Happy Birthday!

Wow. Jetty's 2 today. Happy Birthday baby. It's something of a miracle you've survived both your own stupidity sense of adventure and my wrath. I'm hopeful that these will be the terrific twos, and not the more frequent terrible twos; I think we've all suffered enough, don't you?

On another note, we've recently learned that Jetty's going to become an uncle. Yes, the gene pool is continuing. Close your eyes and pray for the best...

Anyway, I think he's going to make a wonderful uncle. The canine equivalent of the fun loving, bad influence uncle who the adults always think twice about inviting to family gatherings, but then the kids rally together and clamour until they make sure he's on the guest list. He's going to teach Ivory's puppies how to:

• wrestle cookie remnants from the pockets of pants once they've been put in the laundry hamper,
• play soccer,
• kiss a toad,
• hump other dogs (he is the Mayor of Humpsville, after all),
• find the prime position in the bed and then somehow become completely unmovable,
• and my personal favourite — how to eat poop.

Best of luck with everything Ivory. We love you. And Jetster, we love you too. Happy Birthday sweetie, and Happy New Year to all. May 2010 be happy, healthy, and prosperous for us all.

Puppy Love

On our walk last night, Jetty fell in love. We don't know her name because she was on the other side of the street, but he was immediately taken with her striking blonde, labradoodle-ish beauty. It's fair to say he was gawking as he trailed along, looking nowhere but behind him, eyes only for this new object of his affection. If he could wolf-whistle, I have no doubt that he would have. She seemed equally interested, walking away with many longing backward glances. That is, she was interested right up until the time he walked smack into a tree. Oh yes, way to be cool and impress the ladies, Jet.

I felt like I was watching a cartoon. You could almost see the thought bubbles popping up out the dogs' heads (in Jet's case, it would say D'oh...) He tried to maintain his composure by giving himself a quick shake and acting like - "Yup, I totally meant to do that", but it was too late. Blondie stalked off with nary a backward glance.

Poor boy. For anyone out there mending a broken heart, Jetty assures me that liver treats are an ideal tonic.

Alas, poor Jetty

Or poor Mummy, depending on your point of view.

Sigh. Another day, another visit to the vet. Out for a nice, long walk this morning when Jetty suddenly lost the ability to bear weight on his hind leg. We were equi-distant from home and the vet, so I called home for some reinforcements (i.e. the car, since he's now 60 pounds and I can't carry him). After some confusion (the troops thought I was at a different park than I was, and freaked when they couldn't find us), we hustled the Jetster to the vet and managed to sneak him in for an appointment, despite the fact that "they don't do walk-ins".

Once again his inability to speak hindered the diagnosis. I suspected he had a bee sting on his paw, but when it was shaved down, the vet couldn't find any evidence of a stinger. She thinks he twisted his knee, as the ligaments are loose in that leg. Poor boy is on bed rest for two days, and if it's not better in a couple of hours, I'm to head back and pick up a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. Perfect, just enough time to have a shower and grab something to eat, neither of which I'd done before leaving the house hours ago!

Jetty, it's a good thing you're cute, because, thanks to you, I'm slowly but surely going broke, $75 at a time.

I kissed a toad, and I think I liked it

Well, truth be told, Jetty kissed the toad, and I don't think he liked it at all.

So far, August has involved a lot more vet interaction than either my bank account or I like. Two weeks ago we noticed that Jetster's chest was bleeding from a puncture wound. I took him to the vet the next day, and she thinks he managed to impale himself on a stick (oh yes, he gets his gracefulness from me). The tissue surrounding the cut was too bruised to allow for stitches, so he was given a prescription for antibiotics, and I was told to clean the cut twice daily and make him wear a t-shirt to prevent dirt from getting into the cut. Generally I don't approve of canine clothing, but he did look awfully cute in his T. Opinions seemed to be evenly split on the t-shirt - poor GB was heckled mercilessly by a car load of teenagers when he took Jetty for his pre-bed spin around the block, but then he ran into a group of runners, and they oohed and aahed over the doggie "P.J.s".

We managed to get vet approval to head up to the cottage, based on our promise that he wouldn't go swimming or get the cut wet. We were enjoying a lovely week (no rain!) up north with my sisters, and the dogs were having a grand time running around, chasing chippies, and getting into mischief. The girls and I were getting ready to head out to the farmers' market when Jetty appeared on the deck, head covered in bubbles. He proceeded to puke repeatedly, all over the deck. Jenn helped me clean up and, assuming he must have stuck his head in a bucket of soapy water, I set off down to the dock to read the riot act to the boys. I told them off for not paying attention to the dogs while they were cleaning the dock furniture. Except then I noticed that there was an absence of buckets, bubbles, or work at the dock; everyone was chilling or swimming, and they had no idea what I was talking about.

