Paw Prints on the Wall

I have a favorite line from the movie Steel Magnolias. Spoken at a grave site after someone made a tension-breaking remark, Dolly Parton’s character Truvy says, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion”.

Since the recent death of my dog Bob, I have experienced periods of immobilizing grief. Here, I’ll write about Bob as a catharsis to loosen the grip this immense sorrow has on my heart. “But, this is a humorous blog”, you say. Well, Bob was a humorous dog so it’s appropriate to honor his memory in an amusing way.

I come from a family that puts the FUN in dysfunctional. We laugh a lot at funerals. We’re not disrespectful; it’s just that being witty is how we deal with grief. We’re not laughing at the deceased; we’re laughing with them. We figure they’re looking down (or up) and snickering at us because we had to get dressed up and spend time with each other. Given such a background, I think I can come up with a humorous bit or two about such a sad event as Bob’s passing.

A line from Eric Idle’s song, Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life, challenges us to always look on the bright side of death. Why not take a look at the lighter side of death? An absurd idea, maybe, but give it chance. I mean there has to be something entertaining, if not a little scary about me being outside in my jammies numerous times during the night…in the snow.

Bob was prescribed Prednisone. It made him drink a lot…and pee a LOT. What were the neighbors thinking in the middle of the night when they heard from my back yard, “It’s OK, Big Guy. Take your time. I’ll  wait for you”? Caring for a terminally ill dog takes its toll. The lack of sleep and hygiene, the red eyes and runny nose from crying made me look like some kind of crack addict.

At first, I thought he was acting. If you knew Bob, you’d know that he was a dog who would do almost anything for attention. Was Bob capable of feigning a terminal disease just for the attention? After all, look at the special considerations he got in his last days. I fashioned steps up to my bed that Bob thought were the proverbial stairway to heaven. During his final days, Bob took pleasure in having breakfast in bed, eating chicken prepared by his vegetarian mom and peeing while lying down.

Each of Bob’s last days brought a visit from his girlfriend, Maeve. This fun-loving little Fox Terrier had a way of getting Bob to rise to the occasion. He would muster the energy to trot after her through the living room or go for a walk to the end of the block and back. We started calling Maeve Bob’s little “call girl” because all I had to do was call, and her mom would chauffer her to see him. My brother says a visit like that tends to give any guy a little pep in his step.

Bob danced into my life because he was such a happy dog. He left in the same manner. When the doctor came for the final house call, Bob even summoned the energy to greet him at the door with a smile and a wagging tail.

A friend recently told me the story of how her dog was too small for the breeder to sell. When she heard that the puppy weighed only 2.5 pounds she said, “Perfect. That’s just how much my heart weighs!” My heart weighed 90 lbs.

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Well, here we are at the end of another 7 years. It seems it was only yesterday that I sat down to write my holiday letter! Time has flown by since last December. Some think that these holiday letters are boring, but to me, it’s the one chance I get every season to tell you how my life is better than yours. So here goes…

2009 was an exciting year filled with visits to the mountains to hunt marmots and to pee where no dog has peed before. We did several road trips to visit friends and family this past year. The first was in April to visit Barney. If you remember my last letter, I wrote that Barney was going to the city to be tutored. I was mistaken. Turns out he went to the hospital to be neutered. He was convalescing during our visit, so he didn’t get to go hunting with me. I did bring him a lovely dead rat to lift his spirits and aid in his recovery.

My nephew Sparky graduated from obedience school in May and is going on to study for his Canine Good Citizen test. He’s the first in the family to go to college. We’re so proud!

Aunt Tillie retired from herding this year. Although, retired is probably not the right word. You know you can’t keep a good Border Collie down. She’ll spend her retirement on the golf course. She’s volunteered to herd geese off the greens.

Cousin Gracie made the local news when she became the mother of 3 baby girls and 5 baby boys. She was dubbed the “Octamom” of Benton County. Mom and kids are all doing fine. However, she’s getting no help from that no-good scoundrel of a deadbeat dad. Rumor has it he ran off with a Beagle mix he met at a stray bar. They were last seen begging for food at the back door of Bob’s Big Boy on 17th and Locust.

