Bad Timing and Good Times

This week has been a tough one on Parker. My first week back at school coincides with Monkey's professional conference in San Diego. This meant two things. First, I had to scoot home for lunch each day to feed and walk the canines (one hour minimum time commitment). Second, Parker had to spend way more time than he's been used to the past two months in the crate. Not to mention that this week's heat and humidity have made walking the dogs even around the block a sweaty uncomfortable chore and spending time in our bedroom upstairs (where Parker's crate is) a warm (but breezy thanks to the floor fan) proposition.

Needless to say, the little bit of time we have spent outdoors has been greatly appreciated by the little guy. Yesterday, in a sort of celebratory TGIF moment, he spent at least twenty minutes just tearing around the backyard as fast as he could, looping around, and jumping low walls and flower pots. I think he really needed to blow of some steam. Good dog!

Today, it is not so terrible. There is a nice little breeze at the moment, but, when the breeze is gone, the stickiness fills up the space right quick. However, I am trying to give Parker as much time as possible out of the house, since plans this evening will call for more crate time. I feel bad doing it, but he doesn't complain much.

By the way, his trip to the vet last week to remove his stitches went swimmingly. He is now over fifty pounds, and he is consuming five cups of food a day! (Not all at once, of course.)

A Quick Recovery

The above picture gives you an idea of what Parker may have felt like on Monday afternoon when I picked him up from the vet. Still a little drug-addled, bordering on sore. He slept most of the day and was pretty lethargic, in general. There was no wrestling with Ripken, no hi-jinx, not much of anything but snoozing and looking sleepy-eyed.

Tuesday, it was back to normal. I had to physically convince Parker not to jump on Ripken at least twice. He tore around the back yard at full speed for a few laps, he tugged his usual tug on the leash. We did our best to keep him from rupturing his sutures. We were successful.

By Friday, the puppy and we were behaving as if he were as good as new. He gets his stitches out on Tuesday, and he has resumed normal activity as of yesterday. His stitches look good. There is no swelling or weird coloration. He is recovering just fine. On Tuesday, he'll be one hundred percent, no doubt.

After only a few days, Monkey and I both see a slight change in Parker. This might be due to some new equipment (a control collar--just like his big bro's), or a slowly progressing maturation process (he is creeping up on six months), but we are finding Parker to be a bit more tame on walks and a bit more compliant as well. He still tries our patience several times a day, and I secretly (well, not so secretly) suspect that he is not quite as sharp as Ripken. But, I think we are going to have us a fine dog--a big (he is now fifty pounds!), fine dog.

In about five years.

Disappointing Our Friends

This morning, we dropped Parker off to get neutered. This is a no-brainer decision for Monkey and I; however, a couple of our friends don't know why we'd do such a thing. They would like to breed Parker with their dog, when he is old enough. But, well, no.

I don't know why I am so against the idea. It's not like I can say that bringing another litter of dogs into a world full of already unwanted dogs is wrong, since we got both of our dogs from breeders, leaving a host of pound and rescue dogs to the rest of the world to take care of. I think it's mostly just that, that's what we did with Ripken. He turned out wonderfully. I want the same thing to be the case with Parker.

Of course, more and more, Parker is proving himself to be very un-Ripken. That in itself is also great. The dog has to have his own personality. But, there are a number of things about our old dog that I would like our new dog to pick up on. Given time, perhaps he will.

But for the rest of the Lab loving world, there will never be any tiny Parker's out there for them to take care of, for better or worse.

Just Like We Expected

We returned from our trip to Colorado in the late afternoon, yesterday. After unpacking the car, we ran over to Aunt Eva's to pick up the pups. When we arrived, we found that Aunt Eva had several other dogs under her care. More than we had imagined. Her house was mayhem, and Monkey and I were surprised. There were, it seemed to us, more dogs than she could adequately care for at one time. Even she admitted that she had too many. It didn't make me happy, nor did it fill me with confidence that Parker and Ripken had been supervised adequately.

When we returned home, Parker's week of puppy excitement, coupled with his excitement at returning home from his first experience at Puppy Camp, and added to Monkey's and my exhaustion after a long travel day, conspired to allow Parker to have two accidents in the space of three hours. Bad accidents. It was like the day we brought him home from the farm all over again.

Which was disappointing, but just what we expected.

So, this morning brings us back to square one, putting Parker on his schedule again, reminding him what sit and leave it mean, and, perhaps, finally breaking down and buying a bell for the door, because I don't think this dog will ever get the handle of alerting someone with his voice that he needs to go outside.

