Names of toys

An anonymous poster asks how Dozer learned the names of his toys. It's a really good question, since this particular skill can be expanded upon in a variety of ways (such as when we ask Dozer to find and put up his toys).

To put it simply, we never formally taught Dozer the names of his toys. But Dozer spends the vast majority of his time with us, and we speak to him constantly; he is utterly selfish, and will eagerly learn something that he might use to gain food or entertainment; and he is extremely toy driven.

Very early on, I spent a lot of time saying the name of each toy whenever we played with it. Sort of a nonstop babble: "Oh, you brought the rope. What a nice rope. Whose rope is that? Is that your rope? Let's play with the rope. Get the rope. Yay, rope! Rope! Where's the rope?" Like that. After a while, he started connecting each name to each toy.

After extensive name-toy-name-toy associations, it's time to firm up those associations. The easiest way to do that is to ask the dog to bring a specific toy. So at playtime, I ask "Where's the [toy name]?" This is Dozer's cue to find the toy I'm asking for.

He gets nothing whatsoever for bringing the wrong toy, and sometimes I even get up and walk off, the most boring result ever. Since he tends to persist if he thinks some toy might work, I will often give him negative feedback like "uh uh," just to reinforce the idea that the wrong toy isn't going to get him squat.

I respond very positively--praise, treat, petting, or playing--when the requested toy appears.

So you can see that it is to his advantage to learn as many toy names as possible. Consequently, his vocabulary, as it applies to toys, is very large.

Of course, it takes time for a dog to learn all the names of its toys. Dozer has spent a lifetime perfecting his understanding. He learned the first toy names gradually, through a process of trial-and-error. Now that he knows all his toys' names, he learns new toys' names through a process of elimination.

Now, this is in contrast to Felanie, who was not really very toy-driven at all, and was not a "mouth" sort of dog. She would rarely pick things up on command, and my request for her to "pick it up" was often met with an incredulous stare. "You want me to what? That nasty thing in my mouth? Riiiight." Of course, maybe the fact that Dozer would immediately bulldoze her over in his haste to respond to my command (never mind that it wasn't a command given to him) had something to do with her disinterest in fetch-type games.

My point is that not all dogs are going to learn these types of skills easily. It depends on your dog's personality and motivation.

I think most dogs learn the names of their toys rather informally, through a process of trial and error, rewards and no-responses. However, formal training is also possible. The keys are consistency in commands and names (you can't say "Get the octopus" one day and "Fetch Mr. Tentacle" the next); teaching logical precursors (first teach dog to "pick it up" or "get it" or similar commands that are not geared to a specific object, spend a lot of time playing with dog and toy and saying toy's name at same time); baby steps (teach one toy name at a time); and consistent and prompt rewards for correct responses, no-response or negative-neutral-response when incorrect.

(On a side note, Dozer finally confirmed, to his satisfaction, that he really does have to put his toys in the toy box to get a treat; lately, he'd been experimenting to see whether the toy could be up against the box but not necessarily in the box. We're still working on the part where he pulls the toys out of the box right after dropping them in. I think the process of putting the toys away just makes him want to play with them all.)

No job, but lots of work

Being in a line of work that can manage it without logistical nightmares, I'm making the move to freelancing. I admit, it was a bit forced; I've been working full-time at a publishing company on a six-month contract, and it just expired (and the company isn't renewing any contracts, no matter what). I suppose I could have looked harder for a job, but it occurred to me that freelancing might give me time to manage the household—God knows my husband can't do that when he's working 50-60 hrs a week—and do some extracurricular activities on top of the money-making part (the freelance work).

It's day four. I have a laundry list of things to do, and I've tried to cross at least one thing off the list each day. So far so good. I've cleaned house, called landscaping contractors, gotten my car's oil changed, and cooked dinner.

I haven't slept in, I haven't watched TV, and I've only done a little web surfing (the same amount I used to do on lunch break, and strictly news articles, nothing "fun"). I "work" from 9 am to 5 pm, with a short lunch when I get hungry.

Dozer doesn't seem particularly concerned about me being home all the time. He sleeps most of the day, usually in the same room where I am (probably because I'm the Grand Master of the Fan, thereby guaranteeing a cool and pleasant temperature where ever I sit). When I change rooms to do something else, he trails along amiably; when I go into the kitchen, he rushes to the back door in the hopes that we will go out and play. (Frankly, I'm in no mood to be outside when the temperature is almost 80 degrees out there by 7 am, so poor Dozer's hopes are inevitably dashed.)

