Doggie Downer

We so rarely go out at night it was a real treat to leave the house last night.

Unfortunately it was to go to emergency vet.

My little dog started limping on one of her rear legs yesterday afternoon and by the time the boyfriend got home she was walking around like "Tripod, the Three Legged Dog", refusing to put any weight on it at all. It wasn't long before she stopped trying to walk at all, so we all piled into the car for a trip to the vet. We took the other dog only because they've never been apart and we wanted to avoid any tsuris.

The vet said she may have popped her knee out of place and proceeded to pop it in and out of it's socket to demonstrate. I thought I was going to pass out.

He said it may clear up on it's own and sent us home with some doggie painkillers.

I have to say this was one experience where living in Hooterville has it's advantages. The last time we had to take one of the dogs to the ER in LA, it turned into an all-night ordeal and we left there close to $1000 poorer. This time we were in and out in less than an hour and it only cost $100.

It struck me that the dogs now get better health care than I do.

The Parable of the Fig Tree

Dogs. Figs. Not a good combination.

Our massive fig tree in the backyard started dropping fruit about a week ago. I have to admit I was concerned about the dogs, but they didn't seem to show any interest in them. And why would they? They've never shown any interest in anything healthy before. I really should have picked them up, but there were so many of them and the squirrels seemed to be doing an OK job of it on their own.

But all that changed this morning.

I'd let the dogs in the back yard a couple of times this morning and didn't think anything of it, but as I sat down to write a different post, all of a sudden my older dog started acting frantic and jumping at the back door. I assumed he's seen a cat or something and let him out.

He proceeded to run to the grass and start eating it maniacally, something they do when their stomaches are upset. But I had never seen anything like this; he was acting possessed. I tried to approach him but he started to growl at me. Now I was starting to panic because I hadn't a clue what was wrong.

And then he started to make that awful dog-wretching sound, the one that starts with the dry heaves and usually ends up with me on the floor with a bucket and carpet shampoo. Luckily, we were outside this time. And sure enough, soon up came all the grass he'd just eaten and two (TWO!) fully intact figs!

He didn't even chew them. How he got them down in the first place I'll never know.

He seems OK now, but I'm keeping an eye on him. It appears I'll be spared a trip to the vet. I did a little checking online and was relieved to discover it isn't uncommon for dogs to eat them and they aren't poisonous. It did also say that fermented figs on the ground act as an intoxicant on dogs. Makes 'em drunk.

After the last couple of days I may have to give that a try later today.

Man’s Best Friends

My dogs hate me.

Despite my best efforts to educate them, they remain stubbornly unclear on the concept of "working from home".

Using their simple dog logic, if daddy is home he is here to play with me.

Sorry, doesn't work that way.

Not that they don't try. Every single morning we go through the same drill. As soon as I sit down at the computer, my older dog starts bringing in a parade of squeaky toys, one by one. He sits behind me and every so often lets out a sad, forlorn squeak. After a minute or two, he abandons that toy and goes off to try another one. He seems to think there's one magic squeaky toy that will do the trick and get me down on the floor to play. The end result is a massive pile of toys just behind my chair.

My little dog is even more pathetic. All day long, she carries a tiny tennis ball in her mouth, never dropping it, wanting to be ever ready if I decide it's time to play. It looks like she's ball-gagged.

By mid afternoon they both get sullen and moody. And occasionally, out of spite, my older dog will grab a rawhide chewy and plop himself between my feet and the wheels of my chair. I think he's secretly hoping I'll roll over his tail, for no other reason than to amp up the guilt.

It's not like I ignore them. We go out for a long walk when the boyfriend leaves for work around 6:30. And I usually block out a half hour to play, chasing one around the house while simultaneously flinging a tennis ball all over creation for the other. And around 1 or 2, we go out for another long walk, this one specifically to go looking for cats. Or to go rolling in the grass. Sometimes both. It's up to them.

But still, it's not enough.

The worst part is they make me feel so bad I've taken to overcompensating by feeding them treats and now they're getting fat.

I am such a bad parent.

Lost & Found

Yesterday we had a near tragedy.

