Flowers and dogs

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I originally planned a rant-filled post for today to talk about my terrifying experience walking my dogs on Tuesday, the day a stray dog—yes, a pit bull, but let's not go there as my Mickey is part pit bull—attacked Mickey, Lyla, and myself as we headed home. Mickey took the brunt of it...no, all of it. I was going to show you pictures like this (graphic and hard to look at) one of my poor Mickey when he returned from the vet after the attack: 

And I was going to climb atop my soap box to <cuss> and complain about irresponsible dog owners who don't keep their dogs restrained as they should, tagged as they should in case they do escape, and cared for as they should. I planned to note that not doing such things is especially irresponsible for pit bull owners—who, if they're going to have pit bulls, should do right by them and the public!—and when a dog is obviously a nursing mother with babies somewhere. I was going to complain about the injuries to my dog, the injuries to my pocketbook because no owner has been found to reimburse me for vet bills, and the injuries to the abandoned puppies and the nursing/attacking mother who is now held at the Humane Society until May 21 and will be euthanized if not claimed by her owner before then. I've called; she's not been claimed. Despite what she did to Mickey, that breaks my heart.

But...

Instead of telling you all that, I've chosen to focus on something more positive today since I can't do diddly about what happened to Mickey. My more positive focus? Flowers.

Below is a slideshow of flower photos I've taken over the past month. Some are from Megan's place in the desert, some are from my place in the mountains, many are of the blooming beauties Jim and the girls gave me for Mother's Day.

Enjoy!

As the slideshow feature tends to cut off parts of the photos to fit the box, feel free to view the full photos HERE.

(PS: Mickey is doing a bit better. The vet promised a difficult time for the next 10-14 days and so far he's been right—but it's getting easier and less painful...for all of us.)

Today's question:

Flowers and dogs? Thoughts on either?

Photo replay: Standing guard

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Luke and Kameliah stand guard while their mama, Andrea, recuperates from her tonsillectomy.

February 24, 2012

 

Shameless self-promotion: If you liked this post—or Grandma's Briefs in general—please vote for Grandma's Briefs in the About.com Favorite Grandparent Blog poll. Vote once per day per email address through March 21. Thank you!

Today's (unrelated) question:

What's the highlight of your upcoming week?

The healing power of positive thinking...and puppies

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Those of you who follow Grandma's Briefs on Facebook and Twitter know that I've been on nurse duty for my youngest daughter, Andrea, who had her tonsils out this week. At 26 years old. Which had her mama—that would be me—pretty concerned.

The surgery went well, and I think much of that can be attributed to Andrea's positive attitude going in.

I've heard distressing stats on how long it takes adults to recover from tonsillectomies, ranging from two weeks of intense pain (and hunger) to it taking three full months to get back on one's feet. Again, I think (and hope) Andrea's positive attitude will make for the best possible outcome.

Despite moments of debilitating pain and frustration immediately following the surgery, Andrea's sense of humor continues to carry her through. To wit: When the nurse summoned Andie's roommate and me from the waiting area to see Andrea in the recovery room, the nurse said Andrea's first words were, "No grape popsicles!" All Andie and a reference to her concerns medical staff would immediately provide purple pops afterward. Seems purple popsicles and the vomiting that accompanied them is Andrea's only memory from her only other surgery, getting tubes in her ears, more than 20 years ago. Her roommate and I couldn't help but laugh (yes, out loud!) as we followed the nurse to Andrea's bedside.

Another example of Andrea's goofiness and how it's helping her deal with the pain is her novel approach to communicating in the first excruciating hours after surgery when talking was virtually impossible. She started off with pen and paper to relay her requests—and, at times, distress—but that soon proved too cumbersome and Andrea turned to her iPhone, typing all she wanted to say into the Notes application then having her text read by the computerized voice...which involved not only a monotone voice—except when a typed question mark meant text was read with a lilting tone at the end of requests—but numerous awkward and incorrect pronunciations of words. Which got Andrea giggling despite the pain. Which made her repeat the humorous text again and again. Typing song lyrics got her roommate and me giggling as well.

That's not to say it's been easy on Andrea. At all. She's in pain, she's hungry, she's worried about coughing and choking and vomiting, and concerned the recuperation might not go as quickly and smoothly as we all hope. When mustering her own comic relief doesn't come easy, though, puppy love steps in, courtesy of Luke (Andrea's dog) and Lennox (her roommate's dog).

With a cute quotient so high, how could these adorable kiddos not make her feel better?

I head home today, leaving Andrea under the care of her roommate—and the pain relieving power of puppies.

I have no doubt she'll be better in no time.

Shameless self-promotion: If you liked this post—or Grandma's Briefs in general—please vote for Grandma's Briefs in the About.com Favorite Grandparent Blog poll. Vote once per day per email address through March 21. Thank you!

Today's question:

When you don't feel well, what one thing never fails to help you feel better?

Beyond the pits: Grand kids and good canines

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Once again, the tragedy of a child having been bitten in the face and disfigured by a dog has made the news. And, naturally, it's a pit bull that did the disfiguring.

