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Move Over, Gary England

Dog Days

Another Reason to Pet Your Dog

If Dogs Could Cry ...

Along Came Tink

Outdoor writers have a different idea of what makes the perfect dog.

Bird hunters cherish the dog that is steady on point, freezes on command, ranges wide, hunts hard, and honors other dogs.

We, on the other hand, like a dog that will point anything, hold steady with a camera stuck in their face, assume any pose, and look good doing it. I hope you didn't think all those great shots in the outdoor magazines happened during a real hunt. Hunting, particularly with wild birds, is just too unpredictable. Good photos demand the photographer to have a lot of control over the situation.

Katy, the Brittany, was selected largely because she showed a lot of pointing instinct at a very early age. At four weeks, she would hold steady to a quail feather tied to the end of a fly line. I spent many backyard hours honing her posing skills.

There never was a Brittany puppy that wasn't cute, and, by three months of age, Katy was as cute as they get. With a twitch of the fly rod, I could put her in any pose you could imagine. She would hold that pose as long as it took to shoot whatever film I had in my camera. She was going to be the perfect dog model for a writer with a passion for turning out quail stories.

The trouble with Katy turned out to be a very early case of middle-age spread. She hit it at about 10 to 12 months. At one year, she had the body of Rosanne and her very best day was a really bad hair day. Katy is loving and full of life, but she isn't the dog you want to see at the top of your calendar. Let's just say she has a great personality and a cute face.

Jessie, on the other hand, started out just like Katy. She would point anything with a great deal of style, and look good doing it. Even at 14 years, she still has a body like a sports magazine swimsuit model, but it is all lost on her. Along about one year, she lost interest in pointing things that weren't really alive. She quit pointing pen-raised birds within another six months. She still finds and points wild birds with as much enthusiasm as her age will allow but she has no interest in anything else. If it isn't
alive and wild, it isn't for her.

So, I never did get that supermodel of dogdom, and I have yet to write the ultimate quail story. You just never can predict how your kids will turn out.
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In this, the continuing saga of the "wonder dogs" (I wonder why I put up with them,) we explore their uncanny ability to predict the weather.

Jessie, the setter, holds no fear of gunshot sounds. In fact, she immediately starts hunting for a grounded bird or a stray single. Thunder is another story. A slight rumble down around Altus sets her to pounding on the back door. This is usually about thirty minutes before Gary England cuts in on "Evening Shade" to announce some activity on radar. Should Gary interrupt my sitcom without Jessie's notice, we know there is nothing headed our way.

Katie, the Brittany, is our thermonosticator. Her job is to bounce off the walls on those nice winter evenings. That tells us not to worry about a hard freeze. The quicker she quiets down, the more we expect a cold night. When she marches through the kitchen and quietly burrows under the couch pillows we know it is really going to get nasty. These hounds are probably mistreated because they often get to stay in the house on exceptionally bad nights. The shock of going from a warm house to a cold outdoors isn't the best situation. We try to temper it with about an hour in the garage before shoving them out in the cold world during our workday.

They have plenty of places to get out of the wind. A good windbreak and some southern exposure to soak up whatever sun happens to shine are about all a dog really needs. A tight doghouse with plenty of straw or cedar shavings for a bed should be plenty comfortable for most outside dogs. Just make sure the doorway faces away from the prevailing wind. Locating it where other structures provide an additional windbreak can help.

Dogs need more fuel during cold weather. According to the Ralston Purina Company, dogs require 15% more calories for each 20 degree temperature drop. They recommend feeding twice a day; a light feeding in the morning and a full feeding in the evening. Using a premium dog food makes sure the diet is complete and sufficient.

Water can be the real problem. Increased eating requires more water for digestion and cold, dry weather can add to dehydration. Fresh water should be available at all times. There are electrical devices, which should keep the water from freezing, but, for some unexplained reason, we haven't bought one. We go through the drill of putting out a fresh water pan every time we turn around and still find a need to let the dogs in the garage for a comfortable drink several times each day. An electric heater would certainly make things easier.

If your dog has been hunting, you might want to make a mid-season trip to the vet for a check-up. Hunting dogs endure a lot of stress and are exposed to all sorts of potential problems from contact with nature's unwashed masses. A check-up might help avert serious problems down the road.

