Chloë Turns 14 in Comfort

Beds old and new.

Wouldn’t you know it, just when I had resigned myself to a fate of having cheap and uncaring owners, a surprise birthday gift arrived, courtesy of Mike and Heather. Mostly Heather, of course. It’s a larger and comfortable new bed, actually a  Therapeutic Dog Couch from the famous L.L. Bean catalog! Definitely Heather’s idea, although Mike did help taking it out of the box and putting  it together, no small feat.

Considering her next move.

I’ve been gradually checking it out since it arrived. It is located right next to my old bed ($10, Fred Meyer, 2019), in the crucial spot between the kitchen and the front door. It’s easy for me to move from one bed to the other, so on some nights I sleep in one or the other all night, and sometimes I move between them frequently. It will work itself out. Besides, I already overheard Heather tell Mike that she’s not sending it back under any circumstances.

Investigating the new bed.-

Test drive.

Birthday dessert supreme.

Beyond the gift, Heather and Mike did a good job this year in recognizing my birthday, Feb. 5. They frequently heaped birthday greetings upon me as the day progressed, making sure I knew they hadn’t forgotten about it. But not until my special birthday dinner (extra egg and cheese) did I get my big prize. Since last year’s Dick’s Hamburger treat  resulted in some post-birthday drawbacks, this year they augmented my regular gourmet dinner from Chef Mike with dessert: My own personal sundae of vanilla Haagen-Dasz ice cream topped with applesauce and peanuts. I even received a special repeat serving the next morning along with my regularly scheduled frozen PBB.

Snuggling in new bed with fleece cover.

What more could any 14-year-old wirehair dachshund ask for? I’ve managed to navigate another year despite a heart murmur, hair loss, a leaky bladder, glaucoma, having my left eye removed, little lumps under my skin too numerous to count, and enough whining to drive my poor owners crazy. And yet, here we are. Who’s got it better than us? No-body!

Chloë Celebrates Her 13th Birthday in Style

With her pal Draft Dodger.

Although my official date of birth is Feb. 5, we decided to postpose my full 13th birthday celebration until I had put that awful Cone of Shame into my rearview mirror. And a wise decision it was, because the Dick’s hamburger I’m going to get (!) would have made quite a mess if I had tried to scarf it down inside that plastic cone.

Now the cone has been relegated to the garage, the stiches over my former left eye have dissolved, and my shaved hair is growing in around my eye and on the leg where the IV drugs went in. Best of all, the pathology on my former eyeball came back and revealed no cancer, the primary glaucoma causing my loss of vision and abnormal pressure. That’s great news! I have to return to the clinic for another pressure check on my right eye in three months, but I’m feeling good right now. 

Preparing for birthday ceremony.

Meanwhile, I’ve got lots more energy and a voracious appetite (as always), and I can see just fine, except maybe for something on the floor just behind me on my left side. I have no problem chasing that Berry Ball around the house, and then refusing to drop it from my mouth until I damn well please. My eye surgeon, Dr. Kayla Waler of the Animal Vision Center, predicted my ball-tracking skills will continue to improve as I learn to better compensate. I haven’t done a lot of ball-chasing outside the house yet, but there’s still time. After all, pitchers and catchers have just reported to preseason camp, and my own spring training hasn’t quite started yet. Still doing my in-house calisthenics.

So we belatedly celebrated my birthday this week (except for that still-undelivered burger). Since it was birthday #13 for me, Mike was prompted to reminisce about his own 13th birthday, and the years of studies and big celebration that culminated with his bar mitzvah, the traditional coming of age in the Jewish religion: “Today I am a man.” Spiritual guy that he is, he felt inspired at this particular time to acknowledge me, finally, as a fully mature, one-eyed, heart-murmuring, ball-chasing senior canine, and I went along with his fantasy by briefly donning a skull cap and prayer shawl (the closest he could come up with was his 1970 freshman beanie turned inside out, and an orange bandana) and whining. “Today I am a Dog!” 

