In my family, thanksgiving was always the big annual holiday.  We always had the usual family, friends, and food, but also lots of extended family – which includes dogs – and lots of dog-walks in the day and music at night.

Happily, my sisters and I have carried on the tradition. My sister Susan has driven over from Colorado – no small feat – and dinner itself is being hosted by our other sister Pamela, who moved with her husband and their dogs to my town about a year and a half ago when her husband retired.

Sue is a little sad; she’s brought her (adult) daughter’s little long-haired Chihuahua, Riot, who is heading to a new home. Her daughter, like so many young adults, adopted the dog in her last year in college, but hasn’t found the time to properly care for and exercise the cute little dog while working to support herself “in the real world.” The inevitable house-training and problem barking ensued, and my niece actually had to move twice because her roommates were unhappy with the dog. She started leaving the dog more and more with my sister, who likes dogs but does not actually want to own one. My sister has felt sorry for Riot, but also resentful of being “stuck” with her so much, and pressed her daughter to rehome Riot, for Riot’s sake. 

The last time my sister visited here, we had breakfast with a friend of mine, who told Sue she knew someone who was looking for just the right little dog to join her family. Many months later, after innumerable texts, photos, and yesterday, an in-person interview, Riot is going to live in a new home here in my town, with a super nice older couple who live on a large piece of property where they farm oranges with their extended family. After all the time she’s spent with Riot, my sister is sad to see the dog leave, but she’s glad the cute little dog will have a more consistent, solid family with people who are always home and who LOVE dogs.

No one could love dogs more than my other sister, Pam. She and her husband have three: Daisy, a little rescue Jack Russell Terrier-mix; Dinah, one of my former fosters, a Chihuahua/Dachshund-mix; and Bo, a scruffy Schnauzer-mix. Last year, writing a blog post, I mentioned that Bo was about 10 years old. Some months ago, Bo’s original owner came to my sister’s house for dinner and to visit the dog, whom she left with my sister about four or five years ago, when her life was in turmoil. Pam was telling her about a series of small strokes that Bo had suffered; each one leaves him a little less sharp, but he’s still eating well, pottying outside appropriately, and going for (slow) walks with the “pack” each day. Pam said, “He’s still doing good for a 10-year-old dog!” The former owner said, “Pam, he’s 16!” She recounted the math:  She got the dog as a puppy for her son’s 10^th birthday, and that son is 26 now… Well, Bo is getting a lot more respect now.

Out of respect to Pam’s much-more-senior-than-we-knew-dog, my own dogs (9-year-old Otto and 1-year-old Woody) and my guest dogs who will be in town will spend the actual Thanksgiving dinner-time at my house, or my office/house. My son is coming with his hound, Cole, and Woody will be overjoyed to have the chance to play fast and rough with his . . . cousin? uncle? I won’t try to describe that dog relationship in human terms; I’m no good at genealogy, ha ha.

Also hanging out at my house, but not for much longer, is Rosie, the five-month-old presumed Shepherd-mix, whom I’ve been working with daily for a few weeks, getting her ready for life with my sister-in-law and her 7-year-old daughter, Ava. Rosie is going to be Ava’s first “own” dog, and I’m going to have to hand it to myself on making a great match.

I spotted Rosie in my local shelter’s kennels, and snapped her up the day she became available for adoption. She’s super friendly, happy to meet any dog or person with a wag, confident without being over-bold, and doesn’t seem to have any odd fears or phobias. She’s been in the accelerated class and learning fast what she may and may not chew on, and where she may and may not potty, and getting straight A’s. She walks more nicely on a leash than my dogs – perhaps because I’ve been working her more on the skill than I do with my dogs, hmmmm. She actually looks like a nice little obedience dog, walking smartly at my side looking up at me for clues as to when to stop and plop fast down into a sit. She spent six days with Ava and her mom when I was traveling for a conference, and bonded quickly with them. When I picked her up again when I got back, for more training, Ava’s mom texted me and said how much they missed her, immediately. They are taking her home for good the day after Thanksgiving, and I know she’s going to help that family feel a little more joyful, a little fuller, in the absence of my brother and his dog (both of who passed two years ago).

