Felanie has passed away

I am sad to say that Felanie “Pretty Girl” Thomas, TT, age 10, passed away today (February 29). Fel was a sweet, shy, gentle dog with a very big heart and lots of love to give.

Throughout the eight years Fel spent as a part of our small family, she gathered up a handful of obedience and agility class diplomas and a Temperament Tested (TT) title, but I will most remember her for the way she was able to educate and inspire the people around her. Felanie gave me a passion and a purpose in life, motivated me to get a master’s degree, and challenged me to be a more forgiving, more open-minded, more thoughtful individual.

Fel was an integral part of our family and she is dearly missed here on earth, but we are comforted by the thought that she is already romping (in a very dainty, ladylike way, of course) in doggy heaven.

For those who may wish to make a donation in Felanie’s name, please consider Pit Bull Rescue Central (http://www.pbrc.net/) or the Humane Society of Williamson County (http://www.hswc.net/).

‘Til we meet again, pretty princess…

Jennifer, Byrd, and little bro Dozer

Site update and a sad walk

This weekend I accomplished two things. One, I updated the photo album on the Happy Pit Bull website. That took me -- no joke -- eight solid hours of work. I had sixty photos to post! I love getting photos from site visitors, make no mistake. I just wish there was an easier way to get them onto the site.

The second thing I did was take Felanie on a walk. That was extremely depressing. The weather was gorgeous and poor Felanie (and Dozer, too, but he's not dying, so frankly, he's getting a bit less attention) had been stuck in the house for weeks due to cold, wet weather.

So we went out to get some sun and exercise, and that's when I finally realized my dog is getting to the end. I didn't even need the head halter, a "first" in the eight years we've been together. I can hardly even call what we did a "walk"; it was more of an amble or a dawdle. She trailed behind me the whole way, panting and waddling determinedly, but clearly working hard just to move forward. She didn't want to let me down.

At the end of the walk--during which we saw a cat, a train, and some cotton plants, all of which were interesting but not particularly compelling for Felanie--I actually had to help her get over the train tracks to head back home. These tracks are maybe eight inches high. She got over the first rail with a bit of sliding, but only her front feet went over the second rail, and then she stopped and sighed heavily, and looked down at the ground. I had to lift her hind end up over the last rail. This contrasted painfully with my memories of her agility days, when she leapt so gracefully over objects that were two feet high or higher.

When we got home, she had a big drink and flopped down to take a nap. I gave her a gentle pet and a kiss on the head, and told her what a good job she did.

Today I caught up with the 21st century

Today I bought an MP3 player. That's right, folks, the nerdy technical communicator, with a home-built computer and more peripherals than she can count on one hand, had yet to join the herd, but today she became a member of the in-crowd.

I guess I should say, yesterday I bought the MP3 player. That would be technically correct, seeing that it is 2:30 AM on Monday morning (happy MLK Day, btw). I have not made it to bed because of the dang MP3 player; it has taken me almost four hours to set up.

First I had to rip a ton of CDs. Then I had to fix my Windows Media Player, which was not only still stuck in version 9 (should have been 11 by now), but had been nonfunctional for months (what can I say, I'm a Winamp gal). By nonfunctional, I mean totally, utterly, uninstall-then-reinstall broken. Then I had to figure out why my computer wasn't recognizing the player. Then I had to watch a few how-to videos to learn how to get the MP3 player and Windows Media Player to cooperate together and transfer the music files without a big fuss (too late for that).

But all the trouble was worth it. Come Tuesday morning, I will be up in the digitals room poring over print-ready pages for eight music-filled hours (most of which will probably be Queen, since I apparently have ten hours worth of Queen and not much else). Speaking of which, if I don't get to bed now, I might sleep right through my precious day off! Laterz...

Selfish? Nah...

Dozer went on a hunger strike, sort of. Well, what he was really doing was just not eating his breakfast. This was perplexing to me, because Dozer usually goes on hunger strike when he feels that he has been slighted somehow, and I was left scratching my head as, each morning, he stood over his filled food bowl and gave me a mournful gaze of pitiful disinterest. Of course, by evening he was so hungry that he ate breakfast and dinner all together, like a starved beast, so it was not a real hunger strike.

