dogs

“Hair of the Dog That Licked Ya”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on October 14, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") The Town for All Seasons showed its furry side during the wildly successful Dog Walk & Festival held on Paradise Green this past Saturday. The fifth annual benefit for homeless animals packed the green with dogs of all breeds as they led their befuddled owners around Stratford's largest canine meet 'n' greet. The free admission and fantastic weather combined to provide hundreds of happy families the opportunity to imagine life with a dog park, if only for one magical day. We Stratford dog owners rarely get the opportunity to socialize in large numbers, instead reduced to small packs scrambling to throw on clothing for morning "constitutionals" around the yard, fumbling through pockets for baggies to pick up what remains of last night's dinner bowls. It's at times like these that many of us secretly yearn for the simplicity of cats, but those moments are fleeting. Festivals like this allow us to find comfort in the fraternity of dog lovers. My wife and I packed up our pups and arrived an hour into the festivities, hoping to miss the initial wave of dogs who were shuttling out for the one-mile walk. Unlike their owners, our spaniels are incredibly social, and the sight of even one dog or child sends them into spasms of joy. Our "middle child," ZuZu, also happens to be our "special child." Hobbled by a myriad of mysterious ailments that reduce her to the ZuMobile (like the Pope Mobile, only without the bulletproof netting), she shudders and yelps out greetings to any form of life at eye level. Because she so desperately wants to play with anything in sight, sometimes less is more. As soon as we entered Paradise Green, however, our dogs were on sensory overload. It was as if a dying man, lost in the desert and wearing Spock ears, crested that final mountain of solitary sand and stumbled upon a Star Trek convention. Our spaniels set their own agenda: a sniffed butt here, a quick stop to accept pats on the head there, and then onward around the ring of vendor tents. Our girls seemed disappointed in us as they saw the many outfits other dogs were wearing as they paraded through the park. By the time we saw the beagle in its tuxedo, our spaniels ignored us completely. Two of our dogs tried out the agility training with Nikki Stollman of Four Paws Pet Services in Stratford, where we got the opportunity to see how well behaved they can be with someone who actually knows what she's doing. We saw Rescue Ink's Nicholas "Batso" Maccharoli as he set up shop for pictures, but our dogs had already begun a new game of "How many knots can we tie in these leashes?" as they rushed after a yellow lab in a nurse's outfit.   The North Shore Animal League brought their adoption bus, where a few confused cats looked out over the…

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“Puppy Parent Scum!”

At the dog park, it’s inevitable. “Where did you get your dog?” someone will ask as our dogs do a little butt-sniffing. It’s as if I just drop-kicked Santa when I say we got her from a breeder. My wife will chime in that we tried to find one in the pound first, but we can see the judgment in their eyes. As a white male in America, it goes without saying that I’ve had to fight prejudice and discrimination as I’ve clawed my way up to the lower-middle. The latest obstacle the Man has placed in my path is the stigma attached to acquiring a dog through a breeder rather than a shelter. These days, skipping the local pound is akin to gut-punching a nun. My wife and I have always looked to rescue abandoned dogs; we’ve volunteered at the local shelter, participated in supply drives, and served on the planning committee for a new shelter in town. We loved the feeling that we’d given a second chance to our dogs, and it allowed us to endure the endless airings of Sarah McLaughlin singing “In the arms of the angels…” over the pictures of neglected pets that dominate late night television commercial breaks. Then we got ZuZu. ZuZu is a blessing. She is also a veterinary Black Hole. Unsure of her age or her breed (mostly Cocker Spaniel-ish), our vet informed us on our initial visit that she had horrible ear problems. This was followed by a crippling skin rash that necessitated an extensive drug regimen after a blood sample yielded no fewer than three pages of things to which she was deathly allergic. The Cocker in the Plastic Bubble cheated death, and outside of the telltale baboon butt where she’d permanently scratched away her fur, her skin specialist declared her out of the danger zone. However, she could only eat dry venison dog food. Not only did this ruin any chance of her ever becoming a vegetarian like all the fashionable dogs, it also required us to order this special blend through our vet. At two, she began biting mercilessly at her paws. Over time, despite a wide variety of trimming, nail clipping, and massage, we had to order special booties to keep her from nibbling them into bloody stumps. She goose-stepped around the house for a while, clearly annoyed at this 80s-era velcro fashion statement. The urge to chew on them went away after a few months, and eventually we mothballed the booties. At six ZuZu broke her back, apparently as she engaged in the dangerous activity of… lying down. She couldn’t take a step without pain, and after much hand-wringing we agreed with her back surgeon: she needed surgery. She came through like a champ, and we learned how stupid we could feel for passing up pet insurance. At almost five thousand dollars, it was not as expensive as the years of special food or the years of extra vet appointments, but it hurt. At seven,…

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