"Somebody", and I'm not saying who (far be it for me to publicly disparage or cast aspersions on anyone's parenting skills, or lack thereof) left the front door open and our little dog escaped.

I was on the computer around 8:30am, the two dogs asleep at my feet, when "somebody" said he was going to Home Depot. About 20 minutes later, I went to refresh my coffee and noticed only one dog. And as I passed by the living room, I saw the front door wide open.

Now, God bless her, she isn't that bright. So there was still a good chance she was in the house. But a quick check of the house and the backyard turned up no dog.

Even so, I still didn't panic. "Someone" had done the exact damn same thing just a month ago, and in that case we found her right next door, snuffling through the shrubs like a pig looking for truffles, in search of her new favorite delicacy, cat shit. Don't ask. She's a little on the heavy side and doesn't show much get-up-and-go unless there's a cat involved, so I figured she couldn't have gone far.

I searched next door, and the house next to that and then crossed the street to search all the houses nearby.

Nothing.

Now I started to panic. Everyone here thinks they're a NASCAR driver and a neighbor's dog had been hit and killed just two weeks ago. Our house sits near the intersection of quite a few streets and now suddenly I didn't have any idea which way to look. So I just started running.

First I ran west about a block and a half, calling out her name like a lunatic. I encountered a woman in her yard who claimed to be gardening, although I'm not sure that's the right term when the plants are obviously dead. I asked her if she'd seen a little brown dog and she said no. I told her where I lived and asked her to find me if she saw her.

Next I ran south. Again, nothing.

Then I ran east a couple of blocks to where our street intersects with a busy thoroughfare. I have to say I was relieved not to see her near there with all the people zooming by at 60mph.

Finally I circled around through the condo complex across the street. We've seen lots of cats over there recently and I thought she might be drawn to them. Or their "delicacies".

Nothing.

As I was headed back home, I ran into Jim.

Cocktail in hand.

I asked him if he'd seen my dog, and he said he hadn't, but he'd be sure to keep an eye out for her.

I was shaking by the time I got home. I tried to call "someone", but then heard his phone ringing on the kitchen counter.

Consider that "Strike Two".

I was beside myself with anger and fear, but then my crack art training kicked in and I decided to make a "Lost Dog" poster.

Something simple and clean, elegant without being fussy. I was thinking a sans serif font. "Gotham"? No, too trendy. 'Gill Sans"? Too lighthearted. I settled on Helvetica Neue. You can never go wrong with Helvetica Neue.

But what about a photo? I remembered I'd just taken some photos of her last weekend with my phone. I downloaded them, but they weren't flattering. I'd have to do a little retouching. Just shave her down a bit. Give her a waist. Maybe some highlights. Keep her recognizable, yet svelte.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

I answered it, and there stood Jim.

"You lookin' for this?"

There at his feet, was my little dog, happy as a clam, tail wagging furiously.

I noticed Jim had refreshed his drink.

He said he saw her just pacing on the sidewalk in front of the house.

She knew she had been bad, so she pulled out all the "cute" stops, and true to form, it worked. I forgave her.

"Someone" should be so lucky.

The Mystical Power of Lesbians

I had promised my dogs an extra long walk yesterday. I had been so busy with work this week that I hadn't been able to give them the attention they so richly deserve. I delivered on my promise and we were almost home, when we rounded the last corner and I saw a frantic Jack Russell terrier darting through yards and out into the street. Hot on her heels were two tiny puppies. Someone must have let them out, I thought and as I walked a little further I saw a woman standing by the open slider of a mini-van trying to coax the dogs to her. I just assumed they were hers, but as we got closer, she asked me if I could help. She said she'd seen the dog and her puppies aimlessly roaming the neighborhood all day, and the mother dog kept running into the street and nearly had been been hit several times.

The terrier came over to check out my dogs, but she was horribly skittish and ran away anytime I got close. I could see the dog had no collar. There wasn't much I could do as long as I had my own dogs, so I told the woman I had to go drop my dogs off at home and I would come back. I returned with one of my dog's harnesses, hoping I could get close enough to catch her and hook her up. The puppies had run off into some bushes to hide, and when we found them they had curled up against each other and were fast asleep.

