Crazy Dog People

Yesterday morning, I heard the doorbell and looked up to see a cop car in the driveway. Ruh-roh.

I spent the next five minutes wrestling the dogs into the garage, and then opened the door to a sheriff's deputy. He said someone had reported a Chocolate Lab and a Black Lab running loose around the fairgrounds (which are a half-mile from our house), and wanted to know whether they were ours.

"No, sorry," I answered. "All of our dogs are black."

"Oh," he said. He explained he'd already talked to another Lab owner in town as well as a few other folks, and they'd all referred him to the couple who walk their dogs each morning.

"They walk every day," he added.

"That's us," I confirmed.

"Up and down 99."

"That's us."

"Male and female, four or five dogs."

"Yeah, that's us," I said yet again.

"Oh," he said. "Around 8:00?"

Just how many Rickreall couples do you think walk four dogs every morning, rain or shine, I wanted to ask, but instead I smiled and confirmed he had the right house.

We tried to brainstorm whose dogs they might be, but he'd already talked to or ruled out everyone I suggested.

Our conversation made me realize again how many people in our town have dogs, which then made me wonder again why whenever anyone finds a loses a dog, they contact us. Maybe they figure we have so many, we might not notice one more or less?

Dog Days, Indeed

In our house, we don't need a thermometer or a weather station or the AC kicking on to know it's hot; we just need to realize it's quiet and the dogs are MIA.

Yesterday as we pushed triple-digit heat (again), a quick search of the house found Tripper (half-)under the bed,...


Annye napping in the closet,...


And Miele and Sherman snoozing on the tile.

Talk about a rough life.

Happy Birthday, Sherman!

Well, another day, another destroyed duck. Actually two ducks this morning, but I couldn't bring myself to scold Sherman because — wait for it — today is his birthday!

Yes, the Shermanator, the Sherman Tank, Sir Sherman McShreds-a-lot has reached the ripe old age of one. I don't know what odds Vegas would have put on such an unlikely event, but I can tell you there were days when they would have been looooong.

Our friends Lee and Sue took this photo of Sherm and me not long after we adopted him at two months old:

I doubt I'll be able to hold him up in the same pose, but I'll try to get a similar photo today after work to show how much he's grown in the past 10 months. Which is not to say he's done growing; the way he's been power-napping, I think another growth spurt is just around the corner...

The Shredder Strikes Back

The newly mended ducks had barely landed in the toy bin last night when Sherman plucked one from the pile, plopped down on it... and promptly ripped it open. And like a Lay's potato chip, he couldn't eat just one; I found the remains of another later on and today awoke to this art installment:

Annye may look guilty sitting amid the fluff, but trust me, Sherm's the culprit; he just had the sense to flee when he saw the camera this time.

In This Corner: Sherman the Shredder

Not much to report on behalf of the dogs this week; they've been surprisingly quiet. I can't decide whether it's the sudden increase in temperature — we went from low 50s F to mid-70s and rising — or Sherman's having yet another growth spurt and the other three are taking advantage of the brief calm.

Which is not to say the week has been without incident. A few bicyclists have been lunged, a few plants have been broken, a few saucers punctured — but all outside, thankfully. (We don't get many bicyclists indoors.) And of course, we've had the weekly Repairing of the Plush ritual.

Sherman has several plush toys — some purchased for him, some commandeered from his siblings — but his favorites are a flock of ducks and one no-longer-recognizable hedgehog.

Actually, maybe "favorites" is the wrong term; maybe they're really the ones he likes the least, because apparently Sherm has decided it's his mission to disembowel each and every one of them. Repeatedly. It usually goes something like this:

Cary: "Sherman, what are you doing? Sherman. Don't you shred that duck; don't you —"

(sound of fabric ripping)

Cary: "Sherman, goddamnit! Look at the mess your mother has to clean up!"

After he's shredded three or four plush, I restuff and stitch them up as best as I care to, then return them to the dogs' toy bin. But within minutes, Sherman's ripped one open again and is happily frolicking in the fluffy white goodness he's liberated.

