There have been thousands of studies and articles concerning the ability of our canine friends to think, understand their human friends and their relationships with other animals. I should introduce you to Sindy our Shih Tzu! Sindy joined our animal kingdom about 8 years ago. Winnie, our cock-a-poo, picked Sindy from a group of other dogs she didn’t like at Lamb’s Farm, which is a special needs children’s home/farm on the north side of Chicago. Winnie came from Lamb’s farm as well and thought it best to choose the new puppy herself. We had just lost Betsy, a peek-a-poo, after 18 wonderful years, and Winnie was grieving, losing weight and desperately in need of a companion.

When we brought Sindy home, we also had a 15 year old cat named Ralphie. Ralphie was a barn cat that we took home from Dad’s neighboring farm, being assured by Mr. Farmer that she was a female kitty and would be a wonderful house pet! Fluffie turned out to be Ralphie after the vet called us concerning neutering. Maybe it was that humiliating error which made Ralphie a bit nasty! He was a heck of a mouser but never liked dogs--period!

Ralphie never played with Winnie and certainly was not going to play with this little character named Sindy! We lived in an old two story house and the front stairs leading down to the front entry door consisted of about twenty-one steps. At the top of the stairs “King” Ralphie would sit, striking out at the dogs as they came up or down the stairs. Since Sindy was young and naive--she was of course Ralphie’s favorite target. It was impossible for the little puppy to go up or down without being struck with the claw of Ralphie!

I should point out that a debate has been raging in our household as to the intelligence of Ms. Sindy. She is kind of cross-eyed, has very few teeth and her tongue lolls out the side of her mouth. Quite honestly, she does not appear too quick of wit! Winnie was smart enough, however, to never fight back when Ralphie was getting such cat pleasure of tormenting her. Ralphie in fact improved on his attack plans by turning over a tote bag at the top of the stairs and hiding inside--where he could launch surprise attacks on Sindy. This went on for several years and was a source of entertainment for us all!

One day, as we were talking to neighbors at the foot of the stairs, we noticed that Ralphie had taken his usual spot in the bag, ready to attack any creature who wandered by. We also noticed that Sindy was sitting nearby and thought, for a brief instant, that she was afraid to go by Ralphie.

Suddenly Sindy crept behind the bag, and swinging her little paw, pushed the tote bag, Ralphie still inside, down the stairs. The cat and bag bounced down the entire 21 stairs coming to rest at our feet, Ralphie, screaming, humiliated but unharmed, bolted away to destinations unknown! I swear Sindy stood smiling, not laughing, at the top of the stairs! Never again, did Mr. Ralphie attack either dog.

We are still not sure how smart Sindy is, or how many words she understands, BUT, I do know that she understands the concept of REVENGE!

Ralphie has passed on, but Sindy, for some unknown reason, loves all kitties! I guess she understands the concept of FORGIVENESS as well!

Copyright © 2007.

She isn’t a pretty dog, what with a crooked nose, broken tail stump, missing teeth, scars on he neck and face, and that grey cloudy left eye. I noticed none of these things when I was in the play-yard at Arizona Animal Welfare League in September 2004.

My dear 12-year-old lab mix, Dink, was dying of liver failure after a bout with Cushing’s Disease. I knew when the day came to put him down; I wanted to be ready to give a home to another dog. Her write-up on the AAWL website made me decide to put her on the top of the list of potential adoptees.

AAWL said she was a mellow lab-mix and was found abandoned at a home in Phoenix. I’ve always had retrievers and retriever mixes and she was only 26 pounds. I had just left my job after a health crisis and I’m not physically that strong so I wanted a smaller dog. I thought I could handle her better.

After she was home, I noticed that there was something peculiar about her left eye and she walked funny, as if she was a gangly wobbly puppy. I took her to the complimentary veterinarian visit and discussed these issues with the doctor examining her. There was no vision in her left eye. It appeared trauma-related. That with the scars on her face and neck looked as if she was mauled by another animal with her head in its mouth. The animal’s teeth must have destroyed her eye.

