February 24, 2025

The Not So Crazy Things We Do for Our Animals

November 7, 2011 by

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?”

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

The Worst Part About Living with Animals

October 22, 2011 by

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.

© 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , ,

If You Die Before They Do: Protecting Your Animal Family

September 23, 2011 by

I had the flu in February. Big time. Haven’t been that sick in years. Bad cough. High fever. So sick I needed help.

I’m the only human in my multi-species family, so getting help was hard. Yes, I have friends to call, and no, I didn’t want to. The ‘flu’ (an epidemiologist told me they couldn’t identify this ‘flu,’ but I’m sure it was as close to a plague as we could ever fear to see). So many people were so sick with it that I worried about accidentally contaminating them by even having them deliver groceries or walk the dogs.

Taking care of myself was hard. Stunning, blinding, debilitating hard. I needed help. So did my animal family.

It’s taken me all year to get well. Two months to recover from the flu, four to recover from the side effects, still counting on rebuilding my energy.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about what would have happened to my animal family if I’d died.

That’s when I realized that I hadn’t updated my will in 9 years. My two dogs, Murphy and Alki, were provided for, but Grace the Cat would, technically, end up homeless. Although I’d had the guardianship conversation recently with any number of people, I hadn’t followed up for my own kids. I’d essentially ignored an essential element of the human-animal bond: I hadn’t made sure they would always be cared for.

So here’s what you do for your animal family: before you die.

Financial and Legal Provisions

  • Estimate your animal’s longevity.
  • Estimate your animal’s basic care costs: food, shelter, medical care, entertainment (yep, you’ll be dead, but they’ll still need to play).
  • Estimate your animal’s special care costs: food, medical care, emergency care, supportive care (palliative, mobility aids, etc.).
  • Update your will.
  • Prepare legal documents: have your attorney draw up legal documents providing for transfer of ownership (animals are our families, but legally they are property), care directions, and financial support.
  • Consider appointing multiple guardians:
    • a legal guardian to oversee legal issues
    • a welfare guardian to oversee the estate monies and monitor the animal’s welfare in a new home (financial and physical/emotional care)
    • a physical guardian to adopt your animals

Physical Provisions

  • Find a physical guardian. Someone needs to adopt your animals. It’s better to have someone in mind (and willing) than for your animal family to end up in a shelter—or on the street.
    • Consider each animal’s physical needs: does your cat need a warm bed at night, do the dogs sleep in bed with you or in the hall to keep cool, what do they like to eat, what are their favorite toys? What kind of family would suit them: a single person, an elderly couple, a rabble-rousing kid-filled family? Must multiple animals be rehomed together? Is your animal handicapped? I adore my handicapped dog, but some people may not be able to physically or emotionally care for an animal with special needs.
    • Keep records: write everything up, including medical records. Keep it updated and share it with friends: everything you know about your animal should be right there. Make sure to discuss all of it with your potential guardians.
  • Find a welfare guardian to oversee your animal’s life in a new home. Appoint someone you know and trust who has common sense, a practical mind, compassion, and shares your mindset. That person will have tough choices. Make sure those choices are as close to your own as you would make. Your animals deserve it.
  • Consider separating guardianships. One person could supervise ownership transfer, ongoing physical and emotional welfare, and financial care for the animal’s life; another person becomes the caretaker (new owner). Seriously. Consider separating the money from the physical guardian. Welfare guardians can be objective and ensure that the monies are only going for your animal’s care. Yes, there’s the consideration that your animals are only being adopted for their estate, but there’s also the emotional burden physical guardians must deal with if a catastrophic medical issue arises. If you’ve planned properly, this guardian will fall in love with your family: lessen the burden by leaving the financial decisions to someone else.
  • Regularly update your legal documents to reflect the animal’s physical and emotional condition.
  • Regularly check in with your appointed guardians. We usually don’t plan to die, but we will, anyway. Say every year at tax time you also check in with prospective guardians, to make sure nothing has changed for them and they will still be available to serve their role.

Emotional Provisions

  • Define your animal’s basic emotional needs. Assess each animal’s personality, and verify that with friends who know them: our devotion to our animals can blind us to their faults, so make sure you outline what someone would like, and dislike, about each one. You’ll have a better chance of finding your animals a good home.
  • Physical needs help define emotional ones, but they really are separate issues. What do your animals need to be happy? Yes, they will miss you. Make sure their legal guardian knows what they need to feel safe, happy, comforted—and loved.
  • Find a good animal communicator. Yes, I talk with animals, but I also have trusted communicators talk with mine. Find someone who can help you talk with your animal companions about their concerns in this process and what they would like. They have rights, too. And opinions and feelings. Honor them.

