dog game
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Oh you lucky, lucky people. Santa Tom brought me a Flip video camera, which means lots of video fun ahead. Or maybe just a little video fun ahead. We'll see.
Primitive as this is, here we have a short video from my early filmmaking career--back in December 2008.
My favorite part is the "atta boy." I said it but I didn't really mean it.
Primitive as this is, here we have a short video from my early filmmaking career--back in December 2008.
My favorite part is the "atta boy." I said it but I didn't really mean it.
jack is a good dog
Friday, September 26, 2008
The other day, I was introduced by a friend/blog reader as an “animal nut” who has a “horrible dog.”
I’ve known people a lot nuttier about animals than I, but “animal nut” is a description I can live with. Compared to some, I’m loony, I guess.
But I feel bad for Jack, being called horrible. That’s my fault. My friend has never met Jack but I’ve told such terrible tales about him on this blog. My friend was clear that the kind of behavior I described would never be tolerated in her home. Her husband agreed while a large cat practicing lap yoga inserted a foot in his nose.
I promise Jack isn’t all bad. But writing about Jack’s wicked ways is simply more entertaining for everyone than if I wrote about the cute face he puts on when he thinks it will shake loose a treat. Or how, when you open the back door, he leaps to his feet from a dead sleep and streaks across the yard with purpose. I wasn’t sleeping! I’m on the job! Or how he climbs into my lap—as much as can fit in my lap, anyway—when I sit on the living room floor and brush him.
Jack is the Rorschach test of dogs. Some people look at him and see a ferocious beast, some want to throw their arms around his furry neck. (Not advised for anyone but me and Tom.) But either way, the real Jack is a chowhound and a goober and far from the noble beast I thought he was when we adopted him. When push comes to shove, he’d rather snack than fight.
He’s not a sociable dog but that’s partly a breed trait. (He appears to have Australian shepherd in him.) We’ve had lots of visitors in and out and if they do as we say and ignore Jack, he moons around them like they’re his long-lost loves. Try to pet him and he shows teeth. That’s just his little neurosis. Poor Jack is conflicted.
But he has changed. Really changed. Granted, he still doesn’t like his back feet touched and never will. We touch them sometimes just to annoy him. Mostly he just gives us a dirty look and leaves the room. He’s much more tolerant of tail touching these days, and with liberal application of weenie bits at the front end will let me vigorously brush his back end. He stills snap sometimes, but he doesn’t have his heart in it. It’s a method of communication for him. I bat him on the nose and he gives me puppy dog eyes.
Jack doesn’t lunge at fenced dogs anymore. His senses are alert as we pass his archenemies but no matter how they try to rile him, he just hustles past. He still barks at dogs on TV but that’s just cute.
There’s even one little dog on our evening route that Jack adores. He insists we pause at this yard every evening. If the little dog is asleep, we wait until he wakes up and toddles up a steep hill to greet us. He and Jack sniff each other and wag and swap a little urine.
We’ve been visiting this doggie for months. The dog often invites Jack to frolic along the fence. He assumes the playful doggie position then bounces in circles. Jack has mostly looked puzzled. It appears he never learned how to play with other dogs. But the other night, for the first time, he actually attempted a clumsy frolic of his own. I got all choked up.
Jack is playful in his own way. Sometimes we play a game I like to call “stick.” We go outside and I say “Where’s your stick Jack?” in that excited voice we were taught to use to engage him. He looks at me all happy and then bounds off into the woods and vanishes. I go back inside.
Tom has better luck with stick. They play each morning and Jack will sulk if Tom tries to cheat him out of his game. I think he’ll even return the stick to Tom a few times. When Jack tires of the game, he settles down to chew the stick into toothpicks.
We’re pretty satisfied with ol’ Jack. I mean, it does get on our nerves that he never closes the back door behind him, after butting it open with his giant head a million times day to stroll inside and see what we’re up. And it would be fun if he liked car rides so we wouldn’t have to lift his large ass into the car every time we want to haul him somewhere. And his plodding pace at the end of our walks makes me a little crazy every night. And I’d rather he didn’t wake me every morning barking his fool head off at squirrels. And he’s gloomy when it rains. We suspect seasonal affective disorder.
