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?

Separation Anxiety

I'm in the process of giving up my pets, and it sucks. No, it's not a permanent situation, merely one borne of necessity as I attempt to resettle into an oversized city and get back to work. As soon as I'm able to acquire a place with a decent backyard, I'll retrieve my four-legged companions (all five of the bastards) and live happily ever after... at least in terms of cats and dogs.

I've done it before with two of my dogs (Jasper and Starbuck), but this will mark the first time that I'll be separated long-term from my alpha male (Jax, who's very close to getting his nuts chopped off) and the two most loyal cats I've ever known (Kay and Sagremor). Oh, there's a possibility Jax's adopted mother won't be able to handle him and he'll wind up with me in the city of angels, but until that presents itself, I'm planning on not seeing him for a while.

And it sucks.

I'm not a worrier. That gene seems generally absent from my DNA, but I am going to feel a bit sad at not being able to run and spoil these guys (yes, they're all male... that's another story). I know this beyond any reasonable doubt. A while back I drove to Las Vegas for some work. This drive marked the first time I made a long-distance drive without my dogs in the back of my truck. I couldn't help but checking the bed every so often to make sure they were doing okay, even though there was nothing back there.

And now I'll be making another long-distance drive to drop them off with a friend of mine so I can concentrate on getting back into the industry that I left over a year ago. And it sucks. I can already see myself suffering from depressing separation anxiety on the drive back. It's bad enough that I've already left my two cats with my reluctant but willing sister. I feel as though I'm somehow punishing them for their loyalty (that, too, is another story).

But, people have to do what they have to do.

It still sucks.

Sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks.

Dogs: The New Kids

It's painfully overdone, isn't it? Referring to pets as children. But they are, in a way... take mine, for instance. Fighting among themselves because of an aborted fight with a stranger's dog. Was one mad at the other for not kicking ass? Or for not letting him kick ass? Or is it all just instinctual response personified by humans with nothing better to do?

Probably the latter, but since that would be no fun, I'll pretend it's not.

Anyway... so last night some douchebag let his dog run around off of a leash. Now, I have no problem with that. In fact, I do it all the time. The difference here is that while I let my all-too-wild dogs go running in the middle of a desert, or a forest, or a mountain range (you know, the middle of nowhere), this asshole let his dog go in the middle of a populated neighborhood.

Caveat #2: Had this particular dog been better-trained, I wouldn't have had a problem, either. But it wasn't. In fact, as soon as it smelled my dogs, it went into kill mode. Too bad a fence was in the way... that dog would've learned what pack dogs (mine) can do in a brawl. Scary, yeah, and I'm not too particularly fond of the fact that my dogs are such competent hunters and killers, but they're animals... and I like letting dogs be canines.

Where was I? Oh, yeah... asshole. So his dog runs up to the fence my dogs are behind. Now, anybody who's been following the adventures of my pets know that my alpha male is kind of a dick. He's not neutered (can't bring myself to do it, no matter how much he deserves it) and at barely 35 pounds, he's managed to make an 80-pound German Shepherd submit to his will. He was a stray when I got him, and he still likes to feed himself from time to time (so I let him... don't tell the people whose pet birds are missing).

So now there's this unknown dog on one side of the fence, and my three dogs on the other. Alpha male goes nuts, strange dog goes nuts. I think that the alpha gave an order to the German Shepherd to kill something, and the next thing I know, the Shepherd attacks my other dog. What. The. Fuck? Honestly, the Shepherd had NEVER done something like that before (first time for everything, I guess). I don't notice it at first, but one of the Shepherd's claws catches my other dog just right and the claw rips open the skin above my other dog's stomach. Yelps of pain (of a type I've not heard before) lead to a few moments of confusion, and then I see the blood when the poor guy tries to clean his wounds.

Ugh. And leave it to the local area to have shut down their own emergency veterinarian hospital (make note, pet owners... if you're going to have a catastrophe, do your best to schedule them during normal operating hours).

So I grab a small first aid kit and apply a dressing to the wound (stomach wounds are tricky... it always cracks me up whenever a TV show or a movie shows a medic applying pressure to the stomach). While I'm doing so, I hear my alpha male start kicking the crap out of the German Shepherd. Literally. There's crap everywhere. The (other) poor guy shit himself.

