Tag Archives: australian shepherd

Curi-Aussie-Ty

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I don’t remember much about my bio-mom, but there are two recollections of note.  One occurred four days after my littermates and I were born.  My mom was still tired from birthing us, but as she was lying there nursing her pups she opened an eye and spotted a little beetle crawling among us.  She casually arose and stomped on the insect with her formidable paw.  As she slumped back down to rest, she said “Sucks to be a litter bug.”  The second thing I recall is her teaching us that we will never find anything worthwhile unless we exhibit curiosity.  “Discovery belongs to the curious,” she said.  As usual, she was right.

And so, as my life has raced along, I have been curious about virtually everything.  But I somehow feel that curiosity was always in my nature, and the motherly advice, however well meaning and accurate, was probably unnecessary.  If you know my history, you know that curiosity has served me well.  I have discovered friends, family, and new adventures everyday.  The “find” may simply be a new sight or smell.  Or it may be someplace entirely new to visit and explore.  Today I was running around at a park when I saw a young boy drop a candy wrapper on the grass.  Being curious, I had to run over and sniff it.  Then, being helpful, I picked it up and brought it over to the boy, thinking he may still need it.  A lady who appeared to be his mother said, “Look Jason.  Even that nice dog knows you shouldn’t throw trash on the ground.  Now go put it in the trashcan.  It sucks to be a litterbug.”

It sounded familiar, but I didn’t see any beetles around.  That’s curious.

See Ya Vader

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Not too many people believe that my dad’s mother was the inspiration for the Darth Vader character in Star Wars.  But my historical research proves this to be true.  There was a period of her life when she was seduced by the dark side.  It began when she gave birth to my dad, and reached its zenith during his early teens.  At times, the comparison was startling.  Her cape-like dark robe, the hair style and night cream which resembled the famous Vader headgear, and even her voice (“I am your mother!) resonated with a James Earl Jones heart-stopping sonic boom.

She was highly trained in the use of The Force.  She could point her finger at my dad’s throat and choke off any verbal protestations.  When Dad would say he’d have his chores done by noon, she would somberly intone, “Pray that you do.”  And her skills and dexterity wielding a mop or broom as she virtually floated from room to room was an obvious harbinger to Vader’s talents with a light saber.  When she was too busy in galactic matters to mete out routine discipline, she would call on a storm trooper (my dad’s father) to do her bidding.

But like Vader, she eventually abandoned the dark side (when, coincidentally, my dad’s rebel alliance matured).  She began using The Force against evil, spent years traveling the galaxy on diplomatic and recreational missions, and is now a nonagenarian residing at Chewbacca’s Home for Wrinkled Wookiees.  I talk with her by phone now and then.  Her once sharp mind has been blunted by a lifetime of interacting with my dad, so she rarely remembers my name.  She has referred to me as Flagstaff, Fleabag, Flophouse, Fast Track, Flab Sack and Pancake.  But I don’t mind.  I know I am talking with a legend, and because I am now living with her son, I can relate to her battle scars and cognitive decline.

Now I’m channel surfing between an old Star Wars movie and a college baseball game between North Carolina and Duke.  And because my dad’s mother has rubbed off on me, I’ll probably later only remember watching something called The Umpire Strikes Back.  Use The Force, Duke!!

A Salute To Mr. Peabody

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All too often, my dad calls my attention to the TV or computer screen to view something he thinks has educational value.  He forgets that some dogs (me, for example)  possess intrinsic wisdom and awareness which renders media sources unnecessary.  Nevertheless, he showed me clips from an animated feature he watched in the early sixties involving a dog genius and his child companion.  The characters, known as Mr. Peabody and his boy Sherman, traveled back in time via the WABAC machine invented by Mr. Peabody.  Once they arrived at a historic location, they found events were skewed due to Mr. Peabody’s having manipulated the machine’s programming.  This provided Mr. Peabody the opportunity to make things right and to subject Sherman to some of the most painful puns ever recorded.

Brilliant!!  I was transfixed.  Not only did the premise seem vaguely familiar – incredibly intelligent dog bearing a strange resemblance to me, hanging out with a kid who was somewhat less than astute – but it indulged the fantasies of many dogs to bash humans over the head with life lessons, one of which is to lighten up..life is too crazy to be taken too seriously.

I was excited.  So, I immediately took a nap (hey..priorities).  I dreamed that I had invented a modern-day WABAC machine, and I took Dad back to the Roman Colosseum.  The Detroit Lions were going up against Tim Tebow and company.  Sold out stadium.  The concession stands were selling Ceasar’s Pizza.  Roman Polanski was producing the half-time show.  Autumn was in the air..the fall of Rome.  The P.A. system was too loud because Nero was fiddling with the controls.  A male lion had just consumed a woman convicted of  ‘tagging’  Hadrian’s wall.  She looked tasty, so the lion was obviously glad-he-ate-her.  Good times.  But it was getting late, so I took Dad for a bite at the olive garden before we returned.

