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.

Holiday Photoshoot, Cursing Included At No Extra Charge

Fall is my favorite season. For one thing, it has an almost perfect holiday: Halloween. There’s no family to visit, you don’t need a date and there’s lots of candy.  Tons actually, because although my neighborhood doesn’t have many kids, I buy enough treats for an invading army.  Mmm, snack-size Snickers!

There is only one downside to this season: Holiday photo shoots. 

It’s my own fault. When I moved to Los Angeles I thought it would be funny to dress up the Keeper the Perfect Dog in goggles and a scarf and position her in my bright red convertible. It was easy to do and the card was a huge hit.

After that, every year I upped the ante. One year the Brittanys wore Santa hats and pulled a red wagon full of toys and other Brittanys. After that came the Halloween costumes. Over the years Murray the Dane was a fireman, Quattro the Brittany wore a yarmulke and Morgan Brittany was a Pilgrim.

I became a victim of my own success. People started looking forward to my cards. A few friends actually saved them. The pressure is enormous.

The pictures inevitably turn out great. How can they miss? My dogs are extremely photogeneic. 

But the process isn’t easy. Friends with an artistic bent serve as photographers. They rarely volunteer more than once. Perfect Keeper was a once-in-a-lifetime model.

While it's amusing to a Great Dane wearing a fireman’s costume, you’re missing angst that goes into getting that picture.  And the many blurry outtakes. Oh, and the cursing. There's always lots of cursing.

You’ve all heard about stars that schedule exactly one hour for a photo shoot and not a second more? Those folks are a cinch compared to working with three or four Brittanys and a few Great Danes.

You can - in theory- reason or bribe people, even rock stars. But there aren’t enough chicken snacks in the universe to coerce a Great Dane puppy into keeping on a set of reindeer ears. Nor is there a costume in creation, that will remain on a Brittany who wants it off.

Also, Brittanys are hunting dogs.  Maximum ADD is part of their DNA. The Danes do whatever the Brirttanys do. You get the picture. It gets dizzying.

Last Sunday I mentioned to my friend Maureen that it was time for the annual photo shoot. She is a former creative director for GM’s ad company and is a graphic designer. She has formidable taste and I promised excellent bourbon as an added enticement. She took the bait.

She became a little wary when she walked into the living room and saw a huge cardboard box labeled ‘Halloween.’ The box was filled with costumes. For the dogs.

Maureen opted to put the Jockey on Jasper, while I dressed Poppy in the Super Girl cape. This was not Dalai’s first rodeo; when she saw the box, she tore into her crate to hide. It didn’t work. The crate takes up half my bedroom and she still hangs out of it. She sighed deeply as I called her out.

Naturally, as I attached the Jester ears to Dalai, Jasper removed the Jockey and Poppy shredded her cape. They’d all outgrown the Jailer outfit, and the Pilgrim didn’t work either. Sadly, the Devil ears were too tight. But eventually we forced costumes on them and all of us tumbled out the door into the rapidly disappearing evening light.

The horses were mildly interested in the goings on until the shouting began.  Then they quietly retreated out of camera range before we could put costumes on them.

Poppy began by sweetly sitting in my lap, pawing at her hat. Soon she took out her frustrations by snarling at Jasper who ignored her, instead rolling around at my feet ensuring that he’d be blurry. Dalai turned toward the horses as if begging for help. No one looked at the camera at the same time.

After about a half an hour, and probably 50 pictures, it started to get dark. Maureen and I both needed a drink.

We took off the costumes and Dalai and Poppy ran to the house.  Jasper grabbed his and zoomed around the yard with it. Maureen and I opened a bottle of Larceny and drank up.

There were about four usable photos. You’ll see them around the holidays. In the meantime, you can see this video of the proceedings  that Maureen took before being overcome by the giggles.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QRei9Phwrs&feature=youtu.be

            You are welcome.

You Think Zika Is Contagious? Try Puppy Fever.

             

  I have a new puppy. Acquiring him was probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but not the dumbest either.

