Debarking debated

I hadn’t thought much about debarking lately, but along came this article from The New York Times on the subject, putting it uppermost in mind again.

Saint Bosco (who didn’t earn the title “saint” until after he died, like all good saints), our beloved sheltie, was an unrepentant barker of the highest degree. That dog could, and often would, bark at anything. I mean anything --- including leaves falling from trees and the rain. In his world, there was nothing worse than a thought unexpressed, so express he did, with great frequency and occasional high volume.

It wouldn’t be quite right to say his barking bothered me, although there were moments when I thought if I heard his voice one.more.time. I was going to pull his little tongue right out of his head (not all that unlike fantasies I’d been known to have about the spouse and kids at one time or another). What bothered me was the idea that he might be truly and deeply annoying our neighbors. The majority of the neighbors we had at the time were decent people and I didn’t want them to hate my dog and, by extension, us. So I was pretty hypersensitive about it.

Most of the time I believed that, all things being equal, he wasn’t that bad a dog to have as a neighbor. He slept indoors every night, so there wasn’t any of that keeping-the-neighbors-up-all-night stuff; he did far more barking inside the house as he guarded his front yard from…well…everything; and a couple of the neighborhood girls had squeals that could shatter crystal --- squeals which they seemed to practice with great regularity in the afternoons and evenings while playing outside in the front yard.

I would have never, ever considered debarking Bosco. All the cute little noises he made in addition to his barks were most dear to me, as well as his ability to “sing” on command. And, to be honest, part of me felt that Bosco’s vocalizations were just part of the whole “that’s what you get when you live in the suburbs” spiel. The neighbors got to hear him bark and we got to hear the kids squeal or the lawnmowers or leafblowers buzz. Even steven.

Bosco passed on in 2005. Being the critter person I am, it wasn’t all that much longer before I acquired another dog --- Darby, SPCA mutt. For all of the wondrous, fabulous things about Bosco, the one thing I knew I wouldn’t miss was cringing anytime I thought he’d been making noise past the point of neighborhood civility.

Darby made nary a peep for his first few weeks with us. We breathed a sigh of relief. Though we had moved to a new city since Bosco’s finest barking days, it was wonderful to envision a future where the neighbors would have a little peace on our side of the fence.

Then Darby found his voice. Not just any voice, but what can only be described as a cross between a fire alarm and an old-fashioned car horn, in that whole aruuuuuuu-gah fashion. This little white dog had more sound coming out of his body than I’d ever known a dog that size capable of producing. I was horrified. Frankly, some days I still am. But still not enough to consider debarking him.

Now the conflict is more abstract. Is debarking a dog worse than keeping a shock collar on them? One renders some pain for a bit, then it’s over, while the other inflicts pain time after time, teaching a dog to stifle every instinct they have towards warning people, not only about intruders, but about when they’re feeling overly stressed or being pushed too far by someone or something. Is debarking worse than being forced to give up a dog because of complaints from neighbors? The surgery itself has been refined over the years where many vets no longer do any external cutting at all, accomplishing the task in twenty minutes or so.

There are things people do to their pets every day that make me sad. Or angry. I’m just not sure this is one of them.

Animal Protection Caucus comes to Sacramento

Four members of the California State legislature, Sens. Tony Strickland (R-Thousand Oaks) and Dean Florez (D-Shafter), and Assembly members Pedro Nava (D-Santa Barbara) and Cameron Smyth (R-Santa Clarita), have created a bipartisan caucus to focus on animal issues in California.

I couldn’t be more pleased, especially in seeing that the Central Valley’s own Dean Florez is one of the charter members. In a state as large as ours we have a host of animal issues that require concerted, thoughtful approaches. It’s heartening to see that there are a few legislators who believe that these issues are important as well. I look forward to hearing more from them as the caucus gets fully underway. In the meantime, if you care about critters and one of these representatives is from your area make sure you drop them a little note of thanks.

Yep, still illin’

Thought we were close to out of the woods last night, but awoke this morning to another round of sick puppy remnants.

I’m convinced that it has to be something Darby’s eating. Perhaps we got a bad batch of one of his dining choices. He has no fever, no other indications of illness, beyond the whole ebola-issue, and when he’s digestive tract isn’t in turmoil he seems fine, albeit a little less sparky.

We thought the culprit might be the chicken breast strip treats he was getting, as it appears the manufacturer changed their formula, but even after removing them from his diet, no luck. He’s on the baby food and rice treatment in hopes of getting his system reset. We’re inches away from tossing everything and starting over with new food, which blows in the budget department, but if that’s what it takes to get the little guy back on track, so be it.

