The Clam Rampant

Kasia April 10th, 2009

So the Bidens adopted a German Shepherd puppy from a breeder, and animal rights activists have been going (excuse the term) ape.

Ya know what? All things being equal, I’d rather they had adopted a shelter dog too. Lots of animals out there who need good homes…plus not a lot of no-kill shelters…it adds up to a sad situation.

But ya know what else?

It’s not my business.

Nor is it PETA’s. I’m not really even sure why the Veep adopting a pet is considered newsworthy; but the only people who were party to the transaction were Joe Biden, Jill Biden, and the breeder. Period. No one else gets a say. (Not even President Obama, unless the Bidens decided to consult him.)

And yes, I said “transaction”. Puppies, kittens, cats, dogs – they’re wonderful creatures. They’re cute, they’re lovable, and the long-suffering Canuck will gladly tell you what a sucker I am for them. But they’re not people. They are chattel. And although I am happy to report that it is illegal to torture or harm pets – even ones you own – you do still own them, at least in a legal sense.

How someone can make death threats against the Bidens and the puppy breeder for this is beyond me.

But I’ll bet you a cookie that the folks who did, see no problem with abortion.

C’mon, guys – isn’t this another “choice”?

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Kasia June 25th, 2008

My beloved reminded me in the combox about Dogdini and DJ of a particular DJ story that just screams for its own post. What can I do – I aim to please…  

Several years ago, when my mother still lived in Detroit, TBS had a brilliant idea for Mother’s Day. And I mean it: it was really a great idea.

We had been in the habit of ordering Pizza Papalis (mmm…) for Mother’s Day. It was quite popular, but also quite expensive. TBS said, “Why don’t we cook her a nice meal for Mother’s Day instead? It can be less expensive AND more thoughtful.”

I thought that was a lovely idea, but there were two big drawbacks. One, we both lived in small apartments and didn’t really have room for guests. Two, I was even less proficient a cook then than I am now.

“No problem,” said my intrepid seester. “I’ll handle most of it. I’ll do the prep work at home, and the grocery shopping; and then you cut me a check for your share and help with what needs to be done at Mom’s.”

So she spent her weekend chopping and dicing and slicing and otherwise slaving over a hot countertop, and on Mother’s Day she came over with the lamb chops and the side dishes and whatnot, all ready for last steps. I came over with myself and my checkbook.

First TBS discovered we had to scrub out the broiler, because my mother (and you can bet this is where I get my propensity to do things like this) had apparently forgotten to do that the last time she used it.

Then TBS instructed me on how to start the broiler and put the lamb chops in. In all things, I am her sous chef. The most complicated thing I think I’ve ever done on a project with her is knead dough (which I think I’m actually pretty good at – I learned from my beloved) when we made stollen. Meanwhile, she’s bopping around the kitchen doing all sorts of kitchen-madonna type of things, and instructing me on something else to do after.

After a short time we notice an odd smell.

We wonder what it is, but dismiss it.

It grows stronger.

For some inexplicable reason, it occurs to one of us to have me check the oven.

There is a giant blue blob in the oven. I have no idea what it is. I shout, perplexed and frustrated, “Who left a candle in the oven?!?”

My mother comes running and looks.

It’s not a candle. It is the dishpan they keep their recycling in. The plastic dishpan they keep their recycling in.

Now, you may be wondering why my mother would keep her recycling in a plastic dishpan, much less put that plastic dishpan into the oven. That’s a fair question.

She kept her recycling in the dishpan because it was easily stored and moved to places where DJ the incorrigible Brittany spaniel couldn’t get to it and chew up all the recycling.

But she didn’t usually keep the plastic dishpan in the oven. (Of course not. That would be silly.)

She usually kept it in the microwave.

It was not in the microwave that fateful Mother’s Day. She had moved it out of the microwave to use the microwave for something, and we, her unsuspecting daughters, did not think to ask “Mom, is there, perhaps, some chance that you might have put it into the oven for safekeeping?”

In fairness and in hindsight, I should have checked the oven before turning the broiler on. I usually check the oven before preheating it; it just didn’t occur to me to do so when using the broiler.

