100 Dogs to the Rescue (Sort Of)

Because I am very pregnant right now (its two days before my due date as I write this) I did not participate directly in the events I’m about to describe. However, I have eyewitness reports from the participants whom I consider to be reliable witnesses and so I feel justified in reporting the incident here.

At one end of our neighborhood is a large parcel of land owned by a biomedical research facility. Much of the land is taken up with their buildings, but they have a large section that they keep clear and on this section, every summer, they host a balloon festival.  The bad thing about this for those of us living in the neighborhood is the amount of traffic it brings, but that is a small price to pay for proximity to the magical world of hot air balloons.

My mother was especially excited about seeing the balloons and since I’m in no condition to do any kind of walking, she decided to spend the night on Friday to be able to get up and bring my son to the balloons for the 6:30 am lift off. We saw them off around 6:00 and then my husband and I settled down in our camp chairs in the backyard to enjoy the show.  Well it was lovely of course, very magical; the balloons would drift silently over (although one pilot yelled and waved) and suddenly we’d hear the dragon roar of a burner as another balloon hove into view over our yard.

My mother and son eventually made their way back around 6:45 or so and the four of us were sitting there enjoying the peacefulness and novelty of the balloons when suddenly the quietude was shattered by a blur of brown fur and tongue: we were being visited by a chocolate lab. He came from our neighbors’ backyard, but this was not Dixie, their geriatric pug (Dog #8). At first I thought it was Whiskey (Dog #60); her owners had rented the house we now live in before buying a house several streets away and we often have her as a visitor. But though Whiskey is a chocolate lab and therefore one of the friendliest dogs you could know, she is old and doesn’t move as fast as this dog was moving. Also, when this dog turned his back to me I noticed that he possessed something that a female dog like Whiskey definitely would not.  This was not a dog I knew, and yet he looked familiar.

Whatever small affinity for animals I may possess comes from being raised by my mother, a diehard animal lover. Some of my earliest memories are of her stopping the car to aid turtles in crossing the road. We had a myriad of animals in our home over the years including dogs, cats, fish, rodents, reptiles and birds, and we were docents at the local zoo for all of my teen years. She is not the type of person to see an animal in distress and ignore it. It was a foregone conclusion when the dog entered our yard that she would be the one to help him find his way home.

Grabbing his collar, she quickly ascertained that he had no identification and muttered something about people who don’t know how to take care of their animals. “And he’s obviously completely untrained,” she added darkly, which definitely seemed to be the case. He jumped all over us, even cutting my husband’s bare foot with a claw. My son had already run inside, the danger of getting clawed outweighing the delight of the hot air balloons still soaring overhead. We watched as my mother walked away down the street, bent over as she tried to hold onto the dog’s collar.

“That dog looked familiar,” my husband observed. I agreed but I couldn’t get the image of Whiskey out of my mind, and we knew it wasn’t her. After a moment he said, “Are you sure he’s not in the dog journal?”

Of course, the 100 Dogs project! I didn’t even have to look; it came to me as soon as he said it. We had met this chocolate lab in our own front yard as his owner was walking him around the neighborhood. When TyTy had asked to pet the dog the owner, a man in his late 60s, had agreed but warned us that the dog was very young and still untrained and might jump in his excitement.  Of course that didn’t deter my son that day, when the dog was on a leash and somewhat controlled, and we had a very cute picture of the two of them. This was Dog #63: Thor.

Hurriedly I called my mother’s cell phone. “Mom, his name is Thor! He’s dog #63!” By that time she was quite a ways down the street and had asked many people if they knew the dog. Because of the balloons, our neighbors were out in force. Many people had recognized him, but chocolate labs are much of a muchness, and only one person actually thought she knew where he lived. Mom was with the lady when I called and she did not recognize the name Thor but said she would walk with Mom down the street to where she thought he lived.

It’s a long street and Mom was already dripping with sweat when they started, and walking hunched over trying to control an overgrown puppy is no picnic when you’re nearly six feet tall anyway. At some point Thor broke away from her and took off at a pace even another dog would probably struggle to match. Mom didn’t even try. She and the lady watched as the dog ran far down the street and darted into a driveway, disappearing into the backyard. The lady thought it was probably the house she was thinking of, and because of his obvious determination to get there my mom agreed. She made her way back to our house to cool off and we thought that was the end of it.

