Holiday at the beach

Judging by the leftovers on the beach this morning, Christmas Day must have been a grand holiday for the dogs. Daisy and I found two lime neon tennis balls and one small multicolored ball as we walked to the north end of the beach. One more green one washed away in the surf before I could grab it.

Down at the end we sat on a rock and I noticed a black face peering at us from the waves. In this regard I think the "dogs can't generalize" folks may be right. Point as I might, Daisy simply would not look out to sea. The sea lion bobbed up and down for a long while. But this sort of abstract thinking -- extending the line of a pointed finger to a distant object -- doesn't seem to be within Daisy's repertoire. She was more interested in the incoming surf and wanted to leave.

So we climbed back down the rock and headed south. The escaped green ball was perched up on a dune. Next we found a worrisome construction safety hat. The story behind it couldn't have been good.

There were the usual bottle caps and straws washed in by the tide. Then another rubber ball, this time bright orange. And at the beginning of the walkway at the edge of the parking lot, we found one more set of relics from a happy day. A pair of brown leather sandals sat abandoned, with a miniature Frisbee for dogs at their side.

(Sea lion photo courtesy Central Park Zoo)

A dog's homemade dinner

Mara, home cook for Maggie and Lisa, asks:

Why do you cut the eggs up into small, but not tiny, chunks? And, what kind of bone meal do you use?

As I learned in the bookstore cooking section yesterday, it's all about "plating." With the eggs chopped up too small, all the ingredients of the dinner begin to merge into a indistinguishable, unappealing, green-tinged mush. Better to offer small segments of bright yellow, contrasting with the morsels of white egg. The lightly chopped greens can be scattered throughout, adding texture and appealing color. Small squares of carrots contribute brightness. Finally, the rice and oatmeal tie everything together and serve as a pleasing background.

An old-fashioned potato masher is the perfect tool to get to the right texture without a lot of effort. We've learned that Daisy has little appetite for the over-chopped amalgamation. She turns up her nose at the big chunks, or else carries them off to place somewhere in the middle of a room. So we have made an effort to construct a more delightful plate. It may be time, though, to rethink the giant round stainless steel bowl. The trend today is toward small servings on big plates.

"Crowding food is a no-no," according to How-to-Cook Gourmet.

So we could go with an even bigger bowl, with less food. Or perhaps the same size bowl -- maybe in a more appealing green or red to contrast with the tan rice, though -- with smaller portions served a couple of times. What do you think?

Oh, and if you hard boil eggs often, you may have suffered through many a difficult peeling process. The shell sticks, it breaks into tiny pieces, it pricks your fingers. Here's the solution we've found:

Bring a pot of water to a boil.
Place up to 20 eggs in the water and let it return to a boil.
Turn the heat down and boil for 5 minutes.
Turn off the burner and let sit for 45 minutes to cool.
Store the eggs in their original box in the fridge.

You can also place the eggs in a bath of cold water to speed up the process. One way or the other, they'll peel like a dream!

Here's a video of a fun alternate method. I did try it, but I think you have to have very powerful lungs to make it work.

As for the bone meal, we've recycled the jar so I'll have to report back after our next shopping trip. Any recommendations?

Icky! Wet grass!

For a working dog bred to rescue hapless humans from avalanches of snow, Daisy has an unusual phobia. She hates getting her paws wet.

Maybe it's just in wet grass. She doesn't seem at all to mind waves washing in over her feet. But go out into the yard on a rainy day? No way!

The rain poured all night and into the morning. It was 12:30 p.m. when Daisy's amazing bladder started getting to me. Surely she had to go outside. No, she insisted, when I opened the back door. I pulled an old umbrella out of the garage, one of those gigantic golf umbrellas. It was big enough to cover the two of us, probably at least four feet across. So out we went, me offering moral support with the umbrella.

It didn't work. Daisy dashed over to a different door and tried to get in. I insisted, and chased her back to the first door. She ran off another direction, down a concrete path that was being doused by a clogged gutter on the roof. She was drenched. Anything to stay off the grass!

