The Old Man and the Dog by Catherine Moore

'Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!' My father yelled at me. 'Can't you do anything right?'
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.

'I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving.' My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.

But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's
orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.

Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue.

Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly
counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered.

In vain. just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, 'I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.' I listened as she read.
The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under
treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me.

I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons –too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down.

It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.

I pointed to the dog. 'Can you tell me about him?' The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. 'He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.' He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. 'You mean you're going to kill him?' Ma'am,' he said gently, 'that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog.'

I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. 'I'll take him,' I said.

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. 'Ta-daa! Look what I got for you, Dad!' I said excitedly.

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. 'If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it' Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. 'You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!'

Dad ignored me. 'Did you hear me, Dad?' I screamed.

At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp.

He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes.

The pointer waited patiently.

Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal. it was the beginning of a warm and intimate
friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community.
They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers.

He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy.
It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers. I've often thanked God for sending that angel,' he said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article!

Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter . . . his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father . . . and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

Life is too short for drama and petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly.
Live While You Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.
Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.
And if you don't send this to at least 4 people - who cares?
But do share this with someone. Lost time can never be found.


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JUST A DOG

From time to time, people tell me, "lighten up, it's just a dog" or "that's
a lot of money for just a dog". They don't understand the distance traveled
the time spent, or the costs involved for "just a dog". Some of my
proudest moments have come about with "just a dog". Many hours have passed
and my only company was "just a dog", but I did not once feel slighted. Some
of my saddest moments have been brought about by "just a dog," and in those
days of darkness, the gentle touch of "just a dog" gave me comfort and
reason to overcome the day. If you, too, think it's "just a dog", then you
will probably understand phrases like "just a friend", "just a sunrise" or
just a promise". "Just a dog" brings into my life the very essence of
friendship, trust, and pure unbridled joy "Just a dog" brings out the
compassion and patience that makes me a better person. Because of "just a
dog", I will rise early, take long walks and look longingly to the future.
So for me and folks like me, it's not "just a dog" but an embodiment of all
the hopes and dreams of the future, the fond memories of the past, and the
pure joy of the moment. "Just a dog" brings out what's good in me and
diverts my thoughts away from myself and the worries of the day. I hope that
someday they can understand that it's not "just a dog", but the thing that
gives me humanity and keeps me from being "just a man or woman". So the
next time you hear the phrase "just a dog", just smile -- because they "just
don't understand". -- Author Unknown

Xmas With A Boxer...

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except a wild-eyed Boxer named Mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
but none of us quite knowing the fawn and furry Boxer would soon be there.

The Lab and kitty cat were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of secret treasures danced in the Boxers' head
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had no idea the Boxer was getting ready to pull all of this crap,

When all of a sudden I heard such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Down to the stairs I flew like a flash,
But the Boxer had already tore open all the presents.
And man he was having a blast.

He lay their proud of himself as he chewed on the fake snow
and I looked all around at the damage below,
When, what to my tired eyes should appear,
But the Boxer had decided to eat our plastic reindeer,

With a hint of child like innocence, he was so lively and quick,
I thought it was a dream and gave myself a prick.
More rapid than a bear, his terror had already came,
And I shouted and called him but a few choice names;

"Now, Mouse! I shouted so loud and so firm,
I asked him to listen, but he was already on the go!
Around the house I chased him until I was totally bent!
To the top of the stairs! Around to the wall!
He dashed away! dashed away! like he was laughing at us all!

His eyes full of joy-- how they twinkled! how merry!
His cheeks puffed out from the mouth full of paper,
and me so mad I turned red like a cherry!
The drool from his mouth dropped down in a steady flow,
And his chin white with toy stuffing looked like he had eaten snow;

The ornament how he held them so tight in his teeth,
Was just a small preview of the damage he'd planned.
He tore down the wreath, I glancing up into the kitchen
I see he has eaten our Santa doll with the little round belly,
(He even ate our Christmas grape jelly too.)