A rescue Boxer, also named Rosie, is one of our guest dogs; she belongs to my husband’s brother and his wife, who will join us for a few days of feasting and hiking with dogs. During one of last Thanksgiving’s hikes, my sister-in-law took a great photo of their Rosie and my Otto, and submitted it to a Boxer rescue group for their annual fundraising calendar. Otto and Rosie are the September 2017 dogs! http://www.zazzle.com/beautiful_boxers_2017_calendar-158195861511460764

I’m hoping for more great photos from this year’s hikes.

Joining us at the table on Thanksgiving day will be my friend Leonora and her husband. Leonora owns Samson, Woody’s tiny best friend, as well as two senior dogs. My friends and Samson will join us on our Thanksgiving day hike, but the seniors’ hiking days are over, alas. We’ll save them some turkey, instead. Leonora is currently fostering two adorable pit-mix puppies, about 7 weeks old now, for our local shelter.

Also fostering puppies for our shelter is my new friend Mary, who posted an ad on a neighborhood site a couple months ago looking for a playmate for her 1-year-old pit-mix dog, Izzy, and found me. Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing, she’ll have to tell me in a few weeks. On one hand, we’ve been taking lots of great hikes together with all of our dogs (she also owns a tiny Chihuahua/terrier-mix), but on the other hand, there’s this: When she asked me if there is anything she can ever help with at the shelter, I promptly set her up with a litter of five Lab-mix puppies, about 5 or 6 weeks old, to foster until they are old enough to be spayed/neutered and adopted. For now, she’s enjoying the wealth of puppy breath, and the puppy poop has not yet overwhelmed her, so I don’t think she’ll be shooting daggers at me across my sister’s Thanksgiving table.

I’ll be toting my camera on our walks, and visiting all the foster pups. I hope you all get out for a nice walk with your dogs, too! I’ll make a post on the WDJ Facebook page, and ask you to upload your Thanksgiving Day dog-walk photos there. Then we can all share how thankful we are to share our lives with dogs!

Back in June I wrote a blog post about how many ways I screwed up when having to medicate more than a dozen dogs at the same time (https://www.whole-dog-journal.com/blog/pill-problems-keep-your-dog-away-from-those-meds/
). Some of you generously offered your own mistakes and tips for preventing them.

One of the things I goofed on was giving one dog her pills in the presence of another dog. I was dog-sitting my friend’s two Chihuahuas: 10-pound S’Mores, who needs blood pressure medication and a diuretic, and Samson, who weighed less than four pounds and was about six months old at the time. S’Mores spit out one of her pills, and Samson dived for it, swallowing it faster than I could grab him.

I had to call their veterinarian – who is also MY veterinarian – and confess to my mistake, and ask if there was something I should do; make Samson vomit, perhaps?

Thank goodness, the vet thought the dose was low enough that the one pill wouldn’t cause Samson any harm. But I started using a baby gate to make sure that only the dog who was supposed to receive the pill was in the room, until it was clear the pill had gone down the chute, so to speak.

I also confessed my error to my friend. She told me that it was indeed a challenge at her house, because she also has a third dog, Lena, who receives a strong pain medication each day, and who is a master at spitting pills out.

My friend knows her dogs well, and is careful, but she wasn’t using the “baby gate” technique I used after my mishap – though she is now.

Last Saturday morning, she was giving her two elderly dogs their meds, when 75-pound Lena spit out her Tramadol pill, and four-pound Samson dived for it and gobbled it down. My friend said she couldn’t believe how fast he was. Just as quickly, she called our local emergency veterinary clinic, and asked what she should do. The receptionist asked what the medicine was, what the dose was, and how much Samson weighs, and put her on hold for a minute. Then she came back and said that the veterinarian on call said she should bring Samson in, immediately. Mind you, the emergency clinic is a good 30 minutes away. And the closest clinic wouldn’t open for another 30 minutes.

