Lily Salter's Blog, page 1100

Furry Freedom

 

Heading into the glutinous season of wanting and needing I felt sated and rich. With good health, a steady paycheck, and a cord of split firewood stacked up beside the house, I was living large. My guy V had even gotten me a new car for Christmas. Well it wasn’t quite like the Lexus commercials in which the new shinny ride is parked in the drive with a big red bow. Instead, V was T-boned one morning when he’d snuck out to get us coffee. Roused by the sound of crunching metal and broken glass, I looked out to see my Honda askew in the intersection at the end of our block. Anyway, everyone was okay and after all was said and done insurance paid for a new set of new wheels. Yep, a few weeks ago I would’ve said that I had it all. That was till I met Bronco.

He was at a Hollywood fundraising event, hanging out with the entourage from his canine road tour. A cross between Rin Tin Tin and James Dean, Bronco lapped up the attention, played it up for the ladies. A young German Shepard mix with bedroom eyes and a wagging a shag tail that reminded me of my teen idol Keith Partridge, I was immediately smitten. But despite my beating heart, I showed restraint. I wasn’t prepared for another full-time furry relationship. V and I had toyed with the idea of fostering, but it was still in the talking stages. We already had our hands full with our royal bluetick houndness, Miss Daisy. Besides, it was evident that beneath Bronco’s flirty act there lurked a scared pup. He would need some work. The volunteers on hand hinted that Bronco had a rocky past. Still, they concurred that given a fresh start with the right partner great things could happen with this boy. He had star quality. I snapped some pics and texted them to V and got back a “He’s cute” reply.

A few weeks past and we continued to lobby the notion of fostering. At one point we went on a fact-finding mission to the city-run South Central Animal Shelter. It’s a kill shelter, jam-packed with pit bulls and abandoned elderly dogs nearing their expiration date. I managed to keep my composure for a good ten minutes then feeling overwhelmed sat down on a cold cement bench and had a good cry. V gave me a hug and suggested we try to spring one loose over the holidays: give it a break from the chaos, let it run around the yard with Daisy, curl up on the rug by the fire. But we learned that fostering from a city shelter is a process. One must complete an orientation class and only certain dogs are eligible to be fostered and if we were going to participate we’d have to wait till next month to apply. I didn’t want to wait. The urge to free a dog from a cage had taken hold. So I tracked down Bronco where he was staying at Best Friends Animal Society and was assured that if V and I passed inspection we could indeed open our home to the handsome stranger.

We took Daisy along for a meet and greet and it went okay. In the play yard, Bronco vacillated between sniffing Daisy’s butt to cowering in a corner shaking. The staff warned us it might be challenging, but they encouraged us to give it a try. We were all hopeful it would work out.

After an uneventful ride home, Bronco ate a double portion of dinner then crashed out on the bed with V and me and Daisy. I stroked his bony torso and could feel his heart race. Even fast asleep Bronco was panicked. He slept for a few hours, then bolted upright and began pacing. I let him out to pee and he came back in and continued pacing. I tried to get him to settle down with me on the couch; he lasted a minute then returned to pacing. I gave him a bully stick to chew on. He finished it and resumed pacing. I cracked the back door open so he could go out and explore the yard, but his preferred pattern was up the stairs around the bed, down the stairs, up the stairs, around the bed. I finally closed the bedroom door. Daisy was downstairs for company and there were two dog beds in the living room, so I figured he’d eventually tire and snuggle in. It was at dawn that the click click click of his nails on the hardwood floors finally ceased.

Next morning we took Daisy and Bronco for a hike. He was in heaven sniffing and exploring and frolicking with his new BFF. Afterwards, V ran out to get some groceries and upon his return Bronco growled and made a show to protect his turf. Later, when V was walking into the kitchen, Bronco lunged and snapped at him, then Daisy jumped in to defend her owner and things got ugly. We restored order and I took Bronco for a time-out in the yard to disperse some pent-up energy. Eventually V gave him a handful of treats and showered him with lots of positive attention, but we were starting to think that Bronco’s behavioral issues were beyond our level of expertise. As a former Army Ranger, V recognized the PTSD-like symptoms Bronco displayed. By neglect or abuse, there was no doubt he’d suffered from trauma and being in an unfamiliar environment was compounding his stress. As the day wore on Bronco continued to act out and grew more agitated. For guidance, I contacted the fabulous foster coordinator and it was decided for all concerned Bronco be returned. We had guests arriving from out of town, family was coming over for Christmas Eve dinner, and with all this hoopla happening Bronco was being set up to fail. Even the most well adjusted pups have a hard time getting through the holidays, so why push it.