Wait... I forgot to mention that while my first injured dog was yelping, the owner of the other dog simply sat in his driveway and watched. I should've jumped the fence and kicked his dog in the mouth. Or the owner in the mouth... I'm not a huge fan of hitting animals, even the misbehaved ones (of which I own three).

Okay, back to story: one dog with a tear in his skin; one dog with shit in his coat; one dog sitting there with an Alfred E. Newman expression on his face. I suddenly debate obtaining pet insurance. Then I debate cutting the alpha's nuts off. Then I debate exchanging my dogs for three new cats (just kidding... I still have two cats... they'd eat me as I sleep if I brought home more).

So what do I do? I double-check the dressing, convince my sister to let the wounded dog sleep in the house, then sneak the dog onto the bed. In the morning, I take him to the vet where he gets cleaned up and stapled. There's a moment when his lampshade makes him walk into a door, and while I can't help but laugh my ass off, I remove it from his neck. He's already in pain, why submit him to torture? And mockery from my other pets (oh, snap... there I go personifying again).

I do learn that the alpha male gets seriously depressed when I separate him from his adopted brother. He's outside right now, sitting in the middle of the yard, waiting for the other to come out and play. Unfortunately, that's going to be a few days.

There's no point to this story. I just like talking about my boys (yes, all three dogs and both cats are boys). It's kinda like when people show you pictures of their ugly children and you're forced to sit there and smile. Nyah.

Pet Musings: October 12, 2009

Well, well... this week has turned out to be an eventful uneventful week, and I just figured I'd share a few things concerning my dogs and cats...

As some of you are aware, my two lost dogs have returned to me. They were gone for 94 hours (from Sunday at 3:00 PM to Thursday at 1:00 PM) in a place that they were unfamiliar with. I posted an ad on craigslist.org, went to the local animal services, and was about to put up about 50 fliers in the neighborhood they disappeared in when, in typical fashion (don't ask), I watched in relative disbelief as my two dogs walked down the road towards the very spot I was standing. Also in typical fashion, they didn't seem to think their disappearance was a big deal, although they were both a few pounds lighter. Jerks.

My German Shepherd (you know, the loyal dog that DIDN'T run away) was at first extremely happy to see the other dogs, but quickly realized that all the one-on-one attention he had been receiving had gone away. So, he did the grown-up thing and cried all freaking night because there was no half-asleep guy sleeping in an open garage throwing him the tennis ball at 2 in the morning.

One of my cats made a break for it on Sunday (yesterday at the time of this posting), primarily because they've been stuck living in the bed of my truck for an extra week, thanks to the missing dogs. And now, due to occupational requirements, they're going to stay in the bed of my truck for yet another week because I have to finish a book and submit a critical analysis by the 23rd... and driving across country isn't really conducive to that.

Pointless Musings

The San Diego Padres finished the season with 75 wins and 87 losses... good enough for 4th place in the National League West. Crappy, I know, but a far cry better than the 5th place they held for most of the season. Ah, well... there's always next year.

Thank you, NFL Mobile (only on Sprint) for allowing me to catch last Sunday's Pittsburgh-San Diego game when I was devoid a television. And thank you, NFL, for scheduling a Chargers bye week this Sunday while I was still devoid a television.

This just in: I am reactivating all of my paper bills from all of my utilities and banks. Not having the Internet whooped my ass last week, and I ain't letting that happen again.

Eh... I'd complain about more things, but I'm tired. I'll be returning to form in a couple of weeks (I think).

The Brothers Three

For nearly five years, they were three. The first, a stray, was clearly the one in charge. Mostly due to his commanding personality, of course, but it also helped that he still had his testicles. The second, the largest (yet most gentle), was a simple and loyal soul. The only one of pure blood, he never seemed to rub it in, deferring all shows of force to the first. The third, a rescue, was extremely stubborn and extremely smart. An escape artist and a bad influence, the group's cheerleader. He put the hound in Houdini... never mind the "n" out of place.