TyTy spent the afternoon playing with Dixie’s young owner, JJ. Because of thunderstorms the balloon festivities were cancelled for the evening, including the children’s village, but concentrated wii time together seemed to make up for that disappointment. But darkness began to fall and JJ’s sister came over to bring him home. The two boys plodded sadly through the backyard as they said their goodbyes; I watched from the window as TyTy disappeared around a vehicle to walk JJ all the way to his backdoor. Suddenly he came tearing back through the yard.

“Mommy! Get the camera! There’s a dog to take a picture with! And we’re going for a walk!” He flew past me to his room to get shoes on and I went to the front door to greet JJ’s dad. JJ’s wonderful parents often include TyTy in walks and bike rides these days knowing that I am unable to walk much in my condition. My husband and I consider them to be the best neighbors we’ve ever had.

Out on the driveway were JJ, his sister, his dad, and…Thor. On a leash. Just like the mighty hammer Mjollnir, owned by the hero for whom he was named, he had returned. JJ’s father addressed me.

“Hey, we found this dog and we’re gonna try to find his home, but we thought y’all might like a picture for TyTy’s book first!” Best. Neighbors. Ever. I thanked him and surprised him by introducing him formally to his charge. “We’ve already got him, he’s dog #63!” JJ’s mom was actually down the street, already knocking on doors. She met us in the driveway and I told them the morning saga of Thor, and pointed them in the direction Mom had taken him earlier. The five of them set out on the walk and I settled down in front of the window in the front room to await their return. It was still hot outside and I did not envy them their task. Soon they returned, Thor still in tow, and TyTy came inside. Our neighbors continued down the street; it was fully dark now and my son was too tired to continue the odyssey. We waited; I stayed in my seat by the front window. I noticed a car go into our neighbor’s drive but thought nothing of it as their parents live nearby and often visit. The car left.

Soon a knock came at our door. Our neighbors were outside, dogless.

“Mission accomplished!” JJ Sr. announced jubilantly. “And it was because of the dog journal!” As it happened, one of the neighbors they spoke to is well connected in the neighborhood association. She got on the phone with people whom she knew had dogs and asked about Thor, quickly tracking down his owner (who actually lived in the opposite direction we had thought). Thor’s owner was directed to our neighbors’ house, where he left a note for them. They had intercepted the note when they brought TyTy home and were able to deliver Thor safely. Thor’s owner was, by their account, incredibly happy and grateful. He explained that they had gotten Thor when their eleven year old chocolate lab died last year and that they were still struggling to get him trained.

I happily called my mom to report Thor’s happy ending. She started talking again about the negligence of people who do not properly train their dogs but I told her JJ’s mom’s opinion.  She thought that Thor’s owners, a couple in their late 60s, were probably not used to a puppy’s energy after so many years with a well-behaved adult dog, and I agreed with her. After all, I am about to start the process of raising a human child all over again, and I have been reminding myself daily of nearly forgotten routines of diapering and round-the-clock feeding.  And even to their owners, chocolate labs are much of a muchness.

American Rules of Suburbia

It’s been a bit of a dry spell for meeting dogs. We met a bunch in Alabama when we were there in mid-April, but for some reason we had not been meeting any after our return. Of course, it has gotten warmer and we haven’t been walking as much.  When I say we, I mean us and the dogs; my pregnant belly is growing and the heat is something I have to be careful of. But more important than my personal comfort, dogs get hot faster than people and any decent dog owner knows better than to walk his or her dog on the sidewalks of south Louisiana after a certain point in the morning and a certain point in the year.

We had occasion to walk over to our friend’s house a couple of streets away recently. There’s a shortcut to her house through a green space on either side of which are chain link-fence-enclosed yards which contain dogs. We’ve seen each of them before but on this particular day they were both out and having a contest, along with TyTy, of who could bark the loudest.  I walked on a ways to give them their space. I could’ve taken a picture at this point of my son and these dogs, but I don’t count a barking contest as an actual meeting, although I’m sure that communication of some kind must be taking place.  We do have one fence dog in the journal, but only because that was a friendly dog who did not bark at us. These two were definitely not fitting criteria for inclusion.