Great Uncle Zippy has finally conquered the Ear-rectile Dysfunction that has plagued him his entire life. His left ear is now standing up nicely with a little help from a Popsicle stick and a discreet comb-over. It’s hardly noticeable.

On a brighter note, our celebrity of the family, Coco is being considered to star on a new reality show. After her recent success in “Project Run-away,” we believe it’s a sure thing that she’ll land the starring role on “America’s Next Top Poodle.”

Well, that just about wraps up the news of this past year. Here’s hoping you have a happy holiday season. May your days be filled with chasing squirrels and digging holes in the back yard. And, here’s wishing your nights are spent curled up at your peoples’ feet by the fire.

Butt sniffs to all, and to all a good night!
Boomer

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The seasonal shopping frenzy is about to begin. Retailers are luring us in by trumpeting their best holiday deals and opening their doors at O-Dark-Thirty. Here are some offerings for the dog people on your list. No dog lover should be without these must-have items.

NOTE: This list is for early shoppers only because all of the items described have yet to be invented.

Remutt Control: The remote that sees through your dog!
Does it seem that every time you want to channel surf, there’s a dog standing directly in your wireless line of sight? Here’s the answer for you! Remutt Control…the TV remote control that works through your dog! No more pleading, yelling or cajoling with your dog to move out of the way. Remutt Control allows carefree channel surfing without disturbing your furry friend’s agenda. Call now. Dogs are standing by!
$49 +S&H ($343 in dog dollars)

Dogzilla Doggie Door Kit: Industrial Sized Dog Door!
Transform any entryway into a convenient, worry-free doggie door for your giant breed dog. Dogzilla Doggie Door ingeniously places the hinges at the top of the door instead of the customary side placement. The Dogzilla, easy-to-install kit comes with two heavy-duty hinges, instructions, and extra bits of hardware to confuse you. (Dogs not included).
$199 +S&H ($1393 in dog dollars)

E-Z Spot: The guiding light of doo!
Doggie constitutional walks often happen after dark. Solve the problem of hard-to-spot nocturnal deposits with E-Z Spot. E-Z Spot is a bioluminescent dog breed that produces easy-to-find, glow-in-the-dark bodily waste material. Not only is the poop easily seen, so is the dog…an added safety feature!
$1399 +S&H ($9793 in dog dollars)

Kitty Crunchies: Food your dog can enjoy before it goes through the cat!
It’s a known fact that dogs love the taste of cat food before and after it goes through the cat. Now you can offer your dog his favorite, delectable treat at every meal! Kitty Crunchies are fun, poopesque shapes covered with kitty litter-like sprinkles for realism. Give your dog the experience of eat-in or take-out by placing Kitty Crunchies in our genuine litter pan dog dish.

(Please note: Never place Kitty Crunchies next to the Almond Roca, as they are easily confused. Litter pan dog dish available separately).
40# bag: $39 +S&H ($273 in dog dollars)

Paw Print Home Décor: Eliminates Housework Altogether!
Never again, be embarrassed by dirty paw prints with bedspreads, flooring and rugs featuring muddy paw print designs. Your guests will never know when your house is actually dirty, as the real dirt is disguised by printed muddy paw designs. Available in S, M, L, XL and Dogzilla sized prints to match your own dog’s paw size.
King Size Bedspread: $149 +S&H ($1043 in dog dollars)
4’x6’ Rugs: $399+S&H ($2793 in dog dollars)
Flooring: $2 per sq. ft. +S&H ($14 in dog dollars)

Dog-In-A-Bubble: The Fun And Functional Dog Toy
Bubble Dog introduces the dog-sized hamster ball. Like the original hamster ball did for the hamster, Dog-In-A-Bubble keeps your dog safe while allowing him freedom to run and play. A fun and functional toy, the Dog-In-A-Bubble provides endless hours of enjoyment for your dog. In addition, DIAB prevents annoying dog problems like jumping up, digging, escaping the yard and destructive chewing.