I would get mad at him, but they ARE dog toys and we DID give them to him, and if they keep him from shredding my Teddy bears, well, I guess they're worth the extra effort. Now if I can just hold that thought as I tackle the next round of mending...

A Not-So-Serene Sunday

If only we could harness Sherman's energy, we could reduce the country's dependence on foreign oil – hell, on oil, period. We might even curb global warming (unless like my brother, you think that's a myth). Ah, if only. If only...

Sadly we can't harness it yet, so the best we can do it try to run it off – which is what we attempted to do on a recent Sunday:

We loaded up all four dogs and took them to the forest. We hadn't been there since Sherman was a pup and went scuba diving without the SCUBA, so we thought, hey, it'll be a big treat for them.

For us, not so much.

The fun started before the dogs were even out of the truck. The people who live in a nearby house were out in their yard, letting their kids and their two Huskies run around, so we decided to leash the dogs until we were down the road a ways. Cary pops the top of the canopy and four black dogs rush us. I'm pushing with all I have to keep Sherman in as he drags his claws back and forth on the tailgate, leaving lovely white tracks in the dark gray paint. Fabulous.

Somehow we get Tripper, Sherm, and Annye clipped to their leashes. Cary decides to trust Miele and drops the tailgate. Tripp and Miele sail past our heads. Sherm follows suit, with the unlucky difference of being tied to me. I do an oh-so-graceful pirouette, yelling "Sherman, no!" as my free arm whips around and smacks Cary.

Unfazed, Cary holds Annye back while putting the ramp in place. Luckily Annye is smart enough to realize she needs the ramp if she wants to avoid breaking her leg again. Needs the ramp or needs to be lifted but – sorry, fat dog – I think your being lifted days are over.

Then, tragedy strikes: Cary's grip on the ramp slips. It starts to fall, he grabs for it... and royally tweaks his back. As he howls and slowly straightens, I'm whipping in all directions, tethered to a wild animal intent on breaking free.

Ah, Sundays with our clan. So serene. So Norman Rockwellian.

Annye surveyed the two-ring circus for a moment, then romped down the ramp as if to say "Not my problem!" before bounding to join her siblings. I decided Sherman would do the same and managed to reel him in just long enough to unclip his leash. (I haven't checked, but I'm pretty sure my right arm is now an inch longer than the left.)

But the fun didn't stop there. Oh no, sirs and madams.

We managed to stay together and on the logging road until we got to a place where we let the dogs swim. The creek was still high, so the bank and the rocks we normally walk on were smaller – not to mention slicker – than usual. Cary wisely chose to stay up closer to the road but not I; I dared to climb down to the creek with four spastic dogs whirling around me, hip-checking my knees along the way.

The girls waded in to get a drink but then returned to hang with Daddy. I pretended to throw rocks for Tripp so he'd jump in and swim. He prefers real rocks, of course, but he'll pretend if it's his only option. Sherm ran along the rocks, wanting to chase Tripp but not quite willing to belly-flop into the cold water. He ended up swimming – okay, falling in – once, then swiped up and down my legs as if my jeans were his personal towel.

All's going relatively well until Cary announces it's time to go. The boys blow past and fly up the path, dripping all the way. That's when I realize the slab of rock I'm standing on is drenched and extra-slick. If I hadn't noticed, maybe I would have been okay... but I did notice, and on my second step, my feet shot out from under me. Butt and rock met as they have so many times before.

I looked up to find Cary hadn't even noticed; he was busy storing his camera.

"Ow," I called.

"Ya fall down?" he asked.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a Master of The Obvious.

"Yes, I fell down," I said as I tried to regain my footing.

"Why'd ya do that?"

All I can say is he's lucky I was only pretending to throw rocks for Tripp.


This Sunday – as in today – we're off to our nephew’s first birthday bash, but the coming Memorial Day weekend's weather is supposed to be just as beautiful. Maybe the six of us will go visit friends in eastern or southern Oregon. Maybe we'll try another forest outing. Or maybe we'll come to our senses, and just let the animals run around in the backyard while we lounge on the deck.

After recounting our last adventure, the backyard is looking pretty good.

