S.O.S. from Austin!

     When I moved to Austin in 2003, everyone told me I had a five-year grace period before the cedar pollen would come lookin' for me.  Oh not me, I thought.  I've never had allergies.  Allergies are for the weak and whining!  I watched my fellow Austinites suffer each January, wondered at the bumper stickers that read "The Only Good Cedar is a Stump" and felt superior.  My blunt-force determination helped me last eight years.  Now I, too, am weak and whining, living in a fog of I.Q.-destroying pollen.  This blog is on the verge of devolving into stick figures and monosyllables.
     Ivy and Revel are mystified by this development and, worse, are on a constant quest to get hold of my used tissues.  Please!  I continue to walk them, throw the ball for them, work on Revel's "stay" and take them places, but it hurts to talk, I sneeze all the time, and the joy is gone.  And they know it.

     Meanwhile, I am more amazed than ever by the perfection of their health.  They are either deeply asleep or awake and bursting with joyous life.  They are never partly asleep with things aching, or awake but functioning only via will power and caffeine.  They run, make sudden stops and turns that would rip a poor human knee to shreds, they jump and roll and bark and sleep deeply and do it all over again.  Yesterday I dragged myself out to the big field to throw the purple ball for them, and they were so happy and so good.  I think they knew I couldn't call them loudly, or perhaps that I needed them, and they never went out of my sight.  It was as if they knew I was doing my best for them, and they gave it right back.
     Not one shred of the common advice for dealing with cedar works with my lifestyle.  Check it out: avoid going outside (very funny), don't have pets because they bring in the pollen (ha ha), if you do have pets bathe them frequently (Ivy and Revel are calling their lawyers), and if you must go outside, strip off your clothes before you enter the house and go straight to the shower (Don't worry—my servant will bring in the groceries, put them away and start cooking while I luxuriate in the shower).
     January will pass.  I think.  There's a sixty percent chance of rain this Monday, rain that would knock the killer pollen down some, maybe even wash it off my house and pets!  And when I'm feeling better, my perfect young dogs will be ready to play with me, I know it.

Party On, Revel

     My family is steeped in Elvis-lore.  Elvis's father worked for my grandfather, my mom has for almost sixty years maintained a crush on the King which was not lessened by his death, and my youngest son was almost born on Elvis's birthday.  My friend Jessica and I wanted soooooo badly for the baby to come on January 8th.  We were both sooooooo disappointed on the morning of the 9th when I was still pregnant.  But it turns out that True needed his own birthday; he has too big a presence to celebrate in Elvis's shadow.
     Revel was almost born on Valentine's Day, a holiday I adore and celebrate to the max, but he came on the 13th instead.  He is the lovingest puppy in the whole world, innocent and sweet and babyish, and he would have been a perfect Valentine's baby.  But we'll give him a big send-up on his day, and Valentine's can be reserved for me to woo my family with some chocolate delight.  True chose lemon cake for his birthday this year.  It was not easy to make and crazy-good, a heady cake for a ten-year-old boy.

     I don't know what Revel would choose if he could, because he seems to enjoy all food equally, and he also seems to inhale it without tasting.  Whatever I make for him, I can count on him to accept it with massive enthusiasm.
     And in breaking news, Mr. Chill has demonstrated this week that he is no pushover, never mind that Ivy runs him over like a tractor on a regular basis.  Oliver the chocolate Lab is staying with us for a few days, and Revel has challenged him or, one could say, informed him of the facts, a couple of times, even though Oliver is gigantic and could certainly take Revel down if he decided to.  Last night Oliver walked over to Revel's dog bed and started to curl his gigantic shedding self into a comfortable napping package, and Revel went over and growled a long, low, that's MY bed growl.  Oliver got up and loped away to find himself another napping spot.
     "Sorry, Oliver," one of the boys said.  "Revel's king of the dog bed."  It may be the only thing Revel's king of, but the dog bed is definitely his domain.  He goes straight to it from his crate in the morning and naps for a bit before he can be bothered to go outside.  He spends a lot of time sculpting it to his liking.  And when I dare to wash it, he takes seriously his job of getting it back to the proper shape and filth.
     Today would have been my mother-in-law's birthday, had she not died two years ago.  She was an awesome mother-in-law, and I loved telling her how crazy I am about her son.  I was lucky to have her.  I'm lucky to have him.  When I say the words, "Bruce is home," Ivy and Revel go crazy with joy, reminding me to put down my dishcloth or pot-holder and do the same.
     So much to celebrate, and my little fur-baby's birthday has moved to the top of the list.

