.

And sometimes the dim-wits make better pets. While a smart dog will figure out everything you want it to know, your super pet will also learn everything it can get away with, Coren warns.

Insensitive mongrels

Being deathly ill (ok, maybe not, but you know how it feels when you're really sick) is bad enough, but having two dogs that could care less... If I had the strength, I would wring their adorable little necks.

Dozer cries and lobs pathetic gazes at me without pause. He wants attention. Star barks and throws toys everywhere. She wants to play.

They don't want to sleep, which means no sleep for me, either.

It apparently hasn't occurred to them that "something is wrong with Mommy, because she's been in bed for five days and didn't even get up to greet the pizza guy." (Which I called for Byrd, since I wasn't in any shape to cook.)

Thank god my mom is coming over here today to feed me and entertain these awful, selfish beasts.

I went to the doctor yesterday--it took four days of worsening symptoms, but I finally developed an actual fever, which is my sign to seek medical help--with sore throat, achiness, swollen lymph nodes, and general malaise. As always when I get these sore throats, the doctor tested for strep (negative, of course), the flu (most painful diagnostic test on the planet), and then declared it some sort of mysterious noncontagious infection, prescribed antibiotics, and sent me home. Thanks, doctor.

This is a pattern. Every four months or so, this happens. They have my medical records, they should see this. And I keep telling them: "Oh, yeah, I can already tell you, it's not strep, mumps, mono, or flu. And ultimately, you're going to shrug, say something vague, and prescribe me amoxicillin. Just like the last six times this happened." WTF? Anyone want to suggest a real answer to this?

I'm recording each instance in my blog so I can track the frequency and record some of the details. I know it's not the most interesting post. Sorry.

Anyway, on to day five, and the fever's going up instead of down (lovely). Sure hope the antibiotics kick in soon. I've got two nutcase dogs and a flock of chickens that are starting to act like they're neglected.

A "pit bull" by any other name...

I've always hated the term "pit bull." The connotations are unavoidable, almost subconscious: vicious, fighting, aggressive. I hate saying it; I know my listeners are struggling with the same connotations in their own heads. I hate thinking it. It's like a dirty word.

The problems with "pit bull" are numerous, beginning with the fact that it is essentially undefinable. There is no agreed-upon definition. What is a "pit bull"?

Is it an American Pit Bull Terrier? An American Staffordshire Terrier? A Staffordshire Bull Terrier?

Is it a Bull Terrier, American Bulldog, English Bulldog, Boston Terrier, French Bulldog, Boxer, or any other dog that is somewhat related to the now-extinct Old English Bulldog that used to fight bulls, bears, and other dogs?

A recent news article headline screamed "Child bit by pit bull" when the body of the same article stated the dog in question was a Rottweiler. Dog bite articles in the past have labeled Dogo Argentinos, Cane Corsos, German Shepherds, Labs, and other unrelated breeds as "pit bulls." Are "pit bulls" any dog that bites?

Lakewood (OH) and Miami-Dade County (FL) are just two municipalities to make recent headlines after their breed bans resulted in confiscation of "pit bulls" that DNA tests subsequently proved were not "pit bulls," nor even "pit bull" mixes. Not that it mattered; these dogs were still prohibited because they retained the appearance of a "pit bull."

To municipalities with breed-specific legislation, it's not really about breed or type at all--it's about a dog's appearance. Any short-haired, mixed-breed dog can be labeled a "pit bull" in these places, depending on who is doing the judging. It is impossible to prove that one's dog is not a "pit bull" because the legal definition of "pit bull" is subjective (based on an individual's assessment of a dog's appearance).

The most recent embarrassment in Lakewood involved Otis, a dog that was obviously a Boxer, a breed that is not banned in Lakewood. The city nevertheless declared Otis a "pit bull" and kicked him out, unmoved by public outcry. While his owner prepares to move out of the city to join his dog, Otis is staying at... guess where... a Boxer rescue!

There's so much fuss and confusion over what it means to be a "pit bull" that the term feels worthless.

Yet, it's unavoidable in conversation. On the other side, people are trying to help these dogs known as "pit bulls." There are low-cost and free spay/neuter and training classes just for "pit bulls." There are advocates and rescue groups for "pit bulls."

How do we talk about saving "pit bulls" if we can't, or don't try to, define that term? So advocates come up with their own definitions for the term. They don't all agree, either.

