(with appologies to Simon and Garfunkel)
Many's the time I've been mistaken, and many times confused
Yes and I've often felt forsaken, and certainly misused
Ah but I'm alright, I'm alright, I'm just weary thru my bones
Still you don't expect to be bright and bon-vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home
After weeks of activity and months of planning, our family is on the plane. *The Plane*. Despite the travel we have done lately, this definitely feels different. Partly because all the other trips have had a "home base" - sort of an emotional ace-in-the-hole. You always knew that, no matter how rainy it was in Cancun or how small the hotel in Brussels, you were coming home eventually to familiar sights and sounds. Now I have what I guess is the "Lech Lecha" feeling - what I imagine Avram and Sarai felt as they wandered away from the city, from everything they knew, into the unknown. Yes, I'm sure that's an over-used cliche, and I know it is an over-dramatization. And inaccurate, to boot. We are going from a relatively small city in the US to one of the most cosmopolitan areas of the world. But the feeling is there none-the-less and needs to be acknowledged at least once.
And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered or driven to its knees
But it's alright, it's alright, for we live so well, so long
Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong, I can't help it I wonder what's gone wrong
Having moved a few times, this still has dwarfed anything we ever undertook. Each move in the past was a series of sense-memories. *We* packed the boxes, so we knew where to find things. Now, it's not just the question of "which box is the potatoe peeler in?", there's also the question of "did we tell them to pack the potatoe peeler, and did they put it on the right truck?". The amount we have learned about culture already, both Swiss and corporate, is astounding. Just understanding the "right" way to frame a question or a request has taken time. And, of course, we know now what we should have known when we started, and are that much worse for the wear. But every other traveler has done this, so we're sure we didn't foul up the process too badly. Although Leon is certain that, at this very moment, a loud party is going on in in the Nestle USA Human Resources department (grin).
And I dreamed I was dying, I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me, smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying, and high up above my eyes could clearly see
The statue of liberty, sailing away to sea, and I dreamed I was flying
We spent the last few days meeting with friends and family. For those who were able to take time and get together with us, we are truly and deeply grateful. For those who we missed, it just means owe us one and you'll have to come out to Switzerland to pay us back!
Getting on the plane was an adventure in itself. As we waited to board, the attendant announced the plane would be "going into maintenance" and that it might be an hour or more, and the plane might not fly again today, and if we had connecting flights we ought to go down to the service desk to get an alternate plane (oh no! Not again!!). The noise of stampeding feet was deafening!
This noise was topped moments later as everyone came back. The plane was miraculously fixed (or more likely, never broken) and everyone was allowed to get on board. Personally, I think it was just a creative way for Continental to help its passengers avoid deep-vein thrombosis. 'One last run around the track, folks, and then we'll let you get on!"
But we come on a ship they called Mayflower
We come on a ship that sailed the moon
We come in the ages' most uncertain hours and sing an American tune
And it's alright, oh it's alright, it's alright, you can be forever blessed
Still tomorrow's gonna be another working day and I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying, to get some rest
It's now two days later, and we have settled in to the point where we can finish this email and move on. The trip was relatively un-eventful. We made all our connections and arrived in Geneva at 9:30am Friday morning. A 40 minute drive brought us to the temporary apartment in Pully, a small village that is part of the larger city of Lausanne. Think of it as "Euclid is a small village that is part of Cleveland".
Unpacking was, and continues to be, a chore. We got most of the cloths out the day we arrived, but things like extra toiletries and school supplies are waiting for Sunday (tomorrow) when we have nothing planned.
Our first Shabbat was quiet, and somewhat somber. I think the echos of all the Shabbats we had shared with friends and family were still fresh in our minds, and the knowledge of the distance separating us from them just a bit too present.
Saturday morning we woke around 10:00am (still 4:00am to us) and our first task was to shop for some much-needed supplies. We found a Migros (one of the larger supermarket chains) nearby, and picked up what we needed. We also had to get some final school supplies, which meant a trip deeper into the heart of Lausanne.