I thought, at first, that Dozer was upset because Felanie (who is on medication that makes her pee constantly) had to be baby-gated into the kitchen during the day. Dozer, meanwhile, was free to roam the house, except the bedroom, which I kept closed off because otherwise Dozer would sleep on our bed while we were not home. But that didn't make sense to me; Dozer was the one getting the special treat of freedom, not the other way around. Nothing to pout about there. Then I thought perhaps Dozer realized that Felanie had cancer, and he was so sad about it that he didn't feel like eating. But when he continued to act like a big selfish buffoon during playtime (he loves to yank toys right out of Fel's mouth, and the poor old dog can't do a thing about it), I put that idea out of my mind. He couldn't be that sad about Fel if he's such a jerk to her. (In fact, I doubt either of them has any idea something's wrong with Fel.)

Then one morning, as I dumped Felanie's two pills (one to slow the cancer but increase the peeing, and one to stop the peeing) into her food, I realized that Dozer, who was still waiting for his breakfast, was watching me carefully... and drooling... and licking his lips. I thought he was over his pout, so I gave him his portion of food with a flourish--and the excitement faded from his eyes, and he glared at me sullenly.

It took me a moment to put two and two together. But suddenly I knew how he was being unfairly treated, and I knew why he was pouting. Felanie was getting medication, and he wasn't!

So I took an empty pill bottle, filled it with dog food, and made a big show of taking a piece of kibble from the bottle and dropping it into Dozer's food. The kibble instantly became indistinct from every other piece of kibble in the bowl, but Dozer didn't care. Satisfied that he was also getting a "special treat" in his food (whatever it was), the D gobbled down his breakfast without hesitation.

Score one for Mommy, score... well, score one for Dozer too. Clever, selfish little brat! :)

Invasion of the Ladybugs, Day 35

As a child, I thought about becoming an entomologist (a bug scientist), and it's probably that love of bugs that keeps me from freaking out everytime I enter my office.

We have a bug problem. A ladybug problem. Specifically, in my office.

What is it about my office, with its eastward-facing wall and window on the second floor of our house, that lures these poor things? Right now I have about 24 ladybugs cruising across the wall, the windowshades, and the ceiling. They are crawling on my fan blades and its beaded pull chain. Dozens of little corpses stud my carpet like little red jewels (I need to vacuum, but I don't want to suck up the ones that are still alive!). They fly past me as I type, and they land on poor Dozer, who leaps to his feet and starts sniffing the tickly spot.

Why are they here? What do they hope to accomplish? They are only starving to death.

Byrd and I searched the house, trying to figure out where they were coming in, but to no avail. They keep showing up, and even as the older ones die, new ones arrive to take their place. The first few days, I knocked the ladybugs off the wall, into a little box, and took them outside, but by now, I see the futility of that effort.

Perhaps I should go find a plant covered in tasty aphids and bring it upstairs...

Sometimes, Responsibility Means Saying "No" to Your Heart

My husband had business (of the remodeling type) at an exotic pet store a few weeks ago, so I tagged along to pet the bunnies and the bearded dragons. I've had the pleasure (or displeasure, in some cases) of owning and caring for quite a variety of types of animals over the years, and although today I'm primarily a dog-lover, I still like to interact with other kinds of critters and reminisce about the old days.

But imagine my surprise to see a miniature potbellied piglet in a large tank at the front of the store! He was about the size of an adult cat, pale pink with white hair, curled up in a comfy nest of shavings. I cautiously (okay, maybe not so cautiously, but he was so cute!) put my hand in the tank (Does he bite? Will it hurt?), and we proceeded to take turns terrifying each other. The baby pig jumped and dashed about, trying to avoid my giant looming hand, and when he turned to sniff my fingers, I jerked my hand back out of fear (Is he going to bite me?).

After a bit of this frightening back-and-forth, I became convinced that I could outmaneuver any biting on his part, so I boldly started to pet him on his back and the side of his face. The pig, on the other hand, froze like a deer in headlights. I knew the poor thing was scared, but he was soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo cute, I selfishly couldn't stop petting him.

Then my inner eight-year-old came out. "Can I have him?" I begged my husband. "Please? He's so cute! I heard that pigs are just like dogs, and they can be housetrained and taught to do tricks and all sorts of things like that. Please? PLEEEEEEEEASE?" My husband, not swayed by the adorable porcine snout rooting in the shavings, nor the adorable grunts, nor the tiny adorable feet with tiny adorable toenails, said flatly: "No."

Thinking I could come up with a better pro-pig argument if I had some solid scientific facts, I asked the store staff for a book on miniature pigs. This they supplied to me with a flourish, and I sat on the floor and read the book while my husband conducted his business with the owners.