Because of the negative connotations attached to the term "pit bull," some groups have proposed calling these dogs by another name--something more positive, more removed from violence and death. This has been attempted in the past, as well, with terms like "St. Francis Terrier."

Although I like the idea, I think it cannot work for practical reasons. It's already confusing enough without a whole new term to add to the mix. I don't know how I would reach people who are looking for information on "pit bulls" if I were calling them something totally different. I don't know how we could fight BSL if we weren't combating the public perception of "pit bulls" as naturally aggressive beasts.

Renaming to remove connotations doesn't really solve the fundamental problem. If people still believe that certain breeds or types of dogs are genetically inclined to "snap," eat babies, maul grandmothers, etc., then we still have a problem--total lack of public education regarding dog behavior. All the cutesy labelling in the world won't solve that. It just means people will add the "new breed" to their list of "dangerous" dogs.

Despite my pessimism, I wouldn't fight such an attempt to rename. I'd still like to see a well-thought-out plan implemented--something that would bring a unified, accepted definition of these dogs to the table. The most important part, I think, and the most difficult, is to get everyone on the same page. Whatever the new term may be, it cannot be applied subjectively and inconsistently, as "pit bull" is today.

Fred the duck

I'm not sure I can do justice to Fred's story, but I'll give it a shot. Be warned, a few parts might be a tad risque for young uns.

Byrd and I used to work at a pet store that did not sell birds. That didn't stop people from dumping birds at the store, however. And one morning, Byrd found this little guy in a cardboard box at the front door when he opened the store:

Byrd called me up (I didn't work at the store anymore at that point), and I came and took the little duckling home, gave him the name Fred, and introduced him to his new extended family.

He took a liking to everyone right away, of course. Here he is meeting Felanie and one of the prairie dogs.

"Are you my mother?"

When he was little, we kept him inside. He hung out with the prairie dogs a lot. They groomed each other.

I let him splash around and practice swimming in an old, unused tub in the vacant bathroom. This was during the remodel, so yeah, it looks pretty gross and tacky. Perfect for duck baths.

Fred grew really big, really fast.

You can see his flight feathers growing in...

The prairie dogs were still pals with him, even though he was huge.

I looked up his breed at around this time and discovered he was a white Pekin duck. A totally ordinary type of duck that you can buy at any local feed store.

Finally, when his adult feathers had all grown in, Fred was ready to move outside. I got him a baby pool to swim in. (Again, this was during the remodel, so our yard was a wreck--sorry.)

Awww, so that was a cute little story about a duckling, right?

And then Fred grew up. And developed a bad habit of biting and humping every animal he could grab.

"I'm a love machine"

This included the feet and legs of all the humans in the household AND the feet, faces, stomachs, ears, and necks of our poor, bewildered pit bulls.

I'm sure this was actually a normal, typical behavior for a hand-reared adult male duck. But of course, up until this point, I'd only ever seen ducks at municipal duck ponds.

Fred quickly gained a reputation as a yard shark. He would stand casually near his intended victim, quacking quietly as he strategized, then suddenly swoop in for the kill.

Make no mistake, his bites hurt pretty badly, but he was so darn cute that it was hard to be mad. The dogs soon learned to run like hell when lovesick Fred made the scene.

I have literally an hour of compiled home video that looks a lot like this:

We were pretty clueless what to do about this. I thought Fred might be happier living with other ducks at the nearby duck pond. So I took him on a few visits to get him used to the ducks.

To this day, I think that some of the park visitors thought--when they saw me leave the pond with Fred--that I was stealing a duck.

But while Fred didn't really mind the visits to the pond, when we tried to leave him there for real, he flipped out.

"Breathe deep. They didn't abandon you, they're just... oh god, they did!!!"

"Where's the car... where's the car...?"

"Hell no, I won't go in the water. Take me home! NOW!"

We really did drive away and leave him there at the park, but when we turned around to check and confirm that he would be A-okay... he was marching determinedly through the parking lot, headed for the street. Looking for us.

I could just imagine him getting hit by a car while searching for us. We took him back home and decided to go with Plan B.

We got a female duck that he could shower his "affections" on.

This was back before the days of widespread high speed Internet and all the online search tools we take for granted nowadays. Even Petfinder was a pretty newfangled thing. So duck adoption didn't really occur to us; instead, we went to the local feed store and picked out an adult female Pekin duck from their cramped, dirty cages. I picked the most pathetic one.