Ivy takes a swimming lesson from Oliver.

Flyball!

     Ivy and I went to our first flyball class yesterday and it was FUN.  I took my ten-year-old assistant with me and it would have been difficult to manage without him, especially because we had to bring a crate and I couldn't have carried the crate, a motherload of treats, Ivy's squeaky doughnut that doesn't squeak anymore because she ripped the squeaker out, her portable water-drinking gadget and held on to the girl herself.  Thank you, True, for helping our first class go well.
     I was a little worried about the crate.  As in agility trials, in flyball the dogs are crated on the sidelines when it's not their turn.  But my agility teacher doesn't bother having us crate our dogs as it's a class, not a trial, and Ivy stopped sleeping in her crate some months ago.  But we did some practicing with her beforehand, which means I tossed pieces of bacon into the crate, said "Crate!" and clicked as she went in.  It turned out not to be an issue at all, thanks to the wonders of pig fat and the rigors of flyball; when it wasn't her turn, she seemed happy to have a break in her little den, as did the other dogs.  (The two small dogs in the class, "Chiquita" who looks like a dachshund but with long legs and "Kyle," a Yorkie, have crates that are decked out like palaces, or like the cribs of treasured infants, with many colorful fleecy items.  Ivy's crate looked rather Spartan in comparison, but more dignified for sure.)
    We worked on three things in the action-packed hour.  First, asking Ivy to go get a stationary ball and bring it back, the purpose of which is to see if she is "right-handed" or "left-handed."  This is determined by the direction she turns to come back to me, and will determine how we train her to do the swimmer's turn off the flyball box.  We couldn't figure out her handedness, however; she turned both ways an equal number of times, so my homework this week is to find out if she turns one way more than the other.
    Second, we worked on having each dog go over a series of jumps, placing the jumps close enough together so they could do them with only a single step in between.  No double-stepping!  Ivy was able to single-step with the jumps seven feet apart, but she'll have to work up to ten feet to be a true flyball Queen. One of the teachers of the class told me he had an Aussie mix who worked up to 9 feet and six inches but never could do ten, and he eventually had to give up.  "She's a good dog, though," he added.

     And third, we took each dog to a wall and asked them to target a chuck-it stick (touch it with their noses, no mouthing), moving it higher until the dogs had to jump some to touch it, front paws also touching the wall.  Next step to this will be having a toy in my other hand and swooping that hand down so Ivy turns towards it after the "touch," forming the basis for her swimmer's turn.  Ivy did great with the wall thing, and even got some applause.  But we've spent a lot of time working on targeting; when I hold out two fingers or hold out something else and say, "Touch," she will faithfully touch it with her nose and doesn't seem to ever think about not touching it.  I love it when time spent on something pays off!  It doesn't always happen that way.
     When Kathy, the head honcho, said, "Work on this at home," I started thinking about which wall in my house I want to sacrifice to Ivy's paws, and I'm still thinking.
     We went home, Ivy took a massive nap and I gave Revel a massive belly rub to make up for leaving him behind.  Next week I'm going to take my twelve-year-old assistant, because I can't have too many assistants; we can't wait.

Party at Ivy's House

  
     Lots of exciting things coming up: for example, Ivy's first birthday is a week from tomorrow.  I already know what I'm going to wear (my slinky black dress and my beloved John Fluevog black heels).  I'm going to make a stinky carnivorous treat for the two dogs, and a four-layer lemon cake for the four humans.  A certain cherished member of my family who is twelve years old and whose name begins with B no longer likes chocolate, so I am branching out in my dessert-making. (If you own stock in Ghiradelli, sell now!)  I'm going to waste tons of time this week making a slideshow of my year's worth of photos of Ivy, and we're going to generally toast the fabulousness of our girl.  She may not know why we're celebrating, but she's always, always up for some fun.

