It's July

 Warm enough for Malcom to be outside.

The harvest is going strong: squash and peas and beans, tomatoes soon.  

We've had some nice wild mulberries and raspberries and blackberries this year.  Now the boysenberries are getting ripe!

Of course, there is still mowing to be done in summer.  

It's hot and hilly but the groundskeeper is unafraid.

PETA disapproves of Pets

PETA is back to help us use proper words when it comes to those animals that share our lives.  You see, the word "pet" is "harmful".   "Companion Animal" is OK.  It's vague enough not to be considered "Speciesist Language" evidently.

According to a February 5th announcement from PETA, addressing animals as "it" is also harmful.  We should use terms such as he, she or "dog guardian".  (One would think the word "dog" is specieist but using logic will get us nowhere here.)  PETA is concerned that we mustn't get the feeling that an animal is a human owned object.  

Wrong PETA.  Call me anything, just call me in time for dinner.

What is this obsession with pronouns?

Here's a brain teaser.  I'm a biological male with no testicles.  What is my pronoun?

I'm a feral cat but I just have to weigh in on this.  Wake up, PETA.  No animal gives a hoot what you call it.

Dear PETA,
You know how sometimes your dog tilts his head when you talk to him?  News flash. He is not trying to ferret out harmful words.

OK PETA, you want to help me out?  The next time you run a chicken truck off the road, deliver the birds to me.

PETA, it is you who are an object.  A tool.  I own you.  Me and my bretheren live in your heads.  Now, serve up some pate'.

I may look mild mannered, but if PETA came to my house and hassled my people about their vocabulary, I would use my teeth on them.  Ya know?

Just tell me, how would my quality of life improve if I became a "dog guardian"?

Read the PETA crap here 

By the way, you bossy boots wack jobs, sometimes Lynn calls me a Pomeranian Freak.  Is that harmful too?  Like xenophobic or something?  Hey, PETA!  Bite me.

Summer is Here

After a cool wet spring, we have catapulted into summer.  Yesterday it was in the high eighties.  Predictions are that today will be in the nineties.

Thus it is time for our annual It's Hot Enough for Malcom to be Outside picture.

It's That Time Again

Here is our annual It's Hot Enough for Malcom to be Outside photo.

 Malcom enjoys an ear of Michigan corn.

Cone, Coned, Coning

The first weeks of 2016 have been busy, veterinarianly speaking.  Lily was spayed.  Clover was spayed.  Lois got a mysterious booboo on her face.  That specter called The Cone was upon us.

What was gleaned from these conical adventures?  Well, putting a plastic cone on a dog's head is sometimes a good thing, sometimes a not so good thing, and sometimes it just can't be done.



Yes, a cone can keep a dog from aggravating a wounded area thus providing more efficient unmolested healing, all while allowing the dog to move about in her normal routine.  Unless the dog involved is Lily.

Lily held still as the cone was pushed over her head and the tie tightened around her neck.  Then she did a bucking broncho impersonation.  Then she stopped.  She stood like a statue.  And stood like a statue some more.  (You may be wondering why I didn't photograph Lily the Cone Wearing statue.  All I can say is, it seemed too easy a shot.  Instead, here's a picture of her under the kitchen table where she retreated after the cone removal.  Note her inscrutable expression.)

Needless to say, we couldn't keep Lily coned long term.  If the dog won't move, she can't rest, she can't eat, she can't go about her doggy business.  Off came the cone. 

When she licked at the incision, I yelled at her. In response, she would stop licking and give me that inscrutable look.  Soon she didn't seem to notice the sutures at all and left the area alone.  It appears that my yelling was as pointless as the cone.

Lily's cone-free recovery was a success.




Then there's Lois, Happy Cone Customer.

We'll never know what the heck happened to Lois's face.  One day she was rubbing her face on the floor.  The skin surrounding her right eye was swollen and a curious shade of lilac.  (Lois has white hair on that side of her head, thus the skin is supposed to be pale pink.)

The vet offered some magic balm for the skin and a nice new cone.  Cone clad, Lois went about her routine, remaining cheerful even while bumping into doorways and people's shins. 

A week later, the skin was no better.  Lois remained coned while taking a course of antibiotics.  Another week marked the transformation of lilac colored skin to mauve, and finally to pretty pink.

Lois had a successful coned aided recovery.