Separation Anxiety

We just returned from Aunt Eva's, where Ripken and Parker will spend the week while Monkey and I are in Colorado. This is a big occasion, since it will be Parker's first separation from us since we got him. How will he handle it? If his reaction to our leaving him at Aunt Eva's is any indication, he doesn't seem to mind one bit. This might be due to the fact that he has two other dogs to play with there (not including Ripken), or that he immediately jumped on a sofa when he got there and was not scolded. He thinks he is in doggy heaven. He's not worried, at all.

I am worried. I am not worried for my dog's safety or well-being. Aunt Eva will take good care of him. What I am worried about is that when we get back in a week, the little bit of progress we made in the last five months teaching this creature how to behave in our home will be lost. He won't get training sessions this week, and Eva and Monkey and I did not sit down and have an exhaustive talk about what differences there are between her rules and ours. But, I have a good idea. Going to Aunt Eva's is like going to Grandma's when you're a kid. The boys will be indulged.

And like any father, I am not going to begrudge them that. But I know that when Ripken comes home, as much fun and sacking out on the bed as he enjoyed, he will know that the dog bed is where he sleeps, and the living room sofa is off limits. I wouldn't be surprised if Parker immediately runs to the nearest piece of furniture and starts tearing it to pieces.

We'll see.

Puppy Teeth

As we settled down to sleep the other night, I kept hearing a slightly disconcerting sound coming from the vicinity of Parker's crate. A sort of tinny rattling would periodically come from the corner where the dog sleeps, almost like a small screw was being tossed around by a playful canine. I got out of bed to investigate and found that Parker was indeed playing with a foreign object. However, that foreign object was one of his back teeth, which had apparently fallen out either just that moment, or some other previous moment he was in the crate. He seemed a bit miffed to lose his tiny, new toy, but after I removed it, he only paused a moment before starting to gnaw on his rubber bone with teething-puppy gusto!

So, another milestone. And, perhaps more importantly, a preliminary answer to an earlier question. In the last few days, Parker has started to develop that tell tale puppy breath. Granted, it is nowhere near the radioactive scent experience that Ripken's exhalations are, but the little one is beginning to develop a grown up dog breath profile. Is it a coincidence that this is occurring as his permanent teeth are coming in? I would bet not. I am curious to find out if this change in mouth emissions is temporary, or the first step down Smelly Dog Breath Road.

Doggy Dreams

It is highly likely that dogs dream in their sleep. I have watched Ripken as he kicks his legs in a prone running motion. I have heard him woof and watched his ears twitch. Occasionally, his tail wags in his sleep. Parker, as well, and, it seems, far more frequently, displays dreaming-like behavior. His breathing becomes irregular, his legs move, his tail wags, he whines and barks, and he shimmies like he has St. Vitus' Dance. In both of them, it is rather cute.

No one can know what dogs are dreaming of, of course. They can't tell us; they can't draw a picture. I suppose, with a long period of training on yes/no responses (one paw scrape for "yes," two for "no") to simple questions, followed by exhaustive Q and A sessions that might transcribe like the most involved game of Twenty Questions ever, researchers might be able to sort out the most basic of canine dreams. (Imagine: "Was it a good dream dream?" One paw scrape. "Okay. Were you chasing?" Two paw scrapes. "Hmmmm. Were you in a car?" One paw scrape. "Great. Were you hanging your head out the window?" Two paw scrapes. "Alright. Were you driving?" One paw scrape. "Excellent.")

Some theorize that the human dream world is populated by symbols. If I dream of a dog, it has a meaning, depending on whether the dog is healthy or dead, happy or chewing on my leg, behaving or tearing up my sock drawer. This begs the question of whether or not dogs dream in symbols. (I know I am out of my element here, but that has never stopped me before, so I am just going to plunge in on this one.) A dream is a dream, be it a dog dream or a person dream. It is instigated by the same neural processes, I imagine. So, I suspect that there is no intrinsic difference between the dream I had last night (which I no longer recall) and the dream Parker is having right now (complete with a moan and a head bob). Thus, if my dreams and my dogs' dreams are formed of the same elements (theoretically, since they really don't seem to be formed of anything, at all), then their dreams have the same symbolic significance as mine (i.e., either none whatsoever, or total).

The question, for me, is whether the archetypes are the same between the species. It would seem to me that a dog attaches a different sort of significance to things in the world than a person. After all, a dog's world is presumably much smaller than a person's. (At least, the world it is aware of. A dog is like Herodotus of the fifth century BC: the world consists of the Mediterranean and the land around it. That's it. The rest is ocean or vaguery.) In that vein, the symbolism has to be abridged, also, doesn't it?

