Puppy Obsession~

I'm completely obsessed with our new puppies. Although, I have to say, I feel a bit like a schoolteacher who has one scholarship student and two moneyed prep students in my charge. They've been with us about a month now, and I'm slowly beginning to understand Basenji language, which is quite different from other dogs I've had.

Today, for instance, the female, Bibi, gave me a privileged and withering look that said as plain as if it were written in any book, "We're not doing anything bad, besides José said it was okay to play with his kitten." Well, I know José did say it was okay, but I think three puppies and one small kitten is no match, even with the claws. When the little Basenji male, Chacho, pulled at the kitten's tail while Bibi darted at the head and the mix, Hale, moved around to the side, I told them, "Leave it!"

When Bibi refused, I picked her up and took her home. She spent most of the rest of the morning ignoring my commands to "come" or "sit." We had a short leash induced Sit-Stay-Come session. Then I ignored her.

A little before noon I was talking to Alan out in his shop when I felt a wet nose on my calf. Bibi, wiggling her tail and wanting up. I think the thing about these dogs–– as opposed to terriers, for instance–– is that they are strongly bonded to their owners, so ignoring them is the worst of punishments.

My friend, Gary, sent me a letter telling of someone he knew who left two Basenjis in the car while he did some business at a radio station. Gary didn't say how long the man was in there, but it was obviously too long for the dogs. They tore out the man's entire back seat.

Yes, Basenjis don't like being left alone and they don't like being bored. Think four-year-old children. Out Of Bounds I believe is how Dr. Spock described the age.

They also have a reputation of being snarky when awakened suddenly. The advice is to wake them with words first before picking them up out of a sound sleep. I told Alan I'm a bit that way myself to which he readily agreed.

***


My days start at five when the sky is still steel gray and dew is heavy in the potrero. I get dressed, load my pockets with liver cubes, and head out the door. There I am met by three wiggling, jumping, happy dogs wanting to go for a walk. If I pull on my rubber boots, spray up for mosquitoes, and head out of our front yard fast enough, they do their business on the walk and not on the porch.

The four of us walk down the yard and past the mammoth fig tree that borders the potrero. It stands 150 feet tall, its upper branches filled with bromeliads the size of Volkswagens and its gargantuan root system flaring away from the trunk like the gray fortress walls of a castle. The Great black hawk lives up there and some mornings I hear its high keening call as we pass by.

Then we cross one of the many drainage ditches and walk beside it down to the bottom of our property line. For several mornings this week I've noticed tracks in the mud at the bottom of the ditch and wondered what would make a trail like that. There is a flat track about three inches wide flanked by tiny footprints not an inch apart. The track is straight and purposeful. One morning the trail stopped abruptly and went back from where it had come. No iguana or Basilisk lizard could make a trail like that. I think to myself: snake, from the dragging center line, but their movements are more tortuous, and they don't have feet. So what could it be?


This morning, as we crossed back over the ditch at the far western edge of the property, there was a small puddle under the board-bridge where the water has yet to evaporate from the last rains. The bottom wriggled a life of black pollywogs, struggling to survive in their restricted world. In the middle of all this sat a small box turtle, feasting on the pollywogs. I was afraid the dogs would discover him and moved on, but realized the riddle of the tracks in the ditch had been solved.

Half way up the potrero, the first faint rays of light fingered their way through the ragged jungle to the east and I heard the howlers calling to each other. The dogs stopped at their own pace to relieve themselves.Then they all had noses to the ground intent on the smells of things that passed in the night.

Hale (like a good scholarship student) is the best at following commands and is often the retriever for the other two. None of them would come this morning, though. Passing under a madera negra tree, where a whole troop of howler monkeys gamboled in the branches above, the little dogs feasted on monkey scat while the howlers grunk grunked over their heads. I watched the monkeys slip from limb to limb as gold rays stretched out across the meadow. Then I moved up the way.

My rubber boots clunked steadily against my shins as I walked along the swampy bottomland toward the eastern border of the potrero. The little dogs eventually tired of the scat and raced through the damp grass to my feet, sat up expectantly, asking for a bit of liver. On our way back, I passed the monkey flower tree which is in bloom right now and smelling of Lily of the Valley. I picked some flowers and as we passed Kasha's grave I tossed them there for her.

Then it was back to the house for dried kibble and a good clean up while I made breakfast.

They will nap off and on for a couple of hours and then it will be another walk, round about ten. And another in the late afternoon: Cat Crazy Time, as my mother calls it. Then they wheel out in front of me and race down the potrero, bulldozing dried leaves out of the way.















The Basenjis intentionally trip themselves, doing somersaults in the grass. They graze like Angus cows and chase each other until Hale's tongue hangs to the ground and her sides heave. And the Basenjis? They barely get a pant up.

So, it's walking, playing, and a lot of chewing! And, like many scholarship children, Miss Hale doesn't feel that what she is given is nearly as nice as what the privileged kids get (even when she has an identical chew toy herself).

Miss Hale in her favorite mode...with something in her mouth.

A Puddle of Puppies~

One thing I knew for certain after our dog, Kashá, died: We needed a puppy. Not a puppy to replace our dog--because there is no replacing her--but a puppy to help fill the gaping hole left behind, and to staunch the tears. A puppy to remember that life goes on after loss and that an open heart can love again.

At first we considered a Boxer because we need a watch dog, and Kashá was the best. When she was on duty no one came into our yard without being cleared by one of us. This area of Costa Rica… well, actually, all of Costa Rica is quite dangerous. Once, while sitting in a small Italian restaurant in San José, I watched a woman come out of her place of work, pop open the trunk of her car and inspect the contents before closing it again and driving off. As I sipped my glass of wine I realized she was probably looking for a stow-away, someone she might inadvertently take inside her barred and gated compound where he would then rob her and her family, or worse. The papers and local news are full of these sorts of stories. Here in Talamanca, we do not have walls around our house, or even bars on our windows. We have dogs. They are our security system and are well worth the cost of dog food and veterinary care. And we love them.

