I’m moving to Tuscany.

I was pretty surprised the first time I was chewed out - no pun intended (you’ll get this eventually, I promise) - for expressing this long-held and apparently errant belief.

It doesn’t help much that the people “in the know” have been battling the stereotype for quite a while, so they tend to get a little testy and short-tempered about the spreading and proliferation of misinformation and misconceptions.

In fact, I find it hard to restrain myself (now that I am one of the “enlightened ones”) from correcting others when they trot out (oh, another pun!) the old, tired cliché. I even bit my tongue during a brainstorming session at work where it came up - because the first rule of brainstorming is that you don’t judge, correct, or otherwise trample on the ideas of others.

But then Alice mentioned it in her blog post a couple days ago, and I knew I could be silent no longer! I mean, she’s a pretty popular blogger, the potential for prolonging the proliferation of this particular piece of pop-trivia is just staggering.

So here goes - prepare to have your world turned upside-down:

GOATS DO NOT EAT EVERYTHING, AND IN FACT ARE REALLY QUITE PICKY!

There. Now you know.

What goats are is destructive. They will chew anything they can reach. The list of things they will swallow, however, is apparently pretty limited. A goat’s notorious pickiness is apparently the bane of many a goatkeeper.

Anyhow. I just needed to get that off my chest.

Also, this is what happens when you say “yes” to marrying a guy who grew up on a goat farm (and has the 4H Champion Herdsman awards to prove it). So really, you’ve been informed, and warned!

I only wish I were talking about Neil’s stanky running shirt again.

Despite the fact that it had only been 3 days long, this week has been exceedingly busy for me. I’ve had 4 interviews in 3 days and managed to pick up a freelance project. Combine that with an evening volunteering, the sudden heat that I’m not used to yet, and the rest of life that needs taking care of - all I wanted to do last night was relax.

After finally finishing for the day and grabbing some dinner out (we have been too busy to procure foodstuffs), it was about 9:30pm and I was looking forward to hitting the couch with a good book or whatever TiVo had in store.

Neil wanted nothing more than to go walk the dog to the beach. Despite his cajoling, I (who’d already been out with the beast twice that day) resisted and grabbed a book while he took the dog and headed out.

I’d only gotten a couple pages in when the phone rang:

Jen: Hello?
Neil: You’ll never believe what just happened to the dog
Jen: uh…. I assume she’s alive?
Neil: Oh yah - but guess what she got into?
Jen: She rolled in something smelly?
Neil: Close!
Jen: Uh…..
Neil: She got sprayed by a skunk!

If you have ever dealt with this before, you know what the rest of my night consisted of.

The Highlights:

-Googling for skunk oil removal remedies that could be procured from either a corner store, 24h drug store or other retailer open at about 10:00pm
-Wrestling with a big, wet, hairy, upset dog in the bathtub, trying to apply vinegar and baking soda to her chest and face
-Realizing vinegar doesn’t work on skunk oil worth a damn
-Sending Neil to the store for peroxide, more dish detergent, and douche (kinda bad for people - apparently good for removing skunk oil from animal faces, where you shouldn’t apply caustic solutions).
-Finding out that nobody who works the night-shift at Shoppers Drug Mart on 4th or Broadway a) knows what products the store carries, b) speaks English or c) cares.
-Applying a foamy mixture of peroxide, baking soda and dish soap to a dog who’s been bathed twice already and isn’t happy about it, and trying to keep her from shaking it all off for 10 minutes.

We finally gave up and got to bed around 1:00am - us in our bedroom with the door closed to protect it from the smell, the dog in her crate in the living room, the towels and clothes we used out on the deck.

This morning we were back at it at 6:00, tossing Neil’s clothes, yesterdays’ towels and anything else that got covered in skunk stank into the laundry or garbage, and scrubbing down the bathroom. Thankfully, it seems like we’ve gotten most of the offending odors out of the house - though I think I need a trusted friend to come by and let me know if it does smell in here or not.

