Puppies: Trog and Other Animals

Gel

Gel

Sasha came into season and we started checking to see if she was ready to mate. By giving her a scratching type of pat near where her tail and body joined we could decide whether we should make a trip to the male dog, Gel. When she was ready her tail would lift and move to one side. The difficulty was making sure that Egor did not have access to her first.

Gel & Sasha

Gel & Sasha

Finally the day came and we put her in the car and went to see the male. The  mating came as a bit of a shock to me as I had always just assumed that the humping that I had observed in other dogs was the act. This was not the case. It was an acrobatic performance on the part of the male dog who had to manage to turn around, joined together so that they were then bottom to bottom in a straight line. There they stood stationary for over half an hour.  Gel’s owners told me that if you separated a dog at this point in the proceedings both dogs would suffer injury.

Then the long wait to see if pregnancy had happened.  The gestation time was 9 weeks and it usually isn’t possible to tell before 5 weeks whether the bitch is pregnant. So we took her to the vet and found out that puppies would be due in six weeks. We had the whelping box. We had our kennel name “Mathburn” approved so all we had to do was wait.

When the time came she refused to get in the whelping box. She wanted to have those puppies on the bean bag and she wanted that bean bag beside the bed. She dragged it from the lounge room and then spent a long time walking around in circles in one direction and then repeating the procedure walking the other direction, on the bean bag. She couldn’t settle. Then the first puppy was born. It was the first time I had seen the birth of anything. I don’t know how I missed out in my nursing training but watching this birth I could understand for the first time how my friends had found the witnessing of their first human births. A wonderful experience, eight times over a couple of hours. She was a wonderful mother removing them from their membraneous sacs and cleaning and warming them, eating the afterbirth. A messy business and the bean bag was never used again.

After they were all born I put them in the whelping box, designed so that injury is prevented by the mother crushing her babies against the sides should she lie on them. We had been warned to keep Egor away. Warned that Sasha would be protective of her babies and therefore aggressive towards him should he approach and that he would most likely eat the babies if he got near them. Neither of these things happened and Egor made a valiant attempt at being a good substitute father. He would have fed them if he could.

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Egor: Trog and Other Animals

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We came home from our visit to the kennels with more than a puppy, Egor. The people at the kennel liked Sasha’s pedigree and asked if we would consider letting their dog Gel mate with her when her second season came in a few months. Gel was a large, golden magnificent looking animal, with a good pedigree and  as we had always thought we would let Sasha have at least one litter of puppies we agreed. We left armed with information about the whelping box we were to make, registering a name for a kennel so that the puppies could be registered and other information that was pertinent to dog breeding and our little male puppy.

Macarra again disappeared with her nose out of joint but for a lesser period of time. Sasha was more than happy to have company and accepted the puppy with glee. A couple of weeks later a friend turned up with a black and white kitten that he had found dumped. We were the only people he knew that had a house and could take animals so he thought he’d deposit it with us. Macarra again went to her retreat under the house but this time she didn’t even last 24 hours. She came back and made sure that both kitten and puppy knew who was boss. Whiskey and Egor, both being babies, formed a real bond, with the cat curled up between the dog’s feet along his abdomen. When both at home they were together much of the time.

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Egor grew. I’d never had a male dog before and I was really enjoying his personality. He liked to make his own mind up about people, always liking them but never giving the impression that he would be just as happy with the visitor as with us. Unfortunately, again he was very much my dog. I tried not to let it happen and Paul did his training at GSDL dog training but the day-to-day fell to me or it wouldn’t have happened. An uncontrollable dog, particularly a big one like a German Shepherd, is not an enjoyable house mate if not obedient. Dogs, like children, enjoy knowing what the boundaries are and I think when they have a choice will attach themselves to the person that commands them. If I was at work then, they were more than happy to transfer their attention to Paul.

One of their happiest outings was to Lane Cove River Park. We would throw sticks into the river and they would usually bring them back together. Sasha was the branch manager and Egor the sub branch manager.

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We were almost ready with our preparations for breeding and Sasha was nearly at her time of readiness.