It was just so much to take in, a right jolly night itself,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon let me to know I had a lot more to dread;

He barked not a sound, but went straight to his work,
He ripped down all the stockings; with one single jerk,
And laying his paw aside his nose,
He giving it a nod, and up the Tree he rose;

He tore down that tree, and making a sound almost like a whistle,
And down it came, breaking all our crystal.
But I heard him exclaim, as he ran out of sight,


"MERRY WOO, WOO, TO WOO AND TO WOO A GOODNIGHT!"

I WISH...

ON CHRISTMAS MORNING...

I wish, for every dog searching trash cans for breakfast,
a filled bowl with his name printed in bright letters.

For every dog who slept cold last night, chained in a frozen yard,
a soft, warm bed with a person snoring gently nearby.

For every shelter dog, spending Christmas in a soiled run,
a forever home filled with sounds and smells of family.

For every "Christmas" pup given today,
a tolerant, caring owner who won't abandon you
as you grow into a real dog.

For every ailing pet,
enough money for your owner
to pay the bills to make you well.

For every lost dog,
a clear, safe road and well marked path
to lead you home.

For every old and tired friend,
a warm fire and soft bed to ease
your aches and pains.

For every Heart Dog at the Bridge,
a moment when you know that you
are remembered today, missed again
and loved

Service Dog & Guide Dog Aggression

I am a young intact 2-year-old male, Rambo, CSD. True story. Last Monday we were at the mall for our usual outing. My Mum and I were inside the Carlingwood Mall discussing Boxers with an older woman (in a wheelchair) and her daughter. I was on loose leash, perfect heel position sit. Mum had been chatting for quite a few minutes on the type of Service Work I do for her. Unexpectedly from behind me I heard a very aggressive growl and turned just in time to see a CNIB Golden Retriever attack me. Now, the dog was in working harness, at least 2-3 years old. I did not budge. All I did to turn my head and flatten my ears. The woman handling "Ziggy" called him off. Now stupid Mum, She is apologizing to the handler of the Guide Dog for not noticing her... however, Mum told me to ignore and move on.. Which I did never again acknowledging the dog.



Mum was in a dilemma for a few days. The action of this guide dog requires it to be pulled immediately from the Guide Dog Program.. In addition, revert to pet status only. If I ever did any aggressive act while working, my Mum would scrap me immediately as a Service Dog.. A working dog has to be 100% reliable under any condition, except to protect if warranted.

Mum was so proud of me she bought me a banana which is my favorite treat. (see photos)



So today, Mum did call to make a formal complaint and demand the dog be reprogrammed and temperament tested or preferably pulled as a Guide Dog. Mum had quite a conversation with the Head Person, she and I discussed the necessity of having to maintain high standards not only for our own principles and safety but for the public as well. Mum will follow up on the outcome.



Silver lining though... the Guide School in Manotick has many requests for Service Dog. & Info, Mum to meet and discuss some possibilities, Mum and myself as representatives.



Now, aggression wise, when not working I will never start anything, but if challenged he will finish it. Or commanded to protect my Mum.







What we all should aim for is not an aggressive dog - but a true Boxer who do not easily starts a fight with another dog himself, but sure will answer any challenge forcefully and stand his ground if seriously provoked by another dog. He will never display aggression against humans - if he did, he would be dangerous. What he can be trained to do is another matter

Gratefulness...

grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.

Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should lick your hand between the blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me do.

Speak to me often, for your voice is the world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footsteps falls upon my waiting ear.

When it is cold and wet, please take me inside, for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements. And I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth. Though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in all the land, for you are my god and I am your devoted worshiper.

Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food, that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life should your life be in danger.

And, beloved master, should the great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do not turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest - and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew, my fate was ever safest in your hands.

~Beth Norman Harris

Laments...

