Cavalier King Charles Spaniel – Bridging the Paradigms: re-connecting people and the planet

Walking the Birthday Walk with Dogs

December 30, 2011 by Robyn

When you live the human-animal bond, you celebrate birthdays with your multi-species family.

Even when the birthday in question is yours and you’re getting older (it happens yearly).

Okay, we were celebrating my birthday this time. But it’s in the dead of winter, after Christmas, before spring. In Seattle. Pretty much the weather sucks.

Does Grace the Cat care? Of course, she stays home.

Do the dogs care? Of course not. They’re Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, born to flirt and goof off. They have jackets and a lazy human who doesn’t like to be cold. They can routinely trump that.

So why not take the dogs for a walk in the sun on my birthday?

There are hazards. It’s Seattle. In winter. At the beach.

You expect wind at the beach. But on a sunny day you expect sun. You forget that in winter the sun only manages to get halfway up the sky, and then only stays there for 20 minutes (15 on the weekends, it’s apparently celestial labor law). And the sun, being a wienie, races through the winter days here as fast as possible, so it can hang out somewhere warm, like, well, somewhere else way far south of us.

Birthdays may warm you up, but the air, it’s colder than all get out. Why? Because we’re way far north in Seattle, almost to Canada, which is right at the North Pole. Especially in winter. Because when you’re at the beach in Seattle, you’re right in the path of that cold north wind, nothing stops it, and why is that? Because Canada ducks as it flies over, that’s why.

So, anyway, at the beach on my birthday. With the dogs. Walking the sun walk. The dogs are thrilled because the sun shining means they can see their prey better, which is all manner of completely uninteresting inedibles that smell as bad as they look and the dogs can’t sniff fast enough.

Really. Multi-species families are cute. And gross.

But it’s sunny. Except I forgot about that halfway up in the sky bit. It may be sunny, but the sun isn’t up. It doesn’t clear the West Seattle hill in the winter. We forgot that. So we’re in the shade. On a sunny day. Freezing our city slickerness right off.

The dogs don’t care. They’re on an adventure. They’re too low and too small to be real windbreaks. And, now I notice, they are standing behind me.

Survival of the fittest. They win.

“Hey,” I say to them. “Want cookies?”

Of course they do. Walk is over. Birthday cookies coming up.

Next year I’m celebrating my birthday in the summer. Every once in awhile we have one of those in Seattle.

I hope before, well, next winter.

Happy birthday me!

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, creating community, family harmony, family rituals, human-animal bond, humor, multi-species families

Solstice Sleeping: Dogs Softly Breathing of Home

December 23, 2011 by Robyn

I awaken in the night and hear it. Silence. I wait for more. It comes. I smile.

I hear the dogs breathing softly in the night. Now, in the longest, darkest time of the year, I awaken in the still, silent night and hear only my dogs’ relaxed breathing. I smile. It’s comforting. Peaceful.

My dogs snore of home.

I can tell them by their breathing. Murphy, my delicate, mild-mannered oh-so-polite aging girl, snores like the proverbial lumber jack. Only, size for size, decibels louder. First time I heard it, she had just come home to live with me, and I leaped out of bed, sure we were being invaded. Over 13 years later, each time a snort startles me, I know the invasion was successful, and smile.

Sometimes, most times, she breathes with soft, gentle sighs. Other times I rest a hand lightly on her back, to make sure she’s still there. She’ll rouse and snuggle up, and we’ll go back to sleep in the cold dark night, back to back, butt to butt.

I used to wonder, way back when, if I could ever love this puppy who was not my beloved, long-lost English Cocker, if we could ever fit. We were strangers, but it didn’t take long for love to settle in my heart. Her snorts, her relaxed sleep, remind me.

Now, as I hear her soft breathing, I know that love, home, settled deep in hers. In theirs. Because all my animals sleep well, comforted in their safety. Knowing we are family. We are together. They do not have to be on guard. They can let down. They can breathe softly in the night.

Love created space to sleep.

Alki, my raucous ten-year-old boy, is rambunctious by day, soft murmuring dreamer by night. His breath whispers of deep dreams, contentment, secure and relaxed and deeply resting in his secured spot in bed. Storing up for daytime mischief.

I smile in the night.

Sure, I poke Murphy sometimes when her snoring shakes me out of mine. She’ll start to grumble but is asleep at the next twitch. Alki’s soft breathy lullaby ripples mildly.

I never hear Grace the Cat breathing. No snuffles from her cat perch above my desk, no soft snores from her Snuggly Safed bed at night. She’s there. Just can’t hear her. She’ll prowl the night, inspect us, snuggle.

Suspended in darkness, I am awake, happy, content. They are here, content with me. Species mingled, personalities meshed, family.

In the heart of a 21^st-century city the only sound in the deep night is a 21^st-century family, sleeping the human-animal bond.

