Corgi responsible for neighbourhood hiring

It looks even more sinister in its British spelling: megaoesophagus. Although a hyphen would have rendered Mr. Rogers’s elocution lessons much simpler — “Can you say ‘mega-esophagus’?” — it is, with or without the o, all one, long, ominous string of syllables.

Our Cardi has it.

In lay terms, megaesophagus is a condition wherein the dog has no swallowing muscles. Think of a tube sock that has seen too many wash cycles: no elasticity, unable to do its job.

When we first got our pup, I assumed that his regurgitation of kibble, treats, and water was something he would outgrow. It grew worse. By the time our vet x-rayed him and diagnosed his condition, she had had at least two reports of the puppy’s spit-ups, and the poor little dog was looking pinched around the face.

Because I haven’t had a dog since I was a kid (read: my mother cared for a dog while I was growing up), and my partner has had even less experience of the Fido lifestyle, we decided to get a purebred, so that we would know more or less what to expect from our new pet. We certainly didn’t expect rare diseases.

The folks at the local petstore got to know us. We were in there at least once a week, getting a new toy or experimenting with food and treats, looking for a car-ride harness or trying out roadsalt preventive products. My dog’s uncommon breed and even less common health problem made for immediate conversation every time we went in. I liked that place.

So when a sign went in the window asking for part-time help, I jumped at the chance and put in my resume. That was last July. Almost immediately — okay, last week — the manager called. He said the other employees thought I was the right choice, and could I come in for a talk? I could. I’m to have 10 or 12 hours a week, relieving the other employees who really haven’t had any wiggle room for too long now.

The store doesn’t sell pets, just products, and so it smells like alfalfa. The customers are local residents, some of whom I recognized during my first training shift on Tuesday. I already know and like my co-workers. And it’s part-time, which is all I want. It’s perfect, it’s ideal, and it’s because of the grace of dog that I’m working there.

Merganser Morning

Last Sunday we went to the mouth of the river. For three hours we tramped around in the decaying snow, each of us using her or his favourite instrument: binoculars for me, camera for my partner, nose for our dog.

Later on, we each processed our experiences in our own way. I gushed to my watercolour teacher, a fellow birder, about having seen all three species of merganser in one morning. My partner uploaded some photos to her Flickr site. And our Cardi curled up in the papasan to dream rich dreams of dried grass, goose droppings, foxes, voles, and muskrats.

Cardigan may help alleviate symptoms of menopause

My brother and his wife live on a hundred acres of scrubland with four or five dogs. One night, my partner and I stayed over, sharing the pullout couch with a midsized Jack Russell cross. Since we were in fact sleeping in the doggie’s bed, she naturally stayed the night.

I didn’t toss and turn — there wasn’t enough room — but I did awake several times. Not once, however, did I have a hot flash. I found this lack of torment nothing short of miraculous, and attributed it to the serene snoring of our canine companion. I had heard that pets can lower blood pressure; maybe they can ease menopause symptoms as well, I reasoned.

Turns out my assumption was a false one, but the thought of getting a dog of our own was a graspable straw that took the fancy of both my partner and me. We discussed it with friends, researched the various breeds, and on Remembrance Day 2006 we drove out 60 miles to pick up our little Cardigan Welsh Corgi pup.

I still get hot flashes. They’re lovely things, filling me with self-loathing and shame, simply because their heat mimics the physiological symptoms that occurred in childhood whenever I was embarrassed or a parent scolded me. They will end someday, and I would rather have them than breast cancer (a possible side effect of HRT meds).

Meanwhile, my dog helps alleviate my feelings of shame and worthlessness. Dogs are much more childlike than cats. I fill my cat’s kibble dish twice a week, scoop the litterbox about as often, occasionally leave him for a long weekend, and he’s fine. But my little Cardi needs more of my help. He can’t use a litterbox, and he doesn’t sporadically nibble on kibble the way cats do, needing instead two prepared meals daily. My dog gets me outside of myself.

In fact, my dog gets me outside, at least three times a day: morning potty, and two half-hour-plus play sessions (my partner oversees the before-bedtime potty). This season has been the snowiest we’ve had in ten years; I never would have gotten all this daily exercise if I didn’t have my sturdy little Cardi. And I never would have been forced to live winter the way I have this year, studying the changes in the snow, and spying the local kestrels and the wintering red-tailed hawks soaring over the high-rises.

I also wouldn’t have met so many other people. It’s a real sanity saver for me, an introvert, to have made so many acquaintances. Just when I’m feeling blue, one neighbour or another is waving hello and tacitly affirming my right to share the planet. Dog parents are like any other parents, happy to meet and chat while their little ones play together. We compare notes, share a laugh, and delight in the special friendships that develop between our own dog and that of our neighbour.

Come to think of it, two of my dog’s favourite playmates are Jack Russells. Poetic justice?