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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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dog story

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

Have Power Chair … Will Travel

I am SICK TO DEATH of bumming rides.  (Okay, I know it’s a cliche’, but I can’t think of anything original.  Fellow writers, help me out here.)  Since I don’t drive, I’m forever asking favors.  Do you mind and could you please take me to the drugstore/grocery store/doctor’s office?  With my mother recovering from an illness and also unable to drive, it’s really starting to wear on me (yes, another cliche’.)  One thing I’ve learned being disabled, people genuinely want to help.  It makes others feel good.  It makes me feel like an eight year old in tights being chauffeured to gymnastics.

I’ve tried relying on the public transportation available to me.  If you’ve read my memoir excerpt “Riding the Short Bus.” you know I occasionally ride JTA’s door-to-door bus service for the disabled.  It has some shortcomings.  If I schedule a 10:00-10:30 a.m. pick up to go to Publix, the earliest I can schedule a ride home is 12:00-12:30 p.m.  I could be shopping by 10:15 a.m., but not be home until 1:00 p.m. or later.  Better not get ice cream.

If you’re beach bound only, there’s also Dial-A-Ride.  I experimented with that service last week.  First, there was no answer.  This did not bode well for Dial-A-Ride.  Or for me.  Then, though I had called the required 24 hours in advance, they were all booked up.  When I picked a different day, they told me what time I would be going shopping.  I had to be available all day.  Hey, I’m disabled, right?  I have nothing better to do. Continue reading “Have Power Chair … Will Travel” →

7

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.

5

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.

5

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.

8

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.

5

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