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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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Oh, For Pet’s Sake!

Bella, Frankie and all animals!

Trouble … Worry, Worry, Worry

A little white dog keeps hiding and re-hiding his bone.  As the soulful melody plays on, he worries and digs it up, only to bury it again.  This is the Travelers Insurance commercial.  I don’t know why I thought only movie dogs and dogs on television behaved this way.  But this is real behavior attributed to real dogs.  I’ve seen Frankie in action.

The first time I witnessed this, Frankie was pacing back and forth so much I thought he had to pee.  I didn’t see the bone he had tucked in his mouth.  Outside, I watched in fascination as he dug a hole, placed his treasure inside, and shoveled the dirt back with his nose.  Then proceeded to have a sneezing fit.

I called a friend.  “Did you know dogs really do this?”  She knew.  She and her husband had stopped giving their Westie bones because he never ate them.  Instead, he proceeded directly to the backyard.

Since Frankie’s an indoor dog, I’ve found them all over the house.  At the bottom of the laundry basket, behind books on the bottom shelf, between sofa cushions.  Whenever I enter to find books spilled out on the living room floor, I know Frankie’s been digging again.

Photo by P. Hazouri

Having him around has been good for my obsessive compulsive-ness.  It used to be my house was neat and I knew where everything was.  Yesterday, I found a half-chewed rawhide behind the pages of my old high school photo album, along with a shredded corsage from Prom 1986.  Only the ribbon could be salvaged, which is really all I should’ve kept anyway.

Problem is, Frankie’s not like the dog in the commercial.  His compulsion only seems to extend to the burying part, not the digging up part.  Contrary to what everyone says, he does not seem to remember where they are.  Nor does he ever look for them.  Out of sight, out of mind.  If I happen to sit on one, fine.  But I’m certainly not digging in the dirt.  The one outside will probably be unearthed 50 years from now like some old time capsule.  Either way, Frankie’s not worried.

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Sleepovers

Whenever another relationship ended, I’d tell myself that at least I’d be getting back to my “single sleep.”  It was something, as half a couple, I’d sorely missed and could now look forward to.  There’s nothing like it.  You know what I mean if you’re like me, a healthy sleeper not plagued by insomnia.  If, undisturbed by another’s tossing and turning or snoring (or hey, oftentimes just breathing,) you fall asleep minutes after your head hits the pillow, not to awaken before your alarm sounds the start of a new day.

I’ve enjoyed eight blissful hours a night like this for several years now, but I’m sorry to say I think the party’s over.  You see, my mom’s dog, Frankie, has been staying for sleepovers.  Having recently moved out of my neighborhood, my mother and I are like divorced parents working out a schedule to share custody.

Going to the Beach, Photo by John Pemberton

I’ve come to look forward to walks around my block with Frankie.  We’ve met lots of other dogs and their owners, and we take in the sight and smell of the surf at least three days a week.  Not wanting to give this up, I suggested he stay over every weekend.  My mother was only too happy to get a break from the parenting, and immediately purchased a second dog crate for him to sleep in at my house.

Frankie’s a great sleeper, I’ll give him that.  He doesn’t bark.  He doesn’t whine.  He doesn’t have accidents.  He just sleeps.  His first night there, I crawled into bed shortly after putting him in his crate in the corner of my room.  My cat, Bella, joined me.  Ten minutes later, I heard it.  A soft snore coming from the crate.  Another ten minutes went by and on the other side of me, a second snore, only slightly higher in pitch and with a little nose whistle.  I listened to their harmony.  Their little lungs must be exactly the same size because one’s inhale came two beats after the other’s exhale.  They were perfectly synchronized.  An hour later, they were still at it.  My attempts to nudge Bella quiet had failed.  And Frankie only stopped briefly, when after one loud, human-sounding snort, he woke himself up.  I wonder if there’s such a thing as Dog Sleep Apnea.

Frankie’s snoring, I understood.  He’s a Pekingese and, as such, has a rather pushed in face.  But, Bella’s snores surprised me.  Not only does she have an aristocratic nose, like a Siamese, but I’d never heard her before.  Maybe, I’d never been awake for it, or maybe, she was particularly exhausted after being on high alert all day with a dog in the house.  Either way, six hours is my new average on the weekends.

The going rate for companionship.

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Everything in Moderation

If you’re anything like me, you vowed to begin your diet after Easter.  Just like there’s no logic in watching your weight before the holidays.  There’s a reason everyone starts in January.  We want to allow ourselves to indulge at certain times of the year.

In fact, this time as I start anew, I’m going to follow popular wisdom and not call it a diet.  The word has negative connotations and brings with it a notion of deprivation.  Case in point — the grapefruit diet, the cabbage soup diet, the low-carb diet.  Feeling deprived easily leads to binging, which isn’t simply falling off the wagon, but hurling yourself off at top speed.  I have a friend, grateful to remain nameless I’m sure, who gave up sugar for Lent.  When I l heard from her Monday, she was halfway through a bag of chocolate eggs, surrounded by pastel-colored foil wrappers.  I once went on a “detox diet” that limited me to fruits and vegetables.  I lasted two days and on the third, ate an entire pan of brownies.

My mother likes to say, “All things in moderation.”  Maybe she has a point.  Sunday evening, I polished off an entire 12-pack of Peeps.  You know, those cute, little marshmallow treats covered in enough sugar to jumpstart your way to Diabetes.  Needless to say, I felt a little ill, yet seemed to have boundless energy.  Then hours later, I couldn’t pick myself up off the couch to let in the cat.  Even a single Peep defies the moderation principle.  It’s simply too sweet for some.

Just ask Frankie.  While he certainly doesn’t live by my mother’s rule, he does have particular tastes.  Having stolen a Peep from my Easter basket, he discarded it, soggy and uneaten, in the middle of my mom’s bed.  My friend, Mary, says the only thing worse than finding a wet Peep in your bed, is stepping in cat puke in the middle of the night.  Though, now that I think about it, maybe Frankie took issue with the texture, not the taste.  Or maybe it was both.

So, here’s to fresh starts.  And don’t forget you can give the forbidden treats away.  Take it from me: you don’t have to eat the whole package of Peeps to get them out of the house.

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