 

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The menagerie begins: Trog and Other Animals

A  few years passed before I owned another pet. I kicked up my heels, explored Australia on my GT550 motor bike and as I was not settled in any one place long enough, I was not justified to have any animal dependent on me.

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This changed when I met and fell in love with my husband to be, Paul. Life was idyllic. It was time to add to the family. Our first addition was another grey tabby cat. We called her Macarra because of the big black M that she had in the middle of her head joining her two eyes together.

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Macarra was around 5 months old when we decided to get a puppy. I can’t remember why we chose the breed German Shepherd; it was before the days of Inspector Rex. We started to go around the breeders to find the right puppy but we didn’t get past the first one. The kennel we went to was particular about what was going to happen with their puppies.  As registered breeders, they didn’t want any indiscriminate puppy breeding. However, the puppy we bought came from Champion stock and I have to admit we did have it in the back of our heads that we would one day like puppies.

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When we brought Sasha home Macarra chose to become an outside cat for a couple of days, hissing and snarling at the new family member that had usurped her place in the house. After the initial unhappiness the two became good friends and I was besotted with my new best friend. We would go for long walks twice a day and once a week we would go to Frenchs Forest to the German Shepherd Dog League for training. Obedience training came easily to her and she progressed up the classes at a good rate. Paul started to get angry as I did the training and it was to me that Sasha looked. She followed me everywhere. We decided to get a second dog, one that he could train and have as his companion.  We had by this time met some people at dog training and we knew that they had a litter of puppies almost ready to go. A date was made to go and see them.

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Dear Abby: Daily Post Weekly Challenge

Dear Abby,

I am a mature, on the verge of over-ripening woman. I don’t have children, not that I didn’t want to; it just didn’t happen. I survived that but I am now finding it very difficult to cope and I need your advice.

All my friends, who hardly ever talked about their children, chat incessantly about their grandchildren. Their lives seem to orbit around these little beings to the point that they stop living and taking opportunities themselves. Get a group together and it is, for me,  simply boring as they compare and pass photographs. I’m excluded and I can’t join in. Abby, I can cope with this. I have a lifetime strategy of surviving boredom.

What I can’t take, is when they start a conversation about the children looking  after them in their twilight years and their plans to move near them.  A group together will chat about these kids, show photos, discuss how they won’t manage in old age unless they are near their children and at that point I  lose it. My brain snaps. Normally with anger whilst talking to the girl friends but, the tears come when I finally get home. My husband has promised that he will die after me so that I won’t have to worry about being alone. Sweet, but in all reality that probably won’t happen as he is much older than I. Abby, I would appreciate your advice on how I can go on into a future of having to suffer more doting grandparents and then my eventual loss of friends as one by one they leave to join their children.

Thanking you in anticipation                                                                                                 Excluded and Abandoned

Dear Excluded and Abandoned,

I hope that some of the following suggestions will help you cope and maybe improve your lot. Firstly, tell each of your friends how you feel before meeting them again and ask that they limit the time they talk about their grandchildren.

Secondly, prepare now for the future and fill your life with endless activities where you will meet people who think of things other than their family. Foster these new relationships and once flourishing you’ll have less time for the family oriented set. Alternatively, if  you can’t find un-obssessed people, still make new friends but make sure that their children live in the same area so that they don’t move, right at the time of your life, when it is very difficult to meet new people.

Thirdly, I could suggest a banana on the top of the stairs for your husband.  Then with new freedom, look for a new one that will share his children and grandchildren. You could  look at becoming an adopted granny if you are not happy to do the previous step. That way you get to see children at present giving time and they may like you enough to visit you when you’re old. Failing all of the above suggestions anti-depressants will at least make you not care about your situation.

All the best for the future                                                                                                          Abby

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/10/28/weekly-writing-challenge-dear-abby/

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Animals of my Dark Ages – Trog and Other Animals

Sammy survived until the ripe old age of sixteen cossetted and loved by Auntie Annie and my parents who retired and replaced Auntie Annie in her life as stay at home pets. I on the other hand was embarking into a dark period in my life and this naturally rubbed off on the animals which I loved during this time.

