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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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Oh, For Pet’s Sake!

Bella, Frankie and all animals!

…Comedy Show Maybe

I’m embarrassed to call Frankie a Pekingese. Meet Malachy, winner of the 136th Annual Westminster Kennel Club’s Best in Show. And a Pekingese.

The only dogs that looked more ridiculous were a hairless Chinese Crested and a Poodle that paraded around with its’ bouffant hair-do and ballooned ankles. This mop-on-a-leash actually elicited laughs from the audience and caused one announcer to jokingly wonder if he could even make it around the ring. Large dogs ran around the arena. Most had a gait that at least required their handlers to break into a fast walk. Malachy waddled. And his handler walked like he was waiting on Grandma with her walker. Malachy was the only dog continually being fluffed and groomed on camera. But he was also the only dog I saw with such potential for a bad hair day.

After Malachy took the Toy Group, the action culminated with seven dogs, one from each division, competing for Best in Show honors. There was an interesting moment when the final judge was announced. (She’d  actually been sequestered for two days like a jury member on a celebrity murder trial.) After introducing her and her stewards (whatever they are,) a brief scuffle ensued behind them. Since the announcers didn’t miss a beat or even acknowledge it, I had to look it up. PETA protesters had turned up. Now, I happen to agree that it’s senseless that millions of unwanted animals die every year while breeders keep churning out full-breds and designer dogs, but I enjoy a good spectacle as much as the next girl.

And spectacle it was. The final seven did another lap around Madison Square Garden under dimmed lights and swirling spotlights. The grand finale had all the building tension and drama of a tightrope act at the circus. Malachy was up against some real dog’s dogs. We’re talking a German Shepherd, a Doberman and a Dalmatian. Dogs that would’ve laughed this little guy right out of the dog park.

As I watched his little pink tongue panting with the effort of his exertions, I strained to see something of Frankie in him. Maybe the large, round eyes. Thankfully, it was hard to see any resemblance whatsoever. I’m sure you’ll agree. And from now on, whenever anyone asks what kind of dog Frankie is, I’ll tell them he’s a Pekingese mix. Emphasis on the mix.

2

Belle of the Ball

Frankie has been getting entirely too much attention lately. But long before there was the constant barking, gnawed-on shoes and half-eaten garbage, there was the quiet, peaceful existence of a writer and her cat.

Bella found me (quite literally) in December of 2005. I had recently put down my cat of 14 years and I was outside raking leaves. Raking and crying. It had only been a couple of months since his passing and yard work had been our “special time.” Tears were streaming down my face when a white kitten with blue eyes jumped out of the bushes and started chasing the rake. I decided it was a sign.

We spent the better part of an afternoon getting to know each other. She dissolved into purrs beneath my hand. She was attention starved and oh-so loving. My next-door neighbor saw us outside. He didn’t know who she belonged to, but he’d seen her the night before on our street. I knew it had been close to freezing on recent nights. She had on a pink collar with rhinestones. I was falling in love with someone’s pet.

I left to run an errand. I knew she might be gone when I returned, but I secretly hoped she wouldn’t be. When I came home, there was no sign of her. I opened the door and looked up and down the street. Nothing. The third time I checked — there she was — across the street, in a driveway. She looked up at me and bounded across two yards to my front door. The same next-door neighbor laughed and hollered over to me, “She picks you!”

As it turned out, some college girls had adopted her before learning that their third roommate was allergic. They’d been keeping her outside and planned to return her to the Humane Society the next day. They’d been trying to find a home for her. At last attempt, she’d been shipped off with a boyfriend who owned two big Boxers. They were relieved to give her up to me. I’m sure she was relieved to get away from the Boxers.

She came with her name and her pink diamond collar. I took the collar off, but it was too late. Her personality was already infused with the entitled air of a princess. She’s clearly an indoor girl. She goes outside in my small yard only when I’m watching. She would never jump the fence. She doesn’t jump. Or climb. Or even relish high places. My mom says she’s the perfect cat for me cause I take so long at the door and she never runs out. My mother once accidentally left the door ajar and the wind blew it wide open. It was like that for half the day and I came home with Frankie in a panic to find her lounging on the bed.

