Emotional Support Animal Or Cheap Passengers?

 

   I think the tipping point was Dexter the Peacock. His owner, a photographer and questionable ‘performance artist,’ claimed Dexter was an emotional support animal when she tried to board a flight with him perched on her shoulder.

     I have nothing against peacocks; in fact I was incredibly excited when a pair of wild juveniles hunkered down at my place before deciding my ranchette was too crazy for them, and moved on. But as emotional support?   

    The shrieks of peacocks are the antithesis of soothing or calming. They sound like a cat being attacked by a coyote. At about 90 dbs.

     Dexter’s owner is far from the only one pushing the ESA envelope. Everyone who has boarded a plane over the last few years has seen ESA offenders. They are the miserable-looking dogs being dragged around by self-entitled women who are too cheap to pay the fee for taking their dogs on board.

     In addition to the unhappy dogs, the owners are usually surrounded by Gucci rollerboards and a condescending attitude. They DARE you to challenge their disability, because they are married to a lawyer. And they will call him RIGHT NOW.

     Things have changed since when I moved to Los Angeles, and flew carrying a goldfish. In a bag inside a bowl.  Herbie was the hit of the flight; little kids kept running up to take a peak at the flying fish. Most were disappointed that he was just a goldfish, I’m sure they were hoping for something more exotic.  Herbie, by the way, was an excellent passenger, though I never took him anywhere again.

     Obviously, even if Herbie were still alive, (he passed at the age of 10 and was buried under a rosebush), we’d never get on a plane. His bowl was far too big to get through TSA.

     The Dexter incident is unfortunate for everyone who travels with an actual, legitimate, support animal. Like Monty.

     My 87 year-old handicapped mother lives with me six months a year. She travels across country, bringing a couple of checked bags and Monty, her 13 year-old Silky Terrier. 

     The first few years, when Mom was healthier, we gladly paid the $125 to bring Monty on board. We shoved him in his crate and stuck him underneath the seat in front of me (or whomever was accompanying Mom.) Once we were airborne, we’d plop the crate on the companion’s lap. Monty would sleep and Mom could see he was fine. All was good. He didn’t bother anyone and life was good.

     Until it wasn’t. Two years ago, Mom and I checked into first class (thank goodness for that Delta AMEX card) and proceeded as usual. When everyone else opened their laptops, I took Monty out.

The flight attendant  had a fit.  She hissed and spat like a cat in a bathtub.

      “Put that ANIMAL on the floor.”

     It took me a moment to realize that she was referring to the snoring little dog on my lap. But I followed instructions, and soon Monty was whimpering softly and my mother was whining loudly. I put the carrier on my lap, and opened the top so Mom could reach in and touch him.

       The animal police arrived immediately and started screeching like a peacock.

    “Put that CREATURE on the floor. It is upsetting people!”

     There was no one sitting next to us and the folks across the aisle people were sleeping, or had been, until the stew lost it at the top of her lungs.

     “It needs to be moved immediately!” She hovered over me until I did so. I spent the rest of the flight bent over Monty with one hand slipped into his crate to pat his head. For a week I walked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

        I don’t want to damn all Delta stewardesses. Far from it. A few years later I was taking my seven-week-old Great Dane puppy home from Kentucky. Jasper Johns was booked and paid for as my carry-on. I got to my seat and discovered I had been moved to the bulkhead, and there was no place to put him. In a panic I pointed it out to my seat companion and the stewardess.

        The flight attendant looked at me like I was crazy. 

     “He looks like a support animal to me. What do you think?” She looked at my aisle mate, who nodded enthusiastically.  For the entire flight, he, and everyone in my row kept asking if I needed them to hold Jasper so I could go to the restroom.

        The earlier Monty incident spooked me. Now when Mom travels, Monty carries ESA identification. He has letters from two of Mom’s doctors, a photo ID and a badge. He has more documentation than I do. His picture is better too.

         The thing is, neither Mom nor I want to be one THOSE people, you know, the cheaters. We'd happily pay for Monty's travels. Truth be told, we aren’t lying about his ESA status. Moving Mom coast-to-coast is difficult and stressful and anxiety-producing. Knowing Monty is there, and safe, is calming.

     I’m not sure though, whose emotions he is supporting on these trips, Moms or mine.