We often see dogs behind fences and they are off limits; I don’t want us walking up people’s driveways invading their space. I grew up in a neighborhood just like this one and I know the rules. The only reason to go up a stranger’s driveway is an emergency. It’s an unspoken Rule of Suburbia in America. If you know the person, it’s ok to go up the driveway to visit or drop off something if they're not home, and if you’re a neighbor, it’s ok to go up the drive to bring the paper or their trash cans, or something like that. But unless something is on fire or someone is bleeding, you do not go up the driveways of people you don’t know.

This is a hard rule for TyTy, who loves all dogs without regard to their location or incarceration. He is also oblivious to other details, like what the owners are doing and whether or not they are ready to talk to a dog-obsessed seven year old boy. As we sit in the classroom at home, we can see everyone that goes by on the sidewalk and sometimes I have to physically restrain him from jumping up and running out in front of the house to meet a dog we see going by. This is a nice neighborhood; we plan on staying a few years at least. I do not want to be known as the local crazy family. It all goes back to the American Suburban Rules. In my neighborhood in Beaverton, Oregon, there was a crazy family. As we let our dogs run around under the power lines behind the houses, the mom of this family would ask me loads of questions about everything from Britney Spears’ popularity to what I put in my trash can. This family had recently emigrated from eastern Europe, where the parents had grown up in a Communist dictatorship. They did not understand the American Rules of Suburbia.

There are other rules too, as illustrated by the people we see on our walks. For example, if you are a university student walking to school through a suburban neighborhood with your backpack and your earbuds in, singing out loud is allowed. Softly. This doesn’t make you crazy. Likewise, if you are a middle-aged lady with earbuds and you walk quickly, swinging your arms, you are not crazy. You are exercising. We see such people with regularity and TyTy ignores them, unless they are accompanied by a dog.

We saw an exercise lady this week and she had two adorable Yorkies who followed her with quickly-moving, blurred feet. They reminded me of caterpillars. When TyTy and the dogs saw each other the attraction was instant and reciprocal. They strained on their leads to cross the street while only my stern voice kept TyTy on the sidewalk. I looked hopefully at the lady as I spoke words of warning to TyTy; she smiled and nodded briefly without even slowing down. With dogs like that, I’m sure she’s used to the adoration of strangers. Her dogs followed and TyTy sadly watched them go.

“Why can’t we stop them?”

“That lady is busy. It would be rude to interrupt her exercise.”

Thus began a short lecture on heart health and the pace you create while exercising along with a brief reminder of being considerate of others. He walked on dejectedly and I silently prayed that we would meet other dogs to make up for this disappointment. It does not always happen that we meet more than one dog at a time and TyTy always sees it as a bonus.

We must have been a sorry sight as we strolled along; TyTy moping, head hanging down, me walking with my big belly and my strange, pregnancy-induced gait. Hopefully people were amused, but I know they were more likely to feel pity. It was getting hot and TyTy was unenthusiastic but I was determined not to turn back. We took a new street to circle around back toward home. Passing a house with an iron gate we suddenly heard baying. And there was the source: a Basset Hound! Before I could say anything, another ambled into view and TyTy laughed with delight. Of course he stayed put, not going up the driveway. But then a third came out and it was almost too much even for me.

“Wow! Three dogs!!”

“Those are Basset Hounds, aren’t they cute? Too bad we can’t meet them.” But I had barely finished speaking when a man joined them in the drive. He greeted us and we asked if we could pet his dogs. He motioned us forward. TyTy was immediately on the ground on our side of the gate while the three dogs jockeyed for position nearest him. Soon they were all covered in each other’s slimy drool and TyTy was giggling like a maniac.

Their owner, who looked for all the world like a redneck Albert Einstein, introduced them. Thibodeaux was the “big guy,” the oldest of the three and the one who had originally greeted us. He had been a very playful puppy, apparently, and had worn out his shoulders permanently at a young age. This gave his front a rounded look; his shoulders drooped and his feet curved outward. The other two, Clotille and Roscoe, were each only a year or so old. In fact, they had just acquired Roscoe the week before, along with the neighbor dog. Einstein’s neighbor was in fact his mother-in-law, and she and his wife had been to a breeder on Mother’s Day looking for a Dachshund. In what I’ve come to recognize as a typical story, the dog they wanted was already sold. Instead they were given the dog’s mother, who had not shown enough motherly love to suit the breeder, and Roscoe, a rescue that the breeder had been caring for.

“Ain’t that funny? They went in there expecting to pony up $300 for a puppy, and instead they come home with two free dogs!”