Keeping your dogs healthy and happy has it's own rewards. There is nothing that can keep your feet warm like a chunky Brittany. 30-

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by W. Dale Smith ©1994

The back door is just about history. There are two reasons for
this: Katie and Jessie.

Katie is the new kid. A big-boned, barrell-chested Brittany, she
suffers the same impatience and "wants things her way" as many modern youth. When she decides it is time to put in a little couch and TV time, she bounces off that storm door with a force any NFL lineman would envy.

Jessie, on the other hand, is from the old school... a perfect
lady. Except when there is a storm brewing. Then she is coming in the house. Period.

Jessie is an English Setter's setter. She is usually aloof,
sometimes demanding, and always proper. Maybe that is what set her apart from the rest of the litter. Don Gill had a backyard full of puppies, so pickling one should not have been easy. You don't really pick a puppy; the puppy picks you. That truism makes it a lot easier for starters but it causes a lot of problems down the road... after they realize who owns whom.

I first realized the extent of the trouble when I would come home
from work to find Jessie curled up under the sewing machine while the spouse busily stitched away on next year's school clothes. She wasn't as tall as the back steps but she could jump . Three puppy hops and she was in perfect position to scratch at the back door. It always opened for her. That's how my wife ruined a perfectly good bird dog.

That's my story, anyway.

The truth is, Don Gill's dogs are prone to have a pretty
impressive list of successful ancestors. There is a hunting instinct
built into their very souls that no amount of couch time can ever dim. I have never understood how such a couch potato of a dog could undergo such a complete transformation at the mere sight of a open field with a little quail cover around the edges. She is as single-minded about hunting as she is about getting in the house during a thunderstorm.

Neither of these dogs have much in the way of experience, and, in a way, that's a shame. Both of them could have probably been quail hunters to write home about.

As it turned out, my quail hunting has been limited by work and
bad knees. We only get out occasionally and then it is for only a
short, easy hunt. I would hate to guess which of us enjoys those days most. We both make the most of them while we can. And that is what I appreciate about setters and spaniels; they are patient enough to wait for the next time, and between times, they are pretty good people to be around. Those are dogs to write an outdoor column about.

Except for Katie. But maybe her chewing on the Christmas tree is just her way of reminding me to wish all of you a happy holiday season from the three of us.
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by W. Dale Smith © 1994

One of the reasons I've always been partial to Brittanys is that they are "people" dogs. They thrive, and often demand, a lot of human attention. It is their natural heritage. The Brittany started out as a poacher's dog. They were bred to look and act like anything but a hunting dog. They lived in the cabin and played with the peasant's kids. They ate from the table and were a regular part of the family. None of the king's guard could look at them and tell that their disposition changed completely once in the king's forest.

Today's Brittany hasn't changed much but their owner's have. The average Britt still likes to hang around the house. They are fiercely loyal to their masters and protective of their property. They still like a lot of attention from people and would prefer to eat at the table with the rest of the family.

So, we come to the part where the dogs get the couch while I curl up on the floor to watch TV. It only lasts 'till Katy gets lonesome. Then she curls up with me and demands constant scratching and petting. (Demands may not be exactly the right word but I couldn't think of anything stronger.)

A few weeks ago, this nightly ritual led to my finding a pea-sized lump on her right shoulder. Within a few days it had grown to the size of a Ping-Pong ball. We didn't waste any time in getting her to the vet, and that was a wise choice. Much testing and a needle biopsy indicated lymphoma in the very early stages. Not a good thing to find.

Chemotherapy was the treatment of choice. It didn't sound good but the setter and I didn't like the idea of not having Katy around. We braced for the worst in terms of both pain and cost.

The worst turned out to be a skunk. The cost wasn't insignificant - less than three hundred dollars - but it wasn't outrageous as it would have been for a human.

Chemotherapy doesn't seem to bother dogs as much as humans. It consists of six weeks of IV treatments, with daily oral doses of the same drugs used for humans with the same affliction. The main side affects are hunger, thirst and the resulting trips for relief. There is usually no sickness, hair loss or other human-associated ills, but you do need to keep them in the house for close observation for a few days following treatment.

Which wasn't easy. The night of her first treatment was the night a skunk decided to explore our back yard. Neither dog got a full dose of skunk spray - probably because the skunk was under a storage building at the time. The skunk probably got the worst of it... if they can smell themselves. - but it was mighty hard to keep Katy in the house for the next several days.

