Straight Up or Mixed

Our neighborhood has a little grocery store within walking distance. To get to it, you walk to the fire station, which backs up on it, and cross a small concrete ramp across some grass. One of the advantages of this route is that it takes you along the back and side of the grocery store where you can find nice pieces of rusted metal. But my love of rusted metal is another story. This really is the easiest way to get to the grocery store.

At first I was nervous about using this route because I was worried about getting in the way of the fire fighters if they ever have to leave suddenly. Then I realized that they would probably be using the main driveway that leads straight out of their fire house, not the side drive where we walk. Oh right! And of course, now that we've been in the neighborhood for several months, I see people on this side driveway just about every time we use it. On this occasion we were lucky enough to meet a person with a dog.

We had just had a big rain and TyTy had his puddle-jumping boots on. He also had his puddle-jumping attitude on and when we spotted the dog he was ready to run. I reminded him of the rules about dogs and he walked. I also reminded him of his opening line: "Excuse me sir, can I pet your dog?" In addition to a dog on a leash, this particular pet owner also carried a tumbler of some yellowish liquid, on the rocks. A square paper napkin, like you'd use at a picnic, was plastered around the outside of the tumbler to protect his hand from condensation. I don't know what the liquid was but such a sight is not uncommon in south Louisiana and I have to say, when I saw it, I got a warm fuzzy feeling. Suddenly I was reminded of The Dude; I wonder if his penchant for carrying beverages around is one of the reasons I instantly loved that character.

"Excuse me sir, can I pet your dog?"
"Sure...but he might not stay put too long, he's completely blind."

Wow, Dog #15, Eiko, our first blind dog. Eiko is blind from diabetes, which also plagues several of his other body systems. His owner, who introduced himself as Otto (the first of our random dog owners to introduce himself at all), told us all about Eiko and his recently departed brother, Bismark. They were purchased from a breeder of White Shepherds. I had never heard of a White Shepherd; Eiko certainly was whitish, but mostly he was more tawny. I thought he was beautiful, even if he wasn't pure white anymore. Otto told us that when he lost his sight, the vet had looked into transplants but apparently Eiko's sockets had deteriorated as well, and would not hold up to the surgery. Bismark had had myriad health problems, starting with a leg amputation from cancer at the age of three. Apparently their breeder was none too careful about inbreeding, or at least, that was Otto's reasoning. In reading up on White Shepherds, I can see how that would happen. The white phenotype comes from a puppy having homozygous recessive genes for white fur, which is a shot in the dark, unless you have two parents who carry homozygous recessive genes themselves. But not all White Shepherds have the homozygous recessive gene pair; sometimes the recessive gene trumps the dominant gene, and you can't tell until you breed an animal. I can see how this would be a crap shoot for breeders, and how if they found parents with homozygous recessive white genes, they might be tempted to over-breed them. Stuff like this is just another reason I have always preferred my dogs to be mixed and from the pound.

We stood in the driveway behind the fire station for at least ten or fifteen minutes, talking about dogs and other stuff. As was usual, the dog owner did most of the talking, so in addition to the health and history of Eiko and Bismark, we also learned about his new puppy, a White Shepherd from Oklahoma and a couple of stray cats that he and his wife have adopted. But he also asked about us, wanted to know where my husband and I were from, where we lived, stuff like that. He knew someone on our street. By that time TyTy was getting antsy, and we had not yet made dinner so we bid Otto and Eiko farewell, but not before we were promised an invitation to the next neighborhood crawfish boil and also to their next tailgating party at LSU. I love this neighborhood.

On the way home we saw an older man with a Pekingese. He appeared to see us too, because he crossed the street to get to the opposite side. Undaunted, TyTy and I set our course for intercept while my husband flanked him. I started to warn TyTy about the sometimes temperamental natures of small dogs when, to my utter surprise, the man dropped the leash and said to his dog, "Go 'head on! I know you want to see him!" TyTy and the dog converged with much petting and face-licking.