Tale of a Brood Bitch

You buy a bitch, a winning thing'
And make her a champion in the ring.
She's sound, she's lovely, dysplasia free,
You want to breed her carefully.

Taking lots of time, you look around,
The stud, just be both typey and sound.
You study the pedigree 'till blind,
Building the litter in your mind.

Several possibilities appear.
You write back "My dog's the best"
Although the stud fee's out of sight,
You breed the bitch, the die is cast.
The next nine weeks don't go fast.

Of course, she whelps in the middle of the night.
With luck and care it turns out right.
The next eight weeks you fret and strain,
Feed and scoop in driving rain.

You take care with the homes they get.
This one is a show dog, this one a pet.
New owners call with problems dear,
You're on the phone for half a year.

AT LAST, the moment you've longed to know,
Your pups have come to their first show.
They all look fine, not one's a dud.
Then from behind you comes…..
"WOW - WHO'S THE STUD ????


Lament of a stud

My job is making puppies, and I get two tries at that. They pat me on the head and say "good boy" - and that's that. It's half my job to give 'em teeth and toplines, fronts and other. Remember, it's only half my job. They also have a mother.

It's not my job to carry pups and make 'em grow and nurse 'em, and feed and clean and make 'em strong, that's for Mother and a person. It's not my job to wean and feed the calcium and food. And stack and gait and housebreak and make 'em a showing brood.

It's not my job to plan the breeding and learn what produces well. To study pedigrees, learn what's there and pick out what to sell. It's not my job to guarantee champs, the breeder picks the pair. To mate and whelp and feed and show and HOPE the champ is there.

It's not my job to be on hand when points are given out, the breeder, owner, dam and friends take credit with a shout. It's not my job to deliver a winner, it's only genes I sell. But let the puppies turn out BAD and guess who catches HELL!!!



Author Unknown

This came off another list.... it's too cute and funny to- not cross post!

The Dog Show Handler/Owner Rescue Association > > LOS ANGELES, Calif. (ARP)-- > > > Looking for someone special to help around the kennel or on dog show trips?
Would you like that special companion, who understands, to share your home and life? Why not consider adopting a rescued handler/owner!
>
>
> The Dog Show Handler/Owner Rescue Association is currently screening families who might be interested in adopting or fostering a handler/owner rescue (or H.O.R.s for short). While there are a great many canine breed rescue organizations in our communities, there has been nothing (until now) to help the displaced, neglected or abandoned handler/owner. The need is greater than ever and the Dog Show H.O.R. Assoc. needs your help to address this growing problem.
>
>
> Who are the H.O.R.s that need help? Well, we see them every day. Some are lost or abandoned, then picked up in parks attempting to stack squirrels.
Others are
turned in by parents or spouses who didn't realize how much time, care and responsibility it takes to keep these special H.O.R.s. Often, these H.O.R.s are turned in with their own dogs. A number of H.O.R.s come to us because of bad knees and their families have decided they have outlived their usefulness. Many require medical attention due to years of caring for their dogs, yet neglecting their own diet, exercise and medical care.
>
>
> You're probably asking yourself right now, "How can I help?" We've prepared some questions to help you decide if you might be a suitable dog show H.O.R.
family:
>
>
> a.. Do you have a fenced yard?
> b.. Do you mind the smell of liver in the house?
> c.. Do you have a spare RV or Camper?
> d.. Are you able to provide suitable clothing with many pockets?
> e.. Do you have anything that can be groomed (often shag carpeting, stuffed animals or other family members) that can calm eager hands?
> f.. Are you able to listen for hours on end, patiently, and supportively?
> g.. Do you have thousands of extra dollars needed to properly support a dog show H. O. R.?
>
>
> If you've answered "yes!" to these questions, you may be dog show H.O.R.
material! Adopting a dog show H.O.R. can be a very rewarding experience.
They
are usually so willing to please, and often are happy with only an occasional class ribbon to play with. They can pick up droppings, are willing to help groom and show your own animals, and already know directions to every fairground and showground in the lower 48 states.
>
>
> They can have vast amounts of knowledge and wisdom that they are willing to impart to anyone who has the patience to listen for hours....and hours... and hours. While some may need a bit of resocializing, better nutrition and regular exercise, most adjust very well to their new dog show families when given appropriate time, reconditioning, patience and access to liver.
>
>
> We also get a few breeder/handler/owner rescues (B. H. O. R. s) from time to time. Dog show B.H.O.R.s are often more difficult to place as they are usually alphas and may have a harder time getting along with existing dog show breeders.
They tend to be less submissive, and often will try to control the household and existing breeder's program if strong boundaries are not set. There is hope for B.H.O.R.s, though. For those with the experience, extra patience and a strong hand, even dog show B.H.O.R.s can find new and useful lives.
>
>
> So, if you're interested in fostering or adopting either a dog show H.O.R. or B.H.O.R., please contact us. If you are not able to foster or adopt at this time, if you know of a dog show H.O.R. or B.H.O.R. in need of rehoming, or would just like to make a much needed donation, please give us a call at 800-555-HORS!
You can also visit one of our Dog Show B.H.O.R.s and H.O.R.s booths located at most, major dog shows.

