A Weekend Without Canine Carnage

The dogs were awfully good this weekend. Which, naturally, makes me very suspicious.

I’d like to think that Darwin is learning to obey me when I call for him to come in and stop barking at cars. But, really, he was probably just cold. The wind chill stayed between -15 to -20F for two full days.

We had no fights this weekend, and while I’m glad that I didn’t have to flood my kitchen again in an attempt to prevent bloodshed, I now find myself watching them closely and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

We did buy an air horn on Saturday, which is reportedly a good way to scare the living daylights out of dogs who are in the process of trying to dismember each other. I haven’t tested it to see what the response might be, though, because I don’t want to spoil the surprise. I’m counting on the ear-splitting blast of noise to temporarily replace their bloodlust with terror and allow me a chance to separate the combatants without unnecessary risk to life or limb. This reaction would probably be lessened if they got a sneak preview.

After we got back from lunch on Saturday, we were home with them the rest of the weekend, and I spent much of the time tossing the three younger dogs outside in various combinations, especially when they all decided to be awake and interactive at the same time. Since Darwin was coming in without a whole lot of trouble when I’d call him, it worked out fairly well. I struck the balance between too much chaos indoors and too many bark-blast assaults on the neighbors’ eardrums, so relative peace and tranquility reigned.

I did discover that Ozark’s left ear is super-gunky again. I guess the fact that he’s been shaking his head for two weeks should have been my first clue. For the first couple of years we had him, his left ear was chronically infected, regardless of how many times I treated it. When I got all the dogs on a primarily raw diet, it finally cleared up. I have no idea why it’s gone all gross this time, but he is now reacquainted with the joys of having me flush his ear and dig around in there with a washcloth, as well as regular applications of ear medication. He is less than thrilled with the experience.

On the average day, I probably wander out to the kitchen about 27 times. I don’t know how Ozark knows the one time that I’m going out there to get the ear medication, but he does. Sometimes I don’t even know that’s why I’m going out there. I go out for a Diet Dr. Pepper, remember the ear meds, and grab them as an afterthought. You wouldn’t think a 110-pound dog could vanish like a puff of smoke, but this one does. I eventually track him down, though, and it takes all of three seconds to put the drops in his ears, so I fail to see why it upsets him so much. He refuses to discuss it, indicating that his perceived level of trauma is extreme.

The other fun-with-dogs experience this weekend was brushing Darwin. When he came to us at the end of November, he’d recently had to have a bunch of gigantic mats chopped out of his coat, revealing sores on his legs, tail and abdomen. Poor guy! Apparently every hair he’d grown since he shed his puppy coat was still attached somewhere on his emaciated little body.

I’d noticed recently that he was “tufting.” That’s what I call it when those cottony little tufts of undercoat appear through the guard hairs. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a “picker.” This readily translates beyond my own scabs, zits and sunburns, to the dogs. Those little tufts demand to be picked. I’ll be sitting on the couch, pulling downy wads of undercoat from one dog or another, and thoughtfully depositing them between the couch and the end table, so as not to make a huge mess on the carpet. My husband fails to comprehend the “thoughtful” part of this, since he believes that even the hair that is not immediately visible (in the middle of the floor) should still be picked up and placed in the trash. Yeah, yeah, I will. Eventually. (Translation: Probably sometime next week. If I remember.) In the meantime, there I sit, happily running my fingers through the dog’s coat, like a monkey grooming his mate for lice, and Tom will say, “Lor. Stop plucking the dog.” Nope. Can’t. Sorry. The magnitude of the disappointment in his sigh indicates that somewhere deep down he still harbors the hope of rehabilitating me.

Darwin had been “pluckable” for a couple of weeks, so I took this as a sign that the fabulous nutrition he is now receiving is stimulating him to grow a healthy coat again. Yay, Darwin! Sunday I decided it was time for his first official thorough brush-out. I gathered my implements of torture… I mean my grooming tools. Undercoat rake, pin brush, comb, nail trimmers, scissors, grooming spray and slicker brush. Good to go! Thankfully, he was one happy little camper and seemed to enjoy the experience. The sores he had are healed and sporting long, wispy new hair growth. But what amazed me was the amount of undercoat that came out! In defiance of the laws of physics, we removed a volume of fur that exceeded the volume of the actual dog. Can anyone explain to me how that works???

Oh, and here’s a tip. Avoid grooming your dog while wearing a velour track suit.

Ultimately, he was left with no undercoat on his body, other than the backs of his rear legs. This lack of insulation is probably a more significant factor in his willingness to come in when called than a sudden surge of obedient behavior. After thinking about the huge, billowy clouds of undercoat all over the living room, I believe it’s part of his detoxifying process. He’s blowing all the old fur in preparation for growing his full, healthy new fur.

Upon further thought, I’m a wee bit concerned. If he can blow this much coat so soon after a lifetime of neglect and malnutrition, how much fur is this dog going to have when he’s fully recovered and healthy? It’s a good thing I have the best groomer in the world (Tara at Little Suzie’s Pet Parlor, if you were interested). I’d hoped to be able to continue to groom Sprocket and Darwin at home, and only have to pay for Ozark and Brody to be professionally groomed. But if Darwin is this furry now, a visit to Tara is definitely in his springtime future.

He looks really great after his brushing. Of course now I have nothing to pluck, though Ozark is looking a little tufty lately… As long as I stay away from his left ear, we should be fine.

I guess the wisest thing to do is relax and enjoy the peace and harmony while it lasts. Maybe I’ll never have to use the air horn, which would probably be a good thing. It’s entirely possible that it will scare me as much as the dogs and I will wet my pants. Or the looks on their faces as they freeze in mid-chomp could make me laugh myself silly, missing the opportunity to separate them before the “surprise” wears off, and probably still wetting my pants.

It simply wouldn’t do for my own dogs to believe that out of all of us, I am the one who isn’t fully housebroken.