Jasper Over Jax

Change is weird. Not in any bad sense of being weird... it's just weird. Sometime around late 2002/early 2003 I acquired the first of my three current dogs. He was a stray, apparently abandoned, and a lovable lonely little thing. My roommate and I named him Chody (in honor of a character from a Trey Parker/Matt Stone film... shame on you if you know what it means) and adopted him after attempting to find his owner. After my roommate deployed to Iraq, my then-girlfriend decided to guilt-trip me into changing his name to Jax. And, from then on, Jax became my alpha male (albeit in a pack of one).

Fast forward to January of 2004... After being activated myself and realizing how lonely Jax could get, I went ahead and adopted another dog, Jasper. Though both dogs are named after the same soap opera character (don't ask), they are complete opposites of each other in almost every way. Jax is a mutt... part pointer and terrier (either English bull or Boston... hard to tell); Jasper is a pure German Shepherd. Jax is not neutered, the result of misguided sentimentality. Jasper had to be cut because of an undescended testicle (I used the pick of the litter honor on the runt). Jax is aggressive, a fighter, and unflinchingly dominant. Jasper is passive, a soldier, and unflinchingly submissive. Strange, then, to recall that when Jasper was a puppy, Jax would always let Jasper eat first.

One day, that all changed. Long-story short, the little 35-pound dog had the larger 75-pound dog by the balls.

Sometime late in 2009, Jax seriously injured one of his shoulders. Instead of taking it easy and letting it heal properly, however, Jax overcompensated and instead became much more aggressive towards Jasper (a third dog, Starbuck - acquired late 2004/early 2005 - never really acknowledged the canine chain-of-command, kept to himself, and largely avoided any attempts of submission by Jax).

In March of 2010, our little pack returned to the deserts of the West, which placed the dogs in the ridiculous summer heat of Nevada. Largely due to inactivity during the day and being in a garage at night, Jax was given the opportunity to recover from his injury with much-needed rest (anti-inflammatories hadn't even seemed to help much). Staying with my sister, her children were introduced the wonders of having dogs around and - in a moment a bit out of character for her - she adopted her own dog, Wally. A dog that Jasper took the opportunity to establish dominance over.

The result? Having his own underling, Jasper began to challenge Jax. By July 2, with Jax still recovering, Jasper even started challenging Jax at the food bowl. I must admit, the first time I saw it, I thought Jasper might have confused Jax for Wally... but he kept doing it. Finally, I thought, Jasper would no longer be relegated as a chew toy (literally... he bears several scars from Jax's teeth).

But it was not to be.

I left to sign for a rental property in California on July 31, leaving my dogs with my sister. By August 1, according to her, Jax decided to reclaim his undisputed throne as the alpha male, working overtime trying (and succeeding, apparently) to subdue Jasper all over again. And, upon my return to Nevada, Jasper's persistent whines as Jax subtly exerts his influence serve as proof that Jax is still, undeniably, the king of the pack.

Ah, well. It was interesting while it lasted. Jax can sure be a jerk sometimes. I wonder who he gets it from?

Holy Snarkies!

So, the grand ominous quest to the land of Iowa, where the blond caucasians live and the soy and corn stink up the fog-ridden humid mornings was... I have no clue where I was going with that. Anyway, I went to Iowa with my favorite (sleeping with the) enemy, and had a great time. Stopped in Indiana, where the interstate construction never seems to cease... saw an old friend, one who was once fat, but is no longer, but sort of is... anyway, great to see him, his wife, his kid, and his bun-in-the-oven.

And then there was the opening at Fox Reality in Los Angeles. Well, not exactly for Fox Reality, but that's what it amounted to... couldn't take it for whatever reason, so I did the cool, non-Wilmington-film-industry-thing and gave the position to a friend of mine who happened to be moving from Wilmington to Los Angeles the day after I found out about the position. Oh, how nice of me... (Jon, if you're reading this, I drink for free FOR A YEAR when I finally make it back out there).

And that's how it works in California. People help each other get PA and runner jobs... unlike another faux film community I happen to have lived in, where those that fight for PA slots don't tell anybody else for fear of competition and for the simple fact that many of those fighting for those slots are just assholes.

But, bleh...

My favorite enemy looked absolutely stunning at the wedding in Iowa, by the way. So much so, a gas station attendant told her that she made his day. Well, buddy, she made mine, too... and I got to see her in a swimsuit that afternoon. Lick me.

Remind me not to drive over any bridges in Minnesota.

I've been combing my cats with a "furminator." Those work awesome. All pet owners MUST buy a furminator. Seriously.

Padres are in third place? What the fuck? When did the Diamondbacks suddenly start contending? Damn you, Tony Gwynn... unretire already.

