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 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.
Remembrance of Puppies Past
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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