It was great to finally get gain that wisdom and recognition from Mike. But, frankly, the box of treats I got from my aunts in Syracuse was appreciated a lot more. And believe me, I’m not going to forget about that hamburger. With cheese!

Chloë Learns a New Word

Who, me? What’s the problem?

I have been doing a lot of whining lately. I whine in my crate in the morning as soon as the first rays of the sun emerge and the birds start singing. I’m done sleeping. and I want to get out. So I whine until somebody lets me out and puts me into bed with them, under the covers. That’s more like it!

I also whine when I want to go outside, or when the rest of the pack is in one room, and I am not. This is not acceptable, so I whine until reunited. So there.

But mostly I whine when they put me in the back seat of the car, into my bed and tethered to my harness. Also not acceptable, for I am naturally a front-seat dog. I’ve been relegated to a lower status, like the losers in British football leagues. So I whine. And since we are embarking on our first cross-country drive in three years, this has become a problem, especially for Heather.

So Heather decided to teach me a new command: Mute! Only Heather is allowed to say it. She started it softly, rationally, if I started to whine. It didn’t seem to be working too well. (Takes a while for older dogs to learn newer tricks…especially when no treats are involved!) Then the MUTE! command got louder, and more frequent. One day, she yelled. I got scared, jumped out of my camp chair near Heather and bolted to the office where Mike was, barked to get Mike to open the office door, and then danced around the room and jumped into his lap. My heart pounded like a jackhammer. This scenario repeated several times.

Conferring with Heather about vocalizing.

In the car, Heather kept my leash attached to my back and draped the loose end over her shoulder. If I whined, she tugged on the leash and commanded: MUTE!. I stopped whining.

Will this become a long-term solution to my incessant whining, at least in the car? The answer is moot. Check back in 10 to 20,000 miles.

 

Chloë Reviews Her Positions

Schatzi and Chloë tussle over stock options.

With spring comes my annual strategy session with my personal financial advisor and sometime hotelier, Caroline. As a senior dog well-versed in the intricacies of investing, I’ve been trying to impart some of my seasoned understanding to Caroline’s Schatzi, so I encouraged the young Schatz to tag along with Caroline that morning and attend my session. Mike and Heather were allowed to come, too, but just for backup and in case I needed to take notes.

Naptime on Wall Street.

While Caroline and her associate Rory discussed my investment positions and streamed impressive graphs and tables onto a large TV on the wall, Schatzi and I tussled, sniffed each other’s butts and eventually retired to opposite ends of the conference table for a well-earned nap. And why not? Obviously, no snacks would be falling on the floor during this session. I’ll have to remember to return for the next open house with catered hors d’oeuvres.

When everyone finally got up to leave, Caroline transferred her computer to the floor, so Schatzi and I could take a closer look at the changes and projections for my portfolio in the short- and long-term. Fortunately, I find this financial stuff easier to understand than the NFL salary cap.

Schatzi and Chloë gain valuable financial insight.

It was a productive meeting. Everything Caroline went over reinforced the analysis I had previously imparted to Schatzi: Don’t worry, stay the course. I certainly realize no one is immune from rampant inflation. Believe me, when every visit to the vet costs more than it used to, and a box of  Vita Bones  at Fred Meyer zooms from $2.39 to $4.29, I hear about it!

I resist panicking, however. I advised Schatzi to adhere to one of Warren Buffett’s favorite theories: “Be fearful when others are greedy and greedy when others are fearful.” Schatzi seemed to grasp the concept.

Chloë Admires Her Pelts

Lounging with Ranger the Reindeer.

Lots of bunnies in Discovery Park at this time of year. Babies from the longtime inhabitants, and usually a few new arrivals from Easter-gift discards. All those newcomers are easier to catch than the regulars, who are less reckless and more cunning. I haven’t actually seen any of these newbies yet, but I know they’re around. I can smell them. On our afternoon walks, my usual passion for fetch wanes when so many distractions fill the air.