After my mishap just days before with Woody (who swallowed a too-small ball), my friend had just bought a new bottle of hydrogen peroxide to keep on hand for emergencies like this. She asked the ER receptionist, “Should I make him vomit up the pill first? I have hydrogen peroxide.” But the receptionist told her no, she should just bring Samson to the vet, fast.

My friend said she told the receptionist she was at least a half hour from being able to get Samson to any vet; surely she should make him vomit first? And the receptionist told her, “No, it’s risky.”

My friend called me on speaker as she was hurriedly dressing, telling me all that had transpired. I jumped on my laptop and started Googling; was there a reason she shouldn’t make Samson vomit up a Tramadol pill? I was aware that there are certain things that you should not make a dog vomit – anything caustic, for example, or petroleum-based substances. I couldn’t find any reason that vomiting up the medication would be contraindicated, but neither I nor Google are veterinarians, so…

She drove Samson to the local vet, arriving a few minutes before they opened, and started banging on the door. Thankfully, they opened the door and the vet saw Samson before he had a chance to put on his white coat. He asked, “Did you make him vomit?” She said, “No! The emergency clinic told me not to!”

He said, “Well, that’s what we are going to do!” He whisked Samson into the back, and gave him an oral dose of hydrogen peroxide – not the injectable morphine-based medication that the ER gave Woody days before, to make him vomit up the ball. Within minutes, Samson vomited up the medication, but given the time elapsed (about 40 minutes at that point), the pill was dissolved. Given the high dosage of the pill, the veterinarian also recommended giving Samson some activated charcoal, to help absorb the medication and prevent it from being absorbed in his bloodstream, and subcutaneous fluids, to help dilute the effects of the medication and push it through his excretory system as quickly as possible (pee it out).

Long story short: Samson is fine. My friend’s bill:

$56 office visit. $25 for inducing vomiting. $15 for charcoal. $25 for the fluids. A bargain, compared to Woody’s visit for (sort of) the same thing (throw up what you shouldn’t have swallowed!).

My friend was annoyed with herself (as I was with myself, days earlier!) for failing to control the situation – and for not yet pulling the trigger on veterinary insurance for Samson. She and her husband had been discussing the cost just that morning, and the event stiffened her resolve to fit it into their budget.

She’s also crating Samson at pill time.

Learn from us! 

Last week, I was stressed with too many demands on my time, and trying to finish the December issue in time to travel to Florida for a dog trainer’s conference (Pet Professional Guild, http://petprofessionalguild.com/). But Woody (my adolescent dog) and even Otto, my 9-year-old solid (canine) citizen, were both telling me they needed a run. So, instead of taking them out for an hours-long hike, as I prefer to do, I headed for a school field I know, to throw a ball for them for a while, instead.

A friend called a little while before I left and asked if I was walking that evening. When I told her my alternative plan, she asked if she could meet me with her dogs. Sure, why not?

I brought a Chuckit and a Chuckit Glow ball. Woody strongly prefers tennis balls, but he’s developed a bad habit of chomping on them so hard that he splits them open within minutes, and then they don’t fly far. He hasn’t been able to tear or chew these rubbery balls, and the fact that they glow in the dark means I can run him at night and still find the ball if it takes a crazy bounce.

My friend got to the field at the same time I did, and unloaded her two dogs. The larger dog is not particularly interested in fetch games, but her little terrier/Chihuahua-mix is. For the first time ever since we’ve met, my friend brought a small tennis-style ball for her little dog to chase, and a tennis racket with which to hit it. My brain registered this fact, and I said to myself, “Oh crap. I’ve got to keep Woody away from that little ball.”

Given that the field belongs to an elementary school, I was distracted by watching the three dogs in my care, and my friend’s two, to make sure that none of them pooped out of our sight or attention; it’s simply not acceptable for dog poo to go unnoticed and un-picked-up on a school field.

