The Frosty Paws 12-Step

So, the dog.

Lola is a six-pound Cuban silk dog, otherwise known as a Havanese, and a not-too distant relative of the poodle. This makes her a perfect fit for the house full of OCD, germaphobic asthmatics that is our family. No dander means easy breathing; no shedding means no mess. The allergies are problematic since we truly are a dog-loving people. Unfortunately, more than five minutes around the wrong breed means two days of popping antihistamines, wheezy breathing and dull sinus headaches.

I don't know many, if any, Cubans, though I romantically choose to believe Lola must represent the culture well. Small, but feisty, with a determination and stubbornness inordinately disproportionate to her size, Lola manages a charming disobedient gruffness that melts most people who meet her. The fact she doesn't mind being handled like an old rag doll doesn't hurt. Perhaps "doesn't mind" isn't the correct assessment. When you're slightly larger than a guinea pig, and much better smelling, you really don't have much choice in the matter. People pick you up.

Being of a diminutive breed, and even runt-size for a Havanese, Lola's stomach can be a temperamental thing, like a supreme court nominee during a hearing except with a strong possibility of puking. (Well, actually, then exactly like a supreme court nominee during a hearing.) It took some trial and error to find just the right brand and size of kibble so we wouldn't revisit breakfast and dinner each day. We also avoid giving her table scraps as a general rule. Cheese is an exception, since she can stomach it, it's a great way to get her to take pills when necessary, and it keeps her distracted for at least five minutes when melted into her kong. She has also discovered an intense fascination with turkey due largely to the one Thanksgiving when, unbeknownst to us, turkey grease overflowed the cutting board and dripped from the counter. Lola happily lapped it off the floor while a steady stream struck her squarely on the head, ruining her coat. She looked like a rescue animal from the Exxon Valdese oil spill for several weeks.

Recently, to celebrate her fifth birthday and our daughter's twenty-first birthday, we bought her a frozen treat called Frosty Paws. To be clear, the dog got the Frosty Paws, not our daughter. We had to choose from two flavors -- original and peanut butter. I suggested peanut butter might be best, only because I wasn't exactly sure what the "original" flavor of a knock-off ice cream dog treat might be. Dog anus? Dead squirrel? Regurgitated breakfast kibble? The prospects seemed endless and potentially horrifying to consider once I started thinking about all the things I've witnessed dogs sniffing, licking or eating during my fifty years on this planet.

After devouring an entire cup of peanut butter Frosty Paws, it quickly became apparent a few spoonfuls might have made for a sufficient treat. Lola's eyes glazed over, she became lethargic and took on the countenance of a college freshman who has imbibed too much beer on his first outing. She limply passed the next hour or two being shuffled like a potentially explosively vomitous hot potato from one family member to another until eventually recovering to something slightly closer to her normal self than a bloated narcoleptic with crusty peanut butter face. Upon waking the following morning, the spring was back in Lola's step and we, though possibly not she, decided Frosty Paws might be the hard stuff our tender little puppy was not built to tolerate.



2018 Mark Feggeler

Aggressive Kong Dropper

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Pretend as though nothing is happening. Avoid eye contact. Do not engage.

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Don't smile. It isn't cute. Don't acknowledge the behavior or encourage the persistent badgering. Like an ignored child throwing a showy tantrum, the unrewarded behavior will eventually be abandoned.

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

The red, rubber kong bounces randomly, knocking ankles and ricocheting off chair legs and kitchen cabinets. It is empty, an objectionable offense if you're a seven-pound Havanese in need of your daily dose of melted American cheese. Pick up the kong with your teeth and launch it where you will.

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

It lands on my shoe. I have to look down. How frequently does your dog toss a toy in the air only to have it land perfectly on top of your shoe and stay there? In doing so, I spot her a foot away staring up at me with the expression of someone having a difficult time explaining a very simple concept to a very stupid person. The kong is empty. She wants cheese. If she were bigger and had opposable thumbs she'd solve the problem herself, but she isn't and she doesn't and she's annoyed at how staggeringly thick I am that I haven't figured out what she's trying to tell me.

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Some people fill kongs with peanut butter, or kibble. We cram it full with American cheese and stick it in the microwave for several seconds. If she's forgotten about the kong, simply pulling open the refrigerator drawer containing the individually wrapped slices of processed cheese-like stuff is enough to bring it top of mind again. 

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Take out the cold cuts to make the boys' sandwiches for school. 

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Take out the leftover grilled chicken to make yourself lunch. 

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Walk through the kitchen in the vicinity of the refrigerator. 

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Or, perhaps most egregious, sit at the breakfast table eating your breakfast while she is clearly faced with the challenge of an empty kong. 

Bump, bop, bippity, bump, bump, bump...

Avoid eye contact. Do not engage.

