DOGGIE DEPRESSION

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

I have written about my depression on more than one occasion, most recently in  The Illnesses You Can't See.

But I'm sure you've heard that dogs can become depressed too. Faulkner the smooth Collie became extremely depressed when Thoreau the Treeing Walker Coonhound died.

 

I think it was because Faulkner was so sensitive, and because he was the one who discovered that Thoreau had died.

Reau, as we liked to call him, didn't seem like himself one night when it was time to go to bed. He acted as if he didn't know how to come in the house at bedtime. I suspected he was preparing to die, but decided not to take him to the emergency clinic if it could be avoided. I wanted to let him die peacefully at home.

So I led him into the house and we all went upstairs to bed. At first Reau slept on the bed with me, but after a while, he got down to sleep on the floor. At 3 a.m., Faulkner sounded the alarm. He was always the one who awakened me if one of the other dogs needed to go out in the middle of the night or if someone got sick.

He would put his nose directly on mine, and if I didn't wake up, he would put his nose under my head and lift my head. That never failed to open my eyes.

But this night he barked and I knew why. I got up, and there was my beloved Thoreau, gone to Heaven.

I was at home alone with the dogs. I called a neighbor and she very kindly came over so we could place Thoreau on a blanket and move him to the garage. This was no easy task. He was a very solid dog.

In the morning, some of the men who worked with my ex-husband came over, and they buried Thoreau under the tree where he liked to nap in the shade.

I sobbed and sobbed when Reau died and cried on and off for days. But if I was unhappy, Faulkner was absolutely disconsolate. He became extremely depressed and would lie on the couch in the living room all by himself when the rest of us were in the family room. The poor dog barely moved.

It surprised me a little bit because he and Thoreau were not special buddies. They didn't run and play together. Reau wasn't one to play. He pointed at squirrels and chewed through boards on the fence so he could go to a farm pond to swim. Then he would come home -- wet, dirty, happy -- and Voldemort would replace another board in the fence.

Faulkner also held himself a little apart from the other dogs. He wasn't unkind to them. He knew he was there to take care of all lesser creatures, including us.

Maybe Faulkner was so upset because he and Reau had that apart from the gang thing in common, or perhaps, he recognized his own mortality that night.

For weeks after Reau's death, Faulkner was glued to the couch, not a tail wag in sight.

I took him to the vet, who said to give him extra petting and walks and attention, but it could take some time for him to come out of it. Eventually, he did. We lived happily together and in love until he joined Reau in Heaven.

But it's not just us who can get depressed. Our closest friends can too.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHO? MONDAY

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

I hesitate to use the word pet because it implies that we own the animals in our care when we all know they own us. So, instead of asking about your favorite pet, today's Who? Monday question is

Who is your favorite four-legged friend, present or past?

Notice, please, I said four legged. I do not want to hear about snakes or a crocodile you keep in your bathtub.

For those of you who have been around a while, you already know my best friend ever was my smooth collie Faulkner, who died July 27th, 2010. He was the most intelligent and sensitive person I've ever known.

I'll miss him until dementia takes away my memory, but even then, I'll have a hole in my heart.

What about you? Do you have a favorite four-legged friend?

Infinities of love,

Lola

 

DO BE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Recently I was walking around the neighborhood park with Franklin and we came across some teenagers I see there frequently. I think they're high school students who relax at the park after school on nice days.

These are nice kids who work hard in school, just like Bert and Ernie when they need to learn something so they can teach children about it.

Franklin loves these kids, and he gave me the look that means, Please, Mom, can we go over there to see them?

So I asked if Franklin could come over to say hello.

They're very friendly, and they said sure.

So we approached them and they started petting Franklin and making a fuss over him as they always do, and he was sniffing them; but I was sniffing something else. And then I saw the joint sitting on the back edge of the bench on which they were seated.

The kids were enjoying a nice fall afternoon by smokin' a doobie.

I didn't say anything, but I felt like it.

I wanted to ask, How bout a toke for an old lady? I even wanted to scold them for not offering to share. Jeeze Louise, what's wrong with kids today?

 But I went on my way quietly. I had no right to give them a verbal paddling, no business expecting them to share. They paid good money for that joint, and I knew I should set a good example by not begging for a little. I shouldn't intrude on someone else's good time. I wouldn't like it if I had a joint and some old woman came by, expecting me to share.