Each were well traveled. All having originated in North Carolina, each had made there way to California and back again. Sure, sometimes the first and the third got away, succumbing to their exploratory urges, but they would always come back. The second never ran off, save for a brief period of time in which he suffered unexplained seizures and would wander in the subsequent confusion. So, for nearly five years, no matter the weather, no matter the location, no matter the state of mind, they were three. A pack of mock wolves; a group of four-legged miscreants; a collection of wilderness falsely domesticated.

But, now, after loading up in their master's truck for one more trip from North Carolina to California, the first and the third decided to explore once again, leaving the second behind. Where once was three, there is now only one. Where once was the sound of dogs wrestling in the yard, there is now only the silhouette of a German Shepherd waiting for the return of his adopted siblings. Where once there was joy in a master's glance, there is only worried pessimism. And a lack of sleep.

For his collection has dwindled to a solitary dog.

Priorities

I have cats. And I love my cats. Okay, sometimes I hate my cats, but for the most part I love my cats. Everyone has a crazy cat story, of course, and I am no different. I've found poo in strange places, woke up to a piss stain on the pillow next to my head, discovered dismembered small-animal parts in my living room, and laughed as a kitten attached itself to my German Shepherd's face.

Despite all of this, I have never had to make a decision of priorities while watching my cats do something that, well, I'd regret later.

Tonight, however, and merely a few moments ago, I did.

Now, my cats adore me. I'm not exactly sure why, as I don't treat them any better than my dogs, but these two cats adore me. They follow me around like begging dogs, watch TV with me, sleep with me, and fight over which one gets to sit in my lap. I haven't been a cat person for very long, relatively speaking, so forgive me if this all comes across as "normal" to some of you. To me, it's downright strange.

Usually when I watch television, one cat will take station on the back of the couch, right above my head. Most of the time, that cat will simply fall asleep, but other times, he'll attack my hair. The other cat will, as implied earlier, simply curl up on my lap.

Now, I'm a fairly avid drinker of Vitamin Water. I like it, and it doesn't damage your teeth as badly as Gatorade does. And, since I usually don't eat as balanced as I should, I take solace in the extra vitamins the drink provides. My current favorite flavor is "power-c." Mind you, Vitamin Water isn't the cheapest drink in the world, and when you add up the gas you use to drive to the nearest convenience store to buy a bottle, it's about, oh, $57.12 for a 32 fluid ounce bottle.

Currently, my favorite comedy is a little-known British comedy called Spaced. To be blunt, it is the funniest fucking 30-minute comedy series I have ever seen. And that's not an exaggeration.

So there I was...

Watching an episode of Spaced, drinking a bottle of "power-c" Vitamin Water, when my dark cat decided he wanted to sit in my lap. Normally, he'd walk to the front of the couch by my feet and jump into my lap. But, since this particular cat suffers from frequent bouts of laziness, he decided to take the short route... which was from the left, over the armrest, which just happened to be where my arm was resting. Go figure, right?

Unfortunately for me, the cat misjudged how much higher he would have to pounce in order to clear my arm, and, as such, didn't quite make it. Instead of simply falling to the ground and trying again, however, he went with "Option B."

Now, I assure you that "Option B" is quite painful, as it involves my cat attempting to maintain altitude by latching onto the nearest surface with his claws. That nearest surface happened to be my arm.

Since I love my cats, I'm always willing to lend a helping hand. The problem here was that one hand was pinned to the armrest, and the other was holding my drink. So, in reactionary fashion, I instantaneously set the bottle between my thighs, reached over with my now-free right hand, grabbed my cat by the neck, and pulled him up to safety... right into my lap. Spilling at least 12 ounces of my 32 ounce drink onto the floor.

Result? Cat not on lap, Vitamin Water not in mouth, me no watch Spaced.

As I knelt there, cleaning up the liquid mess, I went over the incident in my head. I came to the conclusion that my priorities were wrong. I shouldn't have attempted to save the cat, who would've been fine anyway, and lose my drink while interrupting my entertainment.

I should've just hit the cat with the drink bottle, tapped the "jump back" button on the DVR, and finished my show.

Next time, I'll be ready.

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.