By the end of the book, I no longer wanted a miniature pig.

Due to the book's thorough and informative contents, I had a better understanding of the requirements for pig ownership--and they were not the sort of requirements I was prepared to meet. I didn't want to do the work or make the lifestyle changes necessary to enjoy a pig (and for the pig to enjoy me).

Sometimes an animal is so cute that it's almost impossible to resist the temptation to plunk down some money and walk off with it. But it's neither responsible nor humane to do that without first knowing what you're getting into--and being willing to take on those responsibilities. If you're put in this same position, here are some tips for "quelling the cute":

• Find an ownership book immediately and read it immediately.
• Do not ask a store employee to tell you about the pet. Their job is to sell it to you; they aren't going to be honest and forthright about drawbacks (and keep in mind that store employees may not have much experience about the pets they're selling in the first place).
• Imagine the pet urinating all over your carpet (replace with your bed if you have bare floors).
• If you are still determined to get the pet (or one like it), FOSTER ONE FIRST. That is, contact a rescue group and sign up as a foster home. Try owning this kind of pet on a temporary basis before you take a plunge that will last for the lifetime of the pet, which may live a decade or more.
• Always remember, this isn't the last cute pet you are ever going to see. There are THOUSANDS of adorable kittens and puppies in animal shelters across the country waiting for homes. If you aren't ready for a pet, wait. When you're ready to take on a pet, trust me--another absolutely adorable critter will be there waiting for you.

One good thing did come out of reading the book: I learned how to pet a miniature pig. You gently rub a pig on its belly and chin, and it rolls over on its back, closes its eyes, and grunts happily.

The worst possible news

Felanie, my favorite old lady dog, has lymphoma. Lymphoma is not curable, and Fel will probably pass away within a few months. Although my husband and I understand that treatments like chemotherapy could prolong her life, we feel that her quality of life is far more important than quantity, and we do not think prolonging her life will improve its quality greatly. Remember, she is ten years old (a full life for a big dog) and has had other health problems for several years now. As a friend of mine put it (and I would like to think of it), Felanie is really dying of old age.

Anyone who has visited my Happy Pit Bull website probably knows that Felanie has played a major role in my life. Please rest assured that her life's work has not been in vain; I intend to continue with my websites, my writings, and my efforts for years to come.

Though it fills me with pain and dread to think about how soon I will have to say goodbye, I'm eternally grateful for the many wonderful years we spent together. Felanie is truly a once-in-a-lifetime gift from the heavens, and I intend to treasure every last minute with her!

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.

New site launched as school gets underway

I got the new Happy Pit Bull site launched... sort of.

The new design is there, the old material is (mostly) there, and the new material has started going up, slowly but surely. I love the new design and navigation (though I'm still trying to figure out why the initial loading of the menu bar occurs so slowly). I'm excited about the new material, too.

But school had to start again. And guess what my final project is - a website redesign for a charity! Alas, I don't have a 501(c)3 for my website, though it is my personal contribution toward making the world a better place. But as it happens, I am webmaster for the HSWC, so my final project involves redoing their website.

I seriously can't handle a full-time job and two site redesign projects at the same time. The amount of writing involved for both websites are equivalent to two more full-time jobs. I kid you not. The work I did on Happy Pit Bull over the summer left me feeling as though I had written another senior thesis.

So I must prioritize. Happy Pit Bull, unfortunately, has to sit on the back burner while I get my butt out of college! Once I graduate, with my master's degree clutched in my sweaty, carpal-tunnel-syndrome-ridden fists, I will resume my heart's work on the Happy Pit Bull website.

In the meantime, if anyone has any suggestions for fixing the slow-loading menu bar over at HPB... I'd appreciate the insight.

Yes, I promise - the new Happy Pit Bull site is coming!

I have been laboring over the new Happy Pit Bull site for several weeks now, basically rushing home from working at a computer for eight hours, just to sit down at the computer and start typing for another eight hours. I am writing tons of new material and rewriting a good chunk of the old stuff. Site visitors' emails (questions and comments) have helped me to determine what sort of material I need to add, though I admit it's partly self-serving, because I get tired of having to write the same answers over and over. I could save a lot of time if my site just covered the question in the first place!