So, for me, a dream about chewing on a shoe would add up to what? According to some, eating symbolizes the intake of new ideas. Okay. Shoes, it has been theorized might represent one's beliefs, the ground upon which you travel (spiritually, philosophically, what have you). So, a dream about eating shoes might symbolize my reaffirmation of my personal dogma. I am ingesting the same tried and true beliefs.

Well, what about a dog dreaming of eating a shoe? A dog eats everything, doesn't it? It seems to be the primary way that a dog (especially a puppy) interacts with the world. It is solace, recreation, and investigation in the life of a dog. Perhaps eating in a dream (for a dog) is a symbol of enjoyment, contentment. The shoe is clearly a symbol of wealth. Dog's have no need for shoes (products available at your local PetCo not withstanding). Therefore, shoes are a luxury. So, for a dog, a dream of eating shoes is a reaffirmation of its contentment living in the luxurious surroundings in which it finds itself: a house, abundant food, companions.

There is, also, the other possibility: that we're both just eating a shoe. Dream on, puppy dogs, dream on!

Shortcomings of the Lunar Calendar

Monkey and I recently had a discussion prompted by a new sign post in the life of our Super Puppy. On Wednesday of next week, P. Parker will be 20 weeks old. I mistakenly referred to his coming age marker as "five months." You know: one month equals four weeks, twenty weeks equals five four-week periods, so five months. Monkey of course says no. Her age gauge says that Parker will not be five months until July 24--a full ten days after Parker's twenty week birthday, and somewhere in the middle of his twenty-second week (will he be 21 1/2 weeks?)!

My solution was to recognize his five month birthday on Wednesday, leading up (twenty-eight weeks (seven months?) later) to his twelve-month birthday at forty-eight weeks (approximately the middle of January), and then recognize his one year birthday on February 24, 2011. I thought it was a brilliant solution, but Monkey, always with one eye on the calendar, one eye on her watch, and one eye on her laptop (don't ask me how she does that with only the two eyes), won't go for that.

So, ho hum, Parker will be twenty weeks on Wednesday next...but he will not be five months old. Calendars, with all their extra days and savings times and leap years and Canada Day, they are strange.

An Incomplete List of Things I Have Partially or Fully Dislodged From Parker's Mouth

1. My toe
2. A plastic doohickey
3. A rock
4. Another rock
5. A piece of broken cinder block
6. A plastic bag
7. A soda/pop bottle (plastic)
8. A dead bird
9. A log (an actual log...not a euphemism)
10. My nose
11. His collar
12. Ripken's collar
13. A table cloth
14. A bath towel
15. A beach towel
16. A section of the New York Times
17. A section of the Lincoln Journal Star
18. A capo
19. A guitar pick
20. A fleece blanket

Five or Six Hundred Dollars Later

What a night we have just had, friends and neighbors. Our little superhero puppy had a rough day of it, leading to a rough night of it for all concerned. Perhaps I influenced the unfolding of events by focusing too many blog entries of late on topics of disgustingness, but all the grossness in a dog's life seemed to come together yesterday in a perfect storm of emission!

We started the morning in our usual fashion, eating our kibble and taking a walk. However, on our walk, Parker's stool was, well, it wasn't stool, at all. It was as loose and as high-velocity as you can imagine...if you want to imagine (I understand if you don't). This was a cause for concern, and a quandary, of sorts, since neither Monkey nor I could figure out what might be causing such gastric distress. He hadn't eaten anything that we could think of that would cause him trouble. The compost pile was out of reach. He only ingested his normal amount of stick shrapnel, dirt, bugs, and vegetation. As far as we knew, anyway.

Noontime brought further concern, as Parker turned his nose up at his lunch. I thought maybe he was having some teeth issues, so I wet his kibble. He licked up the kibble juice and took a few desultory bites of the moist morsels, but he ate little after all. Our afternoon walk produced more runniness. He was in seemingly good spirits, and he was drinking adequate amounts of water, so we maintained our favorite mental state: cautious optimism.

Dinnertime brought more of the same; however, when Monkey hand fed our intrepid one, he slowly munched up more than half of his dinner from a prone position. More caution than optimism, now, but the occasional wrestle with Ripken brought us a modicum of reassurance.

