Cooking for Poochie and Little Doggy Rockstar

 Because of my love of large, fluffy things, Poochie has been declared overweight by her Veterinarian. And as such, she has been on a diet since November. For the first couple days, she was upset that her snacks consisted of baby carrots, apples, and ice cubes. Gradually, she grew to accept and even enjoy these healthy snacks.
But she knew with the special canine knowing that dogs know that she had a whole bag of small, multi-colored bone-shaped cookies in the pantry. Over the years, she has conditioned me to open the pantry door when she stands there and scratch at it. She really is very smart. But so am I! After a few weeks of cringing and apologizing to her that I couldn't give her snacks for just being cuddly and adorable (I mean, come on, at least fold the laundry or shovel the walk - that's worth a cookie), I finally got rid of the whole bag.
 Now it's not there to tempt me. I mean her.
So far, she has lost three whole pounds. Yay! Let's celebrate with a REAL dog snack! Wait, I just got rid of the whole bag!
Lady K to the rescue!
For Christmas, Lady K gave Lil' Sis a doggy treat cookbook. So, this morning, I pulled it out and we got cookin'.
After a few minutes of rummaging through the house (I will be the first to admit that organic and all-natural are not commonly  used when I go grocery shopping), I found we had the ingredients for the "Ohm my these are good" cookies.
Poochie, always very interested when I begin cooking, remained close at hand as I measured, mixed, and rolled the pumpkin-y goodness into balls and placed them on the cookie sheet. I don't have oat flour, so I dumped rolled oats into the blender and blended that up. I don't have brown rice flour, but by golly, white rice flour is an acceptable substitute, right? (Make it easy on me and just agree.)
Little Doggy Rockstar, who wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but was going to stay just in case, sat in the kitchen and watched for anything that dropped.

Finally, after twenty five excruciating minutes, the cookies came out of the oven. I am proud to say that they turned out rather well. Little Doggy Rockstar gives them two fuzzy paws way way up.

The only complaint Poochie has is that I only gave her one.

I'm still trying to resist her cute, floofy, hypnotic stare.
Only one, Poochie. Just one, Poochie.
Shoot.
Okay, here's another.

A Very Hairy Story

Poochie got her hair cut yesterday. As always, it was a traumatic experience, but (in my opinion, and more importantly, in Mom's opinion) worth it. I take her to Paw City Grooming in the CAL Ranch store on 7800 south and they do a wonderful job. It also helps that they only charge $45 to bathe and shave a dog of Poochie's size.
When I mentioned to Person A that I took my dog in to get her hair cut, they asked in that morally-superior, penny-pinching tone, "Why don't you do it yourself? You'd save a lot of money that way."
To which I replied, "Have you ever tried to put a band-aid on a dog's butt?"
Needless to say, that stopped the conversation right there.
The fact is, I used to shave Poochie down myself. I would go to Walmart, buy a clipper set for $20, and spend the next four and a half hours on the back patio covered in dog fur. Most of the time, her fur came out different lengths, but always quite a bit shorter than she had started out with. Then I'd wait a couple months for the fur to grow out, then go to Walmart and buy another set.
Poochie's fur wrecks havoc on clippers. She has a thick, wiry top coat and a soft, downy-smooth under coat. The wiry fur dulls the blades faster than a saw on concrete and the soft fur works its way into the clipper and jams the motor, causing the clippers to overheat. This necessitated that I purchase a new clipper set every time.
The last time I shaved her myself, I caused so much mental anguish, I didn't think she'd ever recover.
I had her almost finished - nothing left but the backs of her hind legs and around the base of her tail. I had long ago divested the clippers of the guide comb and used the bare blade. NEVER use a bare blade. Never, ever, ever. She ended up with razor rash on the underside of her tail and the backs of her thighs (a.k.a. her bum). I didn't actually know she had the rash until about 1:00 a.m. that night when I woke up to the glurp-glurp sounds of her licking. She didn't just lick it once or twice, it was a constant slurping sound that Did Not Stop. It went on for hours. I finally got up around 5:00 a.m. and covered her in band-aids. Band-aids do not stick well on furry bums. So, I got a clean strip of cloth, slathered it in Neosporin, and sort of wrapped it around her tail and legs like a diaper.
The next morning, it had fallen off and Poochie hid under the kitchen table, giving me wounded-eyed stares and tucking her tail firmly between her legs when she wasn't licking. She was impervious to my apologies, my bribes, and any comments along the lines of "But, you're much cooler now, right? Not so hot? Do you want an otter pop?"
So, yes, Poochie gets her hair cut professionally. She may balk a little bit, but I think it's all for show. After all, she remembers that razor rashes hurt and I remember that band-aids are not designed for the rear-ends of dogs.