I haven't figured out yet if writing in my blog counts as "fun" or "work."

One more for wildlife rescue

Danged if my yard isn't the rescue center for the neighborhood.

I knew something was wrong when I let Dozer out to potty and noticed an adult bird squished onto the edge of the garden shed's foundation, which is about four inches above ground, and sticks out about an inch and a half from the shed's walls. This was a rather strange place for a bird to sit, and even stranger still, the bird wasn't really moving.

Dozer took a leak, then made a beeline for the bird. He was as perplexed as I was, I'm sure; most birds fly away as soon as he comes outside. Confronted by a giant drooling beast, this particular bird made a valiant effort to take off, but never gained much altitude, and in a few moments it had slammed into the chain link fence on the other side of the yard.

I called Dozer (who had lost interest in the bird) into the house. Byrd tossed me a hand towel, and I went out and caught the bird. It was an adult dove with one closed eye and tons of downy feathers sloughing off its body. Nothing was obviously broken or bloody save the eye.

I put the dove in the cat trap with some dove food (yes, I keep a bag of dove food in the cabinet; it comes in handy more frequently than one would expect), a small dish of water, and the hand towel.

Tomorrow I will go downtown for the March of Dimes walk, then come back home, pick up the dove, and take it to the wildlife rescue center for treatment. I'm surprised they don't recognize me yet, but I suppose bringing in one injured animal per quarter is not frequent enough. (/grin)

Boys...

My husband came home with a massive bruise on his forearm. It was dark brown and as large as a lemon.

Considering his line of work (construction), all sorts of accidents ran through my head. Banged it on a pole, got hit by a rogue hammer, slammed it into an aluminum control box... who knows. He's always coming home a little scraped up, but this was an unusually noticeable injury.

Me: "Oh my God, where'd you get that huge bruise?!"

Him: "What, this? Me and some of the guys were playing a slapping game."

Sigh.

Success with toy box training!

Several months ago, I bought a little green cloth box to put all Dozer's toys in. I believe it's actually the sort of thing that goes in a child's closet or in some square nooks, and you're supposed to pull it out like a drawer, because it has a flat handle on one side to accomodate that sort of movement. But I just put it in a corner of the dining room. It's a very convenient thing; when I pick up around the house, I throw Dozer's toys into the box. When I vacuum, I just pick up the box full of toys, run the vacuum over the carpet, and set the box back down.

When I bought the toy box, I half-jokingly told everyone I was going to teach Dozer to put away his own toys. It was a nice thing to imagine, but realistically, probably out of Dozer's grasp. Until this evening.

Before I describe the training method, I should explain that Dozer knows the names of all his toys: ball, rope, bone, alligator (a stuffed alligator), and toy (meaning anything). [He also knows "Frisbee," but that toy stays permanently outside, first and foremost because it is a long-distance throw toy suitable only for the backyard, not inside, and secondly because he likes to pee on it.] So, for instance, I can tell him "Go get the bone," and he sometimes comes back with the bone, either after pulling it from the toy box, or after running through the entire house looking for it. However, he is definitely unreliable; he usually brings me a ball first, because that's his favorite toy. He seems to be saying, "Honestly, I don't know why you want that stupid old bone. Look, this ball is much better!"

So after getting the toy box, I made a little game with Dozer where I ask him for each of his toys, and he runs around collecting them all for me and putting them at my feet. Sure, it would be a lot faster if I just picked up the toys myself, but hey, I'm lazy.

This evening I went a step further and shoved the toy box under his mouth as he brought the first toy, the alligator. The toy naturally fell into the box, and Dozer got a treat and praise. Surprised, he apparently initially thought the reward was tied to that specific toy, so he immediately pulled the alligator out of the box and threw it at my feet. You like it? Okay, here it is again!

I made a "negative result" sound, sort of like unhh, so he would know that I wouldn't reward for the toy at my feet. Then I asked him to pick it up, which he did, and then put the toy box under his mouth and asked him to "drop it." Another treat and praise, and I pulled the box away so he couldn't take the alligator again. That toy was now "gone."

My husband asked him for the bone. After a few moments, he returned with the bone. This time, I didn't have to move the toy box; Dozer ran up and hovered over the box expectantly. On command, he "dropped it" into the box. Praise and treat, and something in his brain clicked. He deposited the next toy, the rope, even faster, though he still waited for the "drop it" command before doing so. In this way, he put four toys into the box.