Soft breathing, counterpoint. Pause. Rhythmic.

Life resting before dawn.

How did it come to this? How did so many years go by before contentment settled so easily on me?

But it did. We’re family. Here. Now. Content. Woman, cat, dogs.

Murphy snuggles closer. Alki is still, soft swoosh rising. Grace the Cat burrows deep.

I hear the dogs softly breathing.

Yes, they snore of home. Of love.

I smile.

All is well.

I am home. We are home.

We are family.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: bridging species, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, family harmony, Grace the Cat, human-animal bond, multi-species families

Animal Communication: On Being Frankly at Home with Animals

December 14, 2011 by Robyn

Living with anyone, especially yourself, can be irritating. You have grand illusions about being saintly, or at least perfect, but reality doesn’t seem to work like that.

So you need a sense of humor, especially if you’re living with me. I’m lucky that my two Cavaliers, Murphy and Alki, and Grace the Cat know how to laugh.

I love my kids, my beautiful multi-species family. They are living reminders of what it takes to live the human-animal bond. They love me, or do a really good job of faking it. I appreciate that. Makes me feel good. Illusions and all that. (I mean, really, can all your foibles be loved all the time?)

Sometimes my kids irritate me. They’re not perfect and that can make me impatient. Or at least exasperated. When their bad habits annoy me, they simply annoy me, even though I stop to think that my bad habits annoy them.

Take my Cavalier boy, Alki. He’s slowed down a bit, but he still has a lot of energy—to chase and eat a stick, track gull poop right off the seawall, eat whatever he can as quickly as he can, roll in muck, bark at anything he feels like … and gulp water just before bedtime.

One night I stomped into the kitchen, yelling at him to quit drinking. He finally stopped.

I was annoyed, since this happens almost every night. They need water, but he can overdo it and barf it (I know, I know, don’t preach about this), and it’s just not thinking. (I know he can think, he proves it all day long. He’s also really good at just doing whatever he wants because he doesn’t think hard enough, one of his bad habits.)

So, I was yelling at him to stop. I grumbled, “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You do everything in excess.”

Alki paused to consider that as he walked away from the water bowl. “Well,” he said deliberately. “I don’t get enough to eat.”

I had to laugh. When you can talk with animals and other beings like I can, you’re privileged to hear exactly what they think, and follow the reasoning process. Alki heard me complain about his tendency to do things in excess, and he went right to the heart of the matter: his favorite thing is to eat, and he doesn’t get to eat in excess. Plus he was being cheerful and logical even while being scolded.

How many of us are like that with the humans in our lives? Or our animals?

I had to stop and marvel at the mind in this dog body. The magnificent dog who chose to be part of my family. Even with my faults. Who is more patient with me than I am with him, and is thus a living example of light and love.

Nope, my multi-species family isn’t perfect. Neither am I. The human-animal bond stretches to accommodate that, if we let it. If we listen, we can hear our family, whatever the species, remind us of that. It makes life worth it. And fun.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal communication, bridging species, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, family harmony, human-animal bond, humor, intuitive communication, multi-species families

Thanksgiving: What We Should Really Be Grateful For

November 21, 2011 by Robyn

I was thinking, what should I be grateful for this Thanksgiving? Then I saw this silly article, again, and I knew.

I’m grateful for common sense and for refusing fear.

This article, written by Joan Raymond and updated 1-25-11 at Pet Health on msnbc.com, suggests sleeping with our animals can give us diseases. Okay, it’s a good article. We have to take health seriously, including our multi-species family’s health. And we have to report on it responsibly, as Joan Raymond does. The article is not silly in the reporting but in the culture it reveals.

Reporters can’t comment on the facts or sense of their articles. That’s why they report: they give the facts and let us figure it out. We need straight objective reporting.

Those of us who comment on the straight objective reporting write about what it means to us. For me, it’s how can we re-connect people and the planet, from people to animals and the land and waters around us.

So, Raymond writes about the things that can get us if we sleep with or kiss our animals. Things like plague (from fleas), meningitis, round worms, and other horrific or just annoying things. Okay, first, really? Our animals should be healthy, just like us! They shouldn’t have these problems, so fix them already!

Here’s the problem with this reporting: it’s all filler material. No common sense. Just fear. You wade all the way through this article and find out that what they’re trying to scare us about never really happens.

People get hurt and killed in cars every day. You can sprain your ankle getting out of bed. You can choke on a cherry.

So do you avoid cars, getting up, or eating cherries?

No. You get smart. You say, no, I’m not going to be afraid of that. But I am going to be careful and pay attention.