The "naturally" isn't commentary on the nature of pit bulls; it's commentary on the nature of the media. Dogs of all breeds attack and maim children and adults at an alarming rate—4.7 million Americans are bitten by dogs each year per the CDC—yet it's those stories featuring pit bulls as the bad guys that make the news. Every time.

The recent horrible story locally involved a nine-month-old baby and the pit bull owned by the baby's grandpa. I have an eight-month-old grandson. And I have a pit bull. Well, he's only part pit bull, the other part seemingly pointer, but it's the pit part that freaks everyone out. Naturally. And it's the pit part in the dog that recently bit that poor baby that likely, sadly, influenced the decision to euthanize the dog.

LylaI'm not going to tell you pit bulls are the sweetest and most misunderstood of dogs. That can be the case, but as is the case with all dogs, much is attributable to an animal's upbringing and environment, not just their supposedly inherent traits. I will tell you, though, that my pit bull, Mickey, is the least likely of our dogs to hurt one of my grandsons. Our other dog, Lyla, because of torture the poor rescue dog suffered, torture which we'll never know the details of but that clearly messed up the mutt's mind in oh so many ways, is far more cause for concern around my grandsons just because she's so skittish and unpredictable.

Regardless of predictability or pedigree—and I've said this here before—kids and dogs, especially dogs that are not used to kids, are not a good mix. Should not mix. At all.

That's a hard thing for grandparents, I think, because we dearly love our canine babies who reside in our home day in, day out. When the grandkids visit, we want the grandbabies to get to know our canine babies, play with them, become friends with them, love them like we do.

It's not that simple, unfortunately.

I recently wrote an article for another publication on this exact topic. Here are some of the points from that article in hopes it might help prevent a tragedy similar to the heartbreaking one—for the baby and the dog—now getting top billing in the local media:

  • Baby gates are key. As a long-distance grandma, my grandsons visit my house only a few times a year. When they do, we make use of baby gates. Lots and lots of baby gates throughout the house, separating our human babies from our canine babies. It’s not ideal, but the alternative is to have no dogs at all, which doesn’t sit well with this pet-loving grandma.
  • Pets should be provided a quiet, out-of-the-way room during gatherings with extended family. Though some pets may enjoy socializing opportunities, others will be overwhelmed by the excitement. Be sure yours has access from his quiet place to his bed, toys, and water.
  • Don’t allow grandchildren to give animals treats without you helping out. Kids often don’t understand or follow the standard treat-giving protocol, and dogs may be skittish or overly aggressive in nabbing the goodies.
  • Be sure older grandchildren—who may be tempted to sneak sweets and treats to the family dog—know the rules of what foods are or are not acceptable for sharing.
  • Try to limit the disruptions to your pet’s eating, sleeping, and exercise schedule as much as possible. Animals thrive on routine; throwing things off only adds to their excitement and confusion.
  • Never leave kids and canines together unattended. Your granddaughter and Fido may both be sweet as can be, but all that can change in an instant if your granddaughter decides to dress Fido in play clothes, ride him like a horse, or worse.

Sure, your dog is your best friend and may be saddened or jealous or confused about little visitors taking your time and attention. The most important thing to remember, though, is this: Grandchildren take priority. So regardless of your dog's hurt feelings, it’s always best to err on the side of caution—the side that protects your beloved grandbabies above all else.

Today's question:

What is your No. 1 tip for keeping grandbabies safe and canine babies happy when under the same roof?

Kids & canines

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We didn't have a family dog when my daughters were little. For most of their early years, we lived in a rental house that didn't allow dogs, so our first family dog, Moses, didn't join the family until the girls were all over 10 years old. We did, though, have a couple cats and tried owning—but quickly ended the relationships with—fish, a hamster, and a couple parakeets.

Cats and the other creatures don't bond with kids quite the way dogs do. Having missed out on witnessing my baby or toddler daughters bond with a beloved canine, I'm continually delighted to see such with my grandsons and their dog.

Roxy was Megan and Preston's baby long before Bubby and Baby Mac came along, and despite having to relinquish her spot as most loved and adored to first one then another human kiddo, Roxy has always been a patient, dedicated, attentive, gentle, and entertaining buddy to the boys.

Golden retriever with baby.JPG

You couldn't ask for a better family dog.

I'm sure that Bubby and Baby Mac couldn't imagine their home without goofy girl Roxy.

In all honesty, I couldn't either.

Today's question:

What dogs—or other creatures, if no dogs—hold a prominent spot in your family's story?

If you're unhappy and you know it clap your hands—or get a kangaroo?

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I understand depression. I've been there, been on meds for that. And I have several folks near and dear to me who survive each day only because of the coping chemicals they've been prescribed, the antidepressants they rely on. It's a serious issue and this post is not meant to make light of that. At all.

That being said, though, I don't think owning a kangaroo is the answer to depression. Or if it is, I want one of my own for giggles and kicks (har har). Or maybe a wild animal of another sort, a koala or a panda—heck, maybe even an elephant—instead.

