Jul 19, 2011
Foffmom's Dog of Many Names
I am sure she had at least one before name, a name from the first people who had her. Before she wound up in a rescue, run by one person out of her home. Her before name is lost.
Her second name was Splash. She was just a picture on Petfinder, a brindle boxer with white paws and a white chest and chin. My 18 year old daughter had moved out of our house and was sharing a house with her best friend from childhood. Best friend had a dog. Daughter wanted a dog. Daughter wanted a brindle dog. Daughter wanted Splash.
“I am going to just check her out. She needs to get along with Monk. (Roomate’s dog) I am going to be an adult about this.” I was proud of how well she had thought this out. This was in May of 2008.
I was even prouder of her when it all fell apart. “Mom!” Her voice carried desperation and despair. “I have to get her out of here! She is in a kennel too small for her, with no water dish! She is one of 63 dogs and 14 cats in a doublewide. She is the bottom layer of three layers of dog kennels. I have to get her out of here!”
Well, she didn’t bring cash and the rescue only took cash. So the next morning she and roomie made the trip again, bringing home Splash. Daughter renamed her Battle Buddy. She was thin and had no muscle tone. She had permanent scars from lying against the side of the cage. But she would growl deeply in her throat if a stranger approached Daughter while she was studying on the porch swing. She was devoted to the humans in her house. But Battle came with many issues.
Any water was immediately consumed. Apparently the routine at the rescue was to offer water only when let out which happened twice a day. So Splash drank ALL of ANY water in front of her. Ditto any food, no matter that it was for the roomate’s dog, or for the cats, or for the humans. The large quantities of intake generated large quantities of output. She was billed as three years old. She did not know how to ask to go out if she needed to go to the bathroom. She had severe separation anxiety, destroying and excreting at random if left alone. She would leap onto counters and devour anything vaguely edible. She ripped into 40 lb bags of catfood and ate until she threw up and pooped and then ate more. When my daughter tried to kennel her when she went to class, she destroyed the kennel. And pooped on her roommates bed. Then she destroyed kennel number two. And then, that Fall, daughter moved home. We already had 5 dogs. I did not want another one.
We bought a huge heavy kennel, one so large she couldn’t brace against the sides to pop the thing apart. We began housebreaking her and kennel training her like a puppy. She actually learned quickly. But she had to be kenneled anytime someone wasn’t in the house accessible to her. We learned to shut our bedroom door as she would poop on our bed if given the opportunity. And then she killed Roy.
Roy was an elderly senile miniature poodle, one of a pair we had raised since puppyhood. He was fourteen. His senility manifested in two ways. Previously perfectly housebroken, he began to happily lift his leg in the house while looking at you watching him, totally carefree. And he began having rage attacks where he would viciously snap and snarl at one of the other dogs for about 20 seconds. He was almost toothless and I never saw any actual biting. But like a sudden storm, it was brief and terrifying. Our dogs seemed patient with this behavior. Alex would just stand and benignly look at Roy as Roy was seemingly trying to kill him. Dale, his sister, would cower until the storm passed. We were out of town. Daughter had been house/dog/cat/horse sitting. Driving back one hour from home, daughter called so upset I couldn’t discern a word from the sobs. Basically after leaving the dogs alone for 30 minutes , daughter came in to find Roy dead, a single bite around the circumference of his chest. Battle had blood on her white bib and mouth. Daughter was understandably hysterical.
Battle’s life hung in the balance. Daughter wanted to bring her back to the rescue. Or euthanize her. She felt bad about bringing this dog into our home. I was pretty sure Roy had just selected the wrong dog to rage upon. Battle did not know he was harmless and only bit him once in self-defense. But one bite -boxer to miniature poodle -was all it took. We buried Roy. We kept Battle.
Somehow after that she became more my dog than daughter’s. Daughter spent more time in the company of her new boyfriend and Battle did not get along with boyfriend’s dogs. The biggest setback was she and Molly, our dalmation/pitbull cross who had a history of being female dog aggressive, tried to kill each other. Twice. So they had to be kept separate. I thought she needed a name other than Battle, given her history of canine combat. I began to call her Bea. It could be derived from Battle Buddy, the name my daughter gave her. But actually, she reminded me of Aunt Bea, and Aunt Beast from the Wrinkle in Time.