So here’s what I’m paying attention to at Thanksgiving. Here’s what I’m grateful for:

I live in a country where we can disagree and still be safe, even though there are plenty of people who would like to change that.
A dear friend sent me a link to an inflammatory documentary on purebred dogs, thinking that my dogs being purebreds was the reason they had some health issues. She cared. It made me think about our assumptions, which I will address in future articles. Mainly: shelters and rescue organizations make a lot of money creating fear and prejudice, when they should be encouraging people to find their heart’s match in a dog or cat. Think, people, think! Talk to each other. Love. Be lucky that your friends care enough about you and your family to say something.
People who were users and not friends have left my life, providing openings for wonderful new adventures, wiser choices, and real friendships. Awesome!
Wonderful stores like East West Bookshop in Seattle and Vashon Intuitive Arts on Vashon Island have made me and my crystal partner, Fallon, welcome. We’ve met many wonderful people. And other venues are welcoming us.
My jade tree, Raymond, was dying, but community came together and saved him. A 200-pound houseplant given to me by my father is going into his fifth decade. Yes!
My great-grandparents had the vision to settle in North Dakota and pass a piece of it on to their descendants.
Finally, at long last, some smart medical practitioners have figured it out!
I’m grateful that my writing has touched lives, and that my book, Bridging Species: Thoughts and Tales About Our Lives with Dogs, was recognized with the prestigious Merial Human-Animal Bond Award.
My multi-species family is proof that the human-animal bond is alive and well and sleeping cozily together at night, 10 years now and counting!

This Thanksgiving we are grateful that we are all here, together, so we can write and talk about what makes sense, what doesn’t, and how we can create love from fear, starting with sleeping sensibly with our animals.

We celebrate Thanksgiving at our house: yes, that means the animals get to eat, too (and no, not stupidly).

We celebrate something everyday at our house, even if it’s just the joy of greeting each other in the morning and at night: in bed.

We celebrate birthdays. We celebrate the day each animal joined the family. We celebrate season changes, holidays, mistakes, triumphs, a good meal, a bad meal being over with, gas in the car, sun and rain, cozy flannel sheets on a winter’s night, friendship and family.

And we celebrate reporters who remind us that they’re sometimes stuck with silly assignments, and can still keep a straight face.

We celebrate Thanksgiving. We invite the whole world to celebrate with us.

Filed Under: Living Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, family harmony, family rituals, human-animal bond, multi-species families

(Not) Meowing for Mizuna: Exploring Greens with Dogs (and a Cat)

November 18, 2011 by Robyn

Cooking is a skill I apparently lost with menopause—and only miss when I’m hungry.

I used to be a great cook. When I say this to friends they always pause, clearly deciding between laughing at what they presumed to be a joke or at what I’d cook, which wouldn’t be. It doesn’t stop me from offering to cook for them. I watch their eyes widen in surprise, and I’m thoroughly delighted when they say something like they just want to spend time with me.

And show up with Thai food. This is called ‘everybody scores.’

I do cook. Just ask my dogs, Murphy and Alki. They think I’m a great cook and take food cues from me: as a team we have wide-ranging tastes and low standards. If it comes out of the fridge if must be good, or else why would it be in there? The cookie jar is a given. We’ll eat our veggies, but never stop hoping for brownies. Or anything with peanut butter.

That’s how I know the dogs and I are related.

Grace the Cat, I’m not so sure about. She’s so smug about being right about everything that she takes convincing. Plus she’s fastidious and skeptical. As it turns out, these are all qualities that I need to rely on, since my cooking skills headed south with my boobs.

I learned this accidentally at the weekly Farmers’ Market in West Seattle. Almost every week I load up on great foods, all the vegetables and fruits you could want, and then some. Problem is, I’ve discovered things I didn’t know existed, and most often can’t figure out how to cook. The farmers are kind and patient, but it’s clear they think I’m an idiot and are just too polite to say so.

Take, for example, pea shoots. I love pea shoots. I have no idea what they are, except pea shoots, but we love them at our house, all of us, even the cat. We’re even doing a video starring pea shoots. Now, the dogs always come running when I come through the door with food, but if I say, “Pea shoots!” then Grace the Cat leaps up from her normal out cold snooze and races to hold down the kitchen counter while supervising grocery unloading.

You hold up a pea shoot and she perks up, meowing. No obstacle is too great as she promptly hunts it down: grocery bags, stuff on the counter, nothing stops her. If I offer pea shoots to the dogs (who are politely waiting on the floor only because they can’t reach the counter), Grace the Cat backflips onto the floor and bulldozes right through them. You’d think that for her, a pea shoot is, well, the fashionable cat’s mouse.

So you can imagine my surprise the day I decided to cook that week’s bounty of pea shoots.

I yanked them out of the fridge with a dramatic flourish and waved them at Grace the Cat. “Pea shoots for dinner,” I announced, grinning at her.

She stared right through them at me. Unrelenting disapproval. Stern outright disbelief.

“What’s your problem?” I asked. “You love pea shoots!”

