How The Pet Bull Got Her Groove Back

I should have known.

When I called Veronica’s breeder for an update on how my soon to be puppy was doing and got this report:
Breeder: Well, the puppies are almost housebroken! I took them out today to potty and let them play for a bit and then I called and they all came in.
Me: Oh how wonderful
Breeder: Yes! They all came in, ummm except for your Veronica.
Me: Oh. Well what did my Veronica do?
Breeder: oh she just stood there and looked at me.
Me: Is she deaf?
Breeder: Oh no! Definitely not deaf. She just has…personality.

And there you have it. I should have known. And deep down…I did. Sure some people may have thought “stubborn, obstinate, hard to train”. I thought, “well, now there’s a little budding “free thinker” in the making”. I’ll share a dirty little secret that I harbor. I don’t actually like biddable, milquetoast, obedient dogs that live to please their masters. I like dogs with a little bit a flair, a bit of “je ne sais quoi” - personality! I know there is a place in the world and a function for those Lassie dogs who live to find Timmy in the well…but; I don’t think the place will ever be with me.

So Miss Veronica-Lynn (not intentionally named after a porn star) came to our home four years ago…and has brought love, laughter, and the occasional moment when you are certain you are about to throw the mother of all blood clots and just stroke out right there on the spot. But I wouldn’t change her for the world.

What has got me reminiscing about all of this; was last night’s agility class. My trainer was unable to rent a spot for the winter, and we hadn’t been on an agility course in about 8 months. And truth be told last summer…it was not looking good. I have been making a valiant effort to keep up with Veronica’s training since she was 3 months old. We have had our share of ups and downs which I attribute mostly to my inexperience and a little bit to the Divine Ms. V.’s “je ne sais quoi”. But our experience on the agility field was definitely going down hill…as in Veronica was deciding she just didn’t want to play with me. She had started off well and according to our trainer showed real promise in agility but by the end of last summer she was more interested in running around making her own course and sniffing out mysterious smells in the grass than she was in me or my treats. I actually could have hung slabs of roast beef on my person and I think she would have still pretended that I wasn’t there. I just naturally assumed she was going into an obstinate phase and we would have to persevere.

Having time off from agility, didn’t mean time off from training. And in fact the focus of our time was turned to some behavioral issues related to Veronica’s difficulty interacting with other dogs. Not that I wanted her to play nice…but I did very much want her to SHUT HER FREAKIN’ MOUTH!! Especially with the hopes in the back of my head of one day perhaps competing with her,..in something…it would be nice if we could “blend”.

So it was a winter of learning and I made a few discoveries…about dog training, about Veronica…but mostly about myself. I discovered that I had become a stick in the mud…a real downer. I was so concerned about having the “perfect” dog…that biddable, obedient, hang on your every word dog…that I forgot it was actually a partnership. I forgot it was a relationship and got sucked into wanting to have a well trained dog so that I could look good. Veronica told me to go get @#$%’ed. It was then that I realized I’d lost myself.

I started agility because it was supposed to be FUN!! Veronica and I were supposed to enjoy a shared activity and have FUN together. I stopped making it fun when I started wanting to make us look good. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was very discouraging to an extremely emotionally sensitive dog. A dog that takes every verbal correction to heart. Not to heart in the way that she immediately tries to correct the behavior…but to heart in the way that her feelings are crushed and she slinks off (metaphorically speaking of course) to eat some worms, because nobody loves her and why even bother to try. My lack of praise, my lack of FUN, my constant verbal corrections and clear communication of my disappointment in her…shut her down…and she chose not to play with me anymore.

Coming back to agility last night…I think I was wiser (I know I was older, not too happy about that actually). My instructor had some time to think as well. We devised a new plan…10 steps back…and no more reactive “time outs” in the car after Veronica had been “bad”. We were going to be very proactive and make sure she was good. Instead of running the whole course, we decided I would do 3 obstacles at a time, stop praise to the high heavens and treat galore! I also decided that since my sensitive, emotional pet bull thrived on extravagant, over-the top, worthy of a Broadway show level of praise…then that is exactly what she would get. I would put on my best, effusive, high pitched, Edith Bunker-esque voice and praise her to the heavens. And if a passerby thinks I sound like a fur mommy on crack…well…screw ‘em!!

