Monday, June 30, 2008

Dog's First Vacation!


This weekend signified a momentous occasion in the life of Dog—his very first official vacation!

Yes, Dog has traveled along with us to Grandma’s and houses of friends, but that doesn’t really count, does it? This time Dog was going on a real, for sure, destination-type vacation—to the beach! And sleeping, not on the humble floor of a friend or relative, but in a real hotel!

I hoped Dog’s experience would be a magical for him as it was for me--my first time, when, as a child traveling by car back from a vacation to visit relatives (the only kind we could afford), we were all tired before my dad could drive the long eight hours home and we decided to stop in at—luxury of all luxuries—a Holiday Inn!

At that point in my life, “Holiday Inn” was synonymous to “The Ritz”—each of them being completely out of my sphere of experience.

My mother still laughs, remembering me, running out of the bathroom, thrilled out of my mind at the very idea of the little, teeny soaps (free soap!) that they had waiting for us like they were little pieces of gold! (BTW, I guess old habits die hard, because I am still enamored of all the little sample toiletries, especially in a really nice hotel where you not only get soap, but all kinds of cool stuff like body butter, bubble bath and shower caps!)

I would have loved to have treated Dog to a really posh hotel, like the Ritz Carlton or the Four Seasons for his “first time,” but we were going to Santa Cruz and there were only about a half a dozen hotels that accepted dogs and only one with a vacancy—The Capitola Inn, it was!

Check-in time was 3 pm, so when we arrived at noon, we headed to the beach. I knew Dog would love it (the sandy volley-ball court in our neighborhood park was one of his favorite spots). The beach sand had to have a lot more fascinating smells, birds, discarded food to enhance his pleasure! We did three long walks, some seagull chasing, and lots and lots of exploratory sniffing. Dog was in heaven!

The rest of us—not so much. It turned out to be a foggy, cold day at the beach, the waves too rough for play and the wind too much for pleasurable lounging. We were worried about Dog getting too hot, but with this weather, not a problem! (Do you think he used his magic powers again?)

After we toughed out three hours at the beach, we headed to our hotel. We sat in the car while my husband checked us in. He came out and said, “They want to meet Dog.” I felt proud. I thought that my glowing description of him when making the reservation piqued their admiration and curiosity—that they felt they must meet this magnificent animal of which I spoke.

I did the mom spit-clean of his muzzle and paraded him in, ready to let him reign his charm over them. Turned out they just wanted to make sure he was under 25 pounds, per their rules:


The rules! So many rules for a dog-friendly hotel!

But, luckily, one of them did not forbid jumping on the bed. The very first thing Dog did upon entering the room was to take a flying leap onto one of the two queen beds. I guess because we were on vacation and they weren’t our beds, and he had paid an extra $20 for the privilege of having Dog in the room, my husband not only tolerated this, but actually encouraged it. Dog was in bliss.


Back to the rules—The most frightening, onerous of which was Rule Number 6:

Excessive noise or barking can result in guest being asked to leave.

Yikes! Dog is not much of a barker, but they gave us a room right next to the lobby and, at first, every time a guest would pass by, Dog’s guard-dog instincts would heighten, and bark, he would. The kids and I would descend on him, “Shhh, please, Dog, quiet, no barking,” petting his head in our feeble attempt to calm him.

Eventually, Rule Number 6, combined with Rule Number 7:

(Registered guest is responsible for any and all damages that may occur)

led to my husband staying in the room with Dog while the kids and I ventured to Capitola Village for dinner, which ended up being fine because my husband wasn’t hungry anyway and wanted to take a nap and we wasted a whole hour browsing in the high-priced, touristy gift-shops before we ate, which he would have loathed.

The rest of the vacation was somewhat uneventful, dare I say miserable? I got zero sleep—who knows why—too much light, not my bed, dog curled up, snoring on my shin?

Cold weather predicted for Sunday. As the kids and Dog and I “enjoyed” (which is a term I use somewhat facetiously) the free continental breakfast in the small freezing, early morning, outside patio, Carson, my optimistic, look-on-the-bright-side, go-with-the-flow adventurous guy said, as he sipped his hot chocolate, looking over, not at the ocean, but gazing at the suburban flora and fauna of our hotel, “Ah, this is the life!”

Then, Savannah, my no BS, sardonic child, said, “Yeah, It’s a cold life!” and I knew it was time to go home.