2016 Mark Feggeler

Turkey Dog

So, the turkey was carved and we all were seated at the dining room table to feast on Thanksgiving dinner. And feast we did, over-indulging the way one can on a national holiday when gluttony and subsequent self-loathing are strongly encouraged. 

You tell yourself you're going to take only a small portion of this and a taste of that, saving plenty of room for dessert, during which you intend to take only a sliver of that and maybe a modest spoonful of this. When all is done you might as well have been competitive eating. What started out as manners ("Please pass the potatoes!") has devolved into greasy-fingered gestures and grunts ("Ugh... Give... More..."). You really don't even want dessert, but you cram it down regardless because you feel morally obligated. After all, everyone went to the trouble of baking. 

Somewhere during the early stages of dinner: phase one, I heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen. It might have been the dishwasher running, only we hadn't yet loaded the first dish. It might have been the kitchen faucet running, only it wasn't. Instead, it turned out to be the frantic lapping of our six-pound Havanese, Lola. 

The problem wasn't really Lola. Lola was simply doing what any dog would do if turkey juices were flowing freely from the carved carcass on the countertop. The problem also wasn't the cracked cutting board that allowed the turkey juices to escape and flow to the floor. No, the problem was the fact of turkey juices hitting Lola square on the head as she stood there in her own little tryptophan-laced Thanksgiving celebration.

In case you've never soaked you hair with seasoned turkey grease, let me assure you it has some staying power. Three baths later the savory aroma of thyme, rosemary and tarragon continued to waft from Lola's head and her usually toussled top lay heavy between her ears. Try as we did over the next few days, it wasn't until the professional groomers got hold of her several weeks later that all was set right.

Red Sock, Blue Sock

A tribute to Dr. Seuss, or a glimpse of a day in the life of a busy family? You decide. All I know is we had two mismatched socks and my daughter was cranky (really!), so I wrote a poem. I'm warning you now that this isn't a very good poem, but then I never have liked poetry. You can blame Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" for that. Anyway, here it is:

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

What's up with the day’s laundry?

There’s one sock here where two should be.

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

Sleepy, sleepy, one, two, three.

My daughter’s cranky as can be.

She threw a banana muffin at me.

Sleepy, sleepy, one, two, three.

Inside, outside, one, two, three.

The dog won’t make a poop or pee.

I walked her 'round the block with me.

Inside, outside, one, two, three.

Nagging, nitpick, one, two, three.

The twins are passive aggressively

Sniping at each other incessantly.

Nagging, nitpick, one, two, three.

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

Really  laundry – seriously?

The machine is eating my BVDs!

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

Turn the clock back, one, two, three.

Our daughter looks like a young lady.

She’ll always be a little girl to me.

Turn the clock back, one, two, three.

Check my heart rate, one, two, three.

The dog just scared the heck out of me

By barking at something I cannot see.

Check my heart rate, one, two, three.

Open the window, one, two, three.

The twins’ room smells adolescently,

And now they’re starting to play hockey.

Open the window, one, two, three.

Growing older, one, two, three.

Spend a few moments leisurely

To enjoy the kids before they flee.

Growing older, one, two, three.

© 2014 Mark Feggeler

Release the Kracken!

So, we have a new dog. Her name is Lola (chosen in honor of The Kinks, not Barry Manilow). She is a replacement dog. You know, one dog dies, so you get another one to replace it. A replacement dog. 

The need for a replacement dog came about last Thanksgiving when our dog of 9 years, a poodle named Lily, passed away from congestive heart failure. Lily was a special member of the family. She was my grilling buddy and my officemate. She welcomed all visitors and kept watch over our house from her favorite perch on the German's bed, from where she could see the neighborhood's comings and goings. She loved us all equally, only some of us more equally than others, which is a matter for continuing debate. 

Our boys were quite young when Lily came into our lives. I suspect for them she was just another part of the furniture. Our Daughter's attachment was more visceral. She never fully understood that Lily belonged to all of us and not just to her. 

Lily's last few days were a roller coaster ride of health problems and emotions. Near the very end, just as we were ready to do the merciful thing and end her suffering, she rebounded. She ate more food than she had eaten in days. Her breathing sounded almost normal and that young puppy light was back in her eyes. But the recovery was short-lived. By the following night, we made her as comfortable as possible and knew she had come to the end. She joined us in the family room, sat at My Lovely Wife's feet for several minutes, then came over to sit next to me. She gave me one last kiss on the head, rested her body against me and was gone. 

We all cried and mourned her loss. We told the kids that we would start searching for a new dog when they were emotionally ready. Less than three days later, the boys announced they had found "the one." 
Due to allergies, our pets need to be hypo-allergenic. Most people think this means a pet that doesn't shed, but it isn't the hair that gets you. Hypo-allergenic pets will never need Head and Shoulders shampoo because their bodies produce no dander. It's the dander hanging onto the shed hairs that waft into your sinuses and send your immune system into a five-alarm panic.

