They Tried to Warn Me

  

We all know that our world is full of germs, most of which you encounter on your kitchen counter.  Naturally, I’m concerned about the health and safety of my family.  Experts tell us that that sponge you use to wash dishes is not nice and clean from all that cleansing dish soap. 

That sponge is actually a vast growing medium for legions of dangerous pathogenic bugs.  Some people use a dish cloth instead.  They toss it in the wash machine after every use, or so they say.  Sure, you’re washing that cloth in hot water.  That ought to get it clean. Trouble is, you’re putting it in with other items that are also washed in hot water.  You know, like underwear.  After that, it’s clean enough to eat off of?  Or rub against things you’re going to eat off of?

Never mind, I prefer a sponge.  The size and girth of a sponge is simply superior for the job of washing dishes. Still, there’s the problem of how to clean the sponge.

Do Not put sponge in microwave!  That’s what the label on my favorite sponge four pack brand says.  It doesn’t say why.  I’ve wondered about that, but never deeply.  I developed a system for keeping the dangerous bugs off my sponges.  After washing the dishes, I would wring the sponge out (to the dampness of a perfect compost pile) and place it in the microwave.  I cannot recall how I came upon the ideal number of seconds to do the proper job of sanitizing the sponge, but it was under one minute.  

Foreshadow Alert!

Then we got a new microwave.  I hadn’t yet figured out how to make it run for a specific number of seconds so I just pressed GO and waited till the countdown of seconds reached the correct number, at which point I would open the microwave door and remove the sponge.  That worked fine till one day I pressed GO, then wandered away.

 A minute later, the microwave beep beep beeped to proclaim that where there is smoke, there is fire.  I opened the microwave door to dreadful smelling smoke and flames rising from the half gone blackened sponge.  I pulled the plate thing out of the microwave and carried the hostile festive sponge flambe’ onto the back porch and tossed it on the grass.  It kept burning till I flipped the plate thing over it.  Later, examining the carnage, it was clear that at least three quarters of the sponge had, well, melted away.

It was a new sponge too.  A purple one.  

Big Anniversary Gift this Year

The Handsome One and I continue to celebrate our anniversary with a gift for us.  This year we went EXPENSIVE, not because we are flamboyant or because it's our 29th.  Necessity stepped in.

  

See, the furnace was making strange noises.  We consulted a Heating and Cooling guy who assured us that the old furnace was about to blow.

 

 Well, he didn't express it quite so dramatically.  He did tell us that it was IMPORTANT that we get a carbon monoxide detector because the likelihood that the ailing furnace would try to kill us was real.

Some members of the household were unconcerned.

Others took it less well.  Indeed, for some, stress set in.  Even to the point of frequent checks on CO levels.  Just because the CO detector gadget kept reading zero, didn't mean it would remain zero. 

Clearly, this was a Canary in the Mineshaft scenario.  With a wait of some three weeks before the new furnace was to be installed, hyper vigilance set in.  Someone even turned the furnace down to 59 so it would run less.

Finally, the big day came.  It took several hours to install.  The installer guy said the new furnace would be quieter.  Technically, that is true.  However, there is a distinct and high-pitched hum present in the quiet.

The jury is still out on whether the new high-pitched hum is less pleasant than that three weeklong high pitch of somebody's I'm Afraid of the Furnace whine.

More Ducklings

 

Khaki Campbells and Cayugas!  This group is a week old.

Last year's plans to invigorate the laying flock were thwarted by covid restrictions.  Hopefully, there will be more ducks than drakes in this batch.

Ducks typically continue to  lay eggs when they are four, five, six years old.  Trouble is, they slow down and as we have found with the older gals here at Bad Dog Ranch, their egg shells become thinner with age.

I can be a bit of an oaf, but I like to think after having done it a few times I can manage to handle eggs without breaking them.  In the past couple months, I've broken three or four eggs just picking them up and putting them down.  The shells are not as hard.  They just aren't.

For the squeamish in the audience, we won't get into what happens to ducks who don't lay well anymore, just as we don't mention what happens to excess drakes.