She didn’t move. Just glared. I stuck them under her nose. She continued to glare at me as she strategically moved her head back.

I looked at the pea shoots. “Well, they do look different this week.” Yes, kind of like an entire species different, but I wasn’t going to say that.

Grace the Cat looked at me like I was an idiot. She is no fool. She knows when something is a pea shoot. And when it is not. Still they had to be eaten.

I tried the dogs next. They examined the suspect pea shoots with long, strained faces and then looked at me like I’d done something embarrassing and disappointing to their tummies.

“Lot you know,” I sniffed. “I admit they look a little weird.” I hesitated, but I’m thrifty and I’d bought them so I’d eat them.

Unless I could pawn them off on the cat. I waved them at her again. Nope.

I cooked those suckers for two dinners. Both were miserable: the suspect pea shoots were lank, bitter, limp, and tough, like spinach gone off the deep end. I sighed and ate it. Both nights the dogs and cat completely avoided me. I thought about how they just didn’t like pea shoots anymore, and about how right they were. They’d known something about that batch that I didn’t.

That weekend at the Farmers’ Market I stopped at my favorite greens vendor. Spring, you know, time for good things.

I stared down at duplicates of the pea shoots I’d suffered through. “What is that stuff?” I asked. “I thought it was pea shoots.”

“Mizuna,” she said, patiently. I think she flinches when she see me coming, but she’s always nice, and I always buy. Not sure what, apparently.

“Mi what ah?” I asked.

“Mizuna. It’s a green.”

“Well, I know that,” I said. It was green. Now, how to ‘fess up with the least embarrassment. “Should you cook it?” I asked innocently.

Shocked, she said in a strained voice, “Oh, don’t do that. Cooking makes it limp. And bitter.”

I giggled. For once the bad food wasn’t my cooking. It was mi what ah. I knew I shouldn’t have cooked it, but I’m not much of a predator, and I just didn’t know if it would fight back harder if I tried to eat it raw.

“I noticed that,” I said. “I sort of accidentally cooked it.”

She was shocked, like nobody could be that dumb. She was also disappointed in me. Like Grace the Cat in her stoic cat way.

“Oh, you shouldn’t do that,” the farmer said.

Good words to hear before I’d suffered through two miserable dinners.

Thing is, I wouldn’t have had to hear them if I’d just paid attention to my kids. The dogs, that goofy cat, they knew.

So now I’m a reformed shopper at the West Seattle Farmers’ Market. The vendors tend to explain things to me as they’re putting them in my bag: this is pea shoots, this is spinach, whatever. People in line shake their heads and sigh. But at least I get home safely. With food we kind of know how to eat.

Food that gets vetted by Grace the Cat.

Which is why I’m sticking to things the cat likes. Pea sprouts (certified by the farmer). Meat. Blueberry muffins. Cheese doodles. Salad. Corn bread, even though mine is more skanky than home on the range.

Because I guess I hit menopause and I’m not so home on the range. But there’s this cool grass I grow on the deck for the kids. They love it, so it must be good. Don’t have to cook it. Cool.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: bridging species, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, creating community, family rituals, human-animal bond, humor, multi-species families

The Not So Crazy Things We Do for Our Animals

November 7, 2011 by Robyn

Here I’d been thinking I was just a bit off. And, as usual, not regretting it a bit.

When I think about being a bit off, I understand that I’m more off than normal. At least that’s what some people tell me, because I’m making a living in partnership with a crystal ball (literally). I did, however, think that I might just be the only person out there who bought a home, and a car, for my animal family.

Thanks to Yvonne DiVita over at BlogPaws I discovered a funky website called Daily Infographic. Where I discovered, in “20 Facts about Pet Ownership,” that I am in the minority but not all alone out there, doing whatever makes sense for my multi-species family.

See Item 7: “16% of dog owners and 14% of cat owners say they bought a home or a car with a pet in mind.” That includes me.

Even back when I didn’t have an animal family.

Back in 1998 I decided I wanted a dog again in my life, after grieving for my beloved English Cocker, Maggie, for 12 years. My landlord wouldn’t allow pets, so I bought a condo. A few months later an irrepressible, goofy Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Murphy Brown, came home to live with me.

Thirteen years later we’re both still here, aging together. We’ve been joined by another Cavalier, my goofy boy, Alki, and Grace the Cat.

The condo wasn’t the only thing I bought. By the time Grace the Cat came along 8 years ago it was clear we had car issues. The fancy Audi I’d bought to drive long distances to visit my nephews was impractical. I needed a family car: something easy to get into and out of with two dogs and a cat in tow.

The Audi went and a Toyota Matrix came. It’s a whole lot easier to get around in. Especially with the animals in tow.