NEW! DIAB Deluxe Model with built-in shampoo and conditioner dispensers. DIAB Deluxe allows your dog to bathe himself! Just add water and let your dog run in his bubble, then rinse, and repeat. (Dog not included) Available in S, M, L, XL and Dogzilla
$199 +S&H ($1393 in dog dollars)

Gate-O-Vac: The Doggie Gate That Looks Like A Vacuum Cleaner
The most effective dog containment equipment since the invention of the crate! This ingenious gate looks and sounds like a vacuum cleaner, to keep even the cleverest escape artist in check. Working on the concept that all dogs (and some men) harbor an irrational fear of vacuum cleaners, Gate-O-Vac uses an invisible force field of worry to keep dogs from passing by. Simply place Gate-O-Vac in a doorway or stairwell to keep your dog safe and sound. Available in upright or canister models.
$399 +S&H ($2793 in dog dollars)

PLEASE NOTE: These products are pure fantasy. No dogs, imaginary or real, were harmed during their conception.

admin Dog Training

Let’s face it; having three large male dogs is comparable to living in a college frat house.    I have a friend who has a sign hanging in her home that asks, “Why does dog hair stick to everything except the dog?” I have come to realize that the once manageable task of housework has morphed into a colossal exercise in futility. Some say that cleanliness is next to Godliness; but with three dogs those same people would say, “It’s next to impossible!” I could vacuum every four hours and still see hair balls the size of house cats tumbling across the hardwood floor on their way to a permanent home under some immovable piece of furniture.

I’m in constant competition with the legions of dog hair in my home. I vacuum, I shake out rugs, I’ve even resorted to firing up the leaf blower, but there is no winning over this ubiquitous adversary. Furthermore, ignoring it is no answer. Dog hair has an incredibly long shelf life!   In my world, vacuum cleaners are almost as disposable as Dixie cups. I have yet to find an affordable vacuum with the horsepower to contend with the mountains of dog hair that reside in my area rugs alone. I have vivid memories of the passing of one particular cleaning appliance, a sturdy, bagless vacuum of the upright persuasion. After sucking up bushels of dog hair over a two-year period she began to protest, emitting puffs of smoke from her motor. I coaxed her along for months. I finally decided she should hang up her hepafilter when preparation for vacuuming first required the disarming of all smoke alarms.  I am quick to blame any lack of hygiene in my house on my dogs. After all, I’ve always had at least one “German Shedder” sharing my home. One story of my dog Sadie puts household cleanliness into proper perspective:

It was the sorrowful day that Sadie, my forever dog, told me she was ready to go on to Heaven’s Big Back Yard. I called in a couple of close friends for comfort and a kindly, compassionate veterinarian to help Sadie on her final journey. As the vet was preparing the injection, she advised that I might want to place a towel under Sadie to protect the rug in case there was anything in her system she wouldn’t be taking with her. I replied, “No, that’s OK. This rug has been chewed on, pooped on, peed and puked on.” To that, my friend Marla quietly added, “And that was before she had dogs!”
Hair isn’t the only cleaning challenge presented by dogs. Two of my three dogs have long hair and extra fluffy bedroom slipper feet. This means that every time they come in from the back yard, they are proudly wearing their respective leaf collections. Maybe I need to rethink that leaf blower idea.  Preserving the landscape is another challenge of living with the pack. Visible areas of my property are kept looking respectable, but the section relegated to the dogs looks like a government missile testing site. However, explosives are not the source of numerous gigantic holes that punctuate my yard. My dogs love to dig. I think at least one of them is part backhoe with latent agricultural tendencies. My neighbors and I are thankful for privacy fences.  I once thought it would be a good idea to have the dogs help me with a tree-planting project. All three were supervising me while I began to dig with my trusty shovel. The looks they gave me seemed to say, “No, Mom. You’re doing it wrong!” So, I tossed aside my shovel and said, “OK, guys. Go for it!” Jumping wholeheartedly into the task, they began to paw furiously, dirt flying high. But, not more than a minute into the excavation, the excitement turned to rabid competition with an all out brawl ensuing. Who ever said that gardening is therapeutic? My back yard still resembles a war zone, but for now, I’m content with that.
My battleground of a back yard is also where you’ll find the eternal predicament of the poop land mines. Three large dogs make for an abundance of well, crap. When it comes to dog waste management I allow myself the luxury of hiring someone else for the proverbial poop patrol. Yes, this wonderful service is actually available. I nod to the entrepreneurial genius that made it possible for me to avoid dealing with one dirty job. Now we humans are disgusted by excrement, but dogs are actually proud of their biological accomplishments. Thus, when the scoop technician arrives at my gate every Wednesday morning, my dogs go into a protective, frenetic display. I’m pretty sure they are saying, “He’s moving my poop! He’s moving my poop!” “I worked really hard on that one.”
So goes the never-ending quest: My dream of a clean environment and my dogs’ collective aspirations to smash that dream.
So I lay down my vacuum and give in to the grime. After all, I live in a cozy 1,000 sq. ft. house with about 650 sq. ft. of dog! I could have a spotless home, but that would also mean being “Spot-less”. That, my friend, is not an option!

