As we treasure our dog Storm, she wears a tag with her name and our contact details (which we must update to reflect our recent move). Because collars can be pulled off by branches and such, we’ve had her microchipped as well. That involves injecting a small microchip in the back of her neck, so that animal shelters can scan and identify her. All good things, because dogs get lost.

Today, while driving home, we came upon four dogs wandering down the middle of the road. All reasonably gentle and well-kept dogs, as you can see their pictures above. Two black retrievers named Aiden and Maya, a beautiful dog with nice markings and white nose and legs (I can’t figure out the breed) named Casey and a small yellow dog without tags or collar.

We managed to round them up, and with the help of another passerby, get them to our place and put them in our fenced courtyard. I ended up carrying the little guy the few blocks to our home as he seemed a bit aggressive with the others. We did our best to contact owners based on numbers and registrations, but we were only able to leave messages.

We took pictures to announce the lost dogs on Craigslist, and then delivered them to the local animal shelter. The owner of the two black dogs called as we arrived and saved herself the $80 per dog fee for recovery, and I have high hopes that Casey will be reconnected with his owner (he did have a phone number on his collar, but Maggie said the guy on the message at that number sounded like a bit of a jerk with a “leave a message or don’t, I don’t care” greeting his callers). If not, Casey is so beautiful that he’ll have no trouble being adopted. I’d be tempted. On a side note, Casey’s collar proclaimed “I’m not lost” on a metal plate that also included a phone number. That seems to make as much sense as putting “I’m not dead” on a cadaver’s toe tag. Of course the dog is bloody lost, and in deadly danger of paying with his life in the road or at the shelter.

It’s the little yellow guy I worry about. I had hoped that these dogs all belonged together, perhaps staying at the same place while owners were away on holiday and managing a daring escape. But no, the woman with the two retrievers had no clue as to the other dogs. With no tags, no clue to his identity, and probably no connection to Casey, this little guy will have to hope his owner cares enough to call the shelter and check for him. I don’t know if he’s a really strong candidate for adoption, though he was gentle enough around me.

This new neighborhood of ours if full of dogs. It is full of people who treat their dogs as outside dogs, and I fear that some may not be brought in even during the recent overnight freezes. Walking the neighborhood often involves being barked at from behind fences. So there are definitely many “old-school it’s just a dog” people around. But we had so many offers of help and concern as we blocked traffic rescuing these dogs, that it also made me feel very warm towards my new neighbors.

All of this took up much of my time, and prevented me from working on today’s planned dog. But as the distraction was dog-related, it seemed reasonable to treat this as my daily dog, especially as I had some nice pictures of these guys and a story to tell.

I felt very sad leaving two of them at Town Lake Animal Shelter, as the dogs there are euthanized if they stay too long without being claimed or adopted. I felt very sad as I filled out the white form for my captured stray when I realized that the people next to me filling out a blue form were abandoning a dog they no longer wanted (for what reason, I could not say). So I worry about these dogs. I worry about all the sweet-natured, loving dogs who are killed each week. I want to scream at people who don’t spay or neuter their dogs.

And for at least a little while, I’ll be holding even more tightly to Storm’s leash when we go for our walks, and keep closer to her when we visit the off-leash park. And I’ll hope that someone good-hearted would pick her up and call the number on her collar should the unthinkable happen

Well, today is the day. Once again, the election season ends with the country starkly divided, with both sides believing that the other candidate will drive the country to ruin. Not that the country isn’t already in the car and looking like it might take that drive no matter who wins. The elections, the wars, the economy and more are the reasons that I listen to classic radio detective shows and music while I’m in the studio drawing. I just can’t face the news any more.

I wish I was a dog. More specifically, I wish I was my dog.

For Storm, the most distressing newsworthy event of late was last weekend’s clock-changing daylight savings time. No matter how carefully I explained it to her while showing her the clock, she was sure that her breakfast came one hour late that morning. And then her dinner was an hour late. And today she once again discovered a temporal distortion in her mealtimes. In the spring, daylight savings brings the bonanza of meals served an hour earlier. But all that is forgotten when the clocks fall back.

Storm doesn’t know, or care, who the president will be. She doesn’t know, or care, that there is a president. If the candidates came around, she’d be no more or less excited than she would be for anyone else. She walks through our politically active neighborhood without noticing the signs for Obama and McCain (mostly Obama, this is Austin) or the equally divisive local issue of developer subsidies. If a subsidy covered some nice rolling grass in concrete, she’d care. But then, she’d be excited to meet the people that flocked to whatever was being subsidized.

She is equally indifferent to the economy. So long as her food is served and there is gas in the car for the occasional trip afield, all is right in her economic world. Her second favorite treat is an ice cube, and things will have to get pretty bad before we can’t afford to give her those. (Her favorite treat is the much more expensive raw almond, but she only gets those for special occasions such as being good while taking medicine or when I have a handful for myself).