Then there's a dog who can't be coned.  I wouldn't have believed this- till it happened.  Following Clover's spay, a vet tech told me with all the earnestness of someone who thinks they've seen it all, that they don't make cones that fit Clover.  It's the long neck, you see.  Naturally, incredulously, I said, "what?!  Sight hounds aren't coned, ever?  Nobody has ever coned a cone to fit them?"

The vet tech offered a resigned shrug.  Then she suggested that if we have trouble with her licking the sutures we could do what some farmers do.  Fashion a bucket for her head. 

Let's see, take the Sawz-all to cut a hole in the bottom of a bucket then put it over the dog's head, then what?  Tie a rope around it and affix it to her body somehow?  Just hope it wouldn't come off, maybe?  In the end, or rather the beginning, we did not attempt to bucket Clover over the head.  The hope was that she'd be one of those easy going beasts that pays no mind to shaved tummy and incision discomfort.

Unfortunately, Clover was EXTREMELY determined in her attention to those sutures on her abdomen.  So we covered the area with clothes.  Our first attempt involved my tee shirt and The Handsome One's underwear.  (The cool thing about boy's panties is there's an opening for a tail to poke through.)  Alas, Clover found ways it get under and around the clothes, even with tape holding the outfit together and festively colored silk scarves cinched at the waist.

One the bright side, we didn't have to return to the vet two weeks post op for suture removal.  Clover, the unconeable, proved to be a do-it-yourselfer.

Leonard gets a New Roommate

Leonard and Pearl knew each other at the pet store.  Their bond grew stronger when they came to live with us.  They groomed each other.  They slept nestled each night in their grit cup.  Then Pearl died.

 

 

 Leonard was alone.  Since finches are not loners, I obtained a new roommate for Leonard.  You always worry a little.  Not all roommate situations work out well. 

Happily, this one has.   Indeed, these two may turn out to be more than roommates.  Hudson layed an egg.   Leonard has been seen, er, mounting Hudson.   Can a Spice Finch and a Society Finch produce a brood?   Spociety Finches, perhaps? 

We'll see.

Summer is Here

That is certain.

For here is our annual It's Hot Enough for Malcom to be Outside picture.

Boxed

 We're here!  Moved in!

 Check out this view from the kitchen window.

Meanwhile, the boxes full of our stuff are lined up in rows with aisles in between.  This arrangement works well in the big garage but in the little living room, it's grand, as long as you don't mind walking sideways to move from one side of the room to the other.

Mabel refuses to let a few boxes disturb her serenity. 

 

 

 

 

Alas, not all of us are as serene as Mabel.  Where is my favorite paring knife?  Why the bleep wasn't it in the box with the other knives?!

 

Ah, here's the hammer.  Now, where the **** are the hanger thingies for the pictures?  I was so sure I'd packed them with the stud finder.   The stud finder is beeping merrily.  It is clearly a buffet of studs around here.

 

See, some ninny painted all the walls white.  Some other ninny probably told them it would help sell the place.  White walls are neutral.

 

Flapdoodle. 

 

It's OK.  A few pictures will perk up these walls.  Let's hang some pictures now! 

 

Still haven't found the picture hanger thingies.

 

With the lack of something appropriate to pound, it could get ugly around here.  Perhaps it would be best if I stopped carrying the hammer around the house.

 

 

 

 



Henry helpfully points out how a colorful rug can brighten a drab hallway.  

Sure, it's easy for you to be easy going, dogs, you aren't still looking for your favorite paring knife. 

And the picture hanger thingies. 





Maybe the thing to do is to go outside......

Closed with a Monsoon Chaser

Finally.  Closing day.  The Handsome One and I made the hour and forty five minute drive through heavy rain in just over two hours.  The rain stopped when we walked into the building.  The rain started up again on the way back.

This was a thick hostile rain.  Nonetheless, we drove through it unconcerned, flushed with excitement.  A dream had been realized.  This is something we've wanted for years and years, little house, big acrage.  It was ours now.

The rain let up. We drove on, feeling strange to be returning to the suburban home we lived in for nearly twenty years.  A house we didn't own anymore.  That closing had occurred a few weeks ago.  We were squatters there now. 

About an hour from the place that used to be home, we sat in traffic that wasn't moving.  The rain left lakes under overpasses and in one section of the highway, caused a mudslide.  A mudslide in Michigan!

That hour drive turned into three.  Closer to the place that we used to call home was the toughest, the wettest.  Again and again, we pushed through several inches of water over the road, gritting our teeth,  hoping that the bow of our utility vehicle was high enough to get us through.  We moved past many stalled cars.  All of them smaller than ours.  They appeared anchored there in the road.  It seemed strange that none of them bobbed in our wake.