I expressed my fascination with his story and honestly, this was not feigned. I love hearing the stories people tell us about their dogs, it’s been one of the pleasant surprises I’ve had since embarking on this project. Suddenly the side gate opened and out came the mother in law. Her age looked to be about the same as Einstein’s, and I suddenly wondered about the age of his wife. They began a heated conversation about which dog food to buy as the three Bassets swarmed around her while her new little Dachshund barked at the side gate. Clearly, time to go.

“Thank you again so much, it was nice talking to you! Let’s go, TyTy.”

“Y’all too, maybe we’ll see you out walking sometime. Just remember, don’t come up to the gate if we’re not here, OK?”

Crap. See, I had told Einstein about our homeschooling project so we could take a picture and now he felt compelled to explain one of the most basic Rules of Suburban America. That showed that he saw us as the neighborhood crazies, who have to have these things explained. I brooded on the walk back home. We were in front of the house when I noticed, far down the street, the form of a man walking a dog. Another opportunity to a) meet a dog and b) look like crazies. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

We stood in the driveway waiting and as he neared I recognized him as one of the people we often see through the window of the classroom.  The dog was a sweet little Schnauzer named Dixie Belle. Her owner and I bonded at once because we were both neighborhood crazies. I have this homeschooled child with a strange project and he was originally from London and still has a pronounced accent. I knew what his experience must’ve been like; when I lived in Oregon people always had some kind of comment about my mild Southern accent. They assumed I was different and of course, because of pop culture stereotypes, they also assumed that I was not as smart as they. Even friends would be surprised if I knew something they didn't or showed any other indication of intellectualism. But I knew it would have be the opposite for Dixie Belle's owner; for some reason the average American is reduced to a babbling idiot in the face of an English accent of any kind, even something like this guy’s decidedly un-posh, lower middle class accent. I pride myself that all the years of watching Monty Python long ago cured me of this notion that anyone with an English accent is automatically smarter than the average American. 

The three of us had a great conversation about dogs, kids, and floods; his son who lives with his family upriver somewhere has had to evacuate because of the recent flooding. Eventually Dixie Belle grabbed her leash in her mouth and began tugging on it, to TyTy’s delight. The message? “C’mon Pops, it’s time to keep moving.” We had been talking for quite a while there, just standing in the driveway. Like crazies. I guess Dixie Belle knows the Rules of Suburban America better than I do.

Beach Dogs

Some of the happiest dogs I've met are beach dogs.  I discovered this on our recent trip to L. A. by which of course I mean Lower Alabama. We went there to get married.

My mother in law lives in a community called Josephine, northeast of Orange Beach, Alabama. Her home is on the water, in a network of inlets connected to Arnica Bay. And though she doesn't live on the beach, there is an unmistakably nautical feel to her house and its environs. Of course, the fact that there are three boats moored on the bayou in her backyard might have something to do with that. 

At the point where her little bayou enters Arnica Bay there is a small restaurant and marina known as Pirate’s Cove. Local lore dictates that the cheeseburgers made there were the inspiration for a certain musical son of a son of a sailor. I’ve eaten them, they’re good, but I’m more inspired by how happy my son is whenever we are at Pirate’s Cove. Just saying the name of the place brings a smile to his face and a sparkle to his eyes. One of the great things about Pirate’s Cove for TyTy is the resident dog, affectionately known as The Beast.

If you see this creature, the name will not be a mystery. The Beast is huge, and I use the word without any intention of hyperbole. This is just a massive dog. Her shoulder reaches my hips and her head is larger than a basketball and nearly as spherical. There seems to be some Mastiff blood in her because she is just one of the most solid-looking dogs I have ever seen. When you see her coming toward you, you almost expect to feel a tremor in the earth under your feet. Her paws are as wide as salad plates and as leathery as baseball mitts, and she has huge, nearly foot-long calluses on her ancient elbows. The Beast is a dog who demands the use of superlatives in her description.

We were headed to Pirate’s Cove this particular Friday morning on an errand that did not include cheeseburgers. We wanted to gather a small quantity of sand to be used in our wedding ceremony the next day. Of course we knew that there would more than likely be dogs, and that was all TyTy cared about, since it was really too chilly still for swimming. As we neared our destination, we saw a dog, a beautiful Golden Retriever, ambling along in a driveway near the road. She was standing near her owner who was talking on a phone. Of course TyTy wanted to stop but this is not how we do things. The dogs we put in the journal are supposed to be dogs met by chance, not by accosting obviously preoccupied or busy owners, and certainly not by stopping the car every time we see a dog on the side of the road. We rode on to Pirate’s Cove and sure enough, there were sand and dogs aplenty.