She ran under the deck and hid. I encouraged her. Finally, nature got the better of Daisy. She tiptoed into few feet of grass and squatted.

We both ran inside. Daisy got a fabulous rubdown -- like she always does. You'd think that would overcome any hesitation about wet tippy toes.

Bits of egg around the house

Daisy has a very tender stomach and a picky appetite to go along with it. We have always figured that her high-anxiety puppyhood led to these issues. She probably couldn't count on a meal and self-medicated when possible by eating grass.

Now, if she doesn't get a meal on time then out she runs to the backyard to take care of things on her own by grabbing a bite of grass. And you know what that means.

Daisy can't have regular dog food because it makes her ill. We discovered this when I was out of the country, leaving Tom and Daisy to fend for themselves. By the time I could get to a decent phone, Tom had a tale to tell. Daisy had gotten terribly sick and couldn't keep anything down. She was so weak and nauseous that she wanted to sleep outside. Tom couldn't sleep either, so they both were miserable. The vet recommended a strict diet of white rice and eggs, which eventually got Daisy back up on her feet again.

But once I had returned, we learned very quickly that regular dog food was not an option. So we began cooking up Dr. Pitcairn's two-meal vegetarian menu for dogs. The ingredients were roughly five eggs and nine cups of oatmeal in the morning, and seven eggs and three cups of rice in the evening. But Daisy very quickly got tired of the inexpensive oatmeal and would turn up her nose, heading down to the yard for a bite of grass instead.

Gradually we were able to get her onto brown rice for its better nutrient content, plus add in the various ingredients Dr. Pitcairn recommends. Here's what she gets:

Breakfast
3 eggs, hard-boiled
3 cups rice
Dog oil and dog powder mix
4 T chopped, cooked green vegetables

Dinner
6 eggs, hard-boiled
2.5 cups rice
2 T soy (or other) protein isolate
Dog oil and dog powder mix
6 T chopped, cooked green vegetables
Fish scent from a can of salmon or sardines to add interest

The powder mix includes:
nutritional yeast
bone meal
kelp powder

And the oil mix includes:
vegetable oil
cod-liver oil
vitamin E

The mixture must be blended to just the right level. The eggs should be roughly chopped, not in big chunks or ones that are too small. A little bit of hand-fed yolk usually gets a reticent appetite going.


We buy an awful lot of eggs, about six dozen at a time. The checkout clerks don't comment anymore, they just ask if we've checked for breakage. Peeling the cooked eggs is a story we'll save for another time.

But what is this new twist? Lately Daisy has begun carrying bits of egg around the house and leaving them there. Today we had a 1/2 inch chunk in the bedroom and almost a full, round yolk in the middle of the living room. Is the food critic in Daisy coming out? Or is this some kind of doggie instinct that kicks in when night starts falling earlier?

Basic socialization tricks for dogs

Daisy does seem to be making progress, all of a sudden. Lately we've been taking her each Sunday for our own socialization training. We walk up to an ocean bluff in Half Moon Bay where plenty of dogs and their people go for walks. But unlike the Montara hills, they don't suddenly jump out from behind bushes. Unlike the beach, they don't stare and then horribly remain within sight for miles and miles.


On the bluff at Francis Beach, there is a fence, two pathways, and various benches and ditches that can separate our little group from passersby. We can walk along and when a dog approaches, head off to another parallel path. At first, this was almost impossible for Daisy. She would pull forward, then drag back, then run from side to side, all the while screeching in a high-pitched whine. But then animal educator Cheryl Carver showed us how we could occupy her with duties. As long as Daisy is calm enough to almost concentrate, it works.

So here's what we do: We see a dog approaching about 50 yards away, so we go into action. If we're lucky, we're already near a ditch or a bench or some low bushes. We put Daisy to work. Left turn! Right turn! Around the bush! Over the ditch! She might trip or crash into a rock at first because she's not paying attention, but then she gets into it. Left turn! U-turn! Jump!

I'm sure the other humans think we're crazy. But Daisy is learning to let a dog pass by -- at a reasonable 40 or 50 feet distance -- without falling into a panic.

