Dreams of Dogs and Cats

It was the night of the full moon. The weather was glorious, and I was outside, on the patio, working on the computer. Levi was sleeping by the patio door, or Arcadia door, as they call them here. 

Erica was inside the twin-holed box that crowned her cat tower. That's where she keeps her weed stash. You know what I'm talking about.



More and more, lately, Erica's become a bit of a nip-head. Ever since I bought her that 10X catnip at the head shop...excuse me, at the pet store, she's been spending more time high on the stuff than I've ever known her to before. 


I've tried to delicately broach the subject with her, but anything I say is immediately taken as criticism, and she then becomes defensive and turns things around on me. Since I don't care to have my habits fall under Erica's scrutiny, we exist in a state of détente on that subject.



Levi was sleeping hard, and dreaming. He let out a little yip in his sleep, his legs were twitching wildly, and both Erica and I could see he was deep in REM.



"What do you think he dreams about," she asked me. "It looks like he's being chased by something. Maybe a puma."

"Levi doesn't sit around watching Animal Planet all the time. He doesn't even know what a puma is," I told her.



In his dream, Levi continued to let out little yips. From her lofty height, Erica snorted in derision.



"Puma's caught him," Erica said, with a touch of satisfaction.



"What do you dream about?" I asked Erica.

"I have the best dreams," Erica declared enthusiastically. "It's always a grassy field. But it's not grass. It's catnip, a big field of catnip! I feel like Dorothy in that poppy field, only I don't fall asleep like she did. I roll in the field, and the sun shines on me, and I grow!"



"Really? How big do you get?"



"Big!" Erica said, happily. "I grow big. Way bigger than Levi. Big enough to kill you!"



"Excuse me," I said, sharply. "Why would you want to kill me? I thought we loved each other."



"I don't want to kill you. I just want to be big enough to," she said.



"How come?"



"It would change the whole tone of our relationship, I think."



"For the better?" I asked.



"I think."



Levi yipped once more, then, suddenly, barked at full volume. His bark was loud enough to wake him, and in just a moment he had his bearings. He saw me and Erica looking at him.



"Puma…I'm sorry, Big Cat got you, huh?" Erica asked.



"What are you talking about? What big cat? Dad, where's the big cat?" He was wide awake, and excited.



"Erica's the biggest cat we've got at the moment," I told Levi.



"I thought you were dreaming that you were being chased, and then killed, by a puma," Erica said.



"What's a puma?"



"Big Cat," Erica and I answered in unison. Erica giggled.

"I wasn't dreaming about a Big Cat," Levi said. "I was hunting the rabbits."



Our neighborhood swarms with rabbits. Levi's learned to control himself when he sees them on walks, but only after repeated attempts to chase them down were thwarted by the end of his leash and his collar jerking his neck and, sometimes, me off my feet. It only took him five years before he stopped lunging at every one of them. 


Until Levi was a year and a half old, he had lived in rural New Mexico,  where his hunting instincts could be given full play.



"You sure liked when you could catch rabbits in New Mexico, didn't you, boy?," I asked him.



"It was the best! I caught one every single day, you know?"



"But Levi," Erica said."Why did you kill all those rabbits. You've always had all the food you wanted."



"I was hungry!"



"No, you weren't," Erica said. "That's my point. Why would you want to hunt if you don't need to?"



"I was hungry," Levi repeated.



"Were you hungry in your dream just now," she asked.



"Yes. I was very hungry, so I kept catching rabbits! And eating them! Then I was hungry again, so I caught more rabbits, and ate them, too!" Levi's tail wagged vigorously. I petted him and he pushed against my hand happily.



Erica laughed, softly. "Good for you, Levi."



"Thanks. It was great! I wish I could go back to sleep right now and dream it some more!" Levi suddenly looked worried. "But I'd probably have that other dream."



"The one about the coat rack?" Erica asked. Levi's tail stopped wagging.

