I’m Raven, an English pointer.  Belle is letting me tell stories for now.

Leashes – that’s the topic.

But first the collars – have to get this right.

When I was a pup, I called them ‘slave rings.  I bounded around the yard, scratching at it while I ran and she LAUGHED at me. I burned with shame but then I saw a big, white butterfly and forgot about the ‘slave ring’. By the time I remembered, I knew it wasn’t so-o-o bad. Plus I often got treats with the collar so that changed my mind.

The collar she picks tells me what we’re doing. So my hi-vis orange collar with a small bell means hiking. My mauve collar with daisies means agility. My blue collar with tiny pointers pointing at pheasants means that she takes me into a store to display my beauty. My soft martingale collar-leash-thing means dog shows- which I think are silly; all that staring and those strangers prodding me – a bit weird if you ask me.  I do pride myself in standing as still as a statue. Oh and that silly trot around a ring the size of small house?  THAT does NOT equal ‘moving’ in my books.  But I get lots of treats there…

Where was I? Oh yes – then there’s the dreaded orange bathing collar – yuck. It hangs on the banister. I see her reach for it and I charge low and quick to the bedroom then into the open crate. I lie at the back and think, ‘Pick Harry – Pick Harry.’ He’s the youngest so I think he should automatically get the bath torture. Do I feel guilty throwing him to the ‘wolves’? Nope.

Of course now that we have the collars down pat, leashes are next. I’m happy to see a leash but I don’t get the big whoop-de-do. I mean my doggie friend Wally loves his leash, slavers over it. I lift my nose and turn away when he does that – yeesh! But we go OFF leash so much that leashes cramp my style. I’m a free-flowing kind of girl. Off leash I USUALLY listen to her – even if she babbles…I guess it makes sense that she wants a leash around roads (but thank DOG I’m a country girl!).

I do act blasé around the whole leash thing but in fact she has a leash I like. It has a stretchy part in the middle and when I rush to the end, I bounce back at her! So it’s lunge-boing! Lunge-boing! And it doesn’t even make her wince! She always says I’m a ‘slip of a thing but solid as a rock.’ She also says she’s going back to something called ‘loose-leash-walking.’ I think that means no more ’lunge-boing…’But maybe this ‘loose-leash’ thing will be fun too…

I have to say that my very favourite thing of all is to blast past leashed dogs. I kick up stones as I flash by. I bet I’m the fastest thing they’ve ever seen. That must be why they lunge and bark and their people yell things. I know they’re admiring me and they’re not afraid to shout about it. I get a little tingle all over and have to stop myself from making another pass. But it’s better to give them just a taste…not to overdo it. SHE sometimes looks unhappy. I glance back to see her mouth opening and closing over and over but the wind is in my ears. I catch the tantalizing scent of a rabbit or, even better, a fat feathered one I’ve heard called a ‘grouse.’

Forget the leashes…scents to sniff, places to run.

Gotta go.

Raven



My person is eating something that smells heavy-sweet. I taste it in the air from my place on the couch. It smells like that brown-sand stuff she puts in her hot bowl in the morning. I’m drooling.

She wipes crumbs; makes lip-smack noises. I watch for any fallen pieces – drat – nothing! As she turns to look out the kitchen window, I see her hands just hang loose, not bunched. Those hands tell me a lot.

What is that whipping sound? Oh – that’s my tail…I swear it’s got a life of its own. There it goes again – I wonder what – AHA – she is rooting around in that marvellous black sack (my second favourite thing – next to the huge, cold, food-filled box.) Sure enough I hear jingly sounds. And she tugs out the dangly thing that means CAR-RIDE! I’m on my feet, wriggling. First Dog Chey blinks and lifts his head. It takes a lot more then it used to to wake him. The other two boys leap up, eyes bright, tails beating the air. My front feet are dancing but I WAIT.

I know about false alarms.

She turns to face us now. Her eyes are wide and slow-blinking. Her mouth pulls back, showing teeth. A good face! I run down the stairs, thinking Sniff and Run – Run and Sniff – the best things a dog can do. But RUN most of all! She doesn’t call me THE ROCKET for nothing! Even through the walls, I smell the river with every breath I take.

And I’m first at the door.

The naming of cats is a curious matter.—T. S. Eliot

Allow me to introduce myself.  I came into this world a pale, mewling kitten 5 years ago, making me around 35 in your person years. We felines count the years as our canine counterparts do. Indeed, it was my furry counterpart, Belle, who suggested I put paw to pen regarding the happiest place on earth from my perspective.

But before we get to the “happiest place…” I must return to the beginning. I will save you the all-too-familiar details of my kittenhood: absent Tomcat father, consistently bare-pawed and pregnant mother with too many sharp-toothed mouths to feed, neglectful humans – yada, meowda, yada – you get the idea. By 4.75 years of age I ended up on the mean streets and back alleys of a prairie metropolis. And when I say ‘mean’: I mean Winnipeg winter-freeze-the-tips-off-your-ears mean.

One of your well-meaning species scooped me in mittened hands from the snow bank where I was carefully quinzied in the first significant city snowfall one year ago. Being all white as I am, I thought I was the ‘cat from Glad.’ In point of fact, against the snowy blanket, I appeared a dawg-awful beige and was whiskered off to the local cat rescue.