I have a mantra:  they are NOT pets... they are NOT pets... 

 In addition to the mantra, it is also helpful for my tender heart to remember that the birds in my care are given the very best life I can provide.

Leave My Thumb Out of It

For the last couple of weeks, I've been under a cloud.  That problem I've been having with my thumb has been diagnosed.

No surprises.  Arthritis.  Well, one surprise.  It seems there are grades of arthritis.  I'm in the fourth grade.  How many grades are there?  Four.

So there's been some boohoo poor me. Oh my thumb!  I hate wearing this thumb support thing on my hand.  Oh the pain.  Oh the suffering.  Poor me.

In times of deep self absorption, it often helps to remember that some have it worse.  Like these guys.  It is, after all, Wild Turkey season.

 

 

 

 

Maybe I Should Floss with Dog Hair

February is dog dental awareness month.  Yeah.  We know.  Brush your dog's teeth, so dirty bad plaque doesn't build up and ugly infection enter into the gums resulting in tooth loss and disease. 

My dogs get their teeth brushed with doggy toothbrushes and doggy toothpaste, their teeth rubbed with little gauze pads saturated with impressive sounding stuff like Chlorhexidine Gluconate. 

But let's talk about me.  Every six months I sit in a dental chair with my mouth agape while a woman scrapes my teeth with a silver tool.   Last week, there was a different hygienist.  I ask where Hygienist A is.  It seems a reasonable question since my appointment is specifically with Hygienist A.  Hygienist B answers curtly, "she's out."

I sit in the chair, my legs straight out.  As Hygienist B hovers over me, I hear myself sigh as I think, this chair has everything a Lazyboy has, except for comfort and relaxation.

Hygienist B works a lever and the chair raises a few inches.   "So.  You have pets," she says, pointing at my legs. 

I glance at my black pants expecting to see a bunch of short tan Mabel hairs.  She probably leaned on me this morning.

Nope.  No Mabel hairs.

Hygienist B informs me that she uses a tape roll tool on her clothes.  I'm still looking for hairs on my pants as she continues to expound on her victory over the untidy presence of pet hair. 

Hygienist B is wearing one of those pajama scrub ensembles popular in dentist offices.

Now the silver tool with the pick at the end makes an appearance in Hygienist B's gloved hand.  She goes after my front bottom teeth with great vigor.  This is where my shameful tea habit is on display. 

She lectures me on the things that stain teeth.  Hygienist B is leaning on my face as she scrapes my horribly filthy teeth.  Pain in my lip increases as she presses ever harder with her fist.

I miss Hygienist A.  She never leans on my face.

Hygienist B tells me it's good that I floss but that is just not enough these days.  She moves a wand around in my mouth. The wand emits a high pitched sound that I find distressing.  I tell her so.  She begins a discourse on this new tool that helps clean teeth with sound waves.  It occurs to me that only people comfortable with dog hair can hear it.

 I miss Hygienist A.  While cleaning my teeth, she chatters cheerfully about her family, camping, swimming, dogs. 

Hygienist B tells me that the reason I have occasional sensitivity in my upper teeth may be because of sinus issues.  That is interesting and something I did not know.  I thank her for that information.

Then Hygienist B announces that the sensitivity is most likely because I brush my teeth manually.  I snort.  She says, no really.  You're right handed right?  You are pressing too hard on that side.  Hygienist B advises that I should use a power toothbrush with extra soft bristles.  The toothbrush controls the number of revolutions and rpms or mph or something.  It does the job better than you can, Hygienist B declares. 

I think to myself.  There is a reason I drive a stick shift.


Finally the ordeal is over.  I feel like I have been beaten up.  I miss Hygenist A.  She cleans my teeth without hurting me.

Hygienist B tells me I can go "checkout at the front desk".  As I swing my legs out of the chair, at last I see a hair on my pants! 


It's one of my hairs.

