Tag Archives: dog

Ziggy

My “dog” Ziggy is a little…well…he’s weird, OK?

I say “dog” in quotes because we’re not really sure he is a dog. 

Think Lilo and Stitch.

Dog?

Ziggy is a mutt.  To our knowledge, he is part pit bull, dalmatian, and Labrador.  White with very pale brown spots, except on his ears where the spots are prominent, he has a huge black nose, and is fair skinned.  His neck is oddly long, sometimes making me think he might be part Loch Ness Monster, too.

A little over a year ago, we said goodbye to our dog Maggie.  She was a one hundred pound black lab, very smart, and so sweet.  This was the dog my children grew up with.  It was obvious she was growing frail and nearing the end of her life, but I kept praying nothing catastrophic would happen while our oldest son was away at college.  It was not to be. 

When she could barely walk one morning, and her always thumping tail was down and still, we knew we had run out of time.  My daughter rushed back from San Francisco, my other daughter skipped class, and we all gathered around Maggie at the vet’s to say our final goodbyes.  We said a prayer together, thanking Jesus for the years of joy she had given us, and asking him to welcome her into his kingdom.  I whispered into her ear, “My grandfather will take care of you.  He loves dogs.  His name is Joe.”  She raised an eyebrow, and turned her head to look me in the eye.  And we pet her softly as she passed from this life.

Now, Maggie was a couch potato.  But Ziggy?  Ziggy is constantly on the go.  It’s exhausting. We think he has ADHD, hyperactive-impulsive type.  His favorite thing of all time is to chase the damn ball, chew it to pieces, and chase it some more.  He won’t exactly bring it back to you, but he will drop it nearby.  Then he takes off running before you’ve even thrown it.  Jerry says that’s cheating. Ziggy will scratch at the door, go out and immediately turn around to look at you, crouched, ready to take off.  If you don’t throw a ball, but shut the door instead, he scratches at the door again.  When you open it, he looks at you and gets into position to run.  So you close the door.  And he scratches again.  This can go on indefinitely, so we often end up just leaving the dag-burn door open.  It’s easier.

Jerry got so tired of going out and throwing balls that he would throw the ball out the open door from his armchair.  Except he kept missing.  There were ball marks on the ceiling, on the wall, and any number of times I thought he would break the glass door.  For Christmas I bought him a dog ball shooter, so he can sit in his chair and fire a more precise aim out the door.  Twice Ziggy ran so fast chasing the ball that he didn’t pay attention to where he was going and ran headfirst into the fence, breaking a board.  Twice.  Twice, he hit his head so hard against the fence that a board broke, kung fu style.  Then he returned with his ball to play again.  He was completely unaffected.  How could that be?  Is his skull really that thick? Was he trained to use his head as a weapon?  Is he a genetic mutant?

Sometimes Ziggy is so happy when he goes outside, that he leaps for joy, like a gazelle.  He launches himself into the air, front legs forward, rear legs stretched out behind him, and floats through the air in pure joy.  It’s odd and beautiful.  I want to feel that kind of joy!

Another activity he enjoys is spying on our neighbors.  He peaks through a crack or knot hole in the fence, and just stares, not moving a muscle.  It’s like he’s catatonic, he becomes so entranced.  He doesn’t bark or pace back and forth, he just freezes and stares.  I’m tempted to find my own knot hole to see what’s so interesting.

Ziggy’s ears are bent at the top, but sometimes his left ear pops up straight.  And he winks his right eye. There’s a message there, but I’m missing it.  Katie studies American Sign Language, ASL.  Is this some sort of dog sign language, DSL?   I asked her what he was trying to communicate, but she just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, Mom.  He’s weird.”

But by far the strangest thing this guy does is sit on his bucket.  There is a large green plastic bucket with a lid in the backyard that is now officially his.  He likes to knock it around, then when it is on its side, sit his butt down on it, with his front legs on the ground, like a person would sit on a bench.  He has done this many times.  We have seen him playing with his ball, then stop to sit on his bucket, gazing lovingly at the ball in front of him.

Now, Ziggy came from Tony La Russa’s Animal Rescue Foundation (ARF), which is within walking distance of our home.  Just down the street from ARF is the Joint Genome Institute.  Originally this organization was the Human Genome Project, but that Rubik’s Cube has been solved, so they have moved on to other mysteries of DNA.  The Joint Genome Institute is part of the Department of Energy, but I’m pretty sure this is just a ruse.  Does anybody really know what they do?  Their website uses a lot of words to tell you nothing specific.  Wikipedia says “the JGI has been a user facility that advances genomics research in a broad range of disciplines where DNA sequence information is likely to drive scientific discoveries”.  Well that leaves the door wide open, doesn’t it?

