Troubling Times

Alameda is a relatively small island city, 5 minutes away from Oakland, California, and 15 minutes (on a good day) from San Francisco. We have a fairly large police force and a pretty low crime rate. In the last year, I have seen a couple of things that really bother me. In May of 2009, a police dog died after being left in a private vehicle by his police officer handler for about 3 ¼ hours while the police officer attended a training session. The dog subsequently died of heat stroke. Less than 2 weeks ago on December 17, 2009, Billy, a 3-year veteran police dog, was shot and killed by a female police officer because the dog attacked her while she was investigating a burglary situation. Billy could not be called off by his handler who was also present at the crime scene.

At the beginning of this year, the Alameda Police Department had a total of four K-9 units. Now two of those K-9 unit dogs are dead; one the victim of a police officer's poor judgment, the other the victim of three gunshot wounds. I'm somewhat mystified about what happened in the second case. The police handler was unable to call the dog off from attacking a another police officer. Does this mean, that a police dog walking down the street is akin to an unstable loaded weapon and a high level threat to any person or bystander?

This whole matter gives me a bad feeling about the K-9 Units in general. I think it's fairly apparent that some of the officers have not been trained in some basic animal health issues and some of the dogs may not have the appropriate training either. Any dog owner or handler must realize that to leave a dog in an enclosed car is never a good idea. Cars heat up and the dog has no way to open the window or door to get relief from the heat. The longest we ever leave our dogs in the car is if we park and run to the mailbox at the corner, or over to toss the video's in the slot at Blockbuster. That's a 2 minute maximum of time. And even in those instances, you must be aware that running into a neighbor or friend and chatting is putting your dog at risk.

These police dogs are not pets, although they do live with their handlers and share his or her home life. If a police officer and handler cannot “call off” his dog's attack, this is a very serious matter for all concerned. Unfortunately, this is not a completely isolated occurrence, but one that happens from time to time. I believe that there have been several unprovoked attacks by working police dogs in the last year in the United States, and more worldwide. Perhaps one solution might be to better use the dogs in situations where the risk factor of serious attack on innocent bystanders is drastically reduced. Bomb sniffing dogs and drug dogs don't seem to have the same aggression levels or attack training as the dogs on patrol in the field. All of these dogs need to be utilized to their best capacity because they are expensive, intelligent, brave and competent animals.

The Almost Princess

I know a number of princesses. These are women who can’t do unpleasant things. I have a lovely neighbor woman who has three dogs. She cannot pick up their feces from her back yard. Either she will hire someone to clean it up for her, or she will call me in a panic and ask me if I can “help.” Help? These are not my dogs! Never mind. She really can’t do it.

I have another woman friend who refuses to bring the garbage in or out of her yard. She won’t touch a garbage can. I have two sisters who refuse to cook and expect their husbands to do that job. I have a daughter who does very little cooking because she dislikes it. I know another woman who refuses to clean bathrooms. Simply says she can’t do it. It makes her sick.

As a dog (and cat) lover and owner, we have those awful moments when one or the other dog becomes violently ill and erupts all over the floor. (By the way, this never happens on the tile, or on the hardwood floor!) The vomiting or diarrhea will always land on the Oriental rugs, and generally on the most expensive one. If that rug is spared, I assure you that the next target area will be on the palest Oriental rug in order to ensure that the event will leave its mark in history.

I do somewhat understand my female acquaintances being “princesses,” but having my husband be a “princess” is somewhat disconcerting. Alex will look at the mess the dogs have made and start gagging. He runs from the site of the atrocity and hides. I will scream at him to bring me a pail of hot soapy water, paper towels and a big sponge. He will only bring the cleaning supplies to the door of the room. It makes him too sick to be around this mess. He just can’t do it.

Does he think that I enjoy cleaning up things like this? Does anyone really “not mind” doing it? No. Nobody wants to do it, but alas, it must be done. Maybe after having kids and being around grandkids as babies, I got immune to messy bodily function stuff. Still, I wish I had begun earlier saying, “I just can’t do that!” Then I could put the tiara on my head and wait for someone who was not a princess to come and do it for me!

