Out and about with Stella 2

Queen West mural

Cherry blossoms at CNE grounds

Inukshuk at Battery Park

Yellow

Nothing says spring like the first exuberance of dandelions, gleefully trumpeting the return of the summer sun.

Stella is finally warm even without her jacket and Rocky crashes into the plush grass every chance he gets.

Redecorating

Rocky's picked up some very particular ideas about redecorating the house. For example, Rocky doesn't like this table ...


... so he knocks it over.


Rocky doesn't like this gate at the bottom of the stairs ...


... so he knocks it over.


Rocky doesn't like the way his bedding is made ...


... so he unmakes it.


Stella doesn't like all this rearranging so she stays out of the way and closes her eyes and sighs.

What my dogs have to put up with

Every so often, I get the photo lights out and try to take some proper photos of Stella and Rocky, kind of like the equivalent of taking the family to Sears to get portraits done and just like taking the family to Sears, the dogs hate it. They're lucky I don't make them take a bath and get dressed up.

Rocky the Klingon dog

Cookie come hither

I do this mostly so I have a good visual record of them because I know one day, even with as many photos as I may have of them, I won't have enough to bring them back.



One new thing I did this time, is I created a 3D image of Stella as she was lying there suffering mightily for my picture taking. The first image below is normal but if any of you happen to have any of those red blue 3d glasses lying around the house, put them on and the last image should pop out at you.

If you don't have any 3d glasses, there are probably some prescription drugs lying around the house which might help you achieve the same effect but I wouldn't know about that.

As always, you can click on the images to make them larger.

What I have to put up with

How am I supposed to write anything with this stuck to my leg?


You may be thinking to yourselves that I should just stop whining because having a big dog head glued onto an appendage really isn't such a big deal. Rocky isn't just some passive adornment, though. He's actively using his powers of suggestion to control my left hand into moving towards the top of his head and scratching his ears.

Dogs are a constant test of one's will power.

Happy New Year everyone!

Me: Okay, look into the camera.

Stella: Hey, stop touching me! You're too close.

Rocky: Nnmph.

Stella: Better.

Sleeping in

I sometimes wonder what my neighbours think about me, especially the ones who don't know me at all but just get to hear me whenever I yell at my dogs, Rocky mostly, in the backyard.

"What are you eating?" I'll yell from the patio door to Rocky who is at the far end of the yard gulping down something I can't make out.

"Don't put that in your mouth you dumbass!" is another favourite of mine and, no, I would never call Rocky a dumbass if I thought for a moment he knew what the insult meant but I know he doesn't because English isn't his mother tongue plus he's terrible at languages, at least compared to Stella, and overall, well, he is kind of a dumbass.

Sometimes, when I can sort of see what he's eating and I don't really want to know, I'll yell something like, "Jeezus that's disgusting, Rocky! Get away from that!" and Rocky will look at me with his "who brought this guy to the party" expression as he finishes chewing and gulps.

I suspect the neighbours think I'm like the parent who raises the sort of kids they'll want their kids to stay away from. If I had kids, this might be true but then if I had kids who made a habit of going into the backyard to feast from whatever they dug up, I'd probably dress them up in dog costumes, drop them off without any traceable ID at the pound and then make sure I never had anymore. Being a somewhat responsible dog owner doesn't guarantee that I will be a responsible parent.

Rocky's favorite thing is when he discovers some tasty morsel left behind by squirrels in his backyard. I'm talking about half eaten, rotten apples, stale, moldy bread, slimy corn on the cob, cheap ass birthday cake, nuts - all sorts of nuts. It must be like some kind of miracle for Rocky to run beserkers into the backyard, scaring the bejeezus out of the squirrels, getting them to dump their edible treasures into his mouth. So, maybe he's not a complete dumbass after all, except when he eats something really bad and he throws up his supper afterward.

My plan for this morning is to sleep in. This would be a real luxury and it's what vacations are for after all. Stella is still very much asleep but Rocky starts grunting and snorting and farting at eight a.m. so I get up, thinking that if I let him out now for a bathroom break then I can sleep in a bit longer afterward before having to take him and Stella for a real walk. I slip on my slipper and put on my bathrobe for warmth and then I take Rocky downstairs, while trying to hang onto my sleep daze so I can get back to sleep easier, and let him out. I see him run to the back of the backyard where he pees on some firewood (I find it gives the wood an interesting aroma when burned) and then he begins nosing a pile of leaves a little too intently. Then I see him lift his head and chew and swallow something. So, I yell at him.

"Rocky, stop eating whatever you're eating and get back in here! Now!" and I add for good measure, "Don't make me come out there," which I wouldn't do anyway since it's bloody cold out and I'm in my pajamas and I don't want to completely lose my sleepy state. Rocky, always somewhat good at recall, comes trotting back and follows me back upstairs to bed. I take off the bathrobe and slip off the slippers. Rocky crawls back into his bed. I crawl back into mine. I put my head down on my pillow hoping to snooze at least another hour.