               

               

The Curse of the Pigglesworth

I despise Walmart. I hate their business model, which drives vendors to near bankruptcy and kills locally-owned small business. I hate their gigantic stores which swallow up acres of once open land that. I hate the way their treat their employees, most of whom are part-time so they won’t have benefits and are depend upon food stamps for survival. I hate the politics of the Walton family, who support the GOP with fistfuls of money.

I mostly hate Walmart because it has made me a hypocrite.

Because of my aforementioned revulsion, until recently I had never set foot in a Walmart. Or a Sam’s Club. I was  smugly proud of this.

But then I discovered Pigglesworths.

For those of you who do not have Great Danes, I will let you in on a secret: these are must-have Great Dane toys.

.

Pigglesworths seem simple. They are rubber toys in the shape of pigs that make a disgusting grunt instead of a more plebeian squeak. The pigs come in bright colors including lime green, orange, purple and pink and have contrasting spots.

 It shouldn’t be a big deal. Pigglesworths are just dog toys after all.

Not exactly.

I kept hearing about these pigs on every Great Dane page.  Danes apparently adore these toys. Not like, but adored. Every Dane worth his slobber has at least one. Or 40.

Did I mention, they are cheap?  That means when the noses are chomped off, the stuffing extracted and grunter ripped out, you can get another without breaking the bank.

Dane Facebook pages are filled with dogs posing with piles of nose-less, silent piggies.  The lack of stuffing and noise doesn’t seem to dim  the dogs’ enthusiasm at all.

Pigglesworths could just be the perfect dog toy.

My dogs are just a wee bit spoiled. They literally have toy boxes filled with dead stuffies and other toys. Hedgehog? Check. Rope toys? Check. Flamingos? Check. 

(They have no Teddy Bears . For some reason, most of my Teddys arrived wearing clothing.  Murray the Dane, being a practical dog, found this simply wrong. Bears, unless their first name is Yogi, shouldn’t have clothing. Which meant that he constantly undressed the Teddy Bears. I found this disturbing, and removed them. Murray has been gone for years but I’ve never replaced the Teddys. )

But I had no Pigglesworths. Zero. Obviously I needed to rectify this problem.

So off I went in search of the mysterious, nay, legendary grunting pigs. 

I admit, I was naive. First I went to independent pet stores. No hogs. I went to Petco and Petsmart. Nary a porcine to be found. 

Every time I passed a pet store, I went inside. Pigglesworths had become my quest. My Holy Grail was a rubber florescent colored swine. And there was only one place they could be dependably found in the United States.*

Which is how I found myself in the parking lot of the local Walmart. I sat in the car for almost a half an hour, trying to figure out what the offset for shopping there would be. Do I go to a local pet shop and buy a ton of overpriced chew toys to make up for my Walmart sins? Maybe a donation to a local animal shelter would absolve me.

Finally, I took a deep breath and went into the store. It was every bit as awful as I imagined.

I dislike shopping but I truly hate shopping in big box stores; they overwhelm me. Usually I get dizzy and walk out empty handed. But even Costco (which treats its employees AND vendors well) had not prepared me for this.

My head started to spin. The store was immense and was filled with goods I had never thought of, and probably no one needs.  Items were piled to the rafters and wrapped in shiny plastic.

I had the urge to bolt, but because of my rotten, spoiled, dogs, I pushed on. Somewhere in this godforsaken place there were Pigglesworths. I would find them and purchase them if it was the last thing I did.

For a moment it seemed like it might. I immediately got lost in the children’s clothing and baby supplies. Next I came upon the medical department, which went on forever. By the time I found the pet aisle, I was lightheaded.

There, near the floor, in a dusty bin, were Pigglesworths. Once I spotted them, they practically glowed. I grabbed two of every color, in the hopes that the pig supply would outlive the dogs. As everyone likes to remind me, Great Danes don’t live long, so there was a chance.

My arms full of pigs, I ran to the checkout. There were hundreds of people in line. Many had dozens of children and overflowing carts filled with life’s necessities.  A few stared at me and my arms filled with colorful pigs.

Yes, they were judging me. I didn't care. I had my loot.