The poor dog seems to be mostly ok. Neil was unable to get the douche solution for the dog’s face, so her wee head still smells a little - but other than her dry fur (stripped of all its natural oils, along with the skunk oil) and her wounded pride, she is recovering just fine out on the deck in the sunshine with a peanut-butter kong. I’m going to go out and try to procure some douche concentrate today to soak her face with, and hopefully that’ll take care of the last of the smell and we can let her back in the house, and get on with life, skunk-free.

I *told* Neil I didn’t think a walk last night was a good idea. I think after all that, he agrees.

You know, I had a WAY better title for this one, but do you think I can remember it? Of course not.

Anyhow, I’ve been really excited to write about this, but was waiting for everything to finalize and the training to finish before I put it out there for internet posterity.

Sasha is officially a Hospital Visiting Dog with Pets and Friends! We visit the GF Strong Rehabilitative Centre one night a week.

I really enjoy volunteering and giving back to the community, but I’m socially awkward enough that my stint volunteering solo in palliative care a few years back was painful for all involved. I’ve undertaken some other volunteer projects both big and small, but they all had a finite term, so I’d have to find something new time and time again.

And this time, I really wanted something I could do with the dog. When both Neil and I are working (and even when I’m not, because I’ve been out of the house a lot this week) I feel pretty bad about leaving her at home alone so much.

A few months back, I saw a random blog post where the author mentioned something about therapy pets. So I started googling and found a local organization.

Now therapy or assistance animals and visiting pets are entirely different entities. Therapy animals are those that have been specifically bred, raised and trained to offer assistance to people with disabilities. They’re the labs and shepherds you see who accompany those with vision or other physical impairments, have been trained to recognize seizures and offer assistance for other purposes. These are working dogs, not pets.

Visiting pets are just that, they visit. They’ve been screened for temperament and training, and go with their owners to hospitals, hospices and other care facilities to visit with (usually long-term) patients. They offer a change of routine, a distraction, and unconditional, wet, hairy love.

It’s incredible to see how much a happy dog lights up the faces of people who are facing a really tough time. Especially those who are facing significant life challenges, away from home, friends and family (and their pets!) for extended periods. It’s sad, but so many of these patients, without anything else to do, will just go to bed after dinner (at about 6:00pm) out of sheer boredom. A visitor of any sort (two legs or four) is exactly the kind of thing worth staying up for.

And Sasha is a pretty perfect dog for the job. She’s unfailingly friendly - usually more interested in people than other dogs even, and always more interested in strangers than the humans she sees every day - in a very gentle way. She’s tall enough to stand up on her hind legs and visit people who can’t bend down out of bed to reach her, and is happy to just sit and be scratched on whichever bit of her is within reach.

Honestly, the people we’re visiting care far more about the dog than the human at the end of the leash - and that’s exactly how I like it. Sharing my happy dog with people is way more rewarding than just forcing my awkward presence upon them.

If you’ve got a pet you’d like to volunteer with, a facility you think could use some animal visitors, or just want to know more and perhaps support the organization - go ahead and check out Pets and Friends, or look for ways to get involved in your local area.

I wish I could share more at the moment - I can’t, but soon!

In the meantime, enjoy this video of my dog, licking the dregs out of an ice cream container.

Dog! Eats Icecream!
from Jen

In this neighbourhood, the mean dogs come out at 4:00pm.

Generally I walk the dog either around 11:00am, or 3:00pm, depending on my schedule for the day.

The other day I had to go out at 5:00, and in an effort to avoid the wearing of pants as long as possible (one of the very few perks of being at home more often than not these days), I delayed the mid-day walking of the dog until 4:00.

Oh my.

In our 2-ish kilometer jaunt, we encountered no fewer than four completely awful, aggressive dogs. These dogs are the reason leash laws are in place.

Poor Sasha was accosted for crimes such as:

-> Chasing her own ball
-> Walking through the park
-> Walking away from having her bits sniffed
-> Existing.

I was admittedly lucky that my dog chose that day to actually remember her “Canine Good Neighbour” training, and actually broke away from the dog-fights when I told her to “leave it” and “come.”