After three days, the lump was reduced to the size of a marble. It was gone by the end of the first week. The treatment lasts six weeks, and by that time, Katy should be completely free of cancer and lead a long, happy life. I'm glad she demands a nightly scratching and petting and I'll take it a lot more seriously from now on.
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there wouldn't have been a single dry eye around the Smith house in the past two weeks. Katie, our eight year old Brittany, lost her three-year fight with cancer. We all knew it was just a matter of time but her death was still hard to
take. Jessie, our fourteen year old English setter has been totally devastated.

Jessie has never been alone. She moved in at the age of five weeks. Her job was to help soothe the grief of another Brittany who was morning the death of her life-long friend, Puddin'. Katie drew the same job when Puddin' died.

Some question the humanity of treating a dog with a terminal illness. Others question the financial wisdom of it. I don't think either question can have a standard answer.

Katie was a decent hunter. She might have developed into an outstanding hunter if she had the benefit of more experience. Katie wasn't the perfect dog around the yard. She dug. She drug. She tore up a six-hundred dollar boat cover by using it
as both bed and trampoline. She had an insatiable curiosity and was always into something. She wasn't much better in the house.

But Katie was happy. Butt-wiggling, eye-dancing, ear-flopping, face-licking happy. Infectiously happy.

No matter how beaten and bedraggled I was when I finally managed to drag myself through the front door each night, Katie saw to it that I didn't stay that way. She might have to wait for the setter to go to sleep... the setter thinks I belong to her... but Katie would find a way to snuggle-up and make some of the pain and weariness go away.

There was no question about the expense of treating Katie's illness. She had always done everything she could for me and I could do no less for her.

There was a question of suffering.

Although the same drugs are used for treating cancer in dogs and humans, dogs do not seem to have the same reactions. Her treatments rarely made her sick. In fact, she grew to know the routine so well that she did it on her own without any leading and coaxing. Her hair grew more slowly but it didn't fall out. She actually lived a pretty normal life for the first couple of years.

Cancer drugs eventually depress the dog's immune system. This makes them a target for every disease and infection that comes along. Katie developed her share of problems over the last several months. It was easy to tell when Katie wasn't feeling up to par. That called for a quick trip to the vet - sometimes in the middle of the night. A heavy dose of antibiotics had her back to wiggling and dancing in a couple
of days. We made the decision that we would stick with her as long as her days were predominantly pain-free. Her final illness developed very suddenly. She was gone before we could get her to the vet.

Treating cancer in a dog is not as expensive as the same treatment for humans but it is not cheap. We still feel that it was the right thing to do in this particular case.
Anything less would have been shirking the responsibility that comes with the love and friendship of a dog like her.

Every dog owner will have to make their own decision about what is humane and what isn't. And, just as some humans die because treatment is too expensive, some dogs will surely suffer the same fate. The regrettable part comes from those dogs that suffer because of owners that refuse their responsibilities.

Jessie has been a mess. She doesn't eat. She is lethargic. She refuses to be alone. When I take her to the office, she spends most of the day with her head hanging over my leg. Her normal English aristocrat attitude is completely gone. Her
head hangs low and her tail stays between her legs.

That was the last three weeks.

Brittany's have become somewhat hard to find locally. We looked from Kansas to Texas, and all over Oklahoma, with little luck. We found a couple of mixed breeds, and a few older dogs, but only one litter of full-blood puppies. We even took Jessie along to look at them. No interest at all from her.

Last Friday morning, Jessie drooped outside for her morning thing. While she was out, I made a call about a Brittany puppy that desperately needed a home. Jessie came back to life during that call. The change was so obvious and dramatic
that my wife and I had to ask each other if Jessie knew something we didn't.

She did.

Olivia, a fourteen week old Brittany with a pink bow around her neck, came home with us. "Livvie" and Jessie aren't good friends yet but that will come. Meanwhile,
Jessie has a spring in her step and her appetite is back.
- W. Dale Smith © 1997

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If ever a dog raised a stir, it was Tink.

But, let's start at the front of this story. I never did understand how I got all the brains in the family and my sister got all the money. Possibly because she never did spend any. And Tinker was no exception.