We looked in the paper for Boxers and found a couple of ads, but when the owners sent pictures the dogs were too stocky for our taste, resembling more bulldog than the leggy Boxers we have seen. We also read that they tend to be aggressive toward other dogs of the same sex. That ruled out a male, as we have two older males on the place already. They had a female, but by then I'd found an ad for Basenjis.

I have always wanted a Basenji. They are odd ducks of the dog world (excuse the mixed metaphor), more like cats than dogs, really. Descended from pariah dogs of Africa, they have been man's companions since ancient times. Originally from the Congo, they were used by Pygmy tribesmen as hunting partners, flushing out small game into waiting nets. They also appear in murals from the time of the Pharaohs. Some argue the god Anubis is actually a Basenji. In any event, Basenjis are an old breed.

We went to see them on a Saturday morning and I was completely smitten. The breeders, the only breeders in Costa Rica, had four pups--three males and one female-- and both parents for us to see. The owner let the mother out of her pen so she could take the little guys for an exercise run. Resembling an inflated balloon that's been released, she ran in wild circles with the four pups hard on her heels. By the time our visit was over we'd picked out two. But Basenjis don't bark, so what kind of watch dog would this make?. They make plenty of other noises, I've found out since, but barking isn't one of them.

The next day, Sunday, we went to the animal adoption fair held every week at a central park in San José. The organization, started by an incredible American woman, Karin Anne Hoad, is called Asociación Animales de Asis and rescues street dogs of Costa Rica. They do not put down any of the animals they rescue and have developed a relationship with the veterinary school to get all the animals spayed or neutered. Volunteers help socialize the dogs and they have found homes for dogs with cancer, dogs with only three legs, and, most incredibly, a dog that had most of the top of his head chopped off with a machete. The dog was actually at the park with his new owners the day we were there. His head is a bit scarred, but he is a very happy, functional dog.

There were quite a few older dogs there, and I was attracted to a female Shar Pei mix. She was tough looking with broad scars across her chest. I asked about her and was told she was found wandering the streets in a badass section of San José. I watched her for awhile; she seemed friendly and eager with each person who came by her cage. I was about to go over and visit her when one of the volunteers set down a crate of puppies next to me. There were two pups, one black with a long tail and another, tan in color, leggy, and droopy ears. Her face looked very Lab-like and I asked if I could look at her. I picked her up, and that's the one we arranged to take home the next day. I was going to name her for the park where we got her: Sabana, and call her Saba for short, but then remembered that there is a feminine hygiene napkin by that name. So... she became Hale (pronounced Holly)

They tried to get me to take the Shar Pei, but, feeling a bit like the little old man and the little old woman in Wanda Gag's old children's book Millions of Cats, I decided that three puppies was enough. I was also concerned that the Shar Pei might be TOO friendly and we needed a watch dog.

Monday morning we picked up the street dog and one of the Basenjis. The little female we named Bibi, African for Lady.
I'd had a sleepless night the night before, wondering what I had got us into. Maybe the Basenjis were a mistake. Maybe they were too hard to handle. I'd read about them online the night before. Fox like in appearance, Basenjis grow to be about 16-20 inches tall and are quite independent thinkers. Smart and with "the attention span of a gnat," as one Web site put it, they can be a handful in the wrong household. Anyone looking for a dog that immediately follows commands ought not even look at a Basenji. They tend to be somewhat like terriers, I think: out to please themselves. The best match, according to everything I read, is someone who has had a lot of dogs, is not Alpha-challenged, and is ready to find a fun way for the dog to learn. The best technique with them, I read, is to ignore them. They thrive on affection and cannot stand being given the cold shoulder.

By Monday morning I figured I could handle one. Later, if they weren't all sold, and I liked the dog, I reasoned, I'd get the other. Alan and I drove home with two puppies and all their gear.

Since then we acquired the other Basenji, the little male we call Chacho, and I am busy from about five in the morning until seven at night.


A tired Basenji is a good Basenji, is one of the cardinal pieces of advice I've gotten.


I'm giving it my best shot!

Nine-Night for Dogs~

The beginning is always today.
Mary Wollstonecraft~

Last Friday was our dog Kasha's Nine-Night, a day recognized among the blacks here on this Caribbean coastline. The tradition originated in Jamaica and is still practiced today when someone dies. Three days after the death and again nine nights after the death, friends and family stay up through the night to help the dead pass along on their journey into the next world.

For Kasha's Nine-Night I placed money, a little rice, and some dog food in small dishes on my Buddhist shrine. The dishes were surrounded with figures representing the Chinese birth year of her entire family. Our hired man, José, cut fresh flowers each day, replenishing the old ones on the shrine, and incense floated across my living room throughout the week.

Saturday, around three in the morning, I awoke feeling her presence, as though she were moving off and on her way. She is missed in this world.

We now have puppies to blunt the heavy and hollow feeling of loss. Partly we need a replacement watchdog in this very dangerous countryside. Kashita was our primary warning shot. Partly we need companionship, and she was certainly that. We are adjusting...slowly to the new members of the family.

I will blog about puppies and house training and all of that soon.

Crack! and Thump~

Crack! and Thump; With a Combat Infantry Officer in World War II

This book is a tour de force. Barry Basden captures Charlie Scheffel's life in battle so vividly you will think you are there. It is funny, frank, and sometimes horrific. I was unable to put the book down...

To read the rest of my review please follow this link.