Rocky starts to make slurping noises. I figure he's just cleaning his feet or his penis which he seems to like doing in the morning so I try to ignore him, waiting for him to finish. Except he doesn't finish. Five minutes later, he's still slurping away. I look up from my pillow and see that he's just slurping his tongue out of his mouth and then trying to swallow. I'm thinking maybe whatever thing he gulped down earlier was sticky and got stuck on the roof of his mouth kind of like peanut butter. Yes, I know, a totally gross thought to be having when I'm trying to get back to sleep but now you understand why I yell at him in the backyard. It's because he's a slurpy dumbass and it's for his own good so he doesn't get gross stuff stuck in his mouth which I then have to pull out.

Slurp slurp slurp. I get up and go over to him and pry open his mouth prepared to look inside and find some horrible remnant of disgusting yuckiness but I find nothing. His mouth has the all clear as far as I can see. So next thing I'm thinking is that he's eaten something poisonous and this slurping is his reaction. He's going to slurp himself to death, I'm utterly sure of it and now I'm feeling bad about calling him a dumbass though part of me, the evil lizard part, is thinking that at least if he did expire, I'd be able to get some more sleep.

I pry Rocky's mouth open again and I still don't see anything but then I get a whiff of something nasty and I figure whatever it was he ate can't be anything toxic because nothing toxic smells that bad. I'm back to my something is stuck in his mouth theory or maybe at the back of his throat and that's why I can't see it.

Elizabeth is already up so I ask her if she'll take Rocky downstairs and give him some treats to hopefully dislodge whatever it is that's bugging him. She takes him downstairs and I get back into bed still certain I can will myself back to sleep.

Five minutes later, I hear Rocky's footsteps back into the bedroom and he plops into his bed. Elizabeth walks by and I ask her if he's still slurping and she says, No, he's stopped and she goes back downstairs.

Aah. Sleep again finally.

You know that blissful feeling when you're just on edge of sleep and it's like you're falling slowly into a pool of pillows?

Slurp.

Slurp.

Slurp, slurp.

I sit up and whip off the covers and go over to Rocky. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I open up his mouth and look in. Nothing on the roof. Nothing at the back. Nothing in between the teeth. Nothing under the tongue. My hand, however, is completely covered in slimy drool by this point. "Rocky, why'd you have to eat whatever it was you ate? Why this morning of all mornings?"

Rocky looks at me, expressionless.

I'm flummoxed. I go wash my hands. I go back to Rocky.

He's stopped slurping.

"Holy shit, are you done?" I ask and he looks at me wondering what I'm going on about. He lays his head down. "Yeah, I think you're done. Thank God."

I walk over to my bed and get in and put my head down on my pillow and close my eyes. I open my eyes. I close my eyes. I open my eyes. I'm totally awake.

"Aargh!" I throw the covers off and slip on my slippers and put on my bathrobe and walk into the bathroom and turn the portable heater on and brush my teeth and splash water on my face. I change into my dog walking clothes.

I look over at Rocky. He's snoring.

Stella looks at me looking at Rocky for a moment then she tucks her nose under her paw and closes her eyes and goes back to sleep as well.

Nightmare on Elm Street

It's pretty obvious from the twitching and noise making and REMing that all dogs do when they are asleep that they dream and since they dream, I wonder if they have nightmares and if they have nightmares I wonder what they have nightmares about.

It's around 2 a.m. Rocky is in a deep sleep when he suddenly snorts and pops up wide awake and scurries out of the bedroom in the dark, bumping into things and slipping on the wooden floor in his eagerness to get out of the room and downstairs. At first I think he maybe needs to go out for a bathroom break - though that would be very unusual and quite worrying actually as Rocky has got an iron gut - but, no, he's not interested in going out. After a few minutes, I persuade him to go back upstairs and back to his bed but he just as he touches down, it's like he recalls something deeply unpleasant and he grunts and he pulls himself up and runs downstairs again. After that, I can't get him to go back upstairs.

Rocky is not one of those dogs who instantly wakes. He likes to loll about and snort and lick his paws and rub his eyes. For him to jump out of bed from a deep sleep is quite extraordinary. Then to rush out of the room for no reason other than to escape the room is quite disconcerting. I'd almost be tempted to blame a ghost, not that I believe in ghosts, but hey, you never know what spirits might be haunting a 130 year old house. I'd be tempted to blame a ghost but Stella, who is sleeping in her bed right beside Rocky's bed, is watching all the commotion with much annoyance. She wants the lights off and silence please if you don't mind. There are no ghosts disturbing Stella's sleep so I'm guessing that whatever it was that disturbed Rocky, disturbed him alone.

Downstairs, Rocky stands by me for a few minutes then he goes and lies down on the bed in the living room but he doesn't sleep. He lies there with his head up, staring at me in the semi-darkness. I go over to him give him a pat on the head and check his stomache for bloat but don't notice anything unusual and feel his heart which seems a bit more speedy than normal. After a few more minutes, I want to get back to sleep so I beckon him to follow me upstairs but he won't come. He just watches me at I climb the stairs. Rocky is a Velcro dog so for him to stay downstairs by himself is very odd. Something really must have freaked him out upstairs. I'm thinking he had a nightmare.

In the time I've had Rocky, this has happened three times, though the other two times I managed to convince Rocky to go back up. Was there a monster in his dreams that he now thinks is still in the bedroom? Do dogs even dream of monsters and if so, what's a monster for a dog? I would think if a real monster appeared on the scene, most dogs would bark at them, chase them around and generally be a nuisance to them. The only thing I've ever seen Rocky run away from is a squeaky toy. Could he have been dreaming about monsters with squeaky toy voices?

