Dogs and Cats

When we took our dog, Bibs, for a walk, we were stopped at our neighbor's house by a friendly cat.

(See the little kitty legs just under Bibs' chest? My little sister, Carolyn, who has Down syndrome, acted as our camera girl.

Bibs was lots bigger than the cat...

...who seemed fearless, even though she fit beneath Bibs' belly!

Who says we can't be friends, just because we're not the same?

Carolyn's favorite cat is our son's gray one, Moroni, because she doesn't bite or scratch.

Moroni loves to climb to the highest places she can find. (Bob's shoulders qualify.)

Our white cat, Sage, is not on Carolyn's Good List, because she bit Carolyn.

Since then, the white cat is working on becoming the master of disguise, yet she's better at hiding the identity of others.

What was/is your best pet? 

What did/do you like about him/her?

Can you even SEE the doggies?!

Oh, my - my computer issues! I KNOW I can learn how to do electronic things that need doing, such as cropping this photo so the subjects show up better, but I have to balance the amount of life I have left against how long it would take me to learn, as well as consider all the other things I'd dearly love to do with the remaining mortal time left to me. 

It's a matter of priorities, so get out your Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass to see the majestic white dog on the back of the truck (right), tooling down Main Street, looking doggy cool. Once it passed a car (left), an unexpected doggy head popped out the window as if to say, "Wha's up?" to numero coolo canine.

At least, that's what it looks like to me.

Do you think dogs communicate with one another?

Do you think they communicate with humans?

Do you think they celebrate EVERY DAY?

Today is not only Pioneer Day in Utah, but it's also my granddaughter, Anneke's BIRTHDAY!

(Have some cake for me, dear, since I don't eat that kind anymore.) 

I am grateful for the freedom I have to stick my head out the car window if I want to.

(But I'm not allowed to ride in the back of a truck down Main Street anymore... that only worked during my hay-hauling days on the farm!)

Did you ever ride in the back of a truck?

Did you like it?

Dog in a sweatshirt

I've seen dogs wear clothes before, like little doggy capes with front leg holes that say, "What happens on the sidewalk stays on the sidewalk." But the clothes I've seen so far are doggy style. When I went to the grocery store the other day, I saw a dog with a people sweatshirt on.
Okay, so it's cold outside, I get that. They probably don't make "What happens on the sidewalk..." doggy coats in his size, either. I'm all for adaptability. The thing I didn't get is the OTHER dog with no sweatshirt. Why does one dog get a sweatshirt and another dog in the back of the very same truck doesn't?
Maybe it's some sort of canine security blanket, the sweatshirt the dog had since puppyhood. Perhaps the other dog is better adjusted, able to ride around with his head sticking out the window and no thought for security.
Some things just plain make us feel better.
What do you have for a security blanket, real or metaphorical?

The Haunted Dog

By Shirley Bahlmann
Bibs was just four days old, a little black weiner with a small white dot between her shoulder blades, like she'd been touched by a ghost. (Just look at her spooky eyes!) I didn't really want a Border Collie, I was more interested in a cute little whisker dog like my cousins, Guy and Janette Rallison, have. But Bob and the boys would have none of that. We weren't sure Bibs was our puppy until we did "doggy tests" at five weeks old. All three boys chose her from the litter, and that was good enough for me.
When Bibs came to our house, she was too scared to sleep alone, so the boys hunkered down in their sleeping bags in her dog run. When the weather turned cold enough, they came inside and she stayed out.
When she first met our cats, they were all about the same size, but they wouldn't play nice. Sometimes our white-as-a-ghost cat, Dusty, would trot away to find a sunny spot and Bibs would happily give chase. Our black cat, Slick, never turned tail to Bibs. Even though Bibs grew to ten times his size, Dusty's the one who makes Bibs run.
The ghost touch has done other damage to Bibs' bravado. She's afraid to go in our living room, is afraid of the bathtub, blinking lights, and being behind closed doors. But worst of all, she's afraid of her dog feeder.
It's a terrific feeder that holds a whole bag of dog food with a lid to keep it clean and dry. We knew she wasn't fond of pushing open the little hinged door with her nose to get at her food, so we propped it open with a rock and thought we would live happily ever after.
Wrong.
Last month, Bibs was in our house when Bob asked, "Does she have any food?"
"I saw some in her feeding tray," I said. "Why?"
"She acts likes she's starving," he said.
It was true. She was doing more than vacuuming the kitchen floor, she was trying to root in the garbage can and stand up to the counter when she thought we weren't looking and attempting to open cupboards with her nose. So when I took her back outside, I inspected the feeder more closely. I found spider webs woven across the feeding tray. Was she scared of spiders, or had they set up shop there because she never her nose in to eat her food? When I opened the lid, it was chock full of dog food, clear to the top.
"Bibs!" I said. "I can't believe you're scared of your feeder!" She lowered her head between her white-spotted shoulders and wagged her tail in apology.
I took pity on the ghost-touched dog and scooped some food out for her.
I think we're going to dress her up as a werewolf for Halloween.