So, have I updated care instructions for my kids? Um, well. Yes, guardians are notified, monies are set aside, preferences and needs are identified.

Here’s what I learned this year.

Being sick reminds us that we’re mortal, which reminds us that things end. I want to make sure that if I can’t be there, someone else will be: someone who will try, as hard as I do, to create a healthy happy multi-species family.

In the meantime, I’m going to remind myself every day that I’m alive, my kids are alive, and we have the world’s best family. I make sure to tell them that every day.

My kids know it, and believe it.

How about yours? Tell them you love them, every day. Before it’s too late. Enjoy your animal family. And don’t forget: if you’re not there, someone almost as good as you should be. Make sure of it.

 

© 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 2

August 31, 2011 by

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.

(c) 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Worshipping at the Altar of Rimadyl

August 19, 2011 by

My eldest dog, Murphy, a female Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, is 13. We never expected her to make it to 3, but she’s vibrant and healthy.

 It took a lot to get her that way. Some of her problems were inherited, some medical mistakes, some the normal up’s and down’s of life.

Murphy’s health took choice. Rimadyl is one of those choices.

I had to learn a lot about veterinary care to take care of Murphy. And a lot about human medical care to take care of myself. Our journey together has been enlightening: it was a journey to shared wellness, to a new way of living with animals and of creating community with all life.

In my multi-species family I’m the only human. I live with two Cavaliers, Murphy and her almost 10-year-old brother, Alki, and their 8-year-old sister, Grace the Cat.

They’re my family. I’m not their guardian. Or caretaker. Or mother. They are my kids in that I’ve made myself the boss of the family (so I drive the car and buy and prepare meals and make the final choice on family issues). They are my family. We are living the human-animal bond.

My family has a say in their care, including medical care. Coming to an understanding of what they wanted, of how to explain things to them, of how to accept their choices, of how those choices play out in family dynamics—all of that took patience, thought, education, intuition, and my commitment to participating in a world where creating equal community with all life means all beings have choice, responsibility, and free will.

It included really living what I mean when I say that members of a multi-species family are equals.

Murphy has been through a lot. When degenerative arthritis reared up two years ago, I thought we might be at the end of our journey together. We had a deal: no more of anything that would prolong a life that involved chronic pain and disability.

I’ve been living that personal issue for over 20 years. Murphy’s lived it for 13 now. There’s a time to say enough.

And a time to find the right answers. For that family member. For that time.

When Murphy suddenly contorted in excruciating pain on a Sunday in summer 2009, I pulled out every medical remedy I had. We’ve used a lot over the years: from prescription drugs to Ayurvedic herbs, Chinese herbs, massage, chiropractic, supplements, acupuncture, energy work, acutonics, and animal communication. That Sunday I had leftovers of several things. I made myself calm down, closed my eyes, asked for the right remedy to show up, and picked up a bottle.

It was Rimadyl. I immediately started her on it.

Over the next few days, after extensive criminally bad emergency veterinary care, we ended up right where we were on Sunday: using Rimadyl.

Since then, we’ve added several things to the mix. And we’re still using Rimadyl.

Rimadyl works for Murphy. The other remedies we tried did not. The ‘natural, holistic’ remedies are great, including milk thistle, which Murphy takes to support her liver. But for her, in this time and place, Rimadyl works. I swear by it. I, frankly, worship at the altar of Rimadyl.

Here’s the interesting thing. So many people, interested in Murphy’s care and in our family, have generously offered their opinion on what we should be doing instead. Granted, many of us do not look at alternatives, so we immediately go for the easy fixes, like antibiotics and prescription drugs. But these people have acted as if I am doing something terrible by using a prescription drug.

Yes, Rimadyl can have side effects. Murphy has not had any. She did have side effects from the other things we tried, and some of them plain did not work. The truth? Everything has side effects, even the ‘alternatives.’ What matters is the side effects for that particular animal. What matters is: what are the consequences, and what is the choice?