admin Dog Training

I believe one should be prudent about the selection of a new dog’s name. I’m not prepared to say that the chosen moniker predicts a dog’s lot in life, but one can never be too careful. I question the wisdom of choosing names like Taz (short for Tasmanian Devil), Twister, Crash, Turbo or Quake. At the other end of the spectrum, there is the person that named her dog Tater, which is short for Couch Potato. I can’t help but notice how all of these dogs seem to live up to their names.
Perhaps, a stringent naming protocol should be followed. I propose that a scientific study be done on this dog-naming matter. Today, studies are made on everything from the dating habits of South American cockroaches to the environmental impact and feasibility of faxing Jell-O. I pronounce that we examine the effects a name has on a dog’s behavior and what the chosen name says about the person doing the naming.
Human nature, I suppose, dictates that dogs are commonly named after sports figures, music idols or fictional characters from movies, books and TV shows. Some dogs are even named after food and drink or our favorite places on the map. It seems that dogs are seldom named for office supplies, retail stores or despot world leaders.
At the risk of exposing my more than slightly distorted character, I will reveal to you the introspective process of naming my own dogs.
Mr. MoJo is named from the Beatles’ song lyrics “He’s one mojo filter.” I have no idea what that means and furthermore, I have no explanation for why I chose it. MoJo is also named for the song “LA Woman.” A line in this song, includes an anagram of Jim Morrison: Mr. Mojo Risin. Every morning, Mr. MoJo hops onto my bed and gently paws back the covers to wake me. Then, as I open my eyes I sing, “It’s Mr. MoJo Risin” when I probably sound amazingly like the original recording by The Doors.
How I came up with the handle for my dog, Bob Barker is self-evident. He barks a lot. When I decided on the name, I hoped that the real Bob Barker, an animal advocate and spokesman for pet birth control, might be dubiously honored. And, yes, Bob Barker, the dog, is neutered!
In keeping with the tradition of naming my dogs for Beatles’ songs, it was easy to decide on the name “Jude” for my German Shepherd Dog. Jude, while his heritage remains largely indefinite, is evidently from a bloodline of overly dramatic German Shepherds. He whines. He whines a lot. Therefore, the name Jude was assigned because, as the song says, we always have to “take a sad song and make it better.”
Since I’ve never adhered to any naming conventions for my dogs, I suppose I shouldn’t deliver any caveats until I’m ready to practice what I preach. I don’t imagine any forthcoming canine apocalypse because we’ve chosen names describing our dog’s unattractive qualities. It still begs the question: “Does the dog live up to the name or does the name live up to the dog?”