Eventually I made it outside. I took a deep breath. The air smelled a little off, but that could have been because the Walmart was in Porter Ranch, during the gigantic Aliso Canyon natural gas leak. Or that just could have been the smell of Walmart.

 I didn’t care, I was just glad to be outside. With the pigs.

When I got home, I was surrounded by Danes.  Excitedly I took out a Pigglesworth for each dog and presented them with a flourish.

Nothing. Nada. They barely blinked.

Dalai finally politely nosed one and walked away, bored. Poppy the Brittany was interested and poked it. When it grunted she leapt back in terror and took off.

Finally, Jasper crept up on a green piggie from behind. He grabbed it by the head and took off grunting it while running circles of joy. 

Success! He LOVED his Pigglesworth.

It was always nearby. He even took it to bed, so if either of us rolled over in the middle of the night, we were startled awake by grunts.

Unfortunately, I discovered that since they are cheap rubber, Pigglesworths do not, in fact, last forever. In less time than you can imagine, the noses were gnawed off, and the stuffing yanked out, leaving dozens of husks of colorful rubber.  I’ve taken to impaling them on fence posts, like heads of pagans in the Middle Ages.

Lately Jasper has been standing in front of the fence, sadly whining. Which means one thing.

So help me, I need to go back to Walmart.

*Pigglesworths are available online. From China. Between the cost and the shipping they average about $15 a pig. If they are in stock. Which they never are. I’ve checked. Honest.

Losing JP

 Recently over a single weekend, my mother fell - and for a time it seemed like she might die; my horse broke an in probably a career ending way, and I had to return my beloved JP back to the rescue.

Don’t judge me, but of the three incidents, losing JP is the one that haunts me.

Mom was/is getting the best possible care and so was/is Talen. There is absolutely nothing I could do for either of them that wasn’t/isn’t being done.

JP is different. I failed him. Repeatedly.

JP (Jackson Pollack)  came to me in July when he was five months old and 87 pounds. He is an absolute stunning, loving, sweet and huge Harlequin Great Dane puppy.The story was that his owner was ill and could not care for him.

While JP obviously was well-treated, he was barely socialized, had zero training and was fearful because of it. He also had a complete lack of boundaries. Zip. 

If he wanted something was on the counter, JP helped himself. Dalai or Jasper probably would too; but they would be furtive about it. 

I always instill a huge amount of Jewish guilt in all of my dogs. They may be naughty; but they feel really bad about it.

It didn’t take long for JP to catch on. He continued to counter surf,  but soon learned to slink up and give me guilty side eye to ask for a forgiving cuddle. He is one smart dog.

JP also has boundless energy. That was part of the attraction.

At seven and a half, Dalai is an old Dane, playing is way down on her list of fun activities.  Not so much for one and a half year old Jasper. For him, JP was the  Ever Ready Bunny buddy of his dreams. They chased each other for hours, leaping in the air and colliding with a crash like a pair of fighting T-Rexes, before eventually collapsing in a snoring, content puppy pile.

They adored each other and their good-natured devotion never failed to make me laugh.

Okay, I was genuinely pissed when they ate the guest bedroom’s mattress down to the springs, but I needed to replace it anyway. It was falling apart anyway. Sort of.

Because of his lack of socialization JP often missed picking up on other dog’s body language. Like Dalai, She was unimpressed completely with JP, but he didn't understand.

He’d gambol up to her bowing and trying to play. Usually she’d growl. He was a big dopey puppy, so would usually just bounce away, completely confused and upset by her irritation.

It all worked. Until it didn't.

In late November Jasper was neutered. Danes are prone to bloat, and the best way to prevent stomach torsion is a gastroplexy where the stomach is stitched to the wall so it can’t twist during a bloat.

I have this done when my dogs are being neutered or spayed, so they only have go through surgery once. It is major operation, but much safer than having their stomach flip.

I was a wreck, but Jasper came through it well. He never fussed with his incision so he didn't even wear the cone of shame. After a few days he  was feeling pretty good was nearly impossible to keep quiet.

When I separated the boys, they howled for each other, and JP quickly learned how to turn door knobs, so I gave up. They played, albeit a little fiercely than usual.

This was my first mistake. 

After a week I brought Jasper in for a vet check and he seemed to be doing great. He had dissolving stitches, so he didn’t need to return . He was good to go.