During the dinnertime hours, I was working the grill, since we were having company over for dinner. I was smoking some ribs. A long process, but the end result was pretty tasty. My first foray into rib-making, but, with patience, it is not so hard. Anyway, our company arrived at about 7pm, and we sat down to eat somewhere around 7:45. It was pretty nasty out--very warm and really humid--not weather that Monkey (or any one else, really), likes, at all. So, we ate inside. As dinner came to a close, Parker, who had, after settling down from our company's arrival, been zonked out next to my chair, got up and walked around the table to one of our guests. Our guest, thinking that Parker wanted some attention, leaned down and went to pet Parker, at which point your friendly neighborhood SpiderDog promptly threw up on the floor under our guest's chair!

The combination of uncharacteristic digestive issues convinced me that this was no matter for cautious optimism. I called the emergency vet. My intention was to ask a few questions, get a few home remedies, and nurse Li'l P back to health. However, the woman on the phone said that diarrhea and vomiting was a cause for concern (ummm...duh), and that I should bring him in for a check. Not being one to shirk my duties as a dog owner, I scooped up my pup and whisked him away to the emergency vet, conveniently located under the grain silo next to the penitentiary ( I shit you not.).

The emergency vet, for those of you who have never been to one, is not too much different than the ER at a hospital. It is generally full of people and dogs who are drunk and have done something stupid. Except for me and Parker, of course. My mind, throughout the evening, was stuck on one question: is this really an emergency? However, I had only the behavior of my dogs and the opinion of some veterinary technician whom I had talked to over the phone, so, I was never sure.

Once at the vets, the tech came in and did some observations of Parker. She looked at his gums, she felt his belly, she took his temperature (a surprise that Parker did NOT relish), she listened to his heart. After that, she told us that the doctor would be by in a sec. Fifteen minutes later, the vet came in and looked at Parker's gums, felt his belly, and listened to his heart. She then told us that Parvo was a remote possibility (even after P had had his 4th vaccination on the 16th), and that she would come back with a list of treatment options.

The tech came back in a few minutes with a laundry list of things that we could do to diagnose the little guy, from a Parvo test to blood work and Xrays (to check for blockages). I looked at the tech. What was wrong with the dog? They couldn't be sure without further tests. And I have to decide what to do? Yes. I was freaked out, a bit. I felt like I was left to play Russian Roulette with my dog's health (or even his life). I decided not to let my concern get the best of me, and I tried to do some deduction. Dog has a temperature. Might be Parvo. Probably not a blockage. Okay, here's what we'll do. I decided to start with the Parvo test, just in case. If that was negative, they were going to give him an anti-emetic to clear up the problems at one end and some antibiotics to clear up the problems at the other end.

The Parvo test was negative, the medicines were administered, and we were on our way home after about ninety minutes (and $170.) at the emergency vet. Monkey had stayed at the house with our gracious company, who stayed until I returned. I felt bad, leaving in the middle of a visit (bad form), but, as fellow dog owners, I think they understood. They stuck around for about another half an hour, or so, and Parker was pretty quiet. He seemed okay. I gave him his first dose of antibiotic (accompanied by his first taste of peanut butter), and we were off to bed, expecting a short road to recovery.

At 4am, that road was found to be closed. Parker woke us both up as he again vomited in his crate. Immediately, we cleaned up and climbed back in the impromptu canine medical emergency vehicle. Back to the grain silo. Back to the penitentiary. Worry was now beginning to regenerate. Clearly, if the anti-emetic was not working, and the antibiotics had no effect, he must have had a blockage somewhere. This was the worst possible news. They took Parker right away, since the place was empty (4am, that is the time to have a pet emergency, apparently), and they took some Xrays. The vet brought the Xrays in and showed us that Parker still had something (most likely food) in his stomach, and that he had a lot of gas in his intestines. His intestinal walls were clearly irritated. What did it all add up to? Well, the Xrays were inconclusive for a blockage, but a barium test would prove it for sure. If the barium passed through, no blockage. No blockage, no surgery. A stronger anti-emetic, a bland diet, antibiotics, and we were good. A blockage, however, was bad. The barium test would take about three hours. We would leave Parker, and they would call when he was ready. Oh, and all this was costing another $480.

Monkey and I went home and got a few more hours of sleep. At around ten, I called the vet. No blockage! Hooray. No vomiting for about six hours! Still, some really nasty diarrhea. We have been home for about two hours. Parker has slept (he probably didn't sleep at all at the vets), and he has voraciously consumed and kept down 1/4 can of bland dog food and his most recent dose of antibiotic. By my estimation, if we can make it to about five o'clock without getting sick, we'll be okay.