As far as hunting expeditions go, getting into trouble with Heather last week didn’t help my prospects. She has been keeping me on a tight leash, sometimes tied to her belt, like we’re hiking a national forest trail or something. It’s my sentence for running away from her on successive days on the Parade Ground, galloping toward some perceived threat and barking loudly. The “threats” were actually a German shorthair pointer running along with its master who paid no attention to me, and an elderly woman with a floppy, wide-brimmed hat and a cane who was not at all pleased. Both times, Heather screamed at me to me to come back, and I ignored her, compounding her wrath. Mike wasn’t walking close to us either time, which may have made me a bit over-protective, I guess. Or else I was just being my nervous dachshund self.

Hanging around Chloë’s trophy case. (l.to r.) Lamby, Ranger and Foxy.

Since then, my fetch opportunities are severely limited to areas and situations that can be tightly controlled. The wide expanse of the Parade Ground is strictly off limits. And the chances of me being off leash long enough to track a rabbit became even more a longshot.

I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with the pelts already hanging in my trophy case:  Lamby, Ranger and Foxy, each ready to be yanked down for a good throttle. That’s always fun, right up there with rolling around on a rug as a way to let off some steam.

Chloë Finds Eleven Heaven

Celebrating birthday #11 in her chair with Lamby, Ranger and Foxy.

Tampa Tom

I turned 11 years old this week. But like a fine wine (and with some fine whine), my life only gets better with age. Think of me as the Tom Brady of wirehair dachshunds, older but wiser, retaining legendary  athletic skills and getting better looking every day. My energy is constant and my coat is shiny.  I have but a few gray hairs here and there, and even that little spot between my shoulders has gotten thicker. It must be the cheese Heather has been doling out to lure me into my detested teeth-brushing every day.

Wiffie: Chloë Official Autograph Model

My routines remain the same. I still sprint after the ball whenever and wherever Heather throws it, deft at plucking it midair off the pavement or sniffing it out in the underbrush. I may stop after 15 or 20 throws instead of 100, but I’ve got other stuff to do on a walk. Sniffing out rabbits and squirrels, eating dirt, signing the guest book–important stuff! And when I get back home, I still goad Mike or Heather into tossing Wiffie around or tugging with me and Lamby, and I still leap into my camp chair with ease, albeit more of a head start. I still like to run downstairs just to roll around on the throw rug in the guest bedroom, and I still pull old toys out of their corner holding bin and strew them all over the floor just because I can. If I get the chance to do that with another dog’s toys, even better.

Awaiting bedtime snacks.

There’s no evidence of diminished brain function, either. My spirit remains as strong and stubborn as ever, and my internal clock still ticks accurately. Any time Mike or Heather forget any treat (downstairs bickie at 8:30 a.m., breakfast Greenie at 9, the 10 a.m. PBB, the 2 p.m. jerky, the post-walk, harness-off Charlee Bears or the two-part bedtime snack, my internal alarm goes off and I loudly call attention to it with a whine or two. No sundowning to worry about: Every night, when Mike says, “Let’s go to bed, Chloë!” I always know where to go, rushing right into my bedroom crate. Nobody has to draw me a map.

A last treat from Donna.

Oh, regrets? I’ve had a few, but then again–well, I’ll mention them  any time I want to! The only downside of my birthday week was finding out that Donna, my favorite UPS driver, will be leaving her delivery route to take an inside job and save her hurting knees. I respect that decision, although this will be my second heart-breaking separation from a Brown hero. Hopefully Donna’s eventual permanent replacement will be another dog lover who won’t need too much breaking in, although in this day and age I wonder how many more UPS drivers I’ll have to train. Continuity is out the window.