The eye strain and headaches have driven me nearly mad, but I'm determined to get the new site live by the time classes start. My only class this semester involves... a site redesign! I will be redesigning the website for the Humane Society of Williamson County (www.hswc.net), which I am completely in charge of as their humble webmaster. So my Happy Pit Bull site redesign accomplishes two things: one, it's necessary for the site itself, and two, I am learning new things in terms of design so that I can create a really sweet site for the HSWC in the next few months.

I'm proud to announce that I have learned the mysteries of rollover and dropdown menu bars, so navigation will be greatly improved. Further, I have learned my lesson about dumping all the site files into a single folder. It's fine for sites with six or seven pages, but definitely not okay for sites with 48 pages and several hundred images (which my new and improved HPB site will have).

Anyway, it's now very late and I have a terrible headache after hours of poring over material and squinting at my computer screen (which is actually rather large but also very bright). So I'll be back at it again tomorrow, but for now, I'm signing off.

The Pit Bull Placebo: Go forth and purchase!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

• 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

Seeing (and hearing) one MySpace page like this was enough to give me a headache. It was all I could do not to grab the phone, call my senator, and demand legislation to protect me from such vulgar displays of bad design. What I found even worse was the fact that corporations also have their own MySpace pages (sometimes multiple pages) and despite having oodles of money to pour into a decent design, their pages were no better than the rest of the rabble. Adult Swim's MySpace page (well, one of them) was full of comments from visitors that were 90% advertisements for things like credit cards, cell phone plans, and penis enlargement pills. No stylish layout, no cool images, not even any apparent marketing for Adult Swim shows -- just a bunch of garbage.

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.

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?

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

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:

• 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

Since Houston is three hours away, I needed to work with the Houston center and my Austin-based eye doctor to figure out when I would be in Houston and when I could go to my regular eye doctor. It was complicated! I had to set up two overnight stays in Houston at a hotel. I also had to find someone to come with me to Houston because I was not allowed to drive after the tests (they dilated my eyes) or the surgery (due to sedation and blurry vision).

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

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.

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

Here's the summary.... The cat starts the fire and, to make matters worse, won't leave the burning house. The dog, on the other hand, saves her owner and apparently tries to get the cat out too (though I'm not sure how the dog thought she was going to do that). Sadly, both cat and dog die in the 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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

Richard Stratton Is A

I reread Richard Stratton's pit bull books with great reluctance the other day because I needed to refresh my memory. The first time I read "The Truth About Pit Bulls", almost four years ago, I was still new to the pit bull scene and struggling to understand what I had gotten into. The book left me with a bad taste in my mouth, but Stratton had decades (five decades by now) of personal experience with pit bulls, which was far more than I had at the time. I couldn't understand why his books made me feel so uncomfortable, but I was in no position to argue.

The second time around, with several more years of research under my belt, I finally get it. I'm still searching for an appropriate analogy, but reading Stratton's books to learn about pit bulls is like asking a pedophile about proper child care. A pedophile can claim to be an "expert" on children ("been handling them for decades, now"), but do you honestly want to take his advice? Would you really raise him to a professional status, quote him in the paper, and use his "experience" to create public policy regarding childrearing?

Sure, Stratton knows about pit bulls, but his knowledge (and his interest in pit bulls) seems to be limited to an unrepentant glee for dog fighting. His books are filled with what can only be described as a macho desire to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the American Pit Bull Terrier can beat the tar out of any other dog breed or wild animal on the planet. His "charming" stories - the ones that are meant to persuade the reader that pit bulls are great dogs - consist almost entirely of tales about dogs managing to get loose and fighting with or killing another animal. Aww, how sweet. Stratton does not value dogs for their cuddle factor; dogs are only worthy of his love and admiration if they are capable of winning a fight.

The photos in Stratton's books are primarily purebred fighting dogs. The photo captions never fail to point out fight champions. In a handful of photos, the dog is being hugged or cuddled or played with, but the vast majority of the pictures are of a dog on a heavy chain, or "stacked" in a show pose, or straining against a thick leash. The dogs are not portrayed as sweet or clever or social. They are all faceless backyard kennel dogs churned out by dog fighters.

In one passage in "The Truth About Pit Bulls", Stratton hopes to "impress" his audience by describing a pit bull fight with a ferocious wild animal (a lion if I recall correctly but I'm not going to dig into the book again until I start writing my own book). Upon reading this passage, I did not feel impressed at all; rather, I felt nauseous. What kind of audience is attracted to pit bulls by hearing tales of animals tearing each other apart for human entertainment? Violent, sick, antisocial individuals - and Stratton, apparently.

