My one true love

Throughout my lifetime I’ve had the pleasure of befriending and sniffing the butts of many good dogs. I’ll try to cover them all in my blog, but I think I’ll start first and foremost with the one dog that was quite possibly my soul mate, Desi Flores-Fratto.

In all actuality, if it weren’t for Desi and his mother, I would have never found my mother. Desi was my neighbor when I was a puppy living with my first owners in Oswego. When my future mommy would come by to visit Desi and his mom, she would see me and I would do my best to melt her heart. Eventually I wore down her resistance and clouded her common sense…you see my mother was only 18 when she adopted me to the chagrin of her own mother, my grandma.

What began as a friendship with the boy next door (Desi) eventually grew more serious. We saw one another practically every day. Our relationship was never physical, though I’d hump him once in a while just to remind him who wore the pants in our relationship. Quite possibly the most important thing Desi taught me was the art of Desi-Fu.

Over the years we were separated for long periods of time, but we were able to spend some quality time together at the end of Desi’s life. He would come to my house often to stay while his mommy was away. In the end, we both just loved one another’s companionship. We could sit in a room and ignore one another for hours. In our spare time we enjoyed taking walks together. As we both were suspected to be part beagle, we both enjoyed stopping to smell pretty much everything.

My mommy used to have a painting on her wall of a dog and a woman standing on a beach on a cloudy day. The dog and woman looked so much like Desi and his mom that my mother gave it to her when Desi was put to sleep. Before she got rid of the picture though, she had my grandma take a picture of it so she could repaint it. Instead of a black dog, my grandma painted an orange dog in the picture, so now Desi and I are both immortalized in the same painting. I miss him and I always stop by his old house when we walk by.

Life in the slow lane – tips to other old dogs (and dog owners) on aging gracefully

I had a close call today. I was taking a nap on the bed like I always do while mom is at work. Well, I forgot to take my collar off (not pointing fingers or anything mom) and when I went to get up to go get a drink of water, my collar caught on the blankets. As if this wasn’t bad enough, while trying to extricate myself from this predicament, I wound up getting my paw wrapped up in the blankets. When mommy came home, she discovered me lying on the floor, so dehydrated I could barely speak.

For a second there before mommy arrived, I was sure it was the end for me. As I lay there on the floor desperately in need of water, my life flashed before my eyes. It was then I realized how much wisdom I have yet to share with my fellow canines. So here it goes, tips on aging gracefully …at least the ones I can remember.

1. For goodness sakes, take off your collar when you go to sleep. And trust me, once you get to be my age, you’ll do a lot of sleeping. Don’t let my near-tragic experience this evening be in vain. Blankets and collars are like hairdryers and bath tubs…they should come with a warning.

2. When it comes to car rides, swallow your pride and just lie down. As you get up in years, you’ll notice your joints aren’t what they used to be. This combined with the constant stopping and going in the car are a deadly combination. Those days of standing up in the car, paws on the window ledge, ears flapping in the wind…well, let’s just say kiss them goodbye. To avoid being thrown to the floor or taking a chin dive into the middle console, stay seated in the car. Better yet, just lie down.

3. This is a little bit embarrassing to talk about, but for you dog owners out there, and for you old dogs, it’s going to be a fact of life eventually. When it comes to going outside to do your duty in the winter, don’t be shy to go on the sidewalk. I know you’ve been trained your whole life to go on the grass, but when there’s a few inches or more of snow on the grass, it is best to just stay on the safely shoveled sidewalk. Deep snow can trip you up pretty good and your owner should be picking up your poop anyways, so it doesn’t matter where you go.

4. Choose your friends wisely. Trust me, I know from experience. It can be tough being an old dog, especially a smaller one. I often have to let younger, spunkier pups know who the boss is. Sometimes, when it comes to the larger dogs, this can get me into trouble. Being their elder, they often try to establish their dominance. This happens with girls more so than boys. I’ve done my best to stand my ground, though I won’t lie, I’ve been bitten a few times, but that’s another story.

5. Let the motor out. Be sure your mom or dad is getting you out for one long walk a day. It’s like a car that sits for too long. Eventually it just doesn’t go anymore.

6. Have your owner lift your food dishes off the ground. This is a good tip for any age dog. My mommy didn’t start doing this until a few months ago when she noticed I was falling over a lot while trying to eat. She put my food and water on her Coleman camper stove to reduce the strain on my back and now I can eat and drink much easier.

7. Stay away from stairs at all costs. You may notice yourself slipping on them here or there, but before you know it, you’ll be chin planting going up them, or worse, falling down them. Large numbers of stairs are particularly dangerous. At this point in my life, for anything more than four or five steps, I take the elevator or mom carries me. I’ve had a few close calls where I fell down the stairs and thought I’d broken a bone. Mom said if I had broken my leg, she would have probably just had to put me down to sleep, so now I just play it safe.