There are people in the alternative community, from holistic vets to energy workers, who apologize when they use a prescription drug, as if the only choice is something else. They are as short-sighted as the vets who only use prescription drugs. Why can’t these people all get together and support healthy, responsible choice? Eastern and Western medicine can combine to create healthy families. I know. My family is proof.

Ditch your prejudices and use what works. It’s a trial and error process, no question. It requires educated vets, and there really aren’t a lot of them out there these days. It requires educated families, and there aren’t a lot of them, either. It requires weighing the risks and benefits. It requires informed choice.

The politics of care and the realities of care are different. Be proactive. Do the research. Find a good vet. Ask your animal members what they want. Honor their request. Use what works. Monitor it.

Frankly, I appreciate the people who suggest alternatives to Rimadyl. I do not appreciate their insistence that I am doing something wrong by not using something they think is safer or better. I do not appreciate their contempt for my choice, and for Murphy’s.

What did Murphy want? Whatever made her feel good. She deserves no less. Our family deserves no less.

And that’s what she gets. Rimadyl. Every day I am grateful that Rimadyl is out there. That when I asked for help it was there that Sunday, stepping forward to add itself to the mix that creates a healthy family. If Rimadyl, or any remedy, makes Murphy comfortable, we’re happy. If somehow her life is shorter because we chose that drug, then so be it. We have consciously chosen quality over quantity. We chose what works.

The truth is, any remedy can shorten a life, but not every remedy can improve it. And what works for one family member may not work for another. That’s where vigilance and common sense enter the mix.

Every day I live with a dog whose vibrancy at 13 astounds people. Rimadyl helped make that. I am grateful. It is our choice.

Don’t make choices, for or against any treatment, based on prejudice. Choose what works.

We have. Two years on, we’re still worshipping at the altar of Rimadyl. Respecting choice. Living healthy balanced lives.

What is your choice? What does your animal family choose? Have you asked?

Note: I do not receive any compensation from anyone, including the makers of Rimadyl. I just give my opinion. It’s free.
 
(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz
Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , ,

It’s Called Trespassing: Quit Ruining the World for Dogs

August 12, 2011 by

It was a summer evening and the dogs and I were out for last call. A man and woman at the end of the block were standing next to the waist-high wall that bordered my neighbor’s steep property.

It’s unusual but not alarming to see strangers lingering in our busy beach neighborhood at night. However, I’ve learned street smarts from my terminally friendly but discerning Cavaliers, so I stopped, even though we were fully two lots away from them.

Then I saw that the woman was holding a dog leash above the neighbor’s wall: what the heck? No dog could top that wall: the couple must have lifted their dog over it. Wow. They were literally going out of the way to let their dog loose on private property. When they spotted us, they moved in to restrain their dog.

I stopped, pulling my dogs close.

“Just to let you know,” the woman said. “We have our dog up here.”

Really?

“My dog’s eating grass,” she explained.

What?

So, okay, two things.

First, if you have to warn me that your dog is with you, you mean that you both are a threat to me and my dogs, so stay the hell home. It’s people like you with unsafe dogs who’ve made it necessary for people like me to carry dog deterrent spray. It’s legal, I know how to use it, and I will. So your dog may not be safe, but guess what? Since my youngest dog got mauled, I’m not safe, either. If your dog rushes mine it will get a face full and you’ll get a hefty fine from animal control and a notch on their watch list.

Second, do you understand the terms ‘private property’ and ‘trespassing’?

We’re still civilized in Seattle, which means that you can’t walk your dog on the property holder’s side of the sidewalk. You can’t walk yourself there, either. Or pee, or poop, or trample the landscape, or eat the grass.

It’s called trespassing. It’s illegal. It’s destruction of private property. It’s plain and simple rude.

Not willing to obey the law? Then read up on manners. Did you not have a mother?

I stood there that night, my dogs quietly by my side, and I said to the woman, “You’re on private property.”

“Our dog’s eating grass,” she said, like that was a reasonable explanation.

Unlike many dog walkers, who pay no attention to where their dogs are walking, she was actually lifting hers up so it could forage on my neighbor’s property. She was aiding and abetting.

Un. Be. Lieve. Able.

“It’s called trespassing,” I said, turning my dogs around and heading home.

“He’s just eating grass,” she yelled.

“It’s trespassing,” I said, emphasizing each syllable so the sarcasm and disapproval were clear.

“You give dog owners a bad name,” I said as I left.