And I really wonder at the mental facilities of the woman who had her dog off leash when she knew it was going to try fighting my dog for ownership of her own ball (not when chasing, but when returning), or the guy who had his behemoth on a regular collar lead, and couldn’t control it when it lunged at Sasha for being so offensive as to be heeling beside me as we waited to cross the street.

These are the people who give dog owners in the city a bad name. I bet they don’t scoop their poop either.

So, you’ve been warned: if you want to avoid the mean dogs, stay away from the Cornwall/Macdonald area on weekdays (or at least Mondays) around 4:00pm.

Normally I pride myself on being a person who can unquestionably hold it together and perform, nay exceed under pressure. When the going gets tough, the tough call Jen!

Until today.

Today, I completely lost my shit (figuratively), because the dog lost hers (literally).

I left work a smidge early today to go home and put together some final notes on a bit of market research I was going through for a client (reading and summarizing research is always best done on a comfy couch as far as I’m concerned), and was feeling pretty pleased with myself, and already half-writing the notes in my head as I walked up to the building.
When I opened the apartment door, I noticed instantly that something was Not. Right.

The Smell.

I looked in and didn’t see anything straight away, so I ventured in a bit further to see what exactly had gone on in my 8 hour absence. I made it to the kitchen.

Three full quarters of the surface of the 20 square feet of laminate that occupies the centre of the horseshoe that is our kitchen was COVERED in liquids of various colours and consistencies. The orifice they came out of was still up in the air.

Cursing the mess, but secretly smiling about the fact that, hey, at least it’s not on the carpet(!), I glanced over at the sliding door to the patio. Uh oh. Danger Will Robinson… There are some brownish drops and smears by the door. More dog mess? I wandered over to check it out.

Then

Out of the corner of my eye

I saw it.

THE GIGANTIC PILES OF SHIT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE (FULLY CARPETED) OFFICE FLOOR!!!

Ok, in all fairness, there was one gigantic pile of shit, and three lesser piles surrounding it.

And this was no ordinary shit. This dog had clearly gone for the extra grease, extra cheese, extra beans, extra extra hot sauce superdeluxe chalupah, and my carpet paid the price.

I was stunned. Dazed, I turned back to look at the door from whence I’d entered this, the 4th circle of hell that had replaced my home, and saw it. The other puddle of shit on the tile at the front door, that I’d stepped in on my way inside.

And then I lost it.

I picked up my phone and called Neil; as soon as he answered I just yelled “OH MY GOD THE DOG DIAHRREA’D ALL OVER THE APARTMENT!” To which he replied “So I guess I should come home?” To which I replied “OH MY GOD I CAN’T HANDLE THIS!” And promptly hung up.

I grabbed my purse, and the dog, and my keys, and just left.

I managed to make it down to the coffee place at the end of the block, tied the dog to a table outside, ordered a cappucino, and just waited for Neil to make it home (I did think to call at some point and let him know that I was in a place other than the befouled apartment).

To make an already long story a little shorter and spare you the grosest details, it took three hours, three kitchen catchers, one roll of paper towel, two dishclothes, a can of Spot Shot, a Rug Doctor rental, a method air pill and scented candle, Chinese food dinner OUT, three beer and two larger-than-is-decent-in-polite-company glasses of scotch, and we’re finally feeling better (if not ok) about the experience.

And now that I’ve made it to the other side, I can say that maybe, perhaps, there is a tiny inkling of indication that there is hope for me yet to be a parent of small children and actually enjoy it.

Because even with the experience she put me through, I can say with conviction that even if she were to do this again, I would still prefer that the dastardly hound spend her time at the end of my bed, rather than the end of my fork.

Today is a good day in my world.

In fact, I’m in such a good mood, I’m going to do something completely uncharacteristic.

Blog about cats!

If you know me well enough, you know that usually the best thing I have to say about cats is that they “taste good with rice and teriyaki sauce.”

But I found a cat video that I actually liked enough to a) make me want a cat to do this with, and b) want to share with you!

So go forth, and check out this YouTube video.

Embedding has been “disabled by request,” but I assure you, it’s worth the clickthrough.