Long story short, we brought Lola, a mostly black Havanese, home with us from a breeder in Garner, NC. Five days might seem like a quick turnaround, and perhaps it is, but the lack of not having a dog in the house for the first time in twenty years hung heavy in the air. 

My greatest concern for Lola was that she would carry the expectation of living up to the high standards Lily set in so many ways. Apart from recurring medical issues, Lily truly was a low maintenance dog. She didn't bark much, she listened well, she enjoyed the company of people, and she was smart. What we are learning now is that exceptional canine companions come in more than one make or model. 

I knew Lola would fit in well the moment she vomited on Our Daughter's boyfriend, Señor Awesome. He is, so far, the only person to have been so christened, with the exception of a stray happy piddle on my Dad's shoe just the other day. Obedience is a bit of an issue. I imagine trying to lead a three-legged cat in heat in a straight line through a fish market might prove easier than taking Lola on even the shortest stroll down the street. Apart from that minor character flaw, Lola is proving smart and sweet and intelligent.

Best of all she likes sleeping in her crate at night, something Lily never would have done. The moment you closed the crate door on Lily she began digging like a crazed Chilean miner to escape. Lola, on the other hand, hangs out in there and sleeps until we open the door and announce "Release the Kracken!" to unleash unbridled puppy energy throughout the house.

And now we are temporarily dogless again as our little Cuban is spending the night at the vet's. Today was the big day for spaying, fixing a small hernia, and pulling baby teeth that refuse to give up the ghost. We are all anxious to have her back, because once you're accustomed to the unquestioning, uncompromising, blindly loyal companionship of a dog, your house simply isn't a home without one.



© 2014 Mark Feggeler

I Didn't Run for Dog Catcher

If time has taught me anything, it's that three decades really isn't all that impressive a length of time. Trends change, children grow and change, I change my underwear, but people generally stay the same.

In the past forty years our society has mastered television remotes and online banking. We've learned to set TiVo to record our favorite shows while we're out surfing free WiFi at Starbucks on our smart phones, downloading digital music to our iCloud accounts, and uploading video files to YouTube. But none of that changes the fact we still laugh at fart jokes, talking animals, and video clips of men getting hit in the crotch with sundry items. If we've really advanced so much, then why  was "The Three Stooges" one of last month's top-grossing movies?

So, it shouldn't come as a surprise that our public institutions also remain mired in their old ways. Now don't go fretting that I'm about to jump off into a diatribe about bank scandals or corrupt politicians. I'm thinking a little closer to home than that, like our local Animal Control center.

Back when My Lovely Wife was a child, she was attacked and bitten by a neighborhood Collie. When her mother called Animal Control for help corraling the dog so it could be tested for rabies, the Animal Control experts told her she would have to catch the animal herself before they could run tests. So much for "animal control." She tried her best, using some of the finest cuts of meat from her freezer, but the beast evaded capture (and probably put on a few pounds).

In the end, frustrated and contemptuous, my mother-in-law called Animal Control and informed them, in no uncertain terms: "I didn't run for Dog Catcher. You did." Then she promised to call their office every time she spotted the animal, no matter what time of day or night. They arrived shortly thereafter and hauled the dog off for testing.

Just the other night, while we were out taking our poodle, Lily, for her final walk of the evening, a neighbor's massive dog tore out of its yard, grabbed Lily in its powerful jaws and flipped her three feet into the air. The attacking dog, a thick-bodied creature that looks like a mix between bulldog and pitbull, was going for the tried and true snap of the neck, but fortunately for Lily it managed to grab only her ear. Although for a split second it looked like it was going to take another shot at finishing the job, the dog ran back to its house without inflicting further injury.

Long story short, Lily is okay. Two small puncture wounds at the base of the ear and $100 in vet bills later, she is back to her spunky self.

Our first reaction was to speak with the family. Without going into great detail, I am satisfied they understand what they did wrong and have accepted full responsibility for it. Many apologies have been offered and promises the dog will not be allowed to run free again. Even so, it occurred to us two days later we should have reported the incident. After all, if they don't live up to their promises, next time it could be one of the neighborhood kids that gets attacked.

When I called Animal Control, the woman at first seemed mildly confused by what I was trying to do. Yes, I had to repeat twice, I wanted to report an incident of one dog attacking another. She started take my information, then stopped to ask one of her coworkers what to do.

"How do I fill out a report of a dog attacking another dog?" I heard her whisper.

Surely, I couldn't be the first resident of the county to file a report with Animal Control such an incident? The very name of the institution suggests it is staffed by people responsible for controlling the behavior of animals, yet the staffer answering the phone doesn't understand why I'm calling to report an out-of-control animal. The story of my mother-in-law's experience drifted through my mind. I wondered in what way they would put the responsibility of policing this matter back on to me.

The woman found the proper form, however, and took my report. One of their investigators would be following up. It seems Animal Control has, indeed, advanced a little since the 1980s.




© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Creepy Kid

Our Daughter was only a little thing at the time, maybe two years old at most.

I had picked her up from daycare and brought her home to start the evening routine of bath and dinner before My Lovely Wife returned from her long day at work. Picking her up out of our four-door sedan, I balanced Our Daughter in the crook of one arm and grabbed her dirty daycare clothes with my right hand. Our Dalmation, Pepper, barked happily in the backyard.

"Pepper," Our Daughter said in a sing-song voice.

"Is that Pepper? Do you hear Pepper?" I asked.

"Pepper," she said. "Pepper, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper..."

As dusk turned slowly to night, the interior of our small home was cast in shadows not thick enough to leave one groping for the walls but just enough to obscure details in hazy darkness. I passed through the garage, through the kitchen, and into the center of the house where I could unload the dirty clothes in the laundry closet without switching on any lights for fear of losing my grip on the little girl who continued to sing the name of her much adored dog as we advanced.

"Pepper, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper," she chimed.

Somewhere in the kitchen, as the ambient light diminished, Our Daughter's soft tones began to morph into something cartoonishly frog-like. A croakiness crept into her throat and her voice dropped an octave. She continued to repeat "Pepper, Pepper, Pepper." By the time we reached the dark, windowless hallway that housed our laundry closet, she no longer sounded anything like my sweet little girl. It sounded instead as if I were carrying a thing possessed, a demon child maniacally calling out for its pet hellhound.

Many thoughts went through my head at that moment -- like how much does an exorcism cost and who do you call to book one. The hair on the back of my neck stood stick straight out over my collar, a tingling sense of panic crept up my spine, and I half expected to see Our Daughter levitate out of my arms with her eyes glowing red. All the while she continued to croak for her dog, "Pepper, Pepper, Pepper..."

I did the only thing any rational adult would do under the circumstances. I dropped the laundry on the floor where I stood, walked through the house turning on every light I could find, and brought Our Daughter into the kitchen to feed her dinner. Thankfully, whatever demon had temporarily possessed her vanished under the glare of the bright lights. That, or demons don't like rice cereal mixed with pureed apples.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Poodle Diaries

The last thing I expected to receive when I picked up our dog from the groomer was a handwritten note detailing the present condition of her vulva.

Don't get me wrong. I do care about our Poodle, Lily. Apart from occasionaly urinating on our carpets, she's just like one of our kids. In fact, over the years, she has probably urinated less on our carpets than the kids have.

We've used several different groomers since Lily joined our family seven years ago. One that we really liked required us traveling the backroads of our rural county thirty minutes one way, but four dollars a gallon for gas and two hours wasted shuttling a twelve-pound poodle for her tonsorial teasing are strong motivators to make a change.

When we finally found someone closer we trusted -- meaning the dog wouldn't look like she was attacked by rabid squirrels with trimmers, or come home missing a limb -- we were ecstatic. At first, we found our groomer's unsolicited medical advice helpful, since it led to us finding out Lily needed surgery for bladder stones.

The thing is, when I bring Lily to get groomed I'm not expecting a full cavity search and dental screening every time the shampoo bottle comes out. It's like when you bring your car to get the oil changed and they advise you to consider new wiper blades, an air filter, and a tire rotation. Chances are I'll smile and nod and completely ignore their advice. Same goes for the dog. I've brought her in to get the chocolate shake washed off her head, not to seek counsel from the Dog Whisperer.

In the past few months, we've been given heartfelt and well-intentioned mini-lectures about the importance of weight loss, tinged urine, underbelly tenderness, and loose stool. Time before last, I even went home with a couple of dirty Q-Tips in a plastic baggie. I'm pretty sure she said they were covered in earwax. At least, I hope that's what she said it was.

Now we've moved beyond the transient comments into documentation on the observed details of the dog's hoo-ha. I half expected the comment about Lily's swollen vulva to be attached to a police report and a rape kit from the Pinehurst CSI lab.

Maybe the Schnauzer around the corner has some explaining to do...



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Poodle Piddle

The dog shoots me an apprehensive glance.

I'm near her leash. She's near the door.

Not next to it, or propped up against it, applying pressure with her back end to hold in what's threatening to come out. Just somewhere in the vicinity, like under the dining room table.

I call her. She doesn't move. She's played this game too many times before to bother budging from her comfy spot in the shade unless I have the leash ready in hand. Who knows? I might need to fold laundry, or talk to one of the kids, or do something else that will distract me from the act of walking her.

She waits.

She also knows My Lovely Wife has been on the phone this morning, talking to someone the way you only talk to someone who probably is a veterinarian. Veterinarianesque questions involve words like "urine," "test," "exam," "appointment," and "not herself." These words were used while My Lovely Wife held the phone to her ear and stared down at the dog.

The dog isn't stupid. She knows it was a conversation with someone who owns a needle and a very cold steel table.