As you can imagine, since I’m writing this little blog…the plan worked like a charm. Veronica and I had an extremely successful first night back. Of course my definition of “extremely successful” has undergone an adjustment. What I mean is…we had fun…we had fun together…we had a blast actually. I could tell by the fact that my dog was once again interested in me! She wanted to play with me! She wanted to know what we would be doing next! I could also tell by the happy, excited grin on her face and her furiously wagging tail. So what if we never officially compete, or even if we do - who cares about winning…we’re having fun!

Truth be told; we’re a good match. Neither of us is particularly athletic. We each had our turn at “first night back” accidents. Maneuvering a tricky pinwheel out to a teeter; we crashed…and burned. I went down like a ton of bricks. Veronica took a jump too enthusiastically and face planted skidding a good couple of inches on her snout. (Which made her Grammy none too happy. When she saw her red, scraped snout Grammy launched into a tirade of; “OOOOhhhh what did Mommy do? What did Mommy do to you? You can’t take care of this dog! She’s going to have to come and stay with me!” Then Veronica had to allow Grammy to futz around her snout for a good 5 minutes, cleaning it and putting Neosporin on. I think she secretly enjoyed the attention, although she tried her best to look annoyed.)

Hopefully we are back on track!

Here’s a little video of our efforts; but unfortunately it doesn’t capture Veronica taking me out by the teeter; or face planting over the jump…just the girls enjoying each other.

The Pet Bull's Adventures at Grammy DayCare

I work 4 days per week. And on the 4 days that I work, I get Veronica up as I am leaving, I march her outside to potty and I walk her across the hall and deposit her at Grammy Daycare.

I never anticipated that this would be our arrangement. My mother is not what one would call a "dog person" by any stretch of the imagination.

Point of fact, when my dear Basset Hound Frances Abigail got on in years...she got a little stinky from her oily coat, skin allergies and drool...and my mother promptly developed an "allergy" that prevented her from being in Frannie's presence. "Cough, wheeze, cough...oh my throat is closing..." I'm not saying it was definitely a psychosomatic reaction...but when one considers that my mother is an obsessive-compulsive clean freak...it was looking a little suspicious.

So never in my wildest dreams when we decided to get another dog after Fran passed; did I imagine my mother developing an intense bond with the new addition.

In retrospect, the timing was right. We had lost my Dad 2 years prior; and my mom was one of those old-fashioned ladies who's lives had revolved around their husband...so his passing left her without any sort of focus in her life. She actually encouraged me to get another dog because after losing my Dad, then losing Frannie 13 months later - I was turning into a pretty angry, miserable bitch. Since the husband and I both work, Mom volunteered to help with the puppy...which I assumed meant checking on her several times a day, taking her to potty and spending some time with her. Seeing as my mother lives with us in an in-law apartment and is slightly agoraphobic...it seemed a reasonable arrangement. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine my mother inviting Veronica into her apartment - that was always a "no dog zone".

It started almost immediately. I think the second day we had V. she was invited over to Grammy's apartment "so she could get used to the whole house"???? I was very confused. Then somewhere in that first week that I had taken off work to get the new puppy adjusted, Grammy decided I needed to go out and buy a second crate for her apartment (Grammy loves spending my money)...just in case V. ever needed to "be there for any length of time". Then when it came time for me to go back to work...Grammy couldn't bare the thought of little puppy V. all alone, so I was instructed to take her to Grammy's and deposit her in her crate (which is next to Grammy's bed) so they can both get a few more "Z's" until Grammy is ready to get up and start her day. And that was how Grammy DayCare came into existence.

Fast forward almost 4 years...V. spends 4 days a week in Grammy DayCare. It is an excellent service and I receive periodic updates on my email at work as to how their day is going.