She was maternal in a gentle way, a little in your business but only with the best of intentions. I don’t know how I knew she would be fine but just I did. She was so focused on the humans in her life. Slowly she learned that water was commonly available to her. Her kennel time was never longer than 4 hours. She learned to be good overnight even if our door was shut. She figured out if Lyra, one of our other dogs, was with her, she was fine. One of my happiest memories is seeing her actually play, zipping around the yard, running around me as I pretended to be a gorilla trying to get her. It took over a year to see that.
She snored to beat the band. Often, awake in the dark early hours, I would be treated to a duet, she and my husband snoring together. It was very reassuring. Her farts were legendary. She could fumigate an entire room. She loved cats, particularly Killer, a kitten Daughter had adopted when Bea lived in the roomate’s house. But she loved all cats, and they soon figured out that they could love her back. She was a vicious hunter, something that surprised me when she killed a young raccoon that had run off our rear deck. She avidly hunted opossums, and loved killing them. She would kill the same one, over and over, each morning and she never caught on. She was very focused on people. She would lay her jowls on your thigh and gaze up into your eyes. She would nap on the rug beside my bed when I napped. When bored with that she would lay her big head on the bed’s edge and look at me, wagging her stubby tail.
The best was her greeting. She wound her body into a tight C shape, wiggling her stubby tail as fast as it could go, making excited huffing noises as she would twirl around you. “Welcome home! My life is great now that you’re here!” She was so joyful. I loved watching her run fully stretched out up the hill to the barn. I would think of her in the rescue, confined to a too small kennel. I was so glad that she was free, running and rolling and eating horseshit. Well maybe not the last thing. We were never able to train her to the underground fence. When the alarm on the collar beeped, she froze. And stood to get shocked again and again. So we decided to try again later. Guess not. She loved riding in my husband’s pick-up truck. He was glad that last weekend he took her for a run to the garbage dump.
I had always felt Bea was older than her given age. Her muzzle and eyes were grizzled. She just seemed like an old dog. Everyone made fun of me for thinking that. Yesterday as she ran and danced around me begging for treats, I had noticed that she was more ribby than before, an odd thing in a dog that was a calorie whore. She wasn’t really thin, just three rib spaces were visible, but still, it was more than I could explain. But she was bouncy and happy. I was late with their dinner by an hour. Bea would follow me around with those big brown eyes to remind me that it was dinner time.
I feel bad that her last dinner was late. I feel worse that I didn’t pet her before bed. She went out to the barn and had a great time as per usual. I didn’t notice anything wrong, she ate her dinner with her usual vigor. I think she was old. And she died. In her sleep apparently. I guess that’s the best way to go for any of us. No illness, no labs, scans or tests, no health care professionals, no hospitals or hospices, just passing over peacefully without pain. But I am lost without her, this dog I did not want. She is irreplaceable, her sweetness and empathy are not common in any species. I miss her so.
I am grateful for the lessons she taught me. In a world where cash is king, queen, and the knave of hearts, Bea cared only for the person in front of her. She loved everyone, once introduced. I am most grateful that love and time were all that she needed to heal, that and consistency, which seemed very important to her. She was an old dog, and she loved her old people and we loved her. She may have been a dog with many names, but to me she was always Beloved.
Her second name was Splash. She was just a picture on Petfinder, a brindle boxer with white paws and a white chest and chin. My 18 year old daughter had moved out of our house and was sharing a house with her best friend from childhood. Best friend had a dog. Daughter wanted a dog. Daughter wanted a brindle dog. Daughter wanted Splash.
“I am going to just check her out. She needs to get along with Monk. (Roomate’s dog) I am going to be an adult about this.” I was proud of how well she had thought this out. This was in May of 2008.
I was even prouder of her when it all fell apart. “Mom!” Her voice carried desperation and despair. “I have to get her out of here! She is in a kennel too small for her, with no water dish! She is one of 63 dogs and 14 cats in a doublewide. She is the bottom layer of three layers of dog kennels. I have to get her out of here!”
Well, she didn’t bring cash and the rescue only took cash. So the next morning she and roomie made the trip again, bringing home Splash. Daughter renamed her Battle Buddy. She was thin and had no muscle tone. She had permanent scars from lying against the side of the cage. But she would growl deeply in her throat if a stranger approached Daughter while she was studying on the porch swing. She was devoted to the humans in her house. But Battle came with many issues.