Herbal Fresh Butts

It's happened before here at Pets and Other Critters:  the emergence of spontaneous themes.  There was the Cicada theme, the Greyhound theme and now, Poop theme.  Come to think of it, the Poop theme has emerged before.  Must be that some themes are just plain popular.  After all, poop is a constant presence, therefore always a timely topic.


Let's face it, after the business of pooping is concluded there remains unsavory residue on the outlet.  People usually make use of toilet paper.  Dogs, on the other hand, don't wipe.

Here's a handy tip for removing unwanted material and leaving the dog's butt clean and fragrant.  Utilize some of those herbs growing in your yard.  Grab a handful!  Fresh herbs are disposal doggy wipes approved by even the greenest of greenies!  And your dog's butt is not only clean; it's clean and piquant. 

Zippy Basil butts and vibrant Pineapple Sage butts, perky Oregano butts and sensational Thyme butts are but a swipe away!

 

The Wisdom of the Litter Box

We don't really want to talk about the litter box, but we're going to anyway.  Let us indulge in a bit of cat scatology, for the greater good.

Yes, the litter box is to a cat what a toilet is to a human being.  At least that is the hoped for situation.  Cats are fastidious about their personal habits.  Once they learn to "go" in the box they don't forget.  When a cat suddenly stops using the box or misses the target, something is going on that must be addressed.

Why is Kitty failing to observe proper elimination protocol?

There are a number of reasons.  Here are the most likely culprits:



Illness

While not an illness, there may be age related issues such as arthritis, at play.  Stiff joints make for less dexterity.  A different style box with lower sides may help the older cat maintain accuracy.

Other physical reasons for missing the target are illnesses such as bladder stones, urinary tract infection or diabetes.  Your veterinarian can help you sort that out.


Negative Association

Perhaps the litter box is in the laundry room.  One day, Socks is minding his own business taking care of business, when the spin cycle starts.  The rugs inside the washer gravitate to one side of the cylinder; thump thump thump.  Suddenly, the litter box is a scary place to be.

Maybe the weekend guests caused Tabby angst.  Remember that strange youngster in the group?  The one who seemed to vanish at intervals, you'd see him only in the periphery, lurking, furtively poking around?  Let's not speculate too deeply into what the little weirdo may have done in and around the litter box.



Stressful Changes

A new cat joined the household and suddenly Fluffy must share the litter box.  Your best bet is to offer enough litter boxes for everyone.

That different brand of litter that you tried because it was on sale?  It could be that Tigger doesn't like the smell or the texture or your audacity in making a change without consulting him.  New litter is best introduced slowly, little by little, beginning with adding about ten percent to the total mass of the old familar litter.

Other problems in litter box routine may be due to negligent clean up.  If there are too many clumps in the box, Mr. Boots may decide there isn't room for his latest effort.  Scoop frequently.  (You flush every time you go, right?)



Sex/Communication

A cat looking for love may use marking (squirting urine around) to spread the word, so to speak, of his or her availability.  This is something in the hormones and arguably not bad cat behavior, just natural desire.  Spaying or neutering usually puts the kibosh on lust and with it the urge to mark.

Other reasons for marking involve territory.  An indoor cat may see a cat outside the window and want to establish his domain.  A dash of urine on the living room drapes is one way of expressing ownership.

Sometimes when a new cat or dog or person has joined the household, a cat may pee on the carpet to relieve the unpleasant feelings of insecurity.  You might say, he snaps.  In time, he will, most likely, grow accustomed to these new resident critters and return to correct potty habits.

Adding a scratching post or two can help Puss Puss blow off a little steam while engaging in a more appropriate style of marking.







And, just because, buy him a new toy.  Play with him.  Pass the Cat Nip.

sources:
PetSitters World, September/October 2011
Warren Animal Clinic, Warren, MI
http://www.veterinarypartner.com/Content.plx?P=A&S=0&C=0&A=2457

Not Scared, are you?

Most of us know a dog who is afraid of thunderstorms.  I once had a dog named Esther.  During storms she would hide under my bed shivering and panting.  There was no consoling her.  She would not come out from under the bed even to enjoy the distraction of say, a rawhide chew or a let's go for a ride type positive experience.  The dog was just plain scared out of her wits.