I suppose my affection for Jack reflects my allegiance to the underdogs of the world. Jack came from a troubled home. But he's conquered many of his demons and he’s a good boy. Yes, he is.
night walks
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Now that the weather is hot (really, really hot), Jack is having to change his walk habits. No more 3 p.m. walks, even though he still looks hopeful every day around that time. These days, we’re walking at night—usually about 9 p.m.. How nice to have a big, strong, handsome, surly quadruped to keep me safe after dark.
Our night walks are completely different from our daytime walks. I needed distraction during the day. I went from listening to music to NPR to Who Wants to Be A Millionaire (my little radio gets TV as well—I love that) to Podcasts, yet I still found myself dreading the daily slog. Is it any wonder? I’ve been walking around this same neighborhood for 15 years.
But walking after dark is entirely different. No distraction is necessary. The one time I tried hooking up to headphones, I disliked the noise and chatter. Few cars pass and nobody is mowing or blowing or hedge trimming. No kids are yelling and horsing around on their way home from school and I don’t have to worry about anyone teasing Jack, as they sometimes do, or asking to meet him, as they often do, forcing me to sadly explain his bad manners.
Nighttime noises are soothing. The hiss of sprinklers. The buzz of cicadas. Dogs bark but they seem somehow muffled and distant. Trees rustle in the breeze, when there is one. Last night the moon was big and bright—not full but nearly so. We pass few other people, although we did pass a woman a couple of nights ago.
“I can’t see you,” she said, her teeth flashing white in the last of evening’s light.
I laughed. “I can’t see you either,” I said, and we went on our way until she jogged by me again ten minutes later, a benevolent shadow. “Have a good evening,” she said as she passed.
Some evenings we get out early enough to catch the last of the sunset. In that case, we walk streets to the west of home, at the top of our hilly neighborhood, along a school playing field, where we can appreciate the enormity of the Texas sky. The other night, for the first time, I noticed a church steeple in the distance silhouetted against the dusk.
Jack and I are seeing the neighborhood in a whole different light.
Our night walks are completely different from our daytime walks. I needed distraction during the day. I went from listening to music to NPR to Who Wants to Be A Millionaire (my little radio gets TV as well—I love that) to Podcasts, yet I still found myself dreading the daily slog. Is it any wonder? I’ve been walking around this same neighborhood for 15 years.
But walking after dark is entirely different. No distraction is necessary. The one time I tried hooking up to headphones, I disliked the noise and chatter. Few cars pass and nobody is mowing or blowing or hedge trimming. No kids are yelling and horsing around on their way home from school and I don’t have to worry about anyone teasing Jack, as they sometimes do, or asking to meet him, as they often do, forcing me to sadly explain his bad manners.
Nighttime noises are soothing. The hiss of sprinklers. The buzz of cicadas. Dogs bark but they seem somehow muffled and distant. Trees rustle in the breeze, when there is one. Last night the moon was big and bright—not full but nearly so. We pass few other people, although we did pass a woman a couple of nights ago.
“I can’t see you,” she said, her teeth flashing white in the last of evening’s light.
I laughed. “I can’t see you either,” I said, and we went on our way until she jogged by me again ten minutes later, a benevolent shadow. “Have a good evening,” she said as she passed.
Some evenings we get out early enough to catch the last of the sunset. In that case, we walk streets to the west of home, at the top of our hilly neighborhood, along a school playing field, where we can appreciate the enormity of the Texas sky. The other night, for the first time, I noticed a church steeple in the distance silhouetted against the dusk.
Jack and I are seeing the neighborhood in a whole different light.
Labels: jack, memoir, the meaning of life, walking
it could be true
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Today's Non Sequitur kinda choked me up a little. Jack is big dreamer. He twitches and even barks a little. What traumas haunt poor Jack at night? Terrifying car rides to the park? Giant squirrels bursting out of the Hall Closet of Horror? Ballpoint pen clicks at sonic boom decibels? Jack's fears are so numerous in waking hours, what could possibly haunt his dreams?