When we approached her, The Beast wagged her tail but didn’t move otherwise, content to reserve her energy for the rigors of rolling over to be petted. TyTy collapsed upon her in a combination hugging/petting maneuver, and she basked in his attention. There were a couple of other dogs too, but they waited their turn for pets, perhaps out of deference to The Beast. They got theirs in due turn. Reluctantly we left Pirate’s Cove; all three of us could easily have stayed all day. But we had urgent pre-wedding errands to run, not least of which was the purchase of the groom’s wedding ring.

Returning the way we had come, we saw the man with the Golden Retriever still hovering in the driveway. To our complete surprise he flagged us down. My husband, a local, didn’t recognize him. By that time the man arrived at my window and begged for a ride to a nearby marina.

“Of course,” was our reply.

“Can my dog come too?” He was almost plaintive. The drive was less than ten minutes, being only about four miles away, but the desperation in his voice was entirely understandable. Even though it was only mid-April and still not what I call swimming weather, the sun was high, the asphalt was hot, and his dog was big and shaggy. I hopped out of the car and opened the back hatch. As he got his dog to jump in the back, to the utter delight of TyTy, I made him a deal.

“We’ll give y’all a ride, but I have a favor to ask in return,” I said, smiling. Our new friend looked at me in confusion but mumbled, “ok….”

“I’ll need to take a picture of your dog with my son.” Such an innocuous and yet slightly bizarre request took him by surprise and he laughed and agreed. He was still laughing when we got back in the car and we all introduced ourselves. Buddy Boy, as the dog was named, introduced himself to TyTy by resting his head on the back of the seat, allowing himself to be petted and occasionally licking my son’s hand. I explained the dog project to his owner, who immediately gave us a short history of Buddy Boy’s life. One remarkable thing was that Buddy Boy was missing his left eye. It had been removed after being contaminated by the chemical dispersants used by BP in the Gulf for the removal of oil after the oil spill.

This was mind-boggling; it seems that no part of the Gulf of Mexico has remained untouched in some way by the spill, even now, a year afterwards. One of the boats moored at my in-laws’ house belongs to my husband’s brother who used to be the captain of a dolphin cruise boat. When the spill happened, he knew he would be out of work and decided to help BP with the clean-up. But now his boat has been ruined by the spill and BP has yet to settle his claim for repairs as they had promised to do. Many captains kept their boats in when BP asked for help fearing just such an occurrence, but my brother-in-law thought he was doing the right thing in helping to save the coast. He trusted BP when they promised to help him afterwards.

We didn’t have time to hear the full story of why Buddy Boy had been exposed to the dispersant, but his owner did tell us that they live on a houseboat and that his livelihood is made in buying old houseboats, refurbishing and selling them. Obviously this dog spends a lot of time near the water. He was certainly just one of several boat dogs we saw over the weekend. And, eye removal notwithstanding, he was obviously a happy dog, as all beach dogs should be.

Collection Collecting

One hundred dogs is a lot of dogs. When we embarked upon this adventure I had no idea how long it would take to accomplish; a month? A year? Should we have a time limit or a deadline? With all of the possibilities, I finally decided not to worry about it at all. The longer we work on this project, the more TyTy will practice handwriting, sentence building, journaling, and several other lessons that I'm probably not even aware of. 

Apart from the obvious things we are learning from this little project, there is another, more subtle thing I've realized I'm trying to teach TyTy, and it's derived from my attempts at behavior self-modification. As a child, I started collecting things at a young age. I don't remember when it started, but I remember being obsessed with my various collections. Postcards, stamps, postmarks, patches, badges, coins, bottle caps…I collected these things in shoeboxes. I also collected images in my head, and still do; I have a dream of making a coffee-table book of these collected images one day. Maybe it’s undiagnosed OCD. I’ve learned to live with it. I indulge my collecting nature, but I have also learned to sometimes say no to it.

TyTy was never a very materialistic child; he never had the attachment to a fetish item most toddlers develop. But now, as we pursue his quest to meet one hundred dogs, it is becoming clear to me that he does have some of these same obsessive tendencies, they just came out differently. He is becoming obsessed by the possibility of meeting dogs.