That is, as long as she's got a job to do.

Dreaming of Dogs

Last night I dreamed that Daisy pulled herself up onto a motorcycle by her teeth and motored off. Heaven knows where she was going. I was inconsolable.

Can dogs generalize?

We've been told time and again that dogs can't generalize. Don't just take Daisy to one parking lot to practice obedience and get dog exposure training, but take her to many. Don't just go to one shopping mall to get human contact and lots of pets, go to many. Don't "watch me" or "sit" in just one room, but try it inside and outside, in the kitchen and in the hall.

All this makes sense, and we do vary the venue. But I'm not so sure I believe this blanket claim about dogs' incapacity to generalize. Take Daisy's reaction to anything attached to a leash-like line: Must be a dog! This morning she was quite struck by a surfer carrying his surfboard with leg rope and cuff dragging behind. Must be a tiny black dog! One time a Chihuahua (one of those again) stood on the lap of a trucker and barked at us for 15 minutes while we waited in traffic to get on the Bay Bridge. Now, every time she peers into the cab of a truck, there must be a dog! If there's something with lots of hair moving around in the back of a car, it must be a dog!


Surfer leg cuffs: A pack of dogs?




Usually we try to convince Daisy otherwise. Everything at the end of a leash or that is small, fluffy and moving is not a dog. We point out the differences between dogs and humans, dogs and strollers, even dogs and kites, if need be. But this time we went with it. What an obedient little dog following right behind his surfer. What a calm, non-threatening dog. Daisy couldn't help getting a little upset but let us stand close in front to protect her. She watched the surfer, then we began to head another direction. She turned back for a look a couple of times, but was satisfied that the threat has passed.

A success story? Who knows?

Leash innovation for emergencies

Yesterday was your blogger Tom's (Rocky Jones) birthday, so we headed down to Monterey, Calif., for a mini-vacation. Or maybe, "mini-long weekend" would be a more appropriate description. Anyway, we left Thursday afternoon after finishing up various chores, packing up all Daisy's things and loading the Mini.

Daisy, with her pre-cooked eggs and rice, brush, breath mints, toenail clippers, alfalfa and supplement mix, blanket, plastic bags, codliver and safflower oil blend, mouth rinse, poultry-flavored tooth paste, tooth brush, biscuits and lint roller, has more in her suitcase than we do. So off we went, delighted to have a couple of days off alongside a different beach than ours . You might wonder why we'd go to another beach, but this one has sun and white sand. Much as we love Montara Beach, change is good.

Oh no! We discovered an hour down the road that Tom, who was in charge of gathering Daisy's things, had forgotten her leash. Poor Tom, he was furious with himself. But there was no going back, and no walking Daisy without a proper leash. While driving along the curvy cliff road and watching the sunset, we considered our options. Finally we decided to check in at the "rustic cabins" where we were staying, then go find a pet store where we could buy both a leash and a Gentle Leader.

But once at the cabins, a remarkable solution presented itself in the form of Tom's extra belt. We wrapped it around the front of her harness and buckled it. Voila! A "handle" for Daisy that fit neatly into the palm of one's hand. We weren't sure it would work, but in fact, this leash was almost as easy to use as the usual contraption. The length was so short and the grip so comfortable, we had a lot of torque. With one light pull, Daisy's front feet were off the ground and she'd have to stop. So if you're ever stuck without a leash, you might try out this invention.

Anti-shedding tips

Our reader Suzette had pity on our fur-saturated household and wrote in with a suggestion - the FURminator! She reported on her experience using one on her dog, Bella. Now Bella is short-haired in the extreme, but Suzette thinks Daisy could benefit, too. She told us:

You would be shocked at the hair from the second coat below that comes up. It reduces shedding by 90%. It is pricey and can be found at Pet Smart, Pet Express, online, etc. I got the medium size and it was $49 but well worth it. I brushed her with the normal brush I bought for her that had bristles on one side and wire on the other. Not much came out.

Then I used the Furminator and I got half a bag full of fur!