The first house we had lived in eight years ago had a coat rack. Once, in a tussle with Arthur, the coat rack had fallen. No one was hurt, but Levi still had nightmares about it with some regularity.


"I wish I could just dream about the rabbits," Levi whined, morosely. "When I catch them, I'm not hungry anymore."



"A dog with all he wants to eat still thinks he's hungry and wants to hunt. I'll never understand them," Erica said with some finality.



"It's instinct, honey," I said to her. "You have instincts, too, you know."



"I overcome my baser instincts," Erica said, lazily.



"Then what about the mutilated bird I picked up from the lawn last week? You didn't need to kill that bird. You're not hungry either, Erica," I reminded her. "At least Levi ate the rabbits he caught. You didn't even eat any of that poor bird. So why did you kill her? Instinct, Erica."



"Not at all," she said, dismissively. "That was entirely personal."



"What did that little bird ever do to you, Erica?" Levi asked.



Erica inhaled deeply of her catnip. She looked down at Levi.

"I don't remember. But it must have been something."



And with that, Erica retreated to the interior of her drug den for a night of dreaming she was a Big Cat who could kill me, or Levi, if she wanted. But she wouldn't want to. Unless, of course, we did something.

To read more discourse between Levi, Erica and myself, check out "Webbings and Nails."



© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

ScottsdaleDogMan.com

ScottsdaleDogMan.blogspot.com

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Let Us Sit Upon the Ground and Tell Sad Stories of the Death of Kings

Arthur was Karen’s third, and final, Seeing Eye dog, coming to us in early 1999. He was a German shepherd and was coming in to replace Vinnie, the black lab, who was retiring due to advancing age and chronic silliness.

If Vinnie was more concerned with comfort and culinary misdeeds than his job, Arthur was, to put it mildly, a reminder of what the other end of the guide dog spectrum was like.

Like Karen’s first dog, Lyric, Arthur was a long-haired shepherd. But while Lyric had been the runt of her litter, Arthur apparently came out of the birth canal an alpha dog, and never looked back.

When Karen was training with Arthur at the Seeing Eye, the reports I got were very different than those I’d received about Lyric and Vinnie during their training periods. Lyric hated Karen, Vinnie loved everyone, and Arthur, well, Arthur was essentially perfect. He accepted Karen instantly as his new mistress, and from the first day of training rarely, if ever, made even the slightest mistake.

There were a few problems unrelated to their work.

Arthur didn’t seem to like the other dogs at the school, and this could be seen in his attitude. He would become visibly impatient when he and Karen had to wait for the rest of the class to catch up with them, as if he were thinking, “What is the matter with those guys? I trained with them. They know how to do it. Why won’t they work right?”

At the Seeing Eye the students and trainers all eat at round tables for five or six, to simulate a restaurant, and the students keep their dogs under the table, out of sight. On several occasions, Arthur started a fight with another guide dog under the table, for reasons unknown to Karen, but seemingly quite clear to Arthur. Since he was the biggest dog in the class, as well as the smartest, the fights were very quick, ending with the other dog, unhurt, but as submissive as a puppy. Naturally this behavior was a little worrisome to Karen, and to the Seeing Eye, but in reality, situations where five large dogs are crammed under one small table are pretty rare, and the school felt Karen was a strong enough guide dog user to control any potential problems he might exhibit.

She was, generally, although when she and Arthur first came into our house, where Vinnie and four other dogs already lived, he immediately set the ground rules according to Arthur. Vinnie was so delighted to see Mom after her three week absence that he ran to her to throw himself into her arms and kiss her. Arthur couldn’t have mistaken Vinnie’s approach for aggression, but he nonetheless brought the ten year old lab down in a flash of fur and teeth. We were horrified and tended to Vinnie, who was completely unhurt but terrified and baffled. What had happened? Arthur watched our solicitousness towards Vinnie without a flicker of regret. He nicely met the other dogs and cats, and, a couple hours later, he approached Vinnie and did what he could to make up. It was as if he was saying, “Hey, nothing personal, man, it’s just that there’s a new alpha in town!” Vinnie, who couldn’t hold a grudge, accepted the apology, and his new role in the pack, with cheerful equanimity.