So, questions for you all. Do your dogs have nightmares? Do they bark and howl in their sleep? Do they sleepwalk? Do they wake you up in the middle of the night, frantic and looking for reassurances?

Cottage life

Rocky and Stella relaxing after a long day of designing the world's first fusion reactor

Stella finds a stick, shakes it, steps on it, breaks it. Rocky lies on the wooden porch, twitching in his dreamstate. Leaves are chattering. Birds are chirping. But even as everything else plays well their part in this idyllic picture, I am defending myself against the mosquitoes that would murder me.

Urban civilization has done a few good things and one of them is get rid of mosquitoes in my general vicinity. Sure there are a few in my backyard but they are the weak city dwellers, possibly full of West Nile virus but slow and slothful from drinking too much dim sum and butter chicken laced blood and thus generally harmless. Their country cousins, though, are like meth fueled minions from a Texas Chainsaw massacre. Even the baby ones, the ones that are almost cute - well, okay, they'd be cute in a Pixar cartoon anyway - are like teensy vampires flying around waiting for the opportunity to stab a main artery and bathe in the bright red flow.

The first time I brought Stella up to the cottage many years ago, I had the usual impression that a dog at a cottage was like a kid at Christmas but it turned out to be more like a kid at a new school where she doesn't fit in, has no friends and gets beat up. Stella, it turned out, was a fragile city beast and not built for the stripped down, paleolithic lifestyle of cottaging. Her main problem was her lack of a thick enough coat to protect her from the onslaught of biting insects that still inhabited the dwindling, untamed portions of our country. After a 10 minute walk, during which time she and I both were swatting and swearing non-stop, I came back with three or four bites on my forehead and the back of my neck but she came back with at least two dozen mosquito welts on her bare stomache. After that, she didn't much feel like stepping outside into that cloud of flying piranha nor did I encourage her to go out fearing for her blood loss.

Since then, I've only ever brought Stella up to the cottage during the non-mosquito seasons, late fall or early spring.

This year, I don't know what I was thinking. Here we are at the cottage in barely September and here are the mosquitoes to welcome us back. Funny thing is, Stella seems not to be bothered this time round (though I'm having no such luck). Is it because she's older and she's transmorgrified into hardier stock? Or is it because she hasn't had a bath in a while and sort of smells like raw hamburger, though that would imply that mosquitoes don't like raw hamburger and I'm not sure if that's true. Anyway, she seems fine. She's even enjoying herself in the outdoors, chomping away at the fresh tips of abundant grass, smelling the fresh country scents, galloping across the forest floor, crashing through the undergrowth. She makes a lot of noise, Stella does. Not good, stealthy hunter material.

Stella thinking about how to explain the 12th dimension in layman's terms

As for Rocky, once he discovered the comforts of the cottage couch, which for some reason has way more appeal for him than the one at home, he's immobilized and doesn't even lift his head when Stella and I head out the door. He's snoring or maybe he's just pretending so that I don't call him to join us. Lazy dog, setting the perfect example of the Canadian cottage experience.

Rocky debating with himself the political fallout in the case of a fall election

I often wonder what goes through that blunderbuss head of Rocky's. His black mask seems usually expressionless and only once you get to know him well, do you notice the subtle frown lines which sometimes gather above his brow or the slight perking up of the eyebrows. Compared to Stella, who is a drama queen of grand gestures, Rocky is darkly stoic, but more in a bag full of coal sort of way as opposed to a Daniel Craig as James Bond sort of way. In his next life, Rocky will be reborn as a rhinoceros, ideally on a planet where rhinoceroses rule.

Rocky writing the next Pulitzer prize winning novel in his head

Stella will not be reborn. She will march directly to heaven and demand an phalanx of angels to massage her head and feed her pizza crusts. Or maybe she will be reborn, maybe as a cow on a planet of green pastures where cows rule. As a bovine, she can eat grass to her heart's content without ever having to throw up. I just wouldn't want to have to still be picking up after her.

Stella mentally reciting Pi to the 264th decimal place

If I am reborn, if I am lucky enough, I will be reborn onto a planet where there are cottages with no mosquitoes. In the meanwhile, I'm hoping that the chill in the coming night air will do to the mosquito population what no amount of swatting will ever be able to accomplish.

Stella and Rocky studying rising sea levels and its effect on aquatic life on the planet and cursing me for making them get wet

Happy Canada Day!

Lazing around in the garden. Same as any other day. Yawn.

That's the problem when you got two lazy ass dogs who don't work for a living. They don't appreciate the holidays.

Sleeping and eating

It's Sunday. It's rain day. I've finished walking and feeding Stella and Rocky. I've finished feeding myself. I go over to the couch and sit down. It's especially comfortable today. I look over at Stella and Rocky in their respective dog beds. Stella's licking her toes. Rocky's making smacking noises with his mouth as he runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, seeing if there are any bits of food left behind in the nooks and crannies.

The couch is especially comfortable. I push some of the cushions aside and stretch out. Thirty seconds later, I'm asleep.

Stella: Look at him.

Rocky, still mining for food bits: (shmeck, shmack) I think I found some chicken.

Stella: I can't believe he's asleep.

Rocky, disappointed: No, just a piece of soggy kibble.

