Shawn L. Bird

Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.

image April 12, 2011

Filed under: poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:17 am
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You know how the magazines chase celebrities and shoot pictures of them without their makeup or in slobby clothes so they can say, “Ooh, look how nasty s/he looks when s/he’s not working!  S/he’s falling apart!”  Most of us don’t look our best 24 hours a day.  We may have to run out for milk without our most presentable ensemble on.  At home, we aren’t always gorgeous.  We wear our sweats, go without our make-up, and don’t worry about projecting a stunning, glamorous image.  Image is a false picture of reality.  No one is perfect all the time.

Take OJ.  A few days ago I showed you a photo of him looking all glamorous in a Continental clip.  He knows he looks good.  He prances with all the poodle panache of a champion in the ring at Westminster.  He looks classy.  If we’re out for a walk, Japanese tourists ask to take photos with him.  Strangers stop on the street to comment on how amazing he looks.  People in parking lots stop us to tell us what a beautiful dog he is.  Yup.  A standard poodle in the flesh is impressive.  Very much like meeting a celebrity.

But at home, all that “classy poodle” image stuff goes out the window.  OJ is just a dog.  Well.  Not quite a dog, but you know what I mean.

yeah- he's just that sexy

 

poodle entrepreneurship opportunity… April 5, 2011

Filed under: poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:23 am
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BEFORE:

AFTER:

One of the things about Paris is the number of tourist gimmicks around.  Guys with rings of Eiffel Tower souvenirs ready to sell, Guys with shell games on the go, Artists ready to paint your portrait or cut your silhouette, Kids pretending to be deaf and mute and wanting you to make a donation, Musicians playing with their hats at their feet,  People holding photos of their family and just begging.   Everyone has an angle to fit the stereotype: Eiffel Tour, beret, scarf.  (Never mind we only saw 4 people in berets the whole time we were in France).

When I groomed ‘Scruffy Mutt  OJ’ after his couple of weeks in the kennel and transformed him into ‘Continental OJ’ with some semblance of poodle panache, it occured to me that he could garner me some money in Paris.  If I took him out walking in the park at the Eiffel Tower, I’m sure I could get at least 2 Euro (and maybe more) from tourists who wanted to pose with him with the Tower in the background.  200 Euro a day, say,  for letting people stand beside him and snap a photo with their own camera.  What a great stereotype!  I might be able to pay for our trip that way.  Too bad I didn’t think of it before we went!

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(PS.  Just an FYI- this is technically a “Historically Correct Continental” which has a much short jacket and topknot than you see in the big hair show cuts.  This is the serviceable version, and closer to the origins as a hunting cut for the water retrievers to go into the water to get the ducks, with the hair covering the joints, but the back shaved to make swimming easier.  In OJ’s case, the shaved parts are done with a 15 blade, rather than a 30 or 40 so it’s not bare skin.  As well, since I’m not  a pro groomer and I rarely play with this clip, I never seem to get the shape of the jacket quite right!  Getting closer, but still not quite perfect…)

And for fun- here’s OJ being a “French Poodle” for Hallowe’en a few years ago…

 

Fluffy face who eats my couch January 4, 2011

Filed under: Poetry,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:23 am
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Oh you are a cute fluffy face.

why is blood dripping from you when you pee?

Are you and your brother trying to ensure

I never get my leather couch?

$1000 in dental last month.

Will I spend several hundred

in tests and surgery this month?

I’m sure the vet does not need a new couch!

Please be healthy

fluffy face

(and other parts as well).

 

Dusty the Shadow September 20, 2010

Filed under: poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:02 am
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When Dusty was a puppy, our house was divided on what to call him.  The boys voted for “Shadow.”  The girls voted for “Dusty.”  (After Dusty Strings Harps in Seattle, as he was likely the only Dusty I’d ever be able to afford).  Over the years it has become clear that we really should have gone with the boys on this one, because Dusty really is a shadow, and it has gotten him into many interesting predicaments.

The problem with being a shadow, is that you are ubiquitous, so people don’t necessarily even notice you following along behind them.  On many occasions we’ve lost Dusty, only to follow the sounds of his cries back into the garage.  We nipped out there to put out the garbage or grab a tool without knowing he was behind us, and then he was stuck there, sometimes for several hours, until someone noticed him missing and started hunting for him.

He once got stuck in an under-stair cold room that way.  He tried to eat his way out through the punch bowl box. 