We got some (relatively vague) directions to "Place de St. Francois" - not hard to miss once they said "just look for the enormous cathedral". Once we found it, and a place to park, we hiked about 2 miles (all uphill) to "Lion d'Ore". This is a store that sells 1) makeup; 2) pharmeceutecals; 3) art supplies. "3 great products that go great together!"
Of course, as we left, it started to rain (again. It's set to rain all week, and drop down to the 50's. Just great since we hardly brought any warm cloths with us) so we ran (downhill all the way) to the car.
By the time we got back to the apartment, we had just enough time for a quick bite, then we were off again to meet with some other Solon-Nestle-Expats for dinner. This was a great time for us, since they had kids to play with our kids, and they've only been here for a few months so they still remembered what we are going through now.
The evening lasted until 11:00pm, when we finally decided that we might have to camp out if we stayed longer. About 40 minutes later, everyone was tucked warmly in their beds, and I was free to type this letter. Of course, sending it is an entirely different issue. 2 days has allowed my inbox to fill with 168 emails, which need to be sorted and dealt with eventually. Eventually. But not tonight.
We will talk to you all very soon.
Leon, Debbie, Heather, Isabelle, and Joram
PS: For those who would like to call, the apartment phone number is: 41-21-729-8027. Please remember that we are 6 hours *ahead* of Cleveland time, and that we don't have an answering machine set up yet.
Thursday, August 30, 2001
Friday, May 01, 1998
How NOT to Give a Dog a Pill
On the eve of Tova's first heat, (which we had been anticipating for over 6 months), Tova decided to show us that heat was not such a problem, not such a mess. Especially when compared with diarrhea!
I won't get into the gory details of it all, but I'm happy that I have an airline-style crate, rather than the wire kind. For once, LESS ventilation was a good thing.
However, what to do about this was the question of the day. Well, it was the question for me. For my daughter, the question of the day was "why does it smell so bad in here". For my wife, the question of the day is mostly unprintable, and brings into serious question my relationship with several common household kitchen tools.
After a call to the breeder... OK, really it was after:
After all that, I called the breeder who directed me to buy kaopectate chewable tablets. Which I drove off to do while wife and children left the house for the relative calm of a sale at K-Mart.
Now I should take a moment to mention that my wife's background is in the medical field, while I spent 4 years and many thousand dollars in New York pursuing a degree in Theater. My wife currently works in the field of medicine. I currently work as a computer geek. This should translate to the reader in the following way:
So, although I was explicitly instructed to purchase chewable tablets, I bought adult capsules instead. Ignorant of this, I blithely proceeded home, toward certain disaster.
Up to this point, the only medical experience Tova and I had faced together were visits to the vet (where, at most, I was asked to "sit in the waiting room and not break things") and offering her the monthly HeartGuard brick, which Tova, despite repeated doses, confuses for candy and snaps up, occasionally causing me to re-count fingers just to make sure.
Back in the garage, I happily (if somewhat cautiously) extended my hand with the two caplets, figuring these would be confused, if not for crunchy treats, then perhaps hard candy.
Sniff.........snorf......
An unimpressed dog wanders away, eyeing the garden hose hanging on the wall with suspicion.
Maybe she just needs a taste to get her going. I jam a caplet past her front teeth, waiting to hear satisfied crunching noises.
You know that "picky eater" dog food commercial with the basset hound? The one where he spits the kibble out and watches it ricochet around the kitchen?
Just like that, only now I have a caplet-sized dent in my car.
Just as visions of syringes begin to dance in my head, I remember an old trick I saw a girlfriend do in high-school with her cocker-spaniel (no, not THAT trick!). I race inside and grab the tub of peanut butter. Not just a regular tub, either. My wife shops for *duration*, so these are the econo-size jobs.