JUST A PET...

Just a Pet


(c) 1998 Jenny Peacocke
Vizsla breeder, Upper Hutt, New Zealand


This is for those of you who think that breeders are too difficult, too "elitist," too hard and expensive to get a puppy from because all you want is JUST A PET!!!

Why do you turn JUST A PET into a negative? Why do you think that JUST A PET is less than a show dog or a trials dog or a working dog? Why do you think that you are settling for second (or third or worse) best?

And those reading this who have decided that they want a SPECIFIC BREED JUST A PET!!! Why do you want THAT specific breed? Because of it's temperament? Because of it's looks? Because of it's energy? It's joy in life? Or one or some of many other wonderful traits of the breed you have decided on?

How do you think breeders keep these things in their breeds? Simple! It's by careful, selective, planned breeding to always try and produce the best possible so that any JUST A PETs they put in homes can give those characteristics that are so much the breed you want. It costs a caring breeder just as much to produce JUST A PET as to produce a show or working dog. They are usually from the same litter and often could be the same pup!!

Reputable breeders would never breed a litter to simply produce pets for the pet market. This is puppy milling. This is also MUCH cheaper. You do not need to work hard at proving your dog’s abilities. You do not need to check on health and temperament. You do not need to match up the BEST stud for the bitch you have. The first male of the breed (entire) you find will do (easier if he lives at your place ... and cheaper).

The fact that these breeders would never breed a litter to simply produce pets for the pet market does not mean that many of them would not happily sell a whole litter to JUST A PET homes - it means that these pet homes would be getting the quality dog they deserve as their JUST A PET!!

If this is not what you want from your puppy there are plenty of "breeders" out there who mate (or "accidentally" allow the mating of) their male (or their friend’s male) to their bitch and will happily sell you a puppy. Probably even proudly announce that they are registered with whatever controlling kennel club is in your country... Well so can any purebred dog born of registered, purebred parents be. Doesn't mean a thing about health, quality, temperament, ability, etc.

It is up to you to decide whether your JUST A PET should be considered by you and others as "THE BEST" or whether you go out with the idea that your dog is second best to the "competing" ones.

To me JUST A PET is the most special dog there is!

A Puppy's Prayer...

> A PUPPY'S PRAYER


> Now I lay me down to sleep.
> The king-size bed is soft and deep

> I sleep right in the center groove,
> My human being can hardly move!

> I've trapped their legs, they're tucked in tight,
> And here is where I pass the night.

> No one disturbs me, Nor dares to intrude,
> 'til morning comes and " I WANT FOOD" !

> I sneak up slowly, to begin,
> My nibbles on my mommy's chin,

> For the morning's here. It's time to play!
> I always seem to get my way.