A Sherman Short

So I went into the master bathroom a few minutes ago and noticed something dark in the shower. What the...?

I pushed the glass door a little wider and saw this:

This isn’t the first time Sherman’s been in the shower – he likes to lap up the water after I’ve used it, so much so he's almost knocked me over a few times – but this is the first time I’ve found him sleeping in there.

I know Labs are water dogs, but really....

The Dog Blog, Part III

For reasons I still don't understand, I started looking at dogs up for adoption in July 2008. I knew I didn’t want another Malamute – Conner’s the only one for me – so I limited myself to Lab mixes and Border Collie mixes. (What can I tell you: Miele is a great ambassador.)

I inquired about a few dogs, but we didn't go visit any until a rescue in Salem had four puppies in which we interested. We arranged to visit them with our three current dogs, Miele, Annye, and Tripper.

The puppies were all very cute, although I admit I favored two: Charley, a little-bit-of-everything mutt, and Max, a Lab/German Shepherd mix.

Charley cuddled up to Cary and stayed next to him most of the time, while Max made a beeline for my lap (just like Conner had) but also snuggled Cary, sniffed and kissed Miele, and marched with Tripper. Annye, however, was not impressed. She sat with her back to us, as far away as her leash would allow. When the puppies approached her, she jumped – literally, all four paws in the air – and backed away all skittish. It was like watching a mouse and an elephant.

We greed to give the women at this shelter an answer later that night and began debating: No, we don't need another dog; yes, things are good the way they are; yes, they were awfully cute; yes, Miele and Tripper seemed fine with them; yes, Annye would probably come around...

As we were deciding, Cary looked up Lab/German Shepherd mixes on-line and found nothing but glowing comments. How smart they are, how loving and loyal, how it's the best dog they'd ever had. He also found photos of full-grown dogs who looked a lot like Tripper. I think he was sold right there, but he put it on me by saying he'd assumed we'd adopt Max the moment he saw him jump into my lap and make himself at home.

He was right.

I called that night and said we wanted Max. We picked him up the next day at noon, and after a quick detour to buy puppy food, we introduced him to our other three in the grassy lot across from our house. Everyone seemed to tolerate him well enough – everyone that is except Rex, our neighbor's Black Lab. I think Rex had been not-so-secretly hoping that one day he would live with us, given the way he’d show up at our door whenever he managed to break free. Seeing a little whelp take his rightful place did not seem to go over well.

We held off naming the pup until we had a chance to see his personality but settled on Sherman. I like it because it’s a family name and because Mr. Peabody had his pet boy, Sherman; Cary says it fits because this little guy is a Sherman tank.

Our other three were rescued at older ages, so I hadn't had an actual puppy in 13 years and Cary had never raised one. This should be interesting, I thought. Boy was I ever right, assuming by “interesting” I’d meant Sherman would test our patience, our physical strength, and our cleaning techniques.

Like in early 2009 when our house was swept up in a new game craze, "What's Sherman Destroying Now?" It's a fast-paced, potentially high-stakes game beginning each morning when the contestant (me) awakes to the sound of muffled growls and material ripping, then bumbles, panicked and half-asleep, over three other canine lumps to find Sherm's latest casualty. Sometimes it was a hunk of chew-approved rope or an obliterated tennis ball, but sometimes...

One week he tore up more living room carpet – yes, "more" as in he’d already ripped up some – and demolished not one but two dog beds.

"Why? Why do you have to shred a $90 bed?" I wanted to scream. "Why can't you obliterate a $5 toy?"

Then I’d think, oh wait; he does that, too. Often.

Cary said Sherman – not to mention the neighbors – probably thinks his middle name is Goddamnit. Not that Cary’s discouraging that impression. I give you Exhibit A:

"I'm sure someday I'll grow to love Sherman... but no more puppies."

That announcement was uttered a few minutes after this conversation:

Me: "Is Sherman eating the carpet?"
Cary: "No."
Me: "What is he shredding, then?"
(Sound of Cary's chair rolling back, then footsteps, then)
Cary: "Sherman, goddamn it!"