Wet Socks, Cold Toes, and Other Reasons To Wear Boots in the Snow

I had barely cleared the neighbor's mailbox before snow had made its way into my sneakers. I sighed, lifted my head to the blowing wind, and pulled on the hood to my coat. Poochie wanted a walk. Now. In the snow. And I had told her that if she quit barking, we could go. I tugged her away from the mailbox post she was enthusiastically sniffing and stomped down the sidewalk.
We reached the corner and she dropped to her stomach, turning her paws, and gnawing at the clump of snow wedged between her toes. Because of her fine fur, snow often gets trapped between the soft pads of her feet, forming an ice-ball and making it painful to walk. I used to bend down and get the snow out of her paws myself, but she can do it much quicker with her teeth. So I stood there, stomping my feet. She chewed on the ice-ball for a moment, then spit it out.
We trudged on.
As we turned the corner, the wind shifted, blowing directly into my hood. I ducked my head and squinted at my feet. Poochie knew the way around the block, so I followed her footsteps. She kept a steady, if meandering pace, and stopped at every bush, post, fence, and tree to sniff and leave her mark. Every yard or so, I'd glance up, just to make sure we hadn't wandered into the road. The snow melted in my shoes, instantly attacking my toes.
"Come on," I whined to Poochie, jiggling the leash. "You've seen that tree before. The quicker we get home, the quicker my feet will dry."
She sniffed, pawed at the snow, and dropped to her stomach to gnaw on her paws. She got the ice-ball out and then remained on her stomach, staring at a passing car.
"Come on!" I said again, pulling her to her feet. "Let's run home!"
There is an inch of snow on the ground. And I just told my dog to run through it. Ever obedient, she took off, wrenching my shoulder in the process.
I followed, head down, in a loping stride, watching the placement of my feet. The last thing I wanted to do was fall.
Then I did.
Poochie suddenly dropped to her stomach, nose buried in her paws. I slammed to a stop, balancing on my toes, inches away from stepping on her bum. My arms pinwheeled, trying to correct my balance.
"Gaaaah!" I squealed as my toes lost their grip on the snowy pavement and flew behind me.
I let go of the leash, put my arms out, and dropped.
I landed in the classic push-up position, with a hand on either side of Poochie, my nose inches from her back.
"Wait, wait wait," I ordered as her muscles shifted under her fur in preparation to get to her feet.
She didn't listen. She heaved herself free and I remained at push-up number one with no plans to try for two.
A car honked and I turned my head.
"You okay?" the lady called out of her window. "I saw you fall!"
"I'm fine!" I called back, and to prove it rolled to my side and jumped to my feet. "Thanks!"
She waved and drove on.
I brushed the snow off my pants, coat, and stuck my wet, gloved hands in my pocket.
"You know," I told Poochie, "they make snow-shoes for dogs, so this kind of thing doesn't happen."
Poochie stared at me for a moment, then continued down the block.
I chased after her to grab the trailing leash.
"Warn me next time, will ya?" I muttered.
Poochie sneezed and shook her head.

Dangers of Driving with Poochie

I have heard horrible stories about what happens when you let your dog hang his/her head out of the window. There's the cocker spaniel that was snatched right out of the window by a golden eagle. Or the doberman pinscher who was smeared across the side of its owner's mini cooper by a passing bus. The Labrador retriever whose ear drums exploded due to the air pressure at 70 mph. A Boston terrier jumped out of the car and fell ninety feet to a raging river. And my favorite (because no death or injury is involved), the border collie who passed a field of sheep, forced its owner to pull over, and refused to leave without herding at least three sheep into the back of the truck. I've heard all these and more, and yet I still allow Poochie to stick her head out the window as we cruise 4100 south. (Don't worry, if I ever accelerate to more than 40 mph, I roll up the window and Poochie must deal with it.)
And now I have a new tale of caution to add. If you let your dog hang his/her head out the window while you are driving, you could crash and die.
It happened like this: Last Thursday, after dropping my car off at the repair shop, I slipped into the front seat of Lil' Sis's car with Poochie in the back seat. I wrenched my arm backward and rolled down the window halfway to allow Poochie to bask in all the sights and smells. Duty accomplished, I stretched out as much as one can in a Geo Metro, and began whining to Lil' Sis about car problems.
The sudden whirlwind of angry barking caught me by surprise. I twisted around and saw Poochie snarling and snapping, turning in tight circles on the back seat. I watched for a moment, then saw a small, flying object.
"Must be a bee in the car," I commented to Lil' Sis, who, I must say, seemed remarkably calm for a person with a growling dog right behind her.
"I think it's a wasp," she replied.
Then it flew into the front seat and out the driver's side window.
Poochie followed.
"Get her off!" Lil' Sis snapped as sixty nine pounds of black fur dove into her lap.
I made a hasty grab and managed to wrench Poochie onto my lap. This, of course, gave Lil' Sis a face-ful of swishing tail.
My stomach dropped to my feet as the car swerved into oncoming traffic. At least, I think it was oncoming traffic. I couldn't see anything but Poochie's neck.
"Back seat!" Lil Sis growled. "Back seat!"
Poochie huffed, sat down on my thighs, and stuck her head out of my window. Her front paws sought purchase in my stomach, allowing me nothing more than a groan.
"Get in the back seat!" Lil Sis yelled, tugging on Poochie's tail.
It is very, very difficult to force a dog to do an about-face in the front seat of a Geo Metro. Especially if 1) the dog doesn't want to and 2) the dog weighs over fifty pounds.
I think we hit the curb at one point, but we did manage to get Poochie into the back seat. She shook her head, her ears whipping back and forth, and immediately stuck her head out the window.
"Stung," Lil' Sis said.
You'd think that after two decades of living with her, I would get used to her cryptic remarks.
"What?"
"Her ear. The wasp stung her ear."
"Oh." I glanced back at Poochie. "I'll check when we get home."
She looked happy enough with her tongue lolling out of her mouth and her ears flapping in the wind. Every once in a while she would give her head a violent shake.
"We could have died!" I exclaimed.
Lil' Sis shrugged. "Yeah. You go to work today?"
And the subject was closed.
But, beware, dog owners: if you let your dog hang its head out the window, it could be stung in the ear by a wasp, erupt in a furious frenzy, and run you off the road.