Generally the email will consist of Grammy singing V.'s praises. "Oh she is an Angel! An absolute Angel!! She waited in her crate for me to make the coffee (we don't close the crate door anymore) then came out to get her morning peanut butter cracker. She sat on the deck and watched the squirrels in the yard and barked "Hello" to the neighbors". Then she'll usually tell me that she took her out a time or 2 and threw the ball, and V. was such a good girl and came right in when Grammy called her. Then they went in and V. "let Grammy know" she wanted to get on the couch and waited for Grammy to get the blanket and make her spot ready (yep, V. has conquered the couch in a "no dog zone" and some suspect that the bed isn't far behind). Then there is more snacking throughout the day, and naps...and generally they are quite harmonious, with V. being Grammy's little side-kick.

But...every so often...the report is not so favorable. Every so often I open my email at work and see something like this, "You're dog is being a brat. She is a BRAT. A BRATTY BRAT. I have had it with her!! She is a very fresh girl"!!!!!! (Another sure sign of V.'s behavior is the reception that my husband gets when he arrives home -several hours before me. If he is invited in and is offered a cup of coffee, V. has been good. If Grammy opens the door and screeches, "COME GET YOUR DOG AND GO HOME"!...V. has been a brat.)

So yesterday, she was by all reports a very large brat. The day started out well according to Grammy; but then V. got bored and obnoxious. She wanted to go out in the yard and wanted to be on her schedule not Grammy's. So she kept poking her with her nose and barking to go out; which could easily be handled by ignoring her...but Grammy is a sucker for "that little face"...so basically she spoils V. filthy rotten.

Out they go in the yard, but V. was in "bad dog" mode. She immediately went "off like a bullet" zipping around the yard, stopping to dig in "all the places she knows she shouldn't" and zipping away before Grammy could catch her. She horrified Grammy by trying to get under the shed, huffing and puffing like she was one inch away from putting the bite on "the great under the shed beast". Grammy's head was reeling with images of 12 foot snakes slithering out and eating Veronica whole, like an extra-large overly plump mouse - then setting it's sights on Grammy.

If that weren't bad enough, when Grammy chased her away from the shed, she ran over to dig in the garden and almost got her head caught under the decorative metal border. Then she took off willy nilly running around and digging everywhere and EATING DIRT!!!! Ms. Veronica-Lynn is a genteel young pit bull and she does not eat dirt! Have you any idea what is in dirt? BUGS, BUGS are in dirt!! And Ms. Veronica-Lynn does not eat bugs!! Aside from "eeewww gross": Grammy had visions of V. eating a bug that would sting her insides out and cause an allergic reaction...and V. would turn into an oompa loompa and explode right before Grammy's eyes. Compounding all of this was the fact that V. was not coming when Grammy was calling. Grammy saw red.

Eventually Grammy turned to bribery and lured V. in with a delicious slice of American cheese...but once she was in...Grammy told her in no uncertain terms what a Bad, BRATTY, FRESH girl she was!

Grammy was quite satisfied that V. knew she was wrong and was properly chastised because she took herself off to her crate, and lied down, and put her blanket over her head...and she stayed there for a good, long time and let Grammy do her work.

The Prideful Petbull

I'm new to dog training. Since we've gotten Veronica I've taken a class with her...pretty much consistently in the almost 4 years we've had her; and I read allot about training and canine behavior...because I've decided that my dog is absolutely fascinating and I want to understand every nuance of her magical being.

Along the way I've formed some opinions. I have always preferred positive training methods; even when it was just an academic discussion (because truth be told the only thing I taught my precious Basset Hound Frances Abigail- Ms. Veronica's predecessor...was not to potty in the house).

My preference for positive training is based on the way I look at my relationship with my dog. I want training to enhance our ability to communicate with each other and bring us closer. But even more importantly, I want her to do as I ask not because she's afraid of the consequences if she doesn't - but because she wants to do as I ask.

In retrospect, it's a very, very, very good thing that I think this way, because Veronica is one of those super soft dogs that would really in all honestly, I think "go bad" with correction based training. Sometimes I forget how soft she is because "soft" has nothing to do with being bratty, and willful and pushy and obnoxious - traits that also make up her character. On a good day I find them endearing, and she makes me laugh and I'm glad she is who she is; and on a bad day I want to list her on Craig's List as "free to any home that doesn't blow their brains out after a week"

But today I was treated to an illustration of just how soft my dog is, and why I best forget everything I read to the contrary and stick with all positive, all the time. We had a Rally Obedience class. We've been doing Rally for at least a couple of years. I'm actually thinking of competing the next time that a convenient opportunity arises. Veronica is now able to do the courses without food reinforcement (of course she gets the jackpot at the end). Our biggest challenge is her reactivity towards other dogs; and this is something we have been working on diligently for years. It can be very frustrating - 3 steps forward, 2 steps back - even more so, because I'm sure it's me who scews things up not her.