She also had a spinal cord injury, possibly occurring during the mauling, as if the predator shook her like a rag doll, perhaps banging he body against a concrete patio or wall. Then there was the mystery of the broken tail. We’ll never know about that. But it seems she has adapted to her injuries quite well, such as doing a three-legged pee and almost a two-legged poop.

Then I brought her to a groomer. They took one look at her and said that she wasn’t a lab-mix at all. She was an Italian Greyhound mix. What was an Italian Greyhound? Lo and behold, that was her face and body-shape on the official Italian Greyhound website, only she was about ten pounds heavier. But she did the “prance”, and had the “spats” on her feet, and despite her disability could run like she was chasing rabbits. The website said to never let your Italian Greyhound off-leash because they will take off.

After a few months of adapting to our quiet lifestyle, I was caught by surprise one morning when I stepped out the front door to pick up the newspaper. Out the door she ran like the wind! There I was in my robe and flip-flops and nothing else! I couldn’t run well in the flip-flops, and I was naked under the robe. I really didn’t want to go after her. So I called and called, but after she turned the corner and no longer in my sight, modesty aside, I needed to go after her. So there I was, stopping cars as I finally caught up with her. The drivers were startled to see this frantic woman in a pink terrycloth robe shuffling along. I had her collar, but she decided to sit down and wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t pull on her collar too much because she could slip out of it very easily. And I couldn’t lift her up. I’m not that strong, but even if I tried, I knew the neighbors and early morning drivers wanted to see a frontal view of me naked.

What did the Italian Greyhound website say again? Never let them off leash! They need to add - especially if you are in you robe and flip-flops!

We made it home and fortunately for all, that scene has never been repeated. This is my little Bambi. After all she’s been through, she is the sweetest and most gentle loving dog I’ve ever had the privilege to have in my life. As I said, she isn’t a pretty dog, but she is a very beautiful little girl.

Copyright © 2007.

I started noticing on one of our mornings. He had always just zipped up “the hill.” We called it Heartbreak Hill after the famous incline that runners must face at the twenty-two mile mark of the Boston Marathon. He was no longer zipping up the hill but struggled to maintain a decent pace and his breathing was erratic as he struggled for air. His mouth hung open as he sucked the “polluted but better than Los Angeles” oxygen into his barrel chest. What had changed I conjectured? He is forcing me to slow down...this interruption in my pacing is keeping me from realizing my goals as a runner. (I want desperately to win this year’s Ahwatukee Master and Mutt Charities 5K Run. We came in second to that obnoxious neighbor up the street last year. He made sure everyone on the block knew while bragging at the semi-annual neighborhood block watch party. I was determined to shut him up and win this years run.)

I am being forced to drag him up this hill by the leash. There better be some changes and fast. It bothers me that these thoughts come through my head but perhaps it is time for a new running partner, is it time for this one to be sent to the couch?

At first I thought it was a mouse. The rustling sound had awakened me. As I lay there trying to gather my thoughts, I hoped it was a mouse. We had found a couple of scorpions lately which freaked the family and for one to make that much noise, it would have to be BIG....VERY BIG....a sight I did not care to see or deal with. (I know Pam doesn't. If she saw scorpions that big she would make us all move back to Tulsa, OK. I would rather face that scorpion than live amongst those Oral Roberts followers.) After having established where the noise was coming from, I headed toward the sound.....wearily and warily.

It was shocking. There he was on the couch, surrounded by candy wrappings, wolfing through Starbursts. He was oblivious to his surrounding. He was sucking in Starburst candies as fast as Barry Bonds was sucking in steroids. I had seen the Costco size bag in the pantry. This had been our month to host the “neighborhood homework club.” Pam thought she had been filling the candy dish for the kids. Later we found out the wrapped candies were all being eaten in the middle of the night. Pam figured she had been filling the dish with about a pound of Starbursts a day. We checked the “nutrition facts” on the back of the bag and did the math. A serving was 8 pieces=11 servings=88 pieces=one pound = 1760 calories. He had been adding almost two thousand extra calories a day through his out-of-control, middle-of -the-night and sneaky snacking!