We barged into the room, woke up Jeff, packed up and were out of there before 10 am.

Looking back on the trip logically, analytically, it was a huge failure. Sucky weather. We thought we could leave dog in the room and go have a nice family dinner and that didn’t work out. We were pretty much freezing and worried about getting thrown out of our hotel room the whole time.

I wondered how I could get a theme out of this experience.

Yet, the cool thing is that, even as I’m writing this, I’m starting to get it. (Joan Didion said, "I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means.")

The vacation was way more fun because of Dog and watching him and his reactions and tending to him. The newness, the tail-wagging, his boundless enthusiam. Dog is never jaded. Dog is always excited. His joy is infectious.

So, Here’s The Grand Theme: Like many things in life, Dog is a huge amount of trouble, but also a great big boost for the soul. Dog forces us to live in the moment, to get out of ourselves, to enjoy and to fully experience life, to pay attention.

It’s corny, but it’s true and not just for Dog, but for most everything that means something—children, passionate work, a beloved spouse: Life with Dog is not easier, but it is richer, more colorful, more joyful.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Barbara and Me Part 2

(Continued) Because my editor is such a wonderful, dream-nurturing human being, (and maybe because I did her a big favor by helping her in a crunch and doing a last-minute story—that was so wonderfully-written, if I do say so myself, that the subject of the article actually sent my editor flowers!—and I promised her many future favor pay-backs) she agreed to let me go along with the reporter on assignment who is about 12 years old and probably thinks Barbara Walters is as interesting as a “History of Media” class that she slept through in college six months ago, but, as usual, I digress.

So, I blow-dried my hair and shaved my legs and tried on three different outfits and made very complicated arrangements for the kids and power-skimmed the book, making up thoughtful, insightful questions. No pressure—I mean what do you ask the Queen of Interviews?

I arrived at 5:05—a full 35 minutes before the scheduled time, to make sure that traffic or parking would not get in the way of my golden dream moment.

There was already a huge crowd outside of the bookstore. Mostly middle-agey women (like me) over-dressed in colorful sundresses and little kitten heels (like me) and clutching books with the little purple slip of paper that indicated the book had been purchased at that bookstore—a prerequisite for entrance and an audience with La Walters.

I was never so happy to be a member of “the press.”

I strode right past them into the store.

“I’m here from the Danville Weekly,” I told the bookstore owner, expecting the crowds to be parted, to be ushered in to a separate, air-conditioned room, while waiting for Barbara to arrive, even though I had spied a big-time stretch limo on the corner and suspected that the author was already there.

“I’m sorry,” the bookstore owner said brusquely, “Press time is over. She wanted to start early.”

What?

But, she wasn’t supposed to see the press until 5:40.

“She. Wanted. To. Start. Early. There. Is. Nothing. I. Can. Do.”

What would Barbara Do? (WWBD)

Would she push ahead, demanding her right to an interview? Or, more likely, as I know after reading her memoir, would she charm and cajole her way through the pack.

I didn’t seem capable of either. It would appear that I didn’t have the right stuff to be a world-class journalist like Barbara.

But, later, after reading the book, I did get one reassuring glimpse of a mortal Barbara when she described her first press junket to accompany Jackie Kennedy on a trip to India and Pakistan in 1962.

“I did have one momentous breakthrough in Pakistan when Jackie was visiting a monument. ‘Mrs. Kennedy, there’s a bobby pin falling out of your hair,’ I said to her. She turned, smiled at me, and said, ‘Thank you.’ That was it. My exclusive interview.”

Realizing my exclusive interview was not to be, I got in line with the other 199 people hoping for a special moment.

When it was my turn, I asked Barbara where Cha-Cha (her beloved Havanese dog) was and I told her that I also had a Havanese dog who I was nuts about.

Despite her very hurried, necessarily detached manner, Barbara looked at the picture I had brought along, brightened up for a moment and said, “They have these little cute legs.” Then, back to business, she signed my book “Barbara Walters” (no personalizations!) in very perfect, tiny script, and moved along to the next person.

So, like too many dreams come true, this one was more than a little disappointing.

My husband said I should have brought Dog along. Barbara would have melted. I think he was right.

p.s. A couple of side notes:

Barbara looked fabulous, even better (and thinner!) in person than on TV.