A famous man (undoubtedly inspired by a dog) once said, “If you will it, it is not a dream.”  So I intend to start work on a real WABAC machine as soon as I can develop opposable thumbs.  I know the creation of Mr. Peabody and Sherman was credited to Ted Key, but you just know ‘ol Ted had a dog.  Do you think the idea for Mr. Peabody may have germinated in the mind of that creative canine?  Elementary, my dear boy.

Bite This

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“Let’s take a bite out of crime.”  We’ve all heard that slogan.  I was never sure if it meant that we should do what we can to diminish criminal activities or that we should decriminalize biting.

People are funny about biting offenses allegedly committed by dogs.   They are understandably quick to vilify a dog who, without provocation, attacks a person or someone’s pet.  The offending dog is quarantined and sometimes destroyed, and the dog’s human companion may be subject to prosecution and/or civil liability.  But folks are quick to forget the vast number of  dogs wrongly accused of biting.  My dad is ashamed to admit that when he was a child, he bit his infant brother on many occasions because he believed his brother was a hideous alien monster (to this day, he still has doubts).  Dad always blamed the bites on the family dog.  His parents took my dad’s word over the dog’s, even though the elderly dog had no teeth (his parents had the investigatory and reasoning talents of garbanzo beans).  So, my dad skated and the beleaguered dog always wound up in the dog house.  When the dog died of infectious false accusations, my dad came clean and admitted the truth to his father.  His father’s response?  “Who cares?  Go take the trash out.”  Immortal injustice!!

On April 26 of this year, a woman in Chicago bit her dog repeatedly.  Was the lady quarantined or destroyed?  Hardly.  She will plea bargain down to misdemeanor inappropriate display of  affection and be sentenced to limiting her biting only to weekdays.  The scales of  justice require a little recalibration.  That’s a cause I could really sink my teeth into.  Meanwhile, smart dogs will have to avoid not only humans who bite, but also those who level wild, unfounded accusations at defenseless creatures who don’t even have a biting sense of humor.

A Normal Walk Is All I Ask

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My dad’s an attorney.  The advantage?  I get free legal advice, but the disadvantages are endless.  Perhaps the most commonly experienced detriments are the infuriating delays during our walks.  Take this afternoon, for instance.   I caught the eye of a little girl who was riding her bike.  She pulled up to us and said, “Oh, what a cool dog.  Can I pet him?”  I sighed and rolled my eyes, because I knew full well what was coming.  As I recall, here was the exchange:

Dad:  Sure you can pet him. [he pulls a document and a pen from his pocket]  But first I’d like you to review and sign this form.

Girl:  Why?

Dad:  Because it protects me from all liability in the unlikely event that you incur a bite, scratch, allergic reaction, disease, psychological disorder, acid reflux or flatulence due to your voluntary interaction with Flapjack.

The girl looked at Dad as if he had just arrived from a galaxy far, far away..then she silently rode away at warp speed (apologies for mixing Star Wars and Star Trek references).  I was left standing there with Mr. Congeniality and his release and waiver, which basically releases me from ever making new friends and waives my right to take a normal walk with a normal human being.

“Aha”, you may say..”What about your mom?  She’s got to be a normal human being.”

Not so fast.  Mom is a certified master gardener.  Walking with her is like being on a guided tour of a botanical garden.  We move ever so slowly, gazing at the neighborhood flora as if each walk was the first ever in some magical forest.  She stops frequently and points out the unique quality of each tree, shrub, flower and weed as if I give a rat’s ass, and examines possible diseases or infestations of every tree we pass (so I use the time to urinate on each one, which must do wonders for their health).  “Look at the beautiful African daisies, Flap!!”  Yeah, yeah, let’s move it, Garden Guru, before we’re arrested for impersonating cheap yard gnomes.  As we passed one yard, she said with concern, “This grass could use aeration and fertilization.”  So I obliged by scratching furiously at it, then gracing the lawn with a little soil enhancement.  She bagged my mess and said, “Sometimes it seems like you don’t appreciate all the beauty around us.”  Ya think?

The only thing worse than walking with Dad or Mom is walking with Dad AND Mom.  We’re talking 2 hours for 2 blocks.  I can crawl backwards faster (in fact I did once, and they were oblivious, naturally).  Will the suffering never end?  I guess the bright side is that, by living with them I know stuff that most other dogs don’t, like the difference between irrigation and litigation (in one, sometimes plants get soaked and in the other, sometimes people get..well, you have the idea).  Gotta go now..time for a (cough) walk.

