(Wordless Wednesday) Chicken Slushies

 

Cardiganese

Those eyes speak volumes.

Ears erect and forward, head swinging on his neck like a tetherball on its pole, Cai is talking to me. He’s saying, “Are you sure? Where? Where is he?” Suddenly his ears flatten back for full aerodynamic capacity as he breaks into a gallop, his whole body shouting, “There he is! There’s Jack! I see him! Oh joy, oh joy, oh joy!”

For all that we humans pride ourselves on our vocalizations (and therefore scold dogs for competing with us), anyone who owns a pet knows how much can be communicated through body language. In fact, so much is conveyed by the height of an eyebrow or the speed of a tail wag, that a human can grasp the message without paying much conscious attention to how the dog has “spoken”. I have to really think, then, in order to describe Cai’s movements. Let’s see…

Here are two scenarios that begin the same way, but Cai asks a different question in each one:

• I’m in the living room watching Cai on the balcony, who in turn is watching the neighbours go by. As he shifts position, he sees me looking at him. He enters the apartment and approaches me, eyes meeting mine, ears tilted slightly backwards, mouth ajar, eyebrows playing volleyball with each other.
  • Interpretation: “Hi Mum, did you want me for anything?”
• Cai sees me watching him and enters the apartment, heaving loud, breathy whines, his vertical ears  twisted outwards. He runs to the balcony door, to me, to the window, to me.
  • Interpretation: “Ple-e-ease can we go out and play with Peanuts and Cindy and Boomer and Tango and Coco, ple-e-ease?”

Cai doesn’t usually care too much for other dogs, though. His main focus in life, even more than treats, is toys. Here are four games that he’s taught us to recognize:

• We’re playing in the back field. Cai is exercising me, having me fetch the ball once he’s run and caught it. This time as I  stoop for the ball, he jogs halfway down the field and crouches stockstill, staring hard at my throwing hand.
  • Interpretation: “I’m a Border Collie! Throw the sheep — I’m ready!”
• We’re playing in the front yard. As I reach for the ball, Cai runs behind the big Silver Maple and peeks out from one side, then the other.
  • Interpretation: “Throw the ball either side of the tree, I’ll get it!”
• I’m playing at the computer. Cai brings the plush candycane squeakytoy that Jack gave him for Christmas and drops it beside my chair. As I reach for it, he mouths it catch-and-release fashion, growling.
  • Interpretation: “Let’s play tug!”
• Cai brings the same toy to my chair. As I reach for it, he runs a dozen feet in front of me, three-sixties and crouches.
  •  Interpretation: “Let’s play throw!”

The final pair of examples of Cardiganese that I’d like to share with you have to do with canine emotions. I believe that Cai has a sense of compassion; I’ve seen him behave towards our kitty Cuca in the same way as described below, when Cuca caught a cold and was sneezing. I also believe — and after reading the final scene, you be the judge — that Cai has a sense of humour.

• I step in from the balcony, put a foot on a rubber squeaky toy, and lose my balance, grabbing the couch arm for support. Cai stands on his hind legs with his front paws on the couch and stretches his muzzle into my face.
  • Interpretation: “Are you okay?”
• Everyone’s in bed with either a good book or a good bone. Cai’s bone falls to the floor. He looks over the edge at it, whimpering softly. E.g. slips out of bed to pick it up for him. The moment she’s out, Cai scuttles up and snuggles into her pillow, his bright eyes looking at her, his mouth open.
  • Interpretation: “Fooled ya!”

 

Doglish

Dogs work hard at establishing communication with their humans.

I love languages. My French is passable, I learned a little Vietnamese at one time, and last summer I ended up being a Spanish interpreter at an international quadrennial meeting here in Toronto.

Please understand, I have never studied Spanish in my life. I picked up a few phrases from some Chilean neighbours about ten years ago. As a quadrennial volunteer, I put every last scrap of my knowledge to use during registration for one nice Cuban delegate, and was punished for it by being called over anytime one of the other hosts was trying to communicate with a hispanoparlante. Luckily my impromptu career lasted only an hour or so until some bilingual delegates arrived.