  


The Handsome One and I both had to go to the bathroom-not surprising after 5 hours in the car.  We vowed not to pee until the dogs did.  Our dogs waited for us on the other side of so many flooded roads.  They'd been holding it for nearly 8 hours.

When we finally reached the house, I rushed to the basement to let the dogs out.  They sat in their crates surrounded by water.  Gamely, the dogs marched through the water up the stairs and outside.

The stuff in the basement that couldn't be wrung out had to be thrown away.  It's amazing how much ankle deep water can ruin.

Nearby neighborhoods looked like a tornado had torn through.   Sidewalks were heaped with teetering soggy piles of trash.

 to be continued...

SOLD

Just a couple brief remarks in between doing the myriad stuff that needs to be done with an impending  move.

 

 

 

Shortly before the lock box was placed on our front doorknob, I got my hair cut.  After telling my hair dresser that we were about to put our home up for sale, she looked off pensively for a moment.  Then she said, "don't worry about it.  Your house will sell in one day."

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are some things I will miss when we move:  the backyard pond, the master bathroom, the bird store, and my hair dresser.    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sven Swoons

Not much singing going on these days, following a huge spike in Canary music.  Why?  Spring hormones and whatnot.

The boys sang.  The girl tweeted (tweet, as in a bird's vocalization, not some electronic gadget's recording of someone's every fleeting notion).

Schubert

The hen decides which male she wants for a mate. 

Kimber

Kimber seemed to prefer Sven.  When Sven was placed in the cage with her.  He fainted.

Sven

In spite of this, Kimber layed an egg and sat on it for nearly two weeks.  She and Sven shared the cage with the egg.  A couple of times, briefly, Sven was seen spreading his wings in a manly display.  Kimber hissed at him.

The egg was found broken at the bottom of the cage.  Sven was relocated to his own cage.  He grew light headed upon arrival but did not faint.

 

Seeing Pearl

Pearl's patterns have changed in recent weeks.  She spends more time on the floor of the cage than she used to.  She has not been seen swinging on the swing in quite a while.  She rarely uses the perches.

Leonard and Pearl

What can it mean?  She doesn't seem ill.  She is eating and drinking and bathing.  No puffed up feathers or lethargy.  When there is a bit of fresh food clothes-pinned to the wall of the cage, Pearl finds it, eats it.  She and Leonard still groom each other, they continue to spend nights nestled in their grit cup. 

Wait a minute!  Her eyes look different.  There is a cast.  That glow of light present in the eye of a bird does not move as Pearl moves.  There is instead, a small dull circle on each of her eyes.  Great balls of illumination!  Could it be that Pearl is blind?!

Now, didn't I read somewhere that light pigmented Society (aka Bengalese) Finches are prone to blindness?  Let's see now, according to Northwest Bengalese Finches it is a misconception that albinos have eye problems.  They do however, have trouble with bright light due to lack of pigment in the eye- albinos have pink eyes.  Very interesting, but Pearl has black eyes.  She is not albino. 

Again, according to this Bengalese breeder, it IS true that white birds, particularly white pieds with fawn ancestry, tend to have eye problems as they get older.  They tend to get cataracts.  Pearl is a white bird, is she a pied of fawn ancestry?  The only way to find out would be to breed her and look at her offspring.  We won't be doing that.  Pearl is an old gal with cataracts.

It's OK.  Pearl will be just fine. Leonard is there for her.

More about Rose

According to the chart on the wall of the exam room, Rose is about 81 in people years.

Why were we at the vet, you ask?

  Rose was due for her Rabies vaccination.  Also the city where we live is hankering for twenty dollars to renew the dog license  (it used to be 10 dollars.  I'm old school math, so I recognize that as a 100% increase).

A dog must have a rabies vaccination to get the dog license.  It's the law.

Worried that another vaccination might kill the elderly Rose, I actually considered lying to the city.  I figured I'd tell the city Rose was dead.  They'd take her out of their computer.  Then Rose could live out her days protected by the antibodies that remain in her bloodstream from all those previous vaccinations.  She would die of something else, maintaining her record of not posing a public threat to anyone or anything.

I couldn't go through with it.  The lie, I mean.  The Vet says that the rabies vaccination contains dead bugs so it is easier for the body to handle than vaccines that contain live bugs.

The doctor examines Rose.  Her heart is strong.  Her pupils do not dilate with vigor but she can, at least presumably, see.  Somewhat.