The description on the FURminator web site says it grabs undercoat hair and leaves the lovely top coat pristine. At first read it sounds dangerous -- be gentle, it warns, and watch for the redness and irritation that deep brushing can cause. But the lady in the demo video isn't holding back. You can see why they suggest that it's best to brush in a place you can sweep -- or better yet, have a vacuum with a fresh bag handy. Best of all, though, this product promises to get rid of our household's "cleanliness problems." Wow!

Fur flow overwhelms household

Yup, it's shedding season. That means we're navigating drifts of fur pressed up the walls, mashed into doors, covering whatever clothing we happen to have on. Tom bought a special, high-powered vacuum just for this occasion, but there's no keeping up with the fur flow. Now and then we'll try to brush some of those thin, sticky fibers off Daisy's person but it's really a 24-hour job. So out with the lint brush and on with the grubbies. It's best simply to put a "do not disturb" sign on the door to discourage guests and just wait it out.

How to remove oil from a dog's foot

Honestly, we're not sure. How do you remove oil from a dog's foot? We had to try to figure this out earlier today, when Daisy seemed to be walking oddly, as if she didn't want to put her foot down. There weren't any stickers in there, but sure enough, there did appear to be a blob of that bunker oil stuck between her pads.

We have learned over the past week that oil on the fur is not something to be taken lightly. Down at the beach, the volunteers from the Gulf of the Farallones National Marine Sanctuary have been out every morning looking for signs of oil from the Cosco Busan spill and for sick birds. They warned us to keep an eye on Daisy's paws. If she were lick any oil off, she could be poisoned.

For a seagull, they said, a small blob on the feathers is enough to kill. That's because the birds try to pick it off and then ingest it. Hundreds have died already from oil sticking to their feathers, matting their fluffy protective coat, and destroying their ability to stay warm and stay afloat. Earlier this week, the volunteers told us glumly, they had found more than 50 oiled sea gulls just down the road at Venice Beach near Half Moon Bay. They had counted nine globs of congealed oil on Montara beach just that morning, including one stick just covered with the stuff. Not the kind of thing you'd want your pup to pick up and run with.

The oil is new here, but not the other detritus of humanity. Each morning we pick up at least half a plastic bag full of garbage. This week there has been an unusual number of discarded tampons. Who knows why? Maybe a garbage pail from a women's restroom somewhere got kicked into the sea.

The tide is powerful and high right now, and the crashing waves lift our spirits. But
even here, disregard for ourselves and our planet washes up every day.

Oil spill reaches Montara Beach

A week ago the Cosco Busan bashed into the San Francisco Bay Bridge and dumped 58,000 gallons of bunker fuel oil into the water. Since then, the foul black muck has drifted through the Bay and out to sea.

At first the oil headed north. But one morning we spotted the telltale gunk collected into a tar ball in the sand. Sure enough, just down the beach was a common murre, curled up and shivering. Altogether as many as 1,255 birds have died out of 2,278 found by rescue workers.

This is peak migration time. Crab season had been about to begin. The ocean was growing wild and full as winter approached.

This morning we found another another tar ball washed up onto the beach.

The balls look benign. But touch them, and the sticky goo lets you know they're toxic. One swallow can kill an animal.

At first the ship's pilot vastly underreported the damage as only 400 gallons split. Fragile areas of the Bay weren't protected, volunteers were shooed away, and the oil spread. As Peter Fimrite reported in the San Francisco Chronicle,

Among the myriad questions that have yet to be answered is why there was a nine-hour lag between initial reports of only 400 gallons of oil spilled and later reports that 58,000 gallons had poured into the bay. There are also questions about delays while large numbers of cleanup workers were brought in from out of state. Environmentalists have accused cleanup organizers of not placing booms around sensitive wetlands and wildlife habitats until it was too late.

In his excellent story, Fimrite exposes the tenuous state of the massive cleanup process. Shockingly, response to this disaster is in the hands of a private company. The effort

hinges on a little-known Louisiana company that works for big oil shipping lines and is largely self-regulated.

The oil will surely be with us for at least a decade to come.