In equal fairness and hindsight, it was probably not one of my mother’s more intelligent decisions to put a plastic dishpan into the oven for safekeeping, especially when she knew other people were coming over to use her kitchen.

The lamb chops had melted plastic drizzled onto them, but we scraped it off and finished cooking them on the grill. They were salvageable. The oven, on the other hand, was not salvageable.

We had to air out the house and put DJ outside (where he tried desperately to get at the grill with the lamb chops). The cats hid in the basement, so we had to hope and pray that they didn’t asphyxiate from the fumes before the house was fully aired.

Poor TBS. She worked like a maniac trying to make a nice Mother’s Day, and that’s what happened. She was…shall we say , less than happy? I felt awful for her.

By the time dinner was ready the house was not yet fully aired, so we ate al fresco at a card table in my mother’s back yard, to the sounds of neighbor kids playing basketball and neighbor parents good-naturedly asking why we were having an outdoor dinner.

The oven was ruined. My mother had to buy herself a new stove for Mother’s Day.

And all because she had a Brittany spaniel.

• Animals , Autobiographical ramblings , Domesticity , Family , Tales of holiday woe
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Kasia June 24th, 2008

About a week ago, I stumbled onto a blog that I’ve been enjoying. Maybe some of you have been clicking the link from the sidebar for Snarkolepsy? Those of you who haven’t, by all means check it out, though I will warn you that some of the language there is not safe for children’s consumption or for sensitive adults. Be ye thus advised. 

Anyway, I got sucked in by pictures of cute bunnies, and the next thing you know, I was reading a post about the neighbor’s dog, a.k.a. Dogdini, who has an uncanny knack for getting into the Snarkoleptics’ yard.

I’m reading, and I’m laughing, and I’m scrolling down. And then I saw the picture. And the pieces clicked together, and the heavens opened up, and there was a sort of a light and “LAAAA!” song by the angels…because I suddenly understood exactly what the Snarkoleptics are going through.

Their neighbor has a Brittany spaniel.

This may get confusing, because I have often referred to a friend of mine who frequents this blog as DJ, and his wife as Mrs. DJ. Forget that, for the moment. The DJ I am about to tell you about is NOT my dear friend with the awesome wife and the four great kids, three of whom are special-needs. No. Not that DJ.

The DJ I’m about to tell you about is a dog. A Brittany spaniel, to be precise; and as long as I’m working on precision, I may as well use the past tense. DJ was a Brittany spaniel. After a long, full life of raising Cain, he died and is presumably flailing against the gates of Heaven while St. Peter stares in shock at this dog who is actually going to scale the gates.

DJ stood for Dakota Jewel, which was his AKC name. My mother had fallen in love with a Brittany at a pet shop a scant week or two before getting a call from a friend, asking if she could take a rescue Brittany.

My mother knew nothing about Brittanies except that the one in the shop was beautiful, and so sweet and playful! She took the dog. And much as I loved that dog, many was the time each of us rued the day she took him.

Shortly after she adopted him, she took him to the vet to get him checked out and vaccinated. Her vet, a charming man with a fabulously dry wit, said “You do know that saying a Brittany is hyperactive is like saying Attila the Hun was assertive, right?”

On top of “normal” Brittany energy, DJ had been crated for most of his puppyhood. Crated during the day while his owners were at work, let out for three or four hours in the evening, then crated again overnight. That’s a recipe for trouble with just about any puppy, much less a high-energy, good-sized one. And they wondered why he was so frantic when he did get out of the crate. Gee, I wonder.

And Brittanies are seriously high-energy dogs. For a Brittany to be happy, you really need a high-energy person or set of people who will engage with it and keep it active. I mean taking it out for runs a couple of times a day, a lot of play and attention, etc. They’re unbelievably sweet dogs, but I have yet to see anyone really give a Brittany the attention and activity they need. And when a dog is bored, that excess energy is going to translate into inappropriate behavior.

With Dogdini, that inappropriate behavior seems to primarily manifest in getting into the Snarkoleptics’ yard (over a six-foot fence). With DJ…well, let me count a few of his more notable escapades…

1. He had a habit of getting into the kitchen trash. My mother started putting a luggage strap around it, which did confound him for a few years. Then one fine day he figured out how to get the luggage strap off the trash can, and all bets were off.