Maybe her first few months served her well. Now she can really appreciate attention from someone who’s not allergic and treasure a warm bed on a cold night. And after holding her own against Boxers, she can certainly handle Frankie.

Frankie has made me love dogs in addition to cats and I’ll always be writing about him and his mischievous ways. But behind this adorable dog that hogs the spotlight is a sweet and unassuming kitty. When it comes to these two, it’s true what they say: you never forget your first love.

2

Snack World

Sorry I’m a little late with this week’s posting, but Frankie and I were vacationing at Snack World (my mother’s house.) Like most vacations, this one entailed lots of relaxing, tasty treats and a general flouting of the rules.

We both enjoy Snack World immensely. Mainly for the obvious — the snacks. Like one of those old-fashioned sweet shops on Main Street, my mother keeps a colorful variety of dog treats in a see-through canister in her kitchen. Like a spoiled child, Frankie has become selective, turning up his nose at some, in hopes that the next goody pulled out of the jar will be even better.

He’s also become wise to the snack routine. In the beginning, he would paw at the side door to be let out to do his business. My mother so appreciated him letting her know when he needed to go, that he received a snack when he returned through the back door. After months of receiving treats this way, he started skipping the part where he actually went to the bathroom. It was discovered when he began pawing to get in just seconds after pawing to get out. Frankie was leaving out the side door and immediately circling around to the back door, just to get the treat.

I too, enjoy the food, though it’s challenging when I’m trying to watch my weight. Mom doesn’t keep anything fat-free or light in the house. Since I can’t cook, I often look forward to having scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese sandwich. But it’s a real grilled cheese. Not 2% cheese and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. It’s made with thick bread, tons of regular cheese and you better believe it — real butter.

Flouting the rules

A different household means different rules. Forget consistency. It doesn’t exist. But Frankie’s smart enough to keep it straight. At home, I’m the mom, the disciplinarian. But there, I’m a child too, and under my mom’s roof, Frankie lives by her rules. Which is to say, he gets away with murder. He’s allowed on the bed, to beg, and to chase the cat, just to name a few. It’s no wonder he jumps up and down in excitement whenever she comes to pick us up.

My routine disappears too. My computer isn’t there so I can’t write or send emails. Usually my power chair isn’t there either, so I can’t walk Frankie. Gone are the 4 a.m. wake-ups and we all watch a late-night movie on my mom’s big screen. If Frankie could talk, I’m sure he’d be bragging to his friends at daycare about what he does on his vacations. And it’s not even summer yet.

6

Not a Service Dog

Believe it or not, Frankie could’ve been a service dog. Well, I don’t know that he would’ve made it all the way through training or graduated, but he was accepted. He had the right temperament and personality. Or so it was determined.

Years ago, preferring to adopt a homeless animal rather than support a breeder, I began looking for an organization that trains rescue service dogs. There aren’t many. With so specialized and special a mission, apparently it’s better to know an animal’s parents and history. After much looking, I was left with one immediate option (and not a very good one.) Train Frankie. First, he would need to be evaluated in a class.

After barging in late, Frankie leading the way, I handed over the leash to the instructor. She took Frankie around to meet the other dogs, all of whom outweighed Frankie by at least 50 pounds. After passing that test (he wasn’t timid or aggressive, but invited everyone to play,) she threw metal food bowls to land near his head. Instead of being scared or nervous about the clanging bowls, Frankie checked them all for food. She called his name to make sure he knew it, pulled his tail to make sure he wouldn’t growl and gave him treats to see how food motivated he was. (I could’ve answered that one.) In the end, he was cleared for take-off. The instructor called him happy-go-lucky. I think Mom and I were just excited to get that little “service-dog-in-training” vest.

Now I laugh to think of Frankie as an assistant to the handicapped. In fact, I’ve compiled a list (by all means not exhaustive) of the things Frankie does that a service dog would never do. A service dog would never:

…chase a cat.