Stella: He should be hard at work and instead he just goes back to sleep.

Rocky: Well, it is Sunday. There's no work on Sunday.

Stella: Sure, there's no paying work on Sunday but there's still work. He could be brushing us, or cooking for us or giving us massages. He could be taking us for another walk.

Rocky: Ooh, I'd like that.

Stella: Not to mention all the yard work that needs to get done. I've never seen so many weeds back there.

Rocky: And none of them taste any good either.

Stella: You know, I heard from the dog next door ...

Rocky: I bark at him.

Stella: Yeah, whatever, tough guy. Anyway, I heard, he gets taken to the cottage every weekend.

Rocky: I thought you didn't like the cottage. Too many 'squitters.

Stella: Yeah, all that nature stuff is retarded but that's not the point. The point is that lump on the sofa should be bonding with us, strengthening the relationship, spending quality face time with us.

Rocky: (shmeck, shmack) I think I definitely found a bit of chicken this time.

Stella: You know, our lives are not reaching their full potential because of his laziness.

Rocky, seeing a bit of food on Stella's muzzle, sniffs at her with interest: Are you going to eat that?

Stella: You touch that, I'll smack you, I swear.

Rocky: Hey, that's pie on your face. How'd you get pie on your face?

Stella: None of your business.

Rocky: Hey, no fair. How come you got pie on your face and I don't?

Stella: Look, lazy boy there had pie for breakfast and he left some on the counter and ...

Rocky: Ummm, I'm telling ...

Stella: It was just crumbs, jerko. And if you say anything, I'll tell about the hot dog ...

Rocky: But that was from the garbage.

Stella: Oh as if that's any better.

Rocky, sighs: What kind of pie was it?

Stella: Boston creme.

Rocky: Aww, nooo way. That's my favorite.

Stella: Whatever. You don't even know what that is.

Rocky: But is sounds like my favorite.

Stella: You know, you're such a moron sometimes.

Rocky: Do you think there's any left?

Stella: Doubt it.

Rocky: Sure?

Stella: Well, uh, yeah, pretty ... hey where're you going?


When I wake up, the rain has stopped. I see some hints of sunlight glistening off the drops of water on the magnolia leaves outside the window. The dogs are asleep, Stella in her sphinx pose and Rocky stretched out stiff on his side like he's in rigor mortis.

I get off the couch and walk into the kitchen. In the middle of the floor, there lies a shiny, well-cleaned pie tin.

A good spring day

This day, this beautiful day, with the sun warm and the earth still spring cool and the breeze fresh and gusting. I'm sitting in the backyard, I'm in this day, just enjoying it now that I've taken my drugs which keep my head from exploding with snot from May allergies. Beside me is Rocky who keeps moving around the yard, trying to find the ultimate laze-about spot. First he tries in the full sun but gets too hot, then he tries the shade but that is not warm enough. Then he tries the partial shade but that spot is too wet or too dirty (and I move him off) or too lumpy or not lumpy enough.

A bee flies by and Rocky snaps at it, gets it and then instantly spits it out and starts pushing the taste of its guts out of his mouth with his tongue. I'm relieved that the dying bee didn't sting Rocky because that's what usually happens with Stella when she goes after them and, no, she never learns. Stella's hated bees, and all flying insects for that matter, ever since she got stung on her lady bits a few summers ago. She's never learned how to kill them, though, without getting stung on the inside of her mouth in the process and so, luckily, she's usually too slow to catch anything.

Now Rocky's sniffing his freshly squished bug and I take it away from him just in case it's still somewhat alive with stinger ready but as it turns out, it's not just squished, it's squashed, and with no hope of revival. See you in the next life, bee, and I toss it away into the planter where, in time, it will be consumed by the soil and one day become a flower.

I look at Rocky and while his recovery is not complete, I think the worst of it must be over. If he's fast enough to kill flying bees and not get stung, he must be well enough to not collapse on me. On Sunday, he had a day of bad diarrhea followed by a long night of vomiting up everything (on the rug then on another rug then outside on the fake grass then inside on the kitchen floor) until he was completely empty, followed by a day of not eating anything and Rocky is nothing if not a voracious consumer of all things edible. He walked around with his head hung low and stopped freaking at other dogs and could barely make it up the steps without tripping on his own feet. He wasn't even interested in running out beserkers into the backyard with Stella to scare away any potential squirrel, racoon, cat or possum invaders with maniacal barking and general hysterics.

Rocky was a very sick dog.

Of course, I immediately had worries that I had brought home parvo from Toronto Animal Services and passed it onto him and that was foremost on my mind when I took him into the vet. They did their usual round of tests and one hour later we walked out of there, Rocky all poked and prodded and me $800 lighter but with a pocket full of pills.

That night, I slept downstairs with Rocky because I didn't trust him not to have repeat episodes of vomiting or diarrhea even though I saw the x-rays and his guts were swollen but empty. I also didn't want him climbing up or down stairs in case he tripped and fell and broke his neck because the last thing I want is a quadriplegic dog vomiting and pooping all over himself.

Some of the test results came back the next day and his liver levels were hugely elevated. "They're the highest I've ever seen," the vet told me. "They're ten times outside of the normal range." She wanted me to bring him in and put him on IV to flush out his liver to try to get the values back to normal and I would have if it had been the day before but that morning, Rocky already seemed better.