2. He ate cockroach traps. Seriously – those Combat things? Yeah. Chewed up a box. No ill effects that we noticed.

3. He ate the lion’s share of a wooden spoon, and chewed up a metal frying pan.

4. Like many dogs, he thought the street was part of his territory. So every time the mailman (or anyone else) would come, he would wail out the most unbelievable series of barks you ever heard, and hurl himself against the foyer door. The <i>leaded glass</i> foyer door. One day – you guessed it – the glass gave out and he crashed right through it. Not a scratch on him. When my mom replaced the door, she had to have the glass covered with Plexiglass.

5. I am given to understand that someone I know (neither TBS nor I, and no, not my mother either) left some quantity of a herbaceous controlled substance within dog’s reach. Nobody saw it happen, but the ganja disappeared, Baggie and all, never to be seen again. We can only presume that DJ was a very happy puppy that day…

6. Although his behavior improved for several years with shock-collar training (yes, shock collar – it was the only way my mother found to get him to behave, and she was on the verge of getting rid of him before she found what we dubbed “The Hand of God”), after about age 10 he started to regress. I think it was senility. One day he actually ate vegetables that were roasting in the broiler RIGHT OUT OF THE PAN IN THE BROILER. One might have thought that would shock his system, but apparently not…

7. What finally did him in, after fourteen years of insanity, was – believe it or not – cat food. He broke into the room where the animal food was stored, broke into the metal trash can that held the cat food, and ate about seven pounds of it. You know how dogs will eat until they pop? Well, he didn’t pop, but he did throw his stomach, pancreas, and various other organs waaaayyy out of whack. He was on chicken and rice for a month, was slowly recovering, and then had a stroke in the backyard one day.

I have to admit that I miss him. He really was one of the most loving dogs I’ve ever known, and to this day I can’t see a Brittany without asking the owner if I can pet it and telling them about DJ.

The few of you who knew DJ, please feel free to add in any other stories about him that I’ve left out in the combox. Those of you who didn’t know him, how about some other dog stories? I’m feeling doggy and nostalgic…

And say a prayer for both the Snarkoleptics and their neighbor, eh? I think they’ll both need it.  :-p

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admin February 15th, 2007

At the Lowry Park Zoo

Here I am feeding Colby, one of the friendlier giraffes at Tampa’s Lowry Park Zoo. Many thanks to the Canuck for getting such a great shot, and for being nice enough to help by cropping out all the parts of me that were unnecessary to the picture.

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admin February 11th, 2007

Good news!

Yes, I mean besides that Jesus loves you. That’s better news than this, but unless you live in one of the three pockets of the world which missionaries have not managed to penetrate, you probably already heard that news.

First and foremost, I saw an update on The Catholic Cricket that Kheldar’s baby Lily is progressing well in the NICU. Deo gratias! Please keep praying!

Second, Mike (the dog TBS and I chased around the I-94/Beaubien intersection for half an hour in subzero temperatures while the Canuck waited patiently at the Windsor train station) has successfully been transferred to Almost Home, a no-kill shelter in Southfield. Everyone at the Humane Society commented on what a sweet dog he is. I’ve posted a picture below, in case you know anyone who’s interested in adopting a precious pooch. He’s three years old and 65 pounds, so a good-sized but not enormous dog. According to the Humane Society he had two kinds of worms, which they’re clearing up with medication, but was otherwise in good health. Again, Deo gratias!

Finally, though I’m not actually Catholic yet, I am officially registered as a member of the parish! I have my very own envelope number and everything! Woohoo!!!

Hope you’re all doing well, and hope to be posting more soon.

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admin February 6th, 2007

Update on Mike

My mom e-mailed me to let me know that the manager at the Humane Society told her that she will release Mike to her on Friday (after the four-day waiting period) to take to the no-kill shelter, Almost Home. So assuming the previous owners don’t come to claim him (you know, the ones who left him out in the yard in zero-degree weather, confined only by a fence he’s jumped many times before, fifty yards from I-94), he should be on his way to an eventual good, loving home.