"She just loves kids! Even babies! Look at that." The owner smiled beatifically at his dog and my son. Then the dog saw my husband and ran to him. "I tell you, she's never met a stranger!" Her owner said proudly. Dog #16's name was PI, as in Private Investigator, not 3.14. I was only a tad disappointed. She was incredibly cute. PI reminded me of the statue in that old William Powell movie, "Life with Father;" she looked just like it, as if that statue had come alive.

Fortunately for TyTy, this dog owner was friendly but not talkative. We got our picture and made our way back to the house. These two dogs came after a dry spell of several days; partly that was due to the weather forcing us to stay indoors and partly it was because we are doubling up on schoolwork in preparation for an extended spring break. While in class we often see people walking dogs on the sidewalk in front of our house, but I let them go. We could run out into the street and hail them down, but that would be a little weird, and I don't want to mark my child and myself as more weird than we already are. The joy of this project for me is the randomness of our meetings with dogs and their owners, and I never want to force these meetings. Walking in our neighborhood, hanging out with friends and their dogs, these are and should be our main sources of dog meetings. Otherwise it becomes a grocery list.

So that is why I'm enjoying this project, because my whole life I've been a collector of random items and images. But I'm also enjoying my son's response. The joy of this project for TyTy is that he gets to meet 100 dogs.

The Doggy Lifestyle

Dogs # 13 and 14: Sophie and Lady

We went out for a midmorning, dog-finding walk, the study of Ancient Egypt having become a bit too staid for my seven year old. TyTy decided he needed to be on his scooter, so I created some new rules for meeting dogs when on a scooter.

1. Get off your scooter.
2. Drop your scooter.
3.  Approach the dog on foot.

We got to the sidewalk and TyTy debated in which direction he wanted to ride. We set out. I glanced back for some reason and spotted gold: a lady walking two dogs! We changed our course to intercept.

I didn’t want to freak her out; seven year olds on scooters can be somewhat intimidating if you’re not used to them. TyTy and I stayed on the opposite side of the street. I told him that when we came abreast, we could hail her and then cross. But then she turned the corner! We quickened our pace but she was soon out of sight. We reached the corner just in time to see her going around the next corner. Crossing the street again in pursuit, we got to that corner just a few paces behind her. Still unaware of our pursuit, she took the dogs off their leads just as TyTy dropped his scooter. She was picking up some dog poo when he arrived at her side.

“Excuse me! Can I pet your dogs?”

“You want to pet my dogs? Yes, of course.” She had a European accent of some kind, possibly eastern European. “This is Sophie, and that is Lady.” She indicated first the small dog, and then the larger dog, who had wandered twenty or thirty feet beyond us. Sophie was a tiny dog, built like a Rat Terrier or a Jack Russell, but black and tan instead of white with spots. Tycho was immediately on the ground next to her and she was in his lap licking his face. Lady, black with a ghostly muzzle, was obviously older but did not act like an old dog. When she saw what was going on, she loped back to us, tongue flying sideways out of her mouth, to get her fair share of the petting.  We learned that Sophie was actually the neighbor’s dog and that she and Lady were best friends and walked together. Sometimes, when her owner has to work nights, Sophie has a sleepover with Lady.

The dogs’ friendly behavior was a bit surprising for me so I started trying to figure out why. I think it has to do with my preconceived notions of dog owners and ownership. Now don’t get me wrong; just because I don’t own a dog now does not mean I don’t enjoy dogs or haven’t owned dogs in the past. I grew up with a succession of dogs: Butch, Buffy, Cinnamon, Tiger, to say nothing of the dogs in the neighborhood and friends’ dogs. A lot of cats too, over the years, but we won’t get into that now.

The thing about dogs is that they are a lifestyle choice, like getting a tattoo or learning to sky-dive. Having a dog affects other choices you will make. I think that’s pretty obvious, but my brain has made other assumptions that I’m becoming aware of, and these are based on nothing but my own experiences and prejudices.