I know the mailman already visited on my birthday (I barked when the metal mail slot flapped, as I usually do to Heather’s chagrin)), and no birthday cards arrived with my name on them.  In fact, the only card I received came from Chewy.com. So my legions of fans will no doubt ask, Chloë, didn’t you do anything special to celebrate your birthday? No, not a thing. When you’re as young at heart as I am, every new day is its own celebration.

Chloë Wraps Up 2020

Walking in Discovery Park.

2020 was a tough year for most, but for me, it was a year of change. Early on, Mike and Heather left me with Schatzi for a week, and then we were supposed to be off on the road again, heading eastward to Syracuse. But when they got back to Seattle, things had changed. Since then we rarely went anywhere but Discovery Park, and Mike and Heather wore these scary face masks every second we were outside. It was much harder for dogs to socialize, too, because nobody wanted to get too close. We didn’t go to visit anybody, and nobody yisited our house, either, except for a couple of summer football games and briefly when Schatzi’s mom Caroline and the kids who live next door came over briefly. Pretty boring overall.

Symbol of 2020.

This cloistered existence was only the beginning of change for me. I knew Mike’s leg pain was really killing him, because he always walked far behind Heather and me in the afternoon and often woke me at night with his moans and groans. I guess I didn’t know how bad it was, however,, because early one morning Mike went away for a few days in a hospital. When he came back, I wasn’t allowed to jump on him  and he stayed in bed a lot.

All this changed my life even more. When Mike returned home, he still had a lot of healing to do, so Heather permanently took over all my feeding, grooming, tooth-brushing, walking, throwing and vet visits. Mike continued to walk with us every afternoon, but he walked very slowly and for not as long, and he used a cane. As weeks went on, he could walk longer and farther, but the speed of his walking was taking longer to return. By the end of our walks, he’s moving slowly, but his overall pace is still improving.

Chloë cane do.

Not surprisingly, the three of us adjusted. All those care tasks still get done, although Heather has her own way of doing them. And in most cases, her way is better than Mike’s way, at least as far as I’m concerned. I know she takes my daily ritual of tooth-brushing and grooming before dinner a lot more seriously than Mike ever did. That’s because Heather would never let herself do “C” work on anything; Mike was dedicated, but ultimately more lenient with me. So I put up with Heather’s diligence on my mouth and coat because I know I’m getting a lot more cheese and kibble out of her than I ever got from Mike. And there’s more good news: Earlier this week I tipped the scale at my vet at a svelte 20.5 pounds (down from 21.1 six weeks ago), so Heather’s extra rations can continue unabated. It’s like an unexpected stimulus check.

As the calendar turned to 2021, Heather, Mike and I were walking about an hour a day around Discovery Park, mostly on paved walkways that pass one or more of my favorite fetch locations, where we linger and throw if passersby are infrequent. Mike’s leg doesn’t hurt him anymore, and he recently ditched his cane. But when he starts to get tired toward the end, he still walks quite a ways behind Heather and me. Maybe in 2021 he can catch up and walk with us, which would mean he’s feeling that much better. That will be be fine by me, as long as Heather stays in charge and the cheese sticks keep on coming.

Chloë Researches Her Namesakes

Chloe O’Brian, inspiration for our dangerous heroine.

We drove to the Arboretum last week, one of the few times I’ve had any company in the back seat of Heather’s car. I got excited when we picked up my Juneau friends George and Debbie  to sit with me, so I could get up into George’s lap and see out the window without teetering, which is usually what I’m complaining about when I’m doing all that whining  in the car (despite much speculation otherwise). Anyway, being able to actually see where we were going, I took notice when our route took us past the Chloe Apartments, which is definitely where I want to live if we ever decide to forsake Magnolia for apartment living. I mean, they named the building after me, right? I should hope so. (Whereas, as I must explain to my younger readers,  I was named after the character Chloe O’Brian in 24, a TV show about American counter-intelligence forces from so long ago that it provides a good indicator of why I’m starting to think about senior living.)

Chloe Apartments in Seattle.

