Hatching a Golden

I've often referred to my dogs as Golden Chickens. Despite being classified as large dogs, Golden Retrievers — or shall I say our Goldens —tend to behave in ways that call their canine qualifications into question. Honey, God rest her soul, once sausaged herself between two pickets of our black aluminum fence in a desperate attempt to evade thunder. At over 70 pounds, she was no fly-weight, and the pickets couldn't have been more than six inches apart.  Needless to say, it took a mighty hug and tug to pry her lose only to have her bolt seconds later.  To her credit, she was a tireless waterdog and retriever of floating sticks, but one clap of thunder reverted her to Golden Chicken-with-her-head-cut-off status. Maya, our current Golden, is fine with thunder and explosives. It's men, feet, thermometers, garden gnomes, and cars that send her into a mindless tizzy. The list could go on, but time is precious. So if Honey was a chicken, Maya might qualify as a chick with a fear of hatching.

Maya's first experience with water was the garden hose. She'd discovered a puddle created by a leaky outside faucet and had played to her heart's content until interrupted by the girls. The result looked like this.

Little did she know that the the faucet had, if not a dark side, a much colder one. I sometimes wonder if this first chilly rinse contributed to her aversion to water. Later that summer we took her to Oak Run and tried to coax her into the lake. At most she waded ankle deep. We tried again at our friends' heated pool. She hated it, recoiling between deck chairs to avoid the gigantic turquoise tub. It was hard for us to believe a purebred waterdog could hate the very thing that was in her nature to love. We couldn't keep our first Golden out of the water. Now we had one we couldn't get in.

It may come as no surprise to you that Seattle is particularly dog-friendly. Dogs can be found everywhere, from the grocery store to the mall. According to our banker, dogs are more welcome in the branch than children. We couldn't ask for a more perfect environment to break Maya out of her proverbial shell. Our first mission: swimming.

The off-leash park we frequent has a slow moving river along one edge where dogs are welcome to dive in and cool off. The water is shallow enough in parts that even short dogs (and Golden chickens) can wade without actually having to doggy paddle. It took one visit for Maya to overcome her fear of wet rocks, a few more to wade in unaccompanied. Big thanks go to Emma and Mouse who called her tirelessly from knee deep water as Maya whimpered and paced on the water's edge. After nearly three months of practice, Maya is almost there. She enters the water from shore without cajoling and can finally swim without her front paws clawing the air on each stroke. She still won't leap in from a swim platform or dock, but I have faith that will come. She's even retrieved a floating stick or two! Seattle: the land of small miracles.

The question now is which fear to conquer next? Human feet or garden gnomes? I think the gnomes have it.

I will never forget my own...

We chose you because you chased my shoes.
I have since learned that this is not the best indicator of an obedient dog.

We hiked. We swam. We ran.
I never realized how much I'd love you.

Babies pulled your tail, stole your toys, tugged your ears.
Puppies, too.
I never knew a dog could be so patient.

You were the dog I always wanted.
I miss you already.

"Honey"

February 17, 1999 - August 4, 2011

Black and White

What'd I do?

Dogs!

Adorable. Sweet. Loving. Loyal. Dogs are all these things, particularly my own dynamic duo. And yet, there are moments when they take the time to wake us humans from our love-induced anthropomorphic haze. Honey prefers to roll on dead animals and eat the droppings of other species. Maya, on the other hand, has taken things to a whole new level: she eats her own poo. Honestly, if she were flexible enough, we might never have to pick up after her. In fact, she's so efficient at her personal poop-and-scarf routine that it is often only her breath that gives it away. Sweet, it is not.

Welcome, Maya!

We were not supposed to buy a puppy. We were just checking out a breeder. I knew they had a litter ready to go. Why I didn't see this coming is beyond me. Everyone has a blind spot, I suppose. Mine just happens to be about the size of a 10-week-old Golden Retriever. The Captain has requested that the record show that I caved first. Damn, she's a sweetie!

