Alive and Kicking

Moving into our fourth year together, Jane and I pretty much exist in concert with each other. I anticipate her needs, she finishes my sentences for me. We’re comfortable, like a well-worn pair of boots. She’s more or less satisfied with our living arrangement (though she insists I underfeed her), and takes care of the house with the pride of a peacock. She sleeps when I sleep, eats when I eat, and walks when I walk. Ours is a satisfying and inspiring example of interspecies symbiosis, though there’s a part of Jane or me or us that will forever puzzle me. Sometimes there’s a disconnect. Sometimes we just don’t completely mesh. Sometimes we seem like strangers to each other. Sometimes she looks through me like I’m not there, then two seconds later she’s giving me the full-body wag and dancing for my affection. In sum, Jane’s a nut.

And that’s all the more reason I’m thankful we found each other. First, I’ve got my own (pronounced) nut characteristics. For every quirk of Jane’s, I’ve got at least one of my own, and she takes them all in stride: she models unconditional acceptance. Second, I badly want Jane to be content and whole – truly satisfied as a dog, and a hound dog at that – and of course I feel I’m the person best suited to try and meet her needs. I guess I feel I’m more tolerant of differences than some or many, so that makes me a good companion for a quirky beast. But often, like when I (daily) scold Jane for foraging and she bows her head in pathetic shame only to instantly rebound from prostration to immediately commit the offense again, I find myself comparing her behavior to the behavior that I expect or desire from her, or the behavior I intrinsically associate with dogs. And this is wrong. Yes, she oftentimes puts a perplexing Jane twist on things – I constantly call her my odd duck – but I need to expand my definitions or ideas or concepts of what it means to be a dog, what it means to be a hound dog, what it means to be a dog who did not have the head start in life that she deserved, what it means to be Jane.

Back in fall 2008, Jane and I attended basic dog training classes at Northfield Dog Training in Ann Arbor. Our instructor was Adele, the same teacher Georgia and I had years ago. I was concerned about Jane’s apparent disinterest in me (what I’ve always referred to as her cat-like demeanor), and I asked Adele if it was something I should be concerned about. She told me that, yes, I should. It could indicate that Jane and I are not a good match, Adele told me. She warned me to give the relationship plenty of time, however. She said that Jane just might teach me more about dogs than any other I’d ever known. She was right. Jane has redefined dog for me. I only hope I’ve been able to as profoundly redefine human for her.

They’re Here!

The extreme heat broke mid-week. Wednesday was mild and windy – felt like I was on the coast. Jane and I spent most of the afternoon and early evening outside. We puttered around the garden, repotted some plants, and took a couple of long walks around town and down to the river. I love mild Michigan days when I can open all the doors and windows, air out the house, burn incense all day (my flavors du jour are dark chocolate and green tea), and move seamlessly between indoors and out. There’s something very life affirming about blurring the boundaries of interior and exterior spaces, and the ease with which that’s possible is one of the things I love so much about Michigan.

On Thursday, Annika and I took Jane and Duke to the 1,100-acre Crosswinds Marsh in New Boston. (I’ve written more about the property here.) I try to visit Crosswinds at least once per season, and we’d been talking about getting out there to witness spring’s explosion. We usually begin with the six-mile outer loop that perimeters the property, but this time we decided to take the four-mile inner loop because it cuts through the heart of the marsh and provides greater access to water for the dogs and shade for all of us. Some parts of the trail are boardwalks over wetlands, and others are open, grassy spaces.

It was a beautiful walk, but we were too late for the Chorus of the Frogs, which disappointed me. (I must remember to visit in May next year.) The dogs were warm, and Duke was especially energetic, but there were plenty of streams, creeks, and puddles for cooling and drinking. Shortly after the start of our walk, Annika and I both found ticks on our clothes. By the end, we’d each discovered three or four, and this put a serious damper on our fun, so much so that we headed home early to bathe our dogs in flea/tick shampoo. During clean-up I found four ticks on Jane and one lodged on the back of my thigh, and I’ve still not been able to shake the itchy scratchy heebie jeebies.