Happy Turkey

My husband Alex just learned that he will spend three weeks in Germany for his job which will cover the Thanksgiving holiday. Just peachy! I had already invited my daughter and her husband and their two kids to come and stay for the occasion and they had accepted. I called this morning to un-invite them. I’ll be damned if I’m going to go to all that trouble without Alex even being home. When I told my daughter, Sheila, that I was canceling, she said “Bummer,” and then said she was going to get on Expedia to check out some tickets to the Bahamas over the holiday. In other words, she kind of kicked me to the curb.

My husband travels a lot. I hate it. Still, one of us has to make some money, and at this point it’s him, not me.

Because I complain about his absence to anyone who will listen, I was bitching about it to my mother-in-law not long ago. Her advise to me was “Linda, you just stay put!” Words to live by, I swear. And stay put I do. We actually discussed me going to Germany with him briefly. Briefly, since we have two big monster dogs (Harry and Honey), and both of them are “sensitive” and “finicky” and spoiled rotten, a kennel is not the answer. Also, friends hesitate to offer dog-sitting services because they are somewhat unruly at times. Okay, they’re fine with us, but “drop that cat” or “drop that baby” has to be said with just the right inflection, if you catch my drift. Honey and Harry and the cat Smokey are just too set in their ways for me to go off gallivanting to Europe right now.

There is another issue too. We really don’t have the money. We seriously do not have the money. We most definitely do not have the money. Case closed.

Alex is Navajo Indian. Not part, all. I sometimes call him “The little injun who could” because of his amazing success in life, in his education and in his career! Alex is a very successful guy. Oh, he is short though. I tell friends he’s about 5’ 4”, but he swears he’s 5’9”. All short men say they are 5’9”. Whatever.

Alex took the news of the trip better than I did. He said to me “Thanksgiving isn’t a holiday I really like anyway. It’s just a time to thank the white guys for not killing all of us.” I think he got that from reading “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian” by Sherman Alexie, but it could be his own too. With Alex, I never really know. He sometimes tells people he’s FBI and then surprises them when he says that stands for “fat-bellied Indian.” FBI, Alex? Not so much.

To tell the truth, I don’t even like turkey. I’ll cook it and I might eat some of it, but I don’t like it very much. Turkeys seem kind of pitiful undressed like that with their legs up in the air and holes where their other stuff used to be. 

The Truth About Oakland And Pit Bulls

My husband Alex and I have two dogs. They both came from the Oakland, California shelter. Honey was called a “German Shepherd Mix” at the Shelter, and Harry was called a “Lab - Shar Pei Mix” at the Shelter. Uh huh. What do you think they are mixed with? 

I’ve come to the conclusion that all dogs that come from Oakland are part Pit Bull. Mine certainly are. They can say “French Bulldog Mix” all they like, but even if it’s called a “French Bulldog Purebred,” it’s going to be part Pit Bull if it comes from Oakland. My next door neighbor got her Pug from a breeder in Oakland. Oh, he looks like a Pug pretty much, but he’s got some Pit Bull in him too, I think.

For that matter, it would not surprise me if my cat Smokey (who also came from the Oakland Shelter) isn’t part Pit Bull. In fact, even the rodents and reptiles in Oakland are part Pit Bull. Come to think of it, a lot of the kids over there have might big jaws and muscles galore.

I love Oakland. It’s got a bad rep, like Pit Bulls do but it’s a scrappy little city. Fine dining, some gorgeous homes, some slums, wonderful views, an African American power structure—it’s a cool town. It has life and soul! It’ s not glamorous like its pretty big sister, San Francisco, but I get tired of people talking about it and thinking it’s all about murder and gangs. Sure, there’s some of that. There’s poverty in Oakland, like many cities. When you have poverty, you’re going to have crime. Enough said.