And the condo? I love our condo. My multi-species family loves it. I planned for it to be a place where kids and dogs could come and go while enjoying the beach in our salty, sandy Seattle beach neighborhood. It worked really well for that. What I didn’t count on was the most obvious of all—my animals would age.

The human-animal bond is a strange and wonderful thing. Trying to live a thoughtful life is tough enough alone. Adding animals to the mix can be devastating. I wouldn’t trade it for a life without them, but I can’t sugarcoat it.

That’s where we’ve become our own strange statistic. Not surprising, really, considering the things we’ve shared, from past lives to a cherry addiction.

And a new, tough thing. Murphy and I share a gruesome arthritis: our futures our written in our spines.

It means we need a home where we don’t have stairs. I can do them okay for now, but it’s hard to carry things. Like groceries and handicapped dogs. As I watch Murphy gamely do the stairs, and Alki begin to hurt as well, I see time running out.

It means we’ll have to leave the home I bought for us to live in.

I love our home. My work means that I talk with all life. Our home, Frank, is a real living being, an active presence in our lives and our work. But we’ll have to leave him behind.

People say: “Really? You’d give up your home for a 13-year-old dog?”

To which I say, “Well, wouldn’t you?”

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, family harmony, family rituals, human-animal bond

The Worst Part About Living with Animals

October 22, 2011 by Robyn

I was out with the dogs, scooping poop as we meandered down the street.

The man carefully negotiated the turn on his motorbike and headed up the street toward us. He saw me bagging poop and, with a sympathetic grin, said, “That has to be the worst part of the job.”

“Not even close,” I laughed.

But he got me thinking.

What is the worst thing about living with animals, about living the human-animal bond, about living life as a multi-species families?

Having a migraine and dealing with upset dog tummies in the middle of the night—in a driving rainstorm?

Preparing food when you’re tired?

Baths and grooming?

The medical bills? Or the worry that caused them in the first place?

What it feels like to see the want and need for attention on their faces, and you’re too busy to give it?

Nope, none of those things.

The worst part of living with animals is aging.

Sure, the dying part won’t be a picnic. It will be sad, even if it’s a relief because it’s time (if it is), and I’ll cry a lot and want do-overs. I’ll cry because I’m sentimental and I love them and will miss them. I’ll cry when I think of all the times when I could have been a better friend, even though I know those times start when you’re about 2 and just multiply over the years. And zip by in light-years when you’re living the human-animal bond.

But really, aging is the worst part.

A lot of people give up when frailty strikes an animal companion. Old animals get abandoned. They’re too much work, or people can’t face their own mortality while helping a loved one with theirs. Or the bills are too big. Or they simply can’t accommodate their needs. Sometimes aging isn’t an option because death sneaks up on us.

Most of us stick with our aging animals because we won’t imagine anything else. Because they’re family, a special family: a multi-species one. Because it’s a choice, and not just ours: because our animals choose to grow old, just as we do, and we honor that choice. We watch aging as it happens, and every day our hearts break a little bit more, because we’re enjoying their old age with them, but the days keep slipping by.

I remember when Murphy was a puppy, a goofy high-spirited romper who dug holes bigger than she is and barked all the way down them to China. Now she’s 13, her head twitches a bit at night, the hind end is a bit stiff, the arthritis ripples down her back, and a good long nap, yummy treats, and a few short trips with sniffs are about her speed. Mine, too, really. Oh, yeah, she romps quite a bit, because truth is, she’s 13 going on, oh, about 10.

Now Alki is 10, gray-eared and missing a few teeth, a bit sore in the back at times. But show him a stick or a treat and he’s game for the adventure. Deaf. And sometimes creaky on the stairs.

And Grace the Cat? At 8 she appears to be ageless, but that’s just my way of not thinking about it. Hers, too.

So here’s the thing.

Aging animals are harder. Murphy isn’t up to the kind of exercise that Alki is, so we go out in shifts here. Murphy doesn’t like being left behind, but sometimes it’s necessary. We don’t like leaving her behind, but sometimes we have to.

Murphy had a lot of health problems early on. It astonishes me that people say this is because she’s purebred, as if being purebred is a dishonor instead of a choice. Truth is, while Murphy did inherit a few conditions, a bad vet made them chronic. That’s when I learned to fight back. That’s why Murphy got to be 13—and old.

Aging animals have aches and pains. We manage ours. I won’t tolerate pain, so old age here is as comfortable and easy as it can be.

But aging doesn’t stop.

Things slow down with an aging animal. I look back at the last 13 years with Murphy and I laugh and say to her, “Wow, we grew old together.” We did, but her old age will be shorter than mine. Someday, Murphy will be gone. And Alki. And Grace. But I’ll probably still be here.

Every day I look at my aging animals and I flinch. What will old age hold for us?

I know it’s a road I don’t want to walk. If I could, I’d stop time in its tracks, get the do-overs, spend more time snoozing in the grass with my kids, make everything perfect and painless.