For 20 minutes we tried to catch the dog, but it was hyper and frantic because it didn't know where it's puppies were. I got the bright idea to try and lure her with her kids, so we retrieved the puppies from the bushes and I sat on a lawn with them in full view. It did the trick, to a point. The terrier came to me and inched up to her babies, but every time I made even the slightest move, she was off again.

I then thought perhaps if we could lure her into our backyard, at least in a confined space she'd be easier to catch and would at least be out of traffic. I picked up the puppies and started walking home. The terrier followed behind at a distance and the woman trailed us all in her mini-van. Along the way, we ran into several neighbors and I asked each if they knew who the dog belonged to. They mentioned they had seen the dog in the neighborhood for the past several days but didn't know who it belonged to.

We got to the house and I opened the gate and carried the puppies so the mama dog could see where we were going. The woman parked and I told her to come up from behind and when the dog entered the backyard to close the gate. The plan almost worked, but the terrier is smarter than most people here and just as she was about to come into the backyard, she realized something was up and turned tail and ran. We tried it a couple more times, but the dog was on to us, so finally I brought the puppies back out onto the front lawn and once again tried to lure the dog with her babies.

The puppies were adorable (see above) and several times we were close to catching the dog. But she seemed terrified of people and I could only imagine what kind of abuse she must have endured. We were on full view with our dilemma and slowly other people stopped to try and help. It was heartwarming to see how many people truly cared. Some people tried to catch the dog, others stood in the street to slow down cars, a couple of people brought out dog food and water. But in the end, it may have been too many people, because soon the terrier was running far down the street and disappearing completely for long stretches of time. By this time an hour and a half had passed and I didn't know what we were going to do. We had the puppies, but they couldn't have been more than a couple weeks old and I was pretty sure they hadn't been weened. And abandoning the mother to save the pups seemed cruel.

The woman suggested we call the dogcatcher.

They have a dogcatcher here?

Eventually people started to give up and leave and I hadn't a clue what to do at that point.

And then, out from the neighboring condo complex, lumbered Deena, the lesbian.

"What's going on? " she asked.

We explained the situation and Deena said she'd seen the dog a couple of weeks ago. She said, in fact, a friend had seen her too and mentioned that if they were able to catch the dog, she's be happy to adopt her.

"Let me make some calls..." said Deena.

She disappeared for about ten minutes and when she returned she was carrying a dog crate.

"I talked to my friend and she's on the way. Says she'll adopt the mother and the babies too. Take them to the vet and get them all checked out and healthy."

That was great news, but we still had to catch the mother.

Deena stomped into the yard and plopped herself down on the lawn sitting Indian style with the crate behind her.

"Give me the puppies" she demanded.

I know from experience you don't fuck with Deena, so I handed over the pups and she placed them in her lap.

At this point we hadn't seen the mother in about 20 minutes. I didn't even know if she was in the neighborhood anymore, although I suspected she wouldn't abandon her kids.

Deena sat with the pups. And whistled.

A loud, shrill whistle.

Suddenly, across the street, the terrier's head poked out from behind our juniper. The juniper the boyfriend had accidentally butchered over the weekend. Deena whistled again, and the terrier calmly trotted across the street and slowly approached her. Deena sat there, unmoving, and the terrier circled her a couple of times.

And the the terrier sidled up beside her and laid down!

Deena reached over to pet her, and I figured this was when the dog would bolt. But it quietly sat there and let Deena pet her. Deena stroked her back and slowly rubbed her ears.

And then, in a flash, she performed some lesbian jujitsu and the dog was in the crate.

Seriously, I didn't even see it happen, it was that fast. Dog on the ground, dog in the crate, in the blink of an eye.

The dog freaked out at first, but then we placed her puppies in with her. Once they were reunited, everyone calmed down.

Deena got up off the grass, picked up the crate, said a terse "Thanks", and she was gone. Crisis averted. After two hours.

I always thought of lesbians as cat people, but not anymore. Deena is a "Dog Whisperer".

An Offer I Could Refuse

I think it's safe to say that without the dogs there would be no blog. Most of the Bakersfield weirdness I experience is found on our daily walks.

