Calling All Dogs

Image courtesy of SOMMAI
FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Ever need to catch a dog, maybe your own when he got out of your yard, maybe a strange dog
trotting down the middle of a busy street?

There’s a trick to it.

I first read about it in an excellent book called The Other End of the Leash by animal behaviorialist, Patricia McConnell.

It has come in handy many times, like when our puppy got too close to a road while out with my kids – and my kids knew what to do – and when, helping out a neighbor, I took her dog out for a nighttime walk only to have him slip his leash and take off.

So, you need a dog to come to you and he’s having none of it.

Step 1: Don’t chase him! The name of the game will become “Chase.”

Step 2: However, YOU move away from HIM. The game is still “Chase” but now you are the chase-ee. Call out to him and make a big fuss to make sure he knows this is the game, if he remains reluctant. Run even, unless you don’t know the dog or you think he might get carried away and try to take you down. (That’s called having too strong a prey drive.)

Step 3: If you need to have him come in really close, where you can get a hold of his collar, say, keep your back to him and squat down with your head down, like you are doing something really interesting, right at his level, but he can’t quite see what. He won’t be able to resist his curiosity. (Don’t grab at a strange dog.)

Step 4: Once he comes to you, don’t yell at him! He’ll think you are yelling at him for coming to you.

It's a cool trick.

Ever Fantasize About Owning Your Own Plane?

I just wrote an article, for The Buzz Magazines, about what's involved.

Don’t Want To Be Any Trouble

I like lattes. I like made-to-order sandwiches, from places like Subway. I like smoothies.

 

What I don’t like is ordering any of these. I know the whole point of the coffee bar, the Subway, the smoothie place is to make and sell their offerings, but I always feel like a jerk for ordering them. They take a long time to make. I feel bad making the person behind the counter make a ridiculous coffee concoction or smoothie. It feels like the line is piling up behind me. I especially hate to be a single person in the Subway or Starbucks line with a big multi-person order.

 

Does anybody else feel this way?

 

Some clearly don’t. I was recently in a newly opened ice-cream shop. The line snaked all the way along the counter, zigzagged through the store and extended out the door. It was full of small children. And the woman at the head of the line kept asking for tastes of the different ice-cream flavors, unable to make up her mind. It was like the decision of what ice cream to have was, for her, equal to deciding whether to sign a disarmament treaty or a ceasefire agreement.

 

And there’s a coffee bar near my house where one of the baristas LOVES to tell you all about coffee. He practically pirouettes around the machine as he makes yours, then takes the time to make a little design in the foam with a wooden stirrer as the finishing touch, waiting people be damned.

 

Marketers probably have a clever name for shoppers like me, the person who doesn’t want to ask for help, doesn’t want to make people wait, doesn’t want to be a pain in the ass.

 

Maybe I need to loosen up.

A Day in the Life of Lola the Dog

She's lucky she's cute.

Be awakened by the sound of someone heading to kitchen.

Go get a treat.

Be cajoled into going outside. Insist that someone accompany you – or refuse to go further than the back step.

Poop, ideally on top of the garden hose or in the middle of the driveway for everyone to admire.

Get a treat.

GO IN THE CAR!!! The destination doesn’t matter, as long as it is not the groomer.

Yay! A ride in the car,

Get a treat upon return.

Follow the Woman of the House everywhere, in case she does something out of the ordinary. Try to be under her feet when she is carrying something. Also, cut in front of her when going down stairs.

When she sits down at her desk, conk out and snore.

When the Woman goes for other drives, stay behind, though not by choice. Check the kitchen garbage; strew it all over the floor, if the Woman forgot to take it out. Check for bread on the counter, even though you don’t eat bread. Drag it and any other items of interest you find into living room.

Ever hopeful by the treat bin.

When she returns, get a treat. (This doesn’t work if she left the garbage or the bread where you could get it.)

GO FOR A WALK!!! Poop and do the happy dance. Practice your pulling.

Return for your daily meal. Also, a treat.

Wait charmingly at the back door when you hear the Man of the House’s car.

Then, when he and the Woman talk while making dinner, bark for treats. If the Man puts you out onto back step, bark for treats from there.



Nighty-night.

