Something's wrong with the emergency back up dog

After Baxter's passing, I became acutely aware of a growing problem in my house: an inordinate amount of food had begun accumulating beneath my daughter's booster chair. I never realized that Baxter had been managing the mess for all of these years, but the lack of a canine vacuum cleaner made clear the vacancy he had left.

Enter Fern.

Fern is our 10 year old chocolate Labrador who lived indoors along side Baxter until 5 years ago when her incessant counter surfing got her banished to the outside kennel. It's not that we don't have patience for some food-driven behavior, its just that I had a colicky newborn baby, was suffering from postpardum depression and was struggling with breast feeding at the time that Fern was at her worst. Needless to say, my patience for having to re-sterilize things the dog had drug off the counter was at an all time low.

In her incarceration, Fern had become fat, smelly, and her nervous twitch of compulsively licking people grew to an irritating new level. But now, with my kids both past the point of requiring their food implements sterilized, and the recent loss of our indoor canine companion, it seemed an appropriate time to let Fern back into the house.

I spent a whole day brushing the 14 pounds of extra winter coat and dandruff off of her, and followed it up with a bath. Next, I went to the feed store and bought her some "light" dog food to help take off some of the weight she'd gained in her kennel years. Finally, I sewed her a brand new, fluffy, fleecy dog bed and placed it at the foot of our bed.

The first night was lovely. I think the dog believed her presence in the house was due to some oversight on our part, which, once discovered would result in her being thrown back in the kennel. She was very, very quiet, minded every command, and went to great lengths to blend in and be inconspicuous. When I introduced her to her new dog bed at bedtime, she hastily flopped down and didn't move a muscle until the Hubby's alarm rang the next morning.

The next morning the kids and I took her on a walk to the park. Her rotund, waddling, brown body was huffing and puffing after 5 minutes of aerobic exercise, but I felt satisfied that we were on track with our new house dog.

That evening before bed, I noticed Fern needing to make a few extra potty breaks. Then, starting at 2 AM and then each hour after throughout the night, Fern waddled over to my side of the bed, nosed my arm and whined for me to let her out. Finally, at 6 in the morning, I was exhausted. When she came in to ask to be let out, I rolled over and saw that the alarm would ring in 15 minutes, so I ignored her request..."she can wait 15 minutes," I thought to myself.

She couldn't.

6:15 AM, the hubby shuffled into the kitchen where a very antsy Fern was waiting, tail between her legs and ears back. There on the mudroom floor was an epic puddle of diarrhea. Further investigation throughout the house revealed several more pools, along with some vomit. Oh, the aroma of early morning sick...not much to compare it with...

Hearing the cussing, I got up, cleaned the spots throughout the house, and rallied the troops for another day at the park. Fern joined us and everything seemed fine...until that night. The same routine: 5 trips outside and her discomfort was clear. The next morning, we loaded her in the car and did some garage sale shopping. About 1 hour in, the faucet in Fern's rear end let loose, all over my back seat. Back to the kennel she went...at least for the rest of the day.

The Hubby wanted to let Fern in at night, and I relented, but told him that he was on dog duty that night. As with the last several days, Fern whined, I woke up, only this time, I rolled over and woke the Hubby up to let her out. I'm not sure how that saved me any more sleep than just getting up and handling it myself, but at least I didn't need to stand at the door whisper-yelling at her to come in at ungodly hours of the night and morning.

So here we are, day 6, and the dog's bowels have still not acclimated to the indoor lifestyle. It's clear that the new food needs to go, but it's hard to believe that we're having to force feed the most food-obsessed dog in the universe rice to get her basic nutrition.

Maybe we should have just gotten a new puppy.

Saying goodbye to an old friend

Baxter was my first child. Damaged and dysfunctional, Baxter was an unforgettable part of our family for 17 years. This is his story:

After dropping out of college, I was hired on as head instructor for an equestrian center where, in lieu of much salary, I was given a house to live in with its own fenced-in deck. Lonely and determined to be independent, I marched down to the local Humane Society and found Baxter. Sitting alone in his cell behind a sign that read "Not for adoption by families with children under 16" and another with his euthanisia scheduled for the next day, I was immediately drawn to this damaged soul. We chatted briefly before I sidled up to the adoption counter to make the commitment that I had no way of knowing would last for the next 16 years.