But what puzzles me is why it cost me three trips to the vet and $600. to find out that my puppy has an upset stomach?

Four AM Musings on Dog Regurgitation

Last week it was dead fish breath. Today, we stick with unpalatable topics concerning dogs.

For the past several weeks, Parker has been spending little time in his crate. I am home full-time for the summer, so I can be here to keep an eye on him. Thus, there is no need for him to be in the crate when I am home. He usually only spends his evening sleep time in the crate. This has been a fine success for the most part.

The recent rainy weather notwithstanding, we have spent a good amount of time outside, chewing sticks, chasing birds and squirrels and rabbits and Ripken, and finding things to stick our snout into. We have had one accident, recently, caused by an over-energetic bout of wrestling with big brother. A lot of chewing and whining seems to lead to a need to pee that can't be contained. Parker has been like clock work, generally, but with company over, I guess he wanted to show off his urinating skills.

Anyway, the outside time can sometimes lead to Parker ingesting strange things like dirt, and bugs, and bark. Once, when Ripken was a puppy, prior to the mail order arrival of his crate, he ate so much dirt that he had one night of gastric distress that had me running to the store at 2 AM for Pepto-Bismol and Karo syrup (we were having pancakes afterward....). In his own short life, Parker has had the need to get rid of his stomach contents, in the middle of the night. Last night, at 4 AM, it happened again. There is no need for alarm, and we are fortunate that he keeps doing it in and around his crate rather than on the carpet in the basement or the rugs in the main living area, but it got me to thinking about the frequency with which dogs seem to vomit.

Ripken, the veteran dog of the household, usually has some sort of stomach evacuation at least every three to four months. It's apparently nothing to worry about, but it just seems awfully frequent. I mean, hell, I usually only do it once every three to five years, and I am perfectly aware of why it is happening. So, every few months (without any hard liquor involved) seems like a lot. But, well, I am not a dog.

Parker, a far less discerning dog, when it comes to the list of "Things He Will Eat," has now had two (that we know of) episodes, which works out to about once every two months. I imagine that, once he grows up enough to lay off the dirt, his frequency will lengthen out to line up more with his mature brethren.

But, any episode of irregularity with our pups is cause for concern, and we watch them a bit more closely, for a while. After all, according to renowned home and family advice website Professor's House, "Because vomiting can be a sign of anything from simple overeating, to a major life-threatening emergency, it is up to you to be aware and well informed of the dangers to your dog."

Amen, Professor.

Dog Breath

What is it that makes a dog's breath so heinous? Surely, the fact that they never brush their teeth is a factor. Certainly, the fact that they are perfectly content to eat disgusting things is a factor. Absolutely, a lack of mouthwash, floss, and other dental hygiene tools affects the expiration of your local hound. But, how long does it take?

Now, Ripken has had terrible dead fish breath for a long time. We have tried everything short of actually brushing his teeth, a practice I expect he could not stand still for. After all, he won't let us trim his nails, and we can barely look in his mouth if we have to (you know, for safety reasons, like: let's see if he really does have that missing twist tie, or if he's just making pretend to chew it while we look on the floor for it). We give him treats that supposedly "brush while he chews!!!!" He has a rope toy that "flosses while he chews!!!!" We give him the occasional Greenie, which is supposed to "freshen his breath while he chews!!!!" Whatever. The dog's breath is awful, still.

Parker, on the other hand, after just a few months of life, still has pleasant puppy breath. However, if you had a pile of the stuff that he most likely has stuck between his teeth, and you left it sit around for two months, I reckon it would begin to get a bit ripe. I will spare you a list of the organic matter that the dog has chewed, licked, or ingested. Suffice it to say, it would be a stinky list...even the normal stuff. Yet, he still hasn't reached a stage where you need a gas mask to look him in the face at close range.

So, I am wondering, when does it happen? When is that day when I get a whiff of Parker and cringe? And, more importantly, why will it have happened? What will be different on that day than the previous day? And what if I gave him a mint?

This is just one of those things. One of those things that you think about when you are sitting around on a Tuesday afternoon with two sleeping dogs at your feet. Life could be worse.

Twenty Days

It has been a while since our last post. Much has been happening here that is beyond the scope of this blog, but it has been enough to distract us from keeping a written record of our canine superhero's development. I am here to remedy that.

Since the start of summer break, things have sort of fallen into a routine. Parker needs to be out of his crate by about 5:30 am, it seems. Monkey and I take turns with that. Once the dogs are fed and watered and we've had an adequate walk, it really seems fruitless to go back to bed, so one of us gets a good two or three hour jump on the other. Today is my day, and you are reading how I am spending that early time.