Do you? If you let your dog set a foot or a drop of pee on private property, you’re rude. You’re also a criminal. And so is your dog.

The rest of us who are responsible dog owners deserve better. So do our dogs.

The saddest thing? Your dog deserves better. Clearly somebody better than you.

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Grace the Cat’s Tail

July 30, 2011 by

We live in a small condo: just me, two Cavalier spaniels (Murphy and Alki), and Grace the Cat. Well, okay, let’s include my crystal partner, Fallon, and Raymond, a fifty-something jade tree who spreads out like an oak.

Yes, our condo is small. Still, it’s plenty of room for my head and Grace the Cat’s tail to be in two separate places at the same time.

So why aren’t they always?

Granted, my animal family and I are close. They all spend time in my lap, and we cuddle as often as we can. But there’s that peculiar cat tail.

Grace lounges on the back of my chair, defying both gravity and my opinion. She’s a small cat (her tail is long, 10 inches long), but she has a distinct knack for putting it in the exact spot of the chair where the back of my head hits. And she won’t move it.

There’s no other place for my head. It belongs in the center of the chair. If I sit straight it’s the only place my head goes. I know, I’ve tried to accommodate Grace’s tail, but I can’t. And won’t.

Yes, I move Grace’s tail out of the way so I can put my head in that spot. But the tail moves. A lot. Even when Grace doesn’t. Her tail will flop on my head, or whack my head, or poke my ear, all while Grace herself is busy pretending she’s busy doing something else. Grace simply doesn’t move, but, then, why should she? Her tail does all the work.

When I get tired of this, I move my head to turn around and complain. You guessed it. When I settle back in, Grace’s tail is back in the spot where my head belongs. We collide.

Is this a weird physics thing? Or plain dumb luck?

Oh, wait, I know! My cat has an attitude. Everybody knows that about cats.

It can’t be me.

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

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When Animal Communication Bites

July 23, 2011 by

Have you always wanted to talk with an animal? And hear it talk back?

It’s easy. Just do it. But be polite, or you’ll find out, like I did, that animal communication can bite.

Just like talking with any being out there, from a tree to a hurricane, animal communication is about respecting all life as equals. That means listening to what each being has to say. And being respectful in our interactions.

Sometimes you talk with other beings, like animals, to learn simple things, like what an animal thinks about airplane travel. Or what kind of outing it would like (chasing squirrels, sunbathing, eating pizza have all come up when I’ve asked my dogs what they’d like to do). Quite often my work is talking with other beings about their life’s work, which can be stunning, as it turns out there are jobs out there that most humans can’t even imagine, jobs that other beings, like our dogs and cats, take for granted.

Sometimes when you talk with animals you get what you really haven’t been looking for, like a lesson in good manners. That bites. And it should.

The other day I was looking at my eldest Cavalier, Murphy. She had just turned 13 and was happily munching a birthday blueberry pie. I noticed she was a bit heavy, which isn’t normal for her. She had been eating a lot lately. So had I.

I said, “Wow, Murphy, you’ve gotten a little chunky.”

She promptly shot back, “Well, I’m not as fat as you!” She was loud, annoyed, amused, honest: her usual straightforward self. Oh, and right.

Ouch! Okay then! A lesson in manners from my dog!

The truth is, we seldom treat other people as respectfully as we should. Despite our best intentions, we often offer even less respect to our animal companions. Sometimes we’re just not thinking about what we’re saying or about whose feelings we’re hurting. Sometimes it just doesn’t occur to us to treat our animals as equals who expect politeness, just like we do. Sometimes we just forget good manners between species.

I should know better. Actually, I do.

I apologized to Murphy for being rude and unthinking.

A few days later, I was bathing Grace the Cat, not our favorite household task. I was noticing that Grace had gained weight, and I said, “Grace, you’ve gotten chunky.”

Already annoyed because she was wet and soapy, Grace snarled back: “Didn’t you just learn that lesson from Murphy?”

Ouch again. “Yes,” I said, chagrined. “My apologies.”

Whoever you talk with, but especially when you’re talking between species, mind your manners. If you’re talking, you should be listening. And thinking about what you’re saying before you say it.

Because animal communication can bite.

Have you said something rude to an animal lately? Did you apologize?

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,

When Good Toys Go Bad

July 14, 2011 by

Toys are a big part of the magical goofy fun side of family life. In our case, it’s a multi-species family life, which means we are a woman, two Cavaliers, and a goofy eight-pound cat.