And calm. She says that one of the secrets to her success on TV is that she never sweats and that must be true. It was 101 degrees outside and she was (sorry for the cliche) cool as a cucumber.

And, as disconcerting it was for the press (me, in particular), she was smart and kind to begin her signing early. With the extreme heat, she may have avoided some serious medical issues like heatstroke among the crowds.

Alas, I have no photos of Barbara, but here are some photos of the scene. As I was driving by and writing this blog in my head and suddenly realized I needed some pictorial evidence:


A side shot of Barbara's humongous stretch limo. Babs must have quite a posse to fill up that car!


A small piece of the amazing crowd that braved the 100+ degree weather to see Barbara.

And, this is my favorite photo, because after driving by really slowly and taking a bunch of pictures, I think the crowd thought I was paparazzi! As if!

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Barbara and Me


Barbara Walters and I both have little Havanese dogs who we adore.


(Barbara's beloved Cha-cha)

And, that’s about all we have in common.

When it comes to intrepid reporting, fearless questioning, breaking the mold, going where no woman has gone before, Barbara is the pioneer—the master.

Me, not so much.

Meeting Barbara Walters has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. In the fifth grade, I read the biography of Nellie Bly, the ground-breaking, feminist reporter of the late 1800’s, and I immediately knew that I wanted to be a journalist. Other than Nellie, Barbara was the best role model I had—a symbol of possibilities as I watched her on “The Today Show” and later
as the first woman ever to co-anchor a network news broadcast.

Barbara is my Michael Jordan, my Bill Gates, my Mother Theresa—the person who had reached the absolute pinnacle of the mountain I so wanted to climb.

So when I heard that BARBARA WALTERS would be appearing at a bookstore only 20 minutes from my home, I was the first to call and reserve my copy of her memoir, ordering a priority ticket ($13, plus the hardcover price of the book, to be one of the first lucky 200 people in line to meet her!) I was hoping that this premium might garner perhaps a moment or two to speak with my idol, maybe even a quick photo for my mantel.

But when I went to pick up my ticket and book the day before the event, I discovered that a) they expected 900 people! and b) no photographs were allowed—absolutely, positively, no exceptions. I began to think that this would not be my dream meeting after all.

Then I had a brilliant, if late-breaking idea. I freelanced for the local newspaper! I had just this week written their cover story! The editor owed me a favor! I called her and when she said that they had a press credential and Barbara was meeting with the media for a full 20 minutes before the signing—from 5:40 to 6:00, I literally BEGGED for her to reassign it to me, or to at least let me tag along.

(To be continued.)

Monday, June 23, 2008

The Grass Is Always Greener and the Top Pillow is Always Comfier (Part Three)

It was Sunday—my night to settle in with the big-screen TV in the family room for my weekly guilty-pleasure appointment TV--Desperate Housewives.

Since my husband can’t tolerate DH (unlike other husbands I know who put up with the silly melodrama for the tacit permission to ogle all those gorgeous women and all that exposed cleavage) he moved upstairs into the master bedroom to watch something surely more intellectually edifying (this was before the debut of his new top favorite, Denise Richard’s reality show, which just goes to show that even my History-Channel-loving, physics-book-reading husband can be swayed by a hot woman with a nice rack, and, yes, he did marry me, after all, but, as usual, I digress).

During a commercial, I ran upstairs to quickly brush my teeth and witnessed a scene more startling than the tornado on Wisteria Lane!

The two of them, man and beast, at peace, snuggling up together ON THE CHAIR!

I wish I had a photo, but, alas, I was too stunned to think clearly about the huge ramifications of this small act.

“What are you doing? I thought you didn’t want Dog on the chair!”

“He really wanted up,” my husband said without a hint of shame or embarrassment about flagrantly breaking his own rule, all the while tenderly petting Dog’s furry, little head. “He gave me that look.” Enough explanation, as I well knew.

It was clear that if we wanted to maintain our consistent Alpha Dog control (and I know you are laughing here), we could not forbid Dog on the chair any longer.

We compromised by allowing Dog to sit on the bedroom and family room furniture as long as it was covered up with an old, red blanket.



We moved that blanket from room to room as we moved--making sure that Dog would understand the rule.

Dog was content for a while, but, like all intelligent, ambitious (dare I say, “ego-driven”?) beings, he wanted more. An adventurer, he was driven by a quest to conquer unexplored frontiers.

