Muddy Dogs & Arks

Paradise is wilting. For long months I sang praises of the beauty and the beasts of a green homestead ideally situated along a country road. Three or four weeks ago the rains came and the beauty (though not the beasts) began to sink beneath a daily onslaught of monsoon-like weather. Everything outdoors has become a swampy bog of rain battered grass and mud stirred up by swimming armadillos. The drainage canal running under the drive outside my gate is rising to the top of its banks while great ponds of water the breadth of swimming pools stand in three or four places around the yard. During the brief times between rain, trees shiver in a wind shaking off cascades of water that drench me still and deepen the squishiness beneath my shoes. Yesterday my nearest neighbor and I were joking about building an ark to save us and our dogs, but not the mosquitos and armadillos, nor the water moccasins looking for high ground. Closer to Indian River Lagoon, Manny’s yard is more flooded than my own and to step outside his house he needs rubber boots and a snake bite kit.

My yard is less threatening. Apart from the swarms of mosquitos that fasten on to me and Farina dog and hitch a ride into the house, my concern these days is keeping Farina out of the pools of standing water. Like a six year-old child who thrills to a romp in the summertime splash pool, Farina loves nothing more than to zoom in high speed circles through one pool and on to the next, finally plopping herself down to pant and drink the muddy water. Naturally she comes back to the house soaking wet, covered in mud and with a big grin on her face. She would love to run and jump on the bed to wallow herself clean but instead gets confined to the back porch until I can wipe her down. Given total freedom she would do this until I ran out of towels, happy that the next time she could stay dirty. That Farina is a caution. For the time being she’s making do with leash only outings, not allowed near her pleasure pools.

What do you do with grass that grows super fast under a pall of rain? Anybody will tell you not to try and mow a wet lawn, especially if you’re riding a 300 pound lawnmower on less than dry ground. For the past two weeks I’ve been sitting on my back porch watching the grass get taller and taller as it gets wetter and wetter. A large area reaching out from the porch about 100 feet is slightly higher than the surrounding area and last Thursday we had a miraculous clearing of skies that brought warm sunshine for three quarters of the day, me watching and testing that high ground for dryness every hour. Around 4 o’clock I decided the ground and grass were dry enough to run the mower and cut down the burgeoning grass with all its hiding places for snakes.

Red Ants Flourishing in the Rain

I probably have the worst reputation anywhere for luck with lawnmowers and have encountered every mechanical dysfunction there is at one time or another. It would help if I knew the fuel line from the brake pedal but since I don’t repairs have been costly. I finally broke down and bought a “new” machine but on occasion have managed to stall that one too. Appears to be no limit to my jinx. So, out in the exhilarating sunshine motoring through the tall grass, I had almost finished cutting the area of high ground when I either turned too quickly or too suddenly and heard an ominous SNAP! And in that second I lost my steering. No need to dither or sit there scratching my chin. Obviously I was once more thrown into the hands of a repairman.

I’m beginning to think there must be something anti-mechanical in my blood. About a month ago in the space of seven days and with no particular stress, first my vacuum cleaner broke and a day later the rice cooker; that was followed two days later by the death of my printer and on Saturday the passing of my DVD player. I mean, hell, what’s going on with a string of tragedies like that? As I said to a friend later, “I’m wearing a helmet around the house these days because I expect the roof to fall down on me any day.”

Yes, I still love life in the country on my muddy dirt road just west of Indian River, but it does have its challenges. But most of all I would never take my dog away from the heaven she’s found out here.

Zen Dog

All of us from time to time get those email forwards that bounce around the Internet and more often than not prove to be either unfunny, treacly sweet, maudlin or politically overbearing. On occasion one of these bouncing forwards comes along with the familiar heading, “How Cute!” or “How True!” and despite the cloying title finds a sensitive spot inside us. In my case those times are rare and the delete key gets a quick tap. But I do have a vulnerable soft spot when it comes to dog stories and dog video clips. I suppose you have to have a dog for that to work. A couple of days ago I got one of these emails and was reaching for the delete key when something about it held me back. Minutes later I was mumbling to myself. “How true!”   

If you can start the day without caffeine, 

   If you can always be cheerful, ignoring aches and pains,

If you can resist complaining and boring people with your troubles,

   If you can eat the same food every day and be grateful for it,

If you can understand when your loved ones are too busy to give you any time,

   If you can take criticism and blame without resentment,

If you can conquer tension without medical help,

   If you can relax without alcohol,

If you can sleep without the aid of drugs,

   Then you are probably the family dog.

Handle every stressful situation like a dog:

        If you can’t eat it or play with it,

        then pee on it and walk away.

All of us get mawkish when the right button is pushed.

Farina Belly Up

Dawg!

Love my dog, but…a five dollar bill, the window sill, a signed first edition, sofa cushion, two pairs of shoes, the doctor’s bill, blanket, paintbrushes, washcloths, a table leg, the phone book, a bowl of wooden fruit—each a recent victim to the teething process. It’s an odd list by most standards, but perfectly ordinary for a five month-old puppy with 24-7 machine-like teeth that will gnaw on anything to relieve the ache of baby teeth, baby gums. Amazement over her choice of objects to chew on has lessened over the weeks, and now I wouldn’t be surprised to catch my new puppy chewing on a doorknob. Knew when I brought her home that a long period of teething and chewing were part of the deal, just didn’t imagine it reaching as far as knuckles and kneecaps. 