To watch Arthur and Karen work was to see a miracle. There’s always something magical about watching a good human-guide dog team, but Arthur was like nothing I’d ever seen before. He was fast, and precise. None of her dogs would have let her stumble over a curb; Arthur wouldn’t let Karen hit a crack in the sidewalk. He guided her around overhanging branches without breaking stride. When they crossed the street, Arthur made eye contact with the idling cars at the intersection, both, I suspect, to make sure the drivers saw them, and also to communicate to the drivers exactly what would happen to them if they broke their idle and attempted to move before he and Karen had crossed.

At home, Arthur became a pretty nice guy. No more fight or displays of dominance were necessary. He was King, and it was good to be King. He enjoyed playing with balls or Frisbees, and was a pretty normal, if intense, kind of dog, never displaying the kind of neurosis that tortured Lyric through her life. He was a good dog, a world-class Seeing Eye dog, leader of a pack of six, and at peace with the world.

Within nine months of Arthur arriving, Karen was diagnosed with breast cancer. The first component of her treatment was a modified radical mastectomy of her left breast. Because you work a Seeing Eye dog with your left arm, the surgery crippled Karen from being able to work Arthur. Well before she was healed from that she began chemotherapy, and between the chemo sickness and the surgical pain, she found that she could no longer work a dog. On days she felt well enough to try, she’d put Arthur’s harness on him, and he’d stand there, refusing to move. He could sense her lack of confidence and comfort, and if his teammate couldn’t work, well, then, neither could he. The Seeing Eye sent a trainer out to work with them, but, in Karen’s condition, nothing could be done. If and when she recovered, retraining work would begin.

Around this time, Arthur’s life began to focus on his daily trips to the park and his Frisbee game. He became as dedicated a Frisbee dog as he’d been a Seeing Eye dog. He had no interest in other dogs at the park, unless he thought they might want to steal his Frisbee, and then he’d chase them off and bark at them until he was secure his treasure was indeed his.

The Frisbee became Arthur’s life. He slept with it, carried it around, offered it to you, or teased you with it, on a constant basis. He had unbounded enthusiasm for the Frisbee. Playing catch itself became secondary. Holding the Frisbee, guarding the Frisbee, I suppose, in a sense, working for the Frisbee, became Arthur’s life.

In January, 2002, Karen and I were living in New Mexico with Arthur, Levi, who was just a puppy, and Erica. Karen’s pain from the mastectomy never abated, and she never worked Arthur again. She’d take him when she went out, but she’d hold my arm and Arthur had no decisions to make. His work as a guide dog had come to an end, and he was beginning a second career of his own choosing, that of a deranged, obsessed, Keeper of the Frisbee.

On the morning of January 18, 2002, I was in the living room with Levi, while Karen was in bed, sleeping, with Erica. Arthur was outside somewhere with the Frisbee. At sometime around 10:00 AM, Erica came running out of the bedroom terrified, as if she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she had. Karen had died.
I went into the bedroom with Levi to check on her. She wasn’t breathing and had no pulse, but she wasn’t cold. Levi sniffed her, startled. He jumped on the bed and examined her face, carefully, without licking her. He didn’t howl, and I didn’t see tears, but Levi was crying, his puppy-heart broken.

I called Arthur into the house. He was carrying his Frisbee, and wanted me to please covet it. I took him into the bedroom, where his mistress had just died. He looked at her, sniffed her, and then turned to me. At this terrible moment there was only one thing on his mind. He wanted to go outside and play with his Frisbee.

When the paramedics came to take Karen’s body away, Levi and Erica were hiding. Arthur was making friends, seeing if one of these nice men wanted to play with his flying disc, please. Despite my grief, I was acutely embarrassed that my wife’s Seeing Eye dog was acting so indifferently to her death in front of strangers.