Daphne was a shy, quiet duck. She could barely walk and didn't know how to swim, and she was filthy from being in close quarters with two dozen other ducks. A bunch of her tail and wing feathers were broken. When I set her down in the backyard for the first time, she didn't move. She didn't understand any of it.

None of this mattered to Fred. He fell in love with Daphne instantly. Our toes became old news, much to our relief.

And Fred turned out to be a sensitive fellow after all. He didn't shower attention on Daphne; he gave her the space and time she needed to adjust to this strange new world. After she had learned to waddle around, he put on amazing splashing displays for her in the baby pool while she watched from the ground.

Fred and I worked together to teach Daphne to swim. Each day, I held her afloat in the baby pool for a short while, letting her paddle her weak legs. Fred spent hours and hours floating and splashing, demonstrating the joys of the water, as if to encourage her. Finally, one day she walked up the wooden plank herself and eased into the water. Fred honked and splashed so loudly I ran outside prepared to chase off a predator, but after seeing Daphne in the water by herself, I cheered along with Fred.

One day we had a huge rainstorm that flooded our entire yard. This was a real treat for the ducks! They had their own private lake for two days.

Having gotten over his desire to bite and hump everyone all the time, Fred learned to play fetch with dogs. He couldn't bring the ball back, but he ran with the group and fought for--and usually won--the ball. Then he would push it all over the yard in a victory celebration.

I sincerely regret not getting that on camera.

Daphne never got over her shyness, but she didn't like to go far from Fred. So she hung around while Fred and the dogs played fetch.

Fred was pretty famous among the neighbors. Whenever they had visitors over, you can bet they would take the visitors out to peer through the chain link fence and see what Fred was up to.

Even though we loved the ducks, we still felt they would be happier living somewhere with a big pond to swim in. The baby pool just didn't seem sufficient. So we kept our ears open for a good home.

One day Byrd met a nice older couple who had just bought a big piece of land with a pond, and wanted some ducks to swim around in the pond. So Fred and Daphne went to live with these people.

This all happened about nine years ago, and I'm sure Fred is gone from this world by now. But that crazy duck won't ever be forgotten.

And your total comes to...

Way too much. That's how much money I've spent on pets in the last 30 days.

Between Star's classes, Peepers's pox, and Dozer's allergies and TPLO surgery (1/2 down, and 1/2 next week), I've probably spent $2K. This doesn't count the dogs' new collars (bought before I knew two pets would need major vet visits) and all the dog treats for class.

The remodeling job costs money, of course, even if Byrd is doing it himself. And since the walls aren't yet insulated and sheetrocked, a good chunk of the air pouring from our brand new (expensive) A/C is cooling the bugs and birds outside. So the electric bill is higher than normal, but at least we're animal friendly!

I'd give credit to the veggie garden for reducing our grocery bills, except that it's only producing squash right now. And Byrd hates squash. And our water bill has gone up. (Welcome to Texas summertime, where searing afternoon heat ensures vegetable garden demise without adequate water.) At least the ornamental plants in the front garden are drought-hardy and native.

Let's not bring up the 30th birthdays of myself and my best bud, less than a week away, for which we had hoped to go to Schlitterbahn (are you too old for Schlitterbahn at age 30? Byrd says yes, I say never) and/or have a nice dinner at a fancy food place. And Father's Day, also a nice dinner event.

To make matters worse, I am without a contract job this month, so Byrd is the only income source. This will change on July 15, when my next job starts.

And the money earned from that job will be eliminated by a two-week vacation to Oregon in August.

I suppose this steady money-suck could explain why Byrd looks a bit tense lately.

At least blogging is free.

The Prairie Dogs

Now, before I say anything about the prairie dogs, I want to emphasize that prairie dogs are wild animals and really do belong in the wild, in a prairie dog town, doing happy prairie dog things.

This is a realization that I had after having my own "pet" prairie dogs. But when I got my first prairie dog, I was just starting college, working at an exotic pet store at the time, and had yet to really grasp the differences between domesticated animals and wild animals (and working at the pet store didn't help at all).


So, for many years, I had prairie dogs: Penny, Humphrey, and Prince. I even spent the money to get them all neutered (Humphrey showing off his shaved belly and his stitches, below).


We were remodeling the house at the time, so I turned one of the hallways into a prairie dog park of sorts.