Case in point, yesterday we were out on our afternoon stroll when a beat up rattletrap pickup truck pulled up alongside us. The passenger window rolled down and behind the wheel was a grizzled old yokel. He smiled a toothless grin and then said...

"I wanna buy your dogs."

Now, our dogs are adorable. Who wouldn't want to buy them? I assumed he was being cute and smiled and politely told him they weren't for sale.

His grin faded and he suddenly turned serious.

"No really... how much ya want for the dogs?"

Now I was creeped out.

I told him again they weren't for sale and turned away, doubling our speed and dragging the dogs along with me.

He finally pulled away, and as he passed I heard him say "Them sure is some good lookin' dogs."

The way he said it made it sound like he wanted to eat them. And if you saw him, you'd realize that, well, it's Bakersfield... not ruling anything out.

It's a shame we didn't encounter him a couple of weeks ago, when I had the opossum. I bet he would've really liked that. I hear it tastes like chicken.

The Princess And The Frog

In many of the posts I've written about the cockroaches, the flies, the maggots, I've made snarky allusions to Biblical Plagues. It was all in good fun, a joke. Really.

Or so I thought.

Last night I was taking the dogs our for one last little walk before we went to bed. As we walked back up to the house in the darkness the dogs both stopped to examine a big leaf on the lawn. My older dog nudged it with his nose.

And it hopped.

It wasn't a leaf. It was a frog.

What fun for the dogs! Something new to play with! Or eat!

It took me a second to process what was going on and then I quickly yanked the dogs away before they could rip it apart. But not before my little dog got in one big sloppy lick. I hustled the dogs inside and then called out the boyfriend and we both went outside to investigate.

Sure enough, a frog. It appeared there were a couple more lurking out on the lawn. I have absolutely no experience with frogs, but my understanding is they usually aren't found in the desert in the middle of summer.

We went back inside, and my poor little dog seemed to be in some distress. I can't imagine the frog tasted very good, but then we grew concerned that perhaps the frog was toxic, like the toads kids allegedly lick to get high. Or worse. This is Bakersfield after all, and there isn't a chemical or pesticide these people won't spray over the whole damn city. Maybe it was mutant?

So the boyfriend Googled "frogs in Bakersfield" and found this.

I don't claim to be a Biblical scholar, but taken together with the pests and the dust storms, it certainly seems like Someone is trying to tell them Something. For such pious people they sure can be clueless.

My little dog seemed to recover and we gave her some ice cream just to help get the taste out of her mouth. We started joking about her kissing the frog in hopes of finding her prince.

Sorry honey, but that's never going to happen, not here. This town is nothing but frog.

Nothing But The Tooth

Just got back from dropping my dogs at the vet to get their teeth cleaned. They've needed to have it done for a long time but truth be told, we couldn't afford to send me to the dentist, let alone them. But then a couple weeks ago, my little one coughed up a tooth and we figured we had to find a way.

While I was checking them in, the nurse asked if they were up to date on their shots and if I knew when they'd had them.

September 12th, I told her.

She was surprised I knew the exact date and I explained that that was the day we moved to Bakersfield. I had boarded the dogs for the morning so the movers could pack up the house, and I'd had the vet get them up to date at the time.

"So why did you move to Bakersfield?" she asked.

She caught me off guard with the question and I sat there dumbfounded for a moment before replying...

"I wish I knew..."

Obsessive Compulsive Behavior

I need to have a little talk with the dog about his balls. I humored him at first, but it's really gotten out of control. Once he discovered the balls, it's like he can't think of anything else. He has balls on the brain.

The bottom line is he has way too many balls.

Over the past eight months we've settled on a handful of routes for our daily walks, and one of them takes us past some tennis courts. I rarely, if ever, see anyone playing, and yet the narrow lawn between the fence and the sidewalk is always littered with tennis balls.

I guess we can add "tennis" to the list of "Things People In Bakersfield Don't Do Well".

It was cute at first, my older male dog going mad for the balls. He'd get frantic at the sight of them, simply had to have one, try and fit several in his mouth and ultimately settle for one. He'd carry it for a block or two and then start a roving game of fetch by dropping it at my feet.

