Shower scene

Daisy loves rides in the Mini, and last weekend she had the chance for a glorious trip. But first, we wanted to make sure that we weren't sharing that very small space with an, um, shall we say, somewhat malodorous large dog?

Not that Daisy doesn't groom herself well. She doesn't groom herself hardly at all. That's a cat thing. She does generally stay fairly clean, except for the fine coat of dust that builds up over time as the result of diving into iceplant or stiff bushes in an effort to wipe the Halti off her face. And then we must acknowledge the sand and the burrs that collect in her skirt, despite a good rinse every day after our morning walk.

So it was time for a bath. Or truthfully, failing a large enough bath tub, we settled for a shower. Fortunately for me, this is usually Tom's job, and he accepts it gracefully.

He started with a good rinse.
Then a rub down.








Daisy shakes it off.

Rest.









Second spin.
Another rinse.
This calls for a more serious shake.










Shall we try that again?
This is Daisy's favorite part.










Yes, makes it all worthwhile.
Finally, an hour later, we're done.

Scratching at the door

Well, it turns out that either our hearing was bad or Daisy had indeed waited a few minutes for us to return. Only a few. Then she realized that she had been abandoned. Trapped.

When we did get back a half hour later, she was right by the door. So happy to see us! All seemed well, until one of us turned to close the door. She must have stood right there, and waited. Our steps faded. She looked up and up. The door was tall. She nosed around for a way out. And when the thing didn't open on its own like it usually did, she tried to claw it open.

The back of the door, which we ourselves had painstakingly painted, coat after coat, was not a pretty sight. Tom was ready to return Daisy. We both knew, however, that this was not an option.

We thought perhaps she wasn't really that unable to stay alone. Perhaps those dogs walking way over in the field beyond our house had caused Daisy's fright. So we overlooked the scratches on the door.

The next time I had to leave the house and Daisy alone in it -- just for a half hour, I reasoned -- I strung up sheets all along the windows. I closed the shoji panel in my office so she could sleep under the desk, her usual spot. I tiptoed away and crossed my fingers.

Oh boy. When I returned, it was as if a tornado had struck. My desk chair had been flipped around, the lamp knocked over. There were shoji pieces all over the floor like tinker toys. The wooden desk had been completely cleared of papers, phone, stapler, letter holder and the other miscellaneous junk that had piled up. The surface was pristine, except for two long scratches. And my lap top computer -- well, never to be used again. It looked as if Daisy had climbed on the chair and pulled on the shoji in order to get out the window. But the seat twisted around under her weight. Quickly she tried to brace herself on the computer desk, instead crushing two big pawprints in the laptop keyboard. That was pretty scary, so she must have jumped on another, big wooden desk off to the side. All those papers and things? Well, when you're in a hurry, you just let the debris fall where it may.

There was no point to yelling at Daisy or crying at the loss of my $2,000 computer. So I jumped on the desk myself, surveyed the damage, and broke into laughter.

Left alone

What we did see next that day were two deer up on the ridge, ghostly in the fog. Hmmm. We could only hope that their path didn't cross the bobcat's.

By now you have probably surmised that Daisy was still in the car when I returned. She had fallen asleep and showed no signs of distress. She did, however, let it be known that she had completely lost her trust in me. She would not let me out of her sight for the next couple of days, following me from one room to the other and blocking the door if I showed any signs of leaving. Once in a while she would pointedly lick her ankle to show where she had bruised it when I had tried to force her into the car.

Normally we take Daisy everywhere. We learned she had separation anxiety about the time we discovered she had no social skills with other dogs. One afternoon we left her in the house for about a half hour to get the mail. We couldn't walk her with us, after all, because the post office is a gathering place for our little town's residents, who generally bring their dogs along with them. As we departed, we listened for barks or other sounds of anxiety. Nothing. No whimpers. No scratches. It seemed she was okay.

Well, we discovered a half hour later, not exactly.

Watching or watched? Lynx Rufus

Daisy and I took to the fields this morning because we had a little less time and wanted a change.

We passed by the stream in our usual morning daze, but felt something watching us. Daisy stared, I startled. It was a big, tawny cat. Too big, though, to be somebody's house cat. Daisy normally has little interest in such creatures but she could see this one was different. Crouching in the dry grass, it stared at us and then gave what looked like a snarl. We stood very still for a minute and then I remembered.