     The other much-anticipated event in our lives is this Thursday, when the temperature is going to plummet all the way down to a high of ninety-five.  We are super-excited about this arctic blast, because ninety-five is a full fifteen degrees below the highs we've been having.  Last night at the 110-degree baseball practice, that's all we talked about: Thursday, Thursday, wonderful Thursday.  Only two more baseball practices between now and then. Only two more dinners to cook in my hot kitchen.  Only a day and a half more of listening to my dogs pant while they sit still and do nothing.  I guess they might still pant, but it won't be as bad.  Can't wait.
     Back to Ivy's birthday!  Why celebrate a dog's birthday, especially when every day is a big party as far as she's concerned?  Because she and I have worked hard the last year to get her to where she is now.  Because she has brought me some new and wonderful friendships.  Because she helps me see the world as happier, more interesting and more fragrant than I ever thought it was.  Because after recently watching my friends Michelle and Rachel suffer the deaths of their dogs Violet and Ethan, I am more grateful than ever for each moment I have with Ivy.  Because she has survived this brutal summer with me, and has done so with an Aussie smile on her face.   Come on, Thursday; maybe we'll start the party then.

Aussie Party at Our House

     Early this morning a cold front blew through the Texas hill country, although it would be more accurate to call it a "not quite so hot front."  But we'll take it!  First day in forever with a high under ninety, and I discovered some startling news about my Aussies.  All these months I thought they were following me around the house because they love me so dearly, but turns out it was because the temperature in the house was more comfortable than outside.  Way more comfortable.  This morning, finally, the Texan outdoors felt cool and fresh and the house seemed stuffy and hot in comparison.  Out the dogs went, and out they stayed.  They tore around the yard, barking and dive-bombing each other, taunting each other with filthy toys and things they've stolen from the recycling, and didn't come in at all.  Didn't look for me.  Didn't check to see where I was.  Didn't follow me when I walked past them to feed the chickens.  I was crushed!

     But happy for them.  It's nice to see them so frisky, so engaged with each other, nice to see them sniffing the air joyously instead of plastering themselves to the cool tile floor of the kitchen and declining to budge.  I finished the breakfast dishes, started some stock for soup (Yay for soup weather!), started a bread sponge (Yay for baking bread without incinerating my kitchen!) and went outside to throw the purple ball for them.  They were waaaaaay too fired up to bring it back to me consistently; Ivy grabbed it and continued sprinting around the yard with the ball in her mouth, darting up to me for another throw every so often.  I sat and watched them, thinking about how fun it will be to wear long sleeves, to cuddle up with my husband, to eat Honeycrisp apples when the fall crop comes in, and to be able to walk my dogs at times other than 5:00 AM.  Yes, the drought continues.  We've just finished the driest twelve months in our state's history.  Am I partying while Rome burns?  Kind of.  But my dogs' joy is contagious.  I felt unreasonably happy sitting outside with them, throwing that spit-covered ball.  Now, hours later, the bread is cooling on my kitchen table, the stock has turned into minestrone, and the temperature begins with an "8."  Not a 9, not a 1 followed by two other numbers.  I'm going to live it up while I can.

Do Bad Dogs Have More Fun?

     Ever since passing her Canine Good Citizen test a couple of weeks ago, Ivy has been on a tear of bad behavior.  She's been whiny, begging at the table, and viciously scolding people who don't comply with her grand plan as Queen.  For example, when my husband comes home from work, my younger son and Ivy compete to see who can reach him first.  The kid almost always wins, because he closes the gate to get a head start and then I feel sorry for Ivy and go open the gate.  She races out like her Aussie butt is on fire and scolds and fusses and complains because the human boy has reached the human man before she did.  My husband then opens the tailgate of his pickup and she flies up and receives more high-quality lovin' in five minutes than some dogs get in a lifetime.  Revel doesn't dare try to greet the incoming human, lest he lose an ear or something.  He waits patiently, panting and blinking and looking cute.  He knows there's a great store of love in the household, that a fat percentage is heading his way.