What had me so tired yesterday? A few hours of playing in the snow.

Especially a few hours in the snow, trying to keep up with this crazy beastiie who LOVES the white powder, and acts every inch the crackhead when she gets to run around in it.

Check out the entire set on flickr.

It never, ever fails.

You think some day we’d catch him napping, or in the can, or something other than staring out his window.

But no.

We can’t make it halfway across the street before he’s strutting out his door and striding across the grass, bellowing “LEASH YOUR DOG PLEASE!”

We call him “Park Boss” for fun. As in, “who made you park boss? you’re not the boss of me!”

Playgrounds clearly bring out my inner 8-year-old.

Truth is though, I am a little intimidated. What if he really is the park boss?

He’s a man of about 70. Or if he’s not 70, life has dealt him enough blows so he looks a septagenarian. He lives in a little house on the corner of the park. I’m not sure exactly why there is a little house on the park - it looks misplaced. Like the city wanted to buy up the land for greenspace, and he just refused to go. The grandfather’s been grandfathered.

And he clearly considers it his duty to ensure that all dogs who enter the park, which isn’t designated as an off-leash area, remain firmly tethered to their owners. If he does have any jurisdiction to ticket the not-so-law-abiding dog owners of the neighbourhood, he certainly hasn’t exercised it yet, that I’ve seen.

But he still watches.

All the way down the sidewalk, past his window, where I see his shadow flash from the front window, to the side. Then the door opens if Sasha even looks at the expanse of grass and trees and leaves without overt evidence that she’s leashed.

Then it comes.

“LEASH YOUR DOG PLEASE! THIS IS A PLAYGROUND, FOR KIDS NOT DOGS! IT’S FOR THE GOOD OF EVERYONE! YOU CAN LET YOUR DOG RUN FREE ACROSS THE BRIDGE!”

Nevermind that the other side of the footbridge that bisects the park isn’t any more an off-leash area according to the law. But clearly the city laws don’t apply here. This is Park Boss’s turf.

And though I always fancied myself a rebel, I never did have the gumption or tenacity to follow through on that.

So I do as I’m told.

Park Boss saves the day, again.

Jonathan posted on Metroblogging Vancouver yesterday regarding his opinion on having a dog in an apartment building.

Vancouver’s no-pets-in-the-building policy is probably a good thing. If people want a dog, they should at least have a house with a yard or public park across the street.

It’s an opinion I hear a lot from people who feel “sorry” for my dog, because she lives in an apartment.

That’s bullshit.

I’ve lived in both apartments and houses with dogs of all sizes, and I can say that it absolutely DOES NOT MATTER what kind of home you inhabit with a dog, you have to exercise them. Putting a dog out in the yard does not guarantee they’re exercising.

I’d actually argue that dogs who live in homes with yards don’t get as much exercise as they should. I know that personally I was FAR more likely to just let the dog out the back door to do its business rather than actually go play outside with it, or take it for a walk around the neighbourhood or to the park every day as I do now.

And I can’t vouch for Mt. Pleasant, but there are a LOT of parks in areas of Vancouver that I’m familiar with. No, there isn’t one immediately across the street from me. But there is one across the street and two blocks west, one a block behind me, and another park across the street from that. Every neighbourhood I’ve explored has at least a public grassy patch every 5 blocks or so. It’s probably better for the dog, and the owner, to have to walk an extra block or two to get to it.

My dog’s trainer actually recommends AGAINST yards for dogs. Sure, a yard is great if you go out there with the animal, but putting them outside alone is a horrible idea. That’s where the poor dog is antaganized by any amount of neighbourhood cats and wildlife, and feels he/she must defend the yard as part of his/her territory. If a person is going to be a good dog owner, it doesn’t matter if the grassy patch is attached to the house or a 6 block hike away - the person must accompany the dog.

Having a dog is far more like having a toddler than having an animal. They’re about as smart as a 3-year old, and need stimulation and interaction in order to flourish and not become destructive and start yelling (barking) and pooping in corners just for the hell of it. The day someone agrees that it’s cruel to have a child in an apartment because they don’t have a yard to play in is the day I’ll agree with the same argument for dogs.

