Every dog has a signature move.
They have some weird quirk, or funny game, or strange physical ability. Every single one. If your dog doesn’t, it just means you haven’t noticed it.
Riker, our two-hundred-pound Anatolian shepherd was, literally, a big crybaby.
He cried when he wanted love. He would lay in the living room, look as pitiful as caninely possible and weep and wail. He also cried at night when he went to bed, until I went over and tucked him in with his blanket and gave him a goodnight kiss.
Yeah, he wasn’t spoiled at all.
But the big payoff was when you went over and showed him some love, he would actually purr. Like a sofa-sized kitty. Purr.
When we go on walks, Crowley, our current pup, has one of the nuttiest moves I’ve ever seen.
He’ll take a few steps, lower his left shoulder, and drop like he’s been shot. Then he lays there, on his side, and laughs while looking to see if I’m watching him. If it’s not 1000 degrees or I’m not in a rush, I run over and make a huge fuss over him, “Oh poor Crowley fell over! Whatever shall we do?” He thinks the whole production is hilarious.
Turns out, it’s the actual technique for stuntmen to fall dramatically and also something the army teaches for hand-to-hand combat. I’m not quite sure how Mr. Crowley Pants learned it, but I’m seriously thinking about trying to get him a gig as a self-defense instructor.
All the love and knowledge that I have to show my dogs came from the original dog; Fluffy.
We got him when we lived in Puerto Rico. He was the surprise love child of a chow and a Borinquen terrior, which was the colloquial term for a mutt of indeterminate lineage. He and I would sit on the curb, watch the world go by, and share a Charms pop (I took a lick, he got a lick…).
My big brother Homer who was also stationed in Puerto Rico adopted Fluffy’s brother. Unlike his black, extremely hirsute littermate, Eric was short-haired and as red as Opie Taylor’s tresses.
As for Fluffy’s move, he jumped.
He didn’t leap into swimming pools like those frenetic pooches you see on ESPN when there are no human sports to televise. He didn’t jump over felled trees and across brooks and streams like National Velvet.
From a sitting position, he would leap straight up. If you held a piece of cheese as high as you could, he would vault toward the ceiling, grab the nosh, and land again into a sitting position. And all in the blink of an eye.
My dad is 6’4” and his reach is somewhat north of eight feet. No sweat for Fluffy. That dog would make Zion Williamson weep with jealousy.
He had one other odd “talent”.
In San Diego, we lived in a house with a chimney. In that chimney was a beehive. Periodically a bee would fly out of said chimney. The first time we saw it after we moved in, Mom freaked. She was just about to call an exterminator when Fluffy walked over and caught it and ate it.
We were afraid he’d get stung and swell up and get sick. Never happened. The dog just loved the taste of bees. And for the entire time we lived in that house, Fluffy never missed one.
That dog and his insect predilection would have come in very handy a few weeks ago. Instead of stinging me more than twenty times, Fluffy could’ve just gobbled them up.
Thanks for your time.
Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.
I started visiting because my Yugo-sized dog Crowley is obsessed with birds of every kind.
When the winter came to an end, two couples; a pair of Canadian geese and some mallards decided to stay and set up housekeeping.
Once the eggs hatch though, and the male regains the power of flight, he’s history.
Then the geese mate for life. The female makes a nest and lays four to nine eggs. She sits on the nest with the gander nearby. They also molt now, and for the four weeks the eggs take to hatch, the female doesn’t get up, eat, or drink.
Crowley and I visited the pond every day. Soon five tiny ducklings and four little goslings made an appearance. Like a scene out of Robert McClusky’s Make Way for Ducklings, tiny fuzzy birds walked in straight lines with parents both leading the way and bringing up the rear.
The route we use takes us through a field, then out onto the sidewalk of a busy road about fifty yards from the pond. As we came around, I noticed something in the street that looked like a tree stump. As I was trying to convince myself it must have fallen off the back of a landscaper’s truck, we got closer.
The next morning, I hurried to the pond.
My best guess is the male made a test flight to try out his regrown feathers which weren’t quite ready, and he fell into the path of a car. But he was a good mate and a good dad.