Weirdly, he started having mood swings. Jasper has the best temperament of any dog I’ve ever known. I literally had never heard him growl. Until he was neutered. The longer it was post-neuter, the crabbier he became. I chalked it up to changing hormones and figured it would pass.

Wrong.

A couple of weeks later I was replacing a garden fence that JP had blundered through and knocked down. Out of nowhere JP and Jasper got into it for real. This was not a small fight, WWE fake fight. This was the real thing. 

They were ripping each other apart. When they finally were separated , Jasper’s incision had burst open and JP’s head sported a gash that eventually took seven stitches to close. They each had a dozen or so other more superficial wounds.

I took each to the vet, separately since I was afraid to have them in the car together. It turned out that Jasper was desperately ill. Apparently he was one of those rare (Mega Millions rare) dogs allergic to dissolving stitches. His had become infected, which explained his bad temper, and while they were fighting, the incision exploded.He immediately went into emergency surgery.

The following evening, while Jasper was still in the hospital recuperating, Mom fell.  Ten hours later she finally let me call the paramedics to transport her to the hospital. Where she promptly became semi-comatose.

Oh, and the vet checked Talen, my new show horse the next morning, and found him worse after a miracle treatment. Good times.

That night I picked up Jasper. The boys were wary around each other. JP in particular was nervous. He was always a fearful dog, but now he was terrified. Every time Jasper approached him, he’d growl.

A smart person would have crated him and let them both calm down.  Not me, I put JP in his crate, but when when Jasper climbed on the bed, JP had a fit in the crate, I let him out. 

Stupid, stupid move.

All hell broke out. They tore into each other. It took about five minutes get them apart, and it was horrifying, like a scene from a massacre. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the dogs and I were covered with blood.

A return trip to the ER, (“Is that Jasper? Didn’t he just leave?”), proved that under all the gore, Jasper had no new injuries. They cleaned him up and I took him home.

I was in shock, but realized that JP was going to have to go. For his own safety. 

I spent the night with JP in Mom’s room with the other dogs locked in my bedroom. Even though JP was cut up and wounded, he curled up next to me and cuddled all night. As usual, he practically purred when he was close.

I cried for five hours straight and in the morning made arrangements with the rescue to return him.

Since I was incapable of driving a dear friend drove JP and I the three hours to the rescue. I cried the whole way. When we walked in, JP started to shake and clung to me. The rescuer had to literally pull us apart.

All the behaviorists and dog trainers and experts tell me I did the right thing. That the dogs would never get along again. That it was better for JP.

I don’t’ believe them. They didn’t see the look of betrayal in JP eyes as I left him. I have never, ever deliberately hurt an animal before, and I don’t know that I will ever recover – even though he probably has.

Mom has mostly recovered, and will be coming home soon. Talen is probably the same. But I'll never stop worrying about JP.

Mouse Apocalypse

Rodents generally don’t make me squeamish. At my mom’s old farmhouse, they are literally part of the woodwork. When they skitter in the wall behind my bed at night, I smack the wall as they pass by. It startles them enough to go somewhere else.

But in the past few weeks I not only trapped more than 12 of the buggers, but spotted one in the bathroom and the cat’s room. Tilly, the former feral cat, just glared at me and as if to say, “For god’s sake don’t you see that thing? Take care of it!”

She had a point. It was time to call out the big guns. It as actually well past the time.

I typed “Rodent Eradication” into Angie’s List. There weren't many choices. I didn't consider anyone using poison . Not only did I not want mice climbing in the walls to die, but more importantly, poison doesn’t just kill the mouse; it drives them outside where they can be eaten by birds and other creatures. Including my dogs.  Then it kills them too.

There were only a few companies left, but Rodents Stop! had great reviews, and an ridiculous lifetime guarantee.  Try and find that in New England! Just another reason to live in Los Angeles!

A few days later a man wearing a Rodents Stop t-shirt and carrying a ladder and a big flashlight was at my door. He grimaced a lot while he looked under the house, in the attic and behind my kitchen appliances. He shook his head sadly, muttering, “They are nesting here. And there. And there. Oh, man. You have a big problem.”