admin Dog Training

A question I often pose to new training clients asks, “Why did you choose this particular breed?” Answers are as diverse as the people queried. They usually offer logic such as, “We always had Dachshunds when I was a kid.” “I’ve been around German Shepherds all my life and I know them well.” or “I’ve researched Chihuahuas for many months and have decided it is the perfect breed for me and my lifestyle.”
Personally and against all reason, I would answer the chosen breed question with, “I like big, fluffy, exceedingly goofy dogs.” However, with every year that passes, every birthday I celebrate, I recognize that I’m one year closer to having a little sweater dog. I envision myself in my twilight years with an attitude of entitlement and my little dog named “Cargo” (or maybe Tadpole) because I carry him everywhere, rendering his tiny legs to be superfluous appendages.
I’m thinking ahead here. While I currently prefer to live with big, fluffy, exceedingly goofy dogs, I have to be realistic in considering my future capabilities and lifestyle. It’s only fair to the dog, to my neighbors and me.
This week signifies another trip around the sun for this old girl. They say that any birthday ending with a 0 or a 5 is a major one. This one ends in a 5. Actually, it also starts with a 5, so I might consider it a milestone if I believed in age as anything but a number. Nevertheless, as the years race by, totally out of my control, I wish for only one thing. I wish that my dogs would help out around the house more. I’ve recently concluded that I must either train my dogs to do yard work and automotive maintenance or move into assisted living.
Eight years ago I adopted a 4-month-old Border Collie mix from the local shelter. Being a dog trainer, I thought, would qualify me for the challenges of living with a Border Collie. I was painfully wrong.
Mr. MoJo showed me a new respect for the Border Collie breed. I was humbled by his unbridled abandon in deconstructing upholstered furniture. In his younger days, MoJo could reverse engineer a sofa in under 7 minutes. Perhaps in a former life he was an interior designer or a demolition expert. While other artists labor in oil or clay, his true medium is stuffing…he’s a canine modern master! In addition to de-upholstering furniture, MoJo had a penchant for window treatments. One evening, he effortlessly plucked the living room drapes from their rods and shredded them into minuscule lacey bits.
Moreover, I lay the blame for MoJo’s wake of destruction squarely on myself. I was working three jobs and somewhat unprepared for life with a rambunctious pup of the herding persuasion. My having barely enough time to devote to MoJo’s proper rearing, we both paid a price. Ironically, he has redeemed himself as the established voice of reason in our household. I, on the other hand, continue to seek redemption in the matter.
I suppose all “parents” lament and wish for do-overs on certain parenting decisions. I wouldn’t expect to raise children without the occasional Crayola mural or a dent in the car. Neither do I expect to raise a puppy without the intermittent accidental puddle or chewed shoe…within reason, of course.
Think carefully about your lifestyle, breed personality traits and how many couches you’re willing to replace before choosing your new dog. It’s easy to let emotion override logic in this dangerous decision-making territory. For instance, a woman once told me that she wanted a Jack Russell Terrier. She wanted one because on her daily commute, she drove by the dog food plant. Every day she saw the ad painted on the building depicting a cute JRT puppy with his nose buried in the dog food bag. Anyone who has spent any time with hyper-drive Jack Russell Terriers need not be told why this is so amusing. The rest of you don’t know Jacks!

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Chapter 3: Bob Barker

One of my dogs is named Bob Barker. I did not name him because of his penchant for playing The Price Is Right or because he’s an animal rights advocate. I named him Bob Barker because he likes to bark…a lot. When I saw him at the adoption booth, he barked at everyone that approached him as if to say, “Hi! Do you want to take me home? I’m really cool!” That’s when I made my first mistake. I named him Bob Barker. One should never name an animal unless one has already decided to adopt them. In hindsight, it was definitely not a mistake to adopt Bob. He’s taught me everything a dog trainer needs to know about managing excessive barking and, he was right. He is really cool!
Bob is a shamelessly opportunistic lounge hound, a master of serious relaxation. Unless there’s barking to be done, you can find Bob asleep in the master bedroom dreaming of room service and a dog’s undeniable right to breakfast in bed.
Bob’s goal in life, secondary only to barking, is to be comfortable. In the summertime, I don’t need a weatherman to tell me the temperature. I can tell it’s hot because Bob is lying on his side on the kitchen floor in front of the fan.
Bob understands the concept of cooling off with a fan. I often say that I’m his biggest fan, but he still wants to lay directly in front of the deluxe model, 3-speed, 20” box fan. During the heat of summer, enabling Bob’s quest for comfort, I’ve been known to place a bowl of ice in front of the deluxe model box fan. This is when I discovered how much Bob values his possessions. His most treasured belongings are his disemboweled teddy bear and his partially skinned tennis balls. On a blazing July day last year, I discovered Bob lying next to the bowl of ice in front of the deluxe model box fan. On further inspection, I noticed that Mr. Barker had placed his tennis balls in the bowl of ice. I could only construe that this was an effort to cool off his balls.
Some dogs are obsessed with toys. My dog, Jude likes toys only if someone else is interested in a rousing game of tug. MoJo, my Border Collie mix invents his own toys and favors playing with them in secret. He would have us believe that he’s too cool for toys. Bob, on the other hand, thinks that dog toys were invented solely for his enjoyment and destruction.
Bob has laid waste to legions of squeaky toys. Because he can perform a surgically precise squeakerectomy in 8.7 seconds, he has a large collection of deflated, eviscerated items formerly known as plush toys. I have deemed playthings for Bob a futile waste of coin.
Nevertheless, Bob is creative in communicating his desperation to feed his squeaky toy addiction. At the same time, he seems to understand the meaning of holiday gift giving. Because the economy was tanking during Christmas 2008 there was a scarcity of presents under our tree. Sure that my dogs were unable to make the distinction between the holiday and any other day of the year, I decided to forgo the usual gift-wrapped dog toys. Alas, I was shamed by my selfish thoughts when I discovered a shabby, filthy squeakerless plush ball placed carefully and conspicuously under the tree. This could only be read as Bob’s way of saying his supply of fresh toys was depleted. Guilt-ridden, I immediately went to the nearest squeaky supply outlet and bought the appropriate replacements.
Living with the “Family Fun-Pack” is never the least bit uninteresting.