Prairie dogs mostly eat, sleep, make a lot of noise, and CHEW. Penny really did destroy my homework one time. It was a Japanese class worksheet. My professor (who was Japanese) was very confused when I apologized for the half-eaten assignment by saying "The prairie dog ate it."
Even though the prairie dogs were basically oversized rodents, they loved attention from the dogs, and vice versa. My dog Fel (on the left) and our roommate's dog Taz (on the right) liked to clean them up as if they were little puppies.

All clean...

Little clawed foot in the eye -- ouchie.

Please don't chew on my tail!

I don't recommend prairie dogs as pets, even though I have fond memories of them. They are wild animals, and therefore about as messy, disobedient, and obnoxious as any wild rodent might be when stuck in a house. People who buy prairie dogs as pets usually end up getting rid of them fairly quickly when they find out how much work these little guys require (and how much mess they make!).

My new project: photos

I have a month off between now and my next job, so I've decided to spend some time scanning in old photos. Then I'll share the stories and photos here. You're in for a treat.

No, no, don't run away! It won't be boring. Assuming the following topics intrigue you:

Rescued annoying blue jay
Rescued humping duck
Prairie dogs
Heartwarming tale of my dog rescuing a cat
Mentally impaired lizard
Me attacking Byrd with a rake
Monkeys in Japan

Sounds like good times, huh?

A confession

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I never wanted a pit bull.

At least, not at first. Heck, I never wanted a dog. This all changed when Felanie was somewhat forced on me by circumstances. After she opened new avenues for me, broke down the walls in my mind and heart, and basically changed my entire life for the better, we got Dozer.

We got Dozer because he was a pit bull (even though, it turns out, he wasn't really) and I hoped to have the same experiences with him that I did with Fel. It is certainly the case that Dozer taught me even more about patience, understanding, and individuality, even if he didn't offer any new insights--he just reinforced the things Fel had already shown me.

But that wasn't the confession.

This is: For years, off and on, I've actually looked forward to the day when I would be pit bull-less again. I've repeatedly thought, "When my pit bulls die, I will replace them with something other than pit bulls." I have often wished secretly that my dogs were not pit bulls.

When I get tired of the struggles of pit bull ownership--the stigma, the stereotypes, the nasty comments from total strangers, the innocent-yet-hurtful comments from friends and family, the constant fight against legalized discrimination (BSL), the nonstop educational efforts (when you're a responsible pit bull owner, you know that every public excursion is an educational effort)--sometimes I just wish I had "easier" dogs. Dogs that people would look at and smile at and just accept, like a Lab or a Collie. Dogs that wouldn't make people think I'm a drug dealer, a thug, trailer trash, a mortgage-defaulting liar (no joke), or a gang member.

So when Fel got cancer a little over a year ago, I thought, "When I'm ready for a new dog, it won't be a pit bull. I'll get something else. A dog I don't have to fight for all the time. A dog that I don't have to justify owning. Something easy."

Then Fel died. Nine months later, I finally started looking for a new dog.

I wasn't looking for a pit bull. Not at first, anyway.

Yet, after I had carefully thought about and listed my criteria for my next dog and I knew what I was looking for in my next companion, I found myself drawn to the pit bulls at the shelter. While other people were cooing at the yappy Dachshund puppies or the jumping Jack Russell Terrier or the big goofy Lab, I was baby-talking to the butt-wiggling, grunting, grinning pit bulls.

My attempts to choose a dog other than a pit bull became increasingly feeble. This pit bull had a sweet smile, that pit bull was a good candidate for agility, and that one over there had obviously had a rough time and just wanted a quiet home of its own.

To be fair, I perused all the other types of dogs at the shelter. I did not want another pit bull! But that Dalmatian mix was deaf, the Lab mix shedded like crazy, that terrier was waaaay too hyper, and that really cute whatever-it-was pulled so hard on the leash, I couldn't walk it.

And so we got Star. A "pit bull." (I guess.) Even though I really didn't want another one.

Why? Maybe it's because, subconsciously, I know that the pleasures and positives of pit bull ownership ultimately outweigh the hardships. Or perhaps it's because I don't want to betray Felanie's memory by taking the easy way out, by giving up the fight even when I no longer have a stake in the outcome, by letting the bigots and the haters win. Or maybe it was selfish; Star looks a bit like Felanie, after all. Or maybe I just enjoy the stress and pain of discrimination. I don't know.

But it's clear I'm going to own pit bulls from now on. Even when I don't really want to.

Meetup fun

Yesterday Star and I went to a Love-A-Bull meetup downtown.