Apart from that, I can say “Thank you”, “How are you”, and “Fine” in Greek, the same first two things in Japanese, and the first thing in Ojibway. I can count to ten in Hungarian. I can say “I’m a bird watcher” in German. I used to be able to pronounce “I have a little white rabbit” in Cantonese, but I only get funny looks when I try it now. Mind you, this last sentence might be a bit of a conversation stopper in any language.

 Because of my fascination with languages, I started wondering today how many human words my Cardigan Welsh Corgi knows. For that matter, how much dog language has he taught us?

Cai knows all the basics, of course:

• ball
• toy
• pottie
• walkies
• bickie
• shh
• hush
• be quiet
• that’ll do!
• hey!!!

He comes when I call his name in a high-pitched, singsong voice: “Cai-i!”, and he knows that “good boy” is his middle name. Being a herder and not a retriever, he is still learning the linguistic nuances of “Bring it!”, but improving daily.

Cai knows a number of words and phrases that aren’t in the manuals:

• “Let’s go check the mail” means we’re gonna enter the building by the front door, not the side door.
•  ”Let’s take the stairs” means the side door, not the front door.
• “Please stop chewing on your brother’s leg” means to pause a moment before continuing to rough-house with the cat.
• One evening on the way in I remarked conversationally, “Tomorrow we’ll be going out in the car-car” and Cai turned to the back of the elevator, facing its basement-opening back door.
• If we’re playing in the back field when Jack arrives from school and I see the boy first, my whispered “Where’s Jack?” sends Cai into a four-alarm lookabout that stops just short of whiplash.
• Then there’s the phrase, “Oh, da scoodie-boodie-woobie-goobies”, which means, “I see you’d like someone to give you a nice belly rub. Will I do?”

I’m sure there are more words and phrases that Cai knows, but I think this sampling is a good start. Tomorrow I’ll discourse on some of the Cardi language that Cai has taught us.

In Broad Daylight

Crime victim, in happier days

On Saturday night, after we got back from Owen Sound, the neighbouring English Foxhound and her daddies came for supper. Roast leg of lamb, mashed potatoes and gravy, peas with mint, rosemary focaccia, apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Mmmmmmm.  

Since Murdoch and Niall will be keeping our Cardi while we’re on vacation, we all wanted our furchildren to get better acquainted. My partner and I have been to our neighbours’ apartment, sans Cardi, a couple of times, but it was the first time that our neighbours had been to our place.

At one point, Murdoch stepped out onto the balcony for a smoke. Would he notice? Would he say anything? Possessing Celtic blood myself, I feared our neighbour might have as little natural English diplomacy as I do. My fears were not unfounded. Re-entering the apartment, Murdoch addressed the elephant in the room: “Hey, when are you guys gonna get rid of your Christmas tree?”

Lucas the street kitty fled in horror. The dogs cowered. Even the elephant hung its trunk in shame.

In this city, for a few days in January, garbage collection includes pick-up of Christmas trees which are then shredded in a wood chipper and used as mulch in public parks. The workers may simply drive the chipper truck along the route; I don’t remember. Trouble is, we had missed those days, but were loath to have the tree carted off to the dump. 

Fortunately, Murdoch’s wit matched his wag. His solution was to drag the Christmas carcass around to the parkette in front of our building. Several large maple limbs, broken off during the winter storms, were already waiting there for the public workers to collect them and chip them, so why not an innocent little balsam fir as well?

I knew it was cheating. I knew it was against the rules. I thought it was brilliant. Now to wait for a rainy night to sneak the tree away.

Three days later, while making stew with the leftover lamb, I remembered the tree. I also remembered a news story that I’d heard in grade school. It seems two guys stole a canoe from a department store, during open hours, in broad daylight. They simply donned white lab coats and combed their hair nicely. Then they entered the sporting goods section, picked up the canoe, and walked it out to a waiting truck.

So. Once the stew was simmering, I donned my coat and tuque, attached the pupster’s leash to his collar, dragged the tree off the balcony and through the apartment and down two flights of stairs and along the side of the building to the parkette to the fence to the pile of waiting limbs, and tossed it. Then poggles and I went for a nice hour’s walk. When we returned at 3 pm, we found half a dozen sparrows sheltered under the fir, using the maple brush as a clubhouse.

