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 Regains Regularity

Caught in the act (File Photo.)

When most of the casual conversation around the house and on our daily afternoon walk involves pooping and farting, you know it’s been a tough week fall the way around.

Well, that hamburger hangover I suffered the morning after scarfing down my birthday burger from Dick’s Drive-In wasn’t the end of the story, unfortunately. My gastric situation degraded from bad to worse, necessitating a return to ground beef, except this time the beef was meager and mixed in slowly increasing doses with plain white rice. At first, it was like 85 percent rice! What? That’s like drinking 4.2 beer. I can’t live on that. No kibble? No chicken? No broth! No veggies! NO TREATS?! No way! (Well, they let me have my daily PBB  and a couple of  Charlee Bears when my harness comes off after a walk, but that was it.) Even so,  it took more than a week on the rice/beef regime for me to totally kick “Dick’s Revenge” and revert to my normal diet, regular treat quota and standard stools.

Not the Richter Scale.

Thank goodness. Now I’m back on my usual treat schedule (many), and no longer are Mike and Heather required to deliver a report on the color, quantity and consistency of my activity after every trip out the front door. 

And did I learn anything from this ordeal? After this awful experience, on my next birthday would I turn my nose up from a thick, higher-quality burger slathered with cheddar or feta cheese? Who am I kidding? Bring it on.

Chloe checks the packaging of her birthday gift.

 

Chloë Gets Her Burger

Seattle icon.

I finally got to celebrate my 13th birthday on the last Friday in February. We took our afternoon walk at my favorite location, Carkeek Park, and we visited both of my best spots for throwing a ball, namely the Creek and the Rock. On this day I only had the patience to do a few throws at each one, too anxious to get on with our walk so we could move on to the main event: A stop on the way home at the Dick’s Drive-In on Holman Road. 

Getting one to go.

Dick’s is a Seattle institution, but this was my first dining experience there. On any previous visits to a Dick’s parking lot, my nose had been active, but my teeth not so much. This time I had Heather leave my car window down so I could get a full sniff of the parking lot while she and Mike stood in line to fetch my birthday burger. They were ordering other stuff for themselves, so it took them a while, but as soon as they returned to the car, we rushed home so we could eat the food before it got cold. Good luck with that.

Birthday gift.

But I enjoyed my room-temperature burger anyway. Mike was kind enough to cut it into bite-sized pieces, and he served it to me in a bowl, open-faced on half a bun and topped with a dollop of ketchup, with my daily pills as garnish. As you will see below, I found the combination of Dick’s cuisine and Mike’s preparation equally outstanding.

Food styling by a famous chef.

Since I was getting a whole hamburger instead of my regular balanced dinner of kibble, eggs, vegetables, yogurt and chicken broth, I realized such a rich meal might be really bad for me, but heck, I didn’t care. I instantly gobbled it down and licked the bowl so hard that its glaze got dull, and I enjoyed every morsel.

 

Funny, though. Next morning I awoke with a headache and an incredible thirst. As soon as I left my crate, I went to the kitchen and drank a whole bowl of water before I ever set foot outside for my morning pee. It was my first hamburger hangover. 

Will that experience deter me? Hardly. Next year I’m demanding something classier than Dick’s. Maybe Red Mill or even a Royale with Cheese.

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 Becomes a Conehead for Two Weeks

Chloë the Conehead with her pal, Draft Dodger.

I shed my cone. After two weeks, I was finally able to ditch it for some of the day, as long as someone was watching me, because any attempt to scratch or rub my eye with paw, carpet or furniture was strictly forbidden. After I got used to it, wearing the Elizabethan collar wasn’t so bad. . . but I was glad to be rid of it. Believe me,  sniffing the ground and licking large plates is a lot easier without that thing on.

On the trail with the cone.

No joke, maneuvering around with that collar was tough at first. I bumped into a lot of things, and it was hard to eat, which as we know is VERY important to me. Every meal, Heather had to serve me in a small soup bowl she held a few inches off the floor and tilted at a certain angle so I could get the lip of the bowl between my mouth and the cone without spilling anything. We got this routine down pat. And within a few days, I learned when to tip my head upward (to see where I was going when walking) or down (to get my nose into the food bowl or squeeze out the door of my crate). Once I got used to the collar and got steadily stronger after my eye surgery, I could motor along at a good clip while wearing it, although when passing someone or going through a narrow passageway, I had to remember I was a wide load. There are other drawbacks, too: When we walked in the park, the collar made an irritating clickety-clack sound from rattling around my neck, and when it rained, it got wet inside and out, and water dripped down my neck and sat there at the base of the cone, making my neck damp and stinky. I hated that clammy feeling.

 

But for two weeks, I sucked it up and made the best of it. After I learned to manipulate the thing better, I put it to good use: as a battering ram to push open a door, as a way to scoop my Berry Ball from the floor into my mouth, or as a temporary repository for a loose Charlee Bear I was saving for later. All I had to do was shake my head around until the treat fell to the ground, right under my nose, center cone.

 

And don’t forget, the so-called Cone of Shame is always a good conversation starter. For two weeks, practically every dog-lover we passed on our walks had to stop and share some sympathy or voice support for me. To each one, Heather proudly described my entire ordeal, from symptom to surgery, and praised my attitude throughout. I like adulation, but even I got tired of hearing it.

Chloe investigates large white sphere seen above Discovery Park in Seattle.

However, I wanted to let my loyal readers know that I very much appreciated all the support and good wishes that poured into my inbox from locales as far away as Alaska, Montana, Missouri, South Carolina and. . . Wait a minute! My reader response seemed to follow roughly the same route as the Chinese spy balloon (a.k.a. Red Zeppelin). Confused, I rushed Mike out into the park, because I thought I remembered seeing another one on our walk. I guess I was wrong. Close but no cigar.