Needless to say, Stratton has done serious damage to the image of the pit bull breed-type. He has managed to gain a respected "expert" status despite his loud support for the cruel and illegal act of dog fighting. His books have been used time and time again to "prove" that pit bulls are inherently vicious and different (stronger, more dangerous) than other breeds or types of dogs - even though Stratton's writings are clearly geared toward an audience of dog fighters and lowlifes (or at least, people who are "impressed" by fighting). Using Stratton's words as evidence that pit bulls are somehow different from other dogs is like using a Ford commercial's script as scientific proof that Fords are "the best in Texas". Are we really so blind that we cannot see past the bias and the sensationalism?

Stratton claims to be an expert on pit bulls, but he's not the kind of "expert" I will ever take seriously. His beliefs about proper care of pit bulls - and treatment of dogs in general - are, for lack of a better phrase, totally whack. Anyone who judges a dog's worthiness based on its willingness to beat the crap out of another animal should be considered a criminal, not an expert.

Old But Still Good

Since my last post was pretty depressing, I'd like to share some good news in this post. The "bump" on Felanie's head is not a tumor! It is a tiny cyst of some sort, and it's harmless. This is great news, especially considering the expenses we have already incurred (and the panic we felt) when she had two little tumors removed last year, one right after the other.

When this little lump showed up on Fel's head a few months ago, all I could think was "Oh no, not again!" It's funny that Felanie, who has been through a lot of torture at the vet (ears cropped, spayed, tail docked, two tumor removals, nail trimmings, teeth cleanings, etc.), still really loves going there, while Dozer, who visits the vet only rarely - usually just for the yearly checkup - absolutely despises the place. Felanie dances in circles and waggles her stubby tail and kisses everyone and whines happily... and Dozer just moans and trembles and slinks around as if the vet office was a haunted house.

At any rate, the little cyst is apparently a sign of aging and nothing more - much like the proliferating brown specks on Felanie's skin, which is apparently the canine equivalent of elderly humans' "liver spots". Felanie is almost eight years old now, and she has the gray-haired muzzle and "little old lady" grace to match. She even moves around like an old lady - sort of slow and dainty - albeit an overweight old lady since she currently has what I call a "hot dog" body style. (Her waistline is barely noticeable.) Fel's hips are slowly going bad, aggravated by hip dysplasia, and this slows her down even more. And I honestly think she is starting to lose her sense of hearing. My recent offhand comment to Dozer about "foodies" (our term for dinner time) did not bring Felanie out of the bedroom until I practically shouted "foody!". Meanwhile, Dozer looked puzzled: "Um, you don't need to yell, I totally heard you. Didn't you see me do the happy foody time dance? Maybe not... let me do it again just in case..."

Still, Felanie's age, if anything, makes her more fun to be around. She knows the household rules and is content to abide by them. She knows our daily routine. She is quiet and calm, not clingy or overbearing or pushy. She's even catlike enough that my mom, who doesn't like dogs in general, loves Felanie. I have fond memories of agility and obedience classes with her, where she was truly a star. At her age, though, Fel is content to sit around and sleep most of the day, and she doesn't need or demand exercise the way Dozer does. Her day is made with plenty of hugs and pats and cheerful praise.

As they say, age only makes a fine wine better. I love my "old lady" dog!

Deadly Wrecks and Depression

My precious husband is working on the highway at night this week, deeply ensconced in the nightmarish construction project at I-35 and SH-45. Since they have to close various lanes and pieces of the highway in order to get the work done, to keep traffic congestion and crisis to a minimum, this sort of activity occurs in the middle of the night... ironically when the "fewer" (not much fewer - it's I-35!) drivers on the road are most likely to be wasted and/or half asleep.

Clark, unfortunately, has seen more than his fair share of wrecks, including fatal ones, in his line of work. The strange traffic conditions provoked by construction (lane closures, traffic jams, machinery and workers everywhere), combined with the standard nighttime driving dangers, create an extremely treacherous environment where one mistake can mean catastrophe. Toss in a drunk or distracted driver and you are almost guaranteed a wreck.