So I’m trying to take a lesson from the Golden Retriever guide. I’ve already voted, so I’m not listening to the news or watching the polls. I’ve done my part. Now my time would be better spent lying in the sun than obsessing over possible outcomes. And why spend time watching the Dow bounce like a dropped ping-pong ball? I’ve done all I can to make sure my money isn’t bleeding away (which really isn’t much, as I’m a nitwit as far as the markets are concerned). So why check the stock tickers throughout the day? A game of tug is much more important.

So what if the neighbors are shocked at the sight of me rolling around in the grass wearing nothing but a collar and some tags? I’m living La Vida Golden Retriever now. And if the police come, well then I get to meet some new people and see if they have treats for me. And if I’m lucky, we’ll take a trip in their car.

Such bliss.

It often happens like this:

Maggie and I are walking Storm and are approached by strangers taken in by her good looks and outgoing nature. The strangers likely don’t realize that her outgoing nature consists heavily of scanning any and all people for hidden treats. They ask her age, they comment on her looks, and finally remark “Mommy and Daddy must take really good care of her”.

At which point, we carefully maintain our smiles, say some pleasantries, and move on.

Maggie and I are not “Mommy and Daddy.” To anyone. We completely understand the urge to refer to dog owners in this way, and sort of understand dog-owners using these terms for themselves. But we don’t buy into it. Sure, we baby the dog, and consider her part of the family, but we did draw the line at referring to ourselves using parental terms. Still, if people refer to us in those terms, we’re okay with it.

I’m not sure how I missed hearing the terms “fur baby” and “fur child”. But apparently a lot of people use these terms to refer to their pets. And my reaction when I first saw “fur child” used on a message board was… well, how shall I put this delicately?… revulsion. Absolute revulsion. The first image that came to mind was a little Eddie Munster werewolf.

Do you know those M&M ads showing the candies as celebrities? With hair? I haven’t eaten an M&M since those started running. Who wants hair on their candy? Maybe my reaction to “fur baby” comes from a similar place?

To be honest, though, I think my problem with the term is more with the people who use it. I hope I’m not offending anyone here, but I suspect the term is used by people who have taken their “dogs as family” thinking a step too far. People who refer to their stomachs as “tummies” or, even worse, “tum-tums”. It’s an infantilizing mind-set that prevents you them treating their dog like a dog.

Stick with me if you’re feeling insulted here.

Maggie often accuses me of anthropomorphizing the dog, of not treating her like a dog. Dogs react to things differently than humans, and any trainer will tell you it’s not good to treat a dog like a child. When I respond to her fear or misbehavior as I would a child, she gets very annoyed. And I talk to the dog, especially when Maggie isn’t around. I buy her home-baked dog treats when I’m sure she’s just as happy with mass-produced cheap stuff.

So maybe there’s a bit of that in my reaction to the “fur baby” thing. Often, the things you dislike most in others are the things you fear are lurking inside yourself. I love to spoil the dog, I hug her when I know that’s not particularly her favorite thing. I get emotional when I think about the time when she will no longer be with us. I melt a bit when I see Maggie becoming maternal with Storm while taking care of her. Sometimes, I forget myself and begin thinking of her as my baby.

So let’s make a deal. Let’s remember that our dogs are dogs, and not children. And remember that thinking of them as dogs isn’t like saying “just a dog.” A dog can be a companion, a source of comfort, a best friend, another living being deserving all the love you have to give them.

But they aren’t human and they certainly aren’t our children. For better or worse, I’m nobody’s daddy. But I do have a dog I love with all my heart, and consider part of the family, and spoil at any opportunity.

“Fur baby,” though? Working together, by not using it, we can deprive this awful term of the oxygen it needs to survive. Your dog will thank you.

Note: I meant to be blogging about dogs occasionally from the beginning of this project. It’s just taken me almost 9 months to get around to it. I’ve created the image above to designate my occasional writing-focussed entries into the Dog a Day Project.

A dog named Oswald quakes with fear
as he hangs from a branch by one ear,
he’s awfully high up
for an oddly shaped pup;
how he got there, it just isn’t clear

How to make an origami dog…

1. Try to draw a dog entry and find it isn’t working out the way you want. Put it aside for another day.
2. Decide that you’ll do an origami dog.
3. Remember that you’re bad with your hands and that you don’t know origami.
4. Google “origami dog”.
5. Try a few of the more complicated ones, then search again in hopes of finding something easier.
6. Pick one, get your paper together and start folding.
7. Look again to make sure that this particular origami dog is designed for small children with pudgy hands, then throw away the paper you’ve just messed up (recycle, folks).
8. Start again and create a reasonable version.
9. Grab a Sharpie and draw some features on the dog, justifying that this is artistic decoration and not a way to make the paper actually look like a dog.
10. Photograph and post on your dog a day site.
11. Feel insecure, perhaps you should try a more complicated dog?
12. Recycle the mess you make with the next attempt.
13. Decide that your successful dog is “quirky” and leave it be.
14. Finish writing your “Dog a Day Project” post and go find a quiet place to cry.