He informed me that my home was infested. The mice had turned my attic into a rodent Four Seasons. They shredded the insulation for their beds and were enjoying the good life. There was probably a little pool and Jacuzzi up there. And, by the way, there was “a LOT of daytime activity.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The idea made me shudder. I could feel mice surrounding me. 

We agreed that Rodents Stop! would come two days later. They would remove the pest-filled insulation and vacuum the attic and crawlspaces. Then they’d replace the insulation and mouse-proof the house. 

It would only cost the equivalent of a great used car.

I practically threw the deposit at them. I’d have done almost anything to get the damn things gone and my house back.

I have floaters in one eye, but I am convinced what I saw in the kitchen that night was mice. Even though all three Great Danes snore and fart while they sleep, I know I heard squealing and little mouse feet stomping around all night. Every time a dog tail touched me, I was sure it was a mouse.

I didn’t get much sleep.

Two mornings  later, at precisely 7:15 am, two trucks filled with equipment and nine men pulled up. The men yanked on gas masks and went to work.

By 4:30 that afternoon, there was shiny new insulation, fresh cement patches in footings and new screens to the crawl space. The attic was filled with traps to catch any mice that initially got away. 

Part of the deal was that Rodents Stop would come by  a few times a week to check and empty the traps.

I sighed with relief as I handed the supervisor the final check.

I'm not stupid,  knew there would be a few outlier mice that escaped the vacuums and the traps. Still, I about threw up that night when I opened my closet door and saw one looking at me.

I’m just surprised the police didn’t show up; I screamed that loudly. “God damn, MOUSE!” The dogs blinked at each other, they’d seen this show before and were unimpressed.

It’s been about a week, and I haven’t seen another.

Mouse apocalypse: Mission accomplished.

Behind Blue Eyes (and Black Spots)

Yesterday my sister-in-law told me that I was insane. It’s not the first time. It’s not even the first time this week. (I could mention that some people have 30 + goats, three dogs and five cats, but I digress.)

The point is, she’s not the only one. Since I got a third Great Dane that sentiment has become a chorus.

I did have a plan when I acquired JP, the five-month-old rescue. I thought Jasper, the 14-month-old Dane needed a playmate. He loves playing with Dalai the Dane, but at seven, Dalai no longer has the stamina to play for nearly as long as Jasper thinks is appropriate. That is, constantly.

Jasper loves his regular visits with Blue, a lovely, patient three-year-old Dane who just flops on her stomach while Jasper pesters.  Naturally I assumed he would literally leap at the prospect of having a new playful friend.

Like most crazy people, I am a little delusional.

The afternoon I picked up JP I had to literally unload him from the SUV. He didn’t know how to jump down, and when I helped him out, he slid onto the ground in 87 pounds of puppy mush. After a few seconds he popped up and started to bound around the yard in search of something interesting.

Then he spotted Poppy. JP thought she was fascinating. He gallumped up to her, brimming with dopey joy. In response, she snapped at him. He was shocked and tumbled over in surprise. (He tips over a lot – his feet are the size of soup plates.)

By then Jasper had shoved his way over.  JP was ecstatic to see another normal-sized playmate. Jasper, somehow knew JP wasn’t here for a playdate, but rather was staying.  Jasper was not pleased.

In response to JPs delight, Jasper knocked him down and growled. Again, JP was shocked.  

By the time Dalai joined the grumbling crowd, JP was confused and befuddled. Dalai just sniffed him and stomped away in a disgusted fury.

For the next day, that’s how it went. Dalai and Poppy ignored JP’s clumsy overtures, and Jasper snapped and groused loudly. Just as I was starting to think that this wasn’t going to work, Jasper and JP started playing. Hard.

They zoom around the back yard at top speed, leaping in the air and colliding as they hit the ground. Inevitably JP lands with an earthshaking thud, and before he registers what happened, he’s be on his feet chasing Jasper. 

Later when they are exhausted, they collapse on my bed, their feet tangled together a mass of spotted legs. They are inseparable.

I immediately signed JP up for puppy school. Other than housebreaking him, his previous owners had taught him nothing. Zip. He came with no boundaries. He counter surfs. He steals toys, often from Jasper’s mouth. Anything and everything in his path goes into his mouth.

It’s like living with a really huge, adorable, drooling, snoring toddler.