Thanks for your time./cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/52469365/shutterstock_531291301.0.jpeg)
Here’s something I’ll bet you didn’t know:
But I do have some fresh ones for 2019.
On the flip side, I need to consider the consequences of my actions. Before I let rip with a one-liner which is hilarious in my head, I must put myself in the other’s shoes, and determine how that witticism would impact my feelings.
I need to speak much less and listen more. There is no telling what truths and wisdoms I never heard because what I wanted to say had to be said immediately. How many people were there that needed me to just shut up and receive the trust of which they felt I was worthy? How many moments of intimacy and human connection did I damage or destroy because I thought my words were more important than theirs?
I promise to regularly venture outside my comfort zone. At least three times in the coming year I will read books from unfamiliar numbers of the Dewey decimal system. I will sample more than ten new foods. Listen to unfamiliar musical genres and watch movies that I would not normally see. And, each month try an increasingly spicy dish.
I will acknowledge that my judgement is not superior to the rest of the planet. No more lessons, lectures, or pointing out the errors of the ways of my fellow man. On a related note, I am also not the hall monitor of the world. If it’s not hurting anyone, what other folks do is none of my business. Although, I do reserve the right to point and laugh—discretely.
And finally, be more grateful. For everything. For the good things in my life; but that’s easy. I want to be grateful for the tough things in my life, because those are the things that temper the soul, make us stronger, and give us confidence once on the other side.
Some people love the summer. They love the sun, and the heat, and the beach. They adore the green, fertile earth, and the sounds of birds and crickets. They look forward to the long days, baseball games, and cookouts.
They’re Canadian, British, or live in northern New England. If a North Carolina resident says this to you they’re either lying or transplants who’ve never had the peculiar joy of receiving twelve brand new mosquito bites walking to the mailbox. Or paying $75 for a blow-out and have the humidity make your new coiffure transform into a cheap fright wig in the time it takes to walk from salon to car.
All honest North Carolinians must admit that our summer is a hellish endurance contest. Research tells us that native Alaskans have 280 names for snow. People living in the heart of Carolina have 187 names for sweat. And, another 72 for chafing.
I’m usually over our summer by about May 14th. Then I exist in sweaty limbo until the weather breaks.
Almost every day I put on my wellies, and the dog and I disappear for hours into the woods. We follow paths and make our own. We climb, and jump, and splash through puddles, ditches, and creeks. And occasionally, when the Akita known as Crowley is nose-deep in a hollow tree and still for a moment, I take a look around.
It is the very definition of beautiful. Even the lane cut and maintained by the natural gas folks looks like a Hollywood set for an autumnal movie. The underbrush has died back, making the forest floor manicured and verdant. Leaves with colors Titian had no name for dance and swirl in the breeze. The air has a crystal quality that makes everything look glossy and photogenic.
And this ostentatious, glorious Monet landscape is only one block from my house. I wouldn’t trade it for ten pairs of Stuart Weitzman boots and all the Lindt milk chocolate truffles in Christendom (but it’s probably best that no one’s ever offered me that deal…).
I treasure my solitary hours among the trees—all of it. I can loudly, badly, sing along to Aretha Franklin with no one to critique, but seconds later stumble into giant, sticky spiderwebs or briar patches that leave me plucking thorns from bloodied flesh.
So this week, Gentle Reader; I urge you to take it outside. And you can do it gently. Drink your morning coffee on the porch. Sit outside with the kids while they do their homework. Eat lunch al fresco (Outside, not naked, but hey, you do you.).
Thanks for your time.
I’m a sucker for a puppy (and all dogs are puppies—always, no matter their age or size).
It’s not just a good idea, it’s vital to do some research on dogs in general, and specifically, the breed in which you’re interested. My family had no idea that in addition to being more energetic than a bus full of sugared-up cheerleaders, they’re hounds, which means they’re loud. Really loud. Like, bloodhound loud.
Honest, she showed up, dripping in malodorous “mud”, hair completely ruined, and thermonuclear danger in her eye.
Fluffy was the one that taught me that a dog can be your very best friend, full of constant, unconditional love. The two of us used to sit on the curb in front of our house and share Charm’s lollipops. We’d take turns, lick for lick.
bull city mom 