 Yes.  That's what I think too.  Sometimes you have to call to her, stomp on the floor or nudge Rose and sort of steer her in the direction you think she needs to go.  

Ultimately, it doesn't matter if Rose can see or not.  She knows her way around the house.  We won't change the furniture arrangement.  And we will be there to guide her when Rose must venture away from home.

Rose is thinner than she used to be.  Many elderly mammals are thus.  Her appetite is less enthusiastic.

We offer Rose a greater variety of foods now to try to entice her to eat.  We place the food in assorted bowls and plates, some elevated, some on the floor.  This way Rose can bend and eat or sit and eat- whatever is more comfortable for her creaky bones.

 

 

 

 

 

Rose got the shot yesterday.  She seems fine today.  I'll head over to City Hall this afternoon and give them $20 for the privilege to keep her.   

 

 

 

 

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.

Leonard gets a Pedicure

Yesterday we talked in general about the Spice Finch.  Now, let's talk about Leonard. 

Leonard, a Spice Finch,  lives with Pearl, a Society Finch.  (Interesting tidbit:  both Spice and Society finches are not dimorphic.  In other words, it's hard to tell males from females because they look very similar.)

Pearl and Leonard get along fine.  Better than fine- they are pals- evidenced by the fact that they groom each other, frequently sit close together when perching, and at night they sleep nestled together in their grit cup.

Leonard and Pearl

 

 

One of the necessary husbandry chores required when keeping finches is periodically trimming their nails.  While it is pretty easy to trim a bird's nails, it is not without its challenges. 

 

If the bird has light colored nails, the quick is visible, which helps a great deal in avoiding cutting it.  If you do cut the quick, the bleeding is rarely severe enough to endanger the bird.  Furthermore, dipping the injured nail in a clump of corn starch is effective at stopping the bleeding almost immediately.

 

Birds don't usually hold still to get their nails trimmed.  You have to hold them still.  

 

My method for trimming nails is to do it in the cage.  That way if the bird escapes your hold, he can be easily re caught and the trimming continued.  Some cages have multiple small doors whereby you can put one arm in one door and one arm through the other, your hands meet inside the cage.  You hold the bird with one hand and clipper in the other.  The job can be done in cages with larger doors too.  For that, you shove your arms in the cage and press your torso against the door opening to block the exit.  The cage method is soothing to me because I worry about gripping the bird too hard and crushing his delicate bones, therefore my hold on the bird is very light, thus birds escape my grip with regularity.  Happily, with the bird safely in a cage, when he slips out of my grasp he is contained- not flying about the room into whirling ceiling fan blades. 

 

Which brings us back to Leonard.  A few weeks ago, I trimmed Leonard's nails.  He has sort of beige nails but with good light and reading glasses, the quick can be seen.  There I was holding Leonard gently in the palm of my left hand, with one of his legs between my left thumb and pinkie finger.  Right hand wielded the clippers (There are scissors style bird nail clippers available. I prefer people  nail clippers as they are shorter which I find makes it easier to control the aim of the blade).  Snip snip.  So far so good.  Then Leonard squirmed out of my hand.  He fled to the far corner of the cage. To my dismay, lying in my left hand were his tail feathers!  So much for my light touch. 

 

There's good news, though.  It's been about 3 weeks since Leonard's de tailing.  The picture above was taken a few days ago. You'll notice he has tail feathers!

Birds and Personal Space

We've all heard of pecking order in birds.  It's a designation of hierarchy indicating who has the greatest power in the flock.  You can usually pick out the highest ranking bird when observing the activities in a cage full of birds.  The highest ranking bird is allowed access to the bath first.  Other birds move away from the food dish when Top Bird approaches.  This lower ranking bird behavior is not like the fawning deference sycophants give to an emperor, but rather a practical matter of letting someone be alpha to keep things nice and peaceful.  Let Top Bird use the swing and he won't peck your head.  It's a no-brainer for the average bird with no aspirations toward leadership.

There are other interesting social activities happening in a birdcage. For instance, you can tell who is friends with who, by what you might call Perching Order.

Birds that are pals sit close to each other.

Then there are the times when even good pals don't want to be joined at the hip.

 Then there are birds who are not pals.  For such birds, an Allow at Least Two Bird Lengths Between Cage Mates rule applies.

Some cage mates would rather not share the same perch.

This is why it's a good idea to offer plenty of perches in a cage, this increases the likelihood that each bird will have as much space as is desirable.  Giving the caged bird freedom to maintain his personal space keeps squabbling at a minimum.