I finally grab the leash. She uncharacteristically hoists herself off the ground and walks slowly to me, as if I am about to lead her to a poodle-size guillotine. Rubbing behind her ear does nothing to reassure her.

Heading out the front door, she slows as we pass the garage. She thinks she knows what's coming. A fake out. A rouse.

She thinks I think I've tricked her into a walk that will turn into a car ride. She hates car rides, always has, particularly when they end at the veterinarian's office, which is why she tries to apply her brakes.

But we pass the garage without stopping. I encourage her along and her step lightens. We cross the street together and she squats over the sandy soil alongside our quiet lane.

Out of nowhere, I produce a cut-down paper cup that I thrust in the minuscule clearance between poodle hoohah and the ground. She glares at me, but she's a dog, so her indignation subsides quickly. Back in the house, she is relieved and frisky. Red rubber toy hanging from her mouth, she prances upstairs and down in gleeful anticipation of a happy day.

When My Lovely Wife calls her, she leaps off her cozy chair and bounds up the stairs. Little does she suspect where My Lovely Wife will be taking her...



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Damn Dog's Broke

Too bad the title doesn't refer to the financial status of our puffy toy poodle. If the only problem with Lily were an unbalanced checking account, or the lack of access to her trust fund, then I wouldn't even be writing this post.

No, our dog is broken.

For six years, since the day Santa left her under our Christmas tree with a note explaining how the elves thought we were the perfect family to care for her, Lily has been the ideal pet. She seldom has accidents in the house -- although when she does, she always manages to hit the single island of carpet in a sea of hardwood -- and she listens really well, except when she doesn't. Until now, had you asked me if I would own another poodle once Lily is chasing ethereal squirrels in the great beyond, I would have said "yes." But then she had to go and get bladder stones, and suddenly everything's gone to hell in a handbasket!

Apparently our poodle's internal acidity levels promote the growth of bladder stones. These stones, or rather fragments of one stone, were causing her pain. Following the vet's instructions, we placed Lily on a prescription diet of moist canned food to balance her PH. She also had a pill to take twice a day for two weeks. We wrapped the pill in Kraft cheese, very likely unwittingly sabotaging the PH balancing act of the prescription diet, but you try getting a finicky poodle to take a pill.

Of course, when the two weeks of prescription food costing three times as much as the tremendous bag of dry food that would last our 12-pound pup three months was used up, Lily was no closer to breaking down and passing the stones than when she started. The only other solution: surgery.

You have to understand, while I'm no animal hater, I've often judged people who spend hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on their pets to be irrational fanatics. I love my dog. My Lovely Wife loves our dog. Our kids love our dog. But if we have to choose between the dog and college tuition, then our kids will be paying for school with assistance from the Lily Feggeler Memorial College Scholarship Fund.

Long story short, we paid the $500+ dollars for the bladder stone surgery. The recovery seemed to be going well, until we noticed the recurrence of phantom squatting. Once my Lovely Wife explained phantom squatting was not a new yoga position but instead described the dog's failed attempt to pee, I understood we were not yet out of the woods.

Turns out, Lily developed a urinary tract infection during recovery, in addition to the equivalent of diaper rash in the pudgy folds of her skin. How do we know she has a urinary tract infection? Because I drove the poor dog neurotic Friday morning following behind her with a Dixie cup to catch a urine sample. Have you ever tried to shove a 3-inch tall Dixie cup under a dog that leaves only 1-inch clearance when peeing?

Now, $78 later, we have new pills around which to wrap Kraft singles, an anti-inflammatory that has to be administered orally via a dropper, and a liquid to spread around her hoo-hah until her hoo-hah appears normal again.

Trouble is, poodle hoo-hahs are not my specialty. It probably is a testament to my good taste and sanity that I have not spent much, if any, of my life in training to recognize a healthy poodle hoo-hah. I guess we'll just keep applying it until the tube is gone and hope for the best.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

A Dog, a Giraffe and 32 Naked Barbies

When I was a kid, I had a stuffed toy Snoopy. Correction: I still have my Snoopy, but since I got married I don't find it necessary to sleep with it anymore.

A few years ago, when my parents were cleaning out their storage area to make room for new things to forget they have in their storage area, they found Snoopy. Its gray, matted fur and flattened profile made him seem a little pathetic, which is why I suppose my Mother assumed I would not want it. Fortunately, they called to ask before they threw it away.

Our children also have their own favorite toys that I suppose will make their way into our storage bins when they go off to college, if only because my Lovely Wife and I are emotionally attached to them. Some of these toys are as much a part of our family as the children themselves. Sometimes, we like them even more than we like the children.

Our Daughter might now be at the age of crushes, puppy love and boyfriends, but a decade ago she had eyes only for Bernie, Dottie, Miranda and ShuShu. Bernie was a St. Bernard and Dottie was a Dalmatian. Miranda and ShuShu were little baby dolls. If nothing else, Miranda and ShuShu gave us pause to wonder what kinds of names our grandchildren will be stuck with.