Now I am faced with the delimma of one pill or two. Opting to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible, I dunk both pills together into the peanut butter jar, coming up with a plum-sized glop of PB. Forcing Tova's mouth open with the other hand, I skillfully jam the gooey mass into her mouth. Then I take both hands and hold her mouth shut for a moment.
Glufflle......shluck shluck shluck......gluffle...click!
Two pearly white pills clatter to the garage floor. I look irately at my dog, who sports a satisfied smile to go with the peanut butter smeared over the left side of her face. Remember, I used BOTH hands to hold her mouth shut.
Not content to be stupid once, I decide to try again. So I pick up the (now pasty-wet) pills, grab the container, and dunk again. Same result, except that the sound the pills make on exit is now more of a "splut" that a "click".
I admit defeat, spray down the half of the dog now covered in peanut butter, and go inside to clean up the half of me now covered in peanut butter.
My wife returns to survey the scene. It doesn't take long after "why are two pills missing from this box?" for her to get the rest of the picture. With a smile that only triumphantly superior wives can wear, she grabs a pill in one hand, the dog in the other. It is not lost on me that peanut butter, or any other condiment for that matter, is conspicuously absent. One pill goes to the back of the throat, and the muzzle is gently held closed. While rubbing her throat, my wife croons to the dog in the same voice she used to wake me up at 2:00am when our newborn puppy was crying to go out. Gently, nicely, with just a hint of a razor blade waiting in the wings. Tova rolls her eyes and gives a "Oh, you want me to *swallow*! Why didn't you say so?" look, and ....gluck....down goes pill one. Pill two goes even faster.
I now have a month's worth of PBJ sandwiches to eat.
I won't get into the gory details of it all, but I'm happy that I have an airline-style crate, rather than the wire kind. For once, LESS ventilation was a good thing.
However, what to do about this was the question of the day. Well, it was the question for me. For my daughter, the question of the day was "why does it smell so bad in here". For my wife, the question of the day is mostly unprintable, and brings into serious question my relationship with several common household kitchen tools.
After a call to the breeder... OK, really it was after:
- straining my back lifting the crate and dog as a whole unit (I could have SWORN I said I was going to stop doing that!)
- carrying it out to the garage
- soaking dog, owner, and crate to the bone, while cleaning very little
- enduring continued withering spousal statements about male-ness in general and myself in particular
- assisting in renewed efforts to actually clean the mess while averting near-disaster involving a certain 2 1/2 year old and the aforementioned mess
After all that, I called the breeder who directed me to buy kaopectate chewable tablets. Which I drove off to do while wife and children left the house for the relative calm of a sale at K-Mart.
Now I should take a moment to mention that my wife's background is in the medical field, while I spent 4 years and many thousand dollars in New York pursuing a degree in Theater. My wife currently works in the field of medicine. I currently work as a computer geek. This should translate to the reader in the following way:
- I can present a really entertaining rendition of the class "DOS is your Friend"
- You never want me shopping for any medical supplies
So, although I was explicitly instructed to purchase chewable tablets, I bought adult capsules instead. Ignorant of this, I blithely proceeded home, toward certain disaster.
Up to this point, the only medical experience Tova and I had faced together were visits to the vet (where, at most, I was asked to "sit in the waiting room and not break things") and offering her the monthly HeartGuard brick, which Tova, despite repeated doses, confuses for candy and snaps up, occasionally causing me to re-count fingers just to make sure.
Back in the garage, I happily (if somewhat cautiously) extended my hand with the two caplets, figuring these would be confused, if not for crunchy treats, then perhaps hard candy.
Sniff.........snorf......
An unimpressed dog wanders away, eyeing the garden hose hanging on the wall with suspicion.
Maybe she just needs a taste to get her going. I jam a caplet past her front teeth, waiting to hear satisfied crunching noises.
You know that "picky eater" dog food commercial with the basset hound? The one where he spits the kibble out and watches it ricochet around the kitchen?