Big, shiny teeth

Daisy seems to have recovered from the anesthesia and the trauma of having her mouth messed with. You can see the gums are a bit inflamed and there's some staining, but no more calculus. Remarkably, she got good marks from the dentist for her breath.

What a smile!

What were the survey results? The readers have spoken. Daisy's nose gets far more votes for beauty than her teeth do.

Doggie dental care - not to be ignored

Daisy's a little woozy, so I won't check out her new Cover Girl smile. She spent the day at the dentist, a long-overdue item on our list of her health priorities. She came to us with black-and-yellow tinged teeth, the plaque built up like cement. Judging from that and her reaction at the sound of a cellophane bag opening, we figured she had survived on a diet of potato chips and candy. Certainly not dog biscuits -- we'd give her one and she'd take it gingerly, then set it down carefully and walk away. Don't even mention those Greenies -- she hates them.

We did take her to the dentist once already, but she came back with the same yellow-coated teeth. We thought perhaps the situation was permanent, but lately we've gotten to wondering what kind of dental work really went on during that visit. Today, armed with a "wellcare plan" from Veterinary Pet Insurance, we sent her back for another try. The plan covers dental cleaning up to $100. Daisy's bill? $487.15.

We missed her all day and worried about a possible extraction, or two or three. Those back teeth looked baaaaaaaad. But fortunately, she came back with only a few negatives on her dental report card: staining and root exposure/gum recession. Not ideal, but better than losing one or more of those big teeth! Daisy was not as happy as we were. She spent the evening letting out little cries, as if she were reliving the horrible dental visit or, maybe her mouth just ached. A couple of aspirin didn't help.

The dentist had sent Daisy home with an oral rinse and instructions to brush every day. "Most dogs and some cats will actually learn to enjoy this daily ritual," the Linda Mar Veterinary Hospital wrote in its handout. Right.

"The paste should be pressed down into the bristles so the pet doesn't lick it off the brush. Start by brushing just a few teeth at a time. Hold the toothbrush at a 45' angle so the bristles go under the gumline. Only the outside surfaces of the teeth need to be brushed at first. Try to use a circular motion with the toothbrush if at all possible."

The handout included a photo of what looked like a Sonicare electric toothbrush just like the one in our bathroom. Maybe we all three could use it! But no, it turns out there are special electric toothbrushes made just for dogs. There's the Complete Pet Dental Kit by a company called Keep it Clean and Hartz makes electric toothbrushes, too. But as another handout warns, this only works if you can "successfully condition your dog to tolerate a whirring, jiggly thing in his mouth." Not likely.

I was glad that I had become an expert at trimming Daisy's nails. "I'm the nail technician," I told Tom. "You'll have to handle the teeth."

Escape artist Saint

Daisy has progressed really well in many ways. We can walk down the beach in the morning and she keeps our pace, not pulling or yanking on the leash. We can even lash the leash around her halter at her waist and let her continue on her own. She'll stick by us – that is, so long as there aren’t any distractions like dogs a half-mile down the sand.

Maybe that’s why we dropped our guard a bit while visiting a friend’s house in Oakland, Calif. We were helping out Daisy’s godmom – yes, she has a godmother, more on that later – and moving some things out of the house into a small, freestanding garage out back. We tied Daisy to a tree nearby while we loaded boxes into the garage and tried to stack all their goods relatively neatly. At first, Daisy hated the idea. She whined and then would let out with a loud bark – unusual for this non-barker who didn’t seem to realize she had the ability until a year or so ago. But she finally settled down on the grass and as long as I stuck my head out of the wooden garage doors now and then, she was okay. This was great, I thought, good training.

When we went back into the house to do more packing, Daisy came along. We left the door propped a little so people could go in and out. Bad idea. I looked up from a pile of papers to spot a wisp of a tail heading the wrong direction – out the back. I went after her. But Daisy’s fast. She was down the block, crouching low to the ground in a fast trot and heading toward the intersection. I put the speed on, glad I had worn tennis shoes that day. She rounded the corner, passed the YMCA, and shot around another corner.

