Patron Saint of Dogs

Saint Rocco (Roch, Roque) was born around 1300 in France, with a birthmark of a red cross on his chest. When he was twenty both his parents died, leaving him a large inheritance.  Rocco gave all of his inheritance to the poor and took a vow of poverty. 

Rocco devoted himself to caring for those suffering from disease.  Many miraculous healings are attributed to St. Rocco accomplished by his faith in prayer.

While nursing the sick during a plague, he became ill.  He went into the woods to die.  A dog brought him food.  The dog's owner, wondering where the dog was going every day carrying food, followed the dog and found Rocco.  The dog's owner took Rocco home.  Rocco recovered.

Saint Rocco is not only the Patron Saint of dogs but also of plague and contagious disease.  His feast day is August 16th.  In art, he is shown standing next to a dog and displaying a mark of disease on his leg.

Breed Profile: French Bulldog

French Bulldog

The French Bulldog is a small, sturdy dog who enjoys lap time and being the center of attention.

The Frenchie is fun loving but not big on exercise.  His pushed in nose makes for uncomfortable breathing after exertion and in hot humid weather.  Furthermore, he is heavily boned, with short limbs, a big head, and a low center of gravity- not the makings of an athlete.  Most French Bulldogs cannot swim.

 Still, this dog is more than a lapdog, he has loads of gumption and personality to spare. 





Bulldogs were popular in 19th century England.  Some smaller Bulldogs (under 25 pounds, typical Bulldogs are twice that) had unusual ears.  The ears were erect, unlike the the usual rose ears found in a Bulldog.

Bulldog

In the mid 1800's a bunch of Lace workers went to France to work.  Naturally, they brought their Bulldogs with them, some of these dogs were of the small bat eared style.  French people noticed these cool dogs and soon the Bouledogue Francais (French Bulldog) was developed. 

Many ladies fancied the French Bulldog.  He  served as a flea magnet.  His job as a lapdog offered  fleas a warmer bodied option.  People are only about 98 degrees, dogs run around 101.  The warmer the better is the flea's motto.

Ladies of the Evening carried the French Bulldog around as a conversation starter.  After an arrangement was made, the easy going Frenchie would wait patiently while his mistress entertained her client.


Some French Bulldog Facts

- lifespan:  9-12 years

- weight:  22-28 pounds

- there is no height standard

- short single coat in assorted colors:  brindle, fawn, white, brindle and white, pied (black and white patch pattern)

- very short corkscrew type tail






Frenchie Manifesto

- I bark at the UPS guy because he is skulking around outside.  If you invite him inside, I will greet him like an honored guest

- I am not stubborn, I simply know my own mind

- if you work away from home all day, please take me with you,  I get a little nuts all by myself

 

 

 

A Frenchie loves to cuddle with his favorite person.  Many say that the male Frenchie's devotion leans toward clinginess, while the female Frenchie tends to be more dignified in her display of affection.

 

In general, the French Bulldog gets along well with other dogs and children provided they are properly introduced.

 

Most French Bulldogs are cheerful, mischievous and intelligent but not terribly motivated.  Don't expect your Frenchie to volunteer to do much in the way of herding or hunting.  He is an indoor dog, well suited for his job as delightful companion.

 

 See some nice photos.

 

 

 

 

Next Breed Profile:  Scottish Terrier!

Fluffy and DST

Fluffy and the Walk Out

 

Fluffy the DogWalker  by Lynn Benoit

 

Quiet Molt Zone

Molting is an annual occurrence for the canary.  Typically the molt starts in summer following the hectic breeding season.  The bird's body responds to the amount of sunlight and probably other mysterious triggers as well, and the molt commences.

The canary is noticeably less jovial during the molt due to the stress of dropping and growing feathers.   He usually stops singing.

All the feathers do not fall out at once. The bird has no bald spots and can fly throughout the molting period.  The molt usually takes 6-8 weeks to complete. 

At this difficult time, offer the canary more protein such as boiled egg and oily seeds such as flax.  Some birders recommend extra vitamins and supplements also.

Canaries still need a bath everyday.  The cold water of a bath helps to soften the feather sheaths, easing the molting process.




For some 3 or 4 weeks, Shubert has been silent and feathers have littered the floor beneath his cage.  We're half way there!

Leave me alone, dammit.  I'm molting.

 

 

 

 

 

Some interesting stuff about bird molts

 

- the molt replaces some or all of the feathers.  If a feather was previously lost due to an accident, that feather will grow back first 

 

- the hard part of a feather is made up of protein keratin and considered dead - similar to hair and nails 

 

- molt frequency varies based on the species of bird, the environment and sometimes the age of the bird

 

- some birds have a pre nuptial molt- their plumage changes in time for the breeding season to attract a mate - examples: Bunting, Warbler 

 

- some birds molt twice a year- examples:  Wrens, Bobolinks

 

- some birds go though years of molts before they achieve adult plumage- examples:  Eagles, Gulls

 

- some birds molt once a year- examples: Owls, Chickadees

 

 

 

 

Frogs

Frogs, along with toads and newts and salamanders, are amphibians which means they go through rather dramatic stages of development.  They morph from gilled underwater dwelling creatures to terrestrial or semi terrestrial critters that breathe air.  Frogs and toads, unlike salamanders and newts, don't just grow legs but grow hopping cool hind legs.  Frogs and toads are similar.  Two notable differences are that toads don't need to keep their skin as moist as frogs do and are less expert jumpers.  For now, we will talk only of frogs.

 

 

 

 

 Let's begin at the beginning.

