Night, Night to My Dreams of Canadian Idol

Poor Gilly was up late last night finishing a project. She couldn't relax enough to sleep, so she asked me to read to her. Jetty and I piled in the bed with her, and I read a chapter, but she still couldn't sleep. Then she asked me to sing her a lullaby. I sang her a little nonsense one that I made up when she was a baby, which usually does the trick. Unfortunately, I had some backup vocals this time. I'd barely begun to sing when Jetty decided to editorialize on my limited vocal abilities with some long, drawn out whines and cries. Then Gilly really couldn't sleep, because she was laughing so hard she almost fell out of bed!

Brave Boy?

So, today we had our annual trip to the vet. Poor Jetty didn't see it coming. We went for a lovely walk first, and he should have been suspicious when we took a totally new route, but he was too distracted by the wonderful smells. He was fairly cool when we arrived, accepting a cookie and hopping on the scale (55 pounds! With a 38 pound Dad and 45 pound Mother, that certainly wasn't in the puppy brochure...).

The German Sheppard in the waiting room was slightly less cool. He crawled right up into his owner's lap. I smiled and made a comment about how all of them hate the vet. She explained that the vet wasn't the problem - it was Jet. Her dog is terrified of black dogs. Hmm, I had to point out to her that her dog is black - does that mean he's scared of himself? Poor fella.

So once the gate to the back part of the clinic was opened, all Jetty's cool deserted him. As we waited in the exam room he kept trying to crawl into my lap. See - the bad habits they pick up instantly, it's the good ones they can't seem to grasp. Once his vet arrived, it was game over - he dove straight under the chair and wouldn't come out. Poor boy, he must have known what he was in for —4 needles and a blood donation so they can do the heartworm test. At north of $325, both Jet and I hope it's the last we see of the vet for another year!

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...

Stiff Competition

There’s a new puppy in town, and he’s fierce competition for Jetty in the cuteness department. Cody is a fourteen-week-old Great Dane and he’s is so unbelievably cute, he resembles a cartoon character. He’s all legs and feet, with soft, velvety fur; it was all I could do not to scoop him up and bring him home. However, he’s going to be HUGE; at his tender age he’s already as tall as Jet. The poor nanny who was walking him looked most alarmed when I kept going on about how big he’s going to be; she’s just a little bit of a thing and has her hands full now. Anyway, welcome to the neighbourhood Cody, Jet would appreciate it if could you please try to look just a little less cute.

We had a great Family Day. We spent it in the country at Wheatley Water Dogs. Jetty played with his Mummy Sailor, sisters Ivory and Ruby (who looks freakishly like Jet), and Bronson, the German Sheppard. They had a ball getting reacquainted and romping in the snow. And when Jet had to do his business, his eyes grew wide with excitement. Cheryl has trained the dogs to go in one particular spot (the Duty Den) so that spring clean up is easier. However, with that many dogs, you can imagine that the Duty Den currently resembles a buffet for puppies who like to eat poop (see previous post). Jetty thought he’d died and gone to the land of plenty. At that point we beat a hasty retreat back to the city.

Poopsicles

Ok, a little background for those of you who don’t know me that well. I’m not really a dog person. I’m a little uptight, and I like things to be just-so, which isn’t the ideal personality for a dog owner. However, over the past 11 months Jetty has wormed his way into my heart, and it’s safe to say that I love him to pieces. This means I’ve been able to overlook some of the attendant grossness that comes with having a dog. You know – the poopy patrols in the garden, the muddy paw prints in the bed, the nose prints on the French doors, etc. Until now...

I can’t believe that I’m even writing this sentence, but here goes – Jetty has begun to eat his own poop. No, sadly that is not a misprint. You heard me correctly. Yikes! I bet Obama would rethink his doggy decision if he knew this little puppy quirk. Anyway, apparently it’s more common than you would think. It even has a name – copro-phagia. At our house, we call it holyfreakingcrapthatisdisgustingdon’tyoudarekissme-phagia.