Any water was immediately consumed. Apparently the routine at the rescue was to offer water only when let out which happened twice a day. So Splash drank ALL of ANY water in front of her. Ditto any food, no matter that it was for the roomate’s dog, or for the cats, or for the humans. The large quantities of intake generated large quantities of output. She was billed as three years old. She did not know how to ask to go out if she needed to go to the bathroom. She had severe separation anxiety, destroying and excreting at random if left alone. She would leap onto counters and devour anything vaguely edible. She ripped into 40 lb bags of catfood and ate until she threw up and pooped and then ate more. When my daughter tried to kennel her when she went to class, she destroyed the kennel. And pooped on her roommates bed. Then she destroyed kennel number two. And then, that Fall, daughter moved home. We already had 5 dogs. I did not want another one.
We bought a huge heavy kennel, one so large she couldn’t brace against the sides to pop the thing apart. We began housebreaking her and kennel training her like a puppy. She actually learned quickly. But she had to be kenneled anytime someone wasn’t in the house accessible to her. We learned to shut our bedroom door as she would poop on our bed if given the opportunity. And then she killed Roy.
Roy was an elderly senile miniature poodle, one of a pair we had raised since puppyhood. He was fourteen. His senility manifested in two ways. Previously perfectly housebroken, he began to happily lift his leg in the house while looking at you watching him, totally carefree. And he began having rage attacks where he would viciously snap and snarl at one of the other dogs for about 20 seconds. He was almost toothless and I never saw any actual biting. But like a sudden storm, it was brief and terrifying. Our dogs seemed patient with this behavior. Alex would just stand and benignly look at Roy as Roy was seemingly trying to kill him. Dale, his sister, would cower until the storm passed. We were out of town. Daughter had been house/dog/cat/horse sitting. Driving back one hour from home, daughter called so upset I couldn’t discern a word from the sobs. Basically after leaving the dogs alone for 30 minutes , daughter came in to find Roy dead, a single bite around the circumference of his chest. Battle had blood on her white bib and mouth. Daughter was understandably hysterical.
Battle’s life hung in the balance. Daughter wanted to bring her back to the rescue. Or euthanize her. She felt bad about bringing this dog into our home. I was pretty sure Roy had just selected the wrong dog to rage upon. Battle did not know he was harmless and only bit him once in self-defense. But one bite -boxer to miniature poodle -was all it took. We buried Roy. We kept Battle.
Somehow after that she became more my dog than daughter’s. Daughter spent more time in the company of her new boyfriend and Battle did not get along with boyfriend’s dogs. The biggest setback was she and Molly, our dalmation/pitbull cross who had a history of being female dog aggressive, tried to kill each other. Twice. So they had to be kept separate. I thought she needed a name other than Battle, given her history of canine combat. I began to call her Bea. It could be derived from Battle Buddy, the name my daughter gave her. But actually, she reminded me of Aunt Bea, and Aunt Beast from the Wrinkle in Time.
She was maternal in a gentle way, a little in your business but only with the best of intentions. I don’t know how I knew she would be fine but just I did. She was so focused on the humans in her life. Slowly she learned that water was commonly available to her. Her kennel time was never longer than 4 hours. She learned to be good overnight even if our door was shut. She figured out if Lyra, one of our other dogs, was with her, she was fine. One of my happiest memories is seeing her actually play, zipping around the yard, running around me as I pretended to be a gorilla trying to get her. It took over a year to see that.
She snored to beat the band. Often, awake in the dark early hours, I would be treated to a duet, she and my husband snoring together. It was very reassuring. Her farts were legendary. She could fumigate an entire room. She loved cats, particularly Killer, a kitten Daughter had adopted when Bea lived in the roomate’s house. But she loved all cats, and they soon figured out that they could love her back. She was a vicious hunter, something that surprised me when she killed a young raccoon that had run off our rear deck. She avidly hunted opossums, and loved killing them. She would kill the same one, over and over, each morning and she never caught on. She was very focused on people. She would lay her jowls on your thigh and gaze up into your eyes. She would nap on the rug beside my bed when I napped. When bored with that she would lay her big head on the bed’s edge and look at me, wagging her stubby tail.