We dropped him off with a fluffy blanket and a Kong stuffed with peanut butter. I couldn’t bear to look at him as I walked away from his cage. I felt like a failure, like I’d made a horrible mistake and that maybe a few more days would make a difference. But I was assured it was for the best. With more information on Bronco's behavior issues the staff was now better equipped to target his training and work on his socialization.  

And thus my foster fantasy transformed into a more profound experience. I was reminded that love is work. Relationships require give and take, and in some cases, the strength to admit we’re powerless. Clearly I don’t have the skills to train a troubled teen dog, but I can focus my positive energy (and apply my networking skills) to conjure a perfect mate and a happy ending. And until I can cross that one “want” off my list, I’ll be heading up to see that handsome Hollywood hound during visiting hours. Sometimes it’s the little things that make a difference to furry friends in cages. After all, it’s all about the dog.

For more information on Bronco and other adoptable and foster pets, contact Best Friends Animal Society Los Angeles: http://bfla.bestfriends.org/ 

 

 

Death-Defying Nina

Here's the link to my book on Smashwords. 

"Nothing we tried stemmed the tide and both Nina and the nation were in decline. Their fates combined read like a logline for a film noir script: a War on Terror has been declared; poison letters, mailed, and a dark-haired dame is in a heap of trouble. "

Above is a quote from my memoir about my sister Nina who battled with Lou Gehrig's disease. Recently, Death-Defing Nina was published as an Ebook on Smashwords. I'm still reeling from the process and a bit light-headed about finishing something so near and dear to my heart. And I'm not quite sure how this self-promoting blurb has anything at all to do with my hound dog Daisy other than the fact she is a warm blooded, four-legged bundle of pure love who makes me feel lucky to be alive. My sister who died at age 47 didn't live long enough to meet Miss Daisy. But I like to think when Daisy's howling at the mailman or stealing sandwiches from picnic baskets on the beach Nina, in her ethereal form, is smiling and laughing back. 

 

 

Countdown to the Year of the Hound

Morning, the eve before New Year’s Eve, a sonorous Ohmmmmm of a distant foghorn floats through the crisp air. It’s 4:00 a.m. I’m wide-awake, still buzzing from the chocolate-coated caramels that one of Jesus’ disciples left me in my mailbox. On average I’ve been gobbling down four gooey hunks a day. I warn friends, if I suddenly drop dead tell the cops to dust the box for prints. As much as I want to believe in the spirit of giving this is still America. 

Seasonal temps swing and sway between 30’s and 80’s. Gals in winter boots and pop tops stroll Sunset Blvd. If it weren’t for retail mania I’d have no idea it was Christmas. Overall, this year's festive season was low-key, hung with the hound at V’s. His gas service was shut off for repair so Christmas day we grilled hamburgers and took brisk showers. Cord of wood supplied fuel for the fireplace and to complete our modern Dickensian holiday Santa brought me a survival kit. Three days of rations and emergency tools—a must-have for a single gal in Southern Cal. Add a tube of lipstick, black cocktail dress, and a 20-pound bag of dog food and we’re well prepared for anything that hits town in 2012! I’m excited for the New Year. Fresh start, clean slate. Whatever happens, shared laughs or shit storms, as we mount the rails of the future I predict it’ll be an exciting ride.

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January 27, 2012      Alert to the sound of a bleating boat offshore, Daisy stands stock still on the sand at Rosie’s Dog Beach. Local photographer, Lucus Anti, snaps the opportune shot. Model hound is slated to appear in the online gallery at The Pet Post USA . It’s just all a part of a typical day with the Bluetick Princess—paparazzi, play dates, pampering, loving admirers. What a life. I could so be a dog.

After the photo session, Lucas tells me he once had a Coonhound but sadly she died of cancer. “We had her eight years,” he said softly as his eyes followed Daisy’s determined hunt for picnic scraps.

  “Was she a pain in the ass?” I asked.

 “Oh yes,” he confirmed. “She destroyed everything, drove the neighbours crazy, stubborn as hell.”

He has a Boxer now, which presents a whole new set of challenges. We laugh; agree how obvious it is that our dogs are training us! Admittedly, I’m so puppy whipped that Daisy’s care and feeding is priority one. Besides her high-end diet and designer treats, she has a dog walker, dog jogger, two doggie daycare centers she frequents, and her BFF and male role model, V. Add to that a dozen mutts she butt sniffs with on a regular basis and without a doubt the hound gets more action than I do.