Over time, these early-childhood toys gave way to Barbies that, for some reason, always ended up naked. We purged her toys one year only to find thirty-two naked Barbies stacked high in a basket under her bed. She made us proud, and a little relieved, by donating them along with bags of their clothes to a local charity store.

Although Bernie, Dottie, Miranda and ShuShu remain safely and lovingly stowed away under Our Daughter's bed, our boys' loyalty to their favorite toys has been considerably more fervent.

The Italian has two: Little Puppy and Hoot. If you can't guess, Little Puppy is a little puppy, and Hoot is an owl. Hoot did fall out of favor for a little while after our Poodle chewed out one of his eyes, but recently he has resurfaced for the nightly bedtime tucking in ritual.

The German took a little longer to determine his favorite. During his first few years, he would switch willy nilly between an assortment of toys at night. Eventually, maybe five years ago, he settled on Giraffy. If you can't guess what kind of animal Giraffy is, then you have even less imagination than the German. Oh, and it's rather a pinkish shade of red, which is mildly disconcerting, but it makes him happy.

It will be interesting to see how much longer the boys require their "friends" to hang about them through the dark of night. We still pack them with us when we travel, and the world is not right in its orbit should one of them go missing, so I doubt it will be any time soon. Even their sister occasionally tucks in with something, lately a teddy bear that arrived this past Christmas.

Of course, I can't criticize or poke too much fun. Not when I'm writing this while looking up every now and then to smile at Snoopy, my old friend and stalwart companion, watching over me from the shelf above my desk.



2011 Mark Feggeler

Dancing Away From Monkeys

We humans like to think of ourselves as advanced beings, intellectually superior to other animals, granted dominion over the creatures of land, sea and sky by a higher power. How can we not be superior?

Take a look at your typical domesticated canine, for instance. Despite a rich history of anthropomorphisizing the skills and talents our beloved best friends, what can we point to as being their greatest accomplishment? The most advanced thing our poodle can do is flip her empty food bowl around to let us know she's hungry. That and a reasonably sound mastery of her bowel movements are really all she has to her credit.

Some domestic pets aren't even that smart.

Years ago I had a teddy bear hamster name Bologna. I was all he had. If not for me, he would have slept in pea-soaked shavings surrounded by mounds of his own poop, foraging for his own little pellets of food. I kept him clean and fed, bought him a wheel and a plastic ball to run around in, and even lavished him with special treats. The worst thing I ever did to him was name him Bologna. But every time the evil little fluff ball could, he'd bite me.

I suppose you could say I should have learned the "once bitten, twice shy" lesson but I stubbornly waited for him to learn the "don't bite the hand that feeds you" lesson. Neither of us gave in, but since the lifespan of a healthy teddy bear hamster is only three years, you could say I won out simply by the fact of not being a hamster.

However, while my life expectancy might dwarf that of a semi-exotic rodent, a recent exercise in corporate team building got me wondering just how far our species has danced away from monkeys, as a commentator on BBC America Radio recently described the evolutionary process.

If you've never participated in a high ropes course, let me explain it for you. Imagine your basic playground jungle gym. Now bring it into the woods, feed it anabolic steroids for a few months, hang some ropes from the highest points, and there you go. Throw in a couple tons of dangling logs, a few rock-climbing walls, and some port-a-johns to complete the scene. The entire complex looks like a minimalist Cirque du Soleil stage.

Despite the safety of the groin-compactors the instructors like to call harnesses, it's difficult for me to be comfortable with the idea of trusting a group of people that can't manage to turn in weekly reports on time, or even agree on how they should be filled out.

Honestly, we can't retain basic instructions long enough to properly carry out the most basic of our job responsibilities, so why exactly am I supposed to be satisfied with a four-minute review on the importance of belaying? Doesn't the instructor realize most of us are too focused on trying to pry 3-inch wide straps of canvas out of our asses to understand what she's saying about climbing safety?

In order to survive the day -- by which I mean avoiding a scene in which I am peer-pressured forty feet into the air by a boisterous mob of cheering adrenaline junkies -- I volunteered to be one of the first to go up the rock-climbing wall. When finished with that, I climbed a ladder to a thing that looked like two obese telephone poles mating in mid-air while dangling from an unreasonably thin wire.

Although my success was middling with both events, I admit to finding the experience invigorating. It seems preposterous the amount of satisfaction, and splinters, one can get from climbing a pole. All good things do come to an end, unfortunately, and once high enough for my liking I asked to be lowered to the ground.

The most entertaining part of the day for me was listening to one of my coworkers proclaim the animal-like qualities of the strong performers. One team member who scrambled to the top of a pole in a matter of seconds was praised as having the climbing skills of a lemur, while another was matter-of-factly labeled a spider monkey.

