Pool party pooper

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Beverly and I went to a dedicated doggy pool party this morning at the home of the folks who are raising Florentine. As usual, Beverly declined to join in any of the aquatic activity — even though every one of the other 8 or 9 CCI puppies who attended swam. Some retrieved balls thrown into the water. Some made breathtaking leaps from the sides. But not Beverly. She clearly sees and understands that the other kids are enjoying the water. But it’s as if she just shrugs and thinks, “Eh. Not for me.”

I have no idea why not, except that I can say this is not uncommon. Only one of our six CCI pups has loved swimming; that was Darby (who clued us in to her passion by pawing the water in her bowl when she was just a few months old.) Many of the dogs fell into our pool by accident when they were small, and we used to speculate that maybe it traumatized them. As far as I know, however, that never happened to Beverly. She simply has little interest in swimming.

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Hanging out with the other puppy-raisers this morning, I heard stories from several of them about how they had worked to get their dogs to be comfortable in the water. Steve and I have never put any effort into that, partly because CCI has never signaled it’s something we should be doing. Also, Steve hates the idea of having to clean dog hair from the pool filter.

And it’s not as if Beverly can’t have fun at pool parties. She greatly enjoyed this morning’s gathering because all the other dogs weren’t in the pool the whole time. She chased and wrestled with the ones who periodically got out.

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That’s Beverly on the right, frolicking with one of her clones.

After about 45 minutes, this tired her out so much that she lounged, poolside. That’s part of what you’re supposed to do at pool parties, isn’t it?

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Not 100% perfect

Beverly has been such an amazingly good puppy sometimes it’s easy to forget she’s still just a young dog. But this past weekend, we got a rare reminder. Here’s what happened (just for the record).

I woke up sometime in the wee hours Sunday morning to the unmistakable sound of canine regurgitation. (Raise a couple of dogs and you’ll never forget it.) I was too sleepy to crawl out of bed to see who it was coming from (Beverly or Tucker). But in the morning, it was obvious. If Beverly threw up much in the way of solids, she made them disappear by morning. Still, along with a sour smell, this is what we found on her dog bed:

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She seemed quite unaffected by whatever had upset her stomach; ate her breakfast and acted normal all day. And we had a good idea of what happened. She’d spent most of the day at the home of another puppy-raiser, playing with three doggy pals while Steve and I participated in another activity to which we couldn’t take her. We assume that sometime during the day, she must have browsed on some irritating vegetation.

The good news is that the incident prompted us to thoroughly clean her dog bed. Now it looks and smells fresh and clean.

Unfortunately, I failed to get a picture of Beverly’s face when we collected her. She was literally grinning with happiness; obviously she had a wonderful time. If the aftermath illustrated that she is still only 98% perfect, that seems a fair trade-off.

 

 

Ugh

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Raising a potential service dog involves duties — most of which are pretty pleasant because they involve interaction with the dog (e.g. teaching the puppy good house manners, going to puppy class, etc.) But one of the most obnoxious duties arrived in my in-box the other day — the email bearing all the many forms to be completed in preparation for Beverly’s turn-in.

There’s an RSVP form for the turn-in ceremonies on November 3. A turn-in questionnaire, a medical questionnaire, a veterinary exam form, and more. I have to go through my myriad photos of Beverly and pick out three for inclusion in the Matriculation Slideshow. Churning through it all will probably take me a couple of hours.

Worst of all: every minute of it is a reminder of Beverly’s impending departure. šŸ˜¦

 

A higher (energy) class

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Our new goal: that rapt gaze

We have a new teacher for our San Diego puppy classes. This will have the greatest effect on Steve and me in the future (assuming we continue to raise CCI puppies), as Beverly only will be able to attend a maximum of three more classes (one September 25 and two in October) before we turn her in for Advanced Training November 3. Still last week’s session (our first with the new instructor) felt like an exciting development.