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Again, I’m up at 4:00 a.m., relishing the silence. Daisy has, momentarily, decided to relocate to the couch, leaving me room to spread out my magazines and books on the bed. There’s never enough room for both of us on my wee day bed yet I tend to tough it out. Her solid warmth feels homey. And when I toss and turn, her complaining groans make me laugh. Besides, when she’s knocked out the damn dog turns into a boulder. Takes Herculean strength to shove her off.

 Opps, spoke too soon, Daisy has returned.  Apparently the draft by the front door disturbed Her Royal Houndess' sleep. Stretched to full length she now claims three-quarters of the bed. Robbed of personal space, I decide to make coffee and try to write. It’s a goal of mine to pump out more work. Once upon a time a desperate need drove me to ink—papers, poems, jokes, scripts, half-baked ideas percolated and poured freely from my brain. Things change. I don’t so much mind the shift in production—absence from the written word paints the world in other ways. And honestly, there are so many reasons not to write. Daisy for one. Her constant need for stimulation and exercise has me rarely sitting still.  Plus there’s my aesthetic excuse: I need a view, something to gaze at other than a 10-unit low-rise and that Craftsman with the creep in it across the street. “People write in prison” was my pal Jude’s reply to my whine. Although a valid point, I argue that fewer distractions would be an asset. All I know is something has to give; somehow I must fire up the desire to write. Jude inspires me. We constantly volley ideas back and forth, our seamless phone session cover the many miles Daisy and I walk, day in, day out. Cell phone radiating into gray matter, we plot out sitcoms, feature films, sketches and monologues—no shortage of ideas! Problem is ideas are cheap. It’s the putting them into print that breeds possibilities. Perhaps I need to imagine my writerly success in terms of how it will benefit the hound. Forget about my fame and fortune, one blockbuster script could buy a truckload of bones. After all, even for us selfish, frustrated artists, it’s still all about the dog. If only she could act…

 

 

 

Bluetick Fat Dog

When the scale’s digital readout settled at 85 pounds, Daisy looked embarrassed. Her svelte sporting figure was gone. In its place, a long-eared, overstuffed sausage. 

 “Ideally, she should weigh 63 pounds,” said the vet. “Maximum weight for a Coonhound is 80.” After cautioning me on early death and a wealth of other fat-dog complications she offered diet tips: use a dry measuring cup for kibble, practice strict portion control, cut back on food scraps and avoid excess treats.

All practical and doable ideas, yet it’s Daisy’s street intake that I can’t control: pizza crusts, corn cobs, vomit, eau de fast food anything—soiled napkins, greasy wrappers, sandwich bags. Yesterday she gobbled up half a roast chicken carcass she snagged in Ralph’s parking lot. Lunch remains, tossed curbside so as to not stink up the truck.  

So, barring my ability to control her sidewalk consumption, the goal of 22 pounds (or at least half of that) is still a challenge. Keeping a food log was an eye-opening exercise.  

DAILY INTAKE

3 carrots

2 pork rind chews

Bowl of breadcrumbs

Handful of Purina Puppy Crack

3 cups Natural Balance dry dog food

2 frozen marrow bones

1 grabbed-off-the-counter biscuit and half a stick of butter

Remains of a Subway sandwich stolen at dog beach  

A friend suggested I keep giving her treats, but cut back dry food. And by adding some tricks and training into the feeding routine, she’ll not notice a decrease. It’s amazing how enticing boring kibble becomes when it’s served in a crumbled paper bag.  

Still, no matter her intake, Daisy demands MORE. Learning to ignore her howling, pawing and pacing requires infinite patience. My trainer suggests a distraction, like going for a walk, instead of doling out food. But after a full day of exercising Miss Daisy, additional walks have no appeal for me. Might have to invest in a treadmill.  

Of course this being Hollywood, liposuction and tummy tucks are readily available for people and pets. But I think we’ll take the conservative route to weight loss. The goal to have a slim and healthy hound is, for now, our top priority. After all—it’s all about the dog!      

 

The Passing of Pet and People (Part 2)