Anyway, we had class today and because of close quarters there is always a part of the course that runs very close to the other dogs; one of whom happens to be Veronica's Arch Nemesis - Romona the Wicked Whippet. (Total mutual dislike down to their toes). I could have held my own pride in check and reminded myself that having to use a treat to keep Veronica focused simply meant "we weren't there yet" - she wasn't ready to pass that closely by her Arch Nemesis in that context and that was OK. But noooooo...I didn't want to use treats at all, I totally ignored the fact that Veronica wasn't ready in favor of my preference which was that we'd worked hard enough and long enough and she knows what I want her to do and how hard is it and she should be ready damn it!

Not only didn't I use treats, I opted for something I rarely (if ever do) I gave a correction. Not a harsh correction by any means. We came to the weave cones - the part of the course that was right next to the dogs - and when Veronica wouldn't focus on me and tried to bark at Romona; I reached down with my left hand and grabbed her snout. I gave it a little shake and a stern "No" and held her snout past the cones. When we were away from the dogs, Veronica decided to turn around and give Romona a little "up yours anorexic bitch" lip; and again I reached down gave her snout a little shake and a stern "No". Feeling all satisfied in my "handling" of the situation we finished the course and took our seats.

Then our turn came again. We cruised through the first half of the course - no treats. "Well, I certainly told her", I thought as we approached the cones and the evil Romona...at which point Veronica stopped dead in her tracks, fell to the floor in a crouch and attempted to crawl away from the cones. Discussion ensued and it has hypothesized that Veronica was a bit traumatized from the snout grabbing. At the risk of sounding anthromorphic, it looked to all the world (well at least all present) that her feelings had been hurt by my public correction, and now she was afraid to try further). Much hoopla and treating ensued; then my trainer got her to reluctantly do some of the course with her because Veronica suddenly decided she could not suffer the possibility of that sort of humilation again. So again, with many, MANY treats (you know the ones I didn't want to use since I'm planning on competing) Veronica finally finished the course looking like a dog that had been pulled from the shelter that morning, never having seen a Rally course in it's life and believing there was a strong possibility that the ceiling could fall on her head at any moment.

Then came our next turn...using the treats but back on track. Not quite...now it's actually worse. This time around Veronica has concluded that it is not safe to be anywhere near the left side of my body - lest I assault her with a humiliating snout shake. She refuses to finish herself left, and takes it upon herself to finish herself right. She also decided that heeling means heeling as far away from me as she can possibly get while still attached to her leash and positioning herself at an angle - to again fend off any vicious attacks from her crazy human. (and at this point let me reiterate, for those of you who don't have that good of a sense of me from other posts...I hardly touched the damn dog!!! I put my hand over her mouth, and when I say gave her muzzle a little shake...I've seen parents shake 2 year olds in the middle of Walmart harder than I shook that dog; I was simply trying for the effect of stern communication). Oh and the best part; twice she tried to leave the course and run to my trainer like she wanted to be saved. Seriously. "Help me Miss Alice, help me; Momma's been abducted by aliens and this woman next to me is a...a...a snout shaker"!!!!!!!

The class was highly amused. It isn't often that this level of drama is introduced to a Rally Obedience class. Usually they're pretty bland. Veronica's runs were starting to look like a Shakesperian tragedy.

Our final run...I knew I had to get her over this and end on a good note. The treats were flying fast and furious, I was praising her up one side and down the other - what a good good girl, wonderful dog, nice job, so smart, good baby ..."...and Veronica finally started to heal from the grave injustice I dealt her earlier. She decided just maybe it was safe to be by my left side...of course I also switched leash hands ( I prefer to hold the leash in my right hand for Rally and have her target my left) - but since in her mind my left hand had grown teeth and was going to eat her face whole - that had to be adjusted.

