Category Archives: dogs

Top Dog (For Sunday Stills)

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and very quickly grew into top dog,
be it top of the steps
For the fifteen or more years Frida lived with me, this is where she was most of the time, checking out the neighborhood and occasionally barking at someone who didn’t belong there.
First there was Frida, then Diego
Frida was suspicious
Morrie looking up hopefully
Morrie in his younger days was my houses’s main pest. His consumption of three dog beds and a cat bed within a month’s period had something to do with it. When I got back from my writing retreat in December, Morrie had totally torn up Frida’s bed and left Diego’s untouched. Bad boy!!!
He said: Bow
Sadly, Frida left us, leaving Morrie and Frida to tussle it out over who was top dog.
And Frida’s ashes went into this effigy which we concreted in place on her favorite place on the dome, to watch for as long as I have any say in the matter.
I only hope she is watching and knows.
Well, I am, Mom.
Yoli thought Brian was top dog, from the first.
Diego has had a few embarrassing periods he thought unbecoming to a top dog.
where he found other dogs to feel superior to.
and surprise, surprise, Diego sorta missed her..

For Sunday Stills: Top Dog

Eyes behind Glass

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Click to enlarge photos.

 

 

For Nancy’s Photo a Week Challenge: Eyes

Bend and Stretch

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He is so tiny, rolled in a ball
that you can barely see him at all,
but when his favorite people happen to call,
then he stretches out and tries to be tall!

 

Life with Brian

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Shortly after I dealt with Annie’s disappearance, I heard a boy’s voice from inside my house. It was Oscar, Yolanda’s son, with Brian, his sister Yoli’s chihuahua, resplendent in a red sweater with hood with big three-dimensional eyeballs on top. Pablo, Yolanda’s husband, has kidney failure and is going to have to undergo periodic dialysis in his home. For this reason there can be no animals in the house and they have two dogs. Up until now they’ve just put them in the spare fenced yard next door, but it is of course heartbreaking so guess who Brian’s next designated master is?  (Yoli, Yolanda’s daughter named him after a hero of hers–a character in a movie about cars. We cannot figure out who this character is.) UPDATE: The dr. decided the emotional harm to Pablo in losing Brian outweighed the harm of having a dog in the house  (Even the dr. was crying when he saw how upset Pablo was) so with the new air cleaning machine I gave Pablo for Xmas and their promises that Brian would be confined to Yoli’s room, the dr. gave his permission for them to bring Brian home. Everyone so happy. Brian the happiest. I have a video of his reaction when he saw the family again.. I’ll show it as soon as I get the sound off.  Won’t tell you why.

So far he gets along fine with Kukla, the female outside cat and Morrie, the Scottie, but he’s scared of Diego who is not mean but overenthusiastic and I heard a loud few yips when Ollie, the male outside cat, came home. So, for now he goes in the front garden with the cats when I’m gone or when he needs air and I’ll leave the door to the backyard open a bit so he can slip through the bars if he wants to go play with Morrie, but so he can escape from Diego if he needs to.

As for Annie? She absolutely ignores him. Pretends she’s asleep. Keep them permanently confused. That’s the secret of my success with animals. Only problem is that Brian insists on lying on my lap while I’m at the computer which is not very comfortable. Where he will sleep? Well, that is to be seen.

 

These are a few photos of the first ten hours of life with Brian.

Dog Language

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Dog Language

It’s true I can decipher after all these years
every little wiggle, each twitching of their ears.
See that head’s uplifting? The garbageman is near.
That ruff of neck spells danger. Tail between legs means fear.

One whine warns of a squirrel invading territory
intended for two dogs alone. Then barks are mandatory!
Sirens were meant for harmony—their plaintive howls a must.
Head bowed down submissively signals respect and trust.

They also know my language. When I move to the door
three rooms away to feed the cats, I hear their hungry roar.
Up against the back door, starving paws commence to scrape.
If I had plans to skip their meal, now there is no escape.

It is their task to let me know when feeding time is close,
and when I move at snail’s pace, they become quite verbose.
The younger dog, much better trained, awaits me in his cage,
surprised at how the older dog dares to jump and rage.

Ordered outside, he edges closer, full of twists and flounces.
The minute that the bowls are lowered, he charges in and pounces.
Then each is most fastidious in licking clean his plate,
fearing that starvation is a likely fate.

They keep a vigilant watch on me, peering through the bars
between the terrace and kitchen, as I open jars.
They hear the fridge door opening, they see each morsel fall.
If they ever get inside, they will devour them all.

And when perchance they sneak inside, against their master’s wishes,
take on the chore of licking clean all the old cat’s dishes.
How else might they show gratitude, with no words to express it?
They simply have to wag their tails and hope that I might guess it!

Prompt words today are fastidious, task, uplifting, decipher and snail.

Leftovers

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In honor of Canadian Thanksgiving and looking forward to ours later this month, this poem is dedicated to Morrie and Diego, who profit from all culinary events in my house:

Leftovers
(Dedicated to Two Hopeful Dogs)

Crying for our leftovers won’t bring you any favors.
You will not taste their textures or masticate their flavors
if you stand there begging. Those winsome looks aren’t working.
Nor are your lapsing manners—your twisting and your jerking.