Just like that, only now I have a caplet-sized dent in my car.
Just as visions of syringes begin to dance in my head, I remember an old trick I saw a girlfriend do in high-school with her cocker-spaniel (no, not THAT trick!). I race inside and grab the tub of peanut butter. Not just a regular tub, either. My wife shops for *duration*, so these are the econo-size jobs.
Now I am faced with the delimma of one pill or two. Opting to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible, I dunk both pills together into the peanut butter jar, coming up with a plum-sized glop of PB. Forcing Tova's mouth open with the other hand, I skillfully jam the gooey mass into her mouth. Then I take both hands and hold her mouth shut for a moment.
Glufflle......shluck shluck shluck......gluffle...click!
Two pearly white pills clatter to the garage floor. I look irately at my dog, who sports a satisfied smile to go with the peanut butter smeared over the left side of her face. Remember, I used BOTH hands to hold her mouth shut.
Not content to be stupid once, I decide to try again. So I pick up the (now pasty-wet) pills, grab the container, and dunk again. Same result, except that the sound the pills make on exit is now more of a "splut" that a "click".
I admit defeat, spray down the half of the dog now covered in peanut butter, and go inside to clean up the half of me now covered in peanut butter.
My wife returns to survey the scene. It doesn't take long after "why are two pills missing from this box?" for her to get the rest of the picture. With a smile that only triumphantly superior wives can wear, she grabs a pill in one hand, the dog in the other. It is not lost on me that peanut butter, or any other condiment for that matter, is conspicuously absent. One pill goes to the back of the throat, and the muzzle is gently held closed. While rubbing her throat, my wife croons to the dog in the same voice she used to wake me up at 2:00am when our newborn puppy was crying to go out. Gently, nicely, with just a hint of a razor blade waiting in the wings. Tova rolls her eyes and gives a "Oh, you want me to *swallow*! Why didn't you say so?" look, and ....gluck....down goes pill one. Pill two goes even faster.
I now have a month's worth of PBJ sandwiches to eat.
Thursday, January 01, 1998
How NOT to Give a Dog a Bath, Part 2
It all started with a bowl of water. Make that 2 and a half bowls of water at 5:00am, on a day when my wife and I both work. Now I should explain that normally Tova is only in her cage for "calm down" times and those moments when my wife is out running errands or picking up the kids. In most cases she is outside enjoying the view of the back yard or inside wandering around the kitchen. But on Mondays and Tuesdays, due to combined work schedules, she suffers the ignominy of confinement from about 7:00 to 3:30, when I get home.
On this particular morning, after our 5:00 potty run, Tova decided that she was a pyr-fish, and guzzled down 2 and a half bowls of water. Happily ignorant of the truth in what I had done, I directed her back into the crate and trotted off to work.
When I returned home, there was a slight odor in the air. I was immediately leery, but saw no telltale puddles in the cage, so I thought that maybe it was just a case of gas. Of course, when I took her out of the cage I discovered Use Number 2 for Dog Hair - Nature's Handi-Wipe. I have only God to thank that she didn't choose this moment to practice the "shake" command.
Outside we went, for a quick airing-out. Snow or no snow, I didn't want her soaking any longer than necessary. Besides, I knew I could get ready and bring her back inside quickly.
I had just bought one of those bathtub-mini-shower thingies, a K-Mart special. Tova had been looking a little brown around the edges, so I was all set for bath anyway. At least that's what I thought.
Once again I cleared all chase-able things on the way from the garage through the kitchen to the hallway to the stairs up to the bathroom.
I grabbed a bundle of towels, emptied the bathroom of all chew-ables, and began to install the shower-attachment.
I should note that our house is not even a year old, and it was at this time I discovered that our spigots are all extra-wide. Wider, in fact, than any known adapter for those shower-things.
20 minutes and 6 plumbing attachments later, I decided to pitch the idea and just give the dog a plain old bath. I also remember that it was only 10 degrees outside (not counting wind chill).