There were quite a lot of other dogs there, some friendly, some not so much. It was all good, though. One of Star's problems is that she loves to rush up to any dog that she sees. After a few encounters with less-friendly dogs, Star slowed down quite a bit.

As our group took a walk through downtown, Star pulled on the leash like crazy. All loose-leash training had evaporated. This is another thing I'm going to have to work on: loose-leash while walking with others.

This was helpful socialization and a good opportunity to train for the CGC. We're having a mock CGC next weekend and this will help me pinpoint where Star needs the most work.

Peanut butter

This is how we tell the difference between the "dog peanut butter" and the "human peanut butter" in our house.


God forbid the lids get swapped somehow.

Eight pages down...

So much for one page a day. I've finished about eight pages of the new Stop BSL site since swearing an oath a few weeks ago to get the dang thing done. And while I'm pleased with the way it is coming out, I'm not pleased with how long it is taking me to research and write the new material.

The Internet nowadays is both a blessing and a curse. I can find pretty much any information I want... but the hard part is finding the source. Sites cite sites cite sites, but nobody seems to be able to identify the original source for the material. I've found dozens of sites using a particular statistic that doesn't seem to actually come from anywhere. It just appeared one day, and has been in play ever since.

And that doesn't fly for me. I've done the whole college thing, written my fair share of research papers, and been dealing with dog-related information for just under a decade now. I've seen my fair share of made-up "facts" and twisted statistics; I'm happy to trash anything that doesn't have backup documentation to go with it, even if it seemingly supports my argument.

Not that the Internet is entirely to blame. I've found some astonishingly bad "facts" in books, too, which makes my trips to the public library that much more time-consuming (and pointless, especially since I can find the same bad information if I stay home and get online).

And danged if all that trashing and sifting and weeding and selecting and searching doesn't take an ungodly amount of time. But what can I do? I'm picky about what I publish.

Some days I wish I was dealing with an easier subject. I know a lot about ducks...

No more crates

The dog crates are folded up in the guest bathroom (aka storage closet). For years, they were fixtures, pieces of furniture that always had to be considered when rearranging a room or starting the next phase of a remodeling project. My husband would say, "Let's extend the upstairs loft and make it a real second story." And I would say, "Sure, but what about the dog crates? I suppose we could put them in the dining room..." But no more.

No, no, the dogs are still here. They used to stay in the crates, separated, when we went to work. Felanie had a soft mesh crate that was really just for show (in fact, I left the top flap open and she never bothered to jump out), a way of reassuring Dozer that he wasn't the only one required to stay put. Dozer had a solid, thick wire crate; he was a Houdini, but the metal was stronger than he was.

But one day my husband commented, "Dozer hasn't chewed a windowsill or power cord since he was a puppy. The dogs have never been in a fight, not in all seven years, not so much as a grumble exchanged between them. Felanie is the laziest old lady in the world, and Dozer follows her every move (when he's not following yours). We've never caught the dogs on the sofa at any point in time; I don't think they even realize that it's physically possible to touch the couch. Why are we crating them again?"

So we're giving it a trial run. The dogs are both loose during the day. Let me be clear, this is NOT something I recommend for everyone with multiple dogs, especially multiple pit bulls. Especially with younger pit bulls in a less stable pack, this could easily lead to disaster--a bloody fight, and no one home to stop it. But both of my dogs are old (Fel is nine, Dozer is seven) and their ranks in the "pack" are completely stable. Felanie is a senior dog and is totally uninterested in any sort of physical roughness, and I know that Dozer, though he himself is rather rambunctious and uninhibited, has always shown great concern for the well-being of Felanie. He respects her immensely; he may be the "chief," but she's the village elder.

Yes, it's still a risk, but it's a small one, and one I'm willing to take. Dozer and Felanie both seem happier about it, and I have to say, it's cut their barking (through the front window, at strangers walking by) down to almost nothing. It's as if they now realize that people walk past all day long, and gee, it's really not a big deal after all. So far, it seems that they spend the whole day sleeping in the dining room, waiting for us to come home. We haven't found any chewed windowsills, underwear with mysterious holes (another of Dozer's old favorites), food missing from the counter tops, dishes shattered on the floor, or dog fur on the couch. So far. Five months and counting.

To be honest, I expect the kitchen garbage to be the first victim of this experiment, it being so enticingly smelly, nose level, and easily tipped. Then I suppose we'll have to rethink the crate thing again.

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.