The boys are really playing much more, and are in full high-pitched play whine while they do so. It is cute, but can be ear-splitting. Monkey especially likes when they lay next to each other on the dog bed and snout wrestle. They have even gotten the hang of "sharing" toys. I put the word in quotes because they really are not sharing at all. They are fighting over the toys. But, it's that sort of play fighting in which no one gets hurt (much). Dogs will be dogs.

Parker has become a tiny (but growing) master of the stairs (both up and down), and he has gotten the hang of the down command. Next is stay, I guess...and some leash etiquette. After that, I will be satisfied.

We spend some portion of the day (when it is not raining) playing out back, chewing sticks and fetching tennis balls, exploring and eating all kinds of plants (hostas; English violets; any shrub, vine, or root; peonies; grass (sometimes by the clump (with roots!))), and generally having a pup-eriffic time. Yesterday, we played with the tennis ball, and Ripken and Parker would chase. When Ripken got to the ball first, Parker would just tear around the yard as fast as he could go, running circles (literally) around Ripken. Then Parker would, somehow, go faster than he could actually keep his legs moving, and his momentum would send him crashing headfirst into the grass. It's a wonder he didn't leave any divots in the lawn. But, he seemed to be having a whale of a time.

So, it seems we have made it out of those dark times of early puppyhood. We are now progressing into the late toddler/early childhood period. And, as small as he still is, it is remarkable how big he has gotten in the two months that we have had him. He has tripled in size, as the comparison between the above and below pictures can attest to. I fear, as I may have said before, that this is going to be a big Spiderdog. (For the record, that cute little bone toy he's chewing on in the first picture has been destroyed. He loved it while he had it, but in a few weeks he (with some help from Ripken, "Destroyer of All Soft Chew Toys") had gotten through to the batting and the squeaker. Thanks, Aunt Laura and Uncle Mike!)

He's BIG

It's been quite a while, huh? Well, things have been hectic around here, I was out of town for almost a week, ATR was a single parent, and yadda, yadda, yadda. So enough of the apologies (or pseudo-apologies) and onto an update.

When you live with a puppy day in and day out, it's hard to notice how much he is growing. But, when you are gone for a week and return, you can really tell the difference. Parker seems like a big boy now! And the vet confirmed it this morning--he weighs 24.5 pounds and will be 13 weeks old tomorrow. According to our records, Ripken weighed 21.1 pounds at 14 weeks. So, Parker will definitely be bigger then Ripken (not that we didn't already know that as Ripken is on the small side for a Lab). This will cause a bit of a conundrum for me as I've taken to calling Parker, "Little One" and Ripken, "Big One."

Parker had some "loose issues" last week and that apparently made ATR's job a bit harder while I was away as he was constantly on the lookout for a blowout at any moment. He managed to get Parker outside when needed, but there were some nights of only two-hour increments of sleep. Many thanks to our dog-watcher extraordinaire, Jessie, who helped with the day-time routine of lunch and walks. Couldn't have made it through the week without her help. And Jessie DID have to deal with a loose blowout in the crate which we all know couldn't have been fun. Thanks for that!!

In terms of the siblings, they seem to be faring better each day. There is lots of wrestling, ugly dog faces (which makes me think of Uncle Joe and him saying, "dogs that fight go outside"), pinning, nipping, and general puppy/dog play. Ripken is tolerating Little One more and more (except when Parker acts like a punk-ass on the walk and wants to bite Ripken's ear and neck), and I am feeling less guilt each day.

In terms of learning, Parker successfully has learned "sit" and can walk UP the stairs--still needs to learn to master walking down the stairs. Carrying an almost 25 pound dog down the stairs all the time is getting old. I imagine ATR will start working on "stay" pretty soon.

And all should get easier in about two weeks as ATR will have wrapped up another school year and we can tag-team puppy care during the day. And maybe, I will actually get some work done!

Milestones Are What You Make Them

Yesterday, a tiny event occurred. Nothing Earth-shattering. Nothing remarkable outside the bizarro kitchen of our little house. In the eyes of anyone but myself and Monkey, it was a simple act, repeated seven times.

When I got home from work, I put the handles back on the cabinets and drawers. I had removed them within minutes of Parker's arrival in our home, since he immediately found them irresistible to gnaw on. Knowing he was going to spend a lengthy period of each day in the kitchen, and knowing that he would be at a height at which those handles would be a grave temptation for a length of weeks or months, I thought it prudent to remove them.