This was Oakland, not Montara. People speed down this street in their hot rods, police cruisers chase parolees on the lam, fire engines roar out of their station. Daisy’s godparents live in a “transitional” neighborhood --- theirs was one of the refurbished old gems amidst rows of houses suffering from impoverished urban blight. We ran. Daisy could have chosen the route to the freeway, down to the shopping center, who knows where. She was picking up speed. What if I couldn't catch her? Suddenly, she slowed and stopped. On the other side of the grating was a silvery pit bull, nosing through the fence back at her. No barks, no bites, not even a growl. The pit bull was staying back a little from this big animal. Daisy lunged forward in a rude greeting but I grabbed her. The pit bull was curious. Another time, I decided, and dragged Daisy away. Disappointed, she came along back around the block and to her godmom’s place. Another lesson learned… generally, she’ll stick around. But if she’s got some business around the corner – watch out.

Earth gas and other theories

For a definitive ... well, interesting, piece on earthquakes and animals, see this 2003 National Geographic story.

".. precisely what animals sense, if they feel anything at all, is a mystery. One theory is that wild and domestic creatures feel the Earth vibrate before humans. Other ideas suggest they detect electrical changes in the air or gas released from the Earth."

While Japanese researchers trust their pets, the article says, American scientists appear to be more skeptical. The bottom line, according to those creative U.S. thinkers? "More research is needed."

Can pets predict earthquakes?

Oops, sorry for the long absence. Regular deadlines intervened. But that's no excuse, we know, so we will try to do better.

The night before last was very exciting around about these parts. We had a 5.6 earthquake, large and long enough to set the house shaking for some time. We were sitting at dinner and at first it seemed as if someone had kicked the table. Or maybe someone with a loud stereo was driving by. We looked at each other, and the shaking kept going. And going. The windows rattled, the candlesticks wiggled. The table shook. We sat in our chairs but we felt like we were riding a roller coaster.

One is supposed to climb under the table when such a thing happens. But we just sat there. Could have been our surprise. Or it could have been the unperturbed animal lying there on the floor. I read in the paper this morning that pets have a remarkable ability to anticipate earthquakes. Somehow they can feel one is coming, whether through higher sensory awareness or some kind of sixth sense. Look to the animals, the sages say, and you'll be prepared.

Hmmm. If this animal was alerting us, it certainly wasn't apparent. Not only did she not lift her head before the quake, but she didn't budge at all while the earth rolled beneath her. Perhaps this dog has been earthquake-proofed. Bolted to the foundation. But an earthquake early warning system? I think not.

Daisy alerts us to a 5.6 earthquake.

Leapin' Saints, Bernard!

Just when we thought that Daisy's escape artistry was a thing of the past, we find out that it isn't. When Sally and I stopped to get some smoked salmon from a local purveyor near Princeton Harbor, we would soon learn that Daisy has lost none of her agility or stealth. She was riding in the back of the Volvo wagon and had been on her best behavior all day. We parked on the street, directly in front of the fish market, leaving our Saint in the car, fast asleep. One thing we did differently, though. We had the back seats down so that she had more room to lie down. We also left the right front window down for more air circulation in the car. How likely was it that she could squeeze her considerable figure between the front bucket seats and exit the right passenger window?

After we bought our fish, I looked out the shop window at our car and said to Sally, "She must really be asleep and completely flat in the back of the wagon -- I can't even see her!" We quickly learned that I couldn't see her because she was not there. We rushed to the car and tried to figure out what had happened.

Our hearts sank as we looked in the empty wagon. There was no sign of her in the front seat, the back seat, or the way back. I looked up with worry at the busy highway not far from us. Then I saw her trotting down the sidewalk about two blocks away. Thinking quickly -- an infrequent occurrence -- I leapt into the car with Sally and drove discreetly drove down the road, passing Daisy, then stopping a half-block ahead of her. I got out of the car, opened the back of the wagon and turned toward our girl. She looked a little surprised, then quickened her pace. Her carriage suddenly appeared in front of her, inviting her to jump in. How could she resist? In a flash, she flew into the back of the car, alighting on her comfortable spot. She looked up at me, as if to say, "Why aren't you driving us home now?"