So...3 steps forward, 2 steps back - I think we're back on track.

In retrospect my pride (I want us to be ready now) got us into the mess just as much as Veronica's pride (I cannot believe you did that to me in front of all those other dogs). So maybe we're a good match for each other.

The other lesson learned - I will never, ever (at least with this particular dog) let myself think that a correction is the way to go (other than verbal, of course) and I will from here on out praise her til the cows come home!

The Pet Bull & The Invaders from Mars

Well…technically there are no Invaders from Mars…but try telling that to the Pet Bull.
In Veronica’s mind the Invaders are lurking just behind every really loud noise or really bright light…and they like pet bulls…allot…possibly for dinner with a nice Chianti.

In order to relate the events of the previous night and the triggering of Veronica’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder…I have to provide some back story. It all started on Christmas night of 2007. We were having a lovely holiday visiting relatives deep in the New Hampshire woods. Veronica was lounging by the fire, after a busy day of hiking and sampling hors d’oevers. My brother-in-law announced that he has planning on setting off a lovely firework display after dark. “What a wonderful opportunity for Veronica”!, I thought. Seeing as I made it a point to try and socialize her as much as possible, I thought a brilliant fireworks display would be a nice addition to her education.

Now I can see some of you rolling your eyes. “What was I thinking” you ask? Taking a dog to see fireworks when dogs universally fear and dislike them. Well…yeah. But how was I supposed to know this? In my adult life I have had only 1 previous dog. I enjoyed a glorious 14 years with my precious Basset Hound Frances Abigail…and Frannie…didn’t mind fireworks. In fact for all of Frannie’s life, my mother-in-law was also alive. And that meant that our presence was required every 4th of July for the Lighting of the Lake and the Town of Sutton fireworks display: 2 nights of loud noises and brilliant colors in the sky. All Frannie cared about was who brought the snacks. In her later years she expressed a desire to remain in the car with the air conditioning on…but other than that she could not possibly have been more underwhelmed with the whole situation.

So on that fateful night 2 years ago…I marched Veronica outside to further her education. We were not outside for very long at all. The first display sparkled in the sky and I was lost in my own train of thought: “How pretty! Hmmm…I wonder if that’s a little close to the house…I wonder how much my brother-in-law had to drink and if he really knows what he’s doing, I wonder how the volunteer fire system works…I wonder if any of the volunteer fire fighters are sober, being as it is Christmas night – or maybe they’re really groggy from the intoxicating effects of too much turkey…I sure would hate to burn to a crisp in the middle of nowhere…” And at that precise moment I looked down at Veronica. I have to say I’ve never before (or since for that matter) seen a dog look quite so scared. She was scrunched up like a Halloween cat and her tail was so far underneath her it looked like it was sticking in her mouth. Her eyes were big as saucers. (Writer’s seem to be very fond of that phrase “eyes as big as saucers”…but let me say…if you’ve ever actually seen anyone – person or animal- whose eyes…were “big as saucers”…you know how completely apt the description really is.)

So, upon realizing that Veronica was not having a good time; we immediately went inside…but the damage was done. Veronica was acting like a Vietnam vet who’d just returned stateside. Suddenly the fire she had previously been enjoying…was terrifying. The snap & crackle of burning embers sent her flying into her crate. When we got home she began generalizing her fear to all loud noises and bright lights. Watching her suddenly fixate on overhead lights with a look of trepidation and near panic…was heartbreaking. I thought I broke my dog.

There was nothing to be done…but deal with it. We tried very hard to be comforting while at the same time not reinforcing her fears. When possible we named the objects she was afraid of and clicked and treated and eventually Veronica returned to “normal” with the exception of some greatly reduced, but nonetheless residual fears.

Fast forwarding 2 years…the Invaders returned last night…and they were hungry for pet bull. They came around 1:00 in the morning in the form of a malfunctioning fire alarm. Veronica shot straight up from a deep sleep at the sound of the first shrill beep and froze. I attempted to reassure her that all was well as her Poppa worked on the uncooperative alarm…but she wasn’t having it. She made it to the edge of the bed and pondered the wisdom of escape. I implored her to return and protect her Momma; thinking to tap into the fierce gamebred blood of her distant ancestors…but sadly the decision was made to turn tail and run. One minute she was poised on the edge of the bed; the next she was off the ramp, down the hallway, through the kitchen, across the living room and into her crate.