Follow-up Photos — and a Contest

Here are two updates on my entries of March 12 and 13.

1. (See “Long Winter’s Journey into Spring) After more than a week of house arrest and puny little walks around the block while his leg was healing, Cardiman got three days in a row of hikes in the woods — two in Owen Sound and one here along the local river. Friday’s hike was an hour long; Saturday’s and Sunday’s were more like two each. All that fresh air and exercise has been doing both him and me a world of good.

2. (See “Cute and Conscientious” and “Symbol of the Turtle”) Guess what? All three species of my family symbolically adopted a baby sea turtle in my honour! Here it is now, reading my latest entry. I think there should be a name-and-genderize-the-sea-turtle-stuffy contest. Winner gets…umm…uh… How ’bout, winner gets to name any topic, and I’ll write a 500-word tale about it? Deadline March 30!

Long Winter’s Journey into Spring

Poggles is poorly. And being a Cardigan Welsh Corgi, a very intelligent dog, he managed to display all his poorlies at once.

Like most of the dogs around the neighbourhood, he’s loved the piles of snow we’ve been getting all winter. He’s ploughed into it up to his neck, he’s dolphined among the drifts, he’s skidded on the slippy bits, he’s crunched through the crusts. Unfortunately, the snow hasn’t loved him back.

So, um, gee, he’s limping.

Not that he gives a hoot. Where’s the throw toy? Bring it on! But on Monday we said no, not today. When not today became not yesterday and he was still limping, I made an appointment at the pet clinic for that same afternoon.

On the hobble over to the vet’s , pupster decided the doctor could use a stool sample. Not pretty. Unsure if vanilla-scented poopy bags counted as specimen containers, I placed the bag strategically in the trash outside the clinic. When I told the vet what it contained, he had me retrieve it.

Final stats: poggles has a clostridium infection and a pulled string of letters, like ACL or ALT or NHL or something. The clostridium’s in his belly and the pulled thingy is in his right hind leg. In order to confirm and remedy these two problems, the vet ordered a blood test, a stool test, five tabs of flagyl, 14 caps of amoxicillin, one bottle of metacam, and two weeks’ house arrest.

Doggikins starts the metacam (an anti-inflammatory) tomorrow night; the belly bacteria needed to be zapped first. Since then, we’ve been going outside almost twice as often, but only for about ten minutes. He hasn’t played ball now for four days, and hasn’t been off leash for two. Usually indifferent, polite, or friendly with strangers, tonight he spoke to two passersby in a row, something that sounded like:

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKIN’ AT? BY GOLLY, YOU’RE ASKIN’ FOR IT! JUST LEMME CATCH YOU! YOU PUT ONE TOE ON MY PARKETTE, I’LL LEARN YA FOR SURE! I WILL! I WILL! WILL! WILL!

I sure hope metacam induces drowsiness. Don’t worry, I won’t let poggles drive.

Party Cardi

We didn’t get the threatened 15 cm of ice pellets after all. Some of that hard stuff came down between 11 pm and 2 am, but I never noticed. By 6 this morning, when the cat got me up, there was a thick layer of fluff covering anything untoward that had fallen in the dead of night.

At  7 am, puppy and I went out into perfect dog snow. The hard crust had softened, and the slushy bottom had frozen again, and our Cardi frapped all over the parkette in front of our building. (I learned the term frap from other corgi owners; it stands for “frenetic random activity period”, or in other words, tearing around in circles in sheer exuberance.)

At 10:30 and at 3 pm we went out for more play.  Each time, my little kneeless fox wrestled or played tug-toy with one of the biggest dogs in the neigbourhood. I’m borrowing the phrase “fake fight” from Checkers’s blog. The growling! The rolling! The jumping! The opponent of the afternoon, the biggest, strongest nice dog of them all, is only 14 months old and doesn’t know his own strength. But that’s okay, because neither does my dog. Usually he’s much more interested in playing fetch (see above photo) than in socializing, but today he just had to tell his playmates, “Didja see the snow? Didja? Eh? Isn’t it great?”