Lately, I have noticed Parker, as he ages his way through his eleventh week on Earth (so short, really), display a growing amount of maturity. Granted, he is still plenty puppy and will most likely be for years to come, but he is definitely a more reasonable dog now than he was just last week. So, I thought I would put the handles back on and see what developed.

When he noticed the handles, he went over to the under-the-sink cabinet (which he is fond of--he must like the smell of Bon Ami) and sniffed the handle on one of the doors. He tentatively mouthed it, but immediately withdrew after a stern, "No." He did not try to chew them again that evening. I was ecstatic.

So, while the pedantic twisting of a metal knob onto a cabinet door may seem like nothing but the turning of a wrist, for us, last night, we were ratcheting up the stakes on a puppy assessment. And, our little puppy demonstrated nearly exceptional proficiency.

Looking Down the Road

On Wednesday, Parker will be 11 weeks old. When things are really tough (and those times are getting fewer and fewer...except for the damn biting), I keep thinking that in a week or so, he'll be 12 weeks. Somehow, that is a magic number.

We got Ripken at 12 weeks, and, as often happens with the passage of time, Ripken's training and general upbringing was an idyll of human-dog interaction. The reality is most likely far from idyllic, but that is how it is reminisced about. Even with a puppy journal that proves to me that even after a month of training, he was still destroying pillows and chewing an occasional hat, I still turn a blind eye to the truth and imagine that once Parker gets through this week and half of the next, he will somehow reach a point of puppy maturity that will make him easily led and instantly certain of his role in any training exercise.

This will happen, right? When we are done doing our outside business at 5 am and the rain is pouring down, he will instantaneously follow me back into the house instead of plopping down in the wet grass to chew on a mouthful of maple tree helicopters. When we have just had a refreshing drink of water, we won't immediately jump into Ripken's face to bite him, begin wrestling with him, and, within seconds, vomit up all of our water on the dining room floor. When we are out walking, we won't stop to pick up every stick, leaf, acorn shell, piece of trash, grass stem, food wrapper, soda bottle, bird dropping, etc. When it's time to nap, we won't jump up behind me while I make dinner and try to bite the back of my knees. These are simply the small miracles that I expect to happen in less than ten days.

I also know, in a year or two, I will look back longingly on these days, and remember how easy it was to train our brilliant little Parker. Ah, time--the healer.

Teaching Kids, Teaching Dogs

I haven't decided which one is harder. I mean, on some level, you can reason with a kid. You can't reason with a dog. But, training a puppy is good practice for managing kids, because training a dog is behavior modification at its most basic. Reward the good, discourage the bad. Teach replacement behaviors. Maintain consistency. Be calm. Be clear. Be assertive.

Sounds easy, huh? You can guess from previous comments that it's not. On one level, it wears you out. It seems like already a thousand times the dog has gnawed on my shirt, I've said "NO," I've given him his bone immediately afterward, and I've said "Good boy," as he chewed on it. I know that that consistency will pay off with a dog that won't chew for long, and will know (I hope) what he can and can't chew on (which will deny me the joy of guest posting on PUPPY CHOWED but, I can deal with that), but for the love of Pete, I am getting damn sick and tired of saying it every two minutes.

On the other hand, Parker is quickly getting the hang of the "sit" command, and he clearly recognizes his name now (Ripken recognizes Parker's name, too). However, after he sits, he springs up like a baby kangaroo to snatch the treat from your fingers. So, it goes something like this: sit-good boy-NO-sit-good boy-NO-sit-good boy-shove treat up his nose before he can jump. Wins and losses. We try to be consistent and spend a few minutes each day on a particular skill--obviously, teaching the skill set known as walking sometimes devolves into a comic CF involving a ten year-old dog wrapping a leash around a woman trying to drag a ten week-old dog up out of the gutter while he (the ten week-old) gloriously gnaws on the leash while alternately snapping at the fetters of the ten year-old dog. But, it will be hit or miss until after the first week of June when both of us are around a lot more. That's when the real fun will start.

So, as I turn the key in the door after a long day of practicing behaviors with students, I sometimes wish I didn't have to continue the same with the dogs. But, in both cases, it is a long-term rewarding activity, filled with short-term disasters and medium-range triumphs and smiles and grimaces in between. It's only life...but, damn, can it wear a brother (and a sister) out.

Arm-twisted? Not really, I guess.

Okay, okay. I'll post again. I've thought about writing another post, but it's just been...shall we say, hectic around here...