When I was in grade school, there were kids in who didn’t really know what their fathers/mothers did for a living. Not because of ignorance or from not asking, but because we just couldn’t be told. Though I think my dad was joking when he informed me that he could tell me but then he’d have to kill me. In fact, we weren’t even supposed to say those three letters that identified his agency. Now there’s a sign on the highway trumpeting the presence of NSA and NSA agents made regular appearances on The X-Files (often carrying piano wire to dispatch inconvenient witnesses). So I guess it’s okay to say it now. Though if there’s no dog tomorrow, blame the government.

Anyway, why am I telling you this? Because on one and only one occasion, the NSA Puzzle Palace threw open its doors and allowed families to visit the building. This will show my age, but they had amazing computers, room-sized things. I’m sure the machine I’m typing on now (and the one you’re viewing this from) could run circles around those things. But in the late 70s, it was cool. And they could print from them! Someone gave me an ASCII printout of Snoopy there, as a souvenir. A picture printed by a computer, made up entirely of symbols and letters and numbers, boy that was something. I remember I kept that for quite a while.

Today’s Dog a Day project image, then, is a nostalgia-trip of sorts. I’ve converted a photo of Storm (it helps if your photo has a lot of contrast) into ASCII. Get up now and walk away from your computer. The further away you view this from, the more it looks like a photo. But I think this works even close-up.

(ASCII, by the way, stands for American Standard Code for Information Interchange, if you really really want to know more visit this link, you sad person you.)

This is an old one. My father kindly scanned it and sent it to me, knowing I might be able to use it for this project. I can only vaguely place this piece in time. I did it as a Christmas gift for my mother. I know two things. I was working at McGraw-Hill and my parents had their shih-tzu, Suki. Good and bad memories.

Good memory: Suki wasn’t one of those yippie yappie kind of small dogs, she was actually quite sweet. She came as a surprise to me when she first showed up, as my parents never said a word about bringing her home. One evening, I heard my sister greet my parents at the door and then begin crying. There’s a moment to freeze the blood. But it turns out that Megan was simply overwhelmed by the tiny little puppy that came in. I absolutely loved the fluff-ball from the start.

Bad memory: I hated my job at McGraw-Hill. The CEC division (Continuing Education Center) was a poisonous place with bad management and an outdated business model. Six years of hating work days and even hating Sundays because the next day was work. I might as well have been back in school. But for the early days, I still lived at home. It was so nice to come home to Suki, who never failed to greet me enthusiastically. And I know I was at McGraw-Hill when I created this image because I used a machine that chemically developed line-art for our books. I used an x-acto knife to scrape the special paper and then exposed it to the chemicals. I wasn’t much of an artist back then, but I do think this looks fairly good, especially considering the method. You can spot the chemical nature of this, as it has a slight yellow tinge.

Good Memory: While living in London, I rarely saw Suki. But when I did go home, I loved spending time with her. She was a bit diminished on each successive visit, but she was still the little dog I adored. When Maggie and I moved back permanently, in late December of 1999, she was frail and slow but still made an effort.

Bad Memory: On the day after Christmas that year, my dad phoned to tell me that Suki hadn’t made it through the night. We’d left the Christmas day celebrations at my parent’s home in the evening, and Suki was very frail and shaky. I don’t know if my dad knew what was going to happen that evening, and if he just waited to save our Christmas. I can’t imagine how hard that Christmas night trip to the vet to say goodbye that last time was for him. It wouldn’t have been easy at any time, but Christmas? I just can’t imagine.

So thanks, Dad, for sending this along. I get to see how far I’ve come as an artist, and to remember fondly that little dog who meant so much to me.

Join the Dogster community

I was going to set up a MySpace page for today’s project, one for the beloved and possibly overused Storm. But it rejected me, even with some creative reworking of personal facts. So I searched for “MySpace for Dogs”. I shouldn’t be surprised that there is one in the form of Dogster. I also found that they’d received some hefty investments to support the venture.

So I bravely stepped in and created a page for Storm. I avoided the trap of writing anything from Storm’s perspective. In fact, the forms are presented as information gathering from the owner (oops, guardian, pardon me) to avoid that “I am thwee and a half years old and love my mommy and daddy except when they leave me alone” crap.

So Storm has her own official page. She is undoubtedly pleased beyond belief, but a lack of thumbs prevents her from updating the page on her own or even sitting at the keyboard. She, instead, is having a celebratory nap at my feet, knowing that fame is now only a few Google searches away.

If that badge up there isn’t working, you can visit Storm’s page at Dogster here.

The little girl who
hugged me and rubbed my belly
left with a poodle