When we first began raising CCI pups almost 13 years ago, our teacher was a long-time San Diego policeman whose day job involved working with the SDPD canine corps. Mike was very entertaining, his classes were focused, and we learned a lot in them. Unfortunately, he eventually became disillusioned with the police force, retired, and moved to New Mexico. Since then, we’ve had two other teachers. While both were pleasant enough people and skilled at training dogs, working with them reminded us that good teachers of humans need other skills (and unfortunately, neither of them had the key ones). Steve and I spent too many sessions feeling bored or frustrated.

The new teacher promises something different. She has raised a number of aspiring service dogs (including a current one for CCI), plus she has a little business teaching dog training to private clients. So she’s familiar with the CCI program and expectations, as wasn’t always the case with the last two teachers. Kay seems to have a vision for what she wants to communicate, and her energy level is high enough that it woke me up (along with everyone else, or so it seemed).

She says she wants all of us (even the Advanced group) to go “back to basics” and work on getting our dogs to focus intently whenever we call their name, heaping praise on them and using treats liberally every time they give us that rapt attention. In our first session under her direction, we went through several exercises designed to get the dogs to continue gazing at whomever was handling them in the face of some significant distraction. (Sometimes we traded dogs.) It was challenging.

It’s been even tougher to try to apply that at home, where we have plenty of distractions of our own. But it’s nice to have something to work on during this final stretch.

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Cross-generational pals

In two and a half months, Tucker will turn 13. That’s geriatric for a Labrador retriever. Our encyclopedia of dogs says the average lifespan of the breed is only 12 to 14 years. Tuck’s not dead yet, but we worry about his often-labored breathing, his failing hips, the depths of his slumber. One thing that makes me happy, though, is his still-evident affection for the puppies with whom he so often shares our house.

Beverly, is a particularly easy girl to live with; she never jumps or chews on him the way some of her predecessors have. I’ve seen Tucker use her as a pillow…091517 Tuck and Bev1

…and sometimes they serve as each other’s back rests…

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At night, she loves to climb into his bed and curl up with him. Before turning out the lights, we make her go to her own bed because we think Tucker prefers sleeping alone, but he never growls or snarls at her incursions.

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They even play together for brief interludes (though this activity mostly consists of him woofing at her to make her run away, in mock fear.

When he stops doing that is when we’ll really start worrying about him.

Adventures with dogs

Because Steve and I raise service dogs, our experience with them has always been my main focus in writing this blog. But once in a while our participation in theĀ one doggy world leads us, unexpectedly, to other communities. That happened this past weekend.

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What’s he DOING here?!

The adventure started late Saturday afternoon, when heart-rending yowls began to reverberate up and down our block. To me they didn’t sound urgent enough to be coming from an injured animal; rather they seemed to signal emotional distress. At some point, they stopped and I would have quickly forgotten them. But Sunday when I woke up around 6:30 am, the anguished screams had started up again.

They bothered me enough that I went outside to try and figure out where they were coming from. The source seemed to be a small house across and down the street, one belonging to an absentee owner who has rented it out for many years. But from the sidewalk, I could see little.

A few minutes later, Steve and I departed with Beverly on our routine Sunday-morning walk, but as we were returning, we ran into two other neighbors, both of whom were out walking their dogs. Both expressed distress over the continuing canine racket.

“I wonder if we should call Animal Welfare,” one said. That seemed like an overreaction to me, but I volunteered to try and contact the neighbor who manages the rental house. Ā I dialed her mobile phone a few minutes later, but only got a recording. All I could do was leave a message.

The shrieking continued, with more shrieks piercing the quiet morning every few minutes. I started to fret. What if this dog was badly dehydrated? What if its owner (whom I didn’t know) had passed out, prompting it, Lassie-like, to cry out for help?

“We have to check further,” I said to Steve. “Come with me!”