     When people have recently congratulated me on Ivy's passing the test, I've been forced to say, "I don't know that she really deserves it."  In general.  At the actual test she was amazing.  Passed with flying colors, in Petco, with no treats.  Then comes home and acts increasingly goofy with lots of treats and no Petco smells.  But I have decided (with the help of some dear readers who know Aussies better than I do) to take it as a good sign that at least she recognized that the testing situation was an important occasion to which she needed to rise.  Unfortunately she also recognizes that hanging out at home with the family is not a nerve-wracking occasion which demands exemplary behavior, and no doubt that perception is due to some failing on my part.  I saw a Border Collie-themed bumper sticker the other day that read, "Great dog! Shame about the handler!" and my initial thought was, "Oh no!  That's me!"  But I had some better thoughts after that, such as: Ivy and Revel love me, Ivy and Revel love me.  Ivy and Revel are awfully cute, Ivy and Revel are awfully cute.  Ivy is my darling girl, Revel is my baby boy.  Just put that on an endless loop, and I can rise to any occasion.

Baby Love

      We keep a small dock on the kitchen counter for playing Pandora radio through an iPod, and my younger son begs to hit the "thumbs down" feature that means you'll never, ever hear that particular song again.  There I am cooking away when on comes Sam Cooke singing some shot-to-the-heart.
     The kid: "This is the worst song ever!  Can I hit thumbs-down?"
     The cook: "No!  This is Sam Cooke!  He was one of our greatest singers!"
     Sam Cooke: "If I had someone to love me true, then I know I wouldn't be so blue. . ."
     The kid: "This is terrible."
     The cook: "Would you set the table?"
     Ivy bursts through the dog door, Revel on her heels, both panting and expressive, seeking eye contact, trying to tell me what an exciting thing they've seen outside.
     The cook: "Hi baby loves!  Did you see a deer?  Or was it a squirrel?"
     The kid, immersed in table-setting: "There's no such thing as a baby love!  Why do you call them that?"  He is familiar with the Supremes singing this classic because it's one he'd very much like to thumbs-down.  I have the perfect answer: "I call them that because they are my baby loves."  Take that!

     Now that the weather is cooling off some, Ivy and Revel are choosing to be outside more, rather than going out only when following me (and they would follow me through molten lava, which is precisely why they are my baby loves).  Since we have a dog door and since they love to fly through it at warp speed, I try to make sure human-door-opening moments are handled with some manners.  "Wait," which to me means dogs wait for human to go through first and then go through themselves when released to do so, is one of the more useful things they know and was also the easiest to teach.  Obviously they could do a sit-and-stay while I go through, but "wait" is a little less formal; they can stand or sit or down, as long as they aren't jostling for position or barrelling ahead of me.  It can be taught to even a very young pup, because it's so clear, and here's how you do it:  first get some treats or be prepared to deliver lavish praise or both.  Approach the door with your furry baby love, who will automatically be waiting for you to open the door since she can't open it herself.  Whatever her position, look down and imagine the dog absolutely glued to it.  Open the door a crack and if she stays put or looks to you to see what will happen next, say softly, "That's right," and let a feeling of warm encouragement go from you to her.  If she makes even a micro-move toward the door (and the move is not as micro to her as it is to us), close the door.  You don't need to say "No," or anything else.  The door opens when she waits and it closes when she moves.  Do it fifteen times if you have to, but keep a very happy, matter-of-fact attitude.  There's no good or bad; there is simply the fact that the door is going to open for a waiting dog, and the door is not going to open for a not-waiting dog.  Revel, who is a very visual learner and does far better with hand signals than spoken commands, understood this quickly; three or four door-closings and he sat and waited to see what would happen if he didn't move toward the door, because he already knew what would happen if he did move.  The first time, you might stop at this point.  The next time, go a little farther and see if the dog can wait until the door is opened wider, then make a big deal of releasing her to go through.  If you have a release word like "Free," great, but if not. . .it's not difficult to communicate release to a puppy who is intently waiting for it.  "Yay!  Go ahead!  Good girl!"  Don't even go through yourself.  Next time, if she seems to know that you are Master of Door Opening, go ahead and add the word, "Wait."  And don't underestimate the power of speaking dramatically and picturing the dog doing exactly what you ask of her.  It's fun!  And it might someday save you from tripping over an Aussie butt.

     Ivy and Revel have no idea what it's like to be without someone to love them true.  Their biggest problems right now are that the squirrels are faster than they are and the deer don't want to play with them.  I think they enjoy being asked to wait at the door and then doing it well.  They seem to feel comfort in knowing how to act in a given situation, and pride in their knowledge.  And of course they looooove that big thumbs-up from their cook.