I currently have in my keeping two canines, a rat, and a baker’s dozen of fish. As my place is progressively turning into a zoo, images of comparative ethologist Konrad Lorenz’s home-turned-animal-sanctuary is evoked in my mind. His wife chasing the geese out of the garden, jackdaws flying freely through the windows, mice building nests in the linen closet, ducks dancing up the stairs, and the ancient enmity between dogs and cats put on hold while living in the Lorenz cottage. In my case it is more along the lines of one dog yapping at the fish bowl while the other is whining at the rat cage.
I received a text message several weeks ago from my cousin, “Hey, I have a huge favor to ask you. Are you there?” Not sure what this is all about, I text back, “Are you okay?” It turned out not as dire as I imagined, she needed someone to look after her dogs for a week while she is away in Jamaica. Last Friday an odd pair showed up at my front doorstep, a diminutive pup-sized dog small enough to easily fit inside a lady’s purse and a goodly sized dog, tall enough to easily reach the kitchen counter tops.
Upon entering, the tiny one zipped through the living room into the dining room and back again at light speed. When still, you can see the cream and hazel swirl dripping down the bridge of her two-toned upturned pink and inky black nose. At the top of her head is a caramel dot floating on the source of the cream and hazel drip, melding down her back into latte colored fur, with cinnamon along the spine, ending in a white tipped tail. Overly sweet in coloration as well as temperament, this dainty princess answers to the name of Chiquita.
In comparison, the large mutt mostly black with tan lining seems like a sporty tramp. With the semblance of a German shepherd, his intelligence is betrayed by the expressiveness of his large triangular ears and soulful dark eyes. His muzzle has a slight bent to it near his broad jet black nose. And his charcoal tail, like Chiquita’s, ends in a dab of white. He comes when called, Max.
The first two days to my dismay ended in buying urine cleaner at the local PetSmart and scrubbing the carpet near the washing machine. The two puddles of pee were discovered by Nick, the other human in the house. We are still uncertain of the culprit but it is suspected to be the Chihuahua. We were told that she has a small bladder. A make shift barricade was built immediately, successfully keeping out both dogs from the laundry facility and disabled the humans from easily going up and down the stairs.
Two walks a day multiplied into five walks a day: at daybreak, after breakfast, at noon, after dinner, and before bedtime. This was thought to prevent further outbreaks. So far so good. Each walk is accompanied with the hope that the little one will urinate and defecate. If she does not, the bets are raised on the next walk. There is a certain amount of anxiety and tension built up between the two humans when Chiquita has not yet peed or pooped. Daily greeting starts and ends with, “Did she poop yet?” The answer varies, “No, not yet,” or “Yes, but she hasn’t peed.”
I woke up this morning to the sound of dogs whining, I got up and took them out for a walk and was content when they both pooped, first Max, then Chiquita. It made me so happy. I rolled over in bed and realized that it was just a dream. I wondered to myself if this is how first time parents of newborns feel when changing diapers. I restated the tale to my bedmate and he replied: “Happiness is a piece of poo.”
I received a text message several weeks ago from my cousin, “Hey, I have a huge favor to ask you. Are you there?” Not sure what this is all about, I text back, “Are you okay?” It turned out not as dire as I imagined, she needed someone to look after her dogs for a week while she is away in Jamaica. Last Friday an odd pair showed up at my front doorstep, a diminutive pup-sized dog small enough to easily fit inside a lady’s purse and a goodly sized dog, tall enough to easily reach the kitchen counter tops.
Upon entering, the tiny one zipped through the living room into the dining room and back again at light speed. When still, you can see the cream and hazel swirl dripping down the bridge of her two-toned upturned pink and inky black nose. At the top of her head is a caramel dot floating on the source of the cream and hazel drip, melding down her back into latte colored fur, with cinnamon along the spine, ending in a white tipped tail. Overly sweet in coloration as well as temperament, this dainty princess answers to the name of Chiquita.
In comparison, the large mutt mostly black with tan lining seems like a sporty tramp. With the semblance of a German shepherd, his intelligence is betrayed by the expressiveness of his large triangular ears and soulful dark eyes. His muzzle has a slight bent to it near his broad jet black nose. And his charcoal tail, like Chiquita’s, ends in a dab of white. He comes when called, Max.
The first two days to my dismay ended in buying urine cleaner at the local PetSmart and scrubbing the carpet near the washing machine. The two puddles of pee were discovered by Nick, the other human in the house. We are still uncertain of the culprit but it is suspected to be the Chihuahua. We were told that she has a small bladder. A make shift barricade was built immediately, successfully keeping out both dogs from the laundry facility and disabled the humans from easily going up and down the stairs.
Two walks a day multiplied into five walks a day: at daybreak, after breakfast, at noon, after dinner, and before bedtime. This was thought to prevent further outbreaks. So far so good. Each walk is accompanied with the hope that the little one will urinate and defecate. If she does not, the bets are raised on the next walk. There is a certain amount of anxiety and tension built up between the two humans when Chiquita has not yet peed or pooped. Daily greeting starts and ends with, “Did she poop yet?” The answer varies, “No, not yet,” or “Yes, but she hasn’t peed.”
I woke up this morning to the sound of dogs whining, I got up and took them out for a walk and was content when they both pooped, first Max, then Chiquita. It made me so happy. I rolled over in bed and realized that it was just a dream. I wondered to myself if this is how first time parents of newborns feel when changing diapers. I restated the tale to my bedmate and he replied: “Happiness is a piece of poo.”
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