This time we walked up to the front door, which we could see was open. Only a heavy metal screen door barred the entrance. Standing behind it, looking anxious, a little white poodle-esque creature looked up at us and wagged its tail. By this time, my next-door neighbor (Jodie, a great dog lover) had emerged from her house and joined us. Inside Mr. Poodle’s house, what we could glimpse looked immaculate, and we could hear the sound of a distant television. But where was the tenant?

I explained that I had tried to contact the neighbors who manage the property. “Oh, they’re off in Italy,” announced MJ, from the sidewalk, where she had her dog on a leash. MJ lives on the next block over, but she works part-time at a popular coffee house and knows a lot about what’s going on.

“That explains why they didn’t respond to the yowling!” I said, happy that at least one mystery was solved.

Christianne, who lives directly across the street from Joanie, had also emerged from her house by this point. She pointed out that Joanie had been recovering from a long illness, and she wondered if there was any chance the young woman had suffered a relapse. With the screen door was locked, however, we couldn’t just walk in to check.

Jodie, emboldened by concern, decided to try the side gate. A minute later, she emerged with the little dog snuggled up in her arms. His collar indicated that he was “Nicolo.”

Eventually, Jodie and Steve went back into the house and determined it was indeed empty. More discussion ensued, with Steve and I finally agreeing to take Nicolo to our house for a while. In the meantime, Jodie wrote a note and attached it to the door, explaining what had happened to the pet. When we walked in the front door holding the now-silent little creature, Beverly and Tucker sprang to their feet, astonished. Clearly, this was the most interesting thing that had happened on any Sunday morning in memory. They wanted to sniff and romp with whatever it was.

Nico only trembled. I carried him into our backyard and down to the lower level that serves as the dogs’ toileting area. I set him down, and Beverly instantly bore down on him. Fearing for his life, Nico zoomed up the stairs and ran straight into the swimming pool. The fact that it was filled with water clearly surprised him. But he managed to swim, and Steve fished him out with little effort. We dried him off, then placed him in one of our kennels. There he never emitted a peep.

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Accompanied by Jodie, his owner finally showed up after an hour or two. She explained that she had rescued the little dog from a shelter some months ago and had hardly ever left him alone. But her schedule was changing, and she would have to do so increasingly in the coming weeks and months. She seemed chagrinned at the news of his vocal impact on the neighborhood. I felt relieved that she also seemed to understand the concern that drove us all to rescue him.

Jodie and we both offered to care for him on future occasions, but I’m not sure how that’s like to play out. This afternoon he was yowling again. I think I’m starting to get used to it.

Return of the forbidden fruit

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Our fig crop was late this year. Normally, some of the fruit ripens in the early summer, but this year that didn’t happen. Only now, finally, is the tree loaded with juicy purple delicacies, so many that they fall off by the hour.

It’s been fascinating to watch Beverly’s reaction to this — yet another illustration of how different puppies can be. Every dog we’ve ever had has quickly figured out that ripe figs are edible, and over the years, the most common reaction is that they are a gift from the universe, to be pounced upon and gobbled up as quickly as possible. For us, this is Ā problematic for several reasons, including that:

  1. Eating lots of figs makes dogs fat.
  2. CCI puppies aren’t supposed to eat random objects that they find on the ground.
  3. Eating too many figs gives some pups diarrhea.

Beverly’s reaction to the crop has been unusual. She clearly enjoys slipping out to the lower yard to inspect the messy detritus under the tree. She sniffs and sniffs, and I have Ā seen her delicately choose certain chunks to consume. She chews them, as if savoring the flavors. Alternatively, sometimes she selects a less-ripe specimen andĀ races around the yard with it, tossing it around like a toy. At other times, she lies out inĀ the sun, ignoring the temptation altogether.

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It’s wonderful (and exceedingly rare) to have a puppy so trustworthy it can be allowed out in the yard without our supervision. Beverly is almost that trustworthy, but not completely. Mostly we keep her in theĀ house, away from the temptation. But at those moments when we slip up, I tell myself that fig season will be over soon.