Feel like a bird, flapping in and out of scenes, epic days surprise-filled and gratefully received. Loss of loved ones gives us all a shot in the arm, reminder of the inevitable End 
To improve the remainder of my days I vow to live with fewer excuses. Not sure I can (what with all the other personal improvements on my plate), yet it’s a goal.    Jean’s pup is yet another bright light in new “leash” on life. Although no dog could replace Jean’s deceased Cattledog Casey, Annabel does provide ample distraction. Photos of the wee Boston Terrier arrive at regular intervals—sporting pink tutu, strapped in her car seat, mugging for cutesy close-ups. Daisy is thrilled to have something furry to chase and howl at. And since it is all about the dog, I’m happy she’s happy. 
Yet despite my elevated moods, I do miss my mum. Not a day goes by that I don’t have the impulse to call her. But then I remember…
I was onboard the Flyaway bus from LAX to downtown when the text from my sister Pat pinged: “Nurses say she has a few hours.” I’d just said my forever goodbye that morning. Unable to change my flight, I tearfully left Vancouver and headed back home. At the airport, I learned Pearl had finally been moved to a private room that had freed up. Some other guy nearly got it, but mum’s Irish luck hung on an he died first. 
When we arrived at Union Station, I called Pat for an update. “Shit, this is it!” she shouted, then put the phone down by mum’s ear and ran for a nurse. Weaving my suitcase through the crowd, I offered up encouraging words, told her she was well loved, not to be afraid. Suddenly, distinct from the din, the inexplicable sucking sound of “last call” was heard. Swooning, I pressed my body against the wall’s warm face. In the next beat, Z pulled up and honked, signaled for me to hop in. Quite a day.   With me back in L.A., my sister was left to make the service arrangements. The latter which became Pat’s sole obsession. I burned through a month’s supply of cell minutes listening to her exhaustive finger-sandwich research, all the while thinking it unlikely that the handful of family in attendance would bother rating our performance. Funeral.advisor.com – "Eulogy was fabulous, BUT sandwiches sucked and the tea tasted like dog piss. Do not recommend! " 
Thankfully, we got rave reviews. All had a heartfelt, good time and our celebration of Pearl was a great success. Refreshments were yummy, flowers were lovely, and my sis and I never came to blows. Now as summer drifts into fall, and Daisy and I resume our routine of strolling the streets of Long Beach, Pearl joins us on our walks in everlasting memory. 

The Passing of Pets and People

All good dogs must die, yet the fate of furry friends can be bittersweet or tragic. Without the aid of voice to plead their case, two-legged caretakers must advocate on their behalf. And in times of crisis our humanness is measured by how we treat our animals.

It was about a month ago that our pal Casey the Australian Cattle Dog was put to sleep. The decision was a tough one. His caretaker Jean (who is no stranger to troubled dogs) tried everything from treatments to training to help his nervous condition, yet Casey only got worse. His irrational fears escalated into full-blown aggression. After a particularly scary episode in which Jean suffered multiple bites and bruises, she decided it was too much. Casey could not be rehabilitated and no one in his/her right mind would volunteer to adopt a crazed, unpredictable dog. And for Casey to spend the rest of his life in a kennel just wouldn’t be fair. So, with full support of family, friends, trainer, breeder and vet, Casey was put to rest.

A few days after the sad occasion, Jean showed up with a bag overflowing with rawhide bones and plush squeaky toys. She didn’t want any tangible reminders. Daisy, on the other hand, without a shred of remorse for her deceased friend selfishly tore into the inheritance. Jean and I cracked open a bottle of champagne and recalled: the first time we took Casey and Daisy for a road trip, at dog beach when Casey pissed on someone’s lounge chair, when Daisy nabbed a bag of Cheerios from a cooler and she and Casey took off like bank robbers to consume the stolen loot. As a herding dog, Casey was an asset. During off-leash excursions if Daisy got lost chasing a scent, Casey would find her and hustle her back onto the trail. Yep, lots of shared memories to cherish.

Well loved and sadly missed, Casey cannot be replaced. However, Jean is determined to fill the void. This past month, she launched a campaign to find her next dog--a roly-poly Boston Terrier pup.

And while Jean hunts for hounds, it’s my turn to deal with loss. At the moment I’m sitting in a hospital in Vancouver B.C. during shift change. My 89-year-old mom, who is (as they call it) in the active dying stage, has slipped into a fitful drug-induced slumber. On the other side of the useless privacy curtain, night nurses make the rounds, check charts, and introduce themselves to conscious patients. I’ve tuned the portable radio I brought to easy listening music; helps drown the sounds of wet bowel movements, gastric explosions, murmurs and moans. Four patients to a room in various stages of disease and/or dying is not conducive to spending quality time with loved ones. And as much as I do love my mom, I wish her exit out of this earthly plain could be swift and easy. 

I can barely breathe what with the stench of shit wafting through the curtain. The moaning woman has worked up to a high-pitched nonsense song. “Shut the fuck up,” mumbles the soon-to-be-discharged diabetic next to her. I crank up “Hotel California” on the radio and bury my nose into the fresh-cut lavender sitting on the bedside table. Day twelve and counting . . . . In many ways, dear dog Casey had a more sane and peaceful ending than dear old Pearl must endure. Funny how even when it comes to dying, it’s all about the dog.