I moved to Michigan from the South in 1995. I didn’t see a tick until about 2005 or so, and that was a single parasite on Georgia’s neck, which I removed without incident. (Fleas have not been a problem, either. Georgia brought them home just twice in her lifetime, and even then there were just a few that were easily cleared up.) Jane and I found 20 or so ticks on us early last summer, and it looks like this year’s going to be the same. The ticks have arrived. (This one-page PDF from the Michigan Department of Community Health offers an overview of the five varieties of ticks terrorizing my adopted homeland.) Growing up in the South and dealing with the ticks definitely gives me perspective (Michiganders really freak out over them), but their sudden ubiquity is seriously disappointing and severely limits Jane’s and my exercise options. (Reason #57 why summer sucks.) I don’t treat dogs proactively for parasites (save deadly heartworm) because I feel they, like humans, get enough toxins in their systems from myriad sources. I want their life experience to be as natural and organic as possible – from untethered walking/running to raw, whole foods. After our infestation this week, though, I did treat Jane with a flea/tick preventive called Natural Defense made with peppermint, cinnamon, clove, and “other ingredients.” It certainly makes her smell good, but I’m not convinced it’s going to work. I also bought her a Preventic Tick Collar, which has generally positive user reviews, but I’m afraid to put it on her. Its active ingredient is amitraz, and I’m frankly much more afraid of that than I am ticks.  It’s so potent that I’d be cautious when handling my dog after putting the collar on her. We’ve made it this long without pulling out the big guns, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed. When Georgia was young, a trainer gave me the excellent advice to give her a full-body exam every day. I followed this suggestion and have continued this routine with Jane (who’s much easier to inspect with her short coat). It not only keeps me physically aware of my dog, but it serves as a pleasant, daily bonding experience that subtly reinforces the hierarchy of our relationship (which needs to be regularly addressed).

As an aside, Annika and I were wondering if the tick enjoyed its own horror film. The only thing I’ve dug up is this 1993 grade-z schlockfest called, appropriately, Ticks. I’d say a new nightmare needs to be conceived. Perhaps I’ll pen it…

Springtime in Ypsi

Spring started off unseasonably cold, which is perfectly fine with me and preferred by Jane, too. Her dark, short fur, which seems more like a hide than a coat, offers little protection from sun and heat. Indirect lighting, like we enjoy most of the year in perpetually overcast southeast Michigan, and below 50 or so temps suit both the shorthaired quadruped and redheaded primate alike. There are few things I enjoy more than wearing mittens in May, and Jane’s been digging running puppy laps in sopping wet, knee-deep grasses around town. There’s actually just about a two-week window in May when the ground is waterlogged, the wild grasses reach the tip of Jane’s nose, and the sun spares us its direct rays. It’s such a short-lived period that I forget about it every year, and its return always genuinely surprises and delights me. Alas, it’s bittersweet, though: its energizing properties are tempered by the reminder that it’s the final respite before the long, hot slog of summer.

The crazy rains started about three weeks ago. It felt kind of like Florida as the storms rolled in like clockwork every afternoon. The sky changed, too, from its usual grey shell to massive and dramatic roils of churning condensation. Eventually, the daily thunderstorms morphed into a continuous deluge. I seriously think it must have poured for seven straight days without a pause. Jane’s never been fond of walking in the rain, but she’s had a much healthier attitude about it this year (which is convenient as she doesn’t have an option). We’ve been up to our ears in mud, but we’ve been able to keep up nicely with our daily exercise routine. Occasionally, though, like during that seven-day torrent, the sheer volume of water pouring on our heads seriously limited our ability to function. We set out one afternoon last week when the steady drizzle turned into BUCKETS of rain. The pressure was so intense that we could barely remain upright. We dashed onto the front porch of an abandoned house, and I swear in the 15 or so minutes we huddled there at least a quarter of an inch came down. It was insane.

We’ve had our share of flooding in Ypsi, especially in low-lying areas like Riverside and Frog Island, though nothing, thankfully, like places to the south – Missouri, Mississippi, etc. A couple of nights I lay awake in bed listening to the rain and thunder. Our house sits on a hill, so I’ve always felt protected from flooding save a little moisture in the old Michigan basement. Our current monsoon sparked a new fear in me, though, that the saturated ground would give way and my little house would go sliding away with Jane and me in it.

The extreme heat finally creeped in yesterday and brought with it tornado sirens, lethargy, and the impetus to fetch the window unit air conditioner down from the attic. It’s now installed and cranking out cool – Jane’s lying on her back in front of it – and I’m trying to adjust my DNA to tolerate the next three months of oppression. I know I sound like such a summer Scrooge, but my reverse SAD is completely biological. My Viking ancestors should never have ventured south of the Baltic Sea.