The most traumatic event happened when he was still a puppy.  It was a -20 degree Celsius day in Prince George.  The snow was about four feet deep in our yards.  I had just finished wallpapering my daughter’s bedroom and had given Dusty a bath.  He was blown dry, but still a little damp.  My husband helped me put the daughter’s heavy mate’s bed into position, then the door bell rang.  I went to deal with the salesman and then started on dinner.

After some time, Dusty’s absence was noted.  We looked through the house calling for him, we checked the garage and the pantry.  He was no where to be found.  Then it hit me.  When I’d been talking to the salesman at the door, he must have snuck out of the house.

I got in the car and started combing the white streets, calling for him and looking for a freshly trimmed, brown poodle against the snow.  Slightly damp, he’d freeze to death out there in short order.  I phoned the radio station, the SPCA and the vets offices to put out the word.  The whole family was in a panic and  tearful over the loss of our little dog who was only a few months old.

Many hours later, my daughter came upstairs to tell us she could hear funny noises.  We listened.  We couldn’t hear anything upstairs, but in the basement we could make out weak little whimpers.  Where were they coming from?  We combed the house again, straining our ears, trying to figure out the source of the sound.  Eventually, we tracked them into her bedroom.  We looked in the closet, behind all the furniture, under the dressers.  No sign, and yet a faint little noise was still audible.

Suddenly we realised where he was.  We pulled out one of the drawers from her mates bed and sure enough, the volume was louder. We pulled out another drawer and out scrambled a very happy puppy.  Somehow when we’d lowered that heavy mate’s bed back onto the ground, he’d gotten stuck in one of the compartments.  He’d been stuck there in the dark for about six hours by the time we found him.

These days Dusty still shadows us, but we’ve gotten better at checking for him before we shut doors behind us.  He has also gotten much louder at letting us know he’s left out.  His demanding woof is louder than OJ’s, and OJ outweighs him three times!  This is a lesson.  If you’re too close to the big people, you may get into situations where you’re left alone in the dark.  Shout loudly, and someone will rescue you.

 

Why I love poodles August 27, 2010

Filed under: Commentary,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:37 am
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  1. Three sizes for your convenience (4 if you’re in Europe).
  2. Unlimited solid colour options (and unofficially, parti colours too).
  3. No shedding.
  4. Intelligence
  5. Enthusiasm
  6. Unexpected delights
  7. No shedding
  8. Topiary opportunities
  9. High energy when high energy is required
  10. Low energy when low energy is required
  11. Friendly
  12. Really intelligent
  13. No shedding
  14. No stinky dog smell
  15. Problem solving abilities
  16. Affectionate
  17. Loyal
  18. No shedding
  19. Versatility- hunting, obedience, agility, conformation, anything goes! (and sometimes all at once!)
  20. Old, established breed (no surprises)
  21. Funny
  22. Sense of humour
  23. No shedding
  24. Established, well documented pedigrees (know family health history)
  25. Beautiful faces
  26. Elegant & sophisticated (from a distance!)
  27. Goofy
  28. Laid back
  29. No shedding
  30. Joyful
  31. Valued so much that everyone wants to mix their breed with a poodle in order to improve  it  (Just get a poodle and save yourself the trouble!)
  32. Long lived

 

Why do you love poodles?

 

revenge is sweet August 11, 2010

Filed under: poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:28 am

I’m sporting quite a pretty purple bruise on my ankle today. It hurts, but I have to say it’s probably payback, and so I’m not grumbling too loudly.

OJ is really ticklish.  I tease him by tickling him between the pads of his toes.  He twitches and mutters at me while I giggle fiendishly at him.  Technically this is supposed to be de-sensitizing him to having his feet touched to make it easier to groom him.   Apparently, it’s not working.

Yesterday he was lying on the floor and I was sitting beside him clipping his feet.  I was working between the pads of one of his back legs when he gave a mighty twitch.  One might even be inclined to call it a kick.  Whatever it was, it was powerful.

He connected with the clippers, which apparently I was not holding quite firmly enough.  Heavy professional clippers.  Propelled by the force of OJ’s kick, the energy transferred like a physics lesson. They went flying out of my hand and nailed me on the ankle bone.

I grabbed the humming machine and muttered something very lady-like.

OJ gave the slightest smirk, and settled his head back onto the floor. 

Today I am branded with a letter on my ankle.  I can’t quite decide what it is.  Perhaps G for “Gotcha” or perhaps L for “Loser!”

One for OJ.