It's not easy being Jack. Today, we will drug him so that we can brush him and wash him. I can't tell you how much I loathe having to dope him up but it's our only hope of getting the job done.
It's not easy being Jack.
It's not easy being Jack. Today, we will drug him so that we can brush him and wash him. I can't tell you how much I loathe having to dope him up but it's our only hope of getting the job done.
It's not easy being Jack.
full-throttle flotsam
Friday, May 16, 2008
Alrighty then, lots of flotsam for your procrastinators today. A little something for everyone. (Maybe. I don’t know.)
I am happy to report that the incorrigible Jack has become partly corriged. He has adjusted to the electric fence and no longer wanders at will. No more crossing the creek and coming home muddy, no more chasing off the mailman, no more patrolling the alley and riling up the other dogs. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the limits. Perhaps the responsibility of patrolling so large an area weighed heavily on his burly shoulders and troubled his large noggin. His own yard is large enough. So many squirrels, so little time. And so much napping to be done. How is one dog to do it all without some limits?
Now I need an electric fence for the sofa. He is not allowed on the sofa and knows it, but at night, after we go to bed, he helps himself. At the suggestion of one of his many trainers, I tried booby trapping it last night by covering it with newspapers and balancing a couple beer cans filled with coins on the papers, which were supposed to fall off and make noise and either frighten him off or wake us up. They did neither. He managed to fit his large tuchus between the cans, barely even disturbing them. So, back to shutting him out of the living room at night. He hates that. The other night, I had to put his leash on him and drag him out. Literally drag him—he put that aforementioned large tuchus on the floor and wouldn’t move it.
Brat.
***
Slate has a special issue on procrastination (speaking of blogging) which includes this story, asking the question What is the difference between severe procrastination and writer's block?
So, I have this novel I’ve been working on for about three years. I’m in revisions. Ten painful pages at a time. And a half-finished book proposal that’s been collecting cyber dust for more than a year. So slow. I could do better. I know it. I’m not blocked, I’m procrastinating, Because as long as these remain remain unfinished they might be brilliant. If I finish them, their lead feet will be obvious.
Says one expert: "The chronic procrastinator knows he's presenting a negative image, but he'd rather be perceived negatively for lack of effort than for lack of ability."
***
The research corner:
Important news about men and their thingies: First, the International Society for Sexual Medicine has only just come up with (no pun intended) a formal definition of premature ejaculation. I know, can you believe it? I personally have never encountered this particular problem but in case you’re wondering, it is now defined as: “a male sexual dysfunction characterized by ejaculation which always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration; and, inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations; and, negative personal consequences, such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy.”
And, says the study’s main author, “The hope is that more people with these symptoms will understand this is an actual health condition and seek treatment. They no longer need to suffer in silence.”
In related thingie-research: Gastric Bypass Surgery Restores Sexual Function in Morbidly Obese Men—Losing weight may help resolve erectile dysfunction in obese men.
Mostly, it helps them get laid more, I assume.
Having just experienced a highly unpleasant allergic reaction to a drug (my friends got all the gory details, I spared most of you) I was drawn to research into why scratching helps an itch. The study involved 13 healthy participants who underwent testing with functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology that highlights areas of the brain activated during an activity. Participants were scratched on the lower leg with a small brush. The scratching went on for 30 seconds and was then stopped for 30 seconds – for a total of about five minutes.
“To our surprise, we found that areas of the brain associated with unpleasant or aversive emotions and memories became significantly less active during the scratching,” said Yosipovitch. “We know scratching is pleasurable, but we haven’t known why. It’s possible that scratching may suppress the emotional components of itch and bring about its relief.”
So scratching is not really physical relief, it’s emotional. Which, when you think about it makes sense. Itching is so miserable … a persistent itch makes you want to scream, cry, bang your head repeatedly against a wall. Finally succumbing to the urge to scratch? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It’s more than physical relief. It’s bliss—however short lived and guilty, since we know we shouldn’t scratch.
The rash is fading and I will never take Aleve again.