Supposedly they work on plant and fungal genomes, and I’m sure they do.  As a cover.  But I think there’s some really strange shit going on there, and my dog is proof.

We are convinced Ziggy is the result of some weird-ass DNA experiment.  Maybe he escaped, maybe they send their living lab rats, er, dogs, to ARF for further observation in the human world.  Maybe when the dog is staring through the fence, he’s being controlled by another source we cannot see, that is downloading information from the pet microchip implanted in his neck that they told us was to identify him if he were ever lost.

We may never know.  We are all probably participating in some larger purpose for humanity. Or warfare.  Or something.  But it’s big, and it’s important.  Probably.  Or he’s just a weird dog.

He fits right in.          

Welcome home, Ziggy.  If that is your real name.

Doggone Funny

Lately, my humor has been lacking.  The burdens of life have crushed in so close and tight that no gurgle of laughter in response to the goofiness of that same life could escape.  I couldn’t taste the sweetness, or savor the beauty.  It took a big glob of mucousy slobber that leaves a trail of slime like a snail to clear the way, and open up the bubble around me.  God bless slobber.  Especially with a piece of kibble hanging from it. 

This gift came from Maggie, a one year old, 83 pound black Labrador.  She’s a big, furry, undisciplined beast.  Jumping up on her hind legs, she is taller than I am.  Okay, okay, everybody is taller than I am, just go along with the imagery, will ya?  I’m writing a column here. 

Where was I…  

We have three kids, two elderly cats, and two goldfish.  For years the kids and the husband have begged for a dog, and for years I have said, “No more living creatures until something goes to college or dies of old age.”  Hopefully, the kids would be the ones to go to college.  I just didn’t have it in me to care for any other being dependent upon me, or to clean any more messes.  I was empty.  Worn out.  Used up.  Nothing left to give. 

Then my husband started showing me pictures of Bob, a golden retriever featured on the website of Tony La Russa’s Animal Rescue Foundation. 

“Look at Bob.  Bob needs us.” 

I had to admit, Bob was cute, but my stress-bubble encased heart was untouched.  However, this time Jerry wouldn’t give in to my pained expression or tight lipped response.  One Friday he tracked me down at the playground , and in way of greeting me, looked at my with big morose puppy dog eyes. 

 “Bob needs a home,”  he said sadly. 

Then my daughter got down on her knees, and begged, promising all sorts of miraculous personality changes that would result in me spending the rest of my days soaking my feet and eating bon bons, while she took care of every household detail, if only, if only… 

Ahh, crap.  We were getting a dog. 

So, reluctantly on my part, and joyously on the part of the other four humans in the family (the cats were not consulted), we went to look at Bob.  Bob’s a looker, all right, but Bob has issues.  Seems he’s on puppy Prozac to cope with his anxiety.  Well, he’d fit right in, but Mom’s anxiety was going to cross the line into psychosis if we had a mentally ill dog.  Luckily, or unfortunately, I thought, there was another retriever perfectly suited for a family with children.  This one was a black Labrador, and the shelter was calling her Orangutan. 

I don’t know why they called her that.  It’s not like she has a big red butt, and picks fleas off her friends for entertainment. 

Anyway, she slobbered all over us, grossed me out, and won the hearts of my children and spouse.  Mine remained in its stress-bubble, but I saw how good she would be for our family, and I relented.  We asked if she responded to her shelter name, and were told that was the name they gave her there, but we were “welcome to change it.  Please, change it.” 

So Maggie, aka Orangutan, came home with us. 

She has destroyed the screen door.  Left in the yard with an open window at five feet above the ground, she stretched herself to her full human height, tore through that screen, and pulled a potted plant basking in the filtered sunlight out onto the patio.  She ate my glasses, and digs in the vegetable garden. 

And she adores us.  She slaps the wall next to her bed with her big strong tail every time we walk by, making a huge thumping noise.  She puts her head down so we can rub her ears, then rolls over for a good belly rub.  If we leave her home alone, upon our return she wags so hard her hiney goes one way while her front end goes the other.  Her eyes light up with love and joy, and she scarcely knows which part of which one of us to kiss first. 

That damn dog has wormed her way with those big muddy paws right into our hearts.  Our hearts.  She’s one of the family now. 

So my chewed up specs are looking kind of funny.  The enormous muddy paw prints are clearly ridiculous.  And that piece of kibble hanging from a glob of slobber, well, it’s a downright knee-slapper.  My funny bone has been found, and it’s currently being chewed on by a huge hairball of love.  Who knew.