It was still cute a few days later. Sort of.

The problem is the minute we get home he looses all interest in his balls. Drops them in the foyer and never gives them another thought. And they've begin to kind of pile up, to the point that the living room now looks like a bad day at Wimbledon.

So we're going to have to have a little talk, me and him. He's going to have to adapt to a life without balls.

It won't be the first time.

Friends And Ememas

Monday was already shaping up to be a nasty piece of work and the last thing I needed was a constipated dog. So suddenly the schedule was scrambled to accommodate a trip to the vet.

We found a vet a couple of months ago, not far away in a new business park. I'm sure at one point this was to be the bustling hub of commerce for yet another new master planned community. But then the bubble burst and the homes never materialized and now it squats all alone, an oasis in a miles wide desert of vacant trash filled lots. Fading signs still trumpet "Model Homes Opening Spring '09" above the official Bakersfield logo and motto.

The good news was, they weren't playing Glenn Beck in the waiting room, like the last time. The bad news? There was a "blockage". The dog couldn't shit.

I thought of Jamie Lee Curtis in those "Activia" commercials.

The solution was simple. They would have to give the dog an enema.

Better them than me.

They took the poor guy away and after a few minutes a nurse came in.

"You don't have a nice car, do you?"

Why in fact I once did, in a previous life, but now I don't, and what the hell did that have to do with anything?

"We've given your dog the enema, and we tried to take him out back but he didn't go. Do you have a sheet or something because he could erupt at any minute..."

Well I try to plan for most contingencies, but I'll admit that that was one I didn't see coming. So no, I didn't have a sheet. But we didn't live far. We'd have to take our chances.

He insisted on sitting on my lap on the way home and we came to one of Bako's eternal stoplights. As I sat there scanning across the abandoned homesite wasteland, he blew.

In my lap.

I'm covered with dogshit, the light finally turns green, and I look up and the first thing I see is that faded real estate sign:

"Bakersfield: Life As It Should Be"

Dear God let's hope not.

Random Good Things About Bako: #1

Our relatively successful Halloween has gotten me thinking: Perhaps I've been too harsh about this place. Perhaps I'm choosing to only see the bad things. Perhaps I'm, oh, what's the word..... B I T T E R. No place is entirely loathsome, or so I keep telling myself. Maybe it's time to look on the bright side, walk on the sunny side of the street, look at the glass as half full for a change. So in an effort to be fair and balanced, I'm going to present the good along with the bad, however rarely they may come up. And with that in mind I present "Random Good Things About Bako: #1":

Nobody Here Picks Up Dog Shit

As a dog owner myself, it's quite liberating. Oh sure, the sidewalks are minefields and the lawns that haven't been turned into the Everglades with all the constant watering are pooped all to hell. But no one seems to mind. No one. Everyone in this neighborhood has dogs, so maybe it's just a tit for tat thing. Or shit for shat, as the case may be. You can't really get pissed about dog shit on your lawn if you've allowed yours to do the same thing to everyone else. Whatever the reason, it's just one small thing off my "to do" list.

I used to be the type of person who believed the content of your character was measured in no small part by what you did when no one was looking, and so from the moment we got the dogs I always did the conscientious thing and scooped the poop. Until one of our neighbors in LA left a big steaming pile on our doorstep. I was pretty sure who did it, and as luck would have it, a couple of days later I was able to return the favor. But that was it. Honest. And it was justified. The one exception to the rule. OK, almost the only one. There was also the asshole producer who lived at the top of our hill. He was a dick. But really, just those two. But you know, as with most things in life, it's a slippery slope, and the next thing you know I was completely ambivalent about it. More often than not, I still took care of the business, but it really came down to a quick calculation of how dark it was and neighborhood sightlines.

And then we moved here and I reverted to my old, thoughtful ways. Out of fear. These people scared me, and more likely than not, they were armed. But it soon became clear that rather than be a capital, shootable offense, it was... nothing. The sense of freedom is rather surprising. Like joining a nudist colony, I imagine. I still carry bags, but their just props. Or for the rare occasion when the deed happens right in front of a glowering homeowner. And occasionally I still pick it up, for old times sake. I'm nostalgic that way.