 

Cleo the Dane August 9, 2010

Filed under: Commentary,poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:35 am
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Before we had poodles, we had Cleo. Cleopatra was a tan Great Dane and she and her famous cousin Marmaduke had a lot in common. I was a baby when Cleo lived with us, and I know her only from the family stories and the images of the two of us on the fading family films. I am a tiny well dressed child with big brown eyes, and Cleo’s head was larger than I was. We putter around the yard together, she letting me haul myself up, and supporting me as I practiced my steps firmly gripping her. One famous film segment shows Cleo busily gnawing on a huge ham bone, as tiny Shawn toddles unsteadily up to her, and steals it from her. She could have opened her jaws and swallowed me whole, but Cleo just watched her bone get carried off and glanced up to the camera with a resigned expression.

Come to think of it, the family should probably not been filming that encounter, they should have be racing to save me from the jaws of death! Good thing Cleo thought through the logical consequences!

My father remembers his first date with my mother. He rang the bell, and mom came to the door with Cleo at her side. Cleo stood on her hind legs, put her front paws on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. This evening at dinner he pondered, “I wonder what she thought of me?” and mom shrugged and remarked, “Well, she let you in, didn’t she?” She did indeed, and he’s been around for almost fifty years!

Cleo didn’t steal food from the counters like OJ does, but that didn’t mean she was perfect. She loved dish towels. She’d sneak into the kitchen, nab the towel off the counter and disappear down to the basement with it. When mom ran out of towels, she’d stop at Cleo’s bed on the way to the laundry and gather up a whole nest full of dish towels.

Unlike OJ, who is devoted to home and wouldn’t think of exploring the world, Cleo was seized with wanderlust every now and then. She liked to inspect the garbage cans all down the back alley. One day she came home with a prize. She was called and when they went out to see where she was, she was prancing down the alley toward home wearing antlers. A second glance showed that she had the skull in her mouth, and the antlers rose up on either side of her head. She was justifiably proud of herself for scoring such an amazing prize, and she tossed her head and whipped her tail in joy as the family just about collapsed from the sight. She’s lucky no one called the Conservation officer when they saw her heading down the alley! They never did figure out where those antlers had come from.

Cleo has been gone for forty years, but her memory lives on like all good dogs. My brother Wayne was inspired to get his own Great Dane, but his wasn’t quite as smart as Cleo. I’ll tell his story another time.

 

Guest contributor Cheryl writes about Binky August 7, 2010

Filed under: poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 3:01 am

Today’s blog is an article by Cheryl Zuccaro originally published on Poodle-L.  I think there is an important message here about compassion and respect.  Thanks Cheryl for allowing me to reprint this.
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In Memory of Binky

Have I ever told you about Binky my first poodle? Binky came into my life as a High School graduation present shortly before I moved away from Bakersfield CA. My Mama bought her from an ignorant backyard breeder as a teacup poodle. Binky fulfilled every bad, small dog stereotype. She yapped, she bit (including me), her legs were too long (resulting in six leg surgeries in her lifetime) her eyes bulged, and she really hated being groomed. She was also brilliant, funny, loving and guarded me through my turbulent twenties.

We shared a little apartment in Lennox CA for the last five years of her life. Let me tell you about Lennox: My home was very close to the LA Airport, so close that all conversation just stopped when the jets flew over. It was a rough, gang neighborhood, Black gangs above Lennox Blvd; Hispanic gangs below Lennox Blvd. The Rodney King riots started in Lennox. There was so much graffiti in Lenox that even the chain link fences were graffitied!

I lived there because I could afford the rent, could have a dog and had a small fenced yard all to myself. Since I was clearly not part of the gang community, (blonde curly hair, little white poodle, no visible tats) I was fairly safe – aside from the occasional, stray bullets. Binky and I walked through the neighborhood every day -rain or shine.

When Binky was 13 years old, she had a stroke and I had to let her go. It was the first time I every had to make that dreaded decision. I was devastated. I was a mess, the grief seemed unbearable.

I can clearly recall walking to the corner liquor store for some ‘medicine’ a few days after she died; when a scary guy – big guy, wife beater T-shirt, multiple gang tattoos – scar-a-ree, walked up to me and said ”Hey man, where is your little dog? I have not seen you walking your little dog.” Tearfully I told him that she died. His response was “Hey man, I’m really sorry, that was a cute little dog.” That day, compassion from such an unexpected source really helped me; it helps me still.

I have worked in law enforcement for over 13 years mostly as a 9-1-1 dispatcher. In law enforcement it is easy to view people as good or bad, worthy or unworthy. It is easy to stop caring at all. Seeing to the heart of all people is so much more rewarding. As a dispatcher I had many great opportunities to help people, to make a difference in their lives. They don’t know who I am; they may not remember me at all. But I remember, I get to keep the warm fuzzies.