Here’s a fun read from the Wall Street Journal, about retail therapy. Yup, psychologists and neuroscientists are studying that, too. Not to help us, mind you. To help retailers.
But keep this in mind—just like those little 100-calorie size snack packs of cookies and other treats can help us eat less, how we carry money can help us spend less, according to one study: Students were given $100 in pretend cash to participate in a gambling study. Some students received one sealed envelope with all the money, and others got 10 sealed envelopes that each contained $10. Individuals with multiple envelopes tended to spend less, sometimes half of what the people with the single envelope spent. "The power of partitioning can reduce spending by 50 percent," Cheema said.
I don’t like carrying lots of cash for this very reason. If I have it, I spend it. If I have to go back to the ATM, I become more aware of my spending. (And I am on near-lockdown on credit cards right now. Not complete, but I’m staying careful. Baby needs a new tank of gas…)
***
Dunno why it’s taken me so long, but I’d like to point out a new blogroll link—to the blog of my friend Jenna and her friend Rachel. The Haiku Diaries is commentaries on life entirely in the 5-7-5 format. It’s so much fun. I like to comment in haiku when I’m feeling sharp enough.
***
This week instead of just a list of google searches, a little commentary on a select few.
I find a lot of searches that look like this: 2008 contact emails of the doctors @yahoo.com in Florida; email contact women's america 2008@yahoo.com
I was baffled until learning that these are the kinds of searches used by spammers to harvest email addresses. OK, that would explain the ever-thickening blizzard of spam I receive.
Three of my photos have become very popular: the one of a pyramid at Teotihuacan, the portrait of a xoloescuintle and the plastic army men war atrocities. These turn up so often, I assume someone is using them for something somewhere, but I can’t figure out how to figure it out.
Someone searched hillary jillette cunt which I suppose relates to Hillary Clinton and Penn Jillette. I know he called her a bitch. Did he call her a cunt, too? What a prick.
Someone searched Elizabet gilbert eat, pray, love review childfree, which is a little confusing.
Chelle, someone searched you. Someone searched my brother Oliver. And someone searched "black and blue" "rolling stones" tribute band dallas, texas myspace which had a very happy ending, since it resulted in a job for Black and Blue. May 31, Tolbert’s in Grapevine. Glad to help…
And that's Friday.
I am happy to report that the incorrigible Jack has become partly corriged. He has adjusted to the electric fence and no longer wanders at will. No more crossing the creek and coming home muddy, no more chasing off the mailman, no more patrolling the alley and riling up the other dogs. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the limits. Perhaps the responsibility of patrolling so large an area weighed heavily on his burly shoulders and troubled his large noggin. His own yard is large enough. So many squirrels, so little time. And so much napping to be done. How is one dog to do it all without some limits?
Now I need an electric fence for the sofa. He is not allowed on the sofa and knows it, but at night, after we go to bed, he helps himself. At the suggestion of one of his many trainers, I tried booby trapping it last night by covering it with newspapers and balancing a couple beer cans filled with coins on the papers, which were supposed to fall off and make noise and either frighten him off or wake us up. They did neither. He managed to fit his large tuchus between the cans, barely even disturbing them. So, back to shutting him out of the living room at night. He hates that. The other night, I had to put his leash on him and drag him out. Literally drag him—he put that aforementioned large tuchus on the floor and wouldn’t move it.
Brat.
***
Slate has a special issue on procrastination (speaking of blogging) which includes this story, asking the question What is the difference between severe procrastination and writer's block?
So, I have this novel I’ve been working on for about three years. I’m in revisions. Ten painful pages at a time. And a half-finished book proposal that’s been collecting cyber dust for more than a year. So slow. I could do better. I know it. I’m not blocked, I’m procrastinating, Because as long as these remain remain unfinished they might be brilliant. If I finish them, their lead feet will be obvious.
Says one expert: "The chronic procrastinator knows he's presenting a negative image, but he'd rather be perceived negatively for lack of effort than for lack of ability."