Seems a woman in Oklahoma swears by the depression-easing effects of her pet kangaroo. I'm not talking a stuffed Roo but a real, live (albeit partially paralyzed) romping, stomping marsupial. Well maybe not so romping and stomping considering his paralysis but the fact remains she has a freakin' kangaroo she swears keeps her happy.

According to several stories from the Associated Press last week, Christie Carr was encouraged by her therapist to volunteer at a local animal sanctuary to help ease her depression. Which is where she came to know and love Irwin, a kangaroo named after animal expert Steve Irwin. Seems Irwin crashed into a fence, suffering brain damage and becoming partially paralyzed, and kind-hearted Carr convinced the sanctuary folks to let her take home injured Irwin to care for him.

Care for him she did...and does. Carr dresses the one-year-old red kangaroo in little boy's clothing, feeds him meals of salad and snacks of Cheez-Its and Cheetos, and keeps him with her always, everywhere, including the grocery store. Carr feels so strongly about Irwin that she's willing to run from the law to continue keeping her comical kangaroo by her side.

When officials in her hometown began to question what will happen once Irwin is healed from his crash and becomes a potential public safety issue, Carr took offense and took to the road. More than once. When questions first arose, Carr packed up Irwin and headed to live with her parents, saying she no longer felt Irwin was safe from possibly nefarious officials. Then, when the heat was turned up in her parents' town, Carr set out for another town, one where Carr hopes to stay with a friend—with Irwin, too—until things are sussed out.

Irwin the kangaroo may have helped with Carr's depression, but I dare say her obsession with him has sent her racing full throttle into Looneyville.

There's hope for a happy ending, though, at least for Irwin and possibly for Carr. Irwin will surely eventually recover from his injuries and paralysis. At such time I imagine he'll let it be known he's grown tired of the little boy jeans with a hole cut for his tail, the diapers Carr keeps on him, the carseat he's made to sit in while on the road—or on the run—with his captor protector. How will Irwin express his distaste? With big, powerful kicks, I have no doubt, as all self-respecting kangaroos are wont to do. And maybe, just maybe, he'll kick some sense into the wacky woman who helped heal him and she'll reluctantly agree to set him free. Or at least return him to the sanctuary where their silly story began.

I certainly don't know the depths of Carr's depression, but there's no doubt her judgement is clearly clouded, for how could any rational person possibly think a kangaroo makes for a good therapy pet? Wouldn't it make more sense to get a cuddly kittent or an ever-adoring Labrador to ease the pain and isolation of the disease? I'd think either would be a more acceptable choice, providing purpose and affection yet requiring no running from the law. They'd require no kangaroo-size diaper changes, either—a huge plus, if you ask me. (Even just the idea of having to deal with that would be enough to totally depress me in the first place, negating any and all chuckles even the most comical of kangaroos could possibly offer.)

Nope, I don't get it. I don't get Carr's rationale for running from town to town with a kangaroo. No matter how depressed she might have been or continues to be. A kangaroo in diapers, for that matter. Come to think of it, I also don't get how you'd even diaper a kangaroo—especially considering the holes she had to cut in the tot-size trousers to accommodate Irwin's tail. Seems the diaper would need a hole, too, rendering the Pampers pointless. Like the rest of the story, it just doesn't make sense.

I'm crossing my fingers for Carr—and for Irwin—that somewhere, somehow, Carr makes sense of the mess she's made, that she heads on home, that she returns Irwin to his. Before things get ugly...or seriously Thelma and Louise like. Then, if she really feels she must, maybe Carr can adopt a different pet for therapeutic purposes. Maybe one that doesn't go against local zoning ordinances. More importantly, maybe one that requires a litter box instead of diapers.

Today's question:

If money and logistics (and common sense) were no consideration, what wild animal would you choose to have and to hold as a therapy pet?

Photo replay: What about Lyla?

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Last Sunday I showed you photos of all my animals. All except one, that is: Lyla. Even Jim—who doesn't care much for our adopted little gal—asked, "What about Lyla?"

So today I make amends for leaving out an important part of our family. I present to you Lyla (whom I captured just before she leapt after the squirrels on the deck):

Happy Sunday to you!

Photo replay: Purrfect poser

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With no children or similarly obliging subjects regularly available in my nest, practicing portraits with my new camera means my animals are the primary subjects.

The dogs usually think I'm offering a treat when I try to photograph them, so most shots of Mickey and Lyla are blurry shots of them speeding toward me in hopes of nabbing a treat or of their noses sniffing out the camera in search of snacks for their service.

Which leaves the cats as my primary posers.

Isabel doesn't care too much for the position foisted upon her and makes no bones about cussing me out for it.

My sweet tabby Abby, on the other hand, happily lends a paw any time I need, posing perfectly for shot after shot—in color, black-and-white, macro and more.

One more reason she's likely my favorite feline ever. (Just don't tell Isabel as it'll give her even more cause to complain.)

Today's question:

How would you rate the portrait-posing probability of your pets?