So off I went, behaving myself as always, the picture of uprightness and selflessness, letting the young folks enjoy their good time.

Infinities of love,

Lola

MY CHILDREN ARE BULLIES

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Yes, it's true. You read the title correctly. My children *sob* are bullies *whimper*. I'm so ashamed. Just last week I wrote a post in which I came down very hard on bullies. And now I've learned what my very own children are capable of doing. It's so shocking. I didn't know if I could tell you, but I feel I must take responsibility for their actions. Don't bother calling the police to report their crime. I'll deny everything and offer sexual favors until the cops run in terror.

 I have tried to be a responsible parent. But sometimes nothing a parent does is of any help. I swear to you it's nature, not nurture.

 It happened yesterday afternoon. The kids -- Harper, Scout, and Franklin -- were gathered around the rose bush in the back yard. They were obviously having a look at something and chatting about it. This is never a good sign. It means they are in collision or collution, or whatever, against something.

They were supposed to be outside playing because at times, they become a little too rambunctious in the house.

 I went outside to see what was really going on because I am a diligent parent.

And what I saw, Oh Lord please save my children from their instincts, oh my goodness -- white feathers on the ground under the rose bush. And I knew immediately, oh yes I knew, I knew they had killed a bird.

I suspect they used their sling shots, or maybe one of them took my BB gun when I was drinking beer and watching my few remaining soaps. I don't know the truth yet. No one is talking.

But no bird was under the rose bush. I went to look around the yard. I saw it. A dove. A poor white dove in the middle of the back yard. I thought, I'll have to cover up what they've done because blood is thicker than water. They are my children and I'll punish them, but I won't allow the police to take my babies away.

I took a closer look at the dove to determine how to conceal the crime and realized he was alive. Yes, he was alive, but he couldn't move. Couldn't fly. Couldn't even get up and walk away.

What was I to do?

Should I take him to the nearest hospital, pull up to the ER, and toss him out the window toward the door? Someone might be able to help him.

I went inside to text Favorite Young Man because he is a criminal mastermind. He would tell me what to do.

I started texting him, and suddenly, Harper walked in with the dove and put it on my $750 area rug.

He was now one dead dove and there was no turning back.

I screamed in horror because I simply couldn't believe my very own boys had carried out such a vicious attack. Then I started coughing because I had screamed so loud.

I dashed out the front door because dead creatures freak me out hoping that my neighbor, an RN, might be able to help me with, uh, CPR. Perhaps we could revive the dove.

Alas, Anthony hot, hot young Anthony who gives me so much pleasure when he takes off his shirt to work in his yard was not at home. So I set off up the street looking for any available man who might be of assistance. The only person I found at home was a young mom with her little boy.

I knocked on the door, crying, Suzanne, I'm desperate. My children have killed a dove and I don't know what to do.

She said, Would you like me to take care of it?

You wouldn't mind?

No, I wouldn't mind, Suzanne said.

Now I had a partner in crime. Because it was such a nice day and I decided to stroll around the block before I went to Suzanne's It was too late to revive the dove so he would have to be hidden.

Suzanne picked him up - gasp - with a trash bag, dropped him inside, tied the bag shut, AND WE HID THE BAG IN THE BOTTOM OF THE GARBAGE CAN.

Now how do I teach my children it is a sin to kill? I think it's even a commander, commando, going commando, or something in the Bible.

I sent Franklin to his room.

I lectured Scout.

And because Harper was the one who brought the dove inside, as if he were so proud of himself, I sent him to bed without his supper.

But now I have even more to worry about. In the past I have seen dead mice, dead bunnies, a dead possum, dead moles, dead rats, dead squirrels, and many dead birds.

I fear my children are not mere bullies. They are cereal killers.

Please pray for them.

Infinities of love,

Lola

HARPER

Recently Someone I Love requested new photos of my dogs. This photo of Harper is our favorite. He looks so happy. He even has a touch of grin on his face. Now that the weather is chilly, I love having him in bed at night. He presses his back up against mine and it feels wonderful.

COLD WATER

Gentle

 Readers,

My good friend Carol sent me this great story in an email. I hope the photo shows up. I've had many battles with Blogger lately and one fight concerns photos.

Can Cold Water Clean Dishes?

This is for all the germ conscious folks who worry about using cold water to clean.