              

I didn’t need a puppy, but two of my friends had just acquired little ones, and I was suddenly desperate for a pink tummy and little shark teeth of my own.  Human children don’t appeal to me. At all. Actually, they scare me. But put me around a puppy, kitten or foal, and I become an irrational fool.

             

I’ve been told that mothers don’t remember how bad childbirth is, which is how they're able to have more than one kid.

Puppies are like that. It had been six years since Dalai the Dane was a baby, Naturally I’d forgotten what a pain puppies. are. Friends tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. I wanted one.

Admittedly the last 12 months have rough. I lost my heart dog, Murray the Dane last August, my dear aunt Maud Ann passed in January, and Wes the horse died suddenly in February.

The future isn’t bright either. Rocky the elderly Brittany that I adopted in 2015, is failing and both Lucy the horse and Poppy the Brittany were diagnosed with Cushings disease. 

Thankfully, Dalai is doing great, but she’s a six year-old Great Dane, which makes her – like me- late middle aged. I needed something young and lively in the house. A puppy would do the trick.

I started scanning the rescue pages, but none of the Danes that fit my particular specs (a male that was good with all dogs, cats and horses) were available in my area.  So I began looking for reputable breeders.

My choices in California had just had litters and all their puppies were placed.  I finally settled on a breeder in Ohio. She was perfect: she’d been breeding for 20 years, was a Great Dane and obedience judge and I knew people who’d gotten dogs from her. 

I contacted her and got a form letter back saying that she would have a litter arriving in time to place in late summer.  That worked perfectly with my schedule. I always go home in mid-August to see mom and watch the Travers race in Saratoga. I could pick up the puppy on my way home.

Perfect and sensible. Then the stupid began. I started browsing pictures of puppies on Great Dane Facebook pages.  On a whim I contacted a breeder in Kentucky.  She sent me photos of the males in her latest litter. 

Instant mush. I was inquiring about where to send money practically before the email alert pinged.

I know better than this. I know you should never get a purebred dog without meeting both parents. You should check the breeder out with the AKC and probably the BBB. I did none of the above.

Instead I immediately sent her a deposit through PayPal and began figuring out how to get the puppy from Kentucky to Los Angeles without him flying cargo in the summer. This was not simple.

I discovered that the breeder lived in the Kentucky equivalent of where my mom lives in Massachusetts. That is, the middle of nowhere.

                

 In the past the breeder had shipped puppies out of the Nashville airport. Bing! We had a winner.

I’d  visit mom in Massachusetts going via Nashville and picking up the puppy on the way.  At eight weeks, he would still be small enough to fly onboard. End of problem.

Then, a friend convinced me to help her move some horses to Pennsylvania by way of Kentucky. From there, I’d go to mom. It made sense at the time so that’s what we did.  

                

After two days of non-stop driving from Santa Anita with only one tornado and a hailstorm, we met the breeder at a Burger King parking lot in a tiny Kentucky town right off the freeway. I handed her an envelope filled with money, and she passed me the puppy. It was a lot like a drug deal, but with a 35-foot horse trailer, six racehorses and a tiny puppy. There might be an HBO series in this.

                

Jasper – named for painter Jasper Johns - was a scrawny little thing and slept a lot. This was good; we had another 20 hours of driving ahead of us. He pretty much collapsed on whoever wasn’t driving, waking only when we stopped for gas and to feed and water the horses. Then he would shake himself awake, pee and drop back to sleep all without making a sound. He was the perfect traveling companion.

                

Even when we finally got home he was nearly faultless. At eight weeks, he asked to go out and immediately do his business. He'd play for a little while and then crash.

               

Like most Danes, Jasper doubled in size  in two weeks.  Not surprisingly, as he’s grown, he’s turned into a typical puppy. This does not please any of the other quadrupeds already in my house 

He worships Dalai, who is a little terrified of him, and follows poor Rocky around incessantly. Poppy, who has no maternal instincts whatsoever, and thriving self-esteem, promptly bit him on the ear, so he avoids her most of the time.  Tilly the cat and Jasper have achieved a détente of sorts: they simply ignore each other.