Dog Food Cookies

They are the ugliest edible creation in the world, but once I get one between my teeth, I want more, and more, and more! My sons think they're so ugly, they call them "dog food cookies," or worse. (Yeah, what biological process happens after a dog eats? If you've ever been around boys, you won't even shudder at the thought.)
I baked some dog food cookies yesterday. The recipe is simple. Mix two boxes of spice cake mix and one 28 oz. can of pumpkin. Toss in chocolate chips, nuts, or whatever else you want to try. (I once threw in some trail mix with delicious results.) Bake cookie-shaped lumps at 350 for about 20 minutes. (Adjust time to individual ovens.)
Once my delectable vegetable food group delights were done, I sat down with about six of them, a glass of cold milk, and a good book. While I was eating, my 14-year-old brought our dog, Bibs, in from her dog run. I was so lost in my book and my taste bud party that I didn't pay attention to much else. When I was through, I carried my plate back into the kitchen. Hey, the cooling rack was empty. I was sure I'd left half a dozen cookies on it. "Did you eat any cookies?" I asked Brian.
He called back, "No, they're disgusting. Why would I eat your disgusting cookies?"
Bibs came trotting into the kitchen, her brown eyes looking up at me with adoration. That's when I noticed the cookie sheet on the stove top, minus the fresh batch of cookies that had been cooling there. Only two sat in the far corner, huddled there as though afraid of something big and toothy.
"Bibs!" I cried. "Did you eat my cookies?"
She did not deny it.
I plucked one of the remaining cookies from the cookie sheet and opened the door. Bibs raced to her dog run and looked hopefully at me from between the bars.
"Yeah, you did it," I grumbled, slipping the cookie between the bars before latching the dog run door.
I couldn't really blame her. For all I know, she heard me call them "dog food cookies." At least she got her vegetables, but I'm not going to tell her that I have a bowl full of delicious dog food cookie dough chilling in the refrigerator.

Single Purpose

I once saw a cartoon that claimed to interpret what pets think. The word balloon over the cartoon mutt's head described our dog exactly. It read, "Throw the ball, throw the ball, throw the ball."
Honestly, last week I realized what a waste of time I'd spent feeling all mushy about having Bibs (our dog) since she was a puppy, and how she would be bereft if we ever had to send her to another family. NOT EVEN! As long as her new owners would kick or throw a ball until their legs fell off, she'd be in doggie heaven.
When my sister visited, she thought it was nice that Bibs always brought the ball back. Her dog just runs after the ball, then gets interested in something else. What a relief that would be!
Okay, so all dogs can't be like Benjy or Lassie or else those shows wouldn't hold so much appeal. We'll keep our mutt, and keep the tennis ball industry in the black.

Dogs Tails Are Super Glued To Their Butts

It was the stuff of dreams; my 8-year-old landed the dog's part in the school play. I'm not saying that he drew a bad part, I'm saying that he got the part of a dog. Since he had his lines down pat, ("Rowf, rowf, rowf,") all he needed was a costume. I made the mistake of asking Michael what he wanted the costume to look like. "I want a long tail."
I didn't have the time or material to make a full body dog costume, especially since there's no one after Michael to grow into the suit. I was all about ease and thrift.
"Is a pipe cleaner tail long enough?" I asked hopefully.
You would have thought I'd punched my son in the stomach by the look on his face. "No, Mom, that would look stupid." Ah, those halcyon kindergarten days when imagination could make popsicle sticks into the coolest cell phone you ever saw.
"How about wearing your old cow suit?" I asked. "It has spots, just like a dog."
"Those are COW spots," Michael informed me. "They're different than DOG spots."
Now I knew. But I didn't have the time, material, or energy to make a full body dog costume, especially since there's no one after Michael to grow into the suit. I was all about ease and thrift.
Michael and I made a trip to the store to see what doggish ensemble we could both agree on. In the boys' department, we were both delighted to find a brown hooded sweatshirt on sale for half off. Michael said it was warm, and I said it was the right price. We looked all over for brown sweatpants in his size, but we couldn't find any. The brown cargo pants were too big. But wait... what's this? Black sweatpants, and they fit!
"But, Mom, they don't match."
"Come here, Michael, I want to show you a secret." (This is one of the best mommy tactics ever for gaining cooperation, at least temporarily.) I led my curious son over to the craft section where we riffled through rectangles of felt. We unearthed brown and black pieces that matched his new clothing so well, they could have been from the same dye lot.
"Look," I said, holding up one of each against the hood of his jacket. "You could have one brown ear, and one black ear."
Michael's eyes lit up. "Then I could be a brown and black dog!"
I sagged with relief. "Yes, you could."
"And I could have a black tail with brown spots."
I tensed up again. "A short tail," I said.
Michael shook his head. "A long, furry tail."
I sighed and bent over the felt rectangles again. I had really hoped I wouldn't have to break out the sewing machine this time around. I picked up some extra brown and black felt squares and paid for our purchases.
When we got home, I went to work. The ears were easy, especially since after I cut them out, I safety pinned them to the sweatshirt hood. Then I got busy sewing brown felt together, bending a wire to fit inside, and wrapping the wire with stuffing that tapered to a point. Then I top-stitched the felt squares along the stuffing, leaving the extra hanging down from the tail tip to where it met with the thick part of the tail near the body.
Okay, if you're not following this, don't try any more. The point is, there was some fabric hanging down from the tail that we cut into fringe, or hair if you prefer. Michael was delighted. So was I. (We were almost done!)
Michael glued black spots on the brown tail with a hot glue gun as fast as I could cut the spots out. When he finished, he admired the tail, then asked, "How are we going to keep it on?"
This was when it was most tempting to point out to my son that the pipe cleaner tail would have been far superior in the attaching department of costumery, but it wouldn't have done any good.
As I studied the problem, Michael said wistfully, "Real dogs' tails are super glued to their butts."
And with that simple statement came the laughter, and the sudden gladness that Michael and I had worked together to make his costume into one that he felt good wearing, and still meet the quality of being one that I could tolerate putting together.
Finally, with a belt and a few slits in the felt-from-heaven (no fraying, so no hemming needed) we buckled that tail on Michael's behind, and his performance resulted in gales of laughter from the delighted audience.
That perfect dog tail now resides in our costume box. Anybody need a Fido outfit any time soon? No super glue required.