A New Face

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Queen of all she surveys.

Year gone by.

A year has passed since Gaby joined the household. She has gained almost ten pounds. The backyard is her beat, and the resident squirrels have learned to keep an eye out.

I had her DNA tested because I really wanted to find out which breed of terrier gave her that face. Turns out that this little girl is mostly husky, with some American Eskimo thrown in. There are a few other breeds as well, but there weren’t enough markers to allow for identification. So, I still don’t know the source of her Benji face. I do, however, now know the source of her loud, yodeling woo-woo’s. A husky trait, according to the vet.

She’s the best thing that ever happened to King. She nips his back legs and noms on his face and goads him into playing with her. They play tug o’ war or tag or simply race around the backyard. King turned 8 this past March, and I can tell that he’s slowed down. His little sister keeps him young.

Big brother, taking a break.

Meet Gaby!

I knew that I would eventually get another dog. Mickey is and will always be irreplaceable. But King needed a buddy, and I had gotten used to having two dogs.

But I wanted it to be the right buddy. Mickey had a hard time keeping up with King over the last couple of years. King was too big, too rough, and didn't know his own strength, and I didn't want New Dog to be overwhelmed in the same way.

I knew I wanted to get a female. I envisioned a Viking princess of a dog, something like a Rottie-Golden mix. Big enough to give King what-for, to keep up with him and not be intimidated. But I wanted to take my time, make sure I had found the right dog.

A week after I got home from Denvention, I had to take King to the vet--he had developed a cough that was likely kennel cough, but I wanted to make sure. Took him in--vet said yup, kennel cough. Not as bad as it could have been. King had been vaccinated and the vaccine likely blunted it some, so Vet decided to let it resolve on its own. First, though, she wanted to see if King had a fever, so she tried to take his temp. King decided he did not want to have his temp taken, and nipped her arm. King likes Vet, and had never done anything like that before.

Vet and I sat on the floor and talked about the changes King had been through--because she hadn't seen him in a while, she saw the differences in him more than I did--I saw a little confusion and yes, signs of mourning, but Vet also saw fear and timidity that King had never shown before. He is a worry wart, and he apparently missed Mickey more than I thought. As we talked, King hid on the other side of the examining table, then circled around the table and licked Vet's face, which was his apology. Then he licked her face again, put his head under her arm, then tried to stand on her lap. All was forgiven, but Vet was concerned. She felt King needed a friend.

So King and I went back to meet Gaby, a terrier mix that someone had left tied to the hospital door a few days before. The vet staff named her--whoever abandoned her had left a note that she had her shots, but they didn't mention her name. She was cute, but small--about 26 pounds, very underweight. When I bent over to talk to her, she gave me her paw, and was very happy to let me pet her.

The first meeting was tentative. No aggression shown by either party--body language said "he's OK--she's OK". Vet still needed to check Gaby out, so I arranged to bring King back that Friday for an outdoor play date.

I counted the days until Friday. Except for the fact that she was a grrl, Gaby was the polar opposite of the type of buddy I thought King needed, but there was just something about her. Friday afternoon, I called the vets' office to confirm that I was coming over with King...only to learn that Gaby had been adopted a couple of days before. Some folks came in, and said they wanted her right then.

I hung up. I cried.

I pass the animal hospital on my way home from work, so I stopped in to find out what the story was. I mean, if the folks took her right away, I could understand why they let them have her. Bird in the hand, and all that. I just wished they would have told me. Anyway, I stopped in, and learned that the folks who had adopted Gaby had already brought her back because she was too active. So I drove home, got King, and brought him along for visit #2. He pretty much ignored Gaby, and she pretty much ignored him. Too many smells in the office backyard. Too many distractions.

I decided to take the plunge and bring Gaby home. She and King continued to ignore one another in the truck, as well. Nothing happened until I turned them loose in the backyard, at which point King twigged on to the fact that THERE WAS ANOTHER DOG HERE. Some trepidation at first. Then they started playing.

