At Long Lash We Meet

Back in the '80s  I had the opportunity to meet Jaqueline "Jackie" Stallone, you-know-whose mother. The occasion may have been a fundraiser, just-say-no-to-drugs rally or supermarket opening; the specifics have escaped along with millions of other memory cells. But one detail of that day managed to hang on -- Ms. Stallone's yard-long, rhinestone-studded fake eyelashes. The celebrity mom kicked up a minor windstorm every time she batted those monstrous fans.





That image resurfaced when Nava, a Shi Tzu-Lhasa Apso, checked in. What I originally thought were dark tufts of fur near her eyebrows turned out to be, on closer inspection, four-inch-long eyelashes.



It is a sad day when one envies a dog for their stunning good looks,  but I'm down to about four lashes per eyeball. A decade-old tube of mascara, lonely shut-in that it is,  still rolls around the bathroom drawer.




There are beauticians (sorry, estheticians), licensed and certified to apply eyelash extensions.  In the grand scheme of things, I would prefer to die with nearly bald eyelids than an Andy Rooney brow ridge. If I die with both, go with the closed-casket option, okay?

Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

For the humans, winter in California means we don our long-sleeve t-shirts. (Who is Don, by the way?)  Sometimes we even have to swap out shorts for jeans. For the dogs, however, it's a veritable catwalk of chic coats and must-have sweaters. Stealing a page from Vogue, this year's canine cover-ups feature

faux-fur–lions and tigers and leopards, oh my.

Unfortunately, my beloved Oliver would dog-paddle across the English Channel before allowing anyone to dress him in cute little outfits.
Fortunately, the mom of my hotel guest Harvey wanted to refresh her Chihuahua's wardrobe. She doesn't drive so I took her to Ross and we settled into the pet-accessories aisle. Remember that scene in "Pretty Woman," where Richard Gere takes Julia Roberts to that upscale boutique and the sales clerks scramble to bring one outfit after another for their approval? Harvey got to play Roberts as the hooker, Margaret had Gere's role of obscenely wealthy john and I, I was the scrambler.

Harvey patiently endured the robing and disrobing until we settled on eight new jackets, sweaters and t-shirts. Frankly, Harvey looked more like a pimp than a hooker in those fake-fur coats. All he needed was a lavender bowler hat with an ostrich feather sticking out the side.

Culture Clash

Skimming through The Bark, I found an article that  suggested reading, "The Culture Clash," which I ordered from half.com. It offers yet another view of why dogs behave like they do. To author Jean Donaldson, it all boils down to  B.F. Skinner's theory of operant conditioning–you put a rat in a maize and he'll figure out how to find the cheese in the center. Dogs are just like big, furry rats that way.   They aren't trying to please, anger or embarrass us, they merely respond to positive or negative reinforcement.

Ms. Donaldson is not real big on tolerance and acceptance of alternate training philosophies. In fact, she has a rather major 'tude about anybody else's but her own. The author thinks the whole dominance/pack theory is a bunch of hooey, treats are a must for training and for God's sake, quit treating dogs like Lassie. They really don't know--or care, for that matter-- that Timmy's trapped in the mine.



Jean Donaldson offers some good ideas about how to make our dogs act like we want them to. But then, so do the Monks of New Skete, The Dog Whisperer, and dominatrix/trainer Victoria Stilwell. Ten or 20 years from now these competing theories will probably be as obsolete as teaching your dog not to pee in the house by rubbing its nose in it. It's sort of like child rearing; In the early 20th century, mothers were instructed to not pick up their babies when they cried. By the mid-20th century,  Dr. Spock was instructing to pick up their screaming babies and comfort them. It's easy to come up with different points of view regarding  the right way and the wrong way– neither dogs nor babies can tell us.





The "My way is the only way" thread (more like anchor rope) that runs through "The Culture Clash" sounds a lot like the potholes that slow our journey towards finding Jesus, Allah, nirvana, enlightenment; whatever that Big Purpose is we continue to search for. As a timely bumper sticker reminds us: "God Wants Spiritual Fruits, not Religious Nuts."

When the Hummingbird Sings

This line showed up in a recent poem emailed to me and, no doubt, dozens of others.  I wanted to complete the couplet with, "And up, up into the blue sky/The turkeys flapped their  mighty wings." Turkeys are on my mind, being as we just passed Thanksgiving. And, one of the holiest days of the year: Black Friday. We cooked up $21.00 of Diestel turkey breast for our guests. Nickie and I dined on stuffed Portobello mushrooms, having lost interest in eating animals ever since we read Jonathon Safran Foer's Eating Animals.

The hotel guests, that was a different matter. Turkey and baked yams were served, with pumpkin pureé for dessert. I spent another $20.00 on the perfect little Autumn-inspired boxes to send home leftovers. There was supposed to be more on the menu; asparagus, dressing, etc., but we did not want to send our guests home with a doggy bag and the trots.

And yes, I did feel rather bad about spending 40 bucks on such a luxury, 40 bucks that would have no doubt fed half of Somalia. Or gone towards my Plasma HDTV fund.  I wonder if it works the other way. Does the Third World populace ever feel guilty for making us feel guilty?

Urine The Wrong Place

There is a reason, a very obvious reason, why Little Pup Lodge replaced the carpet with wood-like flooring. Never has it been more appreciated than this morning, when Nickie and I decided to do yoga. The chaturanga dandasana pose is ever so much more pleasant to do when my nose does not hover three inches above that fragrant yellowish carpet. Now all it takes is a quick mop and Pine-Sol becomes our default incense.

I expect dogs to lift a leg the first time they enter my house. It's fun to watch their mortified humans protest that he has never done this before. Dogs cannot not help themselves, what with all the hundreds of messages left by previous guests that require a response. I don't try to stop them or shame them, just stand at the ready with my disinfectant spray in one hand and rag in the other.

That being said, the first time is acceptable. After that, we expect a little restraint. Which most guests have except Chance. Chance looks like God picked the most interesting parts of several breeds and created His own Mr. Potato Head. He visits us every other Saturday and we've watched him blossom from a trembling, terrified mess to a joyful little guy who loves to play chase. Perhaps Chance allowed himself to get too comfortable. It seems he can't resist a wall, table leg or one time, my Ugg boots. His one-day visit can burn through a bag full of rags, easily. What to do?


A rare glimpse of Chance with all four feet on the ground.

America is the land of invention and clearly, one of those inventors had their own Chance. Hence, the Simple Solution Male Wrap. Disturbingly similar in appearance to a codpiece, this Velcro-fastened  accessory has brought back the love and banished the frustration. Having read the directions, I'm pretty sure its inventor was a Baptist: "Position the wrap so the …pad covers your dog's masculinity."  His masculinity? That's what they're calling it nowadays?

  Someone please shoot me.