I'm not sure what animal my attempts might have called to mind. Probably not something too complimentary but I think I'm okay with that. My feet were designed for flat surfaces, not the rough rounded edges of towering obstacle courses. Let the lemurs and spider monkeys of the world have their fun scaling heights and leaping into the great abyss tethered only to a vague hope in humanity and a first-time belayer.

I'll keep my feet on the ground and ponder whether some of us haven't danced a little farther away than others.


© 2010 Mark Feggeler

Shopping For Dummies

My Lovely Wife and I have been married -- to each other -- for nearly 16 years.

In almost all that time, we have perpetuated a weekly ritual of grocery shopping to keep our cupboards stocked and our fridge full. That's close to 5,800 trips to the grocery store. You might think, with all that practice, we would have perfected the process by now. After all, our staples haven't changed much and our tastes in food seem to remain constant through the years.

So why do we spend the better part of each and every Friday struggling to come up with a complete shopping list? Are we suffering some weekly recurring form of dementia? Should it really come as a surprise to us that we need to buy milk and bread?

Every Friday brings the same conversation:

"Do we need toilet paper?" she asks.

"I don't know," I say.

"Do we need orange juice?" I ask.

"I don't know," she answers.

"Do you have cereal on the list?" she asks.

"No, I don't," I say. "That's a good one."

What the hell is wrong with us? We act like someone invented breakfast since the last time we went shopping and now, like monkeys throwing rocks at the moon, we have to figure it out.

And why do I have to ask if we need orange juice? I'm the only one who drinks it! No one else in our house could possibly be more knowledgeable about how much orange juice remains in the container, yet I don't know if we need more and I expect my Lovely Wife to tell me what I should already know!

It's like we go through our week using up all of our purchased goods and sundries, and then on Friday morning -- right before we sit down to make out our list -- we take "stupid" pills. We might have just finished a five pound jar of peanut butter five minutes earlier, yet we're still going to go back and forth for ten minutes trying to figure out if we need more.

And not only do we completely forget certain essentials -- like, say, food for instance -- we overpurchase other items that have no bearing on our lives in any way, shape or form. "Honey?! Why do we have seven boxes of Snausages?" Sure, we don't have any milk for breakfast or meat for dinner, but you can be darn certain the twelve-pound poodle has enough treats to last halfway through our next dog.

That's why I am going to approach this in a way that is logical and practical -- two words not often attributed to me.

I am going to sit one night at the computer and develop a master list of items we typically need, or at least should be checking to see if we need, each week. Then we can print it out each Friday and not have to rack our brains trying to remember all of the things we use every day.

Call it "shopping for dummies."



© 2010 Mark Feggeler

Poodle of Destiny!

The first baby my Lovely Wife and I had was our Dalmatian, Pepper.

While Pepper was a sweet dog -- and a lot smarter than we often gave her credit for being -- she was a complete menace. Because of her tireless energy we lost trees, books, bedding, our lawn, and an entire kitchen floor straight down to the plywood. And no matter what color you chose to wear, Pepper had a contrasting hair for it.

One year, Pepper developed a habit of nibbling the bark off a thirty-year-old plum tree in our backyard. I asked my brother for advice and he told me to dab the tree with hot sauce. When I explained how that hadn't worked when Pepper was chewing up her bed because she seemed to like the taste of Frank's Red Hot, he suggested I try ammonia. I had mixed feelings.

In my teens, I had accidentally taken a long sniff at a bottle of ammonia and it felt like someone was shoving hot pins and needles through my brain and into the back of my skull. I wasn't sure I could do that to Pepper. Then I looked out the window and saw her gnawing on the tree and decided to try it.

As I dabbed the ammonia onto the trunk of the old plum tree, Pepper walked casually up and started sniffing the rag. No reaction. In fact, she started chewing off another piece of bark, so I dropped the rag and poured the ammonia straight onto the tree. She lapped it up like water.

When Our Daughter came along in the late 1990s, months of ear infections and the prospect of inserting tubes in her ear canals resulted in the realization that she was allergic to the Dalmatian. After we transitioned Pepper from an inside/outside dog to strictly an outside dog, both my Lovely Wife and Our Daughter were literally breathing easier. When the twins were born a few years later, their systems proved even more delicate.

So, when it came time to welcome our second dog to the family, it was no surprise how limited our options would be if we wanted an inside dog. We could get a Chihuahua -- no thank you. We could get a Bichon Frise -- too expensive, plus it looks like an unshorn Poodle.

Then there are all the breeds that have been crossbred with Poodles. Apparently a lot of people have a lot of time to worry about mating every possible kind of canine with Poodles. These Poodle pimps have created a seemingly endless parade or Poodle-esque possibilities.