Channeling My Inner Cow

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Two things you should know about my dad:  (1) He believes he was a cowboy in a former life, and (2) he has entirely too much time on his hands.  This explains his most recent bizarre behavior.  First he places custom fake steer horns over my head.  Then we line up 20 feet apart in the backyard.  On his signal, I start running, and he chases me.  I allow him to catch up with me (otherwise, he’d still be running), he tackles me, takes a small rope and quickly binds three of my legs together.  He then triumphantly throws his hands in the air and quickly checks his stopwatch to see if he beat his best time.  Then he unties me and I walk out of the ‘arena’, head hung low, acting dejected.  Sometimes I lose myself in character and sadly  ‘moo’ in defeat.

In my tenure at this home I have suffered all manner of humiliation.  Typically, it’s embarrassment by association; if you hung with my dad for at least two minutes, you’d understand.  But this takes the prize.  Sometimes the neighbors watch in amazement, sneaking peeks over the fence so that Dad won’t spot them and recruit them as rodeo clowns.  Now, inspired by a circus act he saw recently, he’s considering getting a monkey, outfitting it in fancy western gear, and having it ride me as I race around decorated barrels.  Just shoot me.

Well, it could be worse.  At least he’s not challenging me to a gunfight in the street at high noon, engaging me in a bar fight, or dressing me up as a saloon girl (I’d look hot).  There’s so much to be thankful for.  And yet, I do worry that his obsession will rub off on me.  Luckily, unlike some, I know the line between fantasy and reality…now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go rustle up some grub.  Then I’ll be hankerin’ to ride into town to see who needs killin’.  Happy trails, dude.

Barbra Streisand’s Birthday Gift To Me

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It’s common knowledge that dogs’ hearing is exactly 500 gazillion times better than humans, and you can triple that for Aussies.  I can hear a sneeze up to 2 miles away and can instantly identify the species, gender, age, ethnicity and snout size of the sneezer.  This impressive talent may be of great value in the wild, but it results in only limited domestic worth.  In fact, I’ve found that my enviable ears carry a few specific detriments.  One of these is listening to Mom and Dad.  I quickly learned to tune out their one-word instructions (sit..no..stay..no..come.. no, etc.), but other noises they emit truly strain my coping capabilities.

This morning, Dad read that it was Barbra Streisand’s 70th birthday.  He apparently is a big fan, because for two excruciating hours he launched into his version of every one of her greatest hits.  Some people, like Barbra Streisand, were born to sing and they can make some pretty impressive sounds even for my sensitive ears.  Others, like my dad, should be subject to felony indictment for any attempt at musical vocalizing.  He sounded like a cross between a severely wounded hyena and our car’s screeching tires at virtually every stop sign.  There was no place to hide, so I stuffed my head under a sofa cushion and rode it out until someone from the homewoners’ association came to the door and informed Dad that he was in violation of ordinances barring lewd and disgusting noises.  I thanked the Aussie gods that Dad’s vocal cords were finally brought to justice.

But the damage was done.  I’m making an appointment with my vet-analyst, as I’m already exhibitng symptoms of PTSD (post traumatic singing disorder).  While I’m out, I’ll pick up some noise-canceling headphones.  Now, Dad’s talking about sound-proofing a room just so he can ‘sing’ without risking a prison sentence.  Trouble is, he’ll probably take me in there while he generates his other-worldly noises.  I have not lived an angelic life, but I don’t deserve that kind of hell on earth.  Perhaps the military can utlilize Dad and his new room for interrogation purposes.  I’ll contact them.

Meanwhile, Happy Birthday, Barbra.  And..thanks a lot!!

Guide Dog For The Impaired

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I never fashioned myself a service dog.  Oh, I enjoy helping people as much as the next dog, but I clearly don’t have the temperament to devote every waking moment to assisting someone else.  I mean, I’m a nice guy but I’m not Mother Flaperesa.  Two days of unlimited service and I’d need a padded dog house.  And yet, Dad obviously thought I could play the part.

We were all traveling in northern CA and stopped for the night at a nice place in Petaluma.  Dad had checked the hotel’s website and found that they take dogs (mighty big of them).  But when we arrived, Mom was checking their site again on her smart phone, and discovered that the hotel only takes very small dogs.  Now, I’m no Marmaduke but I’m no Toto either.  Dad was looking at me with a curious expression.  I thought he was considering how he could shrink me, but he was pondering something even more harebrained.