Then the thing in his brain unclicked, and he pulled all the toys out of the box, looking perplexed but excited. I guess he was trying to pull the toys out so as to start over and earn more treats. He still didn't seem to quite understand the goal of this "game," but he sure liked getting treats!

Still, before he pulled them out, all the toys were in the box--and Dozer had put them all there himself. It may have taken three or four different commands to get each toy in there, and an awful lot of guidance, but it was an encouraging step forward. With a little effort, we might actually be able to condense the process into one or two commands.

I would say that this makes me the world's laziest pet owner, but I've seen that YouTube video of the dog getting beer cans out of the fridge for its owner.

Another irresponsible neighbor

Some people in the condos down the street moved in with a Boxer that gets loose all the time. This dog's escapades have become so common that I actually have the dog's home address written on a piece of paper that we keep by the phone, so when we call animal control, we can tell dispatch exactly where the dog lives.

This Boxer has harassed dog walkers, darted in front of vehicles in the street, and gotten into trash. And today he strolled into my backyard like he owned the place—much to my horror, as I was out back with Dozer.

Imagine, if you will, a beautiful springlike day, with a soft cool breeze and sunny skies. The birds are singing, the grass is green, and in the shade you could just sit and enjoy the fresh nothingness for hours on end. Well, there I was watering plants on the back porch while Dozer flopped in the shady grass with his disc toy.

As I turned to move the water to the next pot, I heard a soft jingle to my left: keys, or loose change—or dog tags. Dozer's collar was in the house, as I had just brushed him a few minutes ago. At that exact moment, in the corner of my eye, I saw Dozer leap up from his grassy haven with a strangled, ferocious growl.

Dozer disappeared around the corner of the house in a split second, and at the same time, my brain put all the pieces together and I realized there was another dog in the yard. In the next instant, I knew it was that Boxer. All sorts of bad scenarios started flying through my head, but there was no time for me to do anything but yell.

So I put all my faith in my dog's obedience, and shouted at the top of my lungs, in my most hard-edged, furious, obey-me-or-die voice: "DOZER, GET OVER HERE THIS INSTANT!!!" A heartbeat later, Dozer came dashing back around the house and ran behind me. His tail was as frizzy as a cat, and he had a ridge of fur standing up all along his spine, but it seemed that his goal had been merely to scare the stranger away. He seemed relieved that Mommy was going to take charge now.

Tentatively, yet audaciously, the Boxer peered around the house at us. I glared at him, but he didn't seem interested in a fight. Rather, he looked surprised. Oh, is this your yard? The gate was open. I started toward the Boxer, thinking I might catch him, but when I did that, Dozer stepped forward too. No, I didn't want a fight. I led Dozer into the house and shut the door. Then I went back into the yard to see if the Boxer was still there—but he was gone.

So I made my call to animal control.

Dozer and the advent of "senior"

According to the chart my vet gave me at the D's annual checkup, Dozer (age 7-going-on-8) is in his early fifties in human years. This, apparently, now qualifies him for senior dog food and supplement pills for his joints.

I guess no one actually told Dozer he needs to start acting his age. Honestly, if we hadn't adopted him when he was a bitty little puppy, we wouldn't believe he is so old. As it is, people think we are lying to them when we say, "He's a senior citizen." I'm not sure why we'd lie about something so pointless, but the fact is that Dozer still reminds everyone of a rather large, awkward, ridiculous, immature adolescent dog. "One or two years, tops," say the disbelievers.

Perhaps it's his big, goofy grin, or the clown dots under his eyes, or his soft, velvety rabbit ears, or his bright white fur that never shows gray. Maybe it's his big paws and gangly body. Maybe it's the way he gargles like Chewbacca, or squeals like a guinea pig, when he's excited.

Possibly it's because he crashes into and over everything in his path as if he were still a small puppy: as if he might be able to squeeze under the dishwasher's open door to retrieve his ball, as if he might be able to push his body between handrailing spindles to avoid climbing the icy back steps, as if he could share the front passenger seat with you on a ride to the drive-thru—if only you'd scoot over a tad. Or it might be because all his thought processes seem to end with the same conclusion: "Throw ball now."

All of these things make him seem like an oversized puppy with an undersized brain. So when the vet said Dozer was now a senior, I had a little trouble keeping the laughter in. Won't we be relieved when Dozer finally does start acting his age!