Among them are the Affenpoo, Airedoodle, Aussiedoodle, Bassetoodle, Bernedoodle, Bolonoodle, Bossi-Poo, Cavapoo, Cockapoo, Doodleman Pinscher, Double Doodle, Eskapoo, English Boodle, Foodle, Giant Schnoodle, Goldendoodle, Irish Troodle, Jack-a-Poo, Labradoodle, Malti-Poo, Papi-Poo, Pekepoo, Pinny-Poo, Poogle, Poo-Ton, Pugapoo, Pyredoodle, Rattle, Rottle, Saint Berdoodle, Schipper-Poo, Schnoodle, Scoodle, Shar-Poo, Sheepadoodle, Shih-Poo, Skypoo, Springerdoodle, Terri-Poo, Ttoodle, Weimardoodle, Whoodle, Yorkipoo, and my new favorite the Newfypoo.

The problem with all this Poo-ing around is it doesn't guarantee an allergen-free dog, just one that is moderately less irritating thanks to being diluted with Poodle DNA. The clear and reasonable choice was to forego the mixed breeds and head straight for the dander-free choice.

That year, Santa somehow managed to sneak a white puppy Poodle under our tree. He left a note for our three children telling them the elves had found her in the workshop and decided ours was the perfect family to care for her. They had already given her a name -- Lily.

Contrary to every notion I'd ever had of the Poodle being a useless, yip-yapping nuisance -- marginally better than a lizard for cuteness and no better than a rattlesnake for attitude -- Lily is quiet and timidly sweet-natured. She barks mostly for legitimate reasons and gets so excited when guests enter our house she often leaves behind what we call "happy pee." Fortunately, it's typically only a few drops, and much easier to cope with than the dreaded "poop finger" we used to get when changing the children's diapers.

Like every other member of our family, Lily has peculiarities that make her unique and interesting. When she needs water or food, she flips the empty bowl around with her paw to get your attention. If that doesn't work, she'll jump up on your leg, lean back, and punch you with both front feet.

When she needs to burn off some pent-up energy you'll see a little white blur tear through the house in circuits around the furniture, in and out of bedrooms, and up and down the stairs. These are great times to play hide-and-seek with her, or grab her rope toy and let her joyously pretend she's jerking the head off a squirrel.

And being a lifelong fan of cartoons, I never tire of hearing the clickety-clackety sound accompanying her delayed start when she tries breaking into a run from a full stop on our hardwood floors. It's a noise you'll hear several times a day in our house and it always makes me smile.

Lily will turn six in September, which will tie her with me for the oldest member of the household, unless Poodles don't follow the seven-to-one dog-year ratio. At middle age she is showing no signs of slowing down.

Just the other day while out for her morning walk, she spotted something in the grass ahead that sent her into red-alert jungle hunt mode. She crept cautiously up to the offending object, head down, butt in the air, until she was right up on the black plastic utility box at the street that housed the water shut-off for our neighbors house. Only when whe pressed her nose to it did she finally decide it posed no threat.

As the children have gotten older, especially the boys, I see them playing with her more and more. It's heartening to know they will have memories of their family dog similar to the ones my Lovely Wife and I have of ours. I kind of feel she was destined from the start to be our dog.

Welcome Home

This week I traveled to Tampa for a mandatory training. The travel schedule required my departure from the house early on Tuesday but with just enough time to wake our three children and kiss them good morning before leaving.

The Italian, having recently started coming out of his room after being tucked in to bed at night, caused me the most concern. Knowing that I was heading out of town must have been weighing on his mind, for each time he came out he was whimpering about missing me when I travel. The last thing we needed the morning of my trip was for him to break down in tears.

Fortunately, no tears flowed and the kids barely noticed I had gone. During my trip, we spoke a couple times a day by phone. The first day they provided interesting details and were willing conversational participants. The second day, the interest waned slightly. By this morning I could barely get them to pay attention to me.

Arriving at the Tampa airport this afternoon to check in, I was pleasantly surprised to find I could make an earlier flight and land in Charlotte ten minutes before my original flight would even be taking off. Though the drive home from the Charlotte Douglas International Airport took slightly longer than the normal two hours, I managed to arrive home short before 10:00pm.

When I entered the house, it took all of a few seconds to survey the situation. My lovely wife was surely sleeping because she would have called "hello" had she been awake. Our daughter was lying in bed with her, having fallen asleep waiting there for me to come home. And the Italian and the German were no doubt deep asleep in their room. Walking quietly into the house from the garage, trying to make as little noise as possible, suddenly the "chickety-chick-chick" noise of toenails on hardwood rushed toward me and before I knew it I was being lovingly attacked by Lily, our small white poodle. For a solid five minutes she jumped, bumped, licked and nibbled, occasionally backing away excitedly only to come back for more.

Eventually, I kissed everyone on the cheek and kicked our daughter from our bed to her own. It's wonderful being home, sleeping in my own bed, surrounded by the family I love. It's soothing to return to a calm and quiet house. It's comforting to know that life continues as it should when I'm away. But it's also nice to know that, no matter how sleepy and calm the homefront may be, there's always one member of the family who's never too tired to jump for joy at my return.