According to the vet, it doesn’t harm them. But I suppose I looked so horrified by the whole thing that she took pity on me and gave me some medicine to sprinkle on his food. It doesn’t taste bad going down, but apparently it does once it’s been processed, if you catch my drift. Once they try to eat the medicated poop, they lose a taste for it. I was trying to explain this to Gillian, and she just stared at me. With the wisdom of a ten-year-old, she said “Uh, Mummy, he eats poo. How can they make it taste any worse?” She’s got a great point. It’s a pretty steep downward spiral from poop.

Anyway, Happy Valentine’s Day. And, just to be safe, no kisses please.

Happy Birthday Jetty!

Well, today Jetty baby is 1 year old! We had a long talk about how he's a big boy now, and must start acting like it. He has promised to stop his bad-boy biting and to stop growing. I have promised to yell at him less frequently and to drop food more frequently. No cake or candles for him today, although he did manage to get a small piece of bacon from Gilly's breakfast - now he feels his life is complete!

Speaking of Gilly - what's wrong with kids today? Jetty and I picked her up from a playdate yesterday, and she was full of tales about how great the Wii Fit game is. She announced that she thought it was terrific and had come up with a great new game that they should add - dog walking?! WTF??? I just looked at her in complete disbelief. I have an idea - how about you get your butt off the sofa and walk your real dog around the block rather than waiting for Nintendo to create a virtual dog for you to walk around the living room. Grrr, she really didn't get why I was so dumbfounded. I blame it on the blonde hair.

Anyway, Happy Birthday Jetty, and Happy New Year to all !

Jetty & Me

Saw the movie Marley & Me yesterday. Liked it, but about halfway through I realized (Spoiler Alert) that the dog was going to die. That meant I spent the rest of the movie steeling myself for that moment. Didn't work - cried like a baby. Of course, once we got home, we were guilted/inspired to make the most of our precious moments with Jetty, and to be all lovey-dovey with him. That lasted all the way through last night and up to this morning’s walk; but now the fun’s over.

He found a delish puddle of sick outside a local pub and slurped some up before Graham noticed and pulled him away (my screeching may have had something to do with his sudden awareness). We rubbed a bit of snow on his nose and mouth to try and get the residue off. We continued on to Starbucks for our mid-walk cappuccino, and sat on a bench enjoying both it and the sunshine. The moment was too much for Jet, and he was overcome with the need to give Mummy a big, wet, slobbery kiss - right on the lips. Do they make Purell that can safely be ingested by humans??? Yucky, yuck, yucky !! Sorry, but the brief reprieve is over - you’re back to bad-dog status, Booger. And remember, Marley is dead, so the title of Worst Dog Ever is up for grabs. Let's work together to avoid that accolade.

My Hero ?

This morning we woke up to snow (pause here to pat my back in an effort to quell the tears...). Yuck. However, as Jetty was born in January, he loves the snow. He went crazy when we opened the back door and he discovered that the white stuff of his (relative) youth was back again. What fun he had romping and sliding around the garden. And frozen sticks are even more fun to chew than regular ones - like Mother Nature’s very own popsicle.

I may have mentioned that we’ve been having some trouble with Jet and his unnatural attachment to me. No one is allowed to hug or kiss me without getting a stern talking to from Mr. Jealous Legs. Even just leaning over to help Gilly with homework results in a firm body shove to make sure there is sufficient distance between us. He is constantly following me around, and it does wear a bit thin.

But, I have discovered that apparently there is a limit, even to Jetty’s love. I was tidying up the basement to try and carve out enough space to work on my new book, and moved a chair and some pillows. Out popped the most enormous spider and another disgusting bug—I don’t know the technical name, I just call them gazillipedes. Being a brave soul, I let out a piercing scream (I assure you it was just surprise, not fear). As I quickly turned around to find a heavy reference book to drop on the intruders, I saw a flash of black fur streaking up the stairs to safety. It’s nice that Jetty the Wonder Dog has finally shown his true colours. I love you, I love you, I love you. Oops, is there a problem? Gotta run... Typical male.

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.