I was taking a risk not bringing Rocky in for hospitalization but I did have previous experience with this. Rocky had gone through this last year, with the barfing and the super high liver values, and I think at the time, the vet - a different one - said the same thing, that the values were the highest she'd ever seen. And that time, I did put Rocky through a battery of tests, including a liver biopsy, and almost $3000 later, they found ... nothing.

It's not the vets' fault. They mean well and they try. But I'm of the opinion now that veterinary medicine is more art than science and maybe not even art of the realistic school but more of the abstract school, amorphous and open to interpretation.

Rocky recovered from last year's bout of liver disease, whatever caused it, with the help of Metronidazole and semi-precious Baytril (at $6 a pop, twice a day) and he recovered from another bout of it a few months later with the same meds.

This time, I didn't want to put him through another round of hospitalization and tests again, especially since his symptoms were so similar to the other two times.

I kept a very careful eye on Rocky to make sure there wasn't a relapse and he seemed to get progressively better thoughout the day. That evening, there was no vomiting dog and I slept undisturbed (except for the previously mentioned snot inside my own head which kept building up as I felt each speck of pollen touch down inside my nose).

The following day, and in my wheaziness I can't even figure out if that was yesterday morning or this morning, the vet phoned in the parvo test results and they were negative which was a relief because I didn't have to go around anymore bleaching every surface Rocky laid his butt onto (parvo is highly contagious and transmitted fecal-oral). She asked me how Rocky was doing and I told her Rocky's much better, his appetite had returned and his rude behaviour was almost back at 100%. He was also farting excessively again now that he was back to eating but I didn't mention that in case she suggested another battery of tests. Air freshener and open windows usually do the trick.

Rocky's sleeping now, curling his lip up in a dream where he's probably taking his vengeance out on some trespassing backyard critter. I've just slept a couple of hours in the backyard and for the first time in a week, especially with the allergy drugs coursing through my system, I'm feeling somewhat clear-headed and awake and I'm no longer overly contemplating sad pound dogs that have been euthanized and I'm not on edge waiting for my own dog to go into liver failure. This is a perfect spring day and life is returning.

The dog must've eaten it

This morning on my walk with Rocky, I see my neighbour, R., out with her dog, Marlow. We walk and talk for a couple of blocks until we get to the corner where we have to go our separate ways and we linger there for a few moments to finish off our conversation.

A city by-law truck drives by us and stops a few meters away. I don't think much of it because it looks like it's one of those trucks driven by the garbage police - you know, the ones who look through people's garbage to make sure someone hasn't thrown away jars of anthrax powder or nuclear waste or what not.

R. and I keep talking and then the guy in the truck gets out and walks over and at first I think he wants to say hello to our dogs but he looks kind of afraid of them and as he approaches he slows down and keeps his distance and of course the first thing that pops into my mind is that this guy's a nutter and he's going to do something crazy because that's just the kind of neighbourhood I live in where if a stranger stops his car in the middle of the road and gets out and approaches you even though he's scared shitless of your big ass dog then something's gonna happen.

Then R. says to me in a whisper, "Holy shit, this guy's been stalking me," and now I'm sure he's gonna pull some psycho moves on us but instead the guy just asks R. if Marlow has his dog license and I still don't get it and I think he's just trying to get some conversation going with my friend who he's been stalking and this line iss the best he can come up with and I'm giving him a score of 2 for imagination but 8 for balls for using such a lame line and, of course, still a full up 10 for crazy.

R. tells him that she hasn't had a chance to get the license yet, that she'll do it today and as the guy turns away and walks back to his truck to get something, I realize it's not a pick-up line. He's totally serious.

R. whispers to me, "Yesterday he busted me for having Marlow off-leash. 260 bucks!" and I'm like, "Whah? No, way!" and she's like, "Yeah and now he's here. He must be stalking me," and then the guy returns and gives R. a ticket, except that it's not a ticket. It's just an info card telling people about licensing their dogs.

"Please get that done," the guy says and as he walks away I'm relieved for R. that she didn't get another fine but at the same time, I'm like, "Hey, so Marlow's a convict. Are you a bad dog, Marlow? Are you a baaaad doggie?" and I think that's pretty funny but then the guy stops and he turns around and he looks at me.

"How about your dog?" and I'm like, "What? Who? Me?" as if there are like a pile of other dogs and dog owners around me.

"Does your dog have it's tag?" and I'm all smart like, "Uh, yeah, he's got his tag," and I reach down and grab his numerous tags and start looking for the city dog license tag.

"It doesn't look like he's got his tag," the guy says and I'm like, "Yeah, he's got it. What colour is it?" and he tells me it's gold and of course there's no gold tag on Rocky's harness.

"You know, it must've dropped off. I just washed his harness in the laundry machine last week. It must be in there or something," I say, still fumbling with the tags hoping that a gold one will magically appear simply because I'm willing it to. Anyway, that doesn't work and the guy goes back to his truck and pulls out another info card and hands it to me. It's the same card I see everytime I go into Toronto Animal Services which I never pay attention to because I know my dogs are licensed.