Unbeknownst to me he had been living a double life. He was eating a healthy runner’s diet while being observed by others, but behind my back he being untrue to himself and others! No wonder his running was off......he had gotten fat! In hindsight it surprises me the neighbors had not questioned my running through the Foothills with a pig! To say I was disappointed in him would understate my feelings....I was overwhelmed with a sense of betrayal by my friend and partner....however, after stern stares we came to an understanding. This behavior would stop....and stop now.

I must admit my running partner is changing. The “zip” he had is back. He is running the hills effortlessly, he is holding his head high and his arms are swinging easily. He runs without a shirt now that the big belly is gone. I should have been suspicious when he started wearing those bulky running shorts and shirts. He was hiding his weight gain!

Why is the partner always the last to know when you find them cheating on you? It must be one of those absolute/universal truth deals.

I like our chance at the charity run;I will let you know how we did. I really want to stick it to that smart-ass neighbor Rover. Someone needs to muzzle him and I am the dog for the job! I do hope you understand how difficult it is to type with paws. It takes a lot longer that you members of the pack that have those freakish fingers.

Copyright © 2007.

We knew that Harry was a special breed the first time we saw him. At 10 weeks of age, we met him on the sidewalk of a strip mall in Scottsdale. His owner brought him to meet us for the first time and Harry was more impressed with the scents he discovered on the pavement than our smiling and happy faces. He sniffed our shoes and avoided our eye contact. There was little to no interest in being petted or being showered with our “Oh how cute” or “isn’t he adorable.” We had little to no concern about his odd behavior because we had had a beagle before.

We just wanted to get him home. He fit right into our home which consisted at that time of myself and my husband. Being a beagle, he wanted to spend lots of time outside in our back yard. He explored every inch of our small yard and made this his daily routine. What smells he encountered one day were replaced with different odors the next. Each day was an adventure out in the yard and he would spend hours with his head down to the ground inhaling the scent of the sweet grass, wagging his tail 50 miles an hour and barking at the top of his voice if he found something of interest. Life was very intense for Harry when he was “at his job” as we called it. His work day started as soon as he could arouse us to open the back door and let him out. He only came in when he heard his dog bowl being taken out of the cabinet and his dog food bag being rattled. He woofed his food down in under 60 seconds and made a race for the back door again. At times, he was very difficult to get to come in the house and he had to be tricked. I would go out and ask him if he wanted to go “for a ride” or “for a walk.” That always got his attention. He knew that things existed outside his back yard and he wanted to explore them also.

Harry was very athletic and able to get into spots that amazed us. Being 24 inches tall, we were surprised that he could jump over our 6 foot wall, walk on top of the 4-inch wide brick wall that bordered my flower garden, stick his head in holes that were intended for chipmunk, and squeeze behind the air conditioner unit to explore the pipes. He loved to watch and chase birds and took an interest in what they did up in the trees. He even loved to climb in bushes and break all the limbs off trying to find what made them so special. Inside the home, he knew how to open all the cabinets, drawers, and doors. He even climbed up on the kitchen counter and got a piece of toast out of the toaster one morning. He could open the oven door, open the dishwasher to lick the dirty plates, and push the pantry door open and climb up 4 shelves to reach the box of cookies that had been hidden from him.

