E-M-M-A

It's time to share another sketch of one of the local cast of characters. In many ways, E-M-M-A, as we must say Emma's name to keep Oz from going crazy with desire, is the pivot point of the neighborhood—the spark plug, the reason there are teeming stories.

You see, we didn't used to W up the little area where Em lives. It is a nice enough street, but it doesn't link up with anything, so we'd have to W up, turn around, and come back. Ho-hum.

Once in a while, though, when we weren't doing a long adventure W, we would go up there. Always nice lawns, always friendly nods from people, but otherwise, nothing…until the day a meat loaf sprinted out of a closed door and came to see us.

It wasn't a meat loaf, of course, but that's about how big Emma was then, about 10 months ago. Her humans had just gotten her, and she was nothing but enthusiasm at that point. Julie was inside on the phone, and had left the door open a crack.
That's all it took. Emma saw us walking down the street on the other side, nosed the door open, and shot across at us. She never flinched, but flew in a straight sprint, leaping on Oz and tumbling around.

Oz is friendly at all times, so the immediate response was a friendly, rolling tumble. They licked, they wrestled, they rolled…it was fun for everyone. Oz would sometimes pat Emma with a paw, sending her pillbug rolling. Em loved it. We had a great time, tempered only slightly by Julie's concern when she finally realized Em was gone and came looking. She apologized up and down, but we were happy. Oz had a friend.
And Em has stayed a friend, though a complex friend. She's a smart dog who loves Ozma an insane amount, but she's also an stubborn and tricky dog. This, then, is E-M-M-A:
I call her a licking rocket, because she runs like the wind and tackles Oz, then won't stop licking until forced to do so.

Her hearing is sharp. She recognizes Oz's collar tag jingle when we're a block away and runs away from home to greet us.

She's inquisitive. Oz sticks her snout in the storm run off pipes to see what's in there. E-M-M-A crawls through them, a hamster in a paper towel.

She's flat out willful. Once when I kept her from biting Oz on the snout, she jumped and kicked me in the chest with her front paws.

She's smart. I gave another dog a dog treat yesterday. Emma didn't see me, but she smelled the dog's breath—and came directly to me. There was no other place the treats could have come from, therefore…

She's a biter. She loves to clamp down on other dogs' snouts and just hang on. However, she knows not everyone likes this, so she'll try to manage it. She'll bite on something else, anything else, to keep from biting snouts. I've seen her clamp down on a weed to be polite. More on E soon.

Greg

A Dog For All Ages

Oz is a dog for all ages, in three ways.
First, she is amazingly able to adjust to different ages of people. We ran into an old woman in a wheelchair yesterday; Oz approached her slowly and licked one hand, gently. We ran into a young mom with a baby; Oz snuffled the toes and backed away. But when Oz runs into energetic kids—pow!

Second, as I was reminded yesterday, Oz changes ages. It was a surprisingly warm and golden day, so we headed to the lake. I tried to sneak some sticks into the poop bag in case Oz wanted to fetch them—but Oz caught me. She wanted to fetch so badly that we ended up running to the lake, not walking, and rather than waiting to fetch, we played tug of war as we ran down the street. Cars would slow as they saw us. Sometimes she had the stick in her jaws. Sometimes I had it in my hand. Most of the time, we were tugging as we ran, both of us growling.

When we got to the lake, she was a puppy, eager to run into the lake, snuffle, and flop. She rolled on her back, her front, her snout, and anything else she could find, making sure she could get some sand scent and scratchin' on her, all the while going "Nraaa. Graaa!"

Walking home, she was a normal adult dog.

That night, as we watched TV, she was a clingy senior dog. A dog for all ages.
And of course, the third way she's a dog for all ages is that she deserves to be immortalized.

Greg

House Guests

I walked towards the door slowly, my attention on the pile of six library books and a day's worth of mail I was trying not to juggle. All that was forgotten when the front door popped open a crack and Kathy said, "Slip inside quick. Oz has house guests."Before Kathy could finish speaking, Oz was there at the door crack, doggy grin wide. I slipped inside, dropping my pile on the bench as I saw the living room was full of labs.