"Your dog has to have a tag on it. If you've lost the tag, you can get a replacement for $3," he says and I'm like, "Look, I can show you the paperwork ... I just live over there," and he's like, "That's okay, just get a tag. It's just $3," but I continue to mutter excuses all of which I'm sure he's heard before. Then he walks back to his truck with a pained "You're just the first idiot in a long day full of idiots I'm going to have to deal with" look on his face.

When I get home, I start searching for the missing tag. After about 30 seconds, I give up. I realize I have no idea where or when it could have gotten lost. Then I look up Rocky's records from the day I adopted him from TAS. His vaccination records are all in order as are his health checks and info sheets. I can't find any city license forms, though. I phone up TAS and ask them if they have Rocky's license on file and as the person on the other end is busy taking down my name, address and phone number - for future use, I'm sure - doubt starts to finally creep in.

"We've got Stella here but no Rocky," the TAS person tells me.

"So I guess that means Rocky's never had a license?" I ask.

"Looks that way," she says.

Okay, so I am an idiot.

Dreaming of grass

Before I got Stella, I had big plans for the backyard. There has always been too much shade in the back from the neighbours' huge overhanging trees and that put restrictions on the type of vegetation which would grow but still, there was a beautiful, young Japanese maple back there, a couple of nice rose bushes, some variegated shrubbery, a wonderfully scented mock orange tree and a healthy, fully blossoming lilac bush. In addition, I wanted to establish a garden with different types of grasses and blossoms and moss covered stones. The remaining space, ideally, would be covered with soft lawn grown from seed.

I began to realize that I'd need to rethink my plans when one day, probably a month after I brought Stella home, she came up to the back patio door and proudly walked into the house with a big stick in her mouth. That big stick was the the Japanese maple. She had pulled it out of the snow covered ground, ripped off all the branches and was going to finish off the job of stick chewing inside the house on her comfortable bed.

If Stella were a toaster, I would've traded her in for a different model right then and there.

The next three years saw various attempts at trying to establish some semblance of green life in the backyard but the lawn became a failure all three years in a row. I tried seed. I tried sod. I tried seed and sod. I'd fence off the newly grassed area and once I thought everything had taken root or turned nicely green, I'd let Stella in and for the first few days all was well. Inevitably, though, big round patches of brown would appear and pretty soon the green was polka dotted with those flattened, dead areas. It was like I had my own fleet of dwarf UFOs creating not so impressive crop circles.

Within a couple of months, the brown overtook the green and all hope was lost. Between the neighbours' overshadowing trees and Stella's buckets of pee, not a blade of grass survived and eventually everything turned to mush and then back to primordial backyard mud.

Over the years, several of the bushes died long pathetic deaths and those were probably caused by a combination of too much or too little pruning, not enough water and, again, too much pee - especially after Barclay showed up on the scene.

Much of the original ground level, blossoming flora in the back also suffered trampling, tearing, knocking over and, of course, too much pee and not much of it pulled through either. The stuff that did survive back there has made it through such a harsh environment that it could probably take over the planet if left unchecked. I don't know what any of that stuff is called but most of it has sharp stingers and will eat small animals.

Eventually what I ended up doing was fencing off a few slivers of the backyard where it got at least a few hours of sun every day and relegated any gardens to those areas. The rest of the yard was covered in either flag stone or wood chips. The cedar chips covering the mud was the only workable solution I could come up with to still allow the dogs access to the backyard without them tracking in big paws worth of mud every time they journeyed outside and back.

Unfortunately, all this meant that there was no grass left.

When Rocky joined the family a few years later, the backyard was pretty much in the same state it's in now. There was no soft place for the dogs to lie down on that wasn't either dirt or wood chips. Stella would just take over our one reclining lawn chair but Rocky preferred dirt and if dirt wasn't available, he'd make it available by digging through the chips to get to it. He just loved to curl up in a freshly dug, nicely damp dirt patch and that meant a really grimy, earthy smelling dog.

This year, dreaming the impossible dream of cleanliness with two big dogs, I decided to try putting down some fake grass on what used to be Rocky's favorite dirt patch. This fake stuff is supposed to be pretty similar to the real stuff. The artificial blades are cut to about 3 - 4 cm, it allows for good drainage, it feels somewhat similar to real grass - though I think it's a bit "crispier" - but best of all, it won't die under a deluge of piss or a lack of sunlight.

The real test, of course, was whether or not the dogs would take to it. I was a little worried because it smells quite different from real sod but there was no need for concern. The dogs took to it fine.

Stella: Grass is mine.

As soon as I laid down the piece of fake grass, Stella came over and decided it was hers and stretched out on it. I had to keep shoving her off several times as I was cutting and placing it.

Rocky: Mmm, comfy. Now rub my feet.

Rocky, at least, had the manners to wait until I was done and then he came over and moshed into Stella and gave the new ground a good sniff. I guess it smelled artificial enough that he decided not to anoint it and then he too collapsed onto it.

They've been luvin it ever since.

Stella: "You know, this fake grass isn't too bad ...

... except for that stinky pile of furbag over there.

I'll just stay over here while you clean that up."

Chain of events

I watched the movie "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" a couple of nights ago and there was a sequence in it where the female lead pirouettes into the middle of a street and gets hit by a car. The sequence of events leading up to the accident is shot and explained as a series of chance occurrences which taken singly would have amounted to nothing but strung together just so, added up to the dancer being struck by the driver.