One bluppy puppy

There are few things less fun than having my Doodlebug (Darby) be sick. Of late it feels like it’s happening much more than usual.

First there was the night when he had a diarrhea explosion at around 1 a.m., making a huge mess in three (yes, you read right --- three) different rooms, including on the bedspread of the guest bed. We chalked that up to nerves, as my spouse had been ill the same night. Being the sensitive little dude he is (and I believe most dogs to be), we figured Darby got too upset at seeing dad clinging to the side of the toilet for dear life and his system rebelled thusly.

Then came the night when we had guests over. Never mind that they were my parents and he adores them, we were still willing to chalk up his digestive meltdown to being over stimulated. Fortunately, we had a little warning on that one, as he sat in his chair, panting far too heavily for a dog who hadn’t done more than walk across the room. Being properly concerned, we were able to get him outside just in time for a diarrhea explosion, followed by a few rounds of vomit.

Much like the first time, once he got past the immediate episode and enjoyed a little slumber time, Darby bounced back right-as-rain the next day.

So when he climbed in bed last night at around 3 a.m. (something he never does when he’s feeling his oats) and started up with the heavy panting, I knew that whether I had to be at work or not, there was going to be a whole lot less cleaning involved if I hauled my big butt out of bed and got him outside. Which I did --- just in time to save the carpets. I figured the worst was over, so we headed back to bed where I promptly gave up the bulk of my covers and more of my butt space than I prefer to accommodate his desire to cuddle up with us. We seemed on the right track until 5 a.m., when he needed to vomit. On the bed. Well, we were bound to wash it some time. Today’s as good a day as any.

Houston, we have a sickie in our midst. There were no guests, no illin’ house peeps, not even any stray human food to blame it on, as we had gone out to dinner last night and didn’t bring home a Darby bag. In a stunning change of the usual pace, we didn’t even give him dog treats last night.

We’re stumped. It could be that we got a funky batch of something we are feeding him. As he eats three different types of food at his two daily meals, plus dog treats, we could spend a week trying to suss that out. Or just throw it all out and start fresh. Expensive, but an option.

All I know is that the little dude still isn’t back to his usual self, which means we aren’t either. He’ll be on the baby food and rice train tonight. Probably tomorrow, too. Here’s hoping Doodlebug gets his ‘tude back soon.

Who wouldn’t want a “death cat”?

For every person who feels vaguely creeped out by the idea of a cat who can predict your death hours before it occurs, there’s another who finds the idea appealing, even comforting. I happen to be one of those people.

I first read about Oscar, the so-called “angel of death cat” a year or two ago, when the staff at the nursing home where he lives began making the allegations that Oscar can predict when a patient in their nursing home is hours from death. At that time, it seemed that more than a few folks found the whole situation unsettling. Apparently one of the doctors working in the facility shared those concerns, as he has written a book, Making Rounds With Oscar: The Extraordinary Gift of an Ordinary Cat, where he shares his experiences with Oscar and the families of patients who have come to know him.

Should the day come when I need some sort of formal palliative care, I could only hope to be so lucky as to find myself in a facility that housed an animal such as Oscar (or any animal, for that matter). To know that a member of a species I’ve spent decades trying to honor, protect and extol the virtues of would be at my side in my hour of need would, to me, be the perfect closure of the circle of life we so easily wax poetic about when speaking in the abstract.

A few years ago Weebles decided to start sleeping on my pillow when we go to bed. As I prefer more than a six-inch square space to use for my head, I added an additional pillow to the bed, just above the one I desperately try to use for myself, shifting my body down ten inches or so to accommodate her sleeping space. While she does eventually scootch over to her primary pillow, when the lights initially go out and she settles in, part of her body must be touching part of mine, or no one’s getting any sleep at all.

I used to find it obnoxious behavior on her part. I get up early, work all day, get home and spend time with the little buggers in the evenings --- can’t I even go to bed without further overt declarations of their possession of me?

As weeks turned to months, then months to years, I see it differently now. I know her “bed dance” will only last five minutes or so, as she kneads her pillow, my pillow and my husband’s pillow (if she can get away with it) into the perfect pile for flopping down for the night and that, once properly flopped, she will begin her evening serenade.

Funny thing about sharing a pillow with a cat. When they purr, you not only hear it, you feel it though the fibers of the pillow, caressing your mind with its gentle vibrations, lulling you into the twilight place between wakefulness and sleep. I’ve come to appreciate the value of outward manifestations of inward contentment as the last dance of another long day.

Would that I could be so fortunate to have that same song play me off the stage.