Little Miss Farina came to the Old Dixie Lane homestead sometime around mid-October. An adoption pup, she reportedly got lost and wasn’t recovered by her original owners. A four month-old labrador-retriever mix with a honey gold coat and a sweet disposition, she arrived here weighing seventeen pounds. Five weeks later that weight has almost doubled. From first sight she seemed the perfect mate for this huge expanse of fenced land amidst the oak trees and squirrels, raccoons, gopher turtles, snakes and the occasional alligator. Those creaturely neighbors aside, her biggest fascination has been with the two horses living next door, one of which is a full grown dwarf standing all of three and a half feet. Farina (named for the honey-brown cereal) spends part of each day barking at the horses across the fence, and on trips to the mailbox pulls hard on the leash as we pass the neighbor’s gate. Coming out one day to see what all the barking was about, the dwarf pony easily cowed the dog with its bold approach and cocky head tosses.

Sketches of Farina by J

A part of it all is getting used to holes in the yard, lots of holes. Seems there isn’t a time that Farina is out romping in her one-acre playground that she doesn’t dig a new hole or two. Few would mind a scatter of holes dug way at the back of the yard, and there are a number of those, but the two heavily favored digging spots that worry me are in the driveway and in places along the fence line. The second is obvious, but going in and out of a drive that looks and feels like a prairie dog village is a bumpy ride. There’s a cure in the dog psychology books and that's underway, but the holes are many and the ingredients for that cure take time to gather. A lady at the adoption center with great experience in dogs and digging told me to deposit a pile of the dog’s “business” in the hole and cover it up, that she would be put off and not dig in that spot again. So far it’s working, but new holes appear every day. 

The fun and companionship of having a dog are special but it was a different economic era when I last had a dog and I’ve quickly learned that dog owners everywhere will shout in loud chorus, “It doesn’t come cheap!” I’m wondering who to apply to for child support. Go to the dog store for the smallest thing and ten minutes later leave the store fifty dollars lighter. Wondering too if the vet’s rates are competitive with those of brain surgeons. As far as food and feeding go, one lesson is clear: Dogs will eat more if the food is a cheaper, lower quality food and less if the food is rich in the nutrition they need for growth. Now I understand why some brands of kibble are $45.00 a bag—they are more filling because less of it provides the basis of good health, and the dog, or stomach at least, knows that.

The interesting part comes in realizing that without opposable thumbs and a tongue capable of shaping syllables, communication for a dog is heavily weighted toward gentle biting, licking, chewing and body language. I am convinced that facial expression is a valuable tool for dogs and more than a few times the eyes of my puppy have made clear what words would express if she were capable. How many times have I looked at Farina and clearly understood that she is trying to convey her shame, her impatience, anger, happiness, or confusion?

And with my opposable thumbs and the countless words on my tongue, it’s me who all too often helplessly chases her around the yard unable to make myself clear, grinding my teeth with impatience, angry at the dog and myself as well and altogether baffled at how a honey-colored bundle with floppy ears and too many teeth has completely captured my heart.

Driftwood & Dogs

Mother Nature has conspired of late to turn the ongoing sunny warmth here at the beach into something more like winter. Beginning early Thursday a colder, grayer outlook pushed aside the T-shirt days, reminding all that Florida is not always postcard pretty. Half-dressed breakfasts on the patio sheltering behind sunglasses and baseball cap hit a stop sign and yesterday I had to bear up under a somber sky and chilly wind with jeans and a sweater out of storage. At least I was able to walk on the beach, though strong winds handicapped half the distance, making two miles seem like four.

First discovery was of a large tree trunk washed up onto the beach by recent high tides and strong surf. Approached from a distance it had the appearance of an ordinary driftwood log, but closer inspection revealed an entire colony of attached shells, a living population of a type hard to identify. It was at once both beautiful and sad, a fascinating arrangement of clustered shells filled with creatures drying out and on the verge of death. It lasted only a few hours before being cut up and hauled away by the Beach Patrol. The sharpness of the shells and the possibility of the log being once more submerged by a rising tide made it a hazard on a beach still used by fishermen, swimmers and surfers. Who knows where the tree trunk entered the water and when that might have been?

A mile down the beach was a new sign placed just below the dunes warning animal (dog) owners of the ordinance against dogs on the beach. In my time here it was the first occasion of seeing a notice for something residents at least have long known about. The number of times I have seen people with a dog or dogs on the beach is too many to count, but in most cases those people are visitors unaware of the ordinance. Why such a law? This particular stretch of beach is federally funded and protected because it is historically a nesting site for sea turtles. Understanding the rigidity of local biologists tasked with nurturing, protecting and keeping tabs on sea turtles along Florida’s east coast is hard without an eye to eye meeting and a good measure of patience. By and large, the majority of those biologists would be happiest seeing the entire coastline returned to the pristine conditions of the nineteenth century—Don’t turn on patio lights! You’ll frighten the turtles. Don’t get too close to the nests; don’t use flashlights on the beach. You'll disorient the turtles. Dogs will dig up the nests!

Yeah, well I too want to protect the turtles and their hatchlings, but still prefer something along the lines of a compromise. Admittedly, on rare occasions a dog off-leash might want to dig a hole on the beach, and might use the opportunity to take a whiz, or… But otherwise, what’s the great harm? One of the reasons I don’t have a dog is because of the ordinance saying a dog is unwelcome on the beach. Still, I do accept that there is another side to the question.