Jetty continued throwing up and foaming at the mouth, so GB and I grabbed some towels, threw the poor boy into the car, and headed off to Parry Sound in search of a vet. Just as we were leaving, someone shouted that it was possible he'd eaten a toad, as there had been two on the dock earlier. We pealed into the parking lot of the first vet clinic we found, and rushed inside. They were fantastic. They took our information, called the vet who had just left and asked her to return, and sent us into an exam room right away. I adored the no-nonsense style of the vet. Her first question was "What's with the t-shirt?" I knew then that we were in good hands.

I mentioned to the vet that it was possible he'd eaten a toad, although my CSI-style analysis of his barf hadn't revealed any toads. She said generally a dog picks the toad up, the toad gets scared and releases its toxins, and then the dog releases the toad because the poison tastes so foul. It's too late by then, though, because the toxins are already in the dog's system. Nothing too much to worry about, a big injection of Benadryl in his butt and a long nap restored Jetty to his usual good humour.

Fingers crossed that September is quieter, less expensive, and has much less vet interaction.

Portuguese Water-averse Dog

Hey Cheryl & Mike, according to my calculations you owe us $666.66; with Jet we only got 2/3 of what we anticipated. We took Jetty to the cottage this week and had visions of him swimming merrily around with Gilly and Sarah, chasing sticks, and keeping the loons at bay. Umm, not so much. On the first day, Graham tried to entice him into the shallow part, but he was having none of it. Tactics changed a little bit to include less enticement and more pushing. We determined that he can in fact swim, but he doesn't like to, not even a little bit. The next day, he and cousin Ollie were racing around the dock when Jetty lost his back end and slid straight into the drink. He dunked under, but came up again quickly and, because he was touching with his back legs, wasn't actually in any danger, but he was completely panicked. He tried to scramble up onto the dock but couldn't make it. Gilly and Sarah bravely rescued him by dragging him around the dock to the stairs, incurring some nasty scratches from his frantic claws. He spent the rest of the week studiously avoiding contact with any water that wasn't safely contained in his doggie dish. So, while I freely admit he's a dog, and am even willing to admit there's a possibility that he's Portuguese, there's no way he's a water dog — false advertising! I guess should have expected something like this, given that every time it rains Princess Jet finds a way to skitter, shimmy, or leap around the puddles. What a sissy.

Presidential Puppy?

I understand that Barack Obama has decided to choose a Portuguese Water Dog as the Presidential pooch. Apparently he doesn’t want the bother of a puppy, so he will be choosing a slightly older rescue dog. Might I be so bold as to suggest a very handsome 1 year old Portie named Jet? He’s adorable, can do a sit/stay for a full minute, lies down on command, and gives high fives and tens.

Oh, right, why does he need rescuing? Because he’s in the dog house, again. I’ve told you about the poopsicle obsession already, but since spring is upon us, Jetty has all but given that up. It seems he only likes them when they’re frozen. Now he needs to find another way to indulge his oral fixation. He’s been slowly chewing his way through the house. So far this week we’ve taken away from him: socks, a dime, paper, Gilly’s stuffed bear, a toothbrush, and Kleenex. Last night I heard him banging away at something and decided I better get up to investigate. It turned out that he had ventured into Gilly’s backpack and taken her recorder. He slipped it out of the case, and was happily chomping away on it. He thought it was even better than a Nylabone.

Now, I did take it away from him, although I must confess that I wrestled with the decision. I’m all for free speech, but Jetty is in a difficult spot, because he can’t speak. Was he just looking for something to gnaw on, or was he making an editorial comment on the awful sounds that come out of that instrument? It was a tough call because, frankly, I have to agree. Listening to the recorder is like some sort of punishment. Why children are forced to learn it is beyond me. Is the TDSB trying to foster a hatred of music amongst their students? Will that allow them to justify cutting the music programs in order to balance their budget? Or is it just a way to get back at parents? Who knows. Gillian checked the recorder over this morning, and (sadly) it still makes “music”. Perhaps tonight I’ll accidentally leave her violin case open...

How's Your Nozzle?

Last night Gilly and I were playing soccer with Jetty when she started shrieking in that awful pitch that only young girls can reach. “Mommmm, gross. He’s got something stuck in his nozzle.” Well, my first thought was—I hope it’s nothing fatal, because there’s no way I’m touching his nozzle.

Eventually I realized that the neighbours could probably hear us, so I had to pretend to be a grown up and overcome my intense desire to run away. I joined them to see what she was talking about. She kept pointing at him and groaning, but she was pointing at his head. I asked her to be more specific about what she meant (ok, really I just kept shouting WHAT? at her). “His nozzle, Mummy, his nozzle - there’s something in there.”

The penny finally dropped; I asked her if, perhaps, she meant nostril, not nozzle. Yes, she did. It turns out it was nothing to worry about, just a booger. And who knew dogs even had boogers? This dog ownership thing just gets better and better. Pass the wine.