While I have read about Pyr's in the winter and how cute those "drool-sicles" can be, let me state right now that "pee-sicles" are significantly less cute. Tova was, however, unfazed by the weather. Thank goodness for that.
Inside we go, through the kitchen she knows as home, into the hallway where we rarely are allowed, and up to the stairs. "Stairs?" she says "Don't like em. There's more than 2 up there. Think I'll pass.".
"Oh now get real" I say to myself. I go immediately into my doggy cheerleader role. "You can do this, I know you can!" No good. I tempt her with treats, and even wave the cat in front of her as bait. As tempting as the cat was, Tova still wasn't going to run up that massive number of steps (10).
From the amount of struggling, I am fairly certain Tova didn't enjoy being carried as much as I didn't enjoy carrying her. I can only hope this translates into a desire to revisit the stairs issue, and perhaps come to a decision about them that doesn't involve my back or feline body parts.
Finally into the bathroom, I began running the water. If Tova's expression was leery for the stairs, it was all-out panic for the bathtub. This was, of course, the moment my daughters chose to open the door and see how the bath was going. The act of knocking them over, however, slowed Tova enough that I was able to wrestle her down before she attempted to test un-modified canine aerodynamics over the railing.
A short while later the bathtub was full, my children were tethered to the toilet, Tova was locked with me in the bathroom, and I was ready for a nap.
Into the water she went, and the dog who found 10 stairs impossible to traverse was now attempting to scale a 90-degree sheer wall made of wet tile. Some animals are so fickle.
Lacking the shower-thingy, I began the cup-and-dunk routine. My daughters were only too willing to help, and so Tova quickly learned to turn her body away from wherever they were, in order to avoid drowning.
Shampoo was next. Tova lathered up very nicely. So did my two-year-old. I caught her fast enough to save half the 16-oz bottle of shampoo. She won't need to wash her hair for another month. The 5-year-old was enchanted to see Tova licking the bubbles. Tried it herself but wasn't impressed. Fed it to the 2 year old which was significantly more fun. Both children were then exiled from the bathroom.
The rest of the bath was (relatively) uneventful, but was a major pain the back. Literally. Soaping and rinsing a furry 55lb dog takes *a lot* longer than a fur-less 35 lb child.
I still couldn't find a way to make Tova shake. No, blowing in her ear didn't help. It certainly did elicit chuckles from my wife, however. Remembering the scarring from my last attempt to "squeegee" the water out of Tova's fur, I opted for the "squeezee" method this time. Tova looked irked, but I finished with all my digits in tact and relatively few open wounds.
I lined the floor with towels and let her out of the bathtub, figuring to toss and towel over and begin drying in earnest. Tova hopped out with a sigh of relief. I turned to grab the big towel. Tova figured it was a good time to shake. There must be a class during the day while everyone is out that Tova goes to teach her these things.
Not happy with being bitten, scratched, soaped, wetted, and braided (the last done by the 5-year old while I was distracted rinsing dog shampoo out of the 2-year old), I decided to round out my day by adding pummeled, run-over, and burned. I got out the hairdryer. I have since been told that most people put the dog into a crate as a safety feature for both themselves and the dog.
Tova was now mostly dry, so I called it quits and began moving downstairs. Of course, Tova wouldn't go down them either. She then had the nerve to look surprised as I put her back into her (cleaned) crate, rather than be allowed to walk around the house for a while.
Meanwhile, I stripped down to my underwear, got a glass of water and 6 Advil, opened the phone book, and began looking under "D" for "Dog Grooming Services".
On this particular morning, after our 5:00 potty run, Tova decided that she was a pyr-fish, and guzzled down 2 and a half bowls of water. Happily ignorant of the truth in what I had done, I directed her back into the crate and trotted off to work.