Thirty minutes later after much banging and cursing and lots of beeping, my dear husband finally admitted defeat and returned to bed. But now…there was a problem. I was supposed to go back to sleep and I had no dog. Well…I had a dog…just at the other end of the house, cowering in a crate. Now I’m sure some would be fine with this arrangement, minus the cowering part of course…but for me, it simply would not do. I believe I mentioned in a previous blog that pet bulls generally speaking have responsibilities, expectations, jobs to do. Veronica’s job is to attend to my emotional needs, keep me company and snuggle with me at night – in short, keep me off Prozac and Xanax. So obviously the current situation was unacceptable.

Nothing to do but fetch my errant dog. Think of it this way…if you obtained a dog to guard your sheep…you couldn’t just have the dog slinking off to sleep in the barn, right? Working dogs must work; so Veronica was coming back to bed. Luckily getting her out of her crate proved to be quite easy, thanks to a more successful educational endeavor. About 1 year ago when her dermatologist recommended weekly baths, Veronica became acquainted with the work of Gandhi and thought to implement the art of peaceful resistance (i.e. drop in her crate like a sack of very heavy potatoes). Of course me being a responsible fur Momma; took this as an opportunity to teach a lesson in basic Physics: 2 matters containing mass cannot occupy in the same space and time. Oh I hear some of you scoffing that this is too complicated and esoteric a lesson for a mere dog to comprehend; however I can assure you that with the aid of a simple demonstration…Veronica grasped the concept after only a handful of lessons. It goes like this: One fur mommy stuffed completely into a crate that is currently occupied by one fur baby, serves to dislodge and effectively eject one fur baby completely out of said crate.

So when I went to collect my cowering pup she came quite willingly out of her crate. She did attempt to defect twice before reaching the bedroom by trying to hide first behind the dining room table; then in the hall bathroom (smart dog; no one would ever think to look for her in a room with a tub in it). But eventually we reached the bed and up she went; and I thought I could finally get some sleep. Veronica on the other hand, wasn’t so certain. There she stood surveying her surroundings waiting for the next whooping war cry from the Invaders. I coaxed her to my side and gave her a smooshing hug. I felt her settle her head on my tummy…but something felt “off”. I opened my eyes and propped my head up. Veronica did indeed have her head settled on my tummy…but the rest of her was standing straight up at rigid attention. Working off the theory that eventually Veronica would get tired of “waiting” and that when nothing happened she would get tired and settle down and go to sleep; I tried to relax and not let the knowledge that I had to get up in 3 hours for work keep me up the remainder of the night.

I wasn’t particularly successful with the relaxing and sleeping; but I did feel Veronica relax and eventually she settled down and snuggled in closer and drifted off to sleep. All was right with the world. I was warm and cozy and I had a big Pet Bull head resting on my stomach so I finally drifted off. Only to be awoken by a near lethal strike to my kidneys. (Or where I, with my limited knowledge of human anatomy, imagine my kidneys to be.) As I took a moment to catch my breath and clear my head, I was treated to a sharp smack in the boob, followed by another accompanied by a high pitched yelping, growly, snuffling sound. It seems the Divine Ms. V. had not entirely recovered from the night’s excitement and was having herself a bit of a nightmare. What could I do except wake her up and tell her she was fine and safe and to go back to sleep. Which I did, and she did; which I know because she slept and I didn’t and the morning came fast and furious anyway. Just another night in Pet Bull land

The Pet Bull Plans A Night Out.

This blog entry was originally composed 1/9/10 and posted elsewhere.

I'll be the first to admit that weeknights in the dead of winter are generally pretty boring around our house. You can't blame the dog for wanting a night out. But who would have ever guessed that she was plotting and conspiring to bring a little excitement to our dull existence.