***
The research corner:
Important news about men and their thingies: First, the International Society for Sexual Medicine has only just come up with (no pun intended) a formal definition of premature ejaculation. I know, can you believe it? I personally have never encountered this particular problem but in case you’re wondering, it is now defined as: “a male sexual dysfunction characterized by ejaculation which always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration; and, inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations; and, negative personal consequences, such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy.”
And, says the study’s main author, “The hope is that more people with these symptoms will understand this is an actual health condition and seek treatment. They no longer need to suffer in silence.”
In related thingie-research: Gastric Bypass Surgery Restores Sexual Function in Morbidly Obese Men—Losing weight may help resolve erectile dysfunction in obese men.
Mostly, it helps them get laid more, I assume.
Having just experienced a highly unpleasant allergic reaction to a drug (my friends got all the gory details, I spared most of you) I was drawn to research into why scratching helps an itch. The study involved 13 healthy participants who underwent testing with functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology that highlights areas of the brain activated during an activity. Participants were scratched on the lower leg with a small brush. The scratching went on for 30 seconds and was then stopped for 30 seconds – for a total of about five minutes.
“To our surprise, we found that areas of the brain associated with unpleasant or aversive emotions and memories became significantly less active during the scratching,” said Yosipovitch. “We know scratching is pleasurable, but we haven’t known why. It’s possible that scratching may suppress the emotional components of itch and bring about its relief.”
So scratching is not really physical relief, it’s emotional. Which, when you think about it makes sense. Itching is so miserable … a persistent itch makes you want to scream, cry, bang your head repeatedly against a wall. Finally succumbing to the urge to scratch? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It’s more than physical relief. It’s bliss—however short lived and guilty, since we know we shouldn’t scratch.
The rash is fading and I will never take Aleve again.
Here’s a fun read from the Wall Street Journal, about retail therapy. Yup, psychologists and neuroscientists are studying that, too. Not to help us, mind you. To help retailers.
But keep this in mind—just like those little 100-calorie size snack packs of cookies and other treats can help us eat less, how we carry money can help us spend less, according to one study: Students were given $100 in pretend cash to participate in a gambling study. Some students received one sealed envelope with all the money, and others got 10 sealed envelopes that each contained $10. Individuals with multiple envelopes tended to spend less, sometimes half of what the people with the single envelope spent. "The power of partitioning can reduce spending by 50 percent," Cheema said.
I don’t like carrying lots of cash for this very reason. If I have it, I spend it. If I have to go back to the ATM, I become more aware of my spending. (And I am on near-lockdown on credit cards right now. Not complete, but I’m staying careful. Baby needs a new tank of gas…)
***
Dunno why it’s taken me so long, but I’d like to point out a new blogroll link—to the blog of my friend Jenna and her friend Rachel. The Haiku Diaries is commentaries on life entirely in the 5-7-5 format. It’s so much fun. I like to comment in haiku when I’m feeling sharp enough.
***
This week instead of just a list of google searches, a little commentary on a select few.
I find a lot of searches that look like this: 2008 contact emails of the doctors @yahoo.com in Florida; email contact women's america 2008@yahoo.com
I was baffled until learning that these are the kinds of searches used by spammers to harvest email addresses. OK, that would explain the ever-thickening blizzard of spam I receive.
Three of my photos have become very popular: the one of a pyramid at Teotihuacan, the portrait of a xoloescuintle and the plastic army men war atrocities. These turn up so often, I assume someone is using them for something somewhere, but I can’t figure out how to figure it out.
Someone searched hillary jillette cunt which I suppose relates to Hillary Clinton and Penn Jillette. I know he called her a bitch. Did he call her a cunt, too? What a prick.
Someone searched Elizabet gilbert eat, pray, love review childfree, which is a little confusing.
Chelle, someone searched you. Someone searched my brother Oliver. And someone searched "black and blue" "rolling stones" tribute band dallas, texas myspace which had a very happy ending, since it resulted in a job for Black and Blue. May 31, Tolbert’s in Grapevine. Glad to help…
And that's Friday.
Labels: blogging, brain science, dallas morning news, dog training, dogs, google, jack, photography, psychology, research, sex, sexism, shopping, writing
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