Now I cannot complain about this shelter Shangri-la. Food, warmth, a blanket to knead, and sleep with no fear of ‘youth in asia.’  Most of us spend our days lounging, grooming, yoga-stretching, boxing, napping, and claw sharpening in the jungle-gym-laden rec room where all the wooden trees, boxes, shelves, and perches grow carpet. In this rug-remnant heaven brews the odd cat-fight and an occasional ear splitting choir practice (for though I am white, I am not, as many all-white felines are, deaf).

But I, for one, am not cut out to live a ‘sheltered’ life. I was, am, and always shall be so purr-sonality-filled that I require a human person to call my own. In my early days I inspired names such as: Snowball, Whitey, Snow, and the abysmal: Cat. It is little wonder I was in need of rescue and wound up at the cat shelter. I was in search of a human person who would appreciate the wonderful, wondrous, wonder that is me.  Poet T. S. Eliot was one such person. He understood that all cats have 3 names: the common, the fancy, and the name known only to the cat. This is how ‘I, Wonder’ was won over.

Being as attractive as I am, the human helpers moved me to and fro from play room to cage for closer inspection. Human persons were on the hunt: I anxiously watched a mother and child bob from cage to cage.  I caught the whiff of winter on their coats. The small human person (HP) saw the movement of my pink velvet nose and shrieked, “A snowball that moves!”  Egad – another insufferable naming. To my relief, the taller HP diagonalled into the mini-HP, “We want a kitten, dear.”

Then, from behind this duo stepped a young woman who peered into my cage. Our eyes zip-locked. Our inner kittens connected and her eyes spoke the words:  “I wonder…?”

This human person opened the cage, plunked down on the floor and placed me in her lap.  Looking into her eyes, my front paws began to rock back and forth into her heavy wool coat. She stroked my back and began to hum,a-la Anne Murray, “You kneaded me, you kneaded me…”  and then I was enfolded in her arms. I was called Wonder-ful, Wonder—her Wonder. I had found my human person and she knew my real name.

And so my happiest place on earth, to return to Belle’s question, is in the lap of my human in the purrrrrfect contentment of belonging. I have a human person to knead who needs me. And my HP’s happiest place? No doubt anywhere that I am. Wouldn’t she say that? I wonder….

HI. I’m Belle (or Isabella), a 6 year old Giant Schnauzer. My petner is Sandi and she asked me to write this blog to give a dog’s perspective about life. I’ve never considered myself a writer, but am always willing to share my opinions about stuff, so I said I would do it. We’ll be covering lots of topics that are interesting to dogs and animals in general and I’d love to hear from you – feel free to drop me a line and let me know what you think !

The Happiest Place on Earth!

While there seems to be some debate about this in the human world, for me there is no question about it: the happiest place on earth is the dog beach!

We go there a lot in the summer, especially when it’s hot. I guess I’m pretty lucky since I love to swim. Sometimes I like to go for sticks, but most of the time, I like swimming for my Kong Wubba. It’s nice and chewy and when I shake I throw lots of sand and water all around which is lots of fun. I like the expression on people’s faces when I do that. They look kind of surprised – which is funny given that it’s a beach!

There is always a lot happening at the beach. I like to see what everyone is up to, but I tend to focus on my own ball for the most part, because I’m really into fitness these days. My goal is to reach 1 million paw strokes in one year. I’m only at 250,000 for this year but then we started late in the season. I’m on a raw food diet, so that and swimming keeps my girlish figure in shape.

I have lots of friends who are there often. Some I know well because they are regulars like us, and some just kind of pass by. I can’t imagine coming to a beach and not swimming, but to each their own, I guess. Some of my friends include Cletus and Shelby and Hercules and Savannah. They’re pretty quiet and nice and kind of do their own thing, which is great.

Then there’s Baxter. He loves to come and bug me when I’m waiting for my human Petner, Sandi, to throw my ball. He’ll stop digging his hole, just to race over with his ball in his mouth and this goofy look on his face as if to say “Ha, ha! I have my ball!” Bounce, bounce! “I dare you to get it from me!” Bounce, bounce. “I dare you!” Bounce! “I double dare you!” Bounce, bounce! Then when Sandi throws my ball in the water, he races back to his hole and starts digging again! So annoying! It’s like having a pesky little brother around!Sandi thinks it’s hilarious and laughs every time, but I just roll my eyes and ignore him. Honestly!

Oh, and there’s Sherlock. He’s a big English Mastiff. Quite handsome I must say. I was a model (aka showdog) in my younger days, so I know handsome. He likes to play with a big log that his human Petners throw in the water for him. He’s quite possessive of his log and doesn’t like to share. I don’t always appreciate that in other dogs, but with him it’s kind of sexy – in a strong, silent type way.

As much as it’s a dog beach, there are lots of humans who come without dogs as well. Some pretend to be fishing, but I think they like to just come and watch us. Lots of times I’ll notice that when they come they seem kind of sad, and then when they leave they have a smile on their face which is pretty cool. I think human Petners spend a lot of time thinking about stuff that really doesn’t matter all that much. I hear them talking a lot about what happened the day before (or sometimes the year before), which I don’t understand.

Me, I like to live in the moment – as do most of my animal Petners. It seems silly to be thinking about the past when there are so many things to sniff, and water to swim in, and naps to take, and beaches to explore. There’s a whole world of fun out there waiting to be discovered! I figure life is just too short (especially in doggy years)! I think human Petners could take a few lessons from me and my friends.

Yep, my vote for happiest place on earth is definitely the dog beach. Maybe we’ll see you there one day!