The bobcat, Lynx Rufus, it seems, eat only meat, according to the University of Michigan Museum of Zoology. They like rabbits, rodents, birds and reptiles. Occasionally they like small deer and domesticated animals! Now this cat was about 60 feet away and no more than 30 pounds. But I had read what to do. I stretched up tall, kept eye contact, and walked slowly away.

I honestly doubt there had been danger, but it certainly was good practice just in case a mountain lion was next.

Incident at the back of a car

Imagine trying to wrestle a small steer into the back of a Volvo station wagon. A soft, furry, smallish steer. There I was, trying to lift Daisy into the back of the car and she would have nothing of it.

She pushed against the bumper with one paw, against the car floor with another. She wiggled and made herself very heavy. One hundred thirty-five pounds heavy. When she finally decided to give in and jump, I lost control and she lost balance. Quickly I reached down in an effort to soften the fall, managing to cradle her rear about an inch above the cement floor. I let her stand. She tried to run. I heaved her up again, front paws first, then with a deep breath, up with the back. She wiggled and resisted with all her might. After I accidentally pinched her skin in a second near fall, she yelped piteously and got in.

No, Daisy does not like to be left alone. The ol' car in the garage trick worked a couple of times. She'd jump in eagerly, we'd close up the rear door and sneak quietly away. Now she might head toward the car with pleasure, but with a glance around the vicinity she quickly sizes things up. She makes an abrupt U-turn and tries to make a break for freedom.

I was about to be late for an assignment, so I opened the car windows, propped open the doors, and opened the garage a little so air could flow through. A gate behind the back seat would keep Daisy from slipping out and getting into trouble.

Usually we just take her. But I was worried about the heat over the hill where the fog had lifted. I didn't want to leave her in a scary parking lot or on an urban street. I knew she would be safer at home, but Daisy evidently did not.

After the yelp, I felt terrible. I gave Daisy a hug and a bite of canned salmon for consolation. Then I shut the door. But I worried. Daisy seems able to escape anything. And I wouldn't have hurt her intentionally for the world.

Learning How to Talk Dog

Daisy's not much of a nurse. She got very annoyed when her human companion was too sick with a summer cold to get up and take her for a walk. She leaned her big nose into my face, cried a few times, snorted and then fell at the side of the bed in disgust. Kerplunk! An hour later I was out in the field, being pulled along in a daze by a happy, if somewhat anxious, Saint Bernard.

Before I accuse Daisy of lacking empathy, though, I must admit that she's right there when she suspects someone is feeling down or upset. She might run over and lean up against the unhappy party, presenting her back at about hand level for a rub. Or she might collapse at the distressed person's feet, nudging her head up against an ankle. When things really get bad, she'll press her head into the sorrowful lap, prodding a hand into action. A hug from a Saint Bernard can be very comforting.

Once I tried to test Daisy's intelligence, inspired by the instructions in a book by Stanley Coren called The Intelligence of Dogs. You're supposed to toss a towel or blanket over the poor animal's head and see how long it takes to climb out from underneath. The idea is that if you understand your dog's intelligence, you can communicate with it better. I didn't want to traumatize Daisy, so I tossed a towel just lightly over her head. She was unimpressed. She didn't move an inch. Now I know Daisy is not stupid. I regretted the test -- maybe it was culturally biased. Put Daisy in a backyard she does not prefer, and she's a veritable Houdini. So I have wondered if there is a problem with the test's underlying assumptions.

It seemed there might be better ways to get a glimpse of the animal mind. And indeed, Sheryl Carver brought by a book that offered a much more interesting -- and practical -- perspective. It's called "Talking Terms with Dogs: Calming Signals," by Turid Rugaas. Now this was more to the point! We read the whole thing in an hour. Soon Tom and I were yawning every time we spotted a dog passing in the distance. We turned to the side politely when Bailey, the black lab next door, stood at the edge of his deck and peered over. We tried licking our noses but discovered this was not in the human toolbox.

Daisy didn't yawn. But one of the next times Bailey plopped down on the deck next door, we did notice a change. She didn't stand and stare or pace back and forth crying inconsolably. Instead she looked out in the field. She sniffed with apparent interest at the lower railing, sneaking a look at him. Of course, that was a good day. Daisy will still stand and stare, cry and whine. But once in a while, she'll politely nose around the deck, maybe stealing a glance when the timing is right.

Eighty-four cats in one house

Recently I read in the newspaper about a lady who had 88 pets in her house. That is, 83 cats, three dogs and two iguana. First, one has to wonder how the animal control people were sure. About the cats anyway. They had to be jumping on tables, slinking out doors, hiding behind the toilet. At least one probably went unnoticed and maybe as many as 10 were counted twice. But those dogs. And the two iguanas!