Since this isn’t my first Dane puppy I’m already in the habit of keeping food in cabinets, the refrigerator or inside the microwave. Needless to say, my shoes go in the closet with the door tightly closed.

For the first few weeks everything was easy. The weather was great, so the dogs blew off steam chasing each other around the horse paddock for hours. I walked each of them a mile a day.

Then it got hot. Surface of the sun, hot. For nearly three weeks in it was 90 degrees before eight am and topped out around 109. The dogs would charge out of the air-conditioned house and freeze as they hit a wall of heat.  They never stayed out for long and always returned panting, their eyes glazed with heat. 

Walks were out of the question; their paws would burn on the pavement.

We were all bored ,crabby and getting on each other’s nerves. 

Once I came home to the shredded remains of brand new package of poop bags scattered throughout the house. The ones that were ripped were draped across the furniture like streamers. At least the redecorating exhausted them.

During the heatwave, there was one day I had to be gone all afternoon and evening. I came home just long enough to feed the dogs and put them out. When I herded them inside, they were visibly vibrating with energy. But I had to leave again.

When I finally got home, I knew there was going to be trouble. But I wasn’t quite ready for absolute devastation. My mistake.

The first thing I spotted was the remains of that week’s New Yorker. I hadn’t even had a chance to read Talk of the Town . My bed was littered with scraps of book I couldn’t identify. Bits of a mouse trap were scattered in the living room. The guest room held the remains of a sponge. Tucked into the couch were my expensive sunglasses, the glass and arms gnawed beyond repair. Even my hairbrush was chomped.

Then there was the box of envelopes. It used to hold my checkbook, two books of stamps and a bunch of those return address labels charities send out. 

The box was shredded, the envelopes were missing and the check register was limp with drool.  The checks and stamps were gone. Completely eaten.  The address labels were untouched.

I surveyed the mess from the door and shouted, “Oh. My. God! Bad dogs! Bad! Bad! Dogs!” 

I stood stock still for a moment. JP blew past me into the yard in a full-on gallop. This was obviously not his first rodeo and he was getting out of Dodge and smacking range.

As I went room to room assessing the damage, Jasper followed me with an expression of complete surprise. He would have been more believable if a stamp wasn’t stuck to his forehead.

As I was picking up the wreckage, JP crept in and put his head in my lap. He was equal parts terrified and sorry.

It was far too long after fact to punish him, so I cursed and patted him. He sighed and climbed into my lap and fell asleep.

It’s not easy being a puppy. Especially one who is the size of a mini-horse at five months, and on his third home.

It’s not much easier being his person. But being nuts does help.

You're Never Alone with Three Great Danes and a Brittany

When Dalai the Great Dane joined my family, my friend Richard shook his head sadly and said, “You will never have another boyfriend.”

When Richard’s right, he’s right.

Since all was lost on that front, I recently acquired a third. 

It didn’t happen quite that way, but it might as well have. Here’s the real story: I’m insane.

My life was relatively peaceful. Dalai the seven-year-old  Great Dane, Jasper the 14 month-old Great Dane and Poppy the 11 year-old Brittany, were all happy. They played, barked and got along as well as three dogs in a small house can. Equally important,  I was happy. Naturally I had to make a change.

One day I was on the Great Dane Fanatics Facebook page, ostensibly to see puppy pictures. A woman had posted that she was looking for a rescue puppy.

Sadly, there are a lot of Great Danes available for adoption that are about a year or older. This is because people are stupid. They spend a small fortune buying a Great Dane puppy and when it’s keeps growing they realize 1) that it is a GREAT Dane, not a miniature Dane and 2) they should have trained it. As I mentioned, these owners are idiots.

Most of the dogs are fantastic, gorgeous and deserve a loving dedicated home. Due to awesome, dedicated rescue people, they usually land somewhere safe.

There are several good Dane rescues in Southern California, and one that poses as a rescue, but is actually a puppy mill. (For real. It’s run by a former child actor.) Actual adoptable Great Dane puppies are unicorns; they are legendary, but only exist in people’s dreams.

I was reading the responses to this lady’s question, when the person that runs the best rescue in SoCal posted a picture of a puppy. A Harlequin puppy. A Harlequin puppy that looked exactly like my late, heart dog, Murray’s father.