He explained to Mom and me that he was going to impersonate a sightless person and that I would be his guide dog.  Mom calmly responded that she would take no part in this folly (or words to that effect), and I wanted to quickly side with Team Sanity, but had no choice.

And so it was that Mom sat in the lobby and pretended not to know us.  Dad (wearing shades) checked in with me on a figurative and literal short leash.  The clerk  asked Dad how he could possess a driver’s license if he couldn’t see.  Dad mumbled something about a very recent health condition.  After check-in, I thought I’d have some fun.  So, when Dad inadvertently loosened my lead, I used my considerable strength to take him on a running, zig-zag tour of the lobby.  As the clerk looked on, Dad was trying to give the appearance that he was in total control of his ‘guide dog’  while attempting to keep his arm in its socket.  After a few minutes, I decided to give it a rest.

The lobby looked like a hurricane had hit it.  Dad, lying on the floor, had the appearance of a man who had been, well, dragged through a hotel lobby on his belly.  I licked his face, which probably added insult to injury.  Then he whispered in my ear, “Just wait ’til you need me to play along with one of your ideas!”  I looked over at Mom.  She had her face buried in a magazine, but her entire body was convulsing (she was either laughing or required immediate medical attention).  So, as Dad ‘felt’ his way to the front desk to complain that the lobby did not conform to specifications for disabled persons (his audacity compensates for his absurdity), I went to check on Mom’s physical condition.  Because I’m here to serve, to a limited extent, subject to my disposition and my definition of  ‘serve’.

Every Dog Has His Life

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People always say that their dogs are part of the family.  So, it’s indeed unfortunate that we generally have much shorter life spans than our human family members.  A family may run through several dogs, so it becomes the challenge of each one, in the relatively limited time available, to make his/her mark, to become indelibly etched in the collective heart of the family.  This requires little, if any, effort on my part.  My magnetic personality, undeniable charisma, heroic nature and movie star looks sealed my place in the family hall of fame right out of the blocks.

Nevertheless, it chaps my paws to occasionally hear Mom and Dad reminisce about the wonderful attributes of the dear departed dogs who preceded me.  One in particular.  Her name was Sydney.  She was also an Aussie.  I’ve seen photos and must admit she was quite cute.  In fact, she and I would have undoubtedly had a hot and steamy romance if she had not suffered the misfortune of passing before she met me.  What annoys me is why they remember her as being so incredible.  For instance, they say, “She was so cool..she really had a mind of her own.”  Of course, they must think I have the mind of a capuchin monkey (which explains why I steal bananas off the kitchen counter, leaving peels on the floor for Dad to slip on).  What an inane thing to say.  What they mean is Sydney refused to do things most other dogs routinely did, like chase and return a ball.  A mind of her own?  I call it insubordination, calling for strong measures of progressive discipline.

But I suppose I shouldn’t begrudge my predecessors their posthumous adulation.  I will be content to assume my place, however short-lived, in this little slice of insanity I call my family.  Someday, some other dog will probably be hearing, “Flapjack was just about the best dog ever!”   I’ll be listening and humbly agreeing.

Baseball Should Go To The Dogs

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As I switch back and forth like a TV zombie between a dog show on Animal Planet and a Yankees-Red Sox game, it occurred to me that “man’s best friend” is not represented whatsoever on the Major League stage of our national pastime.  Oh, we have mammals (Tigers, Cubs), birds (Cardinals, Orioles, Blue Jays), and even fish and snakes (Marlins and Diamondbacks), but the most recognizable, loving and loyal animals – the ones found in almost as many homes in this country as bags of Doritos –  are nowhere to be found on our big league diamonds.  This is nothing less than discrimination and defamation by omission.

Major League Baseball and team owners cannot assert that they couldn’t think of dog-team names.  Just think of the possibilities:  Baltimore Beagles, Chicago Chihuahuas, Boston Boxers, Arizona Aussies, Houston Huskies, St. Louis St. Bernards..the list of potentials is endless.  So why are dogs so obviously absent in the bigs?  Well, if living with my mom and dad has done nothing else, it has equipped me with the expertise to speculate on the irrational behavior of humans.  In this case, I think the answers are as sad as they are simple.  As much as humans love their dogs, canines lack the fearsomeness, cuteness or unique local identity to qualify for a major league moniker.  In addition, humans are just too close to their dogs to put them on a big league pedestal (anyone who poops on my lawn simply will not adorn my jersey and cap).

Now there’s a cute cocker spaniel in the dog show, and it’s 7th inning stretch time at Fenway, so I’m already forgetting why this seemed important a few minutes ago.  Back to zombie land…