A shout out to my girls

When my mother named me, she had no idea how unique I would become, which is probably why she saddled me with such a lackluster and common name as Lucy. Derived from the Latin word "lux" meaning light, I’ve grown to love my new name thanks to all the famous Lucy’s out there in the world. Here’s a shout out to some of the equally noteworthy individuals in this world with which I share my name.

There’s the obvious, Lucille Ball. It’s also obvious why we share a name…we both have beautiful strawberry blonde hair.





Then there’s the lesser known and less photogenic 3.2-million-year-old ape “Lucy”. Discovered in Ethiopia 1974, she was the earliest known human ancestor species until last year, when remains pre-dadting Lucy by one million years were unearthed according to National Geographic.
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/10/091001-oldest-human-skeleton-ardi-missing-link-chimps-ardipithecus-ramidus.html


We recently lost another famous Lucy…Lucy O’Donnell Vodden, the subject of the Beatle’s song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” On Sept. 22, 2009, Vodden died of following a long battle with Lupus.
According to Rolling Stone, in 1966 Julian Lennon brought home a drawing of his classmate Lucy O’Donnell (her maiden name) and described it to his father as “Lucy in the sky with diamonds.”


http://www.rollingstone.com




Lastly, there’s Lucy Liu. I debated on whether or not to include her in the list, but I’m giving her a plug because she’s Asian, and because my mother always calls me Lucy Lou.

Let me know if I'm forgetting someone. Clearly it is an honor for them to share the "Lucy" spotlight with me!

Dog owner training 101

As part of my blog, I hope to share some of the wisdom I've compiled over the years in the field of training your owner. This is a long and arduous process which requires reverse psychology on a dog's part in order to ensure your owner doesn't catch onto your motives. For about the first six years, you will have to pretend you are the student, but once you get past that point, it's up to you to take the reins, let your owner know who's boss, and train them to do things exactly how you want them.

I will revisit this topic in future blogs, but for now, watch this video carefully and observe how I've trained my mother to give me treats when I come in from a walk. It takes patience and precise direction on my part (notice how I bark at a consistent pace to keep my mother focused on the task at hand). I'm working on getting my mother trained on better video editing, but she claims she needs a better computer to add subtitles. Maybe some of you readers can give her some technical advice.

Turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so

Hybrid Dogs (Designer Dogs)

The word 'Hybrid', when referring to genetics means, the offspring of genetically dissimilar parents or stock, especially the offspring produced by breeding plants or animals of different varieties, species, or races. In general the word means, 'something of mixed origin or composition.' Hybrid dogs, or designer dogs as some call them, are becoming quite popular. ~

www.dogbreedinfo.com/hybriddogs.htm

Technically, a hybrid dog is a mix of two purbreads, such as a Labradoodle (Lab/Poodle mix) or Buggs (Boston Terrier/Pug mix). My mother has always told me I’m an econo- dog because I don’t eat much and she can pick me up easy. Maybe I’m not a purebread, hybrid or designer dog, but the mystery of my origins is enough to give any dog an identity crisis.

For the first 13-years of my life, I operated under the assumption that I was a beagle/husky mix. I don’t blame my mother for my bastard status, as she didn’t really have much to go on. The only information she had gotten from my former negligent owners was my name. It was Sheba, but my mom thought that sounded too much like a cat name so she changed it to Lucy, after the Grateful Dead song Loose Lucy.

We got a little closer to knowing what kind of dog I was when we were walking down the street in Oswego one day and a woman approached us to inquire about my background. The woman said I closely resembled her dog, and upon doing some math, we concluded I may actually even be related to her dog. This kind stranger informed my mother that her dog was identified as a Beagle/Husky mix when she got him.

Fast -forward 13 years, my mother had an epiphany. Several of her friends with Shiba Inu breeds observed that I strongly resembled their dogs.



Not only do I look a lot like this ancient Japanese hunting breed, it seems it was no coincidence I was originally named Sheba (or was it Shiba?). Upon further research, mommy realized I also act a lot like the breed as well.


According to Wikipedia...

the Shiba’s coat is described as being stiff and straight, with a soft thick undercoat. Fur is short and even on the face ears and legs. Tail hair is slightly longer and stands open in a brush. Shibas come in red, black, tan, sesame (red with black tipped hairs) with a cream, buff or grey undercoat.