1.  Dogs are a lot of work.
2.  If you have kids, you might have dogs.
3.  If you have dogs (plural) and walk them in the middle of the day, you probably don’t have kids.
4.  If 3, then your dogs will be freaked out by a crazed lunatic 7 year old on a scooter.

Because of my current and recent life circumstances,  for me dogs represent a lot of extra work. I must admit here that when my sweet love Blue Dog died in the summer of 2009, at the age of eleven, I was saddened but also, in one corner of my mind, slightly relieved that I would not have to put her through the stress of moving across country from Oregon to Louisiana. She was my Oregon dog; I think she knew my plans somehow and decided she wanted to stay there. She’s buried at my friend’s house in Philomath, in the Oregon countryside.

I mourned Blue, but not having a sixty-pound dog made the move so much easier.  And even though Tycho is not growing up with a dog in his house, he has my mom’s dog, Pepper, our friend’s four dog pack, and the neighbor’s dog, all of whom he sees several times a week. I try to maintain a balance of getting him out enough to see other dogs so that he does not pine for one of his own. I’ve told him we can’t get a dog anyway until our cat, Hallas, grows old and dies. He treats Hallas like a dog and tries to play with him, with predictable results. Then we go out looking for more dogs.

As with almost every other meeting we’ve had in our 100 Dogs quest, TyTy wanted to tell this lady about “his” dog, meaning my mom’s dog, Pepper. He always tells people that Pepper is really big and that she is a rescue. When he told Lady’s owner, she got interested.

TyTy: My dog Pepper is a rescue.

European Lady: Oh really?

TyTy: We meet a lot of rescue dogs.

European Lady: A lot of dogs need rescuing.

And her statement just further emphasized to me that owning dogs is a distinct lifestyle choice, not to be done lightly. Although Blue was not a rescue, our other Oregon dog, Thor, was. He was a pedigreed Jack Russell, with papers, who was given to us by a family who had bought him at a pet store in the mall. And even though the word “rescue” always sounds a bit dramatic to me, I felt it was very appropriate in Thor’s case. This family kept him in a kennel until it was time to go outside. He lived in that kennel 22 hours out of 24. The first day we brought him home he ripped around our backyard for twenty minutes straight, he was just so happy not to be in a box anymore. At that time I had a lifestyle that allowed and supported dog ownership. I know that I do not have that right now, and I’m hoping TyTy understands that. 

Fourteen down, eighty-six to go.

Out in Public

Today was a special park day (they're usually on Fridays) to celebrate the fourth anniversary of our homeschool association. Since it was also St Patrick's Day, everyone was in green, except for a couple of kids who were conscientiously objecting to the tradition. Dog #6 turned out to be Lexie, the new puppy of one of the homeschool families, and at nine weeks, she is the youngest so far.

The park we were in has two playgrounds, one old, one new. We started at the old playground because it was the exact location where the first few families first met four years ago. We knew we'd eventually have to move because the new playground is really, well, cool. There's just no other way to describe it; it looks like George Lucas had a hand in it's design, or at least, people strongly influenced by him. The color scheme is black and red which might have something to do with it's futuristic look. The kids all love it.

TyTy is very familiar with the new playground and he was ready to go there before anyone else was. We grabbed some of our friends and trekked over on foot, meeting Dogs #7 and #8 en route. These were Bonnie and Layla, two beautiful black and white Springer Spaniels with big floppy ears and long fur. What luck! I thought to myself, as TyTy explained his project to the owner, a blustering man in his fifties who for some reason reminded me of Teddy Roosevelt. The man was quick to oblige us, even offering to take the picture himself when my phone camera momentarily froze up. We told him thank you and I added, "Bonnie and Layla are 7 and 8!" He smiled hugely. For some reason that seemed to please him.

After a while at the new playground I realized I should probably move my car. By this time the rest of the party had migrated and I noticed a middle-aged lady standing with her dog on the perimeter of the new playground staring at our kids with a puzzled look on her face. I'm no breed expert but I think her dog was a Scottie. Maybe Dog #9? I smiled as I passed and muttered a greeting. She stopped me.