When I returned home, there was a slight odor in the air. I was immediately leery, but saw no telltale puddles in the cage, so I thought that maybe it was just a case of gas. Of course, when I took her out of the cage I discovered Use Number 2 for Dog Hair - Nature's Handi-Wipe. I have only God to thank that she didn't choose this moment to practice the "shake" command.
Outside we went, for a quick airing-out. Snow or no snow, I didn't want her soaking any longer than necessary. Besides, I knew I could get ready and bring her back inside quickly.
I had just bought one of those bathtub-mini-shower thingies, a K-Mart special. Tova had been looking a little brown around the edges, so I was all set for bath anyway. At least that's what I thought.
Once again I cleared all chase-able things on the way from the garage through the kitchen to the hallway to the stairs up to the bathroom.
I grabbed a bundle of towels, emptied the bathroom of all chew-ables, and began to install the shower-attachment.
I should note that our house is not even a year old, and it was at this time I discovered that our spigots are all extra-wide. Wider, in fact, than any known adapter for those shower-things.
20 minutes and 6 plumbing attachments later, I decided to pitch the idea and just give the dog a plain old bath. I also remember that it was only 10 degrees outside (not counting wind chill).
While I have read about Pyr's in the winter and how cute those "drool-sicles" can be, let me state right now that "pee-sicles" are significantly less cute. Tova was, however, unfazed by the weather. Thank goodness for that.
Inside we go, through the kitchen she knows as home, into the hallway where we rarely are allowed, and up to the stairs. "Stairs?" she says "Don't like em. There's more than 2 up there. Think I'll pass.".
"Oh now get real" I say to myself. I go immediately into my doggy cheerleader role. "You can do this, I know you can!" No good. I tempt her with treats, and even wave the cat in front of her as bait. As tempting as the cat was, Tova still wasn't going to run up that massive number of steps (10).
From the amount of struggling, I am fairly certain Tova didn't enjoy being carried as much as I didn't enjoy carrying her. I can only hope this translates into a desire to revisit the stairs issue, and perhaps come to a decision about them that doesn't involve my back or feline body parts.
Finally into the bathroom, I began running the water. If Tova's expression was leery for the stairs, it was all-out panic for the bathtub. This was, of course, the moment my daughters chose to open the door and see how the bath was going. The act of knocking them over, however, slowed Tova enough that I was able to wrestle her down before she attempted to test un-modified canine aerodynamics over the railing.
A short while later the bathtub was full, my children were tethered to the toilet, Tova was locked with me in the bathroom, and I was ready for a nap.
Into the water she went, and the dog who found 10 stairs impossible to traverse was now attempting to scale a 90-degree sheer wall made of wet tile. Some animals are so fickle.
Lacking the shower-thingy, I began the cup-and-dunk routine. My daughters were only too willing to help, and so Tova quickly learned to turn her body away from wherever they were, in order to avoid drowning.
Shampoo was next. Tova lathered up very nicely. So did my two-year-old. I caught her fast enough to save half the 16-oz bottle of shampoo. She won't need to wash her hair for another month. The 5-year-old was enchanted to see Tova licking the bubbles. Tried it herself but wasn't impressed. Fed it to the 2 year old which was significantly more fun. Both children were then exiled from the bathroom.
The rest of the bath was (relatively) uneventful, but was a major pain the back. Literally. Soaping and rinsing a furry 55lb dog takes *a lot* longer than a fur-less 35 lb child.
I still couldn't find a way to make Tova shake. No, blowing in her ear didn't help. It certainly did elicit chuckles from my wife, however. Remembering the scarring from my last attempt to "squeegee" the water out of Tova's fur, I opted for the "squeezee" method this time. Tova looked irked, but I finished with all my digits in tact and relatively few open wounds.
I lined the floor with towels and let her out of the bathtub, figuring to toss and towel over and begin drying in earnest. Tova hopped out with a sigh of relief. I turned to grab the big towel. Tova figured it was a good time to shake. There must be a class during the day while everyone is out that Tova goes to teach her these things.