Well, at least we figured out a better way to get her back into the car if she ever bails out again on her own. Chasing her, we know, causes her to show how fast she can get away from you. But pulling up ahead and inviting her to join the party? Who woulda thought?

Winston tried to scare Daisy on purpose (possibly)!

I hate to think that Winston would try to scare Daisy on purpose, but what other reason could he have for dressing up as Dracula? I think Daisy's panicky behavior was completely appropriate under the circumstances. She knew that ferocious , undead Yorkie was going to bite her neck the first chance he got, end of story. If you don't believe me, take a look at the photographic evidence: unlike sleeping dogs, photos don't lie.

Her reaction to being tied up in the back yard was understandable, too, if we had remembered what happened to Nana, the delightful Saint Bernard who cared for and watched over the Darling children in "Peter Pan." Who could ever forget the heartbreaking scene in the Disney version of Peter Pan, poor Nana tethered to the ground while watching Peter and all the little Darlings -- Wendy, Tigger, Christopher Robin and Piglet (or whoever) -- flying off into the night. Recalling that scene is enough to drive any Saint Bernard to the edge. We have to consider the possibility that Daisy was distraught because she was worried that someone was going to spirit us away to Neverland without her. She probably knows that in the original story (not the Disney version), Nana got to go along to Neverland with Peter and the kids. Why Disney changed the story must be quite a story in itself. Daisy and I would both like to know why anyone would leave their beloved Saint behind.

Our big mistake

They say animal training has as much to do with the humans as with the dog. They're right.

While up in Oregon, Tom's sister invited us to dinner. We headed over to Barbara's place with delight. We looked forward to spending the evening with his two sisters and brother-in-law and knew it would be a great meal -- topped off by a blackberry tart made with berries we had picked wild that morning.

Lottie, a very well-adjusted white Lab, lives with Barbara and her husband Martin. So we thought we'd park behind the house in a shady area and leave Daisy in the car with the windows down. As Tom carefully backed into the spot, though, it felt like we were entering a steam bath. Too many trees breathing heavily in the muggy air. That wasn't going to work.

Oregon isn't like our little California coastal town, Montara. It's hot there in the summer, even in the early evening.

We moved the Mini Cooper to the front of the house. It was quite shady there, too, but less steamy. We rolled all the windows down, put a screen in the front and started down the steps toward the house. Little did we know that Daisy had already spotted big sister MaryBeth's tiny Yorkshire terrier, Winston, through the distant window. Winston lounged in MaryBeth's lap and stared up belligerently toward Daisy. Or at least she thought. Daisy started yelping almost immediately. She began barking more heatedly. Soon she was in a panic.

Winston just peered through his tiny brown curls at her. Horrible.

We asked Barbara to close the shades in the house but the damage was done. Daisy would not be left in the car, not with that little guy behind the shade, staring at her. And by then she had barked herself into such a panting frenzy that we didn't dare leave her alone.

Tom came out and comforted her. We had only one more option. It was cooling off nicely outside, so we got a rope and tied it to the waist hook on Daisy's halter, then tied her to a tree. We set a big bucket of water beside her and began walking nonchalantly toward the house. Daisy knew what was coming next, and she wasn't going to let it happen without a fight. All along she had been sure this time would come. One day we'd abandon her, and clearly this was it. She barked, she whined, she cried nonstop. We called down to her from the deck above, but even our nearby voices couldn't console her.

I think we withstood her misery about 15 minutes, at the most. Finally, Barbara's husband Marty suggested a solution. MaryBeth drove Winston home and Lottie went out to the car. Daisy got to come inside. She drank a couple cups of water, dribbled across the kitchen floor and collapsed in a relieved heap.

It's obvious we should have known better. Daisy isn't ready to be left alone, especially in a strange place tied to a tree. While she doesn't mind waiting in a car, it does stand to reason that the experience is totally different. The next day we set out for California, but we were all traumatized.











The rope after removal.