And there I was, stuck in traffic on a hot, muggy, Sunday afternoon, when the sky blackened and lighting flew up from the Earth into the sky in what was clearly the strangest weather phenomenon in the last century. Okay, I just made that up, but I had you going, didn't I? Don't lie... you know I did.

By the way... if that person who hates "..." happens to be reading this (and she sometimes does), take this: ... ... ... ... ... ...

Oh, and when are you returning from France?

Right, okay... I'm making zero sense, but that's only because I have a lot to say, no way to say it, and my friend is in the kitchen slicing up chicken while my German Shepherd whines for my attention and my girlfriend ditches me for a mysterious entity codenamed "Andrea" and a cup of white chocolate hot chocolate from Starbucks.

Kick ass, right on, carpe diem, and all that other horseshit people say to egg each other on.

And vote for Clint Eastwood.

Jasper, Part I

He just turned three last November. He's a baby, and he acts like it. Brave in the face of irrelevance, cowardice in the face of everything else. The other two beat him up, even though he's the biggest. But he's the sweetest, the tamest, and the most loyal.

And yesterday he started having seizures.

There was evidence that he had a couple of seizures earlier, but as I didn't know that he had them, I figured the tells were of something else. A fight, maybe. The smeared crap in the yard. The overturned water bowl. Could've been anything. But probably seizures.

As I watched one at around 11:30 PM, I really didn't know how to react. I worried, I wanted to panic, but I stayed calm. I watched as he tried to fold and swallow his tongue. I watched as he realized that something was wrong. I watched as he went into a panic, running around wherever there was room. I watched as his adopted brother, as scared as everyone else, tried to subdue him. And I watched as he collapsed, foaming at the mouth, defecating uncontrollably, convulsing violently, painfully. So I did the only I could do. I placed one hand on his head, the other on his body, and held him firm so he wouldn't hurt himself by bouncing his head off the ground too hard.

70 pounds of German Shepherd never looked so helpless.

I didn't see the onset of the second seizure, this one at about 6:15 AM, but I did hear it. And I got to him fast enough to see him flopping around in his makeshift doghouse. Again, he defecated. This time, when it subsided, he cried and howled in pain and confusion. Three, maybe four times. It was the most solemn, heartbreaking sound I had heard in a long time. Maybe ever. After he cried, he tried to stand up. Dizzy, disoriented, he looked like a newborn puppy trying to figure out what his legs were for. It took him almost five minutes to stabilize himself. Then he walked up to me, put his head in my lap, and looked as though he was trying to ask me a question.

He was suffering, and he didn't know why.

I don't know why, either.

I'm still waiting on the vet to call with the test results.

A Sleepless Night

I'm a pet owner. Dogs and cats. A lot of them. And like most pet owners, my pets are a part of my family. A part of it. They watch my television, they listen to my music, they eat in my kitchen. Sounds dirty, I know, and it is... but I wouldn't change it for the world.

On Wednesday, May 24, 2006, I took my dogs for a walk in a wide-open field. Not quite the middle-of-nowhere, but a good couple of miles from the nearest house and the nearest highway. In fact, other than a small livestock farm, a gravel quarry, and a water tower, there's nothing but acres upon acres of playground (for a four-legged friend, of course). It was 12:30 PM. I walked my usual route around the field, with my loyal German Shepherd in tow. My two other dogs, an independent "king-of-the-hill" pit bull/pointer mix, and a super intelligent, yet super stubborn beagle/pointer combo, decided to check out a small hill to the north of our location. Somehow, I knew it was going to be hell to get them back. And it was.

4:30 PM. My truck is stuck on an outcropping on top of a different hill. My German Shepherd is terrified of the squealing tires. My pointer mixes are nowhere to be found. Nowhere. The longest they've ever stayed gone before was two-and-a-half hours. Not three, and certainly not four. As my rescue vehicle approaches from the south side of the hill, I start thinking... start thinking about the poisonous snakes that live in the area, about the groups of coyotes that run rampant, and about the wild horses that can kill a dog with a mere flick of its hoof. And let's not forget the people who shoot dogs for getting too close to livestock, or just for fun. It's 4:30. Where the fuck are my boys?

My truck's out, but I'm tired, hungry, and my hand is bleeding from a multitude of splinters from an old, weathered two-by-four that I probably shouldn't have picked up. I have to leave the area, get my German Shepherd some water, and take care of my hand. One last look across the horizon. Nothing.