"Full" is a slight exaggeration. There were just two labs visiting, Tug and Emma, but they are both big and young and full of energy, and they were endlessly cycling, checking things out. Each cycled over to greet me as Kathy explained that Oz had been asleep on the couch when they'd showed up in the back yard. She wasn't going to wake Oz, since she'd been feeling bad, but they didn't just run through like they had before. Emma hung around, sticking her head in between the fence rails.

Kathy had opened the door and called Emma, and she popped right in. Tug, who hasn't visited as often and is approximately as smart as a yam, took more coaxing, but eventually came in, and there was much rejoicing.

The two young dogs—Emma just turned 1 four days ago, and Tug is about eight months old—got to investigate a new space, rumpling up and down stairs to smell things, and disappearing behind or below anything that had a backside or a bottom. Oz got house guests to play with, and play they did. They made many loops against each other, licking, bumping, play growling. When Kathy brought out rawhide chewies for each of them, things got even better. One dog would walk around with one, and another dog would take the other end that was sticking out of his mouth. There would be a brief tug of war, and then the baton would be handed off. The dog that lost his or her chewy would then look around, and bite the end of someone else's chewy, and the process would start over.

And here's the thing that was so purely Oz, and so touching: Oz insisted on sharing. By that I mean, she'd play with Emma—then come over to rub up against me. She'd wrestle Tug, nipping at his legs—then come over to lick my face, as if to say, "See! See! We've got guests! Tug! Emma!" (If you've known a lab, you know they over-use exclamation points. Deal with it.)

Oz insists on sharing good things, and it makes her happy to do so. This means her chewies, her toys, her W's, her friends, and even her food. Who and what does she get possessive about? Her people, and her routines. If I pet another dog too long, she pushes in between, as if to say, "You haven't forgotten me, have you?" But for all other things, she wants to share, and it makes her happier to do so. She'll stalk a deer, transfixed, then, when it runs, jump up and down in place, looking at me, and come over to lick and rub. When we do anything special together—chase a cat, chase a car, crawl under a bush, swim after ducks, etc.—Ozma is happier because I'm there. If she can get more than one person involved, that's just gravy. When Kathy and I take Oz on walks in the cemetery, Oz will follow a scent, then come back and weave in between us, nosing each hand.

Oz likes to share her joy.


Greg

Old Dog Day

Ozma had an old dog day yesterday. It was sad and sweet all at once.

It was sad because she's my dog companion. Ozma doesn't have a wide range of options—she's not a problem-solving chimp or a memorized route flying bird—but if it involved smelling, eating, licking, walking (or walking that might slide into running!), or, especially, loving, she's always been ready to go.

Yesterday she didn't feel well. She had an upset tummy, throwing up half a dozen times, and laying quietly. Oh, she went for her W's. She always does those, even when she was due for surgery and we had to limp along for five minutes and go back in. But she turned away from food sometimes, and she was clingy.

Oz is always affectionate, but this was like she was reverting to puppydom. She burrowed in, tucking her snout against my side and putting a paw over my leg, as if to make sure I wouldn't go anywhere. At night she got up on the bed for a few minutes before we put her out of the room for sleeping, and she tried to press her entire body against me, as if saying, "I need you, please just let me be here."

Right now she's still fighting the remnants of whatever bothered her. She was lively on the morning W…but I can hear her upset tummy roiling, and she turned down her morning treats.

I want my puppy to feel better.

Greg

Reuben, Oz, and the Universe

We met Reuben yesterday. Reuben is a half grown Springer Spaniel, and cute as a button. Oz and I met him when we went out for the morning W.

Oz works on a simple premise that is charming but kinda dim: everything in the world is her friend, put there for her to greet, smell, and play with. That's fine if a dog is friendly, like Reuben very much was, but gets dicey when the dog is aggressive. More than once we've been charged by a dog while Oz stood there grinning and wagging her tail. It got closer and closer, and Oz got friendlier and friendlier. The dog's jaws went for her throat, sometimes closing with an audible snap!

Oz would stay friendly, sometimes licking the recently closed in greeting. The dog would snap again. Oz would dodge the jaws, and counter with a friendly lick. Only if the dog actually landed a bite would Oz counterattack, and even then, it was treated as a kind of one time mistake. The dog would bite, Oz would bite back—and then go back to being friendly. This has meant several things.
First, it means when a dog charges us, it's my job to do the threat assessment. Should fighting other dogs become necessary, that's my job. Oz stands and watches, waiting to be friends with the winner and the loser alike. As a side note, that means she runs towards danger, not away.