 

 

 

The male frog announces his availability to the female in song, amplified by his expandable throat sac.  The sound of his song varies by frog species ranging from a deep croak to a high pitched chirp.  The female responds by allowing the male to mount her.  She then lays up to 4,000 eggs.  The lovers part.

 

 

 

So begins the four stages of development.

 

 

 

 

 

The eggs, also know as spawn, float in the pond or sit in a damp nook near the water.  Many eggs are eaten by fish, bugs, turtles and birds.  After about a week, the eggs hatch into tadpoles.

 

Tadpoles have gills, they swim clumsily, and eat underwater plants.  At roughly four weeks of age, the tadpoles develop lungs and grow little teeth that allow them to eat larger plants.  At about 9 weeks, the tadpole grows hind legs and is now a froglet.

 

The froglet grows front legs and the tail slowly vanishes as it is absorbed by the froglet's body.  At about 3 months old, the froglet with only a stub of a tail and full fledged lungs, leaves the water.  Soon the last of the tail disappears and the froglet is a frog.

 

 

 

Some Frog Facts

 

- diet:  insects, rodents, birds, other frogs and snakes.  They don't drink water but absorb it through their skin 

 

- frog eyes are situated to enable vision from the front, back, and on both sides simultaneously

 

- predators:  cats, snakes, birds, frogs, lizards, rats

 

- approximately 2,800 species 

 

- frogs have been on the Earth for about 190 million years

 

- some frogs are camouflaged to hide from predators, such as the horned frog

 

- poisonous frogs are usually brightly colored to deter predators, such as the poison dart frog  

 

 

 

In cold climates the frog must hibernate. He burrows into the mud or muck in the bottom of a pond and stays there in a state of sleep whereby his body functions slow down to a minimum to conserve energy.  When the surrounding water warms in the spring, the frog awakens and his body returns to normal.  The first thing the frog usually wants to do at this point is to eat something.

 

Soon he is singing and the cycle begins anew.

 

 

 

 

Fluffy and the Bumper Sticker

 

FLUFFY THE DOGWALKER  by Lynn Benoit

 

 

Box Eldering City Hall

There is large Box Elder in front of my house.  Or maybe it's an Elm.  Certainly, this tree is one that my mother would have called a "garbage tree".  Whatever this tree is, it stands in that zone of grass between the sidewalk and the street.  This means it is the city's tree. 

A couple of branches as big around as a baseball bat reached out from that tree and hung over my front lawn.  For most of the summer I mowed the lawn with one forearm thrown over my face.  Finally, I cut off some of the smaller branches when I was convinced of the very real possibility that the next time I mowed my lawn I might just lose an eye.  These scraggly branches were small in diameter and easily cut off, and up, with a hand pruner.  Right now, they lie decaying in the compost pile.

The baseball bat sized branches had additional branch shoots of course, and those branches hung over the sidewalk.  A tall person or a kid on a bike would be struck in the face.  What I did next is to blame for the city hall unpleasantness.

 

Taking my saw on a stick, I went after those baseball bat sized branches.  A while later, sweaty, and with saw dust decorating my cheeks, I had removed the ugly hazards.  Trouble is, now there were these big branches to dispose of.  The rules in my city for yard waste pick up don't include big branches.  In short, I was stuck with these big branches.  What now?  Whip out a chain saw?  I'd already used up precious yard work time on somebody else's job!  It was at this point, that I committed Unforgivable Act Number 2. 

Call it naivete. Call it an unfounded notion that most people are nice and reasonable.  Call it whatever  you like.  With full knowledge that the rules in my city for yard waste pick up do not allow for big sprawling nasty branches, I left sprawling nasty branches at the curb anyway- certain that when the guys in the big city truck made their weekly swing down my street, they would see those branches for what they were and take them away.

They did not.  They did, however, move the branches fully up off the street, onto the grass. 

Next thing I know I am on the phone with Junior Miss Bureaucrat of the city's Department of Public Service.  Snippily, she informed me that I choose to cut those branches down.  They were now my responsibility, not the city's.  She added that I should have called the city about the tree.  Realizing it was pointless to explain to this functionary that the first thought that enters my mind when something needs to be done is most certainly not to call a civil servant, I thanked her for her "help" and hung up.

My next idea was to talk to a grown up. Thus, later, I went two minutes out of my way to stop by the office of the Department of Public Service.  I figured I'd appeal to the guy who maintains the trees; straight talk, one callused handed can-doer to another. Greeting me at the office window with faux friendliness was a middle aged man, his lanky limbs draped languidly over an office chair as though it were a pool lounger. 

He said, "how are you?"  (Pet Peeve Alert!  Most of us are asked at least eight times a day HOWAREYOU and if we are lucky, one of those times comes from someone who actually cares how you are.  The rest of the time, the question comes from someone who is filling space with chatter that exists only to delay the point of the encounter).  I asked to speak to a supervisor over streets/trees.

Mr. Pool Lounger gave me a look that conveyed: oh you asked for something really stupid but I am here to help so listen up while I patronize you.  "Mr. Tree Supervisor is out with the crew on the street with the trees," he oozed.  "He checks in for messages though."  He handed me a pink pad of sticky notes.  "Fair enough?" he added, bizarrely.

I wrote my name and number down while he unctuously explained how busy Mr. Tree Supervisor was. 

What do you bet that sticky note with my name and number was crumbled and tossed on the floor before I made it to the parking lot?

No phone call as been received from Mr. Tree Supervisor or anyone else from the Department of Public Service as of this writing. 

Knock me over with a dried up garbage tree leaf.