…bolt through the door at the slightest opening.

…use the couch to roll about and dry off dew after a walk.

…chase a leaf.

…run across the front of a moving power wheelchair to bark at another dog.

…eat ants.

…bark and growl at lizards like they’re dangerous intruders.

…bark and growl at his own reflection.

…eat cat poo.

…walk on top of tables and counters.

…eat birthday cake.

Unfazed by chocolate
1

Harmony: Life Lessons From My Pets

Bella and Frankie have adjusted to living under the same roof. There’s still no love loss between them. They’re not exactly grooming each other or sleeping together. But they’ve learned how to be in a room simultaneously. We should all be so lucky. So, next time you’re tempted to ask, ‘why can’t we all just get along?’ — take a hint from a cat and dog who’ve mastered it.

Allow people to be themselves. Don’t expect everybody to be like you. It took Frankie a while to get this one. He just didn’t understand why Bella didn’t want to wrestle with him. He would bounce around all excited, doing the maneuver where he lowers down, front legs out straight, inviting her to play. Bella, in turn, would get all freaked out and run away. To Frankie, of course, this simply meant game on. As an outsider, it was so easy to see all the miscommunication going on. This leads to the next bit of advice.

Stand your ground — gently. Don’t run away or give chase. This was the worst thing Bella could do. She’d tear down the hall with Frankie close on her heels; terrified, while he had the time of his life. She has learned. Now I watch her crane her neck back, moving her head as far away from him as possible without moving her feet. She stays put. Clearly with distaste, but she never moves her body.

Be tolerant. Don’t overreact or yell. She used to hiss and make a big fuss whenever he came anywhere near her. Poor Frankie didn’t mean any harm. He just wanted to get to know her. Now she doesn’t make a big production of it, just lets him take a sniff or two. She’s realized that’s all he’s after. There’s no reason to growl and get all testy.

Give others plenty of space. As with any relationship, all parties can benefit from a good dose of “me time.” Since Bella is little Miss Independent, Frankie had to be the one to learn that sometimes a creature just wants to be left alone. Now he seems to know to act bored and aloof. It goes against his nature, but he’s a quick study. What’s true for winning over a man can also be true for winning over a cat.

1

Dress Up Day

I’ve always been the type of person that didn’t believe in dressing up animals. I hate those email jokes where there’s some poor attired feline who looks ticked off (obviously,) and I would never humiliate a cat with an outfit. I felt bad for my friend’s Labrador when she slapped a pair of plastic antlers on its head at Christmas                                                     time. Once again, Frankie’s changing my ways.

I was swayed by the persuasive tactics of commercial marketing. Have you seen the rows of pet costumes at Target? They’re adorable. Last year, still unconvinced, we did things my mom’s way — last minute. We were stuck with the unoriginal, far from clever, hot dog dog costume. Maybe this would’ve been cuter if Frankie actually was a Dachshund, but a Pekingese as a hot dog wasn’t that funny. I was a little embarrassed walking him the morning of the 31st, not to mention constantly worried he was going to pee on his getup. (Though I now know these costumes are made with strategically placed straps for safe and comfortable widdling.)

Amazingly, Frankie seemed to not only tolerate it, but enjoy it! Maybe it was all the extra attention he was getting, but there did seem to be an extra bounce in his step. Frankie has always trotted happily, but as ridiculous as it sounds, as a hot dog, he pranced.

This year, we’ve done things my way. Planned out and well in advance. Frankie’s Halloween gear was originally a sweater. Black and white striped with a skull and crossbones. Simple. Cute. I steered away from anything that looked too uncomfortable or went on his head. (I may have changed my mind, but I still have my compassion.) The problem was, his sweater looked like it had gone a couple rounds in the dryer. Way too small, it only came halfway down his back. I marveled that my mom was even able to get it on.