The cats, dogs and iguanas had the run of two bedrooms and generally were healthy and well-fed, according to the news report. The owner worked for animal rescue outfits and would simply take her charges home. People who hoard pets like this apparently think they're the only ones capable of caring for the animals. While this poor woman clearly was going overboard, I can understand the mindset. I've heard the awful stories from rescue operations-- why wouldn't you want to bring the poor creatures home?

But I can't imagine 34 Saint Bernards running around our place. Not even 34 cats, three Saint Bernards and two iguanas. And how did they all get along?

People like to say that dogs hate cats, but I'm not so sure. Maybe that's just one of those stereotypes, a pop psychology fact that people like to tell one another but really have no clue. Daisy does seem to take a friendly interest in Merlin, the slim white cat with blue eyes that lives across the street. Merlin is an amazing creature that will appear out of nowhere in the driveway, then just as suddenly disappear. He crosses the street with abandon, never looks both ways, and yet has lived at least 18 years.

I've known at least one Saint Bernard and Siamese who were quite fond of one another. That Saint was also close friends with a chicken, but that's a story for next time.

A proper leash

Sheryl Carver is an engineer. Until she discovered her talents with animals, she worked for IBM. So naturally, before anything else she set us up with the proper equipment.

We had been using a Gentle Leader head collar, which is supposed to help you control your dog by gently turning her head and as a consequence, turning her attention and mind in a new direction. But Daisy was not to be swayed so easily. She might turn her head, but she would keep plowing ahead in whatever direction she was going, and you along with her. Worse yet, she would walk very nicely just until you let your guard down.
Then suddenly she would catch the scent of something fascinating. And you would find yourself flying in that direction, too -- that is, if you wanted to keep your arm attached to your body. That girl is strong! She could easily pull a VW Bug, if not a Mini Cooper.


We told Sheryl that we really did not want to be dragged around the hills behind our house anymore. She had a brilliant solution. First, we dug out an old harness occasionally worn by Daisy's predecessor, Perry, who weighed about 170 pounds and wasn't even chubby. This was the type that fits around the chest so you can attach a leash on the back. The harness hadn't helped us manage Perry, so we were doubtful. But Sheryl wasn't finished. We also pulled on a Halti head collar, which hangs more loosely around the nose than the Gentle Leader. We were not much impressed by that either. Perry had never kept one on more than a minute.

But wait, between the two went a leash! Suddenly we had control over a much stronger structure than a line between two points: We were holding a triangle.
So if Daisy started yanking, we could leap out to the side and just hang on. The pressure from two points was simply too much for even Daisy's gargantuan powers and she would stop. One we learned out to manage all that leash, we were set.

Doubting neighbors

We find some people skeptical of Daisy's condition. They think we're the ones with a neurosis. One neighbor always shakes her head disapprovingly when when she walks by with her beagle. "It's the owners," she shouts to us as we cower behind the nearest truck. Another surprises us around a corner. "Just let her go, they'll work it out," he calls out as his yellow poodle comes running up and Daisy screeches in fright.

So we weren't surprised that some people seem to doubt whether one could really serve cocktails on Daisy's hindquarters. Here are some photos -- completely undoctored -- to prove our point.

View from the rear

Martini, anyone?

A way to lick anxiety?

Despite Martina Contreras' amazing talents, I don't think Daisy would have been able to watch those neighbors go by without the help of Sheryl Carver. With Martina, we had been able to bring Daisy closer and closer to the dog class with a little less anxiety over time. As we edged slowly toward the group, we brushed her, we fed her salmon, we hugged her and did everything we could imagine that might help her relax. The salmon bits simply fell out of her mouth. Daisy was too focused on watching those animals' every move to actually eat. The brushing, however, worked well -- she had a lovely coat for a long while. And we did manage to get into the same zip code. We even came within about eight feet of one special class that somehow clicked well with Daisy. She seemed especially fond of one young Rottweiler named Zeus.

But our arms were getting tired. I had been reading about neurogenetics for a public radio documentary series I'm working on. We're doing a show on the genetic processes underlying mind, memory and conditions such as ADHD. Some of the material I had collected involved highly stressed rats and misfiring brain chemistry. The poor little creatures reminded me of Daisy.

One researcher I read about, UC Berkeley biopsychologist Darlene Francis, studies how rodents are reared. When put with a demonstrative mother, young rats turn out fine. But stressful environments both before and after birth can produce grumpy, antisocial rodents that have unusually low numbers of neurons. Their brains are swimming in the stress hormone cortisol. If their mothers didn’t lick them regularly, Francis found, little rats performed poorly on cognitive tests and acted stressed out. These babies' environments altered gene expression for a lifetime.

Francis' aim in this work is not to develop a happier rat society, but to get some insight that might be helpful for humans. Other researchers have studied emotional deprivation in toddlers and found that abuse and neglect can lead to lasting problems as adults: impaired cortisol release, poor coping skills, and depression or antisocial behavior. Daisy, I extrapolated wildly, might be suffering from a biochemical feedback loop that had gone awry in puppyhood. Maybe her brain kept misfiring, leaving her reactive and scared most of the time.

The rat studies did offer hope, though. Unhappy brain biochemistry can change in response to stimulation and social enrichment. Researchers put the lick-deprived rats into a stimulating environment with toys and interconnected cages. Both hormone release and behavior changed.

Okay, stimulation and social enrichment. Maybe bodywork, too, I casually mentioned to a neighbor who does craniosacral therapy, which aims to mend the central nervous system by subtle manipulations of the cranial and sacral bones. His face lit up. "I know just the right person," he said. Sheryl Carver, he told me, had worked with many a neurotic dog and specialized in body work along with good training principles. She even did crazy things like wrap the animal in an Ace bandage, he went on. Daisy in an Ace bandage. Tom and I called Cheryl that afternoon.

Poodle encounter

Maybe Daisy didn't get enough sleep last night. We were walking home from the beach this morning at about 8:30 a.m. when we looked up and our neighbor was nearly upon us, gliding up the hill on her bike. Well-geared under a helmet and sky-blue riding pants, she also had two leashes in hand. One was attached to a small white poodle, the other to a beige pseudo-Labradoodle. Oh no! The occupants behind the fence! They are the source of much barking, snuffling, sniffing, and on our side, crying and fence-pounding. Mary (the rider) kept going, head down and determined. Mary was on the other side of the fence that time Daisy crashed through.

Daisy saw the trio coming and... just watched them go by. No leaping, yanking, screeching or heavy breathing. Tom and I stood there, in shock. She stood with us. Then we all turned and walked up the hill toward home.

Anxious dogs

The AKC Gazette is out and Mara Bovsun did a great job explaining the phobic dog. Poor Daisy is part of a doggie mental health trend: about one in three dogs have anxiety disorders, according to one veterinarian. That compares to only one in five humans dogged by intense, unrealistic fears. Mara writes about a project at UCSF to collect DNA from nutty dogs in order to understand any genetic underpinnings. Wonder how they handle the informed consent?

This issue also includes an interesting story about dog handlers with disabilities. It's especially good because there's no "gee whiz" about it. It tells handlers' stories in a way that might help someone with a disability leap into the field and offers insights that might enable anyone -- disability or not -- perform better when showing a dog. Competitors who are blind, deaf, use a wheelchair or handle without arms offer lessons on dealing with self-consciousness, building a bond of trust with your performance dog, staying focused and keeping a sense of humor. There's even a great disability joke in the piece.


In the back of the magazine, columnists write about their favorite breed. I'd skip the one about Saints, though. It's quite insulting. "Gone, it seems,are the magnificent, strong-moving animals of my childhood, only to be replaced with poor specimens of the breed," writes K.B.K. I sure hope that Daisy isn't "down in the pasterns," or worse yet, with an "easty-westy rear that could barely carry (her) around the ring." Actually, Daisy is quite broad of beam in the back. In a pinch, you could throw a tablecloth on there and have plenty of room for both cocktails and appetizer plates. Of course, you'd have to get her to stand still.

"Growly" dog class

So how did Daisy make such progress? Sure, we've been working on this two years and she still can't be friends with another dog. But at least we can feel pretty confident she won't bolt out the door at any opportunity. We can walk down the street or in the hills without hiding behind a car or a bush if we hear the sound of little padded feet. Well, some of the time.

We said good-bye to the first trainer after she told us that Daisy would always be at risk for dangerous behavior and that we'd have to get a chain-link fence. She seemed to think Daisy would always be a "bad" dog. Worst of all, we later discovered a yellow sticky in Daisy's vet file that noted her owners were "uncooperative". We were outraged. This lady was biased against all of us!