Binky died on May 29, 1991, my eyes still blur when I think of her. But part of her heart beats within mine, and I will always be grateful for her guidance and love. I will also, always be grateful for that chance encounter, that compassion from a stranger which helps me to find compassion for all.

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Thanks for sharing Binky with us, Cheryl!

 

our cat poodle July 18, 2010

Filed under: poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:02 am
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Meet Dusty.

Dusty is not an incorrigible counter surfer.  He is not a pantry raider with a death wish.  He is not a giant cream goofus.

Dusty is a cat.

Oh, I know.  From the photo he looks like a dog.  I’m sure his canine parents and his breeder thought he was a dog.  I’m sure when I’m walking him down the street on a leash that people think he’s a dog.

It’s a lie.

Dogs are adoring.  They follow their masters and want to be picked up.  They come when they’re called.  They’re cuddly and happy.

Not cats.  Cats climb to the highest points of sofas.  They refuse to be picked up.  They ignore you if you want their attention.  They have their own agenda.  They force you to do what they want.  They take off and don’t come when you call them.

That’s Dusty. 

Well.  That’s Dusty most of the time.  He does have one canine habit.  It’s a good thing he does, because it is the secret to controlling him.  Dusty has what we call BOD.  Ball Obsession Disorder.  We can get him to do almost anything if we produce a ball as bait.  He has a very impressive repertoire of tricks that he will do if you will throw a ball after he does what you ask. 

Sometimes BOD saves his life.  Every couple of years Dusty managed to break out of the house and took off running.  The only fool proof way we discovered to get him back was with a ball.  While he is tearing down the sidewalk at full speed, a ball thrown past him will exert a powerful force.  You can watch the magic power break through his desire for freedom as he swerves helplessly to follow the ball.

He grabs it, and then he must return it.  He needs it to be thrown again.  He’ll drop it on the sidewalk  just out of reach so you can’t grab him, but now you have him anyway.  You throw toward the  house, in successive throws and returns until you’re throwing it through the front door, and he is compelled  to follow it in.  Shut the door and he wags his tail as he takes his ball and collapses on his pillow. 

Then he curls up and becomes a cat again.

 

bad talents (part 5) July 16, 2010

Filed under: poodles — Shawn L. Bird @ 12:02 am
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Continued misadventures of Kimelle’s Optimum Jive aka OJ the standard poodle  

The (first) Near Death Experience.  

True and very scary story.  However, like most true and scary stories, it has its comical elements.  So while we’re laughing about this, I know we are all very aware of how very, very close this was to being a tragedy.   Consider this a cautionary tale.

I tend to have the TV on, my notebook computer out, and be reading  (or writing) a book well into the wee hours of the morning.  The dogs (OJ and Dusty, his mini-poo brother who is much less prone to life threatening idiocy) fall asleep on a couch or their pillows, keeping me company until lock them up for the night when I finally head off to bed.  One night, I fell asleep on the couch around 2 a.m. and woke up again at 4 a.m.  I staggered down the hall to lock up the dogs in their room, and crashed on my bed.  At 8 a.m. I was attacked by a flying poodle.  

Normally, my husband wakes up first, gets the dogs up, outside and serves them breakfast.  Then he locks the two of them in the bedroom with me when he heads off to work.  (We endeavour to keep the dogs contained when we aren’t supervising them, for obvious reasons).  I am usually awakened by my radio blaring, and open my eyes to find OJ’s nose nearby or Dusty dropping a stinky ball beside my head.  Apparently on the day in question, our containment routine was missed.  Hubby had neglected to shut the dogs in with me; I guess because he was home and puttering around in the basement and garage.  

I blinked sleepily as OJ barked a happy bark next to my face, wagging his tail furiously, and then he leapt off the bed and tore off full speed down the hall.  I tried to wake up, but didn’t rise.  OJ came tearing back up the hall, leapt onto the bed with a long, gazelle-like stride, his front feet landing firmly on my belly.  As I struggled to regain my breath, OJ stood next to me, tail creating an impressive breeze, while he panted like he was laughing at me.  I sat up.  He barked again and raced off down the hall again.  Before I had my feet on the floor he had roared back up the hall and was beside me on the bed panting again.  OJ is not a morning creature either.  He is generally the last body out of the bed everyday.

“Do you have to go out, OJ?”  