Butch

It's no secret I'm a dog person. I've wanted one as a pet for as long as I can remember. It wasn't until the year I got married that Honey became my first and only. It actually pains me to think how old she's getting — almost 12 — even though she still leads the way on our 5K loop.

We were on one of our excursions today when we walked past her boyfriend's house — Butch, the 3-year-old Golden and neighborhood nomad.  (Yes, Honey's part cougar). As friendly as Butch is, he's a cautious dog and didn't come running up to us right away. Only after Honey barked did he come our direction. After a requisite scruff and sniff, Honey and I continued on our way and Butch loped home. Seconds later he was back, leash dangling from his smiling jaws. Never have I been so tempted to kidnap someone else's dog. It's one thing to have a dog follow you on a walk; it's quite another to lead it off with its own leash. I shook my head and needlessly explained to Butch that I couldn't. As if he understood, he dropped the leash and followed us home.

As he slipped through our neighbour's garden, heading back to his house, I couldn't help but wish he ours. I'm not sure his family realizes what a special dog they have. I bet they never even noticed he was gone.

Move over, Rudolf!

Make way for Honey!

Sporting her adorable antlers, I was sure she was going to get her picture in the paper. It was the annual Peoria Jingle Bell Run and Walk and Honey was in her element. She was petted more in one day than in the last five years combined. Unfortunately, she only got her name in the paper thanks to an upstart Yorkie who had the audacity to lick Santa's beard. Bummer. Next year I'll dress like the Grinch, hitch her to a sleigh and call her Max.

Read all about her here:

Ringing in a record run - Peoria, IL - pjstar.com

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Simple Pleasures: Double Vision

Honey's got a boyfriend—or a twin!

Meet Butch, the neighbourhood stray.  He's on the left.

Ready to Fly

I took Honey to the vet this morning for her pre-travel check up.  As usual, she wagged her way through the visit, upending a cup of pens three times with her tail, even before leaving the waiting area.  She was weighed, examine, dosed with a vial of rabies vaccine, and given a treat, all to the thump-thump-thump of her all too feathered hind quarters. We left with a clean bill of health and a vial of homeopathic sedatives for the journey. The United States will be Honey's third country. 

They'll never know what hit them. 

Reindeer Sighting in Corsier

It's the last week of school before Christmas, the week when tradition dictates Honey wear her furry red antlers on the walk to and from école de Corsier. Typically stoic commuters along the route de Thonon wave and smile from their cars, some even rolling down their windows to shout their season's greetings. Children who on any other day give our excitable pooch a wide berth beg their mothers to pet her. And, all the while, Honey basks in the glow of general approval.

Perhaps it's not her most regal look, but its effect is now rippling through Geneva, one smile at a time.

Queen of All She Surveys

Honey tends to believe that all she sees from our garden belongs to her. This amounts to a great deal of senseless barking at perfectly respectable farm vehicles. All I can say is that it's a good thing we don't live up here!

Photo taken from the top of the Schilthorn in the the Bernese Oberland.

Old Dog, New Trick

Give a Dog a Bone

Only the second bone in her dog life, poor deprived pooch. That said, the Captain's on duty tonight if this bright idea of his backfires!

And the Wet Dog Award goes to...

Honey the Golden Chicken.

(She'd face the camera, but she's too busy watching for lightening.)

Simple Pleasures According to Honey

Hiking in Hermance.

Diving after a stick.

Retrieving a rock.

Making tracks.

Treasures high...

...and low.

"Just so we're clear...

...I was here first."

Looking Up

When an Open Door Isn't

Honey was born in a barn. We missed the significance of this detail when we chose her. For the first three months of her domesticated life she mistook wall-to-wall carpeting for dirt, peeing repeatedly on the off-white plush of our Vancouver rental. At six months of age she established dominance over a full-grown Doberman by humping it in the dog park. When the puppy school instructor suggested we had an alpha-female, I took offense. Like a dewy-eyed new parent, I was blind to Honey's faults. She was mine and I was hers, world without end.