That was August 22nd. The playing continues. I took King in for a kennel cough follow-up a couple of weeks ago. He bounded into the examining room, put his front feet up on the examining table, and licked the Vet's face. He was a different dog. He's still a different dog. A tired dog. A much happier dog. Gaby is a pistol. She barks at me, runs King ragged, is not overwhelmed in the least. She chases squirrels. She oh so wanted to chase the deer we spotted during our walk the other day. She also wanted to chase a train, but I told her that that wasn't a good idea.

Vet thinks she should weigh about 35 pounds. She's almost there.

She's a dear little dog. Not a Viking princess, but a princess all the same.

Mickey
(???? - 22 July 2008)

On July 5, I took Mickey to his regular vet. He'd been off his feed for a few days, and seemed lethargic. The initial diagnosis was pancreatitis, along with a flare of his existing gall bladder issue. The treatment was hospital food (white rice and a gradual increase of his usual food), antibiotics, and stomach meds.

After a week and a half of treatment, it became obvious that he wasn't getting any better. I took him to see a specialist on July 17. A few hours later, an ultrasound was performed. The results were devastating. Mickey had cancer of both the liver and bladder, and had a couple of weeks left if we were lucky. We weren't. I had to take him on that final ride to the vet six days later. His ending was as peaceful as it could have been, though not as peaceful as he deserved. He deserved fifteen years, ending with quiet passage in his sleep. Not this. Not this.

I've mentioned this elsewhere, but there was so much I didn't know about that dog. For recordkeeping purposes, we assumed his birthday was 01/01/2001, but one of his vets thought he was likely several years older. He'd been abused in his earlier life, but managed to put at least some of that behind him during his time with me. He went from being a silent Stepford dog to a rather vocal and occasionally disobedient one, yawning and hacking like an old man, grumblefussing when I had the nerve to turn on the office light when he was trying to get some sleep, and greeting me with loud barking when I came home from work.

This is my favorite picture of Mickey. I took it over four years ago, when he'd only been with me a few months. He looks happy, almost as though he's laughing. There's a tennis ball nearby, which he was in the process of skinning and shredding. Tennis ball destruction was one of his favorite pastimes. He could keep up with King pretty well back then, chasing him around the yard, face-fencing, and on one memorable occasion, colliding with him and knocking him over backwards, after which King bounded to his feet with an expression of ‘WOW--let's do that again!” Mickey's besting King physically didn't happen often, however. It usually worked the other way around, with King pushing matters beyond Mickey's ability to respond or tolerate. After a year or so, Mickey eased off on the rough play. In the last year, it pretty much disappeared. It was during that time that I realized that he was becoming an old dog, still peppy at times, but much more inclined to stroll at his own pace and take it easy.

There's a Mickey-shaped hole in my life now. I'll miss him forever. He was a wonderful dog, and I was privileged to have had the pleasure of his company.

The guys had a rough summer. King suffered a couple of bouts of gastroenteritis, which required medication and a change in food. Along with his allergy flare-ups and the resulting foot issues, Mickey was diagnosed with a liver problem and also put on a new food, as well as a nutritional supplement. He also had to have his teeth cleaned, and it was during this cleaning that the vet determined that the Mickster is a few years older than I was led to believe. He could've been anywhere from four to seven years old when I adopted him, which means he could be anywhere from eight to eleven years old now.

I have to admit that I'm not all that surprised. Mickey has always been a little creaky. He used to hold his own against King in the beginning, chasing him around the yard and even managing to keep up with him for short stretches. But over the last year or so, he's slowed down. He'll chase King for a short distance, then peel off and run back to me or wander off to sniff after something else. He's still playful. He's just slower.

Mickey is not the alpha in this two-dog pack, but when he really, really wants something, he has figured out how to get it. He sleeps on an orthopedic pad, but he covets King's bolster bed, which has cushioned arms and back, and has devised several different ploys to get King to relinquish possession. Sometimes he simply comes over to me to be petted. King being King, he has to come over and wedge between Mickey and me because, well, he's The King and all the attention belongs to him. Mickey then circles around him and claims the bolster bed for his own. Other times, Mickey simply stands over King, tail drooped and wagging, totally non-dominant, and sniffs his face, his feet, and all around the bed. Most of the time, this bugs King enough that he gets up and finds another place to lie down. Once again, Mickey claims the bolster bed.