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Chapter 2: Jude

My German Shepherd is an overly dramatic dog. In other words, he whines a lot. He got the name Jude because we always have to take his sad song and make it better. Jude is not the most athletic dog I’ve known. He lived with me for five years before he realized that he could jump. Every night at bedtime, he would enter the bedroom ahead of me, and then put his front paws up on the bed. Leaning on his elbows, he always looked as if he was praying, so I taught him to put his head down on his paws on the cue, “Say your prayers.” Suddenly one night, he surprised me (and himself) by taking one nimble leap and sticking a perfect landing in the center of my bed. He remained there for the next 6 months.

I have to say that I miss “saying our prayers” every night. It has occurred to me that perhaps, for the previous 5 years, Jude was praying that he could sleep on the bed. Evidently, his prayers were answered the night he discovered his ability to jump.
In my humble and jaded opinion, Jude is a drop-dead traffic-stopping handsome specimen of a German Shepherd. Walks with him are more like a fashion show runway experience. One day during an outing in the company of Jude, a man slowed down his vehicle and shouted to us, “Magnificent!” I replied, “Thanks! And my dog ain’t bad either!”

Jude is also the exemplary watchdog. He is eternally positioned at a self-appointed post in the yard, the one with an uninterrupted view of the alley. This is where he puts the neighborhood on notice by barking, “German Shepherd On Duty! German Shepherd On Duty!” Granted, we don’t live in the most crime free neighborhood, but it seemed to me, Jude’s sentinel behavior was in excess. With each alert barking overindulgence, I’d call Jude into the house for a break.
Once, in a brief moment of clarity, I wondered if Jude’s increasing “sentry barking” had become a signal to me that he wanted to be let in. He demonstrated that very fact one day while I was mopping floors and denied his request to come in. After this rejection, I watched that dog run to his post, do the sentry bark, and then return immediately to the back door.

Because I’m a dog trainer, a courteous citizen and due to the fact that my neighbors know I’m a dog trainer, I began to formulate a plan to decrease Jude’s annoying barking. I decided he needed a better way to tell me he wanted to come into the house. My “Aha!” moment arrived when I thought about all the dogs I’ve taught to ring a bell to signal that they want to go outside. Why not teach Jude to ring a bell to let me know when he wants in? I then proceeded to raid my Christmas decoration storage boxes and located a sleigh bell that would do the trick. I hung the bell on the back door and taught Jude how to ring it with his nose (his long German Shepherd nose fit the bill nicely). Now, instead of the loud, irritating barking when Jude wants in, the neighbors and I are hearing jingle bells.

Even though, we’ve found a more tolerable signal for Jude to alert me that he wants in, he’s still prone to dramatics. He’s been known to knock the bell right off of the doorknob when he’s convinced that I’ve left the country, forgetting him in the back yard.