John went to visit his 90 year old grandfather in a very secluded, rural area of Saskatchewan.

After spending a great evening chatting the night away,
the next morning John's grandfather prepared breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast.

However, John noticed a film like substance on his plate, and questioned his grandfather asking,

'Are these plates clean?'

His grandfather replied,

'They're as clean as cold water can get 'em.
Just you go ahead and finish your meal, Sonny!'

For lunch the old man made hamburgers.

Again, John was concerned about the plates,
as his appeared to have tiny specks around the edge that looked like dried egg and asked,

'Are you sure these plates are clean?'

Without looking up the old man said,

'I told you before, Sonny, those dishes are as clean as cold water can get them.

Now don't you fret, I don't want to hear another word about it!'

Later that afternoon, John was on his way to a nearby town and as he was leaving,

his grandfather's dog started to growl, and wouldn't let him pass.

John yelled and said, 'Grandfather, your dog won't let me get to my car'.

Without diverting his attention from the football game he was watching on TV, the old man shouted,

'Coldwater, go lay down now, yah hear me!'

Meet Coldwater!

MEET MY NEW GRANDBABY

Gentle Readers,

Favorite Young Man and Little Chick have presented me with the loveliest gift: a new granddaughter.

F.Y.M. has already given me Stella to love. She stays with me when he has to go out of town. American Bulldog + Boxer = Adorable Underbite

Here's Stella out partying.

But then last week F.Y.M. got home from work rather late one day. He decided to walk up the street near his house to get a slice of pizza. In the distance, he saw a puppy walking behind a couple and thought she might be on a lead.

But a few minutes later the couple walked on and the puppy didn't. Then he saw the puppy in a parking lot. She was filthy, incredibly thin, and wearing a dirty strip of cloth around her neck that was obviously way too tight. It might have been a bandanna at one time. He befriended her and picked her up and took her home with him. He said, I couldn't just go off and leave her.

Don't you love that? How many people passed that puppy and just left her? But not F.Y.M.

F.Y.M. got the cloth off the baby's neck, bathed her, and gave her a healthy meal.

Here's what she looked like at first:

 You can see the bones sticking out of her back and sides. The white piece around her neck is a bandage because the cloth had become embedded in her skin.

Here's her neck after about a week of tender loving care. I know it looks nasty, but believe me, it was much worse.

And now see how she's improved after such a short time. She's starting to fill out a bit, and one of these days, she might even grow into those German Shepherd ears of hers.

Favorite Young Man tends to the young lady every evening and gets up with her at night because babies have to go potty frequently. I suggested he put her in her crate at night so he could get some sleep, but he said No, she already has to spend too much time in her crate.

Little Chick usually works nights, so she checks in on the baby during the day and is training her with praise, not punishment. Little Chick says the baby will have to learn soon that she isn't a lap dog.

I think it's safe to say we're all in love with her. She barely knows me, but she sits on my lap and kisses me.

Her name is Liesl.

Infinities of love and Liesl,

Lola

And they lived happily ever after.


*NOTE: Please beware of putting a collar or anything else on an animal that could become too tight. Check for correct collar size frequently so you aren't shocked to discover that a collar or something else is embedded in your pet's skin.

MY FRANKLIN, MY LOVE

Gentle Readers,

At the end of October, it will be one year since Franklin joined our family. He has endeared himself to me in so many ways.

Here's a favorite: When he's really happy, for example, if I've been gone for as long as an entire hour and returned home to his joy-filled greeting, after we kiss and hug and say hello, as I walk through the house, he pushes past the other boys to get to my right side. He takes the fingers of my right hand in his mouth.

He doesn't bite; he doesn't nip.

He simply holds my fingers as if his mouth is the hand he wishes he could place in mine.

He's so happy to see me when I awake in the morning, as if he thought I would remain asleep forever. He got in bed with me once for about 30 seconds. He's never done that again, but when I wake up, he stands up at the side of the bed, tail wagging, tongue outstretched to kiss me good morning, huge smile spreading across his face.

He's incredibly sensitive. If I let even one tear flow, he's next to me immediately with his quizzical look, wondering how he can help.

When we watch a movie or read, he sits next to me. I put my arm around him until his head drops to the arm rest of the chair. Then we gaze into each other's eyes. Then I kiss the white streak on his forehead. Then I kiss his doggie lips. I say, I love you. I look into his eyes some more and feel his love for me.