I think his other points are relevant - non-dog people have just as much right to live in a non-dog building as dog-people do to live in a dog-friendly building. I wouldn’t move into a condo complex knowing that strata bylaws state “no dogs” if I wanted a dog to be in my future. If it were that important to me, I’d be putting “dog-friendly” on my list of must-haves right next to 2 full bathrooms and garburator. I’m not about to be a strata-council rabble-rouser to try and bring dogs where none have gone before. People have as much right to live dog-free as those who live in “adult only” complexes have to live child-free.

But the type of house someone lives in is NOT a valid qualifier to determine whether or not they’re a good dog owner (or parent), and is not a valid argument for banning dogs from apartment buildings.

Were I to be a Strata Council renegate, I’d far rather get on the council at the new place, and try to put in a clause that bans judgemental ignorami (not that Jonathan’s necessarily one - I don’t know him from Adam - he just planted the seed to ignite my wrath) from living there.

Right. Still here.

Turns out I did get sick on Thursday (that’d be the 5th for those playing along at home) and spent the day on the couch. I’m still not really better per se, but it was nice to get the day of rest in, and that along with the 3-day weekend means I’ve made it through the following week relatively unscathed.

I’m still not sleeping well though.

I think that has less to do with me, and more to do with the fact that we’ve decided to start crating the dog at night.

I am going to be a horrible parent. I should reserve my spot on Nanny 911 now

Our issue with the animal is that she’s decided that she’d prefer to eat twice a day - once at 10:00pm and once at 2:00am. And she is a NOISY eater. Then, after crunching and slobbering her way through 4 cups of dry kibble, she needs to slurp at a gallon of water.

If she’s not eating her kibble at 2am, she’s either rummaging through the bathroom garbage, or trying to take up the lion’s share of the space on our bed. It’s got to stop.

So now, instead of random disturbance destruction in the middle of the night, we’re treated to scuttling and whining. The damn dog doesn’t like to be alone in the dark (remember, she’s afraid of EVERYTHING).

Logically I know she’s just being a giant pain and doing what she can to be let out to roam free (which she does during the day, except she uses the time to sleep on the couch instead of eating or drinking or being any sort of destructive). But my poor black little heart, it gets ALL EFFING TORN UP when I hear her pitiful cries because all she wants is to snuggle with her mommy and maybe just one night won’t hurt and maybe she’ll be good tomorrow and OH GOD WHAT HAVE I BECOME?

So yah.

Not blogging, not sleeping.

I would feel guilty about the not blogging thing, but as you can see, all my guilt is currently being used up at the moment because I’m a horrible mother.

Remember the cranky from a couple days ago? I decided to hedge my bets on it being brought about by the dog hair thing.

I’m pretty sure I was right.

I went out after work the next day and purchased a brand! new! blue! Hoover EmPower, and proceeded to do exactly what the box said - just add dirt!

That picture of the canister up there was what we sucked up, just in the BEDROOM. A measly 200 of our 1000 square foot mostly carpeted home. After swiping over only about six inches of the floor, Neil actually asked why the hoover people would put a ball of twine in the canister.

I’m pretty sure that was about the time I flipped out and screamed “DOG HAIR DOG HAIR DOG HAIR! DO YOU SEE NOW WHY I HAVE BEEN COMPLAINING ABOUT THE DOG HAIR??!?!?!?! OMGWTFBBQ!!!!1111ELEVEN!”

And to address Brigette’s query on another one of the flickr photos (oh yes, there’s more evidence of the grossness!) - we DO clean. It’s just that my previous vacuum sucks. Or doesn’t, as the case may be. You see, it was a hand-me-down from my parents. All I really remember about it is that when they moved into a new house in 1993, they were really excited about having a built-in vacuum system, since that unit (13 years ago already) was horrible and dying.

I really should’ve replaced it loooooong ago, but when you’re a student, then paying off student loans, there are always more exciting things to spend $150 on than cleaner floors in a rental apartment.