Well, okay, maybe I would. Truth is, I’m not sure that anything would have been better than the life I’ve shared with my multi-species family. They’ve lived long happy lives. I’m tougher and smarter than I ever was without them. Kinder. More loving. Happier than I ever thought possible.

Because of my animal family I’ve found a life I never knew existed. I’m making a contribution to the world I never knew was possible. And I laugh a lot. So do my kids. We value our lives together.

Still, aging is the worst part of living with animals.

It’s also the best.

Aging animals are magnificent. As mine have aged with me I’ve seen the wonder of discovery, the zest for life, maturity and determination, curiosity and excitement and, yes, depression and grief. In my aging animal family I see everything we think we see in the best lives lived by humans.

I see grace. Belief. Possibility. Lives well lived.

Walking this last long road with my family I’m simply grateful that I can. It’s not time I ever thought I’d have, because, when problems cropped up with Murphy, it didn’t look like we had time, and Alki and Grace seemed, well, eternal.

I was naïve.

But I’m not stupid.

Aging is the worst and the best part of living with animals. It means we are lucky enough to experience a complete, full life with them. It’s a gift. An honor. A privilege.

It’s mine. I wouldn’t give it back for anything.

I cherish each and every day. It’s more than I ever expected. Harder than I ever wanted. The best thing that ever was.

Aging is a gift. One I accept with humility, compassion, gratitude, and some worry. One I hope to give back to the world as a lesson learned in love. In acceptance. In getting the last laugh, and making it a good one.

Here’s hoping you get that gift, too.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, human-animal bond, multi-species families

How a Company’s Raffle Prize Helped an Animal Shelter

September 13, 2011 by Robyn

On the weekend before the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show back in February I attended a pet writing conference in New York City, the day before I won the Merial Human-Animal Bond Award for my book, Bridging Species: Thoughts and Tales About Our Lives with Dogs. Yay!

It was a fun weekend and I met some fabulous people. Winning the Merial Award, a coveted prize in the dog writing world, plus a cash grant, was wonderful. The recognition for writing about new ways to think about the human-animal bond felt great.

I also got lucky and won a raffle prize from Hartz at the writing conference. A few weeks later this enormous gift basket arrived in the mail, full of Hartz treats, combs, brushes, a toothbrush, toys galore, and a wonderful note from Jennifer Dombkowski, Integrated Marketing Manager at The Hartz Mountain Corporation.

It was far more than my multi-species family could use, although these pictures prove that they were fascinated! And, yes, played with a toy or two.

The feature photo here is a shot of the complete gift basket at our vet’s office in Port Hadlock, WA, as the gift was on its way to the Jefferson County Animal Shelter. (My apologies to Hartz, as the gift arrived perfectly wrapped, but was inexpertly unwrapped and rewrapped by, you guessed it, me.)

Thanks to Hartz’s generosity at a pet writing conference in New York, a group of homeless dogs and cats in rural western Washington had some fine treats and toys. Jefferson County’s animals have taken a hit with the tough economy, and this briefly helped.

Every time you think that a nice gesture doesn’t count, think about what tossing a business card into a raffle basket can do for an animal near you. Yep, a nice advertising plug for a company, and a good benefit to some needy animals.

Awesome and forever, two of my favorite words.

Filed Under: Living Tagged With: animal care, bridging species, business ethics, cats, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, good businesses, human-animal bond, multi-species families

What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 2

August 31, 2011 by Robyn

When my youngest dog, Alki, became deaf, I had to figure out how I could make him comfortable with his handicap. How to make us all comfortable: Alki, my nearly 10-year-old Cavalier; his 12-year-old Cavalier sister, Murphy; Grace the Cat; me; and friends, family, and visiting clients.

We’re familiar with handicaps at our house: of the four of us, only Grace the Cat is not dealing with some kind of disability (although, in the middle of the night, I sometimes think her touchy tummy qualifies).

The trick is to balance empathy and compassion, fairness and firmness, for all family members. Sure, the newly handicapped family member takes center stage. However, everyone is affected, so paying attention to everyone’s needs short-circuits jealousies and misunderstandings and provides space for healthy change for everyone.

My multi-species family did the practical things, as described in Part 1 of this article. It’s what we added to the mix that mattered: the socio-cultural things that define how we survive, and thrive, in adversity.

Alki becoming deaf was a shock. Yes, like all living beings, he’d had some problems, but as we dealt with Alki’s deafness I was surprised how it pushed my buttons. Somehow I relied on Alki to be the ‘easy’ one, because he was so sunny and sturdy, Murphy had so many health problems, Grace the Cat had a rough start, and I’ve been handicapped for too many years to count.