One of the conditions of adopting Baxter was that I enroll him in dog training classes, and this turned out to be our salvation, especially in the later years when Baxter was too deaf to respond to verbal commands. He excelled at obedience and we marched up the levels until he tried to bite our instructor for attempting to demonstrate commands on him. Despite this setback, Baxter and I went on to do well in agility training also.

Bax & Hubby on the raft

To say that Baxter and I bonded deeply is, well, an understatement. In the early months, I took him to the park every day to play "fetch." When I would throw the ball, he would bound after it for about 20 feet and then skid to a stop and come scampering back to me, forsaking the ball altogether. When I left the house, he would eat furniture and bark non-stop until the neighbors sent death threats. When we were together, he was cocky and arrogant, vigilantly defending my safety at all costs. He would tell me when the phone rang and when someone was at the door. He could open gates and jump 5 foot fences. He could tell if you were a good guy or a bad guy from a mile away, and if you were the latter, that was as far as you would get. For 14 years, he growled every night when my hubby climbed into bed next to me.

When Baxter was 2 years old, he broke his leg. By this time, I had been fired from the equestrian center, in no small  part for the vicious barking dog I owned, so we lived here and there, and partly out of my car. Baxter's accident sealed the deal. I could not leave him unattended because he would attempt to chew his leg out of the cast, and it began to look gangrenous. So, on my measly horse trainer salary I would have to take Bax to the after-hours vet clinic to have his bandage changed every night after work. As a result, Baxter rarely left the car, except for potty breaks vet stops and bedtime. The car was his home. He went everywhere with me. This didn't change until we finally settled on our acreage in Colorado.

One day, after a party for the hubby (then boyfriend) one of his friend's friends (you never can trust one of those) stuck his head in my car window to pet Baxter in the backseat. When the guy pulled his head back out, he was missing half of his nose. The attack resulted in Baxter being quarantined for 7 days, but thankfully no lawsuit ensued because, well, I was poor and underinsured...You just can't get blood from a stone, as my dad used to say.

The next several years went by without much incident. Baxter was the ring bearer at our wedding. We moved to Colorado and he settled right in. We added new dogs, but they were always just dogs. Baxter was different. Too smart for his own good, too difficult for anyone else to manage; an odd combination of needy and independent, clingy and aloof, fierce and loving.

7 years ago, Baxter went deaf. With this handicap came a strange sort of peace for the old man. Baxter was less edgy and more relaxed. I think silence allowed him to truly rest for the first time in his life. When I got pregnant with my first child, Baxter moved in with the neighbors. He would leave our house in the morning and return home at bedtime, having spent the entire day at the neighbor's house. Eventually, after we had the baby, he moved back in with us, but our relationship was never quite the same. I think he believed that he had been replaced by children. Little did he know that while my children will always have the largest spot in my heart, Bax's place as my first baby was secure.

In his latter years, Baxter established a routine which he kept until the day he died. Twice daily, he would do his "rounds," trotting down the lane to the neighbors property, marking the fence line as he went. Then back up to the street behind us, around to the other 2 neighbors along the street and back to the front door where he would bark until we opened it for him. As a result of his daily exercise, his body was lean and fit, (albeit covered in tumors and lumps in the end) for 17 years...until last Sunday.

We returned home from a weekend away celebrating our 10 year wedding anniversary and Baxter suddenly looked as though he'd lost half his body weight overnight. After I'd unpacked and had a chance to sit down, he came over, laid his head in my lap and groaned. The next morning, he had a seizure, and the day after that, he threw up every few hours, then laid in the middle of the carpet groaning. The message was clear. He was done.

Baxter 1994-2011

So last Tuesday, we said goodbye to crazy old Baxter. We laid his body to rest under the big cottonwood in the pasture, next to old Red Mule, my husband's hunting buddy. This fall, we will plant irises on his grave. He was an ornery old guy, but I do believe he had found peace for the last 5 years. Old Baxter will be missed by some, not soon forgotten by many.

Bird dogs and chickens don't mix

Ruth

Our pointer Ruth dreams about birds. She obsesses about every robin, blackbird, sparrow, mourning dove, and goose that flies over or around our property. Pointers tend to be a little OCD anyway, but really good hunting dogs, like Ruth, take the obsession to another level.