If the lightening and thunder show occurred during the night, I would lie on my bed feeling the vibration of Esther's trembling beneath me. This is the only time it ever crossed my mind that the bed frame might give way and collapse under my weight.  It was as though Esther's irrational fear was contagious. I was unable to sleep, not only due to the crashing storm outside and the sound of Esther panting and the unrelenting movement of the bed as Esther quaked but because my mind would not let go of the stupid idea that suddenly just as Esther lay vulnerable beneath the bed- it would crush her. This experience convinces me of the power of association.  Let's call it the Esther Effect.


We're told by experts that a dog who is afraid of thunderstorms can be reconditioned from a fearful reaction to a positve (or at least neutral) reaction. Buy yourself a recording of a thunderstorm and play it softly while feeding the dog treats or playing.  Little by little as the dog grows more nonchalant, turn up the volume of the phony storm.  The theory is that in time, the dog will not be afraid of thunderstorms because he's been having fun during the formerly scarey business of driving rains and flashes of light and boom boom thanks to a positive simulated storm experience. 

Sounds great, doesn't it?  You can redo an unpleasant reaction into new improved blase' courage!  Trouble is, you make some progress in your desensitizing then a real live storm comes along and you're back to square one.  Oh, well, slow and steady wins the race.  Don't give up!  Try try again!  It'll be OK!  You can do it!

In my household, roughly half the residents are afraid of storms and half are indifferent to them.  The scaredy cats run to The Handsome One for comfort.  It's done quite casually, we just sort of loiter in the general vicinity of THO and the other brave ones here at Bad Dog Ranch.  We hang around hoping that something will rub off.  You know, the Esther Effect.

Fear takes its toll.

Esther (on the left) as she appeared on sunny days.  Her companion's name was Heather.  It is not known whether or not Heather was afraid of thunderstorms. 

Safety Hurts

I had a sinus headache. You know the ones that hit one side of your head in a focused way. Like behind one eye. The pain is so awful you think you might even throw up. So I took a pill. Or tried to. Safety packets. Thank you for keeping me safe from the rouge wacko that I have a one in a billion chance of encountering!

Meanwhile, I can't get the dang package open to relieve my headache. There comes a time when you are very willing to risk being poisoned by the random act of a sicko just on the off chance of getting relief from your pain. Please someone sell me pills not in an inaccessible safety packet!

The packets holding the sinus headache pills have instructions on them which are small and hard to read. My headache made it even harder to read. OK, fold the corner than grab a tiny piece of foil and pull. I couldn't grip it. I used tweezers. The foil tore. Crazed, I stabbed the foil with the tweezers. This pulverized one of the pills. And the safety packet was still more or less intact. Leaving me still pill less. My headache remained.

Another day another pain. The pill to ease arthritis pain is in a bottle with a child proof lid. Never mind that there are no children in my house. It ever so reassuring to know that any child passing by will be kept safe from my pills. To open the bottle you must push down while turning. My knuckles are what hurts and the reason I'm opening the stupid bottle. But I can't push and turn to open the confounded bottle without adding pain to the very knuckles that are seeking pain relief from the bottle.

Morning mouth is a common occurrence. You awaken and your mouth has an unpleasant stale taste. Swish a little mouthwash and freshness is achieved. But first you must get to the mouthwash. To do so, squeeze the plastic lid- just so, as you turn -just so. One morning after repeated attempts failed to result in an open bottle, I took the bottle into the garage. I plugged in the Sawz-all. I secured the bottle in a vice. Figuring the Sawz-all blade designed for cutting metal was up to the job, I lopped the top off the bottle just under the lid.

Yes, I know. Safety Breach Alert! If Lindsey Lohan should break out of rehab again and she should happen to wander in and around my home downing the baking vanilla, the cooking sherry, the peroxide, then finds the open bottle of mouthwash under the sink in the master bathroom, it will be all my fault.

Sorry about that.