I knew better, but I still never expected things to change for Alki. Once I got used to his Velcro personality it stuck to me so well that the physical and emotional teamwork that developed feels as natural as breathing. I didn’t want it to change. Or end.

I loved having his constant attendance. He loved always being there. Now we both mourned the loss of his hearing and had to work our way through it to both honor and deepen our human-animal bond. Sure, we did the practical things, but we also did the cultural ones.

Six Socio-cultural Comforts

Acceptance. I made it clear to Alki that his handicap didn’t change how I felt about him, only how we managed daily life. Then I proved it all day long.
Grace and humor. Meet everything, obstacle or otherwise, with grace and humor. I repeat: grace and humor.
Kindness and reassurance. Everybody has to adapt to a handicap. Alki and Murphy and Grace the Cat learned new ways of respecting and living with each other. So did I. Alki knows that I am physically handicapped and always in pain, and he worried about me having to get up and go to him. I simply made it clear that I would rather get up and walk to him than live without him.
Compassion. Everyone needs compassion, not just the handicapped animal. Take time to love and accept each other. Make sure everybody gets it.
Emotions. Put yourself in the animal’s place. How would you feel if you were suddenly handicapped? What would you need from your family? Act accordingly. Animals are emotional beings just as we are, so pay attention to their needs and concerns. So what could I do for Alki? This isn’t New Age pablum: a frightened, hurt animal can be dangerous, so you absolutely must know your animal’s personality. Is it shy, passive-aggressive, high strung, sensitive? Does the animal act as if it feels threatened or unsafe? Alki’s body language even at rest was clue enough: he was tense, on guard, curled in a scared tight ball. He was not himself. You see that a few times and you act. It’s dangerous and cruel to let unhappiness like that continue.
Love love love. Never stop telling every multi-species family member, including the handicapped ones, that you love them, and never stop proving it. Dealing with a handicap is time-consuming, frustrating, and upsetting, but if life were perfect, wouldn’t you be bored? You can choose a throwaway culture and abandon a handicapped animal, or you can help everyone adapt and grow.

We adapted to Alki’s handicap. I sighed away the sadness when it rose. Things happen in life, and this happened to all of us.

What really pained me was that Alki couldn’t fully adjust to his deafness. He adapted, but he was often uneasy, uncertain, and frightened. I knew I was missing something, but what?

The breakthrough was as ordinary as everyday life.

In our daily family rituals I have one-on-one morning and evening times with each animal. One night, I spent a long session with Alki. I hugged and petted him, and made sure he was looking at me as I told him how much I loved and respected him, that he would always be family, that we would deal with his deafness as best we could. That he was my son, we were family, and his deafness didn’t matter.

I assured him, over and over, that the only thing that changed was his ability to hear. Then I intuitively talked with him, showing him that we could still communicate even if he couldn’t hear me speak out loud. I gave him a long massage, something he loves. And I used a form of energy work, which I call dimensional healing, that arrived in our household about five years ago after I specifically asked for a form of energy that would work for my multi-species family.

That night I made my love and acceptance visible to Alki. He gradually relaxed. I felt better. Murphy and Grace the Cat fell asleep. I went for a drink of water and when I came back Alki was in an excited crouch on the bed. As our eyes met his sparkled and he thumped his tail hard, excited. The sad, perplexed dog was gone, and my beloved Alki was back. Breakthrough! Yes, a long time coming, but it did come!

Alki made huge progress after that—sure, he still needed extra care, but his sunny, optimistic, adventurous personality returned. He finally understood that, no matter what, he is my son and an equal family member, and that trumps everything.

Alki was deaf, yes, but he could hear what mattered—that he was loved and accepted. Then came the day when he proved that he could take that understanding back out into community.

We were out alone together, a block from home, when a stray dog ran up to us. Now Alki had been uncertain with dogs since his mauling and the deafness, so I fended the other dog off, while thinking it might be one of the dogs in our neighborhood.

I was surprised that Alki stood quietly beside me, instead of barking or shying away. The dog moved a few feet away and stopped to stare at us. We stared back. Alki and I exchanged a long look, then he visibly braced himself, just like humans do when we suck up uncertainty and move on. Calmly stepping toward the dog, Alki cocked his head at it, clearly inviting it to join us.

The three of us slowly made it down the street. Each time the dog started to wander off, I’d call it or Alki would turn and cock his head, and the dog would follow us. Eventually the dog and its people were reunited.

By the time we got in our own door that day I was bursting with proud mama-ness. I hugged and praised Alki for his kindness and bravery. He had not only faced his fear but put it aside to help another dog get home again. He had learned to live with a disability and go back out into community.

Alki has been fine ever since. Deaf, yes. Reassured by his family’s love, adjusting to changed circumstances, yes, my boy is home. It’s not the same home it was before he became deaf: somehow, it’s better.

Why? Because on the deepest level that counts Alki can hear again. Deafness is a condition, a handicap, yes, but it’s also a choice. Do we withdraw, do we hide, or do we adjust and find a new pattern to life? Like all things in life, we choose fear or we choose love.

We were afraid for awhile, but ultimately we chose love in our multi-species family. Alki chose love.

Love is what made my deaf dog hear again. Love and what comes with love: patience, grumpiness, acceptance, compassion, hard work, common sense, frustration, grief, and an adventurous open spirit that may stagger but never gives up.

The mindset that comes from love is what we use to nurture our families, multi-species or not, in the traumas and triumphs of daily life. It’s what we use to create communities where we learn and grow from our difficulties and celebrate our triumphs. With animals we call it the human-animal bond; in truth, it’s community.

Love helped Alki adapt. It didn’t make it easier, but it did make it bearable. He’s still my little boy who shouldn’t suffer, whose sunny disposition should be rewarded by endless health and youth. Bodies fade, but love doesn’t give up for anything.

Love did it.

Love made my deaf dog hear again.

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: animal care, animal communication, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, dog care, family harmony, family rituals, human-animal bond, intuitive, multi-species families

How Mall Dogs Trump Wolves

August 31, 2011 by Robyn

Survival of the fittest isn’t what you think it is. It depends on who you are and what you’re up to.

I personally would not survive if I were a wolf and had to run down an elk or a rat. I wouldn’t even want to (either survive or hunt down anything but a cherry pie). It’s icky and it’s just not me.

Plus, I know there’s an easier way to make a living. I see my dogs do it every day.

The call of the wild wolf doesn’t appeal to my dogs. They’re Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. People make fun of Cavaliers, saying things like they’re too cute to be taken seriously and not smart enough to take care of themselves.

Truth is, my Cavaliers are evolved. They may be descended from wolves, but they take their lifestyle seriously, living well choreographed, strategically planned lives that get straight to what it takes to survive modern times.

They’re mall dogs.

It doesn’t just take breeding to be a mall dog. It takes class and moxie.

You don’t hunt down anything. You act so cool it comes to you.

You don’t actually work at anything. You just assume whatever it is you want will magically appear.

It never occurs to a mall dog that there are obstacles in life. They see everything as an opportunity, some better ones than others.

Mall dogs are extroverts. My dogs, Murphy and Alki, have made that an art form. They work every opportunity, even when it isn’t one. Their philosophy is to go for it boldly, where, possibly, other dogs have rarely gone before.

Like brand new, isolated hotels that really only cater to humans.

I learned that at Christmas last year. We’d driven north from Seattle to meet a good friend from Portland we rarely get to see. The dogs hadn’t exactly been invited, but that didn’t occur to me until all three of us were out of the car, staring at the brand spanking new hotel, with its sweeping driveway, wide plant-lined entrance, and a red carpet leading straight through two large sweeping doors. As Hollywoody as it gets in north Seattle.

I was suddenly intimidated. My mall dogs were not: they were surveying their new kingdom.

I gulped. “Ah, guys,” I said, “I’m not really sure dogs are allowed here.”

They looked at me like I was a Martian, then eyeballed the doors. I may not be sure we’re always welcome in certain places, but that thought never occurs to them, unless I bring it up, which I was then doing, but they didn’t believe me, so it was pointless.

They faced the doors, evaluating the situation. Then they threw their heads up and sashayed forward, tails swishing like capes. They were in charge as only mall dogs can be: they know how to make an entrance, and they flirt their way through obstacles.

I’m easily amused. I followed their lead.

As they pranced into the pristine, high-ceilinged hotel lobby, guests and hotel clerks looked up. Gasped.

The dogs stopped and surveyed the crowd, huge grins on their adorable Cavalier faces. The gasps dissolved into giggles. Just like that, any rules we may have broken didn’t matter. The celebrity mall dogs had arrived.

Unfortunately, our friend wasn’t there. We hung out in the lobby like we belonged, the dogs winking at guests, who continued to giggle when they weren’t playing with them. Murphy and Alki monitored the doors, but ignored everyone who came through. Until our friend finally walked in.

Now, what would a wolf do in that situation, or an elk? My mall dogs barked their heads off as they bounced down the lobby and threw themselves in our friend’s arms.

More human giggling ensued. No one yelled at us, but why would they? The dogs had enthralled them (much easier than hunting). We marched to our friend’s room, had a great visit, and left in the same high-falutin’ style that we’d entered. Except this time people waved cheerily at us and invited us back.

You don’t hear about elk or rats (or people) inviting wolves back to their territory.

That’s why you have to define things like survival of the fittest. Survival depends on who you are and what the circumstances are, a good thing, because my dogs wouldn’t survive on their hunting skills.

They don’t need to. They’ve trumped hunting skills with self-confidence. It’s survival of the fittest for mall dogs.