Then we got lucky and found Martina Contreras, who is fabulous with "growly" dogs. Martina did an evaluation on the lawn in front of her house, watching how her dogs and Daisy (on leash) reacted to one another. Daisy was all over the place, screeching and pulling. Martina's three dogs knew better than to get very near. They ignored her and sniffed other things. Martina told us that Daisy was definitely trainable and redeemable, but was completely unsocialized and might even have been seriously abused.

Martina invited us to observe her Saturday morning dog training courses in a high-tech company parking lot so that Daisy could get desensitized to other dogs. We started right away. We had been told to keep Daisy under her reactive threshold, so we moved further and further distant from the class. We were nearly a football field away and she was still freaking out. Daisy would need to at least be "in the same zip code" in order to become desensitized, Martina yelled over to us. But that took several months, probably. We went every week for more than a year, and still go often.

Miss Behavior

Oh my word, we've got to catch up on our blogging. Daisy's about to become famous. Or maybe infamous, I don't know. Word has it that her exploits will be featured in the July American Kennel Club Gazette.

The good news: Daisy has made some great improvements. The bad news: She is still scared to pieces by Chihuahuas and Golden Retrievers. And she still requires approximately 8 eggs and six cups of rice a day. We now supplement these offerings with some chopped-up greens and kidney beans. A little salmon or sardine juice adds just the right extra flavoring. Packaged dog food just doesn't sit well with her.

What's the latest? Nothing too terrible to report. No more sneaking out of the parked Volvo station wagon and running up a side road toward the fish market. Not as much high-decibel shrieking at the hint of four-footed movement several blocks away. No additional holes in the fence, although I did notice some scratches.

Daisy even attended our dear friends' wedding in Yosemite National Park. She missed the ceremony itself, but came down from her room to attend part of the reception. The Tenaya Hotel just outside the park actually offers a dog sitting service. We were thrilled! Daisy was disappointed with the dog houses they provided, though.



We did have an awkward moment during the wedding rehearsal when the groom rushed over and grabbed my arm with a look of concern. Someone else had been watching Daisy, who apparently had taken great interest in a Yorkshire Terrier. Paul pulled me over to the site of the incident and to meet his sister with the little pup. She didn't seem too concerned and I'm still not sure if a snap or a lunge was involved. But it really would not have been a good start to the wedding if Daisy had eaten the groom's sister's dog.



Here's Camus, the bride and groom's dog. He wanted to attend the reception, not sit in this stifling little tent. In the end, he won the tug-of-war.

About that fence

After Daisy crashed through the fence her first week home, Tom fortified the area with huge blocks of wood. No way could she barge through that. Ugly as it was, we let things be. We needed to concentrate on figuring out how to take her for walks without mutually spiraling into a panic attack.

A week later, she jumped it. It wasn't a little fence, either.



By then our desperate hunt for help had turned up a local dog trainer. She came over and took a long look at Daisy. "Big dog," she said.

She suggested that we tear down the wooden fence and replace it with chain link, topped by spiraling barbed wire. We did want to throw Daisy in jail,

but that seemed extreme.

We may have looked a little shocked. After more discussion, the trainer thought we might be able to put a rolling bar on top of the existing fence so no one could jump or climb over.

We knew we had to do something. One contractor after another came by, walked up and down the fenceline, pointed out the difficult challenges and gave us a stratospheric bid. We decided we'd have to wait until our next paycheck and went with the guy who had brought his small son with him for the estimate. The boy was great with a tape measure and had holes in his shoes.

Another bad choice. The fence turned out a little less than we had hoped for. Not so pretty, either. But it would do. We still had to nail lattice across the top, and our dear contractor had not made that easy. But Tom managed. After his amendments Ms. Athletic would not find this particular barrier so easy to scale.

Plus she had gained some weight after getting off what had apparently been a potato chip and candy diet and onto Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul. (Note to Diamond Pet Food: This name really doesn't work.) And we got rid of the worms. So leaping tall fences would be more of a challenge.

Daisy settled down and seemed to grow accustomed to the yard. We had nailed up some trim that finished the job, completely blocking the view into the yard behind us. But sometimes we would find her in a corner, staring at the boards. She would just sit there, her nose a couple of inches from the wood. I didn't want to make her any more crazy than she already was.

So we left her a peephole to look into the yard behind us. Two dogs and a cat live there. We hope she'll get used to them.


It's true, though, she has turned into a bit of a Peeping Daisy.

Mellow puppy

Daisy's now snoring at my feet, the perfect angel.