Sometimes, Clark is one of the first on the scene due to his proximity to the road. He has seen horrific crashes. Once, he used a pocket knife to saw off a woman's seat belt in an attempt to extract her from her mangled vehicle and begin CPR; she was rapidly turning blue and ultimately died in his arms. Last night he saw a motorcyclist crushed by a drunk driver. The motorcyclist had stopped behind an 18 wheeler, but the woman coming up behind him was still going 60 mph on impact. I felt like crying when Clark reported impassively that the motorcyclist didn't die instantly, and rescue workers struggled to keep him alive for almost 30 minutes.

Clark's stories are always depressing, and the burdens he bears, the horrific things he has witnessed, build up inside of him and torture him. He doesn't like to talk about his feelings very much, and his pain comes out in angry outbursts, startling mood swings, statements of depression and worthlessness, and a look in his eyes that is difficult to describe... one that bears witness to suffering on a scale not experienced by many. Emergency workers and police officers can also become cynical and hardened... but in the name of resilience and health they have access to professional training and crisis counseling, things which are not made readily available to Clark. Clark is an electrician.

To add insult to injury, passing motorists often curse at Clark and throw objects at him and his crew as if they were solely responsible for the traffic jam, the closed lanes, and the construction. My husband and his crew may be blue collar workers, but they are out on the road risking life and limb to do their job, often in circumstances that most of us wouldn't dare attempt (you try fixing a traffic signal while hovering in a tiny bucket 30 feet in the air, with traffic roaring directly underneath you!), and often under adverse conditions like 100 degree heat, scorching sun, and sudden downpours.

Motorists, at least, have air conditioning and heat, air bags, seat belts, and tons of metal surrounding and protecting them. Motorists can listen to the radio and, even more importantly, they can sit down while they "suffer" through a little delay due to a lane closure. My husband and his crew are on their feet, sweating in the sun, dangerously close to fast-moving traffic, doing hard physical and mental labor all day (or night) long.

Before this devolves into some sort of preachy lesson about safe driving, I'll stop here. But I hope you will stop and think about my husband and his crew the next time you drive through a construction zone. Slow down and stay vigilant. Bad crashes affect more than just auto drivers and passengers; they take a heavy mental toll on everyone, from emergency workers to witnesses. I would give anything to see a flicker of innocence and freedom in my husband's eyes, but his dreams, hopes, and faith have been torn to shreds by the horrific images burned into his brain for the rest of his life.

Late at night, I lie in bed alone, the telephone at my left hand, and I worry. How long will it be before I get that fateful telephone call, the one that beckons me to my husband's side at the hospital? It is my worst fear... my worst nightmare. It is a totally unpredictable event and I will never be prepared for it. I can only hope and pray that it will never happen. Each night, I kiss him goodbye and say "Please be careful." Each morning, I sigh with relief when I hear his truck in the driveway. And when he tells me about the horrible car crash last night, the carnage he saw, the dead body and the spurting blood and splattered brains, I stay quiet and attentive because he needs me to listen, but my heart is weak and I want to cry and scream... Thank God it wasn't him lying there on the pavement.

Can Dog Food be Cheap and Healthy?

I recently switched dog food. The switch was inspired by recent readings that rated different brands of dog food. To my great surprise, the Costco brand - Kirkland's - was rated one of the best brands. If you are not familiar with high-quality dog food (shame if you're not!), well, it usually costs around $40 for a 40 lb bag. Kirkland's dog food only costs around $17. So it was a great surprise to me that Kirkland's could be considered so healthy yet still be so incredibly inexpensive.

Naturally I'm highly suspicious of the reading that gave Kirkland's such a high score. Was it a typo? An intentional sleight-of-hand? Or is it really that great? I couldn't resist the urge to find out; I decided to test the food.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for me, my dogs both have sensitive skin and stomachs. The wrong type of food, as we discovered, results in itchy, gaseous dogs. High quality food keeps the dogs feeling (and smelling) good. For a very long time we have fed them Sensible Choice dog food - expensive but with results well worth the price.

Now they have almost finished their first bag of Kirkland's brand dog food. Is it going to be good enough? Will it keep them from irritated, itchy rashes and random acts of fart? I really hope so, because the price is fantastic. The money saved by the food change can be used on other initiatives, like my websites, my research, donations to the Humane Society, and so forth.

Recently, though, Dozer has developed some sort of rough, scabby area under his chin. Since neither of the dogs are gaseous so far, I'm waiting to see if Dozer's rash goes away after a bath, indicating some sort of environmental factor rather than food. Like many white dogs he has sensitive skin that can be easily irritated by things like grass, bug bites, and even too much sun.