So in a rare moment when Mike wasn’t at his computer reading about sports, I decided to sneak over to the keyboard to look it up. And I liked what I saw: modern apartments with huge windows, landscaped courtyards, a rooftop deck with mountain and city views, pet-friendly with plenty of pet play spaces, and close to a Trader Joe’s, the Seattle U campus and the Arboretum. Seemed like the perfect locale for my senior years, whenever it may be that chasing after my ball loses some of its luster. I don’t want to break my plan to Mike and Heather quite yet, however, not after they spent all that time and effort replanting the rhododendrons in the front yard.

But look at my namesake apartments! I could definitely dig it!

Rooftop deck and courtyard at Chloe Apartments.

Another Chloë.

Then I got to thinking about all the other Chloes I might find if I looked around. Unfortunately, a French restaurant in Seattle’s Laurelhurst neighborhood that shared my name (Chloe Bistrot) closed before I ever got the chance to enjoy any tasty leftovers from its kitchen. Further search revealed several other restaurants around the country that have copied my name without permission, as well as a restaurant chain with locations in the USA, Canada and Europe. And that’s  not all.  I also found a dachshund-chihuahua mix who’s 14 years old and looking for a home, a winery and women in pursuits from student to artist to actress to graphic designer to papermaker to hair stylist to fitness instructor to lawyer to yoga instructor to nanny to journalist to performance artist to dog walker to belly dancer.

Our heroine.

Among all these other Chloes, I may not be the sharpest pencil in the pack. But I am the only one with my own umlaut (ë).

 

Chloë Sniffs a New Career

Her nose knows.

Hey, I’m a German dog, right?!! And sniffing is my thing (along with fetch). I even went to a special nose-training class to sharpen my skills.

Apparently dogs with only a few days of training are capable of identifying people infected with the coronavirus, according to a study by a German veterinary university. Eight dogs from Germany’s armed forces were trained for only a week and were able to accurately identify the virus with a 94% success rate, according to a pilot project led by the University of Veterinary Medicine Hannover. Researchers challenged the dogs to sniff out COVID-19 in the saliva of more than 1,000 healthy and infected people, which is certainly nothing grosser than the dead rodents I regularly scarf up on my afternoon walks. I am qualified!

Charlee smells.

“We think that this works because the metabolic processes in the body of a diseased patient are completely changed,” explained Maren von Koeckritz-Blickwede, a professor at the university, in a YouTube video about the project. “We think that the dogs are able to detect a specific smell.” You bet. And since I can detect a Charlee Bear or a frozen PBB from 50 yards away, I think I’m a natural.

Von Koeckritz-Blickwede said that the next step will be to train dogs to differentiate COVID samples from other diseases such as influenza. And there are other possible applications. Since a dog’s sense of smell is around 1,000 times more sensitive than humans, we might be deployed to detect infections at places such as airports, border crossings and sporting events. I foresee a second career for myself, if I ever hang up my fetch fetish.

Meanwhile, my next important job will be guarding Heather and our house while Mike spends a couple of days in the hospital to fix his back so he is able to bend down and pick up my poop without pain. Am I up for the task? Gary Larsen didn’t think so! But I’m out to prove those haters wrong.

 

 

Chloë Flops on Summer Lawns

The local adage that summer in Seattle never starts until after the 4th of July was certainly the case this year, as Heather was still wearing her quilted silver vest well into the month. When the heat finally arrived, though, I didn’t like it one bit. Whenever we walked, whether in the park or in our neighborhood streets, I made a beeline for the shade. And flopped.

Chillaxin’

And if I could find a lush, cushiony lawn to flop on, all the better. I flopped again.

Lawn flop.

And when we were walking to the post office last week, I flopped several times.

The flopmeister!

That’s a long walk, especially when it’s hot outside. If this long, hot summer sticks around through September, there will be a lot of flop in my future. At least the humidity is low, or so I was promised.