At our house toys (practically) rule. We have every kind of toy, from bouncy tennis balls and rubber chews to plush stuffed creatures, velvety soft pull toys, and feathers on sticks, everything we could possibly want.

For good reason.

Toys mean play, and play helps humans and animals relate to each other, from learning what each of us likes to bonding. The family that plays together grows together, and has fun in the process.

My family plays all the time. The cat loves the dog toys, the dogs would love the cat toys if they dared, and the woman likes them all.

Or did.

Who knew there’d be a creepy toy?

This one was a hard plastic ball that talks. My boy dog, Alki, loved it. The ball would roll across the floor and yell and make noise, and Alki would give chase, barking and fetching. All cool, until you actually heard what the ball was saying.

“I’m gonna get you!” it yelled.

Just like that a good toy, or a good toy idea, went bad. From possibly annoying, like drum sets for kids, to creepy. Violent. Sadistic. Scary.

How hard is it to make a talking toy that says, “Hey there, buddy, let’s play!”

Especially when you wake in the middle of the night and hear a loud scratchy voice yelling, “I’m gonna get you!” Yes, creepy toy short-circuited and was yelling without being moved. While we were all trying to sleep.

There’s nothing fun or amusing about that.

I tossed the toy in the garbage and we all went back to bed. The next day I could hear it yelling, intermittently, as I carried the bag to the garbage. Right before I dropped it in, it yelled, “Oh, no! Arghh!”

Indeed.

Now I have one more thing to think about when I buy a toy for my family. Sure, always thinking about safe and durable. Now I also look at the creepy factor. Surprising what makes the list. Sad how few options there are out there.

What are yours?

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Gone to the Dogs … in New York

February 22, 2011 by

If you’re going to New York and have to leave your own dogs (and cat) at home, there’s one sure way to get your dog fix: arrange to be there in February, when New York goes doggy for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show at Madison Square Garden in Manhattan.

The 135th Westminster Dog Show was Monday and Tuesday, Feb. 14-15. The American equivalent of the crowning of canine royalty, this year it drew over 2,000 dogs from all over the world. Since I was already there, and love dogs, I leaped right into Manhattan’s doggy mania.

For most of us dogs are cookie monsters, couch potatoes, stick fetchers, bed hogs, cat barker atters, and companions. Those into dog sports can pursue agility, tracking, herding, dancing, and therapy dog training. But dog shows? What do they have to do with me? I decided to find out.

First up, the Friday before Westminster, was the Big City Little Dog Fashion Show, sponsored by the New Yorkie pet fashion line to benefit the Angel on a Leash program. Begun by the Westminster Kennel Club in 2004, Angel on a Leash is a charitable program that promotes the human-animal bond through public appearances and training programs working with therapy dogs in such places as schools; health care, rehabilitation, and hospice facilities; and crisis intervention programs. It has a close tie to Seattle because it is championed by former Seattleite and current Westminster Director of Communications and Westminster television host, David Frei, and his wife, Cheri Frei. At the fashion show local New York celebrities paraded the runway with their canine partners, from pocket-sized Yorkies in frilly duds to a Great Dane in a crystal collar with an evening hat rakishly tipped over one ear.

Dogs were everywhere that weekend (unfortunately, also in the neighboring hotel room, where a Yorkie thought it was a rooster and yapped from 5-7 a.m. for three straight days). Taking refuge outside my room, I spotted Yorkies in pockets and hand bags. The big guys, from rottweilers to strapping redbone coonhounds, Scottish deerhounds (the eventual winner), and low-slung German shepherds. Dogs watered the sidewalk, pranced down the street, peered out from crates stacked on luggage carts, and calmly rode the elevator as their handlers cheerfully responded to queries like: what is that? One answer: a Norwegian Buhund.

At the Affinia Hotel I followed the sign to the dog exercise room. That’s where the people from Jog a Dog had set up two of their dog treadmills. Established 40 years ago by an inventor who trained German Shepherds for rigorous police and protection work (called schutzhund), today it’s a thriving business catering to canine athletes, from conformation specialists (show dogs) to agility or tracking experts.

