Chi-Chi's Enemy

(Chi-Chi died today, from complications of diabetes. Before her death, we had the chance to become actual friends. This piece, written two years ago, describes my basic relationship with that funny little dog.)




I don't think Chi-Chi really hates me. Her feelings are both deeper and more complicated than that.


Chi-Chi is the pack member I've alluded to a few times, but not written about much . She's a 14 year old, diabetic, Chihuahua who belongs to my mom, which makes her my sister. To be sure, she hates me less than my human sister does, but since I live with Chi-Chi, she has to endure me much more.


I've lived with Chi-Chi for eight years, and she still barks at me as if I was a burglar every time she sees me. Not every time I come into the house, but every time she lays eyes on me. When I get down on the floor to try to befriend her, she backs away in terror, snarling at me, until finally she's in the back of her box.

That's right. Chi-Chi lives in a box. I know it's supposed to be called a "crate," and, technically, that's what it is, but it looks like a box to me. Chi-Chi spends at least twenty hours a day in the box. The door is never latched, or even closed, it's just where Chi-Chi prefers to be. One might think this would mean she's housebroken. One would be mistaken. 

It's not that she doesn't know we'd prefer she went outside, it's that she doesn't care. Her turds are as hard and dry as rocks, and we don't have carpets in the house, so she's easy enough to clean up after. To be clear, though; these aren't "accidents." She knows better, she has the opportunity to go outside, and she decides she'd rather not. I don't much like cleaning up after her, but I must say I admire the strength of her convictions, however ill-advised they may be.

When I approach her in her box, she is as aggressive as possible. Fortunately for me, she's a Chihuahua. How aggressive can that be? I used to worry a little, until one day I decided to just let her bite me, if she wanted. She did want to, but since I could barely feel it when she dove into the flesh of my hand, we've both come to understand that actual violence on her part is an ineffective deterrent.

Chi-Chi weighs eight pounds, but the vet feels she should weigh six. At one point, she weighed twelve pounds, and looked more like the bioengineered result of blending a pot-bellied pig with a human fetus. Then she was diagnosed with diabetes, began insulin shots and a special diet, so today she's at least recognizable as some form of canine.

My parents got Chi-Chi from a rescue organization when she was already about a year old. She was tightly bonded with my father, who passed away 2 ½ years ago. Since my father's death, Chi-Chi has become much closer to my mother, and, if anything, hates me even more. Understand, I've never yelled at Chi-Chi or disciplined her in any way. I've always been as gentle with her as if she were a glass figurine. It doesn't matter, though. Chi-Chi is the only dog I've ever met who just can't stand me.


But "hate" might not be the exactly right word. Chi-Chi will accept a treat from me, though she trembles as she does so, and I have to reach my arm way out so my hand is as far away from the rest of my body as possible. She'll muster up the bravery to pluck the treat from my hand, and then immediately retire to her box to eat it. She would prefer that I never touched her, or looked at her, but I have fed her and given her insulin shots. She is terrified when I have to do this, but when I leave her alone in her room, she eats all her dinner.

Sometimes, though, I'll see Chi-Chi looking at me when she doesn't think I notice, and she's not giving me the evil eye. I'll catch her looking at me with an expression of awe, if not reverence. If she sees me looking back, she'll usually start barking and snarling again, but it doesn't matter. I know. And she knows that I know.

Chi-Chi sees me walk, feed, and totally care for Levi, Rocky and Erica (of course she's been invited on the walks, and, naturally, she refuses). She sees me comfort them during frightening times, like thunderstorms. It's clear to her that they all love me. So what's the problem?


Honestly, I believe it's that Chi-Chi is scared to love me, for whatever reason. Maybe it's something unknown in her past, like abuse from a man who looked like me, but I don't think so. I think Chi-Chi holds back from a simple fear of loss and rejection. I think that because she's so small, when Rocky and Levi are excited around me, she's scared she might get knocked over and hurt. 

Mainly, though, I think that Chi-Chi has decided she can't love me, because she wouldn't be able to stand if I didn't love her back. Of course I would, but I think Chi-Chi is a one-person sort of dog, and that, whoever her master is, better be a one-dog kind of person. Knowing I love Levi, Erica and Rocky, I think Chi-Chi is unwilling to accept sharing my love with anyone. Therefore, Chi-Chi's reasoning goes, she has to hate me.