However, when you’re in the throes of domesticity in your mid-20’s, few things bring greater joy. Especially when they come with a hearty helping of boyfriend directed “I TOLD YOU SO!”

I know a blow-by-blow breakdown of things that I did on my luxurious week of unemployment/vacation isn’t really interesting to anyone except those who were there - so I won’t torture you.

However, there are a few very important lessons I learned while on my “fly by the seat of your pants” whirlwind tour of the Sunshine Coast & Vancouver Island. And I’d love to share one of them with you:

First off, Travelling with no schedule, planned destnation, accommodations booked or firm dates for anything in mind is a good idea… in principle. In reality, it’s a great way to see things you hadn’t expected, but a challenging way to conduct a vacation. The stress of hunting down a place to lay our weary heads each night took away significantly from the “relaxation” factor we’d been striving for.

Compounding this is the realization we came to that one should never, EVER, travel with a dog without having accommodations booked ahead of time. I don’t want to sound like one of those people who feels their dog should be allowed everywhere they go so far as into restaurants, stores, etc. but the complete lack of pet-friendly accommodations available is pretty astounding. Hotels that allow dogs seem to only have about 5-7% of their rooms available for the furry beasties, and even if they do have rooms available, the pet rooms go quickly.

Someone actually asked us on our travels “Why’d you bring your dog on vacation anyway?” I just sat dumbfounded with my mouth agape, though Neil was quick in responding (loudly, over the questioner’s screaming, unruly brats running amok through the Tim Hortons - as our dog laid quietly outside the window we were sitting next to) “Why’d you bring your kids on vacation?” and the question-asker was left speechless. And really, that’s what it’s all about. Not everyone likes kids, or dogs, or your drunk Uncle Bob who pinches the waitresses ass and spills his dinner and pukes in the flowerbeds more often than not. But for whatever reason, people enjoy travelling with them and would like to spend their vacation with their family and companions.

The biggest anti-pet justification I heard was “allergies” - and sure, people’s allergies to pet-hair are a valid concern. But really? Don’t hotels vacuum the rooms and change the sheets and towels between guests anyway? And I’d argue that there are more dog owners than those severely allergic to pet dander in this world. And I’d bet that those who are so allergic to pet dander that they can’t be in a room that a dog has been in, ever, are probably allergic to a lot of other things as well. Why not book 5-7% of your rooms as “allergen-free” rooms and outlaw pets, plants, perfumes and peanut products in them.

Most responsible dog owners are generally happy to pay the nominal pet-fee that’s usually tacked onto the regular room rate already, and nobody I know would balk at agreeing to have a pet-charge added to their bill after checkout for any damage their animal may cause. In addition to this, 99% of places already have rules in place that you can’t leave your pet in the room alone anyway - so the risk of any pet damage (save for an indoor accident - and really… have you seen a baby diaper malfunction lately? not much matches the foulness of that) is really, really minimal.

Then there are the places who specify that they only take “small pets.” I’d bet anyone any amount of money that my 70lb cross-breed is better behaved than most of the purebread calf-high hatebeasts you throw at it. Just because you can put your dog in your purse when it starts causing trouble, doesn’t mean you don’t have to train it.

Uhm…. wow, that got ranty.

But really, what’s so wrong with wanting to bring the 4-legged member of my family along with me when I take a road trip? I’m not putting her in a crate on a plane, or asking for her to sit in a restaurant, or go on an amusement park ride, or wag her hairy tail through your racks of clothes or souvenirs, or terrorize your pets in your home. I just want her to have a safe place to sleep at night after we’ve wandered around enjoying the scenery and contributing to bottom line of your business and the economy of your town.

I suppose I have become one of those people who expects the rest of the world to accommodate my child dog when I choose to take her out with me in what I would think are appropriate situations. But really - considering my dog is cleaner, better behaved, and frankly better looking than most people’s children… is that such a bad thing?

Oh no she didn’t!

Oh yes I did!

This is what happens when I’ve already mentally checked out of a job, and people aren’t updating their blogs fast enough.

Neil, will you ever forgive me?