I met Jack, a 5-year-old yellow labrador from Miami, accompanied by his breeder and owner, Rosy Harkow. She uses the treadmill on the show circuit to avoid exercising Jack on the street, and also has one at her Florida kennel. Jack’s mom, 10-year-old Maddie, is fit and healthy and still competing in agility because of the muscle toning and endurance she gets on the treadmill. Show handlers also use it as a gaiting tool, to improve the dog’s pace and top line in the show ring. Both Jack and the dalmatian Gabe, trotted hard, stopping only to pose for photographs.

The Westminster Dog Show started early Monday morning. Most of the day’s dogs and their entourages were already on site by 7 a.m. Since Westminster is a benched show, all the dogs for the groups showing that day had to be onsite all day and available to the public. I was relieved to see that I’m not the only one who fails to travel light: these dogs and their people had crates, blankets, toys, food, grooming tools, cooling fans … everything you’d need to greet your public in style, two or three times over.

One intriguing breed is the beauceron. A rare breed that originated in northern France, this is a large black and tan herding dog that belongs in the American Kennel Club’s working dog group. I met Gideon, who was being groomed by his owner, Marlene Palmer.

The show circuit for these two was an afterthought. Marlene purchased Gideon when he was 11 weeks old, to train as a search and rescue dog. Together they work for Klamath Search and Rescue in Klamath Falls, Oregon. When people suggested his conformation might make him a show dog, Marlene decided to go for it, which is how Gideon became a champion and was at Westminster (he did not win this year).

Marlene and Gideon started their search and rescue training early. While it normally takes two years to certify one of these dogs, Gideon was certified in 14 months. He works as a wilderness air scent dog, searching for lost people. The search team grids an area, and the dogs clear it by searching for the smell of a human, and if necessary can track by clothing. They can cover a lot of territory quickly, which is critical in finding lost and possibly injured people.

All morning long I snapped photos of dogs being primped for their big moment, their hair wrapped or snipped, while others snoozed or greeted visitors. Their humans educated people about their breed, whether they herded sheep or held down a lap in style. Their emphasis? While showing dogs is a sport they enjoy, the dogs are family first and foremost.

That’s certainly what I understand, as I live with Murphy and Alki, two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, members of the toy group, who were shown in their breed group at 8 a.m. Monday. As the Cavaliers pranced into the ring, and stopped before me, I glanced down at the dog in front of me. The handler turned to us and smiled poignantly. This was her dog’s last show. He would be 13 in a month, and was enjoying the spotlight as he gamely trotted along. It brought tears to my eyes, as he was only a few months older than my beloved Cavalier, Murphy.

Glancing around, I recognized one of the handlers, a Cavalier breeder from the Seattle area. Wow! Three thousand miles from home and somebody I sorta kinda knew!

I had met Patrick and Tamara Kelly in Seattle years ago when I was involved with the local Cavalier club. They fall into a rare category in the dog world: they are breeders, owners, and handlers. That’s right, in a sport where owners buy top dogs and hire professional handlers to show them, these owners breed and show their own dogs.

And they won, with their champion boy, three-year-old Miles.

Backstage I waited for the hoopla to settle so I could congratulate them. Patrick is a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, and he was so excited he was bouncing. While they’d been showing for 15 years, this was their first win at Westminster­—something only a few people ever accomplish.

He told me how they got started with their beloved first Cavalier, Maggie May, and how the old ones have a special place in our hearts.

I said, “Yes, that’s true, my oldest is 12-1/2.” I grinned as our eyes met, because the best was coming. “And heart clear.” That’s a rarity in Cavaliers, and is, in fact, what breeding and living with dogs is all about: enjoying long happy lives together.

Patrick’s eyes went wide in surprise. “Murphy?” he asked, holding his breath in anticipation, clearly remembering my little dog with the daunting health challenges.

I laughed, saying, “Yes, my Murphy.”

And Patrick leaped sky high, pumping his arms in the air.

That’s really what dog shows are all about, even the grand old ones like Westminster. It’s people and dogs having fun together, whether they’re in the show ring or tussling over the remote at home.

And it’s people like Patrick Kelly, who’ve just reached the top of their sport, and ten minutes later are leaping high in the air to celebrate the life and health of a dog they hadn’t seen in 10 years, but knew in their hearts. And remembered.

Because our dogs are family.

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

Note: a slightly shorter version of this article appeared 2-21-11 in the West Seattle Herald, courtesy of Robinson Newspapers, Seattle. Catch it here: http://www.westseattleherald.com/2011/02/21/features/gone-dogs-%E2%80%A6-new-york

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