Erica, Levi and I all took a while to process Karen’s death. We clung closer to each other. Levi didn’t eat for days. Erica would never come in the bedroom again. Arthur, happily, had his Frisbee, and that was all he needed.

Arthur was a magnificent dog, handsome, strong, and brilliant. He’d been born to be a Seeing Eye dog, and his entire life was a build-up to that important job. Then, less than a year after he began working, he was laid off, permanently. His incredible energy and concentration were no longer focused, and his deterioration was fast and heartbreaking. He had been born a King, with his future assured, living in the world of humans, leading his mistress, and being a universally beloved and admired dog. Now he was a half-crazed German shepherd with but a single thought in his expansive brain: Look at my Frisbee! It wasn’t just Karen who was dead. The King was dead, too.

Arthur lived five more years faithfully serving his Frisbee. At age eight, he developed metastatic bone cancer. Though he was limping, we played a last game of catch, and I made him a steak. Then, full, tired from our game, and long deposed from his throne, we drove to the vet, with the Frisbee. He lay down, and I lay down next to him, my arms around his chest. When I told him how much I loved him, he looked up from his Frisbee and into my eyes. He gave me a single sweet kiss on my lips. I told the vet we were ready, and the needle slid in. Arthur’s eyes opened wide for a second, he inhaled, and then he put his great head down and went off, to find Karen waiting for him at Rainbow Bridge. I'm sure that when they met in heaven, she had the grace to throw his Frisbee for him, first thing.

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands
ScottsdaleDogMan.com
ScottsdaleDogMan.blogspot.com
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Pictures of Arthur not available. Pictures provided for illustrative purposes only.

Webbing and Nails

Saturday night was the new moon, and, as I often do, I spent much of the late evening outside on the patio, enjoying the refreshing breeze of the desert night. I was smoking at the small table while Erica ingested catnip in the rectangular, carpeted, box that served as the crown to her cat tower. Levi lay next to me on the tile, determinedly cleaning his front paws.

Cats use catnip in a few different ways. Some sniff it and have a reaction reminiscent of Blue Boy on L.S.D. from a particularly memorable episode of Dragnet.

They go wild and move at enormous speed in unpredictable directions. Others, like Erica, eat the dried leaves and enjoy a response more akin to a human on narcotics. If Erica had been a human girl, it would have been as if she had taken three or four Vicoden, 10s, the big ones.

The lack of a moon meant that there wasn’t enough light for me to see her well, but I knew that her eyes were half-closed and that her racing mind was momentarily governed by a narcotic-like calm. Because of the moonless night, I couldn’t see her or Levi’s faces, but there was no doubt that it was her voice calling lazily from the dark tower.

“You’ve been cleaning your feet for half an hour, Levi. I think they’re clean already. Now you use them to wash your face, like this.” Here I could hazily see her demonstrate the face cleaning method she had perfected.

Levi’s tags clinked softly as he looked up at her.

“My paws are clean. My webbings hurt, so I’m licking them,” Levi said in a quiet voice.

“Webbings?” I said, not having a clue as to what he meant.

“You do not have webbings,” Erica said, a touch contemptuously. “You’re a desert dog, and you have feet. You’re not a duck.”

“You’re a duck,” Levi shot back, seemingly satisfied that he’d gotten the last word in.

I heard Erica jump from her tower. For a second her eyes reflected back at me, and I saw she’d come over to Levi’s feet to have a look for herself. She examined them, sniffed them, and gave a tentative lick somewhere on his foot.

“See, I told you! What do you call this?” Levi demanded.

Suddenly Erica leapt on the table in front of me.

"It’s not webbing,” Erica said, more to me than to Levi. “Vinnie was a Labrador, he had webbing. A Newfoundland has webbing, but you’re a shepherd and shepherd’s do not have…”

“I’m just mainly shepherd,” Levi protested. “I’m not inbred like stupid purebreds. I am a finely blended American dog, and I bear the genetic diversity of the continent. In a sense, I represent the melting pot that makes this country great. I might look like a shepherd, but these feet reflect my great water dog heritage.”