The dogs' kennel is about 30 feet from the chicken coop. There wasn't a ton of planning involved with this proximity; it was just how the place laid out. We thought it would be an advantage to have the dogs close enough to deter any chicken predators, but unfortunately, it has transformed Ruth into chicken predator number one.

When we let the chickens out to scratch and peck, the dogs go nuts. When we herd the chickens in for the night, they go even more crazy. When we let the dogs out, Ruth runs as fast as she can the 30 feet to the chicken coop and locks up on point. If the chickens go inside their coop, Ruth runs back and forth until she makes eye contact with one and locks up on point again.

But Ruth isn't the only canine who obsesses about our chickens. We have four foxes living on our property who obsess about them too. We have lost dozens of chickens to the foxes in the last two years, and we are restricted to allowing the chickens out only when we are close enough to watch for the fox. The foxes, in turn have become bolder and bolder, appearing at all hours of the day, even when the kids and I are out playing just 50 feet away.

Because we live within city limits and our town has an ordinance against discharging any type of firearm (including pellet and BB guns) within those limits, we and our chickens are at the mercy of the foxes. Our only recourse is to let the dogs out to chase the fox(es) off the property. So here's what happened last weekend.

Pigeon on point and Ruth honoring

Last Saturday, I went down to the shop to tell the Hubby that lunch was ready. As we headed up to the house, I saw Hubby take off toward the dog kennel, open the door, and run with Ruth straight toward the chicken coop. At the same time, Pigeon, our notorious runaway dog took off across the pasture. I hollered at Pigeon to call him back, but Hubby's yells brought my attention back to the chicken coop, where he was wrestling our Buff Orpington's flailing body out of Ruth's mouth. By the time I'd taken a step toward the coop, Ruth took off around the back of the barn. Seeing Hubby now dealing with the hen and the dog safely away from her, I paused, wondering why that buff hen was out of the coop. No sooner had that thought materialized when I saw Ruth appear from around the barn with a Barred Rock hen in her mouth.

By now, the Hubby was really pissed. He wrestled the other hen out of Ruth's mouth and screamed for me to come get the dog, which I did promptly. Ruth, thinking she was the best bird dog in the world, was completely confused by being drug, unceremoniously away from her birds.

Hubby dispatched the mortally injured hens and eventually came up to the house. He was still too pissed to talk about what happened, so it wasn't until that night that I found out why he apparently sicked the Ruth on our unsuspecting chickens, resulting in the deaths of two of our last seven productive laying hens.

When we were walking out of the shop on our way up to the house for lunch, Hubby spotted the fox trotting down the fenceline toward the chickens. Thinking that all of the chickens were in the coop, despite the fact he'd let them out to range earlier in the day, he ran down and opened the dog kennel to sick the dogs on the fox.

Pigeon dutifully chased the fox across the pasture, and got yelled at for it...I never saw the fox so I had no idea he was doing his job.

Ruth subduing and retrieving a pheasant

Ruth did not chase the fox. In fact, this was the opportunity Ruth had been dreaming about her whole life. She wasn't born and bred to be a fox hunter, but she was born to be a top of the line bird dog. Hubby, seeing that she wasn't heading for the fox in the pasture but rather for the hen who had picked the wrong time to wander out of the coop, tried to intercept Ruth before she got the hen, but alas, it was too late for poor Buffy. I'm not sure if Hubby knew there was another hen behind the barn, but Ruth certainly made short time in discovering it.

And then there were five...mature laying hens, that is. Fortunately, we have 18 pullets growing up to take their places, but I had to buy eggs from the grocery store for the first time in 2 years. As for Ruth, well, how can we get mad at her for doing her job. And the foxes: still at large, still hunting our hens.

As for we humans, we still lack a resource to manage the ever-growing predator threat here in town. And my Hubby has informed me that next time I see him run like mad for no discernible reason, my job is to expect the worst and follow closely so I can lend a hand in a pinch. Never one to follow the crowd, and ever faithful in my Hubby's well-thought-out master plan (which he usually has) this may be a little tricky to perform gracefully, but we'll give it a go.

Lesson learned: If your flock is being stalked by a predator, don't add more canine predators to the mix and think they're going to go for the fox...oh yeah, and bird dogs and chickens don't mix.