When my cousin Kelly was here from Oklahoma, she came to Oakland to have lunch with me. When it came time for me to go back to work, I left her on the street waiting for a bus. Kelly looked around nervously and said, “Will I be safe standing here?”. There was a tall, good looking, African-American guy standing fairly near us, also waiting for the bus. I said to him “Excuse me, sir. Would you keep an eye on my cousin here? Don’t let anybody snatch her or anything. She’s from Oklahoma.” Of course, he smiled and said sure. (Yeah, she talked to me again, but it took a while.)

I worked in Oakland for many years and walked the streets. I was never afraid even at night. I knew the people in the area and they knew me. I do not believe I was ever in any danger. Oakland hills have some of the most beautiful houses I’ve ever seen and magnificent views. Jack London Square is right on the bay and it looks like you could swim to the high-rises of downtown San Francisco from there. The Square has a fabulous farmer’s market every Sunday. The freshest produce and seafood right off the boat! The people are gorgeous! You will see every ethnic minority gloriously represented. Music is always present. Everybody is happy in that wonderful environment.

I would not trade my Pit Bull Mixes for any purebred dog. Neither would I exchange my next door neighbor, the City of Oakland, for any more sophisticated city in the country!

Oh Rats!

Hearing critters scamper over your roof is a little unnerving at night. We have a tree next to the house and for a while, I thought it might be squirrels up there. Uh, no. Not squirrels at night. Next assumption? Another kind of rodent, a rat. Oh tell me it's not a rat, or rats! They are not my favorite critters.

Dutifully, upon my husband's suggestion, I called an “exterminator”. What a nasty sounding profession, huh? The guy came out and found rat droppings under our house. Yuck. He told me that we needed to put some wire over some areas that were open to the outside to keep the rats out. Meanwhile, he was going to put out some baited traps.

Now, wait a minute. Was he talking about poison? Oh yeah, he was. The exterminator explained to me that the poison was slow acting and would only work after the rats drank water. Dear God in heaven, isn't that the most brutal thing I've ever heard of! Poor dear rat gets hungry and eats some bait, goes outside, gets himself a drink, and he croaks. Dead! Oh no, this isn't going to work at all.

I want to trap the rats and then take them over to the country and release them. I think that's the most humane way of dealing with this problem. Of course, they could also be taken to the beach which might be kind of nice for them for a change. Because I don't want them here doesn't mean I want them dead! I've had house guests I feel exactly the same way about.

The exterminator guy kind of smirked at me and said perhaps I should have called a limousine service instead. I thanked him for his time, and told him I'd think it over. I thought it over and decided I won't bother them if they don't bother me.

Rez Dogs

Going to the Navajo Nation with my two dogs, Honey and Harry is quite an eye-opener. Dogs are everywhere. They are a sweet, smelly, and hungry army of canines. These dogs eat just about anything. None of them had collars, and I’d bet that all of them had fleas. One thing that stood out with the Rez dogs was a lack of aggression. They don’t seem to bark very often, and they seem to trust humans and other dogs. They are really very accepting of their circumstances.

Honey is pampered old girl. She has the best food money can buy (I cook organic for her) and her coat absolutely gleams. Honey is a shepherd pit mix and for a “pound dog,” she lives like a canine queen. Harry (actually Prince Harry) is the same. He’s a young red-orange dude; he’s big and he gets the best of everything too. Both dogs get their teeth cleaned annually. They have flea medication, acupuncture when needed, exercise, health care, quality diets, schedules and training. They have it all.

When the Rez Dogs saw Harry and Honey, they seemed unsure of what they were looking at. These dogs could be wolves maybe? Or a different sort of coyote? They didn’t look like, smell like, or have the same attitude as the Rez Dogs. Honey and Harry tend to bark at other dogs. This made them sort of a curiosity, along with their freshly shampooed coats, expensive leather collars, full bodies, and snowy white teeth.

We gave our lunches to the Rez Dogs and they were embarrassingly grateful. They ate Navajo tacos including the lettuce and tomato, and were so glad to get it. I wanted to load up the truck and take them home, but that wasn’t really feasible. Such a wonderful and calm group of dogs! I loved them all.