She has made quite a bit of progress. We can even leave the front door open and expect her to stay inside ... most of the time. Over the past few days it has been unusually hot in our foggy little coastal town so I let her lie in the doorway, giant head hanging outside, big fuzzy body inside. But today when she heard Tom start to drive away in my red Mini Cooper, she jumped up and tried to crawl under the fence after him. Even though he posted that idiotic video you see below here.

We took her to the beach for the first time earlier this week. Daisy seems to enjoy the sand in her toes. She'll sit watching the waves, and Tom thinks it has a mellowing effect.
Perhaps. She's been through a tough few weeks: red gooey hotspot on the chin, followed by an unmentionably awful digestive disorder likely caused by too many antibiotics. Then she wouldn't put weight on her left foot for two whole days and morosely plastered herself to the floor most of the time. After a manicure and some foxtail pulling, it took a day but she got better. We still have to cook her meals because of that delicate tummy: Today after our walk I boiled up 12 cups of 5-minute oatmeal, which will last a couple of mornings. Delicious with a little goat milk protein.

Sometimes I read back to the first days of our Daisy Diary for comfort:

3/16 PROGRESS DURING WEEK
*Began sitting alone on deck okay
*Began using yard without acting wild
*Follows me around and sits in the room I'm in
(Uh oh, that's not so good)
*Responds very well to "unh unh" and "no."

Really stretching there, eh? And then there's the next entry:

3/25 RELAPSE
Sally left downstairs door open, neighbors let dogs out below and Daisy snuck down and jumped over fence. Luckily dogs had gone back inside.

My friend Mara tells me that we have to expect it to take years. She worked every day with her nutcase dog for five years in order to get all the tricks down for her Canine Good Citizen test. That girl even achieved a four-minute unsupervised down-stay. Wow!!!

Goldfrapp - Number 1

I saw this on download.com today and was happy to find that YouTube has it, too, so I can post it to the blog. I'm really glad they're casting music videos with dogs in leading roles, aren't you?

Sally & Daisy on a muddy morning walk

 

Back story

Okay, so here's the deal about Daisy. We had been hunting for a Saint for some time, hoping we might find one that had been abandoned by a family. It happens a lot. They're so cute and fuzzy and soft when they're little. Then they grow up into big creatures with muddy feet and huge tails that knock stuff over.

It seemed like all the little rescue puppies got whisked away before we could act. Guess that's a good thing -- afterall, they all found homes. But then we heard about Daisy. We drove up to Sacramento to see her, and what a beauty! She was really thin and her fur was rough and scraggly, but you could see that she was a great dog and had a sweet personality. She was almost two years old. I was a little worried that she might have hip problems, because she leaned forward all the time and seemed to walk oddly.

That should have been a clue -- but not having to do with her health. Turns out that Daisy was in her natural stance at the time. That is, poised to run.

We were told that her previous owners had left her at the shelter because she had run away from home so many times. Why? Nobody knew. And nobody knew exactly where she had lived -- "somewhere in the Valley" -- or what animal shelter, or what kind of family. All they could tell us was that she was good with kids. They had taken her to the local McDonald's as a test, apparently.

Anyway, the day after we got home we realized we had a spring-loaded, very athletic dog on our hands. First she ran up and down the fenceline, looking for a way to jump over. Then we left her for a half hour alone in the house and she punched her way through the screen and jumped out the window. Tom chased her all the way down to the beach, where she seemed surprised at his concern.

That could all be explained by the history of running away. But when we took her on her first walk. The first two dogs she met growled at her and one bit. The third dog she saw, she took the initiative and scared the little black lab into screeching flight. "So that's why someone dumped that beautiful dog," its owner said knowingly. I was mortified. We've had three Saints, two that we had walked every day in this same rural neighborhood. Even the yippiest, most aggressive little dogs couldn't bully them into a fight. Perry, who weighed 165 pounds at his prime, would just look down at the animal, confounded.

So what to do? We were really confused. The day we picked up Daisy, she was staying at a house with not just one other dog, but five Saint Bernards of all ages. But here we had a 31-inch tall, 115-pound unpredictable animal who seemed very unclear on how to interact with other dogs, or perhaps worse.

Amanita

You know, I'm not sure anyone will be able to see that miniscule orange dot up under the trees. So here's a close-up of that Amanita muscaria. I managed to take this while Miss Daisy was obediently sitting and waiting nearby. Wow - we've had quite a show in-between all these rains lately. All sorts of varities pop up each day, which makes for very entertaining and educational walks. Oops, sorry, this isn't a mushroom blog....