Although I’ve never laid it out to him formally, I feel that in order to keep this project pure we need to add the dogs as we come upon them and not seek them out deliberately. For instance, one of his grandmothers has five dogs living at her house and we totally plan to have them in the journal. But right now she is undergoing chemotherapy and the very last thing I want to do is set up a meeting to see her just to include her pack in the journal. It feels wrong to me to do that. Friends have offered hospitality just for the purpose of meeting their dogs but I keep turning them down. When we are at their homes for what I would call normal reasons, we will jump at the chance to get their dogs in the journal. Likewise, I refuse to go trolling for dogs at dog parks or pet adoption events. I know myself well enough to know that I should avoid seeing pets for adoption until I am ready and able to bring one home.

As with everything else I find myself teaching TyTy, I stepped back for some self-examination. Why do I want to do it this way? Why shouldn’t we loiter at the dog park with a box of milk-bones? Why shouldn’t we volunteer to clean kennels for a Saturday every month just to get an “in” with the shelter? I know there are probably some Uber Moms out there who would think of a way to parlay this project into some kind of fabulous fundraiser for an animal welfare group. But that’s just not me. So why am I so strict in my idea of spontaneous dog meetings?

When I used to make jewelry, the pieces I was most excited about always incorporated found objects. The best pieces (for me) included rusted, twisted metal bits, although rusted bottle caps came in a close second. Inevitably, in my search for rusted metal and TyTy’s search for dogs, people want to help. I found this to be a burden when I was seriously collecting metal for jewelry. It was hard for me to explain what it was that I was looking for and in their eagerness to help, my friends sometimes unloaded a lot of junk on me that I was unable to politely refuse. Worse, sometimes they would come to my shows looking for that piece of metal in one of my jewelry pieces and then admonish me for not having used it. It was almost as if someone giving me the found object made it no longer a random find. I realized that the random way in which they were found was as important to me as what they looked like. I liked the way they looked and I liked the fact that they were randomly discarded for me to randomly find. I think this is one of the aspects of the 100 dogs that I am most interested in – the randomness of how we find the dogs.

That is why, when we went to City Park last Friday for the weekly homeschool park day, I was a bit apprehensive. There is a dog park there, and TyTy knows this. Sure enough, he was already talking about meeting new dogs en route. I never want to disappoint him or squash his enthusiasm, so I just kept quiet and decided to react to what we found instead of trying to anticipate an unknown scenario. This is a lesson I’ve learned from parenting.

We arrived at the park and of course there was a horde of dogs there, but TyTy was much more interested in his human friends and he went straight to the other homeschoolers. I was in conversation with the other moms when he came rushing to me a few minutes later. “Mom! A dog! Bring your phone!!” Which means of course, bring the camera on my phone to get a picture. That was Dog #17, Ringo. A very nice dog with a nice owner, who acted the way people always act when we tell them about the project. “Sit, Ringo!”

Ringo and his owner were not in the dog park, they were sitting at a bench near the playground, as were Ezra and his owner. Ezra became Dog #18. His appetite thus whetted, TyTy turned his eyes hungrily to the dog park.

Mom: TyTy, we can’t go in the dog park.

TyTy: But look at all the dogs we could meet!

Apart from the fact that children aren’t allowed in the dog park itself, a rule with which I entirely agree, going in there and deliberately meeting all those dogs was exactly not the way I wanted to go about this project. But there’s only so much of your own personality (and personality problems) that you can force upon your own child, so I compromised. We hovered near a knot of several dog owners who were congregating a few yards outside of the gated entry to the dog park. Thus were we able to get Dogs # 19 – 21, although that was not all the dogs in the group. I could not help but notice that some of the owners shied away from the eager child. And really, that’s fine! I don’t blame people for not wanting to meet my kid. I often do not want to meet their dogs.

Since that day, there have been several instances when we see a dog but are unable to get to it. While walking we saw a lady way down the street checking her mail with her dog, but they were in the house before we were even a block away. Likewise, we’ve seen dogs in backyard fences whom we cannot really meet. TyTy is learning to let these go, and I’m very proud of him. There is so much in this large world, so many dogs, so many bottle caps! We can let them go sometimes because there will always be others. Not the same, thank goodness, but different and wonderful in their own ways.

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.