Not happy with being bitten, scratched, soaped, wetted, and braided (the last done by the 5-year old while I was distracted rinsing dog shampoo out of the 2-year old), I decided to round out my day by adding pummeled, run-over, and burned. I got out the hairdryer. I have since been told that most people put the dog into a crate as a safety feature for both themselves and the dog.
Tova was now mostly dry, so I called it quits and began moving downstairs. Of course, Tova wouldn't go down them either. She then had the nerve to look surprised as I put her back into her (cleaned) crate, rather than be allowed to walk around the house for a while.
Meanwhile, I stripped down to my underwear, got a glass of water and 6 Advil, opened the phone book, and began looking under "D" for "Dog Grooming Services".
Saturday, November 01, 1997
How NOT to Give a Dog a Bath, Part 1
A momentous occasion indeed: The run has been completed, and I don't mean that I've taken up jogging. 32' by 8', with a view of both the front and back yards. Tova can truly be the queen of all she surveys.
I came home and found the job finished (and not even a bill left in the mailbox - hahahahaha!), and decided that Tova should "christen" it that very moment. Out of the crate, on with the leash, whoosh! out the door, and into the run. It was then and only then that I realized a couple of very important items:
Ignorant of the truth of this situation, I decided that she deserved a good romp, so I left her for a few minutes while I attended to other household chores.
When I returned, I found someone had swapped my white pyrenees for a black, brown, and white Bernese Mountain dog. "Where is Tova?" I asked. Confusion dripped along with layers of mud off this new animal's face.
Something had to be done. Debbie wasn't due home for another hour, so I had time to screw up 3 or 4 more times. True to my nature, I found the most expedient method: give the dog a shower.
Leaving the Tova-impersonator in the run (when I return, I bet it will be a black lab!) I grabbed some towels, rags, etc. Then I cleared the area from the garage (first floor) to the shower (upstairs master bathroom) of anything that might look remotely chase-able to a wet, muddy dog.
Shucking off my cloths in favor of old swimming trunks (this dog is still in the biting phase, and I'm not taking any chances!), I went out into the garage (I found it was much colder outside without a coat) opened the door, and greeted the mud-monster. I picked her up. I realized I won't be able to do that particular maneuver much longer! And inside and up the stairs I went.
Everything was OK in my mind until we hit the first piece of carpet. Then I realized that there is no effective way to squeegee a dog, nor had I even tried. So there may have been a humungous mud-glob just waiting to fall any second. So there I went, withering under the weight of my pet, praying to any god who will listen "please don't drip! please don't drip!" Tova, perhaps realizing the precariousness of her position and her chances of surviving another day if she touched the floor, did her best not to drip.
We got to, and into the shower. Turned on the water.
I would like to state here and now that Pyrenees are glorious creatures. They look regal in almost any situation. Except wet. And I think the dog knows it, too. A forlorn look swept across Tova's face as her hair melted against her skin, leaving her looking like an enormous albino Chihuahua with a bad case of cellulite.
I made a mental note to get one of those sprayer nozzles that hook up to the spigot. This note was bumped up the list of current priorities when I attempted to lift Tova and hold her on her back under the shower spray in order to get all the belly-mud off.
I discovered that wet dog hair is nearly impossible to get off your hands, and that you should _never_ touch your face with it.(ptew! ptew!!)
I discovered my dog still doesn't understand the command "shake", nor is there an effective way to show her. Despite my every effort to emulate the action, I've determined that it must feel to the dog very different than it looks, because she only looked up at me with that same forlorn expression, I'm sure thinking "Oh great. They'll start him on Prozac any second. Then he'll never remember to feed me."
I found that it _is_ possible to squeegee your soaking wet clean dog, but only once. Ever. The claw marks will heal, I'm sure.
After a shower of this magnitude, what could be better than a good brushing? I didn't ask Tova this, of course, because the answer would have been too long and contain many words I know I haven't taught her yet.