             

Like many new mothers, I'd conveniently forgotten a lot. Like puppies have to go out every two hours for potty breaks, they chew everything they can reach – which with baby Danes is practically everything and they don’t sleep through the night,  Also, some of them, like Jasper, are pukers. Nothing wakes you from a dead sleep like an animal about to throw up.

                

 In other words, my once peaceful household has been turned upside-down. But things will settle down. Eventually. My puppy fever is now satiated. I’m good for at least another six or seven years. Maybe.

The Love of My Life is a Dog; Get Over It

When I first met Murray he was two weeks old and weighed five pounds. That’s pretty normal since Murray is a Great Dane. I never planned to become a Dane owner; I was happily devoted to Brittanys and had three at the time. But when I saw that cute little lump wrapped up in new puppy smell, I fell in hopelessly in love. Like all love, there was no reason involved.  Before I knew it, I was agreeing , no begging, to be allowed to take him home.

A month later we were on our way. Setting the tone for the rest of our lives, Murray ignored the pillow I had set out for him on the passenger seat. Instead he shoved his way onto my lap, wedged beneath the steering wheel . Technically I was driving, but already he was in charge.

The next day brought his first leash lesson and my introduction to the legendary Dane stubbornness.. Oh, he was glad to follow me - as long as I was going where he wanted. However, when a butterfly fluttered by my lovebug transformed into Kujo. Murray started flinging himself around, flopping like a marlin on a fishing line and screaming at the top of his lungs. My neighbors came rushing out to see what the hell I was doing to my puppy.

Eventually we came to an agreement. Murray walked nicely beside me and I gave him regular treats for doing so. Eventually I ditched the snacks and he was just fine. In fact Murray was delighted; all he ever wants to do is be with me.

I mean every second. I can’t remember the last time I was in the bathroom alone.  I had to stop taking baths and switch to showers because he climbs in the tub. There’s something inherently pointless about getting out of the bath covered with more dog hair than when you began.

Almost the second he was housebroken (at 10 weeks, yay!) he began sleeping on my bed with the Brittanys at night. Gradually he took up more room than the three others combined. A few years ago I bought a king-sized bed. It’s still too small.

When most people think of Danes they think of Scooby Doo or Marmaduke— majestic fawn colored dogs with huge pointy ears. Murray is a harlequin, that is white with black spots. I didn’t crop his ears; if anyone in the family was getting plastic surgery it wasn’t going to be the dog. So I can sort of forgive people for not comprehending that he’s a Great Dane.

The first time I took Murray on an outing he was about three months old. We were minding our own business outside a Starbucks in Studio City. A hipster pointed Murray out to his girlfriend and announced loudly, “That,” he said with authority, “is a miniature Great Dane.”   If such a thing existed, I guess it would be a not-so-Great Dane. But at 140 pounds, it isn’t Murray.

When you have a Great Dane one becomes accustomed to people commenting. They seem to believe it’s their duty. One woman loudly declared that he was the ugliest Dalmatian she had ever seen. Which would have upset me if he was a Dalmatian.  Another time a toddler mistook him for a cow. That embarrassed her mother terribly, but at least it was original.

As was the time I was walking in Griffith Park when a businessman in a suit approached me. “What is it?” he asked pointing at Murray.  I told him ‘it’ was a Great Dane. “No,” he insisted impatiently, “What species is it?”  I thought he was joking. “He’s a Great Dane, a dog” I replied. The man argued with me. 

People always ask where his saddle is. I have taken to telling them that I always wanted a pony. This seems to make them happy. At the very least it makes them go away.

We drew a lot of attention when I started competing Murray in agility. Danes are uncommon in the sport for a lot of reasons, primarily because of their size. Over the years I have had a number of competitors and officials make it clear that we weren’t welcome. I, however, am as stubborn as any Dane. We competed quite successfully because Murray loved it, until he was too old to continue. At eight.

That’s another thing: strangers feel it’s their job to tell me that giant breed dogs don’t live very long. That’s just mean. I am sadly aware of the statistics, but I also ignore them.  So does Murray. He’s now nine and a half and doing just fine thank you. He still chases his ball, plays with his sisters and goes for walks. And rules my world

.