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As soon as I moved into share accommodation my desire for an animal again became strong. I eventually succumbed and into my life came Big Cat and Little Cat; so named simply because I couldn’t come up with a name. They were 8 week old grey tabby kittens that were likely to meet an untimely demise if I hadn’t agreed to take them. Cats, I thought, were okay with shift work as they cared less about their people than their surroundings. That would have been fine had their surroundings been cat friendly.

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Little cat disappeared first. To this day I hope that she just decided someone else’s home was a better bet than my derelict digs. Although saddened by her departure I didn’t see her as gone. Big Cat I did see go – under a car on the main road on my 21st birthday. There were no celebrations or parties for me that day just pure abject misery. I grieved for that kitten as though she had long  been in my life.

I refused to have another animal until I felt my life was stable. How wrong was I when I thought that time the time of settling had come?

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90 is the new 30, the frustrating numbers we believe

I live in a world where all the people around me live in a world of unreality. My 85 year old mother, for example, hardly able to walk on a walker exclaims when overhearing me check if there is disabled access “Who’s disabled?” and then horrified when I tell her it’s her. It is great to hear the reality which is also my reality.

ittymac's avatarittymac

used car salesman and old lady

I heard it on TV!

40 is the new 20.

60 is the new 40.

Bull pucky!   If you believe that, maybe it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee, and while you’re at it, come to terms with the fact that you might be buying yellow bricks from a bunch of munchkins from Planet Oz.

Illusion is the new truth out there, my friends!

What’s real in my house is the troubling personal reality that 90 minutes has become the new 30 minutes and the end results are starting to suck big time since I’m working with what I have and not so much with what I need, or used to have, or think I ought to have.

I remember working like a son of a gun without ending the day with cascading waves of muscles cramps and insomnia.  I remember when a glass of white wine was…

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Sammy Saves the Day: Trog and Other Animals

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I wasn’t at Lindfield long. No more than a year. Sammy and the rest of the family were there probably two years after me then they moved to the family home in Mosman.  My Great Aunt remained in the house although she had sold it to my parents. This made Sammy incredibly happy as once again she had day-time company and better still that company loved gardening; so they spent their days together in the garden. And what a wonderful garden it was.

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The front gardens were formal – small squares of grass bordered with tiny hedges and paths leading to the front door and to either side. Down the stairs on one side was the rose garden. Another formal garden with a grass square bordered with rose bushes that bore scented blooms of every hue. The roses went when Auntie Annie did and hydrangeas and other fairly nondescript plants that would look after themselves replaced them. From there, continuing around the side, was the work garden which held all the potting equipment  and seedlings and the like. Then around to the back – another square of grass resplendent with the Australian icon – the hills hoist.

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From there one descended into childhood heaven. A long ramp led down to the bottom garden. Here in the overgrown rambling garden there were hidden paths, caves to explore, trees to climb, grassy slopes to roll down. These grassy slopes created logistic problems for mowing but my father devised a method of tying the mower to a tree at the top and slowly loosening the rope, sending the mower down the slope by itself. Once at the bottom he would then pull it back up to send it down again on an unmown strip.

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So Sammy became Auntie Annie’s constant companion and really didn’t seem to miss me at all which, was lucky because now nursing and developing a social life I was rarely home. When Auntie Annie fell in the garden, severely injuring her leg to the point she couldn’t walk (she actually broke it) Sammy left her side and went and created such a noise that the next door neighbour, trying to sleep after a night shift, finally came to investigate. Without Sammy I am sure that my Aunt, in her early nineties, may not have survived until my parents made it home, numerous hours after her fall had occurred.

Sammy’s reward for this devotion? That night, for the first time, she was allowed inside. She lay on a towel in front of the television, not moving. I think if she’d been a cat her purr would have been heard all through the house. Mum I think enjoyed having the company and allowed this from that night on.

 

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First it broke: Now it too is broken

First it broke: Now it too is broken

© irene waters 2013     First it broke: Now it too is broken

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