I'm sorry for Chi-Chi in that she can't bring herself to be my friend, but she has a relatively full life, anyway (full for someone who spends twenty hours a day in a box, that is). She has a very close bond with my mom. She loves Levi, who is clearly aware of their size disparity and is always extra gentle and careful around her. Like everyone, she loves Rocky, though you can tell even she knows he's not too bright.

But Chi-Chi's best friend in the pack, outside my mom, is the other girl, close to her size and age. Chi-Chi and Erica Kane adore each other. Erica's been long habituated to dogs, but Chi-Chi is the first one she's known who's actually smaller than she is. As far as I know, Erica is the first, and only cat, Chi-Chi has ever seen, but somehow they couldn't be tighter sisters and girlfriends. 

So all in all, me and my pack moving in on her territory was a positive thing for Chi-Chi, even if it does mean she has to live with me, her enemy. I refuse to be her enemy, though. She can bark, snarl and bite all she wants, it doesn't matter. Any friend of Rocky, Levi and Erica, is a friend of mine. 

(Note to my Hispanic and Spanish speaking readers: I know what Chi-Chis are. I do not believe my parents did when they chose that name)

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Wish They All Could Be California Girls

For Karen and me, not much good came out of Los Angeles in 1984. We'd moved there without a plan, with our two dogs, Lyric and Holden, and were soon overcome by a fear and loathing of the mass of humanity we found ourselves amidst. We decided that the logical reaction to our new found misanthropy would be to increase the canine to human ratio in our household. We decided to get a puppy.

There were two primary rationales for getting a puppy. Lyric, the Seeing Eye dog, was smart, young and strong, everything a German shepherd should be. Our other dog, Holden, was a fat, dim-witted, beagle mix, and he was simply not an ideal playmate for her. Often, in her fun, Lyric would send Holden sprawling, and we didn't want him to get hurt. We wanted Lyric to have as full a life as possible, and we thought that should include a relationship with a dog with which she could have some parity. Forcing her to play with Holden seemed like forcing Bobby Fisher to play chess with Sling Blade (look, he liked fried potatoes, OK?). It couldn't be very satisfying for Lyric.

Furthermore, Sling Blade…I mean, Holden, needed another dog, too, we believed. Though he may have been satisfied with Lyric as a playmate, since Lyric was a guide dog, when we went out, Holden would be left alone. Holden was a bad boy when left alone, prone to tremendous acts of destruction, and we reasoned that if he wasn't left all alone, but had a better behaved dog keeping him company, then maybe that would help him straighten up and fly right. We knew even then that was unlikely, but, who knows, maybe.

Let me say right now that both of the above rationales were based on false premises. After thirty years as a dogman, I'll say, with some certainty, that an intelligent dog does not need an equal for a playmate, and, with total certainty, that leaving a good dog home alone with a destructive one is much more likely to corrupt the good one than it is to mend the ways of the bad. But, back in 1984, we were at the beginning of our learning curve, and those two reasons for getting another dog seemed reasonable enough.

Anyway, Los Angeles sucked and we wanted a puppy!

We found an ad in the paper and decided to get a three month old, German shepherd/Australian shepherd mix, puppy. We figured this would be a dog that could keep up with Lyric and who might be smart enough to reform Holden. We got to the house, and met both the parents. The father, a German shepherd, was a very friendly, stable, fellow. The Australian shepherd mother seemed just a little "off," but to be fair a couple of strangers were looking over her puppies, so I guess she had every right to be.

There were four or five puppies, but we were instantly drawn to one little grey and white female who seemed more outgoing than the others. We named her Chelsea, and took her away in the car to begin her new life.

Chelsea was not only adorable, she was perfect. She was alert and interested, liked the car ride, and didn't cry for a second when separated from everything she'd ever known. She was infested with fleas, so the very first thing we had to do, before we even brought her in the house, was give her a flea dip.

It's easy to forget now just how awful a problem fleas used to be. Whatever horrifying odorless poison is in the Frontline Plus and other flea and tick products we use today is an absolute godsend. Back in 1984, the only way to de-flea a dog was to immerse it in a fluid that stunk like kerosene, let it dry, and then dip the dog again. When we first saw Chelsea, we thought she had some small scabs on her. On closer inspection, we saw they were flea colonies, massed so as to appear solid. The flea treatment had to be traumatic for a three month old puppy, but Chelsea went through the ordeal with a happy dignity.

I haven't thought about Chelsea as a puppy for a long time, and now the memory of her is flooding me with warmth. The pictures that appear with this article are not Chelsea, but they show basically what she looked like then. She was so smart, and happy, and bright-eyed, and eager to join her family.

Lyric and Holden both accepted Chelsea at once, and she was thrilled to have two other dogs to play and live with. Everyone was happy, at least for a while.

Lyric, Holden and Chelsea would live together for the rest of their long lives. Other dogs would come and go, but those three remained the core of the pack for their entire lives. Going to California might have been a bad idea, but when we left, we had our Chelsea, so, as it turns out, something good came out of us being in Los Angeles that awful summer of 1984.

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Dug-Up Bones

This is my 24^th posting in as many days, and I've been very pleased and excited by the interest in and reaction to my blog. Since the Den opened 24 days ago, I have fiddled with the set-up and design, and added and subtracted counting widgets and such. I've had Statburner, Feedburner, Trendcounter, and several others that I have taken on and off my site since its creation. As a result, I don't have an accurate count of how many page views, or visitors, I've had, or what country these readers are from. However, preliminary estimates are most encouraging.

If my calculations are inexact or my methodology questionable, I apologize, but, as of today, I estimate my web site has had over 3.5 million page hits from more than one million separate individuals! The results of my new flag counter, when combined with those of my old flag counter, reveal that these million-plus readers seemingly come from 3,657 different nations! I'm slightly humbled that my words are reaching so many, but, ultimately, I feel it's for the best.


Note: The Den of the Dogman had a very ugly banner, and a friend of mine who prefers to go by the nom de guerre, "Muse", who made me a great Entreecard, has said she's going to make me a nice banner. She started to, but it wasn't long enough! Now she says she'll fix it, and maybe she will, but for now, I have an idea! The first Den of the Dogman ™Official Contest! Design the Dogman's blog's banner! If you don't know what this means, you probably won't win the contest, so don't bother entering. 

Send your beautiful and appropriately sized banner art in today! The winner will enjoy the thrill that comes with being chosen, and will also receive a personal e-mail from the Dogman! (multiple entries are allowed!) Send in your "Dogman" banner .jpg today!




And now, a look back at some of my favorite's since this site's inception. If you missed any of these, read them now, and no one need know you didn't read it the first chance you had!

Labs, Monkeys, Pirates and the Essence of Fear: A funny story about Vinnie, a black lab Seeing Eye dog, and a few of the things that frightened him. Not unreasonable things, but genuinely scary stuff, like a monkey in the courthouse! And then there's the pirates!

"Look Out, Cat!!!™" It's every dog's favorite rainy day fun game! It's the exciting new craze that's sweeping the doggie countryside. Read all about it and get the official rules. Leagues are forming SOON! Funny, because it's true! (NO kitties are harmed during properly conducted games of "Look Out, Cat!!!™")

Meet Lyric, my late wife's first Seeing Eye dog, a beautiful, high-strung, brilliant German shepherd. An ultimately sweet and touching story, about the most intimate of dog-human partnerships – and how it all started with hate at first sight!

Let Us Sit Upon the Ground and Tell Sad Stories of the Death of Kings A very sad story about Karen's last Seeing Eye dog, Arthur. Perhaps the greatest of all dogs meeting perhaps the saddest of all ends. If you don't already keep Kleenex next to the computer, get some before you start reading this story. But read it, please. Whatever else, Arthur earned our attention.

Dreams of Dogs and Cats Levi and Erica discuss their dreams. A rare insight into the inner workings of our pets psyches! A light, funny, fantasy piece.

Come back to the den tomorrow for the beginning of a week of new stories.

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Levi's Issues, Part 2

Part 1


One bright November day, Levi and Esmé went out to swim and hunt. Levi came home alone, obviously traumatized. We looked for a week, but never found her body. Given where we lived, we knew she hadn't been hit by a car, or stolen. The coyotes of the area, though, could be dangerous. 

Together, Levi and Esmé were big enough to deter an out and out coyote ambush. But if a group of coyotes, in the guise of playing, attracted one of them far enough away from the other, that puppy would have been easy prey. I'm fairly certain that's what happened to Esmé, and I'm also pretty sure Levi saw it.


Levi fell into a serious depression. Arthur was heartbroken, and in order to cope with his loss, took to punishing Levi more frequently and randomly.

Ordinarily, I would have been more on top of the situation, protecting Levi from his bully of a brother, but Karen was getting increasingly sick during this time, and my attention was more on her than it was on caring for Levi. I have no doubt that's as it should have been, but the result was Levi remained in what could only be described as an abusive home environment. Arthur never hurt him to an extent where vet care was needed, but he did what he could to see that Levi's natural high spirits were repressed.

Levi recovered from losing his sister and began to be a happy puppy again. There was an old woman who lived across the way from us named Ethel, who Levi would visit every day. She'd give him cookies, and talk to him, and let him graze cherry tomatoes off her plants. Ethel was Levi's grandma, and she helped him get over the terrible loss of Esmé. Since Arthur wouldn't leave the yard, Levi could visit Ethel by himself, and have an opportunity to feel confident and good about himself.


Ethel died suddenly and unexpectedly in December. Levi went to her house day after day, but grandma never came out to play with him again. His depression returned, and despite Levi's obviously damaged state, Arthur never let up on him for a second. Nevertheless, Levi carried on. He loved Arthur, I suppose in much the same way battered wives love their abusive husbands. Erica was a great comfort to him, and he adored his mom and dad. 

Then, in January, his mom died.

Within a few months, Levi, Arthur, Erica and I began a kind of vagabond existence. We moved from the only house he ever knew into a small trailer with a friend in Taos. I worked as a waiter, and Levi and Arthur would spend the day together. When I would come home from work, Arthur was usually protecting his Frisbee, while Levi was running to the car to greet me. I can only imagine what their days alone together were like.


Then the pack moved from wild New Mexico to super civilized Scottsdale. Despite all the upheaval, Levi was becoming happy again. He'd become an adult, and there was much less corporal punishment delivered by Arthur, who Levi still seemed to worship. We started going to the dog park, where Arthur would, of course, obsess over his Frisbee, and where Levi finally had the opportunity to behave as a quasi-independent adult dog.


For about nine months, things at the park were fine. We spent so much time there that Levi began to see it as his territory. Once he determined that he was in charge of the park, he naturally assumed that keeping puppies in line was one of his responsibilities. I'm not saying Levi didn't enjoy the small cruelties he inflicted on the puppies (click for a short film of such abuse), and I'm not saying it was right. I'm just saying I understood.

Eventually, Levi started to be too bad to bring to the park anymore. This was hard on him, because he loved his large group of park friends, but I couldn't stop him from being a bully, so we stopped going. Arthur didn't care; he could fetishize the Frisbee in the back yard as well as anywhere else, but Levi's social circle was again reduced to insane Arthur. At least now he had Rocky and Chi-Chi as friends, as well as Erica, but his primary companion remained Arthur, who that good boy, Levi, still loved like crazy, despite everything. Then Arthur got bone cancer and died.

Soon after that, my father, who Levi had of course loved, had to be moved out of the house due to advanced Alzheimer's. Levi's grandpa died about a year later, though Levi had many opportunities to visit with him in the assisted living facility. When my dad couldn't remember what relationship he had with my mother or me, he never forgot how much he loved his dogs, Chi-Chi, Rocky, and now, Levi. Then grandpa was gone.


In the first year of life, Levi was abandoned by his original family, lost his sister, his "grandma," and then Karen, his mom. He was bullied by a much older, much bigger dog, who he nonetheless worshiped. He lived in four different homes. Additionally, during all this time, he had a dad who was going through hell, and wasn't in a good mental state himself. 

That Levi has survived, and turned out as well as he did, not only amazes me, but it inspires me, and helps me get through some of my own bad times. He's been my best friend, and my crutch, since Karen died, and I'm content to know that whatever road life leads us down, we'll travel it together.


So, there, Levi is not a perfect dog. I said it. Just be sure you don't say it. Nobody talks about my boy like that.




© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Erica Kane

Admittedly, Erica is a cat, but she’s nonetheless a full-fledged pack member, and with the exception of myself, has been one the longest. She’s not a cat-dog, the kind of cat that lives with dogs and then imitates their behavior. A neighbor of mine has a cat that goes out on walks with her and her two dogs every night. That’s a cat-dog.