You Ain't Nuthin but a Pound Dog

When I was a teenager, I only liked bad boys. As an adult woman, I only like electronic toys. So maybe it’s no surprise that my taste in canine companions are as strongly developed. I only like shelter dogs. Pause, not totally true, I only want to live with dogs from the shelter. I like all dogs just fine, but I just have never had the urge to own a dog with papers and defined breed. I take care of my son’s mini-schnauzer, Lola, and she is a delight, but I don’t want one just like her.

I love a mystery. Where did you come from? What’s your upbringing like? What do you like and what do you hate? With a shelter dog, I love the opportunity for us to learn from each other. These dogs will keep secrets from me as I will from them, but it's all such a wonderful discovery trip.

Take Mitch, my little cocker spaniel. She was a rescue dog and about five years old when we got her. She was the most loving and sweet dog ever. Mitch never met a person she didn’t like. Her tail was cropped, but she wagged her whole body as hard as she could to show you how glad she was to see you. She loved the mailman, the UPS man, the meter reader, the neighborhood children, and her family. Mitch looked so adorable in her yellow slicker in the rain! I think everyone who met her fell a little in love with her because of her sweetness. She and our cat, Smokey, became the best of friends and even slept together from time to time.

If she had a flaw, it was that she was a total chow hound. If there was anything left anywhere that she could eat, she’d grab it and run. Walking her, I had to look out for food on the sidewalk because if I didn’t see it first, it was gone.

We never found out how Mitch had ended up a homeless stray. She was obviously not abused. When we got her, it was very difficult to tell what she was because she was just black curly creature with a pink tongue. You could not even see her eyes. When we had her groomed, my husband and I were amazed to find a cocker under all those wild curls.

When my husband was serving in the Middle East during the Iraqi Freedom Operation for a year, Mitch and I got even closer. We shared my bed and when Christmas came, we both had fillet mignon for dinner together. If I was reading, she was on the couch next to me. If I was working, she was at the computer station lying patiently at my feet. We were inseparable. We were blessed to have her for six years. I still miss her to this day and always will.

When Mitch died, I knew for my own mental health, I needed another dog right away. I found Honey at the shelter and she was a calming spirit. I fell in love at first glance. She was big, beautiful, muscular, and well-mannered. She had signs that she had been on the street for a long time. Honey’s legs and chest were scarred with wounds, old and new. What happened to you, Baby? How did these things hurt you but leave you a tranquil, self-contained, and loving dog?

Honey, a seventy-pound German Shepherd–Pit Bull mix, has her share of health issues as well. But she is stoic about pain, never nervous about the vet, and takes her medicine without protest. My husband Alex says “she doesn’t worry about things above her pay grade”.

Honey is never fawning and she never engages in puppy-like behavior (of course she was about five when we got her). To show affection, she simply comes over to me and press her shoulder against my leg. Honey prefers quiety watching the perimeter of her yard to playing. If someone she doesn’t know comes too close, she warns them with a deep growl and a sharp bark. (Her appearance and size tend to make people back off.) I sometimes call her “Marine Corps” because she seems so regimented in who she is. She leaves the kitchen when cooking is going on, and won’t return back into the room until dinner is finished. Honey is gentle and loving and I’ve never seen her behave in an aggressive manner. I’m so glad I found her.

Harry (or Prince Harry) was gotten as a companion for Honey, (whether she wanted a companion or not). He’s an orange red big guy who at eighteen months had been returned to the Shelter night drop box three times by families who decided they couldn’t keep him. Harry is eighty-five pounds of love! He doesn’t walk, he springs up and down like a dog on a trampoline!

My husband nicknamed him “Agent Orange” but he also goes by “Peace Corps.” He’s sensitive, joyous, and exuberant! You can’t bring him down. He worries about things though; Harry hates the country; he hates travel; and he hates fireworks. He adores other dogs and loves to play. I wonder how he could have been abandoned so many times and still have the most optimistic attitude I have ever seen. His manners are not quite a sharp as Honey’s. (Harry plants his face firmly on my lap when I’m eating, and tries to taste the air that smells like food.) He’s one big beautiful pound dog!

Like my penchant for bad boys, I love these canines “with a past.” I never tire of trying to solve the mysteries of their being.