“WOOF!” he declared and raced off again.  

“All right, all right.  I’m coming,”  I muttered as I stumbled down the hall and let him into the back yard.  He tore out the door and raced several circuits of the yard.  I stood at the kitchen window watching.  OJ is not a very energetic dog.  This was very odd behaviour.  He stopped at his favourite tree and lifted his leg.  He promptly fell over.  It took him a couple of tries to get his tri-pod balance and get the job done.  This was weird.  

I met him at the door to let him in.  He raced into the living room, leapt up onto the couch, and promptly fell off.  This was alarming.  I went to the couch and he jumped up beside me.  I felt into his arm pit* for his pulse.  His heart was racing.  I felt his feet.  They were really hot, almost sweaty feeling. I pushed a finger onto his gum.  It stayed white longer than it should. **  What on Earth was going on?  I ordered him to a pillow to lay down.  He obeyed, then stood again panting.  I ordered him down again.  He obeyed, then stood again.  He couldn’t contain his energy.  

I went into the kitchen and started making myself some pancakes while I thought about what to do.  OJ followed me.  He stumbled as he walked. His eyes were unnaturally bright.  

I opened my pantry door to get some flour and the mystery was solved.  

Pulled through the wires of one of the pantry drawers was the wrapping from a chocolate bar. A large chocolate bar.  I turned to OJ in horror.  “OH NO!”  He looked down at the floor, giving his tail a weak, decidedly guilty wag.   

Crap.  Crap. Crap.  This was bad.   

This was very, very bad.   

Science lesson:  

Dogs cannot eat chocolate.  It’s not so much the caffeine as it is a related chemical called theobromine found in the cacao bean that is seriously toxic to their system.   Theobromine levels increase the darker the chocolate.  White chocolate has hardly any.  Milk chocolate has some.  Bakers chocolate has tons.  According to talktothevet.com the toxic level of 100 mg of theobromine per one kilo of canine body weight works out like this:  

1 ounce per 1 pound of body weight for Milk chocolate
1 ounce per 3 pounds of body weight for Semisweet chocolate
1 ounce per 9 pounds of body weight for Baker’s chocolate.  

OJ had consumed almost all of a huge bar, about 10 ounces of 80% cacao specialty chocolate (i.e. Bakers).  He weighs 65 lbs.  He was well over the toxic threshold of about 7.3 ounces for his body weight.  He was looking death in the eye.  

We phoned the vet to tell them we were coming.  We were in the examining room 10 minutes later.  As usual, OJ behaved like a model citizen in the vet office.  He believes strongly in his role as standard poodle ambassador, even when at death’s door.  He allowed the vet to poke and prod without complaint, even when his tail was lifted and the thermometer was inserted.  He gave me a rather unimpressed look while the vet talked to him and tried to distract him from indignity by patting at the other end, but OJ bore it all.  His temperature had come down; I could feel it in his paws as well.  The vet took his pulse, and his heart rate was just a bit above normal.  His blood pressure was almost back to normal.  The verdict was that he had already passed through the danger zone, and was in recovery.   

Once a dog has reached the stumbling stage, the brain is suffering from the toxicity.  After that stage come seizures, and then heart or respiratory failure.  OJ had ingested enough theobromine that he should have died.  I was sent home and told to bring him back if he developed seizures, but the vet was pretty sure he was going to be fine.  The good news for us was that although theobromine takes several days to clear out of the system, it doesn’t leave lingering effects, such that a few chocolate chips at a later date would tip the scales and kill him.  He gets to start from zero again.  Considering OJ’s incorrigibility, this is a very good thing.  

Ever notice how OJ is sleeping in all his photos? He's really just faking, while he plans his next stealth mission of death.

We had no idea when OJ got into the chocolate.  It could have been while I was sleeping on the couch or when he was left out after starting his day.  It takes a few hours for the effects to show. If we had caught it early enough, he could have been given charcoal to absorb it or had vomiting induced to get the theobromine out of his system before he was poisoned.  Because we figured it out only after we observed the neurological symptoms, it was too late to do anything except treat him with anti-convulsants if he developed seizures, which luckily, he didn’t.  

 Needless to say, I no longer store my chocolate in the pantry.

* find your dog’s pulse using the femoral artery in the ‘arm pit’ of a back leg, palm facing the leg.

** you can check for blood pressure by pushing the gums.  Do it when the dog is healthy to see how quickly the spot goes from white to normal again.  (about a second).  If it takes 2 or 3 seconds, the blood pressure has dropped.