I used to think that King was smarter than Mickey, but I've had reason to revise that opinion. King is more spontaneous, more curious, but Mickey is stubborn and persistent. He certainly seems to have his adoptive brother figured out.

Mickey says, "My stick."


Mickey is a black Lab mix who came from a local shelter. He was supposedly three years old when I adopted him in early 2004, but that may be a question for debate. He's much more of a couch potato than is King. I don't know if that's due to age or joint issues or simply The Lazies.

Mickey didn't seem to know what to do with toys when he first came here. If I threw a ball, it would be up to King to chase it down--Mickey would run after King, but he didn't seem interested in the toy itself. Over time, he has learned to play. He enjoys tug o' war and fetch, and also likes to chew on Kongs--they're the only things that can survive his jaws. He loves tennis balls with a passion, but after chasing them for a few minutes, he prefers to concentrate on peeling off the felt, then tearing the ball to bits. He and King can wreck a new ball in five minutes.

His personality is the opposite of King's. Very passive aggressive. He's good at ignoring voices he doesn't want to hear, and will simply turn his back on you if he's not interested in playing or being petted. His pillow is located in my office, and he has taken over the place. If I try to work much past eight or nine pm, I can sense eyes burning holes in my back. I turn, and there's Mickey, staring sadly. Go away, the look seems to say, and turn out the light as you leave.

King says, "My bone."


King is The King. He was born at the end of March, 2001, which makes him an Aries. If you believe in astrology, truer words. Stubborn, impulsive, energetic, "I AM The King!", the whole bit. Too smart by half.

A handful, in other words.

He was twelve weeks old and twenty-eight pounds when I brought him home, and he already had some mileage on him. He had previously been adopted by another family, who had christened him "Hank." Soon after his adoption, though, they returned him to his original home because their two year old was afraid of him. So back he was with his mom and sister. During this time, he was renamed "Larry" by the son of the house.

During this time, Hank/Larry/still-not-King experienced high adventure. One day, his mom dug them all out of their outdoor kennel and off the three of them went. They were soon captured by Animal Control and taken off to the hoosegow, there to be bailed out by their owners.

Soon after this happened, I was checking my company want ads, and found a notice offering a shepherd-lab male puppy. Prince had been gone for two years by this point, and it was time. I went with my dad to check out this puppy, and found a bounding bundle of energy bouncing around with his equally energetic mom and sis. Exuberance as a genetic trait. What I'm trying to say is that I had plenty of warning.

I still brought him home.

A few weeks later, we started puppy classes at the local Petsmart. The instructor saw King and immediately began to discuss halters and control collars and such. Trained personnel can spot trouble a mile away.

A few years have passed. King always had been, and will be whilst he breathes, his own dog.

Tiger was a pedigreed long-haired chihuahua. We got him in 1967 or 1968. I went to an after-church get-together at a neighbor's, and found to my surprise and delight that he and his wife bred dogs and what's more, had PUPPIES!! to show off at the party. I have always had a preference for black-and-tan dogs--Tiger's little brown sibs were cute, but I spent the afternoon playing with Tiger and one of his sisters. Wound up taking Tiger home and asking the classic question, "Mom, can I keep him?" He was a good watchdog, and pretty rugged for a little guy. We had him seven years, and unfortunately lost him in an accident.

We got Prince from the animal shelter a few days after we lost Tiger. We think he was part shepherd, and possibly part hound of some sort. He only weighed 45 pounds when he hit adulthood, but he was feisty with it. That bandage on his foot was the result of a torn claw mishap--as I took this picture, he was limping/hopping around the yard as if it never happened. He's the guy that ran away when he was 11 years old, jumping a fence and taking off. My dad combed the shelters in search of him, and found our next Prince in the process.

This was Prince**, who died mid-1999 at the age of 14. His puppy pic is from 1985, and his full-grown puppy pic is from 1990. He was a shepherd/lab mix, a pound puppy who was the last of his litter to be adopted. I dedicated RULES OF CONFLICT to him. He was the best.

**yes, my folks tend to stick with the same names--they've had a total of 4 Princes over the years. The name was officially retired in 1999.

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