 

 

 

 

Chloë Enjoys Belated Gifts

Mmm, good!

My birthday celebration may have lacked fireworks at the start, but thanks mainly to my Syracuse aunts Susie and Debby, the festivities just rolled on! Two separate boxes arrived from my favorite online retailer, one containing another selection of fabulous treats (Rachael Ray Nutrish Burger Bites no less, along with two bags of another new flavor of Charlee Bears!) and the other some excellent new toys to toss around. I am going to have to be super-nice to them when they come to visit in the spring. I’m already on the lookout for spiders, ladies, so nothing to worry about!

Getting crowded in here.

One of my new toys is called Big Mean Kitty, and he is so big that I can’t get my mouth around his body. That’s OK, though because he has a head, four legs and a tail that are always available to latch onto to tug and toss  him around. The only problem with the Big Mean Kitty is that he’s so big that he’s hogging the bed for me an J.P., my new toy from Christmas. Big Mean Kitty may not be hanging out in our bed for long if J.P. complains.

Chloë’s new Roller.

My other new toy is something new, the Chuckit! Indoor Roller. It’s supposed to be for “active play that’s gentle on your home.” We’ll have to see how that second part works out. While its doughnut shape is meant for rolling on the floor, not being thrown in the air, any errant toss or bad bounce could easily divert the Roller into breaking-glass territory, since it weighs a lot more than a Krispy Kreme. Anyway, I liked the Roller immediately, and it has already moved into regular rotation on my indoor recreational activity. Just watch what I can do with it, and I’m sure you’ll be impressed!

 

 

Chloë Turns 12

Still smiling at 12 years old.

My 12th birthday passed with little fanfare or celebration. There was talk of a trip to Dick’s, Seattle’s homegrown hamburger stand, but that’s all it was….talk. We did take a trip to my favorite stream and “the rock” in Carkeek Park, two of my favorite fetch locations, and I got a boatload of extra treats over a two-day period, including a rare opportunity to chew on a stewed oxtail bone until I gnarled it into a mere figment of its former self. Yum.

Of course, there was a price to pay for my ingestion of all those treats. On three occasions I had to poop so badly that I just let loose on a sidewalk. Even worse, one of these came right in front of a restaurant in Magnolia Village (I won’t tell which one). Heather was mortified when that happened and spent time trying to clean up all trace. Mike, speeding ahead toward his next stop at the bank, was oblivious, as usual. This year, in fact, old Mike couldn’t remember exactly what day my birthday is, or even how old I am. For months he told everyone who asked that I was approaching my 13th birthday. not my 12th.  I feel a whole year younger already.

Citizen Chloë.

Anyway, I think I’m doing pretty good for an old broad. Just a few gray hairs, a couple of warts here and there, a few less throws per fetch session before I decide to pack it in. True, I’m not jumping as high, or as often, as I used to.  I usually let Heather or Mike lift me up into my camp chair or into their bed without protest. But just the other day, I leaped into my chair unprompted; well, somewhat prompted by the promise of cheese when I got there. Yes, I can still move along pretty well when food is involved.

Besides, if I should ever get too tired or infirm, I’ve always got Heather (Codename: Sherpa) to carry me. We had a trial run last week, using a canvas bag that my old pal Charlie gave them back in the days before I was born and newspaper promotions were common. Ah, those were the days! Or so I’m told.

Chloë Uncovers Further Rewards

Recent birthday girl.

When you’ve been around the game as long as I have, you learn that you win some, you lose some. And thus my favorite new fetch ball, discovered in front of the house barely three weeks ago, just as suddenly vanished, the victim of an apparent miscommunication between Heather and me about who would be carrying it. But no sooner did that happen that another, more mysterious and desirable ball dropped into my life.

Here’s what it looks like.

Gnarly ball.

Mike got it so he could massage the bottom of his feet. He tried to use it while watching TV, taking his shoes off and rolling this ball under and between his feet. I was having none of that. I immediately decided it  was my ball, and I’ll do what I want with it. For example, I can chew on it, I can knock it around, I can push it under the coffee table and whine until somebody gets it for me. I can sit on the floor beneath the basket where I know it’s sitting and stare up at it. Lots of neat stuff.

Water trap.

Heather acknowledged it was my ball, and she advised Mike to get himself a second massage ball. Mike’s too cheap for that, however, so he and I now share the ball. He rolls it around under his foot, and I watch intently until he flicks it across the floor and I pounce. Mike’s not allowed to throw it, because this ball is so bouncy and hard that it will break something. That’s what Heather said, anyway. We try to comply by just rolling the ball along the floor, but even then, it takes some funny bounces, like into my water bowl.

So we’ll see how long this ball-sharing arrangement lasts. While this new ball has currently pushed all other balls, including the two that were Christmas presents from my Syracuse aunts, into the surplus toy bins, this tends to be cyclical. Only Wiffie has real staying power. Besides, Mike will no doubt lose interest, too, once he admits that, despite rolling the massage ball under his arches and the ball of his right foot twice a day, it still hurts.

Birthday munchies.

A bigger surprise this week was a belated and unexpected birthday present from my Syracuse aunts Susie and Debby. Inside a big box from my new favorite online store, Chewy.com, were two bags of Charlee Bears, including a new cheesy flavor, and one bag of premium jerky. These Charlees came not a moment too soon, too: The last time Mike went to Trader Joe’s, he saw no Charlees on the shelf. Meanwhile, our favored brand has redesigned it’s packaging, making it slicker, and added to its product line. I fear the days of cheap Charlees at TJ’s may be over. I’m glad to have a good supply, just in case.

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.