Now in my defense; I feel compelled to explain that Veronica has never been a voracious chewer. Sure she's retarded enough to eat a stick, or a dirty tissue or a live, squirming bug (you get the idea); but never in her 3 and a half years on the planet has she ever shown more than a passing interest in her squeaky toys. Squeaky toys are meant to be squeaked, tossed in the air and pushed into the lap of the nearest person in the hopes of initiating a rousing game of tug/fetch/keep away. Never has she EATEN a squeaky toy. Until last Tuesday.

I came home from work; 6 pm, earlier than usual, quite exhausted (which is usual). For some unknown reason, I came in the house and was drawn with tunnel vision to the living room floor which was strewn with a myriad of V.'s squeaky toys and my gaze locked on her pink dinosaur. "WHERE is his head"?, I shrieked at my husband, brandishing it in his face like an accusation (Weren't you watching her??) Then ensued a conversation around: am I sure he ever had a head in the first place, how do I know that I didn't pick up his head without thinking about it and throw it away on a previous occasion, and when exactly was the head last seen.

Of course like any good fur mommy I knew without a doubt that Mr. dinosaur had a head last night when we played with him. Since V. goes to her Grammy's during the day, that means that the head disappeared sometime between hubby getting home at 3 pm and me walking in the door at 6 pm.

Being prone to anxiety, and an anticipator of worst case scenarios; I immediately worked myself up into a complete frenzy imaging a life threatening obstruction and informing my husband we may as well "start picking out our next dog". That got hubby mobilized into action. We searched the entire house. We looked high (in case the head got tossed into the Christmas tree; no we haven't taken it down yet) and low (I really need to vacuum under my couch more often). No head.

In an act of sheer desperation I picked up Mr. dinosaur to attempt to re-generate his head through the sheer power of my will; which is when I realized that the situation was actually MUCH more dire. Not only was Mr. dinosaur relieved of his head; but he had thoughtfully been gutted from stem to stern and his entrails devoured (read: the squeaker was missing).

By this point, my anxiety had bled onto my husband and we we're both whipped into a fine frenzy. Thankfully in a moment of lucidity it became perfectly obvious to us that since the head could only possibly have been eaten in the space of the last 3 hours; it was reasonable to make the dog throw up. Of course! Except for the fact that neither of us has ever made a dog throw up before. But how hard can it be, right? Just call the E-vet, get the right dosage of hydrogen peroxide, yadda, yadda. 2 to 3 tablespoons and then 15 minutes later another 2 to 3 tablespoons. If you don't get vomit by then, you probably won't; or so says the nice vet tech who answered the phone. But then he mentioned the possibility of aspirating. Yes, he said it was not common,. Yes he said it was "highly unlikely". However point of fact, you do not use the word aspirate when talking with someone who is on the verge of hysteria. Common @#$%ing sense people!!

So it was decided; as Veronica knew it would be. Off we went to the E-vet. At this point I wasn't aware that we were playing right into her hands...errmm...paws. I felt so bad for her, having to be dragged out on a cold night, going to that cold sterile place where strangers will drag her to a barren back room and poke at her mercilessly.
Uh huh.

We walk in the door to the E-vet, I'm sick to my stomach and shaking. My husband looks as if he is going to burst into tears. The first thing we hear is, "Ooh it's VERONICA"! OK...twilight zone? No, it turns out the gal behind the desk is moonlighting from her job at V.'s regular vet. "Oh I have to come see Veronica" she says; and much cooing ensues and introductions of Veronica to the other staff. Honestly I missed most of it; what with being a complete nervous wreck and all.

So they come to take Veronica away; and she seems to trot off with a spring in her step; unlike how I imagined her; which would have been whimpering and cowering behind me. After about 15 grueling minutes in which time I prayed to a God I don't fully believe in and chomped on nicorette like a horse (and for the first time in 5 years didn't curse my husband for still chewing the damn stuff despite that we both quite smoking 5 years ago); the vet tech finally emerges. V. is fine he assures us, "NO, she did not aspirate". She did throw up the squeaker...but sadly the head is still MIA.