I wish I could do as much for every unwanted animal. To say nothing of every unwanted person.

In any event, thank God for small favors.

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admin February 4th, 2007

Mike

I freely admit that I’m a sucker for animals. I’m a sucker for people too, but that’s another post. The Canuck often laments how easily I’m distracted while driving by someone walking a dog. I shout “PUPPY!” and he responds “ROAD!”

However, today I met one of the sweetest dogs I’ve yet met. And the sad part is, I met him because he needs a home.

The Big Seester and I were on our way to pick up The Canuck at the Windsor train station (my car very rudely declined to take me to church today, so TBS generously agreed to not leave the poor Canuck stranded). We were planning to stop by the library to return a book on our way down to the bridge, so we got off I-94 at Woodward. Lo and behold, at the Beaubien intersection, we saw a dog sitting dead smack in the middle of the intersection.

For those of you who don’t know (i.e. live in another part of the country or world that is not being affected by this giant polar air mass that has settled on a large swath of the northern U.S.), today was the coldest day yet this winter (my weather program right now is showing one degree Fahrenheit, and that’s not including the wind chill), and tonight and tomorrow are supposed to be even colder. Now, I know it’s worse in other areas – I know Minnesota, for example, is expecting -26 F tomorrow – but it’s still darned cold. It’s not fit for man nor beast, which is why shelters are extending their hours, extra warming centers are being opened, and TBS and I knew we absolutely could NOT leave this poor dog out to freeze (assuming he wasn’t hit by a car first).

So I got out of the car and coaxed…and coaxed…and coaxed. He was a little shy, but very affectionate and gentle. However, he didn’t want to get into the car. After about half an hour, with the help of some local men, we managed it. One of the locals volunteered that the dog’s name is Mike, that he lives at a house right by there, but that he’s constantly jumping the fence. (Hello – if you live right off a major interstate and your dog jumps the fence, you either build a bigger fence or you leash him when he’s outside!) In addition, based on what he said it didn’t sound like the people especially wanted him (which fits, based on the fact that he was left outside in zero-degree weather). So TBS and I continued our efforts, and eventually one of the men picked Mike up and put him into the back seat. (Despite this, Mike made no effort at all to snap at anyone – good temperament!)

Then we were stuck with what to do with him! We couldn’t take him across the border; in order to do that you have to be able to prove that the animal has had the appropriate vaccines, and we had no way of knowing if he did. We couldn’t just dump him somewhere else. We called our aunt, who has a history of rescuing animals, but she was reluctant to take him in. Our mother was at a play. And all this time, The Canuck was sitting at the Windsor train station! (He got in around the time we got Mike into the car.)

So, with some misgivings, we decided to take Mike to the local Humane Society. They took him in, and if his owners don’t come claim him in four days, he’ll be evaluated for adoptability (health and temperament) and put up for adoption. I didn’t ask how long they give adoptable animals before they euthanize them.

Anyway, I put in an initial adoption interest form just to maintain my contact with them – now they’ll notify me if something is really wrong with him, etc. I can’t take him; I don’t have the room or the time for a dog, much as I’d love one (and him specifically). If you or someone you know in the southeastern Michigan/southwestern Ontario/northern Ohio area might be open to meeting a darling dog, e-mail me at clamrampant at yahoo dot com and I can tell you more about him. I don’t have a picture yet (didn’t occur to me to take one), but I will ask the Humane Society for one when I talk to them later in the week.

He’s medium-sized – I’m guesstimating around 25 – 30 pounds, but don’t hold me to that. They wrote him up as a rottweiler/terrier mix; he’s got rottweiler coloring and a terrier face. His hair is medium-length (not short, but not long like a collie or anything) and somewhat wiry. He’s sweet, and seemed to be OK with the other dog that was in the lobby. I didn’t see him interact with cats (or, obviously, kids), but I think the Humane Society will try to evaluate that in the adoptability testing. Based on the disposition I witnessed, I don’t think there would be a problem with kids (can’t evaluate cats without seeing him with them). In the meantime, I am trying to get him transferred to a no-kill shelter.

Even if you can’t take Mike, thanks for reading this. Stay warm, everyone!

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