The sizing charts of pet costumes and a book on the Pekingese have called Frankie’s weight into question. The book says “dog show standards” (yeah, right) are limited to a maximum of 14 pounds. At last weigh-in, Frankie tipped the scales at  20. The sweater chart listed his breed as size small. Yet, what I received looked fit for a Chihuahua. We were told he’s all Pekingese, but he’s a rescue, so either he’s a very big boy or he’s mixed with Bulldog, which would explain his absolute stubbornness.

Validated for beginning the process early in the month, I returned the miniature sweater in favor of two more outfits, in hopes that one would work. One did. And Frankie felt so good about it at photo time, he turned toward the camera at his name like he was working the red carpet.

The Hawaiian Guy

In the end, he’s a contest winning Hawaiian Guy. That’s right, the dogs are having a party and costume contest on Monday at daycare. As a columnist in Tallahassee says, this is what happens in America when you don’t have children. Silly yes, but I’m embracing it. If you see us on the street on Monday, I’ll be the one proudly walking the prancing Hawaiian Guy.

9

For Need of a Dog

"My pain in the butt:" Photo by Bruce Macfarlane

Every disabled person should own a dog. I can hear friends laughing now because, in the past, I’ve been such a die hard cat person. Frankie has changed all that.

Don’t get me wrong. I still think dogs are a pain in the butt. They need to be entertained more than cats. They need to be exercised. Let out. They’re more destructive. More vacuum-like when it comes to food. They’re louder. Messier. More demanding. You can’t take a three-day weekend with ease. The list goes on and on.

In other words, having Frankie isn’t something I would’ve ever signed up for. Sometimes, the universe doesn’t give you what you want, it gives you what you need.

I’ve realized how caring for Frankie has expanded my world. I know a lot more people. Particularly in my neighborhood. It makes life more enjoyable. Imagine being out and about and everyone waves or nods. Even if I’m not actually with Frankie. Just yesterday, I was at the grocery store when a man said, “It just seems wrong, seeing you without your little dog.” It’s like the Cheers song, (yes, I know I’m dating myself,) but you do want to be where everybody knows your name. Okay, so most of these neighbors don’t actually know my name. The other day walking him, a man hollered out his window, “Hey, Frankie!” to which I waved and yelled, “Hi!”

"Not Holing up:" Michele walks me and Frankie

I’m outside a lot more. I don’t “isolate” myself (as my mother would say.) Without twice daily dog walks, I might be holed up for days on end with my computer and my cat. Instead, the tires on my power chair are actually bald. I need new tires. I hope I don’t have to brake suddenly.

Frankie also bridges the gap between the disabled and the able-bodied. I’m probably a lot more approachable in my wheelchair with him by my side. I’m just guessing here, but it’s reasonable to assume that I’m the only disabled person many of my neighbors have ever talked to. It’s good for everyone. Able-bodied folks can gain awareness and I gain a little self-esteem. For those five minutes discussing the weather or comparing flea medication, I’m not so different.

And service dogs? The benefits seem endless. In fact, I feel guilty just writing it so shhh, but when Frankie … umm… you know… gets to eat people food and run around leash free, I want to get a service dog. Of course, there’s nothing funny about a perfectly behaved dog is there? Maybe I’ll stick to inspirational and endearing misbehavers.

6

Pet People

I’ve become one of those crazy animal ladies.  Notice I didn’t say crazy cat ladies, because, to be honest, Bella and I have never had a problem.  And Bella is just one cat.  I think you have to have four or more to be official.  Three is pushing it.  If you live with a significant other or kids, you’re safe.  Don’t ask me why.  I don’t make the rules.  No, the problem started when Frankie came to live with us.

I bought a cat condo last week so Bella would have someplace to get away from him.  I always thought they were kind of tacky.  But, like parents who say they’ll never leave toys strewn about the living room, it happens.  Out of necessity.  And for me, guilt.  Guilt for bringing a dog into the house.  So I bought what I considered to be a more tasteful one.  A ridiculous amount of money for carpet and sisal rope, it sits unused in the corner.  She hasn’t touched it.