Yes, ATR is correct in that "things get easier." Many things about Parker joining our family and the transition of it all are getting easier. I'd say primary on that list for me is that all of us are getting more sleep. Parker is doing really well in the crate at night, and for that, I'm VERY grateful. He is sleeping a good 5 to 6 hours most nights (let's hope I'm not jinxing that by putting "it out there"). Ripken is also coming around to Parker...sort of. Ripken is definitely tolerating Parker more and the past two days have given rise to some play-ish behavior on Ripken's part. They are rough-housing a bit with Ripken asserting slightly more dominance. Ripken is barking, play-growling, and pinning Parker occasionally, and Parker often takes off running and scampers under a chair for cover (hilarious to see this in person). Of course, there are still times when Ripken usurps his toys to Parker in a heartbeat. So, a few steps forward and one or two back. So is the way of progress, I guess.

The most challenging piece for me this past week (and I'd likely guess ATR would echo my sentiment) is Parker's struggles to take a walk. This is kinda crazy to me--I mean what dog doesn't want to go on a walk?!?! Ripken would NEVER turn down the opportunity to take a walk. Parker on the other hand...it's all good until we get down our front steps to the sidewalk in front of our house. Then Parker sits, sometimes lies down, and refuses to move. It used to be that taking him across the street away from the friendly scent of home would be enough to get him going. Oh no, not anymore. He might walk five paces and then dig his paws into the ground and not budge. Then we try picking him up and taking him down the block 4 or 5 houses away. Sometimes this works and sometimes, not so much. We are even trying treats to get him to budge! And that works like 5% of the time. It seems easier (though not a ton) if all 4 of us are walking together. And it seems MUCH harder if just one of us is "walking" both Ripken and Parker and there is a time-constraint factored in such as needing to get to a meeting or another appointment. I'm really trying to channel Caesar: "calm and assertive." But often I'm just channeling me: "flustered, impatient, and losing it."

Another minor update: Vet visit this morning revealed Parker has gained 5 pounds in 2 weeks!

Things Get Easier...

I am hoping that Monkey will join in the keeping of this blog, but, so far, she needs a bit more prodding. Maybe she doesn't have the time (entirely possible), but, maybe, if enough folks ask her to post on occasion (I was hoping we could alternate posts, but that might be too much to ask), maybe she'll decide to do it. Maybe not. We can only try. I hope she doesn't feel like I am putting her on the spot...or maybe that's exactly what I am trying to do. Sometimes, I am more clever than even I can determine.

So far today has been an accident-free day. I hope I don't jinx it, because yesterday was an accident-free day, also. It might be that we have turned a corner. I expect that we will regress a bit before we are totally out of the woods, but, honestly, ten days of house training, while stressful to the max at times, seems like a pretty good bargain.

On top of that, Parker rattled his crate at 4:30 this morning, which, in my book, counts as sleeping through the night. That's two straight nights for that. You can probably sense the tone of these entries changing, can't you? The only drawback is that Monkey and I have hardly seen each other in forever. I was gone this weekend, and it seems that once I get home from work, she is out the door to some or another meeting or function or lecture or whatever. I hope that we can spend some time together this weekend (even if all we do is run errands), and I know, at the very least, I owe her a birthday apple pie.

Well, I am going to stick a picture up on here and go feed the boys. It's kind of nice to say that...I wish we had some chickens, though.

A Breakthrough

There was a glimmer of hope today that at some point in the near future, our lives would reach something like the normal we used to know. Monkey was able to go to work for several hour stretches, leaving Parker happily snoozing in his crate. This certainly brightened her spirits, which were sagging a bit after her tumultuous birthday-less birthday weekend (although she did have a few well-wishers who tried to make it festive, Parker was not terribly cooperative). Even a slight accident by Parker (completely (as always) our fault...he hinted...but how much can one dog pee in a twenty minute period? He'd already been out twice.) was not enough to dampen our spirits.

Our happiness was brought on not only by Parker's "day" alone, but by the interaction between Ripken and Parker after I came home from work. We were in the backyard, and Parker was making runs at Ripken. At first, Ripken avoided Parker. Then, it became clear that Ripken was turning away from Parker and getting the little guy to chase him! They were actually playing together. Ripken bared his teeth at Parker, and jumped around with him. At one point, Ripken even knocked Parker down and stood over his prone little self, sniffing. And when Parker was chewing a stick, paying no mind to Ripken, the old dog went over and snatched the stick away from his little brother. Now that is some dog action I can endorse!