The Shiba is a fastidious breed and feels the need to maintain itself in a clean state. They can often be seen licking their paws and legs much like a cat. They generally go out of their way to keep their coats clean, and while walking will avoid stepping in puddles, mud and dirt. These are clean dogs, so grooming needs will likely be at a minimum for most individuals. A Shiba Inu coat is short, coarse and naturally waterproof, so there is little need for regular bathing. However, there is one drawback - shedding, also known as blowing coat.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love to clean myself, the rug, blankets, my fluffy soccer ball, hardwoods, linoleum, or anyplace there might be a crumb or spill. I would say cleaning things and myself is among my top three favorite things to do. The one discrepancy is that my fur is very soft rather than course, which could be from whatever other breed it is that I am.

I will admit, I haven’t bathed since August, but that's because I do such a great job cleaning myself. If my feet get dirty I will obsess over them for hours. I prefer they stay neon white as my mother calls it. She always tells me that I would lick the fur off my puppies if I had had some.

Unfortunately, about three times a year, I do indeed “blow coat.” This pretty much entails my mommy brushing me for three weeks straight, removing enough hair to stuff a small couch pillow each time. I hate getting brushed, but it does feel good to shed a few pounds in hair a few times a year, especially in the dog days of summer.

Despite the question of my origin, I think one thing is for certain…I am quite possibly the cutest dog in the world.

Introducing the amazing tales of Lucy

For those of you I’ve never met before, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucy Cavalier. I’m a 14-year-old beagle mix and I’m dying, or at least that’s what my mommy thinks. The thing is, I’m not your average dog. I’ve beat the odds pretty much my entire life.

I’ve lived in New York and Virginia, and I once took a brief trip to Long Island where I picked up a tick. Those Long Island ticks are the worst. I’m lucky I didn’t get the Lyme disease. I’ve been to Central Park in NYC where I saw Ziggy Marley and the Wailers, and I got to ride the subway. I’ve been bitten by other dogs twice, and bitten a small toddler myself (it’s a long story). I’ve almost died once and lived to tell the tale. My mommy always tells me I’ve led a more interesting life than some people, so before my final bow, I figured I’d better start taking down my memoirs. So here it goes…the amazing tales of Lucy.

Speaking of tails, did I ever tell you about the time my mother chopped off the white fur on the tip of my tail? It was eight years ago, and once again, I had her fooled her into thinking I was dying. When I was about six-years-old, my immune system attacked my red blood cells. The technical term for the disease I contracted is autoimmune hemolytic anemia. Here’s a helpful website about another doggie who wasn’t so lucky and died from AHA < http://www.cloudnet.com/~jdickson/>.

My mommy knew something was wrong with me when I didn’t want to play with my toys or my other doggy pals. I was so sick I didn’t even have an appetite for treats, and I lost all the pink coloring in my tongue and under my ears. Things were looking pretty grim for me when I was diagnosed with autoimmune hemolytic anemia. I was given a 50 percent chance of survival.

For a week, I stayed in a cage at the veterinarian's (I HATE cages, but was too weak to object). I was given five pills, three times a day, and a few blood transfusions. My mommy would come visit me everyday, and she would cry and cry, and try to smuggle me in real food to encourage me to take my medicines. I wanted to live, but not if I was going to spend the rest of my days in a cage. After five days, the veterinarian called my mommy and told her to pick me up. They said I wasn’t going to get better, and my red blood cell count would continue to drop until I just fell asleep and didn’t wake up.

They obviously had never met a dog like me before! Little did they know, this death stunt was actually just a ploy to get my mother to love and appreciate me more. And boy did it work like a charm. When I got home, my mommy waited on me hand and foot. She fed me bacon, liver and even cat food, all things which she never let me have before. She carried me everywhere, since I was still very weak from a lack of blood cells. That weekend, my mommy took me to see all my people and doggy friends to say goodbye.

I know it was hard for her to understand how the doggy she loved so much could be dying after only six years together. She stood vigil over me that entire weekend, hoping each breath would not be my last. She lit a candle and kept it burning. And finally, when she thought all hope was lost, she cut off the tip of my tail. You see, she wasn’t going to be able to afford to have me cremated, and so she figured this was the best way to have something to remember me by.

When the weekend passed and I was still alive, she called the vet. Upon examination, it was determined that I had beat the odds. My red blood cell count was back on the rise. Don’t get me wrong, the road to recovery had only just begun. I was so weak from my brush with death that I couldn’t do anything on my own for quite some time. I had to be carried everywhere for a few weeks. And then, it still took me almost six-months before I was able to go for a decent length walk again. Thankfully my tail grew back.

My grandma always picks on my mother about the time she cut off my tail. Grandma made my mother promise not to donate her organs before she dies.