Soon, he was not only jumping on the covered chairs in the bedroom or family room, but the living room furniture (which we don’t even let the children sit on unless it’s Christmas!). His final act of rebellion and incursion happened when he insisted on perching himself on the very top of the chair’s back cushion—claiming as his dominion, surely the most comfy, plush spot in the entire house.



This, as you can imagine has caused a whole new set of debates in our household.

But this time, I am not to blame.

There is only one person who could have encouraged this outrageous behavior. Only one person in the entire world who could be so indulgent, so utterly, hopelessly in love with Dog that there are no limits or boundaries at all where Dog is concerned.

If you’re a regular blog reader, the answer is quite obvious:



Thanks a lot, Cameron!

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

The Grass Is Always Greener and the Top Pillow is Always Comfier (Part Two)

As you may have guessed by now, my husband and I differ on the upbringing of Dog.

I feed Dog scraps of bacon and make sure that he is walked in the morning--no matter how crazy/busy my schedule is. I love Dog and, while I can't exactly say I put him first, I do give his needs and desires serious consideration above my own.

I realize that Dog is a lot like my children, somewhat helpless, dependent on my kindness for even the most basic of needs like food and…well, food is Dog’s basic need. I feel responsible.

I tend to empathize with Dog and advocate to my husband on his behalf, much like I do with the kids:

“I know Carson didn’t practice his guitar tonight, but he had three pages of homework and baseball practice and then had to go to his sister’s choral concert. Let's give him a break.”

“Even though Savannah went to Disneyland with the choir last year, all her friends are going again this year and she’s willing to pay for half the cost of the trip from her savings and Christmas money. I think we should let her go.”

And with Dog, “I think he likes to lie on your nice Alpaca rug because it reminds him of his mother. He gets comfort from the feel of the rug. How can we deny him that?“

I have read enough parenting books to know that you have to be consistent with children, and I try to be consistent, both with the kids and with Dog. Consistently indulgent, but still…

On the other hand, my husband talks a mean talk—all discipline and rules and toughness. But he’s really a big softie, especially when it comes to Dog.

When Dog started jumping on the chair in our bedroom,

my husband at first got mad, moved him off the chair and forbid him to lie there ever again.

Dog is no dummy. And he has a lot of discretionary time in his day, with nothing to do but eat and sleep and plot his devious plan for world domination, which all begins with the manipulation of his immediate humans.

So we would notice that Dog would start out the night on his perfectly nice, comfy, beautifully coordinated round dog pillow.


But when we woke up in the morning, Dog had surreptitiously moved in the middle of the night to the chair. What to do? My husband blamed me. I was too easy on Dog. I treated him like a human. I let him get away with murder. I had no defense. I was weak, an easy mark, dependent upon my husband to lay down the law, the keep the order in the house among humans and beasts.

Then one night I was surprised at what I found.

To be continued.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

The Grass Is Always Greener and the Top Pillow is Always Comfier

Or, How I Am Probably the Only Person in the World to Ever Un-Crate-Train a Dog


Dogs are den-dwelling animals and advocates claim that a crate can become a den substitute.

I am more than a little uncomfortable admitting this publicly.

Among virtually all dog-breeders and experts and many, many devoted, loving dog-owners, I would be considered a pariah—indulgent, wrong-headed—possibly even selfish. All because…

I don’t believe in crate-training.

Let me explain…

We began our life with Dog in a very naïve, yet civilized fashion. Because he is highly intelligent and was raised, by-the-book, with discipline (and love) by his Grandma Claudie, he was perfectly crate-trained from the very first night we brought him home at the tender age of 10 weeks.

And, although among the many reasons we fell in love with Sunny were his cute face and his playful disposition, I can’t deny that the tipping point was my husband. He was enamored by seeing Sunny crawl into his crate on command and go to sleep without a whimper of rebellion.

Perhaps my husband’s orderly, engineer self envisioned finally having some measure of control in our family, which skews towards the somewhat chaotic, messy, go-wth-the-flow nature of the matriarch—yours truly.

In our house, the crate thing lasted—oh, not at all. Since I was basically in charge of the dog and I am not by nature very rules-based, all his good training was wasted on me. (Except for the important stuff like potty-training, which I was very consistent about and Sunny learned quickly.)