Cut to Sherman with brown strings hanging from his mouth and a bald spot in the office carpet. Sigh.

Clearly we both look forward to the day Sherm grows out of this less-than-charming phase of puppyhood, which I’m sorry to report is still going strong as of early May. To make matters worse, Sherm is still growing exponentially as per Exhibit B...



And Exhibit C.


So there you have it: the long-winded story of our dog-heavy family! Some days I think we must be crazy to do this to ourselves, but most days I wouldn't part with any one of them.

Most days.

The Dog Blog, Part II

After several months, it became clear that Miele was Conner's dog, not Cary's. She didn't like to be away from Cary or me, but she REALLY didn't like being away from Conner. We’re talking whining, pacing, the whole three-act drama. Soon Cary announced he wanted a dog of his own:

"You have Conner, and Conner has Miele. I want a dog, too!"

Turns out a friend of Cary's had a purebred Black Lab he could no longer keep, so Cary mounted a campaign to convince me that three dogs wouldn't be so bad. I caved and his friend promised we could adopt the dog... then gave him to the bomb squad instead. Cary was disappointed but wasn't about to let all that marketing go to waste. So it was off the Humane Society once more.

A few Black Lab mixes caught Cary's eye, but one sad-looking little pup appealed to me. She leaned against the chain link as if to say, "I know you won't adopt me, but could you at least rub my ears before you go?" I knelt down and started petting her. Cary just laughed, and said that's just what Sassy had done when he saw her at the pound. That was enough to sell me but I stayed quiet; this was supposed to be Cary's dog, after all.

We introduced Conner and Miele to a few dogs of Cary's choosing, but none blended too well. I suggested we let the Sad Little Puppy meet them, but she just curled up in a ball and hid. We took that as a "no thanks," but I couldn't stop thinking about her.

The next day I called and asked about her. It seemed another family had put a hold on her, but the staff member offered to take my name and number just in case they backed out. I gave it, and tried to be happy that SLP had found a home. Not that that stopped me from thinking about her or talking about her or not-so-secretly wishing her adoption would fall through...

A few days later, Cary answered a call from the Humane Society. The people who had put a hold on SLP hadn't come back or even called. Were we still interested, the volunteer asked?

Cary just smiled at me and said, "We'll be right there."

Annye was our 2002 Valentine's Day present to each other. She was (and is) one of the lowest energy pups we've ever met and is forever on a diet -– hence her none-too-flattering nickname of "Big Fat Annye." Plump or not, I adore this dog.

Cary tried hard to bond with Annye. He played with her, held her while he watched TV, the whole enchilada. As much as she enjoyed the attention, Annye kept hanging with me. She would follow me around, sleep under my desk, wait at the door while I went to the post office... basically making it known she was MY dog.

Fast forward another year to 2003, when once again Cary decreed he wanted a dog of his own. He'd been assisting a local Labrador rescue with its website and learned about a chocolate Lab at the Linn County Dog Control in Albany, Oregon. Within minutes the five of us were driving down to meet him. Turns out the chocolate was already gone, but an energetic little black dog was happy to see us –- and was scheduled to be "put down" that night. Nudge, nudge. It may have been a sales job, but we bought it and him.

We started to give Pup Number Four the "Hoover" name, but after one tangled walk we decided Tripper was a better fit! We also were told he was more than a year old and full grown. Wrong. After a few weeks of unlimited food and regular exercise, Tripper grew longer, taller, and then filled out -- to a point. He's still a thin dog, but twice the size of the "full grown" dog we brought home.

All was well (if not quiet) in our household for another four years.

In early 2007, however, Conner -- then 12 years old -- started to have problems with his back legs. Our vet examined him and said he had spinal degeneration, said there wasn't much we could do but watch it get worse. Great.

Sometimes Conner was just a little shaky standing up; sometimes he couldn't stand at all. Sometimes he would turn but his back end wouldn't, other times his back end would just drop out from under him mid-stride. The mix of surprise and annoyance on his face would have been funny if it weren't so heartbreaking. By early 2008, Conner couldn't stand without help and often would fall right back down. Our formerly up-for-anything furball now spent his days whining in frustration and pain. We gave him medication for the pain, but the frustration... Well, that he and we had to bear full force.