Second, it means that all those comments from people about pack order and dominance go right out the window. Oz doesn't dominate, but she doesn't submit much either. It's play time, baby. Oz is a democratic dog.

Third, it means when we meet a dog like Reuben, it's a joy. Reuben was friendly, and soft as only puppies can be. He danced on Oz's head, licked me, and helped get their leashes joyously tangled. Ah!

Greg

How was the W?

I sometimes think I should call this blog "How was the W?" That's because it seems like every day when I take Ozma out for her walk, there's a story.

Kathy asks, "So, how was the W?" Sometimes it is just a walk. Sometimes it is just taking the dog out to pee. Sometimes it is freaking raining and not much fun at all.

But most of the time, there's a story. I feel like I'm walking through a children's book—like the animals are the active characters in the neighborhood, and the humans are just a supporting cast. There's drama, there's suspense, and there's always change. The W started as a kind of awkward duty—I had been a cat person before Kathy, and only took the dog out because she needed to go—but they developed into events.

Take yesterday, for example. We had a standard schedule—three short W's, of about 10 minutes each, so Oz can do her business, and one longer, for fun and stretching her legs. #1, at around dawn, was just business, but #2, at noon, was a bit of an adventure. We went over to see her pack (an area in a nearby cul de sac where several dogs and Sammy live). We didn't have much luck. It was a blowy day, and no one was outside. We were starting to head home, and Emma got let out to pee.

Emma is many things. One of them is a young black lab. Another is obsessively fond of Oz. That means that she was let out in her own yard to pee, saw Oz, and sprinted the block to leap on Oz's head. Oz is just as fond of Emma, so we went from standing still, looking forlornly at the dogless yard to sprinting towards a loose dog.

Emma is always a crapshoot, because if she's excited, she hits hard, and bits other dogs on the snout (purely out of enthusiasm). So there's this loving black rocket of a dog sprinting towards us, and in the background her owner is yelling, "Emma! No! Come here! Em…Oh well. Don't hurt anybody. Play nice. Kisses!"

"Kisses" or "Just Kisses" is Julie's mantra for trying to get Emma to lick other dogs rather than bite them. It's a great idea, but as a shouted command, it is surreal.

Since Oz had an operation on her leg a few months ago—more on that later—she can't take hard impact. That means that Emma's fiercely loving charge has to be met like I’m tackling her. I take the impact, slow her down, and then let them play, to the background music of "Kisses! Kisses!"

Greg

So, in any case, Sammy!

I don’t know why Kathy (my wife) and I are so inordinately pleased by Ozma having a cat-friend. Part of it is her enthusiasm. Say "Sammy!" and Oz is ready to go, looking at us and on point.

Part of it is Sammy's enthusiasm. How many cats come when called, and from a block away, just to greet your dog?

Part of it is the mechanics of it all. Being a dog, Oz can't meow. (I can't believe I just wrote that sentence.) However, she knows meowing, and so if I meow when we're in Sammy's neighborhood, she looks around for Sammy. On the other hand, if we're in Sammytown and Sammy isn't, sometimes she'll stop on her W and look up at me, saying, essentially, "Hey, this is when you meow," a look that might also be translated as "Um, dude?" or "Hello, Mcfly!"

Most of it, though, is the sheer pleasure of their interaction. When Ozma and Sammy are together, both of them are clearly so happy that it spills over. Oz will push towards Sammy quivering, smell a nose or tail, depending on which way Sammy's twirling, and then turn back towards me, jumping and licking as if to say, "This is so cool!"

Recently they had a quintessentially them interaction. This being Washington, it was another lightly misty day, with the weather shifting from light rain to mist to simple 110% humidity and back. This meant that Sammy was willing to dart out from the garage to say hello, but wasn't that eager to stay in the rain. Since Sammy's humans leave the garage door open about a foot so Sammy can come and go as he pleases, after greeting us Sammy ducked back inside.

However, Sammy loves us, so he stuck his nose out. Oz loves Sammy, so she stuck her nose in.