Everybody Poops

When Jet was younger, he would get what we call “the zoomies” several times a day. This would involve him barking and racing around with complete abandon - over people, furniture, any obstacle in his way. These hilarious episodes were akin to a toddler screaming “I not tired, noooo need a nap”. They would end when we were able to lure him into his crate, where he would promptly collapse into sleep.

These seem to have abated as he enters into adolescence, with one notable exception. When he has to poop, he goes crazy with the zoomies. Our fence is actually teetering on the verge of falling over because he’s slammed into it so often. He only does this at home. If he has to do his business on a walk, he has no problem. We can only imagine that at home he feels his body is betraying him - how dare he have to poop in his very own playground. We have explained to him that it is perfectly natural, and there is nothing to be upset or embarrassed about. We have also assured him that our regular “poop patrols” in the backyard will keep his play area reasonably clean, but he doesn’t seem to believe us. Do they make a canine version of the book Everybody Poops?

Sticks and Stones

When we first got Jetty, we allowed him to use the doggie door to access the backyard. My rationale was that more access = fewer messes. It worked well until he got attitudinal, and began thinking he was all that and a bag of chips. Then we had to seal up the door and actually get off our butts to let him out. We control access, we control the dog. Reasonable in theory...

But in practice, the dog was making me seriously nuts last night. In, out, in, out, all night long. Doesn’t he know that all I wanted to do was sprawl on the couch and watch some junky TV shows? Honestly. When I took the time to stop and watch what he was doing, I realized there was a pattern. Come in from outside, lie down and chew on a stick or stone until Mummy throws it away. Ask to go outside and then come immediately back in. Lie down and chew on a stick or stone until Mummy throws it away.

Fun as this game was, I eventually got bored and curious - where was he getting his supplies from? He wasn’t out for more than 10 seconds, so he couldn’t even have left the deck to source out these treats. So I went out with him. And there on the deck were two neat piles - one of sticks and one of stones. He had them all lined up within 5 paces of the door. A completely orderly, ready supply of nature’s chew toys.

I have no idea how she does it, but our breeder, Cheryl, has some sort of weird sixth sense when it comes to picking the right family for her puppies. Armed with information gleaned from only a few short emails and one face-to-face meeting, she managed to zero in on the perfect fit. Jetty and his obsessive-compulsive disorder is a perfect with both Gilly and me. Poor normal Graham (who sometimes even leaves cupboard doors open in the kitchen, gasp) gets left shaking his head at us. He just doesn’t get it. But we appreciate our neat, orderly dog. Now if I could only find a way to use Jetty’s compulsion to my advantage...

Jetty Update

So, I haven’t posted in ages, but it’s been busy in Jettyville:

· He’s had sleepovers with Ollie, during which they destroyed the back garden beds with their fast moving games of chase. He drove Ollie to distraction by biting his ears the entire time he was here. Poor Ollie must have slept for a week once he arrived back at his nice, quiet, puppy-free home.

· He’s eaten the entire remainder of the garden. Jet is especially partial to basil and petunias. At least he’s thoughtful enough to bring the petunias inside the house to eat; Graham never brings me flowers.

· Gillian has taught him to give a High Five and to play soccer - his new favourite activity.

· He’s driven me to distraction with his sock obsession and his endless pulling on the leash. A brilliant purchase on Saturday has changed my life with Jetty forever. The Gentle Leader is an absolute godsend. It has transformed him from the devil dog into an angel. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but I can walk him with 1 finger on the leash now - better than last week when he pulled me right over. I don’t know how it works. I don’t care how it works. I just care that it does.

Today we all took him to the park to get some exercise before the big storm (which has yet to materialize, those weather people are such fear mongers). We couldn’t find the soccer ball, so we brought his newest toy - the flying squirrel. It doesn’t look anything like a squirrel; it’s more like a square Frisbee made out of fabric. Apparently it glows in the dark. That’ll be handy for any midnight games of fetch.

Anyway, we had him on the long line leash, since Gillian is terrified of letting Jetty off the leash. She seems to think that he will run away and not come back (like that would be such a bad thing...). She’s a worrier, our girl, so we indulge her when we can. This makes games more difficult as both dogs and people get tangled in the leash, but we persevere. The only problem is our dumb dog. He just doesn’t get fetch. He loves to run after whatever we throw and then run back to us. While carefully leaving the toy where it is. This is why soccer is better, at least with that Gillian and I can just pass the ball back and forth and he can run between us. So, it’s off to the heap of failed puppy toys and gadgets for the squirrel.

We discovered something else at the park today. Jetty is gay. We love him anyway, and are open to any lifestyle choice he wants to make, but really, it’s a little embarrassing. He seems to think it’s still the ‘70s and free love reigns supreme, but in our conservative neighbourhood, it does raise some eyebrows. I thought getting him fixed would solve the humping problem, but sadly, not so far...

Anyway, it’s just about kibble time, so I’ll sign off for now. Cheers.