"The doctor thinks she could pass the head", he tells us; but they want to do a "quick" x-ray. Out he goes and I still have no dog. So...wait, wait, wait, chew, chew, chew, pray, examine my spiritual leanings and the fate of my soul, conclude that topic is too overwhelming and best left to another time, inhale, exhale, sigh, twitch, pace, turn to my husband and hiss under my breath, "WTF are they DOING? HOW is this QUICK"?????

25 minutes later the vet comes prancing in with Veronica; practically gushing! "Oh she's a great dog! A GREAT dog! She got tons of attention from everyone in back! We just LOVE her"! At which point the haze of anxiety begins to lift and I am able to appraise the situation clearly. While I was sitting in an 8X8 room with my husband, playing "who's going to snap, crackle, pop first"; V. was holding court in the back room. I looked down at her where she was laying contentedly at my feet. I nudged her with my foot. "You planned this". I mumbled under my breath. V. looked at me with wide eyed innocence.

Then the doctor was talking; didn't see anything, probably pass it, watch for this, this and this; call us if that; go home with my blessing...and this special diet to follow over the next 2 days.

So V. got a night out, plenty of socialization and a diet of boiled chicken and rice, supplemented with unsalted chicken broth mixed with water (2 cups 4 times/day). Being a dog, the whole vomiting thing was not viewed as a big negative. From her perspective the whole situation was win-win.

4 days later she is completely fine. Eating (enthusiastically), pooping on schedule, and is as active as normal (which is to say not very) - but she has been snoozing quite comfortably on the couch under her blankies. All squeaky toys have been confiscated and will only be brought out for SUPERVISED play.

And they say dogs aren't capable of complicated thought processes...

The Tao of The Pet Bull

This blog will chronicle the life and times of Veronica-Lynn the Pet Bull. What exactly is a Pet Bull you ask? Well...Ms. Veronica-Lynn is an American Pit Bull Terrier by registry - United Kennel Club; although many hardcore APBT fanciers will insist that in reality she is no APBT but in fact an American Staffordshire Terrier. It's all semantics to me. Ms.Veronica-Lynn is a beloved Pet Bull plain and simple. So...what exactly is a pet bull? Has anyone truely defined the quintessential essense of this glorious creature? I have reflected upon the enigma that is the Pet Bull and I have achieved some enlightenment.

The Pet Bull is a Renaissance Dog. A dog with many and varied interests. Not a working dog per se; but definitely a dabbler. A little agility, perhaps Rally O. or some therapy work. You actually won’t find allot of genuine pet bulls involved in Search And Rescue because of their ridiculous insistence upon forgoing snack breaks and afternoon siestas – like the injured parties are actually going somewhere and won’t be there to be found when we get there!

The true Pet Bull is also a connoisseur of the finer things in life. The pleasures of 500 thread count sheets, a good piece of steak, lobster, a perfectly made martini. Oh wait, skip the martini part, that’s actually me not the dog. Now don’t get me wrong, the cultured Pet Bull won’t turn a nose up at a milkbone; BUT…it will be eaten the same way most of us eat a fast food hamburger. Savoring it for the guilty pleasure that it is but knowing full well that we are consuming complete, unadulterated crap.

The seasoned Pet Bull is in tune with the elements; one with nature. It is a dog that realizes that when it is cold out…one puts on a freakin’ coat and boots! The Pet Bull is not stupid. Similarly, the Pet Bull instinctively understands the need to not exert oneself in warm weather and has a natural affinity for central air.

Now some may think that because the Pet Bull is a dog accustomed to the finer things in life (a sensual dog if you will) and encouraged to flex it’s intellectual muscles (to be a free thinker); that it is a spoiled dog. Those same people will define spoiled as ill behaved. That could not be farther from the truth. A genuine Pet Bull is a dog with culture, with class, a dog that does not behave as if it were raised in a barn. In fact it is not uncommon to hear the fur parents of young Pet Bulls in training admonishing their youngsters for improper etiquette by screaming something along the lines of, “WHY are you acting like that?!?!?! If you want to act like you were raised in a barn I can just as easily put you in one”!!!!! At which point the young Pet Bull slinks off to hide under a voluptuous fleece blankie on the extra-soft genuine cowhide sofa, appropriately chastised.

So there you have it: the Tao of the Pet Bull.