In the meantime, Dozer takes his joint pills with great reluctance. Though I believe they are supposed to taste good for most dogs, Dozer merely sticks his nose up and licks his lips unhappily. I have to force him to eat the pill, and though I am sure that a bystander might imagine that I am thrusting my tiny pink hand into a veritable alligator's jaws, it is in fact quite easy. Dozer has always been very good at opening his mouth for medicine; he opens as wide as possible at the slightest pressure on the top of his nose, and holds his mouth open for the delivery; I can stick my hand (and most of my arm) in to the back of his throat, drop the pill, and pull my arm back out in a mere second. When I press the bottom of his jaw, he closes his mouth and swallows obediently. Then I just have to wash my hands clean of the dog drool.

Not that he is having any joint problems (that we're aware of, anyway), but we would like to be proactive and build up his joints before they do start causing problems—especially considering all the backflips and other gymnastics that the D so enthusiastically delivers during his daily fetch routine.

Achieving a sense of normalcy

It's been a rough adjustment from a four-member family to a three-member family, but it's getting a little easier. I think a big part of it is my extremely poor memory. It's pathetic, I know, but when change happens, the memories of "what was" evaporate rapidly.

Another part, I am sure, is the fact that I am frankly avoiding pretty much everything having to do with Felanie, my websites, dogs, pit bulls, etc. I work, I come home, I do housework, I watch TV, and I play computer games. I just don't want to think about stuff—I don't want to poke at this funny hole in my heart.

But I know that I need to get back in the saddle. I still have blank webpages waiting for material, and updates I need to make, and so forth. I really need to get my act together.

Dozer is doing better than we ever thought he would. He's still a pathetic whiny baby, but he has grown up a bit—he no longer follows me everywhere, and he behaves himself while home alone. He hasn't torn anything up, or gotten on the furniture, or knocked over the trash, or any of a whole host of things that he could do if he really felt like it. He's obviously lonely, but he's also coping very well—and we are making sure to play a solid game of fetch with him every day, so he gets enough exercise.

I want to say a heartfelt and public "thank you" to everyone who has been so supportive during this rather difficult time for me. It meant, and means, more to me than I can properly express. Thank you.

And now, on to the future, and happier times!

A Letter to Dog Heaven

Dear Felanie,

It's been two weeks since you left us, but the emptiness lingers. The first few days after your death weren't too difficult because I stayed out of the house, kept busy, and tried not to think. It just felt like you were away on a short vacation.

But after two weeks, I can't deny the reality anymore. I feel your absence when I lie awake at night.

The other day I vacuumed the kitchen and I actually sucked up pieces of food. Dog food, crumbs, some broken pasta, and even brownie crumbles—you would not have let those things sit for half a second, much less a week. We used to call you a "vulture," laughingly, as you scavenged the kitchen floor—but I never realized how true it was. I never realized how messy we are, or how clean you were.

Dozer is the same, but not the same. He whines a lot more and eats a lot less. He plays fetch, but not for very long, and without the enthusiasm he used to have. He loved you. He relied on you to set the agenda, and now he doesn't know what to do with himself. I don't know how to explain to him that you're never coming back.

The weather's turned warm again. At this time of year, you always used to love lying in the backyard in the sun like a big red cat. The wisteria is about to bloom, and the grass is turning soft and green. Remember when we used to sit together in the yard, and I would pick grass for you to lip out of my palm, like a horse? Or when I would tickle your nose with a seed stalk, and you would pretend to sneeze? You always humored me.

I'm sorry. I know you were feeling bad, and I know it was your time to go. But I still want to apologize to you. I feel like I was not honest with you, like I lied to you. How do you tell a dog that you are trying to do what's best? I couldn't tell you you had cancer. I couldn't tell you that we had scheduled your death. I couldn't tell you to savor your last day, your last bite of cheese, your last hug. You didn't know—you thought it was just another day, even though it wasn't. The look in your eyes—the surprise, the hurt, the confusion—when the vet put the needle in your leg... I will never forget that look. Please forgive me for lying to you. I didn't know how to explain it.

I'm sure you're in a better place: healthy, happy, and pain-free. I hope I will get to see you again someday. I'm going to continue sharing your teachings with others, so your spirit will live on forever. It's the least I can do to honor the memory of a dog that taught me so much. I miss you, Fel.

Love, your mommy

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.