My emotions completely overruled common sense. I contacted Rene, the head of the rescue. He mentioned he’d only had the pup for a few days, and hadn’t even put online yet.

In one of those moments that makes no sense, except that it happened, I filled out the application and sent it. I figured Rene would be deluged with responses - there are about a million people on that Facebook page. And they are all Great Dane fanatics.

 I assumed I’d never hear from him again. I never win anything.

After I hit send on the app, I took Jasper for a walk. It was lovely. After a ton of hard work on both of our parts, Jasper  had turned into a very nice dog.

By the time we got home, there was a call from Rene. We chatted for a long time, and he told me the dog - his name, soon to be changed, was Reggie -  was mine.

I said I could pick him up in a couple of days. He suggested I come by the next day. Which is how, on one of the hottest days of the summer, I found myself driving to San Marcos with a puppy-sized crate in the back of my SUV.

I arrived at the address on a quiet tidy street. It was a normal-looking house. It was also really quiet. The only sign that this was a Great Dane rescue were the pallets of dog food by the door. I rang the bell and was greeted by the sound of a tiny dog barking wildly.

The door opened and there were three stunning, white, hearing/sight impaired Great Danes  (breeding harlequin to  harlequin, or merle to merle effort to create puppies with spots often results in disabled dogs) and a tiny, Dashound, who obviously ran the place. Rene, brought up the rear. I barely noticed him.

The three white Danes were beautiful, perfectly trained and not for adoption. Any one of them was better behaved than any dog I’ve ever owned. Or met. Did I mention they were deaf and mostly blind?

Rene took me into the backyard, which, thanks to artificial turf, was also impeccable.

“Are you ready to meet Reggie?” he asked.

I nodded, and he put the pretty white dogs in the house and disappeared around the corner to get Reggie.

A few minutes later an enormous, gangly, elephant of a dog came bounding towards me. He was almost the size of Jasper, but with the clumsiness of a puppy.

When he spotted me, the pup ran behind Rene and barked at me with a grown dog bark.  He clung to Rene like Velcro. 

Rene went into the house to get the paperwork, and the puppy followed, slamming into the glass door with a crash. He picked himself up and crashed into the door again.

No doubt he really was five months old. No question.

I sat on the ground and ignored Reggie (soon-to-be JP) while I talked to Rene and filled out forms.

“I brought way too small a crate,” I said. The puppy sidled up to me warily. He ran away, and then rushed back. He tried to stop but instead fell into my lap and drooled on me. I scratched his ear. If he could have purred, he would have. Instead he drooled more.

“He doesn’t need a crate.” Said Rene. “I took him to the vet this morning to get microchipped and he was perfect in the car. Oh, he was 87 pounds. “

I gulped. Jasper was 50 pounds at five months.

He added proudly, “He’s going to be big. Look at those feet.”

They were huge. His legs were the size of Murray’s, and at 35 inches at the withers, Murray was not a small dog.

“I imagine he’s going to be between 160 and 180 when he’s done,” Rene added merrily.

I felt myself go pale, and it wasn’t because of the heat.

It was a good thing that by that time I was awash in drool and in love.  

As almost an aside Rene said, “He’s not terrific on a leash yet. His owner got sick and didn’t have time for him.” 

Okay then. I felt a tiny twinge of misgiving, but I shoved it away. He was so cute.

Between the two of us, Rene and I  maneuvered the dog into the car.   Rene was right. JP was a champ in the car. It took forever to get home, but he settled into the backseat, with his head on the console and occasionally my right arm. By the time we pulled into my driveway, four hours later, we were bonded. And I was soaked with drool.

.

A social life is overrated anyway. With three Great Danes I’m never alone.

Way Out West and the Young Horse Show

In the spring of 2014 my heart hurt. My beloved and talented show hunter Blind Faith aka Lucy Van Pelt, was sixteen years old and had spent a year recovering from surgery to repair a torn suspensory. Prior to her injury she had never been better. 

But the surgery and time off didn’t work. Lucy was officially retired and I was distraught.

In that state, I made an entirely emotional and ridiculous financial decision to breed her. Luckily Lucy was exceedingly talented, and I found out later, carried good blood lines. 

Phew, she saved my butt once again.