Lady: Are all these kids from the same school?
Me: No ma'am, we're all homeschoolers.
Lady: Oh my, how wonderful!

She was genuinely happy and excited about a playground full of homeschooled kids; it was as if she were witnessing some rare sighting, like a flock of ivory billed woodpeckers. She asked me a few questions and I answered as best I could. I turned around to point out my son and realized that there was a sea of green shirts on the playground. No wonder she had thought we were all from one school! As I left she seated herself and her dog on a bench and watched, smiling. Just like Dog #2's owner and Teddy  Roosevelt, she seemed charmed by the concept of homeschooling. I'm not sure why I'm so surprised at this attitude; I think it has something to do with my own ideas about homeschooling before I did it. I always saw homeschoolers as either religious people or crunchy-granola hippie types; not too weird, but definitely not mainstream. Maybe because of the ostracizing I experienced growing up in Baton Rouge, I expect it even now when I reveal myself as living an alternative lifestyle to a stranger and so I'm always pleasantly surprised to be accepted.

The lady with the Scottie was gone by the time I got back with the car, but TyTy found a seven month old puppy named Bella and she was Dog #9. Then, as he was playing with our neighbors this evening, he suddenly remembered that they have a dog, and so Dixie is Dog #10. Now that we have some pictures printed, we'll start the journal tomorrow. I had thought of printing some business cards for Tycho so that he can hand them out as part of his spiel, to help explain the project. But he seems to be getting his point across pretty well. Everyone he talks to knows what homeschooling is and so far no one sees it as so weird that they can't let a little boy pet their dog.

First Day of Dog Collecting

It was Tuesday, and that usually means history co-op. A 100 Dogs bonus about history co-op is that the hostess, Josie (see her blog at Mother Bear Naturals) has four dogs! There was a strong possibility we would be getting some work done on this project along with the cheese-making project she had planned for the kids.

Two things I have learned about history co-op:
1. TyTy will burn off energy there.
2. We will get no school work done afterwards.

For these reasons I usually have his nose to the grindstone on Tuesday mornings. But today TyTy was fairly vibrating in his seat with the inexplicable energy of a 7 year old so I decided a walk was in order. And since we are homeschoolers, this was no mere walk. This was a data-gathering walk for TyTy's chart making lesson later this week. We set out, clipboard in hand, to tally up the different kinds of mailboxes on the block.

Halfway down the block we encountered a new dog. Her owner was a white-haired lady who was at first confused by our request to pet her dog; she thought we were asking for money. To be fair, usually people walking around a neighborhood with a clipboard are indeed asking for money. I repeated my request to pet the dog and she very willingly stopped her walk to oblige us. OK, so TyTy had now officially met another dog, right? But getting to pet it is only half the battle. We still have to document the meeting, and this is where I started to get nervous. This was only Dog #2; since the first dog's owner was absent we had just snapped a picture and gone on our way. Now we would have to get permission to take the picture and explain why we wanted the picture in the first place.

This may not seem like a big deal, but I have always been a weirdo and therefore always had a sense of being an outsider. After 15 years in Portland, possibly one of the weirdest cities in America, I still never had a strong sense of belonging. I do feel I belong in my group of homeschoolers; the only time in my life I have ever felt as much a part of a group is when I was playing in the orchestra in high school.

But homeschooling itself is an alternative lifestyle, and even in Portland homeschoolers were thought of as a category of Extreme Parenting. Even though I feel at home and accepted by my peers, I still have to endure the raised eyebrows of strangers, neighbors, even relatives at times, and I can't get over the discomfort I always have at those moments. But what else could I do? One thing is for sure, a weird truth is easier than a mundane lie. As Mark Twain famously said, "If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything." I took a deep breath and launched into what I sensed would become my 100 Dogs spiel.

"Hi, we live in the neighborhood. We homeschool, and my son is working on a project in which he meets 100 dogs. Can I please take a picture of him with your dog for his 100 Dogs journal?"