When I got up this morning, I expected it to be still warm from yesterday and the news had said that the rain hadn't started yet so I dressed accordingly to go out with Stella and Rocky on their walk. As soon as I opened the door, it was apparent that my expectations and the weather report were both incorrect. It had cooled down significantly and rain was already falling. I turned around, to the disappointment of the dogs who thought they were being denied their walk, to put on some more weather appropriate clothing.

I searched through the coat closet downstairs but realized that what I wanted was in the upstairs closet where all my summer clothes were being stored. I walked upstairs, found the raincoat and went back downstairs.

I put raincoats on Stella and Rocky, as much for keeping them warm as for not having to deal with big smelly dog stinking up the house afterward. I put on my raincoat and then realized I left its liner upstairs. So, I went back upstairs and found the liner and redressed myself.

When I go to the park with both the dogs, I take them in the car to get down there. The car is parked on the street, usually right by the front of our house or pretty near. Last night, however, there was something going on in the neighbourhood and the parking had been tight so when I drove back from dinner, I had to park the car down the block and around the corner - so that's where Stella, Rocky and I headed this morning.

I saw the guy get into his car which was two cars behind mine. We were still several meters away on a street that crosses the one the cars were parked on. Stella stopped to sniff something and as usual, Rocky charged in there to get a whiff as well, shoving Stella out of the way. She garumphed and looked at me and I sympathized with her over Rocky's rudeness. Rocky, for his part, was now taking his first morning whiz on the spot Stella had been sniffing.

Once he had finished, I checked both ways up and down the street and started to cross with the two of them. Now Rocky's a big Dobie dog and he was wearing bright red and Stella's an even bigger Great Dane dog and she had green on. I had a green raincoat on with reflective stripes. So, when I saw that car the guy had gotten into 30 seconds earlier pull slowly up the intersection and slow down, I was pretty sure he would've seen us.

I was wrong.

Rocky, Stella and I were about two thirds of the way across the street when the guy who had started out making a slow turn onto our street suddenly sped up. He accelerated directly at us and we were less than 4 meters away.

My first thought was that this guy was intentionally trying to hit us.

My second was that he was going to succeed. Stella and Rocky were typically oblivious and there was no way I was going to be able to get the two lumbering brain trusts out of the way quick enough. I did the only thing I could, which was stand directly in front of the oncoming car and pretend to be Superman.

I had about a tenth of a second to be scared shitless.

Somewhere between 2 meters away and 1 meter away, the guy saw us. He hit the brakes and I slammed the front of his car with the palm of my hand, wishing I had a baseball bat, and bent my knees, ready for impact.

But, the car had stopped.

I looked down and Rocky was against the bumper between me and the car. There was a moment there when I wasn't sure if he was alright and then he saw Stella sniffing something and he barged his way through to spoil her moment of solitude.

I walked over to the driver's window and said "What the fuck?" to the guy. I was ready to bash his window in because I still wasn't sure if what he had done was intentional but then I could see that he was in shock at what had just happened and he quickly apologized and, just as quickly, drove off.

Surprisingly, as I got to my car and started loading the dogs into it, I wasn't angry. I was thinking about the sequence of events that morning and how if any of them hadn't happened exactly the way they did - if the weather report had been correct, if it hadn't been raining out, if my raincoat had been downstairs, if I hadn't forgotten the liner upstairs, if I didn't dress the dogs up in rain gear, if Stella hadn't stopped at that first scent and if Rocky hadn't stopped to pee there - we would have crossed the street without incident and the whole almost accident would've been avoided. As I climbed into the car myself, I was thinking about Benjamin Button and that car accident with the dancer. Too bad that sequence didn't come with a warning: "This might happen to you tomorrow!"

And, you know, as loud and ridiculous as my dogs' outfits may be, they obviously aren't loud and ridiculous enough.

Spring leak

Mondays are bad enough but when it's a Monday like this past Monday, rain verging on snow, temperature at 1 degree and dropping, and Sunday's warm spring breeze transformed into a late fall-like bluster, it's painful. Waking up is painful. Looking out the window is painful. Stepping out the door is especially painful.

Rocky in his sky blue raincoat doesn't care about weather as he bounds out the door. Even with his old arthritic hips, he's still very much a bounder though now sometimes his bounding verges on blundering. Stella, on the other hand, sticks her head out the door and then looks at me.

She says, "Okay, Smartyboy, you can turn the lights on and off. Why can't you turn the rain on and off? You're obviously not trying hard enough. Go ahead. Flick the switch. I'll wait."

"No can do, Stella. It's walk in the rain or nothing," and Stella's about to head back to bed but the leash I'm holding stops her and she she knows it going to be miles before she naps again.

"You're a heartless prick," she says but I pretend I don't hear her and off we go.

At the park, I release Rocky from his heal, not that he ever heals all that well but you know, it's all about the trying, and he is so overjoyed he no longer has to walk beside me but gets to walk at the end of his leash three feet ahead of me that he bounds those 3 feet all smiles and wagging nub. Stella gives me her usual oh brother look and keeps pace beside me and a little to the back, basically as far away from Rocky as possible.