The funny thing about a dog crate is that everyone (and I have had more people tell me this than I can count) says, “Oh, the dog loves it, he feels safe in there—it’s his little ‘den.’ Just like in the wild. It’s their nature.”

But the thing is, wild dogs can go in and out of their den as they please. It is not “their nature” to be locked up inside a little plastic box at the whim and convenience of some arbitrary humans.

Here’s another view on crate-training, from Steven Lindsay’s “Handbook of Applied Dog Behavior and Training”:

"Many advocates of long-term crate confinement claim that dogs are phylogenetically preadapted to live in a crate. These conclusions are based on various fallacious assumptions derived from inappropriate comparisons with the use of dens by wild canids and feral dogs.

In reality, a crate has far more in common with a trap (or grave) than it does with a den. Further, a den actually has far more in common with a home, the natural environment of a dog, providing access to communal indoor and outdoor living spaces via a two-way door. An obvious distinction between a den and a crate is physical entrapment, isolation, and inescapability.

While the den provides the mother with the seclusion and security that she needs to deliver and care for her young, it does not restrict her freedom of movement, as the crate does. Instead of providing a safe environ for her young, the crate serves the express purpose of separating the dog from social attachment objects.

After learning that the crate is inescapable, however, dogs appear to treat the crate in a paradoxical manner analogous to persons affected by the Stockholm syndrome; that is, they appear to form strong attachments with the crate, which becomes the place they identify as home."

I only just came across this as I was writing this blog post, but Yaw-Zah! This totally resonates with me!

When I got Dog home, no matter what I read or heard telling me otherwise, the crate felt too restraining--not right to me. And hypocritical. If you want to lock your dog up in a crate because you work all day and don’t want the dog chewing and peeing on your furniture, just say so, for Dog’s Sake. Don’t try to justify it by saying it's the dog's nature.

I wanted my dog to have free will. So, I figured we’d put the crate, door-open inside of an exercise pen with piddle pads all around. If Dog really did like the crate better and feel more comfortable there, he had the choice to go in or out. The first few hours we had him, whenever he would get too tired, he would happily crawl into the crate.


With the door open and freedom beckoning, this didn't last long. An anecdotal study of the attraction of freedom vs. safety. With a subject of one, the conclusion was clear.

Dog soon discovered the diversity and richness of the world beyond the crate.

And we realized all the possibilities and consequences of “free will" in Dog terms.

(To be continued.)

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Passion and Science and Intuition and Dogs

So tonight my husband and I had our totally embarrassingly, old-fogey weekly TV date to watch 60 Minutes—the only show on all of the 293,468 cable network channels on 24/7 (and if you multiply those numbers, the possibilities are almost infinite!) that we can both agree to tolerate together. (My taste runs to Desperate Housewives and Survivor—His to Star Trek and the History Channel. I guess it’s true that opposites attract…)

Anyway, the second story of the show was all about Howard Hughes and this huge endowment that his medical center has. A little snippet of the segment was about this one brilliant scientist who was once upon a time studying frog development, then he had a son who was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes and how he immediately changed his scientific quest to find a cure for his son’s condition.

The point that 60 Minutes was making was that because the Howard Hughes medical institute is privately funded, and researchers don’t need to fill out a gazillion forms to get money, this guy could change his research focus on a dime.

And I said, “How, cool! This guy is now free to research something for which he is absolutely passionate!” The scientist is not just working for intellectual curiosity, or peer review, but for his very own son’s life!

Then my husband, (who it must be said, has a Ph.D. in Computational Fluid Dynamics—basically the way things move around in space--and has worked for NASA and the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, and has a button that a friend gave him that proclaims, “Why, Yes, I am a Rocket Scientist”) said, ‘That’s exactly what all science should be—about passion.”

And we were momentarily in agreement.

Then he added, “If I were to study something that I was absolutely passionate about, I would want to figure out how we could make dogs speak. Wouldn’t you love to know what Dog was thinking?”

Besides giving me a bit of the creeps, I felt like this was one of those science experiments that wasn’t really necessary, a little too obvious—like studying how toting guns in your car may make you more prone to road rage.

And I said, “Save the money. I know exactly what Dog is thinking. ‘Cheese, Treats, Walk. Cheese, Treats, Walk.”

My scientist husband laughed.