My trainer and I started looking at potential baby daddies.  Since artificial insemination is the gold standard for sport horses, and thanks to innovations in shipping frozen semen, there is literally a world of stallions to choose from. That meant stallions from Germany, Canada and Ireland were all on the table.

The sheer number of choices was mind boggling; the process was like Tinder or Match.com for equines. The only limits are your goals and your wallet.

I was looking for an amateur hunter. That meant the stallion needed a reputation for babies that were amateur friendly and being able to take a joke. I'm not an "amateur" amateur. I'm a real amateur. I needed a regular comedian.

Lucy had a jump for days, but her movement isn’t the best.  So we also wanted a stallion with a great way of going to improve upon that. We picked Westporte, a Canadian  Warmblood who had all the attributes on my long checklist.

I wired a bunch of money to Canada and when Lucy’s obstetrician/vet decided she was at peak fertility, Lucy went to the clinic. Without even a Wham! Bam! or Thank you, m’am, she was knocked up. 

At 30 days, Lucy was confirmed pregnant. It was determined that she was carrying twins which is not good. So one was terminated (hopefully the untalented and lame one) and Lucy came home to hang her buddies for the next ten and a half months.

I spent the time watching Lucy’s girth and moaning increase. Other than the near-constant sighing, she was happy as a clam.

I  however, worried. Was she spending too much time out in the sun? It was 110 degrees, was the baby getting fried? Was she eating too much? Too little?

I was lucky enough to have secured a spot for Lucy and the baby at Three Wishes Farm, Anneliese Kannow's place. Anneliese is not only a smart lady, who knows seemingly everything about breeding sport horse, she is a very calming influence. 

Anneliese assured me everything was going to be fine, and because I was new at this and ignorant, I believed her.

Turns out, she was right.

The last day of February 2015, Lucy gave birth. I got to the clinic about 20 minutes after Faith did.

After an hour of contemplating her situation, Faith figured out how to use her legs and started to nurse. I thought she was perfect.

Now it's just a matter of time. You know, the waiting is the hardest part.

That said, baby horses are just about the most fun, ever. They are ridiculous, beautiful and constantly curious all at once. Did I mention how cute they are? Even the ugly ones are adorable. 

Faith and Lucy shared their pasture with another mare and her colt. The foals became inseparable. They would charge around the field, running up and down the hills and jumping over logs and sticks and invisible things. It was awesome.

Eventually the babies spent more time together than with their moms, which made weaning a non-event. Neither Faith nor Lucy found it nearly as traumatic as I did, which just figured.

I went out to visit at least once a week. I’d holler for Faith and I’d squint at her as she ran toward my handful of peppermints.

She inherited her daddy’s way of going. Yay!

We put the babies in a jump chute over tiny crossrails a couple of times. Faith didn’t have the greatest form, but she had ability. Like her momma, the height of the jumps was not going to be a problem.

This weekend was the West Coast segment of the Young Horse Show series.  It’s a relatively new program in the United States, but is an institution in Europe. It’s a way breeders can get their young horses judged on confirmation and jumping.  

When Anneliese suggested I send Faith with her babies to the show, I was in. It would be an invaluable experience for both of us. 

It would be Faith's first time in a trailer without her mom and she’d get bathed, clipped, have her mane pulled and braided and spend her first night in a stall. All good things for her future life as a show horse.

But mostly, a photographer was going to be there. It’s all about the pictures.

Faith was a superstar. She loaded and shipped well, when it came time to get her mane pulled and her whiskers trimmed, she was patient. Ish. She even put up with a bath and wore a sheet to keep clean.

When I arrived, I barely recognized the filly in the stall. Faith was all grown up. In two years she had gone from a zygote to becoming a horse shockingly reminiscent of her mother.

I had to walk away from her for a moment to take it all in.

As for the show; it was a blast. I sniffled a little when the handlers took her into the ring. She was following along like a real horse. 

Once in the ring, Faith moved well and her ability to jump was obvious, even if her style needed some polish. The judges comment were dead on, “Scopey,” they wrote. “But needs to find her technique.”

I can live with that.

Hell, I was so excited that the first thing I did when I got home was run to the backyard to brag about Faith to Lucy. 

Lucy was far more interested in her peppermints, than my news.