Seeing it now, written in black and white, I wonder why I would ever be nervous about such a thing. It's not like I'm asking her for a lock of hair or her credit card numbers. And of course, despite my fears, this nice lady did not see anything weird about my request.

"Missy! SIT!!"

That was her immediate response, and Missy sat. My phone camera is slow so the picture shows Missy after she had stood up again. Missy's owner proceeded to tell us all about her. She is 12 and has some health problems for which she takes prescription medications. It seems her pituitary gland mistakenly tells her adrenal glands to pump out excess cortisol, which is a problem not uncommon in dogs, horses, and also humans. After a brief explanation, the lady told me sheepishly that she normally wouldn't talk about such things so much except that since we homeschool, we might want the extra information. So, in addition to whatever journaling and writing practice TyTy gets, thanks to Missy's owner, he also now gets a small science lesson.

We may not always get such positive reactions and interactions as we continue to introduce ourselves to dogs and their owners, but maybe that will be another lesson for TyTy, one in learning how to interact with strangers. And their dogs.

Idle Chatter and the Library Dog

My son Ty Ty loves dogs, which is a pity since we don't have one. We had two when he was born, and his grandmother has one, so he has grown up around dogs. However, our lifestyle at the moment does not include a dog, and so he has to content himself with my mom's dog and random dogs he meets in the world. We were hanging out one night a few days ago and he began a conversation.

T: Mommy?
M: Yes, baby?
T: I want one hundred dogs.
M: That is just not possible. Having a hundred dogs is not something one person could do.
T: No, mommy, I don't want one hundred dogs, I want to meet one hundred dogs.
M: Well, that is certainly possible.

In fact, he may already have met one hundred dogs; he walked in the CAAWS Krewe of Mutts parade with his grandmother and there had to be at least one hundred dogs there that day. But who counts such things?  So we began to talk about the idea of meeting one hundred dogs and since we are homeschoolers, I started trying to think of how I could turn this desire of his into some kind of real learning. Several minutes later we had come up with the idea of documenting all of the dogs he meets in a Dog Journal. Each page would have a picture of him with the dog, the dog's name, where he met the dog, and the date. He could decorate each page and practice his printing and maybe we could even keep a chart on a poster in the classroom tallying up the different kinds of breeds, colors, sizes...my homeschooling mom brain ran through all the major subjects. How many could I include in this one project? The possibilities were legion, and I fell asleep thinking about them. I didn't remember anything when I woke up.

Monday is our busy day; we have to drop off my husband at work (we have only the one car) then high-tail it to St. Gabriel for soccer, then we spend an hour at the Ascension Parish library studying before yoga class in Geismar. On Mondays it's all I can do just making sure we arrive everywhere on time with enough snacks to get us through the day without spending money anywhere. Dogs were not on my mind. But upon leaving the library we came upon a lab mix tied to a pillar looking longingly through the doors behind us.

T: Mommy! My first dog!
M: Hunh?

He reminded me of our project and we officially began it. He moved tentatively toward the dog; he knows the rules of strange dogs:
1. Do not approach a strange dog.
2. Ask the owner if you can pet it.
3. If the owner says yes, approach the dog slowly and pet it gently.

We ignored all of these rules.

We were on a schedule and couldn't wait for the owner to come out. I told my son to stand near the dog and I'd snap a picture. But the dog evidently did not know the rules and approached my son without any regard to the possibility that this strange boy might bite. My son totally trusted the dog and before you could say "stitches and a rabies shot" he had both hands on the dog's head, one under the chin and one scratching the ears. The dog was enjoying it but still distracted waiting for it's owner. Maybe he saw his human through the glass doors because he suddenly lunged toward them; or maybe he suddenly remembered the rules, I don't know. My son looked at him wistfully and let him go.

But we had to go! I guided the boy to the car congratulating him on having found his first dog. Not knowing the dog's name, we have dubbed him The Library Dog. He is Dog #1. Not a perfect start maybe, but this is one of those journey-of-a-thousand-miles kind of things and we have at least taken our first step.