Honey's first home away from home was Kerrisdale Centennial Park, a green space a short walk away that boasted a pair of soccer fields, a playground, countless ash and red cedars, and, thanks to a plethora of neighbourhood dog lovers, an official off-leash area. While not fenced in, it was small enough that the average dog could be easily kept under voice control. Need I remind you, dear reader, we did not have the average dog.

On one of her earliest outings, Honey befriended a blond mutt I will call Elsa, whose real name, for reasons which will soon come apparent, my memory seems to have blocked out. Elsa was every dog-owners' nightmare, committing such atrocities as chewing through drywall when left to her own devices for more than an hour. The two dogs primarily liked to wrestle, but occasionally took to chasing each other at warp speed into the odd soccer match.

One evening in late November, while Elsa's owner was confessing her dog's latest offenses, our dynamic duo bolted out of sight into the thick border of trees and brush that lined the park's east side. We, being the concerned dog owners that we were, ran into the wood after them, calling their names.

The trees quickly gave way to a disturbingly quiet residential street. Elsa's owner went one way and I the other, barging into one cedar-hedged garden after another in search of our escapees.

A sinking sense of panic was closing in when I passed a beautifully restored one-and-half-story Cape Cod. It's front and back doors were wide open such that one could easily see straight through it. Drop sheets lined the entrance where a woman was standing, hands on her hips.

"They're here," she said.

I sensed she was not among the dog-lover contingency--at least not anymore.

The two dogs had chased each other around the house a few times before escaping into the woman's backyard. I commandeered my fugitive and marched her apologetically out of the house, grateful for the drop sheets, now mud-streaked, that covered the woman's off-white plush.

And so the saying goes: you can take the dog out of the barn, but you can't take the barn out of the dog, world without end.

Honey the Flying Dog: Grounded Once More

It’s official: my dog won’t be running away again--at least not from home.

At 8½ years old, Honey is as excitable today as she was the day we got her. At the time, of course, she weighed slightly more than the Vancouver phone book and waddled with baby fat. Now, at just over 30 kilos, she is lean and can run like the wind. Add to that her intense sociability, her insatiable appetite, and an unfenced yard and you can appreciate our dilemma.

When we moved here three years ago, our good Swiss landlord frowned at the suggestion that the garden be fenced. We appreciated his reluctance. The property borders a farmer’s field that is alternately planted with wheat and canola; beyond, the Salève rises in the distance. But for the safety of our precious pooch, something had to be done. Unwilling to keep her tethered to the cherry tree for all eternity, we went the direction of the ‘fence-less’ yard.

The system was no small task to install. It took at least five hours for me, my husband, and my father-in-law to bury 50+meters of wire before connecting it to the control panel. The easiest part was to hook up the dog—in theory. Despite knowing full well that it was the only real alternative, I was reluctant. I didn’t want to hurt her. The only way to allay my fears was to try it myself.

I placed the two-pronged receiver collar in the center of my palm and, with baby steps, approached the embedded wire. The collar beeped. I stopped.

“Go on!” my husband prodded, grinning.

Three baby steps later, ZAP! Not pain, but certainly nothing I wished to repeat, a sentiment I hoped Honey would soon share.

It took two full weeks, but Honey finally got the hang of it. We pulled out the white training flags and, aside from the odd battery failure, the system was a success. Then the wire got cut.

We don’t know how. We don’t know where. Until Honey appeared in the farmer’s field chasing rabbits, we didn't know it had happened. But two years had improved little upon the memory of burying the wire the first time. We examined our options and came to a decision: Honey would go wireless.

The transmitter is the size of a small toaster. We plugged it in behind a chair in the living room, setting the range to include the garden and the front door, her prefered escape routes. We set the collar intensity to that recommended for high energy dogs. (Sorry, Honey!) I didn’t test it this time. Within an hour of going ‘live’ Honey had mastered her terrain, or rather, her terrain had mastered her. The beauty of the new system is that it’s portable. Now, if only she was…but that’s another story.