I was also trying to throw Woody’s ball in the opposite direction than my friend was throwing the small ball for her dog. But twice, my distractible dog was returning to me with his big ball in his mouth when my friend hit the small tennis ball for her dog, and Woody just dropped his ball and ran in pursuit of the little one. And at almost this same moment each time, one of our dogs squatted and pooped. I ran in pursuit of the poop, but I was forming a sentence to call out to my friend. “Hey!” I was just about to say, “This isn’t a good idea; Woody is going to choke on that ball!”

I got as far as “Hey!” And Woody promptly swallowed that ball. We had been on the field for about four minutes.

The good news was, he didn’t choke!

I thought I had better go home immediately and investigate. How big, exactly, was the ball he swallowed? Could he pass it through his system? If I gave him some hydrogen peroxide to make him vomit the ball back up, could he choke on it then?

I asked my friend to investigate the package of balls she had at home. What were the ball’s dimensions? The answer came back: the ball was 1.65 inches in diameter.

I called the emergency veterinary clinic, and discussed the matter with the receptionist. He, too, was concerned about the likelihood of Woody choking on the ball as it came back up. I dropped off my other dogs at home, and headed for the clinic so I could consult with a veterinarian, not just the receptionist.

It was a fairly busy night at the clinic, so I had time to do some googling in the waiting room. I found one veterinarian’s site that helpfully said that a medium-sized dog could easily vomit up anything that was 1.5 inches in diameter or smaller, but that anything bigger might require surgery or endoscopy to retrieve. Oy! How exasperating!

Also exasperating: Two weeks ago, while watching this exuberant young dog fly through the air and contort himself in crazily athletic maneuvers while fetching, I decided I really better buy pet health insurance for him. I just can see him pulling and ACL or hurting his back. I chose an insurance company and a plan, and sent them money for a year’s worth of coverage. The company responded quickly, and sent me a letter of acceptance, indicating that coverage would commence . . . three days from the day I was sitting there in the veterinary ER waiting room. ARGH!

When Woody and I finally got into an examination room, and a veterinarian finally came in – so much for the fetch session being faster than a hike!  – we conferred about our options:

1: We wait and see if he vomits the ball on his own. (I rejected this plan right away. I was leaving town in three days for almost a week. With my luck, he’d vomit and choke while I was gone. No way.)

2: We make him vomit that night at the clinic with the vet standing by, ready to deal with a potential blockage if the ball gets caught in his throat on its way back up.

3: We give him general anesthesia, and use an endoscope to remove the ball from his stomach. The starting cost: $1,500. Ouch.

4: Surgery. I didn’t even ask about the cost of that.

I chose option #2. It wasn’t just the money. He swallowed that ball so easily, I just thought it would come back up fairly easily, too. After I made the choice, the veterinarian told me she thought this was the option she would take if it was her dog; she had confidence that even if the ball got stuck, that she and the other veterinary staff on duty would be able to get it out.

She also said that because Woody hadn’t eaten since that morning, she would feed him a can of wet food first, so there would be some soft mass helping push the ball out of his stomach.

The vet took Woody into the back, and I went out to the lobby to plug in my dying phone and pace.

It didn’t take even 10 minutes. Apparently, vets don’t use peroxide like we do; they use an injection (a $100 injection, lol) to induce vomiting. He vomited three times, and the ball was in the second batch.

Then they gave him an injection of an anti-nausea drug, to stop the vomiting, “so he doesn’t splatter your car on the way home.” That shot was $80!

I shouldn’t grouse about the money; I’m so happy to have a great 24-hour clinic not far away, and happy it turned out just fine for Woody. It was simply a costly lesson in “If you see something, say something . . . FAST!” I had a bad feeling about that little ball, but didn’t act on it quickly enough. That’s just one more mistake I’ve made with a dog that I never will again! And I hope that none of you who are reading this will make this mistake, either!

My close friends know that I have been looking for the perfect dog for my dog-crazy seven-year-old niece Ava and her mom for some time – and that this is in contrast to my usual stance in opposition to the whole concept of the “perfect” dog.