“If you’re such a water dog, why don’t I ever see you swim,” Erica asked, cattily, swishing her tail toward the pool.

“In the pond of death?” Levi asked incredulously. “No one goes in the pond of death and comes out alive.”

I was a little irritated now. “Everyone who goes into the pond of death...the pool, I mean, comes out alive. You see Grandma go in there every day. I’ve tried to get you to swim in it.”

“The time you threw me in, you mean?”

“I’d hoped that would make you understand that it’s a place for swimming. I’m sorry that I…”

“That you tried to drown me? I should hope so.” Levi returned to licking his feet.

The pool incident was the main sore spot between Levi and me. It had happened more than six years ago, and since then Levi made sure to give the pool a wide berth, and me, too, if I was anywhere near that pond of death.

Levi continued. “Anyway, cat…”

Erica hissed. “The name’s Erica.”

“Please call her Erica,” I implored. “You know how she gets when you call her cat like that.”

“Anyway, Erica,” he pronounced her name carefully, enunciating each syllable, “Water dogs swim in lakes and rivers and fjords! Not stupid pools!”

“Where did you learn the word fjord?” I asked.

“That movie, My Life as a Dog. Not so much about dogs, but there were fjords, remember?” He continued licking his feet.

“Alright,” I said, getting up and moving to Levi. “Let’s see this webbing.”

He allowed me to examine his foot with no complaint, confident that when I saw his sore webbing, I would put Erica in her place.

“That’s not any sort of webbing,” I told Levi, as Erica, back in her tower, chuckled quietly.

“But it hurts between my toes and tastes all irony,” Levi protested.

“I have skin between my fingers, too, but it's not webbing. Your nails are insanely long. When you have nails like that and run around like you do, it pulls your toes apart, and makes the skin sore. "”

“The web.”

“No, Levi. The skin. And if you’d let me, or the groomer, or the vet, even, just clip your nails, your feet would feel better and not hurt as often,” I explained.

“And if you cut my head off, my nose would never itch,” Levi pronounced.

“It’s not the same thing at all,” I protested. “Nails don’t have nerve endings so they don’t hurt when they’re cut, and they grow back. Look at yours, Levi. They’re starting to curl under. They have to be bothering you.”

“Not as much, or as deeply, as having my bodily integrity invaded with clippers. Anyway, I think I have made it abundantly clear that I will hurt anyone who touches my feet with intent to mutilate. I will bite them and kill them, and they will be sorry they messed with this webbed footed, finely blended, American dog!”

“Alright,” I said, “Forget it. I’m going in.” I didn’t have the heart to remind him of the simple but effective procedure used to clip his nails. A soft muzzle would be strapped on Levi’s face, and he would immediately lose all his will to resist. Not a believer in futile causes, Levi would submit, because without the use of his mouth he was as harmless as a prizefighter with his hands tied behind his back.

As I was walking into the house, I could hear Erica saying, “It isn’t webbing, Levi.” I heard her jump off the tower and presumed she had approached her dog brother. “But I have to say, I do admire your stance on the nail clipping thing. If anyone ever tried to clip my nails, I would certainly scratch and bite and kill them, too!”

“You can't kill anyone, Erica. You're too small, because you are a cat. No offense, I mean, it’s just true. You’re a cat.” Levi sounded like he genuinely felt bad for Erica.

“Stupid dog,” Erica said, just before running off into the night, “I can’t kill them on the spot. But the infection will get them sooner than later. Read up on it. I have a filthy mouth.”

And though I’ve never heard her use profanity, and I share water with her from the same glass daily, I knew she spoke the truth.


For further discussion between Erica and Levi, please see Dreams of Dogs and Cats.

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands
ScottsdaleDogMan.com
ScottsdaleDogMan.blogspot.com
Please share this blog with others.