Erica is, however, an honorary dog. She’s lived every minute of her life, since she was adopted as a sick and frail shelter kitten, when she was two months old, with a pile of dogs, as many as six at once, that collectively usually outweighed her by approximately 5,000 percent. Over the years, these dogs haven’t always been entirely “cat-friendly,” but in the fourteen years she's lived with me, I’ve never seen Erica have anything but the most passing issue with any of them. She has a calm serenity that can communicate loving-kindness to even the rowdiest dog.

We got Erica after the disappearance of our first cat, the jet black, long-haired, Mogwai. Mogwai was a dog-cat, and the dog part of this equation was either pit bull or Cerberus. He ruled the dogs through violence and intimidation, killed birds and mice in horrific numbers and manners, and disappeared about this time of year fourteen years ago. We were in semi-rural New Mexico, so whether it was coyote, hawk, or misdirected bobcat, it’s fairly certain that Mogwai had died by the same sword under which he had lived.

A few months later, we got Erica. Even though she was sick and frail, she still had a hypnotizing personality, so we named her after All My Children’s Erica Kane, which is my Erica’s legal name. Actually, it’s officially Erica Kane Martin Brent Cudahy Chandler Montgomery Montgomery Chandler Marick Marick Montgomery, but that is a bit of a mouthful, so she generally just goes by Erica.

Much like her namesake, Erica does not age. Once she was nursed to health as a kitten, she has never again been sick, and has never shown any indication of advancing age. If she were a dog, I’d be carrying her to her cat tower, instead of watching her bound to the top in a thoughtless jump.

Also like her namesake, Erica is very affectionate. My Erica, though, is always cautious, but open and friendly to dogs and humans alike. When she’s lived with other cats, she was always tolerant and diplomatic, if not overtly enthusiastic.

She’s a survivor, like her soap opera counterpart. She’s lived her entire life in the Southwest as an indoor-outdoor cat, sticking close to home to avoid danger, and keeping a wary eye out. It doesn’t hurt that she has guard dogs at her disposal, but I credit her survival to prudence, and, of course, some good luck. TV’s Erica Kane may not be known for her prudence, but staying alive in Pine Valley for forty years requires no small amount of luck, so in that sense, as well, our cat was well-named.

Erica is good-natured when she becomes the object in a game of “Look Out, Cat!!! ™” More often than not she wins, meaning the dogs don’t corner her, but when they do, her fiery eyes, and a quick display of her claws, disarms the pack immediately. She always walks away with her dignity intact. I guess that’s more than can be said about Susan Lucci’s character, but she's just a namesake. They're not the exact same being.

I couldn’t love my Erica Kane more if she were a dog, or a human, for that matter. She, Levi, and I go to sleep together every night, though they’re usually gone in the morning to more comfortable locations where my inconsiderate movements don’t disturb them. In the living room, Levi likes the leather couch, and Erica favors the center of the enormous dog bed. But as I go to sleep, Levi is pressed against my side, and Erica sleeps on my pillow. Every night I fall asleep with a cat on my head, and I hope I always do.

I communicate with Erica, but in a very different way than I communicate with dogs. In a sense, when I communicate with dogs, I’m reverting to my more primitive roots. We share a common language that goes back at least 15,000 years, and maybe as many as 150,000. Wikipedia gets it right when they say cats have “associated” with us for at least 9,500 years.  The domestication of the dog seems to have been a result of true communication between two species. But I believe the cat domesticated us. And since earliest times, we have worshiped her for this.

When I communicate with Erica it’s not as if she’s a goddess, but it’s a bit like she’s an alien, the good kind, like E.T. Our discourse takes place at a higher level than with dogs, if that makes sense. I’m honored that Erica loves me, because I know I earned and merit that love; I take love for granted with dogs. Most of them love everybody. But Erica Kane discriminates.

Cats can be included in a dog pack. More than the right dogs, the success of this integration depends on the right cat. For those who don’t know, dogs and cats do communicate, and they can love each other. When I see Rocky and Erica curled up together for a nap, and watch Levi quietly walk past them so as not to wake them, I can’t question that we are all basically the same. If I have a soul, dogs and cats certainly do. If none of us have souls, don’t doubt that we all have hearts and brains, and the only difference between people, dogs, and cats, is one of expression, not degree.

Finally, the very best thing my Erica Kane has in common with All My Children’s Erica Kane: To my knowledge, neither of them has ever used a litter box or had an accident in the house. If I’m wrong about one of them on this point, I’d be willing to lay bets that it’s la Lucci.


© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands
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