They met under the garage door… and then Sammy started walking back and forth inside, pacing in his "I'm a cat, pay attention to me walk." All we could see when he was walking was the paws, but then he'd stop and stick his nose under the door to check on us. Oz would do the same, and the two of them walked back and forth the width of the garage, alternating who was sticking a nose under the door to say hello. And I followed with the leash in the rain. And everyone was happy.

Sammy, or rather, Sammy!

If you're going to follow this dog's story, you're going to need a sense of the different characters. Today let's talk about Sammy, or rather, Sammy!

There is a growing number of words that we can't say around Ozma. We can't say them because they get her so excited, and it seems somehow wrong to do that. It's like teasing her, or breaking faith with a child.

We can't say "walk," because she'll leap around, ready to go for one, so we say "W."
We can't say "ride," because she'll leap around, ready to get in the car, so we say, "R." Bones become Buh, chicken ch, or chick (although that one's dangerous), and then there is the pack.

The pack is Oz's ever-growing list of friends. Some she only knows by sound, like Gunnar. Gunnar's the UPS man, and when his truck comes near, Oz is looking out the window. Some she knows by smell, like Chris, who apparently smells like dognip.

Then there's Emma, Jackson (Jax), Tug (AKA Tugger, or Tugs), Baby!, Sherry, Bear, Jessie, Chris (this one's a dog), and so on. But my dog's favorite friend is Sammy, or again, Sammy!
Sammy's special because Sammy's a cat, a slender, winding, gray striped tiger cat. Sammy lives with Tug and Jackson, which explains his relaxation around dogs, but he comes running to see us, which I take as completely our due.

Oz has long wanted to chase cats, and I've always been a little nervous, what with the whole cat/dog thing. But Kathy had long contended that Oz just wanted to play and investigate, and it turns out she's right. Once Sammy showed a willingness to not run away, which became a willingness to wind around protective objects, he became Oz's favorites. This produces the bizarre sight of a dog running past other dogs to vibrate near a cat, and, perhaps odder, the sight of a cat coming when called, running a block and a half to visit us. And yesterday…

That was us.

It snowed last night. Just the lightest of dustings, less than half an inch, but for about half an hour it was coming down so steadily that I winced. We've had a lot of snow this season, and it's our first year in the house. We're still getting used to things like how our street stays icy and slick well after the main roads in town are clear and dry.

Anyway…it was snowing, but it was midnight, time for the last W of the evening. We've gotten Oz used to a regular routine of W's, and skipping one always feels wrong, like we're cheating her. So I got my hat, coat, shoes, poop bag, and leash.

Oz was asleep, so I jangled the leash against the floor and up she popped, rumbling up the stairs like she hadn't just been snoring. Click leash, out the door…

And it was snowing. Enough snow was falling to make a kind of curtain that blurred the lights from nearby houses and softened the edges of everything. Within a few steps Oz's chocolate brown fur was sprinkled with what flakes.

There were no tracks on the road. There were no foot prints. There were no paw prints. We took care of that. Weaving back and forth across the street to follow great smells (I assume), whims (I'm sure), and particularly interesting gusts of snow (I know), we had a nice little ten minute W.

We've been down this road literally a thousand times, but the snow makes everything new again. All those leaves become mysterious humps of who knows what? The branches bend and clump together as the snow settling in, and the snow thickens their shadows, so what were some pretty ratty scrub bushes become rounded, lurking shapes. I know they won't leap on us, and I'm pretty sure Oz knows. But just to be sure…

We had the road to ourselves last night. No people, no dogs, no cars. Well, one small bird, dislodging puffs of snow for a late night snack. Other than that, it was us.

So if you're driving to work and you see a winding set of paw prints and a sort of penguin set of people tracks, and nothing else on the pure white snow, that was us.

Greg

Savage Beast

A savage beast leapt at my throat today. I survived.

I always do. I estimated the beast has leapt at me at least 6000 times since it began.

I do admit, however, that the first leap was a bit of a surprise. I was just newly owned, and still getting used to being an assistant dog. What's more, Ozma (my dog) was a bit younger then, and still getting used to having an assistant. Combined, these two factors meant she jumped a lot higher, and made it a lot closer to my throat before clamping her jaws on the leash for a good tug and play.

I get the number 6000 from combining a range of factors:
4 W's a day.
365 days per year
3 years.
1-2 leaps per W.

It might be as high as 8000 attempts on my life. I'm not wedded to the number.

Greg