Sis had a few traits I never did understand. She (and mom too) seemed to regard a flyswatter as a royal scepter. Sis was seldom without one when on her throne... a recliner across the room and well out of reach of mom's wire-handled, screenwire adorned royal staff. If a flyswatter was the royal scepter, then a big box of rat poison had to be the centerpiece of the banquet table. If she had access to a place, you could bet that it was well supplied with rat poison.

Maybe it was just a phobia about rats, mice and bugs. In any event, her storage building was well stocked for dealing with rodents in search of adventure. I suspect that, and her habit of re-arranging the storage building periodically, had something to do with the sudden death of her dog. Rat poison is scented to smell good to animals and the old hound freely explored the building when it was open.

She also couldn't resist a bargain or make a decision. After her old dog died, it was just a matter of time. She called, "There is a cocker spaniel over at the animal shelter and I can get a senior citizen's discount. Go look at him and tell me if I should get him."

I went.

It wasn't a cocker. I thought it was a Brittany but it wasn't quite like any Brittany I had seen. Whatever it was, it was starving, cowered and cute. Sis bailed him out. I hauled him home (she didn't want dog hair in her new car.) my wife named him "Tinker." She does that because she claims to be the only person in the family with enough sense to pick a decent name. I didn't like Tinker, but it stuck.

Tink lived with mom and sis for several days... confined to the back yard. He obviously didn't like it. He most certainly seemed more at home when I visited and let him in the house. The, "Don't let him in here! He'll pee all over everything! Mom don't like dogs in the house!" screams didn't even seem to bother him as he snuggled down in mom's lap.

It didn't seem to bother mom either. She was too busy fussing over Tink and what a cute dog "she" was. Mom was pretty far down the Alzheimer's trail. She never did remember Tink wasn't a "she," who he belonged to, or where he came from, but she always remembers she likes Tink and Tink likes her.

It wasn't long before Tinker developed a knot on his head. Sis, ever the tightwad, wanted to return him to the animal shelter. The lump kept growing. My wife and I took him to our vet who diagnosed it as a cyst that needed to be removed.

One week and $250.00 (now I remember why sis has all the money!) later, my wife took Tinker home from the vet and deposited him in mom's back yard.

"Guess who is here?" said the voice on the other end of the phone line.

"I'm busy. I don't have time for games! Who is it?" says I.

"Tinker."

"I thought you put him in mom's yard."

"I did. He beat me home."

"Take him back and stay with him until he settles down. He's probably lonesome from being in the dogspital all week. Play with him for awhile. He'll be OK."

One hour later, "It didn't work. He was sitting at the front door when I got home."

"Well, let him in. I am pretty sure he has been a house dog. We'll figure this out later."

Sis died before we got anything figured out. And, that is how Tinker got to be a Smith dog.

Over the last year, he has proved to be a genuine blessing and monumental pain.

He also got into the rat poison ... another $750.00 vet bill. (You would think she could afford a better pick-up by now.)

He is firmly entrenched in the house, usually in my wife's lap. He sleeps with her unless he is feeling sorry for me. Then he ignores snoring and thrashing about in my sleep that caused me to get banished to the spare bedroom years ago.

He is a cookie monster. He can hear the lid being carefully removed from the cookie jar from three rooms away! When he is at the shop, he can hear the guy next door when he opens his door to come over for a visit. Whereupon, he stations himself at the front door so he can start begging cookies immediately. He is good at it.

Tink, probably a result of his "thing" about cookies, is not a poster child for starving dogs anymore. "Portly" would probably cover his current physique. He is the consummate beggar and his housebound lifestyle doesn't afford as much exercise as he needs.

For all his faults and problems, Tinker is the best "granny sitter" we could get. He can divert her attention for hours on end. He was a lifesaver when mom lived with us for a couple of months after sis died. He still is when she gets out of the nursing home for a short visit.

Tinker obviously suffered a lot of trauma when separated from his previous family. We have seen him grow out of a lot of it. He no longer tries to tear down the door if you step outside for a minute. He no longer throws a howling fit if you leave him in the car while you check the post office box. He is beginning to build some confidence that we won't abandon him but he still craves close human contact. He is always right behind, barely in front or close beside you. If you stop, he is laying across your feet or in your lap.

I would miss that now.

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