I don’t believe that dogs should be expected to come into a home that may not meet their needs very well and yet not cause a single ripple in the fabric (literal and figurative) of that home, any more than one would expect a new baby or adopted child or even an elderly relative to fit in seamlessly to a new home.  In my view, adjustments and accommodations should be made on all sides, with respect for all the parties’ needs considered, in order to make the relationships and living situation work for everyone. So, for example, when you bring home a Border Collie or German Shepherd Dog, you’d better accept  – nay, embrace ­- the exercise and mental stimulation needs of that dog, if you want him to be happy, and you can be happy with him. At a minimum, you will likely have to carve out a significant chunk of time in your day to devote to physical and mental exercise for the dog, and you may well have to do some problem-solving if it turns out that the dog develops problem behavior/s, such as separation anxiety, counter-surfing, urine marking, barking, chewing, over-excitement with guests, etc., etc.

I know all that – I preach all that! And I still want a perfect dog for my sister-in-law and niece.  They have just been through so much in the past two years: My brother’s diagnosis, too-brief fight with cancer, and death. The death of my brother’s dog, Hannah, who had been a loving guardian of and companion to little Ava for her entire life, a few months prior to my brother’s death. Having to move Ava’s grandfather, who is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s disease, out of their home and into a care facility.  I just don’t want to add any burden to Ava’s mom’s already heavy load of responsibilities, though we both want Ava to have a dog. She’s crazy about dogs.

Ava loved my Chihuahua-mix, Tito, and he liked her, too, but only for short-term visits. After a few days at Ava’s home, the senior dog would get cranky and snappy – probably due to his perennially sore back. He’s never liked anyone picking him up, and was just as apt to snarl as wag if someone petted him. A long-term placement there wasn’t fair to either of them.

So I’ve been looking for a dog, not too big (Ava and her mom are both petite!) nor too small (so it could engage in active romping play with an active, outdoor-loving girl); not too old to be playful, nor so young that it knew nothing about living in a home. The most important attribute, in my mind, is a general affection for and interest in kids. This dog-loving girl needs a girl-loving dog!

I’m hoping I’ve found the right candidate (in my local shelter, of course!). She meets nearly all of my criteria, save one important bit: she’s too young, only about 4 months old, so she’s going to stay with me for a while for some training and socializing.

Woody could not be happier. He just turned a year old, but still has lots of puppy energy and need for a lot of stimulation. He’s been thrilled to have someone to romp, roll, chew, and wrestle with. He’s shared my home (and home office) with dozens of foster puppies since I fostered his litter last December, though I took a break from all that after the 11 pups from the Great Dane litter all went to their (forever, I hope) homes in July. Having this pup here has been like an early Christmas for him.

Otto, on the other hand, is looking pretty glum about this turn of events. I think he figured he only recently got Woody civilized – Woody was starting to behave like a respectable grownup dog –  and now that’s all coming undone. Idiocy reigns again (in Otto’s mind), in the form of puppies bumping into him or, worse, running over the top of him when they are playing; puppies racing past him to get the ball that he was fetching in a more dignified manner; puppies splashing into water he was delicately lapping, etc. Rude, rude, rude, and disorderly. Not Otto’s cup of tea.

My husband is in the same camp. Woody only recently stopped deconstruction of his doghouse, and it looks like our apple tree, which Woody had been chewing the bark from, might live after all. And yet, a new set of puppy tooth-marks have appeared on the bench my husband built on our deck back when Otto was an adolescent. We’re going backward in his mind, too.

It’s impossible to explain it to Otto, but my husband understands: It’s only temporary, and we’re doing this for Ava. She and the pup met last weekend, and it looked like mutual love and attraction instantly. This pup is affectionate and playful, sweet and smart, and though she’s just as mouthy as all pups are at this baby-tooth-shedding stage, she’s got a nice soft mouth. She’s doing great with house-training, crate-training, and lessons in basic manners. Ava’s mom is busy getting references for a dog daycare and/or a dog walker, and I’m making inroads into finding a trainer they can work with in their town. In another few weeks, we’ll deliver her to Ava, and I might spend a night or two to get housetraining in theirhouse initiated, and get them all settled in together. I can’t wait.