The best was her greeting. She wound her body into a tight C shape, wiggling her stubby tail as fast as it could go, making excited huffing noises as she would twirl around you. “Welcome home! My life is great now that you’re here!” She was so joyful. I loved watching her run fully stretched out up the hill to the barn. I would think of her in the rescue, confined to a too small kennel. I was so glad that she was free, running and rolling and eating horseshit. Well maybe not the last thing. We were never able to train her to the underground fence. When the alarm on the collar beeped, she froze. And stood to get shocked again and again. So we decided to try again later. Guess not. She loved riding in my husband’s pick-up truck. He was glad that last weekend he took her for a run to the garbage dump.
I had always felt Bea was older than her given age. Her muzzle and eyes were grizzled. She just seemed like an old dog. Everyone made fun of me for thinking that. Yesterday as she ran and danced around me begging for treats, I had noticed that she was more ribby than before, an odd thing in a dog that was a calorie whore. She wasn’t really thin, just three rib spaces were visible, but still, it was more than I could explain. But she was bouncy and happy. I was late with their dinner by an hour. Bea would follow me around with those big brown eyes to remind me that it was dinner time.
I feel bad that her last dinner was late. I feel worse that I didn’t pet her before bed. She went out to the barn and had a great time as per usual. I didn’t notice anything wrong, she ate her dinner with her usual vigor. I think she was old. And she died. In her sleep apparently. I guess that’s the best way to go for any of us. No illness, no labs, scans or tests, no health care professionals, no hospitals or hospices, just passing over peacefully without pain. But I am lost without her, this dog I did not want. She is irreplaceable, her sweetness and empathy are not common in any species. I miss her so.
I am grateful for the lessons she taught me. In a world where cash is king, queen, and the knave of hearts, Bea cared only for the person in front of her. She loved everyone, once introduced. I am most grateful that love and time were all that she needed to heal, that and consistency, which seemed very important to her. She was an old dog, and she loved her old people and we loved her. She may have been a dog with many names, but to me she was always Beloved.
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 15, 2011
Hunting
Gibbs has finished the ultimate challenge: hunting for vegetarian prey with me at the grocery store. He was a total rock star. Nothing phased him. Not the squealing two-legger young, not the cooing elders, not the smells or the sounds. Sheer focus with a swagger to match. What a good boy.
Jul 12, 2011
Mork
Ultimate-Vet braved some pretty ferocious weather to visit Foffarm. Foffmum had a feline feces issue and I needed to for Mork to get his second round of vaccinations. I was hardly surprised when it came time for the weigh-in: Mork now weighs 4 pounds and 1 ounce. When the time comes for the final round of vaccines, it will be interesting to see how much heft Mork has gained.
A Foffarm triumph of petty glee- a summertime dog treat has been tested with enthusiastic results. Freezing beef or chicken broth into ice cube treats goes a long way to helping the dogs beat the heat. Gibbs is quite entitled to goodies in reward for his flawless progress as a service dog. His praise requires an entire post though.
A Foffarm triumph of petty glee- a summertime dog treat has been tested with enthusiastic results. Freezing beef or chicken broth into ice cube treats goes a long way to helping the dogs beat the heat. Gibbs is quite entitled to goodies in reward for his flawless progress as a service dog. His praise requires an entire post though.
Jul 1, 2011
Foffdaughter: Oh-Shit-Kit
Many of the Foffarm animals have been found while driving. We have found them eating some decomposing flattened creature on the road, laying in plain sight along the road seeming very domesticated, hiding underneath the railroad tracks... Ugh it hurts my metaphorical heart to try and place each animal, successfully caught or not, along this country road. There is an 'on-the-go' list of supplies I keep in my car at all times, and it is more more accurately thought of as the 'oh-shit-kit'.
note: belts are my favorite item. They can serve as a leash or lead rope when needed. Or they can just hold up your trousers, and this is a stellar task as well.
- kitten food (for feeding a feral or luring friendlies)
- wet cat food
- two leashes (loop through 'no-collar-counted-on' sort)
- dog muzzle (fear/injury can cause misunderstandings to occur.)
- collapsible cat carrier
- towels
- halter and lead rope
- tarp (always handy for whatever you need)
Less practical and more personal choice item --
- a lightweight shovel
This sort of 'oh-shit' kit is the best permanent addition to my trunk that I have ever made. I would imagine that this preparedness brings a peace of mind to any mind in one piece.
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