Mealtime has become tricky too.  First, Frankie got a can of wet food because it successfully disguised medicine.  Now Bella happily munches the moist stuff too.  Again – guilt.   I couldn’t very well treat him and not her.  My apartment used to smell like eucalyptus and incense.  Now it smells like salmon and giblets.  And that’s just going in.  With the two of them lying around all day passing gas, I’ve decided the cans should come with warning labels.  Possible side effect: intense flatulence.

I’ve even found myself saying the very things I used to roll my eyes about.  Things like, “We need to set up a play date!” or “Frankie will be at doggy daycare that day.”  I used to think daycare was for spoiled little rich dogs.  Now I defend it.  “He needs to socialize with other dogs!”  I say.  I believe in the power of the pack.  I think Cesar Millan is a god.

A friend of mine has a theory about all this pet mania.  It affects those of us who’ve never had children.  Or empty-nesters.  I’ll leave this one to the mommies and daddies out there.  I’m in no position to object.  All I know is my once impeccable apartment is littered with squeaky toys and if you’re wearing black, I’d advise against sitting down.  But I make no apologies.  They’re part of the family.

3

Feeling stressed? Walk a dog!

I admit to feeling a little frazzled lately.  You see, my mother was recently released from the hospital.  Since I have a variety of handicaps, the majority of the caregiving burden fell, and is still falling, to a good friend of hers.  This doesn’t mean I get off scott free.  There’s still family and friends to update, finances to figure, and plenty of general worry left to go around.  Not to mention, the full-time care of a particular white devil named Frankie.

I’ve always defined myself as a cat person.  Cats seem to fit seamlessly into the writer’s lifestyle.  Dogs?  Not so much.  I’m no sooner pecking away at the keyboard than I hear a loud crash in the other room and wheel in to find Frankie standing on top of a table, surrounded by scattered picture frames.  Cats will let you be when you’re on a roll.  Dogs need constant attention.  Dogs need to go out.

In fact, I’ve found that the amount of havoc The White Devil wreaks is inversely proportional to the amount of exercise he gets.  I know we need the rain, but a rainy day for me is, well … hell.  Weather permitting, chances are, Frankie’s out for a walk.

And as a reluctant dog owner, no I’ll call myself a dog guardian, I can tell you the benefits are many.  There seem to be few problems a brisk walk around the block with a four-legged friend will not solve.

First, it’s virtually impossible to keep your mind on your problems.  There are other dogs and owners to greet, meetings to supervise, and optimal bathroom locations to scout out.  If your dog is especially popular, the meet and greet portions can go on indefinitely.  Sometimes I think Frankie is running for mayor of my small beach town.  It particularly amuses me when he knows someone that I do not.  This happens a lot, as he is my mother’s dog and frequently goes places with her instead of me: on walks, to the groomer’s, doggie daycare.  Several times, we’ve passed people that wave and call out, “Hi Frankie!”  And I don’t have a clue who they are.

Stress-free Frankie
Our View

There’s also the benefit of communing with nature.  I realize not everyone is lucky enough to have a view of the Atlantic as part of their daily stroll, but nature can be found in even the most suburban of gated communities.  There’s dew on the grass of those manicured lawns and the warm pink glow of a sunset is beautiful in any neighborhood.

And hey, let’s face it.  You just can’t rush a good … poop.  If you are trying to hurry home to your list of a million things to do — forget it.  It takes what it takes.  You might as well surrender to it and enjoy your moment of peace.  If Frankie could read, (and talk!) I’m sure he’d ask for a newspaper.  After all, there are some mysterious inner workings at play here.  It’s an intricate process, one whose steps cannot be skipped.  I’ve watched and waited while Frankie does so many circles, I’m sure he must be dizzy.  When he finally goes, inside I’m dancing a jig.

Lastly, there’s the benefit of all this exercise.  To you.  Personally, I miss out on this one, with my power chair on high and Frankie trotting along beside me, but everyone knows how physical exercise reduces stress.  So, pick up the pace!  Unless your dog is doing circles.  In which case, slow it down and think zen.

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