When I adopted Franklin, I knew he couldn't replace the great love of my life, Faulkner. But Franklin is damn close to Faulkner level. Very damn close.

Franklin and Harper and Scout remind me every single day why Dog is God spelled backwards.

Infinities of Franklin love,

Lola

 Simply irresistible.

MERLE'S DOOR

Gentle Readers,

This week seems to be the perfect time to tell you about Merle's Door: Lessons from a Freethinking Dog because with the granddogs visiting it's non-stop bark, run, and play around here. My boys think Stella the bulldog is heavenly. Pauly is more standoffish and difficult, so he hangs out more with me, and that's fine with Grandma.

By chance, writer Ted Kerasote comes across the dog he names Merle, and he sets out trying to insist that Merle obey his commands and conform to life as a typical dog. He soon learns that Merle prefers to make his own decisions. The two end up of teaching each other.

After Merle settles in with Ted, Merle quickly become known as The Mayor in their small town as he makes his daily rounds visiting his friends and checking up on everyone.

I kind of skimmed some of the stuff about how we should let our dogs live the free dog life, doing as they see fit as long as they don't chase cattle, because after Harper got out of the yard last summer and slipped away, watching him cross a busy street with traffic coming at him horrified me. I thank God for bringing Harp the Herald Angels Sing back to me.

We don't all live in a small town in Wyoming where our dogs can have doggie doors and go in and out and do as they please.

However, I enjoyed Merle and Ted's adventures together tremendously, and the book has some lovely photos. Ted seems to be a good writer AND a pretty hot guy (he was once making sweet, sweet love to a lady when Merle tried to help out and the lady asked if he really had to do everything with his dog), and Merle, quite obviously, was a beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, fun-loving dog.

I say WAS because of course Merle dies in the end. Get out the boxes of Kleenex and Puffs -- no Scott tissues, too rough on the nose for a weeper like Merle's Door.

I couldn't help loving the relationship that develops between Ted and Merle, and I think you will too.

I suggest you put Merle's Door on your summer reading list. The book could make a fun movie, but Hollywood, please don't cast Owen Wilson as Ted. He already played Marley's dad in Marley and Me, a cute movie, but I liked the book by John Grogan much better. Perhaps Tom Hanks could be Ted.

Infinities of love and dogs,

Lola

GRANDCHILDREN

I'm sorry, Gentle Readers, but my posts will be sporadic this week.

My granddogs, Stella and Pauly, are staying with me. Busy, busy, busy!

Infinities of doggie kisses,

Lola

A FRANKLIN FIRST

Gentle Readers,

Oh Happy Day! Franklin finally got in bed with me this morning. He didn't stay long, but I hope it was the first of many cuddle times to come. My sleepy eyes were closed, but I knew it was him because of his sweet little kiss and the feel of his soft fur. By the time winter arrives again, I hope every night will be a three dog night.

We also just might know what breed Franklin is. We met two nice ladies at the park who said, He has to be part Bernese Mountain Dog. He looks exactly like one, only smaller. You go home and look up Bernese Mountain Dog and you'll see.

So, being the obedient pup I am, I looked up Bernese Mountain Dog, and Franklin does indeed look like one, but he's half the size or less.

But then Someone I Love informed me about a discovery: The Bordernese. We have decided that Franklin is a Bordernese, a mixture of Border Collie and Bernese Mountain Dog.

But Franklin doesn't care. He knew who he was all along: a good dog who deserves to be loved.

Infinities of love,

Lola

FRANKLIN FRIGHTENED; LOLA PISSED

Gentle Readers,

My dear friend LegalMist recently wrote a post about her experience with The Idiot who hit her car. What happened to LegalMist was much worse than my car being hit twice recently, but last night, something happened that frightened Franklin. The two young men who were involved could have been much worse idiots than they turned out to be.

Franklin and I were out for our evening constitutional when suddenly two young men, about 16 years old, came around a corner on bicycles. One of them came straight at us and then swerved at the last second. Franklin cowered and looked up at me in absolute terror. I don't care that much about my car being hit, but by God, you'd better not frighten my Franklin.

Fortunately, Franklin stayed with me and didn't bolt. Although he's always on a lead, he's so strong that if he really wanted to get away from me or drag me to the ground, he could. But Franklin is such a good dog.