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Chapter 1: Mr. MoJo

I live with three, large, male dogs. Not a scenario I’d recommend to the faint of heart or those with an aversion to dog hair. My Family Fun Pack consists of two mongrels of indistinct heritage and the third, a German Shepherd with unquestionable, albeit unremarkable ancestry. All are rescues. Their given names are Mr. MoJo, Jude and Bob (Barker) any one of which will also answer to No, Stop It and Get Out Of The Way.
Mr. MoJo is a Border Collie mix. My best guess is that his family tree includes a Great Pyrenees, which makes him look pretty much like a Border Collie on steroids. He has an enormous plume of a tail which, I believe, was full-size from birth. A tail so large, I considered naming him Flag. He eventually grew into the appendage, which now serves as a fine, voice-activated fan for me during hot summer days and my own personal summers, also known as hot flashes. The fantail has several speeds; the faster I talk, the faster it fans.
Border Collies are highly intelligent. MoJo is no exception to that rule; in fact, he does my taxes every year. So far, the paw print signature on Form 1040 has not been a red flag to the Internal Revenue Service.
Mr. MoJo is the most nomadic of the Family Fun Pack. He would, at the drop of a leash, embark on solo, unauthorized trips through the neighborhood. Mr. MoJo is also the most inventive of my three amigos. Like a child who plays with the box instead of the toy, MoJo prefers to devise his own form of amusement. He much prefers the trash can lid to any store-bought plaything and occupies his time by pretending to be a lumberjack, stripping all unwary shrubbery of its leaves and branches.
In his youth, Mr. MoJo aspired to be an interior designer. Left unsupervised, he would liberate furniture from its upholstery and alter any available window treatments.
Living with a Border Collie is an experience mixed with equal parts of joy, frustration, and amazement. Here in Dog City, where I hold the office of mayor, we concentrate on the joy and amazement.

admin The Dog/Human Relationship

I’m one of those women that forgot to have children.
My friends that did remember to have children talk about how their offspring have turned them into people that closely resemble their own parents. They are aghast when they catch themselves repeating familiar parental adages that echo back to their youth. The very phrases and actions they swore they’d never, ever espouse to their own brood.
My friends point out the similarities of raising children with my experience of raising four-legged “kids” of the canine persuasion. Those similarities include my propensity for barking orders and dispensing insane logic. Like a human parent, I am highly skilled at identifying culpability and I may possibly become the expedia.com for guilt trips. Even knowing full well that heaping on guilt, lecturing and verbal analysis do not work with dogs (and probably most children) I’m compelled to persist.
My dogs are big. My dogs are hairy. My dogs are male. My dogs sometimes make me crazy. In the midst of chaos and times when I lack the capacity for rational thought, there are certain phrases that have become the tag lines of my life.
“This is why we can’t have nice things!” is the axiom I most often express during bouts of indoor canine horseplay. It is usually followed by “You’re going to fool around and fool around ‘til somebody gets hurt!” There are the ever-popular tirades of “I don’t care who started it!” and “It’s all fun and games until somebody pokes an eye out!”
When a session of Living Room Agility breaks out, I threaten, “Don’t make me come in there!” And for vehicular roughhousing the word is, “Don’t make me stop this car!”
I seem to be afflicted by canine chaos induced memory loss. In attempt to single out the troublemaker, I blurt out something to the effect of, “Mo-Ju-Bob” or running through the list of their names before arriving at the right one. By then, the moment has passed.
I believe that my dogs would tell me that boys just want to have fun, but all too often, I’d respond with, “Don’t give me that look!” or some paraphrase of the Bill Cosby line about how I brought them into this house, and I can take them out.
I’m accomplished at stating the obvious, with lines like “You guys live like animals” and “Were you born in a barn?” Since my dogs are each of undisclosed backgrounds, the latter question might truthfully be answered with a yes.
My Mr. MoJo is a talker. He could appear on Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks to perform his best stunt, responding to the question, “Where do you live?” He answers, “Aaa-roar-ruh” (We live in the city of Aurora). But MoJo often takes the talking thing a bit too far. Fearful that he’s one meal away from starvation, he yells at me when his dinner is 30 seconds late. I scold, “Don’t use that tone with your mother!”
Then there’s Bob. He’s a little more laid back about his food, often leaving a portion of his meal uneaten. Now, in a household with two other contenders for food, you’d think he’d be more concerned about cleaning his plate. Nevertheless, I have to tell him, “Eat your food. Don’t you know that there are starving dogs in third world countries?”
I am resigned to the fact that I no longer have any furniture to myself and that perpetual “snoot marks” exist on my car windows. But, every night I say goodnight and thank my dogs for being who they are, in all their lovable brilliance.

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