I discovered it _is_ possible to use the slicka brush too much. The hair will regrow, I'm sure.
We are all a bit wiser now. There are 4 tons of 53 gravel in my driveway, waiting to be wheelbarrowed into the run. We are looking at getting warm water in the garage, and one of those shower spigot thingies. Tova knows that the brushing will go easier and nobody gets hurt if everyone remains calm.
My wife knows not to leave me home alone with the dog.
I came home and found the job finished (and not even a bill left in the mailbox - hahahahaha!), and decided that Tova should "christen" it that very moment. Out of the crate, on with the leash, whoosh! out the door, and into the run. It was then and only then that I realized a couple of very important items:
- it was raining
- it had been raining for 2 days
- no grass had grown in this particular spot
- the run had no stones put in, either.
Ignorant of the truth of this situation, I decided that she deserved a good romp, so I left her for a few minutes while I attended to other household chores.
When I returned, I found someone had swapped my white pyrenees for a black, brown, and white Bernese Mountain dog. "Where is Tova?" I asked. Confusion dripped along with layers of mud off this new animal's face.
Something had to be done. Debbie wasn't due home for another hour, so I had time to screw up 3 or 4 more times. True to my nature, I found the most expedient method: give the dog a shower.
Leaving the Tova-impersonator in the run (when I return, I bet it will be a black lab!) I grabbed some towels, rags, etc. Then I cleared the area from the garage (first floor) to the shower (upstairs master bathroom) of anything that might look remotely chase-able to a wet, muddy dog.
Shucking off my cloths in favor of old swimming trunks (this dog is still in the biting phase, and I'm not taking any chances!), I went out into the garage (I found it was much colder outside without a coat) opened the door, and greeted the mud-monster. I picked her up. I realized I won't be able to do that particular maneuver much longer! And inside and up the stairs I went.
Everything was OK in my mind until we hit the first piece of carpet. Then I realized that there is no effective way to squeegee a dog, nor had I even tried. So there may have been a humungous mud-glob just waiting to fall any second. So there I went, withering under the weight of my pet, praying to any god who will listen "please don't drip! please don't drip!" Tova, perhaps realizing the precariousness of her position and her chances of surviving another day if she touched the floor, did her best not to drip.
We got to, and into the shower. Turned on the water.
I would like to state here and now that Pyrenees are glorious creatures. They look regal in almost any situation. Except wet. And I think the dog knows it, too. A forlorn look swept across Tova's face as her hair melted against her skin, leaving her looking like an enormous albino Chihuahua with a bad case of cellulite.
I made a mental note to get one of those sprayer nozzles that hook up to the spigot. This note was bumped up the list of current priorities when I attempted to lift Tova and hold her on her back under the shower spray in order to get all the belly-mud off.
I discovered that wet dog hair is nearly impossible to get off your hands, and that you should _never_ touch your face with it.(ptew! ptew!!)
I discovered my dog still doesn't understand the command "shake", nor is there an effective way to show her. Despite my every effort to emulate the action, I've determined that it must feel to the dog very different than it looks, because she only looked up at me with that same forlorn expression, I'm sure thinking "Oh great. They'll start him on Prozac any second. Then he'll never remember to feed me."
I found that it _is_ possible to squeegee your soaking wet clean dog, but only once. Ever. The claw marks will heal, I'm sure.
After a shower of this magnitude, what could be better than a good brushing? I didn't ask Tova this, of course, because the answer would have been too long and contain many words I know I haven't taught her yet.
I discovered it _is_ possible to use the slicka brush too much. The hair will regrow, I'm sure.
We are all a bit wiser now. There are 4 tons of 53 gravel in my driveway, waiting to be wheelbarrowed into the run. We are looking at getting warm water in the garage, and one of those shower spigot thingies. Tova knows that the brushing will go easier and nobody gets hurt if everyone remains calm.
My wife knows not to leave me home alone with the dog.
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