Hunger doesn’t justify your unwelcome behavior.
Before we even sat down, we saw Grandpa was your savior,
slipping you a turkey leg he had dipped in gravy.
(That leg I’d saved for leftovers–a turkey sandwich, maybe.)

Our home-cooked meal? Delicious. That you already know.
When I cooked the pies, I fed you scraps of dough.
The turkey giblets boiled for gravy, later went to you.
When I cooked the cranberries, you even ate a few.

You licked the pumpkin bowl so clean. You licked the beater blade
when I whipped the cream for pies. Dear ones, you had it made.
So when you beg for leftovers, I’ll just ignore your fuss.
You ate before the guests, dears. Leftovers are for us!

Prompts for today are winsome, manner, justify, leftovers and home.

Tongues and Tails

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Tongues and Tails

Click on first photo to enlarge all, please. 

Yes, a candle has a tail, too.
And so do caterpillars. At least this one does.
and flowers.
Diego has had a few embarrassing periods he thought unbecoming to a top dog.
THE END

For Cee’s B&W Tongues and Tails challenge.

Dogs

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Dogs

Dogs following their masters, close upon their heels.
Dogs waiting under tables, patiently, for meals.
Dogs sitting at attention or looking for their balls.
Dogs patiently waiting for their masters’ calls.

Dogs upon the sofa, shedding all their hairs.
Dogs listening for a certain car, on the front porch stairs.
Some dogs travel as luggage. Others stay at home.
When masters get their leashes out, that’s when they get to roam.

Sitting on the rooftop or waiting in their lairs,
some dogs live as singles. Others roam in pairs.
Strolling ‘round the pool or sunning at the beach,
one dog or another is rarely out of reach.

Some dogs simply have to finish what they start.
First it’s just a little tug, but soon things fall apart.
Then they get in trouble for what was meant as fun.
That’s why they look so innocent after they are done!

Why were they given teeth at all If they weren’t meant to use them?
It wasn’t their intention, when they started, to abuse them!
Their collars and their leashes incite their excitation
as harbingers of their favorite recreation,

but other types of collars are labelled cones of shame.
Hard for dogs to understand that they are not to blame.
So many different types of dogs and different types of masters,
but all agree their good points atone for their disasters.

(Click on any photo to enlarge all.)

Frida was suspicious

 

For Ragtag’s prompt, “Dog“.

Wednesday in the Hammock with Morrie

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There is a commentary that goes with these photos.  To see it and to enlarge them all, click on the first photo. The arrow on the right of the photo will take you to the next photo.  Have fun! Morrie and I want to share our afternoon with you. He’s narrating.

She enjoyed looking at the lawn Pasiano had just mowed that morning. I tried to help by nipping at his heels, but he got a bit testy, so I retired to my bed in the doggie domain.
She then saw Ganesha staring at her from across the way. He’s the patron of writers, which reminded her she had a book to read.
So she read a few lines before. . . .
In spite of Diego’s best efforts to win me away from Morrie, Morrie had the advantage of being small enough to lie in the hammock with me. Once he tried to jump up with us, which created a lot of excitement.
For once, although he is twice my size, I have the upper hand. I taunt him with my smile!
Once we are settled, mom gives up trying to read and we have another look around.
We see a little sprout growing from the tarred area where the men cut off the big limb when they cut back the pistachio tree.
Some of the foliage is starting to come back
One of the limbs had a little decoration hanging from it, so they left just enough of it to support the wire it was hanging from. Mom kind of had a laugh at that.
We could see the birds and butterflies still alighting in the tabachine tree.
A cardinal perched on the top of a cactus for such a short time that Mom couldn’t focus fast enough, so she didn’t get a very good shot.
Mom had a massage today and I saw him rubbing her feet.
But she didn’t get the hint.
So I settled back to take it easty.

The Suspect

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Who, Me????

The Suspect

I suspect you are the guilty one. The evidence is clear,
and as a further indication, you’re acting rather queer.
Those pork chops just left in the pan a short while ago
are nowhere to be seen now, though I’ve looked both high and low.
I don’t know where the bones have gone, but I have a suspicion
that when you last entered the house, those chops were your ambition!
I left the room for minutes and came back, much perturbed,
to find the skillet empty, albeit undisturbed,
still centered on the burner with not even one chop.
So now I fear my dinner guests are going to have to stop
to pick us up a pizza as they drive here from town,
for when I left the pork chops on the stove top to get brown,
SOMEONE helped himself to them. Mind, I’m not pointing fingers,
but as you skulk out of the room, still, my suspicion lingers.
You are a likely felon, dear little doggie mine.
I think you’d have no chance in a doggie suspect line!

 

True story.  Six pork chops!!! Skillet still centered over the flame, not one inch out of alignment. Later on, a mysterious stash of pork chop bones found by the gardener in the lower garden behind the studio.

Fandango’s prompt today is suspect.