We spoiled all of the dogs on Conner's 13th birthday but knew he didn't have much longer. Within a month, we made the painful trip to the Humane Society and held him as a volunteer gave him the injection. I was inconsolable for days, though everyone did their best. Especially Annye, who would lean against me and then snuggle closer as I cried into her fur. Have I mentioned how much I adore this dog?

Whoever said the worst part about having dogs is outliving them was right on. I can't say every moment was bliss with Conner -- we were both too stubborn for that -- but I did and do love him and miss him. It's still odd to not hear that Malamute "woo" greeting when we come home.

Maybe it's because I had Annye for comfort, but I wasn't eager to adopt another dog after losing Conner. I mean, three is more than enough, right?

Find out in Part III...

The Dog Blog, Part I

Anyone who lives in or drives through our little slice of the world recognizes us the same way: "You're the people with all the dogs! I see you walking ALL THE TIME!"

We just smile and nod, though to be fair we don't actually walk ALL THE TIME: we walk the dogs a mile or so first thing in the morning and again in the late afternoon or early evening. But I suppose that syncs up with most people's commutes and they probably don't see many other couples with four dogs. Occasionally someone will stop and ask whether we're professional dog walkers... then slowly back away when we reply they're all ours.

As I mentioned earlier, Cary and I each had a dog when we met. His was a female named Sassy, a Black Lab mix who was truly Daddy's Little Girl. They were inseparable, the living embodiment of the dog as Man's Best Friend. He even used Sassy as an excuse to ask me out. He said he needed to get dog food at Costco and would I like to go along. Now I ask you: who could resist such a romantic invitation?

My dog at the time was Conner, an Alaskan Malamute/Husky mix I'd bought as a two-month-old pup. My mom convinced me to go see the puppies, but Conner was the one who chose me: he ran straight at us, launched himself into my lap, and there he stayed until it was time to go. The woman selling the puppies later told us Conner had never approached anyone outside their family before, that he usually hid on the porch.

Cary, Sassy, Conner, and I had a few good years together before Sassy fell ill. During an operation to repair a torn ACL, she got an infection in her bloodstream that in turn attacked her organs. Sassy was a fighter, though, and bravely took all of the medications and treatments we tried. She even spent a couple of weeks in the veterinary hospital, but it was no use. We brought her home and within a few hours she passed away in Cary's lap.

To say the three of us were crushed is insufficient. Cary had lost the first dog of his life, and Conner had lost his best friend. I hadn't known Sassy as long as Cary had, but she was one of those dogs you love instantly if he or she chooses to let you in. Sassy had been a rescue, so trusting people didn't always come easy -- but she adored Cary and, to my delight, trusted his opinion of me.

Conner tried to comfort Cary in their shared grief, but after a few weeks Cary decided he wanted a dog of his own. Some dog owners need time to get over the loss of a pet, and some need to pour their love and attention on another dog as soon as possible. Cary is firmly in the latter group.

So it was off to the Humane Society for us. We walked up and down the rows, but one little Border Collie locked eyes with Cary and wouldn't break loose. When we walked down the next aisle, there she was, waiting and wagging. She even ignored little kids calling her over. She had found her new daddy, thank you very much; your attention is no longer needed.

We brought Conner in to meet her, and that was it: that little Border Collie was home. Wherever Big Brother went, she was right by his side. Conner seemed indifferent, but I think he was happy to have another black dog with whom to play. She had just become available for adoption that day, so we scooped her up.

We'd decided earlier, based on how Sassy had inhaled treats, that we would name our next black dog "Hoover." That didn't seem right for a girl, though, so one quick Google of vacuum cleaner brands later and our newest addition was named Miele. (We later learned the company also makes dishwashers -- still oh so appropriate -- and that we pronounce the name incorrectly: we say "Mee Lee" and they say "Mee La." Whatcha gonna do.)

I have just been informed blog entries are "supposed to be short," so I guess I should end here for now. I'll pick up the story of our furry family in another post soon, so please check back!