The two butt heads rode away. I was pissed and upset and I shouted, You scared him. That was really mean.

The one who didn't ride toward us shouted back an apology immediately and I heard him tell the other boy, Hey, go back there and apologize to that lady.

The perpetrator returned and said, I'm sorry ma'am.

I thanked him, but I also warned him that it can be dangerous to frighten a dog. Dogs who are upset might chase a rider and bite his penis off before ripping the rest of him to shreds  bite him. Franklin is fast.

I comforted Franklin as much as possible and we continued toward home, but my poor boy was pretty skittish and unhappy. Franklin is old enough that he might not recover completely from his experiences as a stray. However, he's made progress, and I don't want him to lose ground.

So, kids on bikes, go ahead and ride. It's cool. But don't come at my Franklin or you will have one pissed off Lola on your hands and it won't be pretty if it happens again.

I'll tell Favorite Young Man on you.

Infinities of love,

Lola

DOGGIE TOY SNEAKERY

Gentle Readers,

Franklin and I are playing a new game called Doggie Toy Sneakery.

Here's how to play: Leave the back door open because the weather is nice. The dogs can come and go as they please, enjoying their well-fenced back yard.

However, Franklin has a hidden agenda. He takes the doggie toys to the back yard and leaves them there. I bring the doggie toys in and put them on the family room floor.

Franklin takes the toys to the living room, pretending he will play with them there. Then, when I'm not looking, he sneaks them to the back yard.

I sneak them back in and put them in the family room.

This game can continue all day and provides hours of fun.

But somehow, Franklin is winning. He is ahead by two because that's how many doggie toys I can't find.

The dogs are definitely taking over my world.

Infinities of love,

Lola

CH-CH-CH CHANGES

Gentle Readers,

Frankie Big Paws has been with me for five months now. He is not the same dog.

That dog, who arrived here back in October, was timid and terrified. He was so intimidated that he couldn't eat in the same room as the other dogs. Even when he made enough progress to leave his crate during meals, he could only advance enough to eat in the hall next to the dining room, and if Scout approached him after Scout, who is a bit piggish, had finished his meal, Franklin would run to his crate, leaving me to grab Franklin's bowl to keep Scout from getting seconds. Franklin would then finish eating in his crate, if he wasn't too scared. Sometimes he was too frightened to finish eating.

When we saw other people or dogs when we were out walking, he was overwhelmed. He jumped, startled, and wanted to run away. It was hard to hold the lead. He's a good sized, strong dog.

Franklin remains a good sized, strong dog, but that petrified pooch of five months ago is gone. He is now a confident canine. Franklin enjoys his meals at his leisure and never makes a mad dash away from the dish. He loves to play with his brothers, especially Harper. When we meet someone on our walks, he can't wait to greet all newcomers. He enjoys a good butt sniff and doesn't object to being sniffed himself. He licks a new person's hand, and recently met a baby for the first time. He seemed kind of surprised by this smaller than usual person, but with permission from the little guy's dad, gave the baby's hand a lick.

He still likes to sit next to me while I read or watch movies, but he doesn't HAVE to be next to me. He can deal with it if Scout or Harper snags the spot next to me first and doesn't try to shove his way in. He's a good car companion and sits in the back seat very nicely, never interfering with my driving. He continues to learn and is extremely smart and obedient. It takes only the smallest gesture with my index finger and he sits. He also sits the minute he sees the lead. This guy knows the routine.

I am so proud of Franklin, so grateful that God brought him my way, so happy that we are together.

Infinities of love,

Lola

YOU AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A HOUND DOG?

Gentle Readers,

Since the photo I have posted of myself is that of a hound dog, I'd like to tell you about said dog.

I was working at a small town newspaper and I saw a photo of a hound dog in the news room. The photo haunted me. Those eyes. So intense. So full of suffering.

Then I read the article that went with the photo. I read it on the news room computer before it was in the paper.

This dog had lived in the woods near a particular neighborhood for more than a year. People in the neighborhood put food out for him and tried to catch him. Nobody could grasp this phantom. He got thinner and thinner. Then the animal control officer learned he was dragging around a leg trap in the snow. She told the police that if they could, they should shoot him to put him out of his misery.

But spring came and the dog was still alive and the trap was gone.

A man's little girl came running into the house, shouting "Daddy Daddy There's a dog outside and it's stuck on our dog."