Bedtime! Conk out on your couch in bedroom. Ideally, they will have left a pile of clean but unfolded laundry for you to lie on.

 

 

 

I Like Local Newspapers!

I don’t watch television news.

Except at the gym, where, on the elliptical trainer, I know, unlike at home, how to work the TV. I find myself switching between the channels in disgust. It’s either that, or if Fox turns one more thing into a screed, however tenuous the connection, against Obama, or if CNN shows that 6-second snippet of footage one more time, I am going to put my fist through the screen.

But I digress.

I do read the New York Times online and I read the Houston Chronicle, the one citywide newspaper left. But the Chronicle often just reprints articles and editorials from news services and other newspapers. I don’t get that. Nor do I get when television shows report on articles that have appeared in newspapers and magazines. Already seen it, thanks. Shouldn’t they be coming up with things of their own?

In fairness, the Chronicle does some very admirable reporting, such as its coverage of child immigrants or this series on dozens of homicides the Houston Police Department seems to have never investigated.

But, again, I digress.

My favorite newspapers are the super-local ones, like the Houston Leader-News that appears free in my driveway every Thursday. Recent sample headline: “Serial Defecator on the Prowl Again.”

The Leader’s website is here, but doesn’t seem to be working, a downside to local newspapers. Then again, no newspaper website, with the exception of the one for the New York Times, works well for some reason.

 

Again, I digress.

I also like the Provincetown Banner. Way back when it was the Provincetown Advocate, the editor-in-chief was divorced from the town selectman. Reading the editor’s coverage of her ex-husband and then his letters-to-the-editor replies was fun, even for a 19-year-old college kid with zero interest in local zoning.

And You Are?

Have you ever found yourself in this situation: you are assembled with a group of people you don’t know – maybe it’s a meeting, maybe it’s at a party – and no one introduces themselves?

I once had to meet all my son’s teachers at a new school, in a single meeting. I introduced myself, multiple times – but not a single one of them, despite being seemingly friendly, thought to tell me who anybody was. I had no idea.

This was an extreme case; usually, I’ve got to say, when you introduce yourself, other people will respond with their names.

But sometimes, when no one steps forward to orchestrate the whole introduction thing, even when it clearly needs doing, I don’t either.

So, it doesn’t get done.

I used to be afraid that if I got the name of a person I just met wrong, they’d be mad or hurt. So, even if I was pretty sure I knew their names, I wouldn’t use them.

But people always get my name wrong. “Cheryl” sounds like “Sherry,” “Sharon” and “Carol.” My own husband-to-be thought I was “Shirley.” (I think, 90% of the time, the problem isn’t “remembering” someone’s name; it’s making sure you heard it clearly in the first place.)

But my point is: I don’t care when someone gets my name wrong.

Which reminds me of my roommate when I had a baby. Every time the nurses came in, they would cheerfully greet her as “Mrs. So&So.” And she would correct them: “It’s ‘Dr. So&So.” And the next time the nurses would sing out, “Hello, Mrs. So&So.” Over and over.

Meanwhile, my husband was happily answering to “Mr. Ursin.”

I’m just going to plunge in with names. If I get someone’s wrong and they have an issue with that, maybe it’s not such a loss.

Picture This

I don't think that pictographs work anywhere near as well as their creators think they do.

Not to perpetuate stereotypes, but I picture an engineer, who would have trouble communicating with another person face-to-face, happily coming up with these pictures, absolutely certain their meanings are crystal-clear.

Recently, I was musing over a laundry label.These two pictographs meant nothing to me until I Googled them:

and

 

The first one means "non-chlorine bleach" and the second means "no dry cleaning." Doh! Of course, a triangle with slanted lines can only mean non-chlorine bleach. And the "no dry cleaning" symbol should not be confused with this:

 

 

Which means, "Do not tumble dry."

 

Then, this light went off on my car's dashboard:

 

 



To me, this looks like a rear-end.

But, no, it means the pressure in one of my tires is off.

I can't even show you the ones on my printer, since the designer helpfully printed them black on a black background and located them near the hinge where the copier cover opens only so far. You actually need to use a flashlight to sort-of make them out. Just what I want to do when my freaking printer doesn't work.

Still, it is this pictograph, located in the trunk of a car, on the escape latch, that remains my favorite: