Ode to Ol' Harry

Harry’s a dog that lives on my street
He’s probably got fleas and smells a little like feet.
He’s a basset hound that’s impossibly droopy
His fur is quite matted and eyes are all goopy.

Every day it seems he melts further into the ground
I don’t know if it’s the heat or the breed of this hound.
When I pat his head, his bleary eyes look up
Despite his elderly state, he’s an adorable pup.

He lies on the sidewalk, folds of skin and ears
I swear he’s been there for over a hundred years.
He brightens my day every time I walk by
I’ll plug my nose and always say hi.

The Truth About Dogs and Chocolate

I’ve heard everything from paranoid doggie-mamas claiming their baby was in grave danger after eating a single chocolate chip to nonchalant pet owners who boast of their pooch’s tolerance for an entire almond Symphony bar.

Chocolate contains theobromine, or xantheose. Non-human animals, like dogs (yes, I hate to break it to some of you), metabolize this chemical compound slower than humans, often causing a toxic reaction. In case any of you dog-lovers swing both ways, cats are easily susceptible as well, but because they cannot taste the sweetness of the chocolate, are less likely to ingest it.

The reason your husky can down a Snickers without needing a trip to the vet is because effects depend on the theobromine content of the chocolate and the size of the puppy. Milk chocolate has the lowest percentage, about 44 mg, semi-sweet contains 150 milligrams per ounce, increasing as the chocolate gets more concentrated (or worse-tasting if you ask me). Heavier dogs can handle more theobromine than smaller ones based on the ratio of a dose of 100 milligrams of theobromine per per kilogram of puppy mass.

So, your Westie might be okay if she gets in to your secret chocolate stash (come on, you know you have one), but there’s a greater danger if you leave the pantry door open and she demolishes a bar of bakers chocolate that you meant to use in last years’ Christmas cookies. In either case, it’s not a good idea to feed your puppy chocolate. Their tummies don’t like it, even if yours does.

Images by Isabel

These pictures are courtesy of Isabel Gates of Kingston, Washington. They just made my day, so I thought I'd share them.

The Cutest New Trend: Puggles

Like sweatbands in the 1980s and Pokémon in the late 90s, the Puggle is America’s newest trend. Ever since Jason Segal’s character in I Love You, Man paraded his adorable Puggle, Anwar Sadat, along the Venice Beach boardwalk, the breed has become a national favorite. This lovechild between a Pug and a Beagle recently surpassed the Labradoodle as the most popular designer dog, promoted by such A-listers as Jake Gyllenhaal, Uma Thurman, and Sylvester Stallone.


I understand the appeal of combining a Beagle’s energy and playfulness with a Pug’s charisma and wrinkled forehead. I mean, that’s like a man with the body Cristiano Ronaldo and the whit of Stephen Colbert! But despite the fact that I think Puggles are eccentric, fun-loving, and ridiculously cute dogs, I am concerned with the trendiness associated with the breed. I don’t like the idea of a dog being categorized with Gucci purses and Ugg boots; cute for a few years, then obsolete.


Very few people will deny that engineered canine hybrids like Labradoodles, Puggles, and Cockapoos are wonderful dogs, but what about the un-engineered mutts? How can we discriminate against the puppies conceived during one-afternoon-stands under a park bench or secret love affairs near the fire hydrant? What about the Pitt-Weiler-Doodles, the Labra-Husky-auzers, and the Sheppa-Masti-huahuas? I don’t think I could morally – or financially – pay over $1000 dollars for a designer puppy, when these healthy, lovable mutts are desperate for love.


Having grown up with pure-bred cocker spaniels myself, I absolutely do not disregard the pure-bred lovers among us. Pure-breds, offspring of pure-breds, and unidentifiable mutts can all make wonderful pets. I don’t think there is any shame in owning the offspring of an AKC champion (which Maci certainly is not ), but I do think that dog owners need to know what they expect to get out of their puppy-person relationship and choose a dog for the right reasons. Breed choice should match your personal lifestyle, not your shoes.

Maci

Having newly started this blog about dogs, I find it appropriate to talk about my own, beloved, slightly mentally unstable pooch: Maci Mae (pictured above). She is - of course - three thousand miles away in my hometown of Poulsbo, Washington, but I still think about her all the time and often receive candid picture messages from my family of her licking the couch or stalking the coffee table.


Yea, she's a little off.


One of my favorite Maci stories is the day she wandered over to the neighbor’s yard on trash day. When Dad opened the back door to call her inside, there was no response. A little annoyed, he called again. This time, the bushes parted and out bursts my dog in all her glory, potato chip bag stuck on her head.


Dad nearly dies laughing. He calls my family out of the house the four of us stand on the porch and watch Lays with Legs run around the yard. Often she would stop, tilt her head left and right, then shake her head violently, but to no avail. After narrowly missing the porch steps and very decisively not missing a tree trunk, we chased her down and removed the bag. The sad thing was, she still managed to run into the barbeque on the way back inside.


I miss you, Maci!

A New Respect for the Foo-Foo Dog

While lying in the grass of the Public Garden this weekend, I witnessed an event that both surprised and forever changed my opinion of knee-high, well-groomed canines. Ben and I had been lulled into a pseudo-sleep by the 80-degree weather and the mediocre performance of a street keyboard player. When I heard the familiar jingling of a dog collar, I – naturally – looked up.


Scurrying along the cement path was a white, fluffy, Bichon Frise, taking ten steps to every one taken by the middle-aged woman walking him. The woman's interest in the outing was clearly far less than her fluffy companion’s; she read a paperback as the small marshmallow dog, whom she called Winston, tugged at his leash, tail wagging furiously.


I have an ever-changing opinion on small, mostly indoor, and – frankly – foo-foo dogs. I think they're cute and serve as loyal companions, but I generally write them off as Louis Vutton purse-sized accessories. Winston, however, was a lion among puppies.


As he crossed the grassy knoll in front of me, Winston's hundred-mile-an-hour paced abruptly halted. He froze, front paw raised, black beady eyes staring intently. Ahead of him, a grey squirrel sniffed its way along the grass. The woman stopped, rolled her eyes, and went back to her romance novel.


Winston crouched. When the prey (aka: killer squirrel) looked away, he crept forward, but remained motionless when the vermin raised its head. He was the stealthiest marshmallow I have ever seen. His cover was almost compromised every time the not-so-stealthy woman moved forward or turned the page, but she was still holding his leash so he had no choice but to deal with the circumstances.


Finally, after ten suspenseful minutes of patient stalking, Winston was spotted. As the enemy broke for the nearest tree, he knew this would be his only shot. Apparently, the woman knew it too because as Winston took off full speed toward his prey, she instinctively released his leash. Winston raced across the grass, wind in his face, the scent of squirrel in his nose, and his leash trailing along helplessly behind him.


Despite his valiant, brave, and skilled efforts, the vermin scrambled up the tree before Winston could get reach it. The white knight sat at the base of the trunk, staring upward, until the woman walked over, picked up his leash, and the two passively continued on.


"He hasn't caught one yet," the woman said, returning once again to her book. She hadn't walked more than three steps before Winston crouched, the undaunted predator on the prowl once again.