The man grabbed the hound dog as soon as he had finished his love making - the dog, not the man. The dog was humping the man's female dog. Have I made it clear enough just in case you didn't get what the little girl was talking about when she said the dogs were stuck together?

Then the man took the dog to the humane society, the animal control officer put him in a pen, went in the pen with him, hugged him and cried.

The minute I got off work that day I went to the humane society and applied to adopt that dog.

As soon as my application was approved, I picked him up and he owned me until the day he died. He still owns my love.

After his picture ran in the paper, a woman who said she was a dog show judge went to the humane society and told them he was a pure bred Treeing Walker Coonhound. She said that if they looked him over they would find a breeder's tattoo on him and the breeder would want him back.

So they didn't look. They knew we belonged together.

But my husband and kids and I looked him over. He did indeed have a tattoo inside one ear. Our guess was that he had been a hunting dog left for dead. He had been shot and blinded in one eye and had buck shot scars on his face and body.

He had chewed three toes off one hind foot to get rid of the leg trap and walked with a limp for the rest of his life.

But he lived the good life with us. Liked to sleep on the family room floor in a sun beam. Would sit next to my husband for hours of petting. During the winter, his foot and his old bones ached. He would get in bed with me and settle himself down on the electric blanket for comfort. When my husband would try to get in the bed, he would growl at my husband. Only time he ever growled. Smart dog.

He seemed to be a Zen master, contemplating, meditating, stoic. He never bit. Occasionally he stepped on somebody's foot on his way out the door and by God when that dog stepped on your foot it stayed stepped on. He was a massive dog.

At first he tried some Houdini-like escapes. The first night he was with us, we went to a child's sporting event. He was in a crate, a nice big one with plenty of room. I said, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if we opened the garage door and he was waiting for us?"

Well, he wasn't in the garage, but he was right inside the family room when we went in the house although the crate was upstairs in a bedroom. He had pushed the front edge of the top off the crate and in spite of his size squeezed out through the tiny opening to meet us at the door.

That dog was not going to be penned in.

Then the next night - almost a disaster. My husband came home from work and forgot we had a new dog who might be out in the fenced-in yard that the dogs entered through the garage. He opened the garage door and there went the dog. He saw his chance and he took it.

My husband said, I'll take the car and go look for him. I put my collie on a lead and told him to find his new brother. My collie took off immediately and pulled me through neighbor's back yards until we saw the hound. I was exhausted. I let go of the lead and said, Go stand over him until I can grab his collar. The collie did, and the hound dog went back home with us without any fuss or bother.

We always kept a careful eye on him in case of escape attempts. Several months later he got out the door and took off down the driveway. I called his name and said, Come. He came. Just like that. He turned around and came back home. He knew who buttered his bread.

A few years later we moved to a house in the country. We had a very large back yard, wood fence. There was a pond up the road a bit.

Periodically, he would chew through a board in the fence, squeeze out, and go swimming in the pond. Then he would come back and my husband would put a new board in the fence. We ended up with about ten new boards standing with the old weathered boards.

And then one night when my husband was out of town, the dogs went out before bed and when I called them in, the hound dog just looked at me. He didn't seem to know how to come in the house.

I went out and led him in.

I knew. I knew it was the end.

I didn't take him to the emergency clinic to be poked and prodded. I had some doggie sedatives and I gave him one along with some medicine in case his stomach was just upset. It was protruding a bit, and maybe there would be a miracle and he would wake up in the morning and he would be o.k.

No. At 3 a.m. the collie sounded his emergency bark. I knew the hound was dead.

Some very kind men who worked with my husband came out as soon as they knew I needed them and they buried him under the tree in the back yard where he liked to sleep. I called it his napping tree. He sleeps there still. Sleeps the sleep of the dead.

I go to bed at night and after all these years - how many has it been? five? - I miss him still.

I still have the very intelligent and now elderly, deaf collie. Scroll down on my message center to see his photo at the bottom of the page. A photo taken in better days when he was younger and stronger and could hear and didn't have crippling arthritis.

I think he's a pretty happy dog in spite of the pitfalls that come with advanced age. He sleeps peacefully on the couch most of the day, undisturbed because he can't hear. Sometimes he limps out to the deck to sleep in the sun.

He is so beautiful. They all are.

Ain't nothin' but a hound dog? Ha! Ridiculoso.

Love,

Dumped First Wife