Stella finds an interesting odor by a garbage can and lowers her head and starts to do some serious investigating. Rocky, having missed that spot is all, "Whoa, what's that?" and he comes bounding back, shoving Stella out of his way and gives the spot a sniff and then lifts his leg and pees on Stella's head which is still lowered to the ground. Stella, braintrust that she is, doesn't notice, I guess because it's raining and just keeps sniffing the ground while Rocky's pee splatters against her ear. I pull her back and I'm like, "Stella, the fuck? Rocky just peed on you, you dingbat," but Stella's all "Wha?" and "Huh?" and really doesn't know what the fuss is about.

Rocky, for his part has lowered his leg and is now walking and peeing at the same time. He pee walks quite often and is always very nonchalant about it and it reminds me of ... I don't know ... it's like if the I.T. guy at work - 'cause I think Rocky would be an I.T. guy if he were human, but not the smart I.T. guy who can fix your computer remotely in like 15 seconds but the not so swift I.T. guy who has to actually come to your office and ends up spending half the day there eating burritos and farting and sucking his fingers clean every time before typing magic words on your keyboard which he swears will fix what ails the machine, but you both end up just staring at the monitor for what seems like hours waiting for nothing to happen - it's like if that guy suddenly just decided to take his shoes and socks off and then continued to work on your computer in his bare feet. Uh, well, maybe that's not the best comparative example but it is an example of someone here at work and I just had to get that out there.

Okay, so I can't come up with a human equivalent to Rocky's pee walking but suffice it to say, I'm glad it's raining because it at least washes away the evidence. One time with pee walking Rocky, a little girl stopped and pointed at him and said, "Look mommy, why, why, why is that dog doing that?" and mommy said, "I don't know hon, maybe there's something wrong with it," and I was about to explain that there was nothing wrong with Rocky but I realized that would've been a futile protest as every step he took, his wiener bobbed up and down splattering pee onto the sidewalk, onto the littered Coke can and onto his own feet. As Rocky neared the girl, nosing in for a pat, her mom blurted out "Oh my god, honey, don't touch that dog. You'll get your shoes wet," and she pulled her daughter away to safety.

That embarrassment reminds me also of the woman in the two piece lavender business outfit who raced across the parking lot when she saw me with Stella and Rocky and asked, "Are they friendly?" to which I replied, "Well, Rocky's really friendly but Stella sometimes takes a while to warm up to ..." at which point Stella strolled up to the woman and looked up at her with her most doe-eyed, I'm-an-angel-and-I'm-owned-by-a-heartless-prick expression and the woman of course fawned over her. Rocky noticed this and bounded over and pushed Stella out of the way and just as the woman said "Oh, my" and started to pat Rocky's head, Rocky shuffled and crouched and started to push out a big one.

Usually, he's pretty fast but that time it was like he was trying to push out a bag of concrete and I was like, "Uuuh, sorry about that," and the woman was like, "Oh don't worry about it," and she continued to pet him as we both stood there in silence, smiling politely, watching Rocky take the longest dump of his life.

Rocky finally finished giving birth and as if that was some release signal, the woman said, "You've got two really nice dogs," and she walked away and I looked at Rocky and I was like, "You tard. Why couldn't you wait?" but he was already focused elsewhere, sniffing out the next prime spot to christen.

What was I writing about? Oh yeah, right, spring. Well, they say it's here, officially. Unofficially, it feels like late November. It's still bloody cold. Stella's pissed off and Rocky pissing.

Holes

Rocky's not so bad these days but he used to be all about the holes. It must have been that whenever I left the house, he'd think to himself, "That prick left me alone again. I can't believe it. This time I'm really going to show him," and then he'd get to work chewing out one perfect little hole in the blanket or sheet he was sleeping on. It was never like he tore anything to shreds. No, that would be too much work for Rocky. It would be just one hole, maybe two, and that would be enough to calm his nerves.

When I got back home, I'd find a little circular cut out lying on the floor and then I'd go searching for the newly minted hole.

He'd work through a blanket over the course of a couple of weeks or a month until it was more holes than not and then I'd have to throw it away and bring out a new one.



Luckily, I splurged on Rocky's blankets at Valu Village so each cost me maybe five bucks (that Bambi one may have cost seven) but unfortunately, Rocky went through a phase where it wasn't just blankets.

Here's a cushion that was hand made a few years ago.

Rocky must've thought it needed some updating because he pulled out a little hole in one corner to register his disapproval. Not big enough to throw the cushion out. Just big enough so that when company comes over and sees it, they're like, "Shit, you've got major mouse problems here. We'll come back when you've that sorted. See ya."

He also did it to this one ...

and this one ...

The most ambitious Rocky's ever gotten with his hole making ventures was on the sofa.

This was quite atypical for Rocky because he would have had to stand to create this hole and he's way happier lying down on the job.

Of course, being the self centered human I am, I think all this hole making is directed at me but it may not necessarily be so. Rocky may actually be exhibiting passive aggressive tendencies towards Stella. Our house is quite cold at night and the dogs moan and groan if they're not warm so I made some pajamas for them. Here's Stella modeling hers with some nice detailing work from Rocky.

Rocky's pajamas, on the other hand, appear unair-conditioned.

Rocky's hole making has greatly decreased in the last few months. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe he's come to realize that even though the humans sometimes leave the house without him, they always come back at some point. Or, maybe it's because he's ten years old now and he's just decided that it's time to retire so he can spend less time hole making and more time farting - which is not as visible as hole making but possibly just as bad.