He took a special interest in the orange tree where a dove had made a nest. One day, I heard him yelping. It was not his usual “look what I found” yelp. It was “oh my gosh, I need help out here” yelp. I ran out in the yard and could not see him even though I heard his ear piercing cries. It sounded like he was under the orange tree. I ran over to the tree and did not see anything. The tree was large and the branches hung low so it was hard to see what was there. I kneeled down on my hands and knew and looked up the trunk of the tree. Six feet up in the tree, Harry sat perched on a limb looking into the birds nest. I scolded him and yelled at him to come down. Knowing that he does not easily give up his prey, I became worried. How long would he stay up there? How long would he continue barking? How did he get up there in the first place? I went in and prepared his favorite snack, peanut butter covered carrots. I enticed him with these to encourage him to come down out of the tree. At this time, I realized that his collar had gotten caught on a limb and he was unable to move. He didn’t care. He was in heaven. He had found a new place to explore and had his special treat waiting for him. Evidentially, my husband was able to pull him down. On his following daily adventures, his favorite place was the orange tree. Harry continued to climb higher and higher and soon the dove decided to move. The poor orange tree showed sign of Harry’s abuse due to all his climbing up and around there and lost most of its branches and leaves. We began to feel sorry for the tree and worried for Harry’s mental and physical well being, so we chopped the tree down. To our amazement, Harry appeared not to notice. To this day, he finds creative and enthusiastic ways to explore “his domain." The yard belongs to him. We do not use it for our own recreation but as a source of entertainment for Harry. He still has “his jobs to do” and we love him for it.

Copyright © 2007.

As this is horse country most are familiar with Jack Russells, the small dogs that seem to be a cross between a lion and an energizer bunny. Leezer Beezer (though perhaps a bit smaller than the usual version) could have been a Jack Russell poster pup. By the age of two she had been in fights with a hawk, a coyote, and a chipmunk with understandably varying results. In point of fact, the vet bills run up on her by the age of two made her what I would venture to guess was the only $300+ a pound dog in the town of Cave Creek. This story concerns one of the slightly less dangerous duties...one which happily did not require the services of Dr. Baker.

I returned home one day to discover the pantry in my utility room largely dismantled. My normally well behaved dogs had apparently gone berserk. I set to work cleaning up the mess after a few sharp words to the two culprits and had almost finished when Beezer began scratching wildly at one of the cupboard doors. What was going on here? I obligingly opened the door staring into the interior looking for anything that might be causing this anxiety attack. For perhaps 30 seconds I saw nothing... no growling pasta, no chirping tuna cans, no attack flour, nada, zilch, zero. Then suddenly, my eyes focused on the shelf directly in front of me, and I spied a tiny grey mouse sitting absolutely still staring back at me from a distance of less than a foot. Almost involuntarily I reached for him and he scurried away into the recesses of the pantry causing the Beezer to begin scratching wildly at another door. All right, I would catch the villain! With the door to the utility room shut so that my fierce hunter could not get in, Mr. Mouse came out and with lip smacking eagerness went after the peanut butter cracker in the live trap.

The question now became what to do with him. It seemed to me that the feed room at the barn would be a lovely home for a small grey mouse... plenty to eat, safety from all Jack Russells, and nice warm hay for a bed. Apparently I should not hang out my shingle as a mouse psychologist! The next day he was back with Leezer Beezer pursuing him through the pantry once again. This time when I caught him I took him several blocks away to an open field.

As I opened the trap he ran back under the car and I had to creep slowly away hoping that after all my trouble to save him, he wasn’t going to be crushed by my tires. I needn’t have worried. I fact I think he must have scampered into a wheel well because the next day my pantry guard informed me with sharp barks and scratches that he was back.

By now I was getting a little frustrated! The poor addict once again couldn’t resist the peanut butter cracker and was safely caught by morning. I, however, was becoming very curious. Was this the same mouse or had there been three of them? They looked like the same mouse, but then I wasn’t sure what constituted “distinguishing marks” for a mouse. Determined to find out once and for all, I carried the trap with my prize in to the garage and pulled out some yellow paint. Reaching through the wire I painted his tail bright yellow. I again loaded my felon into the car and took him far away to be released, and then came home to await his return. I would finally know the truth!

Sadly, the mouse gods would not allow me even this small pleasure. My thief was gone forever. Perhaps the indignity of his yellow tail shamed him into moving into a cave and becoming a hermit, or perhaps the terror of 11 pounds of brown and white fury constantly in his face caused him to move his digs to friendlier quarters, or perhaps there really were three different mice. Only Leezer Beezer could tell me for sure, and she wasn’t talking.

Copyright © 2007.