My pit bull/pointer is easily the coolest dog I've ever had. He was the first dog I'd owned since I had left the Army (Hell, since I had joined the Army) and, like my previous dog, was a stray. My roommate and I had found him, along with another lost dog, in front of our rental house outside of Fort Bragg. While the other dog was clearly trained (she wouldn't even climb on the couch when called), the pit bull/pointer was young, and was apparently still in the process of being potty trained. A good Samaritan (sometimes), I posted signs for both dogs around the neighborhood. A couple of days later, the trained female was picked up by her rightful owner. But the pit bull/pointer... nothing. Probably left by some G.I. who couldnt take him with him, and couldn't (or didn't feel the need to) find a home for him. Weeks passed, I got attached, I took down the signs that the weather hadn't blown away. The pit bull/pointer became mine.

Over the years I discovered just how gentle this dog was, and yet, how protective. I would baby-sit my friend's infant daughter from time to time, but to be honest, the pit bull/pointer did most of the baby-sitting. He would curl around the baby, keep it warm. He'd lick her when she started crying. And, if for some reason I left the room, my dog would act angry until I came back. Obviously, he'd grown up around children, and every so often I would wonder if a small child yearned for their lost pit bull/pointer. I didn't care though... by this time, like I said, he was all mine.

It's 5:30 PM. I'm back out at the field. I drive a few mile radius around the spot I last saw them. The only thing I find is a small red hatchback parked on a closed road with two teenagers trying to have sex in broad daylight. They see me, try to hide, I laugh my ass off as I pass them. But still no dogs. At 6:30, I leave again, eat a quick dinner, take a quick shower, and head right back out. I'm there from 7:00 to 8:00. Nothing. So I leave again, watch American Idol to distract myself, and then head back out at 10:30. Still nothing, not even jackrabbits.

The beagle/pointer is another story entirely. Extremely needy, extremely stubborn, and so fucking smart, it blows my mind. He's also so self-conscious, when he takes a shit, he buries it meticulously with his nose and his front paws. I'm serious when I say this... you'll never know he pooped. I had built a privacy fence at my last house. Now, this could be a testament to the sloppy work, but no matter what I did (chicken wire, rocks, boxes, planking), that damn dog would find a way out of the backyard. He's like those velociraptors from Jurassic Park: if there's a weak spot in the defense, he'll find it. He's also a master at getting to the cat food bowls. It doesn't matter where they are... on the counter, on the table, in the garage in a secluded area... he'll get to it. I've seen him walk on his hind tiptoes and turn his head upside down just so his tongue could flick at the cat food. It didn't matter how much he knocked around... as long as one or two morsels stuck to his tongue, he was happy.

He's a bit of a sad case, too. I wasn't his first owner. His previous owner used to beat him because he barked too much. That explained why I had him damn near a month before I heard him make a sound. His previous owner used a crate to try to potty train him. Unfortunately, he would be left in the crate even when the owner was home. And the fucker wondered why the dog would bark The dog would also get carsick. Every single time you'd put him in a car, he'd hurl. I don't know why. When I drove him across country, he quit doing it, so I'm guessing he was afraid of cars... probably something to do with that prick first owner. But it didn't matter now... he belonged to a new family. One that wouldn't abandon him... one that would look for him until he was found.

It's 4:30 AM, Thursday morning. I haven't slept a wink, although I've tried. I'm attempting to wait until 9:00, so I can call animal control to see if they've picked up two pointer mixes, but I can't. My anxiety overtakes me, and within 15 minutes, I've got my German Shepherd loaded up and am on my way back to the field. I get there, and there are jackrabbits up the ass, now. Everywhere. Running from my headlights, taunting me... cottontails up as if saying, "Here we are, where are your dogs?" The fuckers.

I roll down my window and start calling for my dogs, futilely, I figure. I drive slowly... maybe they'll hear the truck this time... if they're not dead. What am I doing? I should be asleep, but instead I'm driving around the same field I've driven around 50 times. I'm approaching a bush that I stop to piss on every time I walk by it. Why? I don't know... it just happens to be the right distance from the point where I drink a glass of water to the point where I need to go. A beagle's face is poking out of the bush. I stop the truck, get out, and blink. The face isn't moving. I'm seeing shit. I call for my boys. The pointer emerges from the bush behind the beagle. The beagle finally moves. Holy shit... They stayed together. I've found my boys.

They're mad at me, of course. They act as though I left them there on purpose, as if I'm supposed to wait until they're done wandering the countryside. While the pointer enjoys the hot air from the truck's heater, he growls at me a bit. I guess it was my fault. I might as well take the blame, or they'll hate me for a week. I laugh. Pet them both. Pet the German Shepherd because he feels left out. Pet the two pointer mixes again.

Then I laugh again. They're home, and they can be mad at me all they want... they slept in my piss.