Found dog needs a new home

Will you be this pitty puppy's new mama?

Recently, I posted a picture of a Found Dog poster that I spotted on the trail. It looks like whoever took in that wayward pup hasn't had any luck finding her owners, and is now trying to find the pretty girl a forever home. The photo above and a couple of others are on Craigslist.

From the sound of it, the dog is a real sweetheart. I wonder if the good samaritan who took her in will have a hard time letting her go. The last time we found ourselves in a similar situation, I just couldn't bring myself to re-home the dog. I suppose that means I'm not an ideal candidate for fostering...

Why keep this blog?

Note: This post was originally a sort of explanation page called Where Wayward Dogs Go. I decided to make it a standard post because I think it's better suited as such. The new "explanation" is a Disclaimer, which spells out the point of this project more clearly and succinctly (and, I hope, assures you that I am not too much of a self-righteous, crazy pet lady).

The idea for this blog stems from a realization that there are a lot of wayward dogs in Zach's and my life. All three of our dogs were wayward -- either lost or escaped -- before we got them. One of them we first met cowering on the walking/jogging/biking trail near our house about a year ago. As it turns out, that trail is a regular dog magnet.

It's no wonder that dogs are so attracted -- for them, the trail presents a bounty of smells and intrigue. Not a canine that travels it -- on-leash or off -- fails to leave a mark. The trail is also bordered with grasses, trees and weeds that feral cats and other animals like to hide in.

Don't get the wrong impression -- we do live in an urban area. Our trail runs parallel to and crosses really busy streets at various points. But the sometimes-gravel, sometimes-paved pathway also leads through swaths of gnarled trees (which provide great cover for someone's backyard chickens) and passes by a bad-smelling creek. This trail is like a little artery of nature running through our part of Kansas City.

In that sense, the trail itself is wayward. It is a departure from the concrete, glass and metal of regular city living and therefore bears an obvious appeal for animals that -- even after thousands of years of domestication by humans -- still like to dig in the dirt and roll in the grass. Those are doggy urges I can understand. We usually spot loose dogs because we are outside digging in the dirt and tearing out grass for a massive and possibly too-ambitious food garden project.

In just the past month, we have found ourselves dropping our spades to chase after other people's wayward pit bulls, a border collie, a half-deaf and half-blind old mutt, and a beagle. Some of them we caught; some of them we chased unsuccessfully; at least two of them we happened to unknowingly chase right back onto their own family's property.

In the midst and aftermath of these little rescue missions, people have expressed both gratitude and puzzlement at our actions. We hope they realize that we are not trying to be the neighborhood animal control. We are just demonstrating the concern we hope our beloved dogs (or cat) would encounter should any of them ever become go wayward.

Wayward dog alert!

Zach says that around 1:30 a.m. some neighbors were searching the neighborhood for their lost dog -- a husky/german shepherd mix. I hope they find their dog...

So many wayward pets

I took my dogs to the vet today, and the bulletin board was full of lost dogs and cats, mostly from our neighborhood.

Did flea spray hurt my cat?



This cat did not die!

I can't say for sure that Sergeant's flea spray caused my cat Luxor to have a seizure and nearly go blind, but I will never use it again.

Maybe you wonder why a responsible pet owner who spends way too much money on premium, grain-free pet food would use a flea repellant available at the grocery store. The embarrassing truth is twofold: 1) I favor my dogs over my cat, who has always been prone to sinking his razor fangs into my calves regularly. 2) I succumbed to greenwashing.

Through greenwashing, companies play up the "environmentally responsible" or "natural" aspects of their products. Sergeant's spray does contain some natural ingredients, including peppermint oil. However, hyping the use of these naturally-derived ingredients seems disengenous if those same substances are potentially very dangerous when sprayed on an animal that grooms itself with its tongue.

What Sergeant's packaging doesn't say -- but the ASPCA does -- is that peppermint oil, although naturally occuring, is toxic to cats.

Sergeant's (and other makers of similar products) skirts the safety issue with the fine print. According to the label, the spray is "safe for use around children and pets when used as directed." Yet, the directions say to apply the spray onto the cat. Of course, the directions also warn of "Hazards to humans and domestic animals" and suggest contacting a veterinarian in the event of persistent "sensitivities."
Again, I can't be certain that my use of this spray is what made my cat very, very sick about 30 hours later. After seeing the bottle and considering that I had used the product on him before, the emergency vet seemed confident that his sudden seizure, glaucoma symptoms and frighteningly low platelet count were attributable to a systemic issue, most likely lymphoma.

To our great relief, a couple days and some powerful meds later, Luxor was almost back to himself. The rapid recover, though, does seem consistent with a poisoning or severe allergic reaction. The vet at our regular animal hospital agreed, although he did not discount totally the lymphoma possibility. It's just nearly impossible to know for sure.

My gut says the problem was the flea spray. And despite what my neighbor says, I'm not just trying to take on guilt. The simplest answer is usually the right one, and given the time elapsed and the cat's age (roughly 5), a reaction to flea spray seems more plausible than lymphoma or a tick bite or a rare immune disorder.

The truth is, I probably very nearly killed my cat. That sucks. It sucks so much that I can't believe I'm admitting it in public.

But if there is any silver lining to this scenario, it's this: If the flea spray was to blame and not lymphoma, then Luxor seems to have made a complete recovery, which means he still has a lot of years left to terrorize me. With a lymphoma prognosis, the future would be a lot more grim.
But I still wish this had never happened, and I promise to be a more conscientious cat owner from now on.

Wayward dog #2 - Stella (again)

I totally called it. We had a crazy storm on Friday night/early Saturday morning, and I said I bet we found a wayward dog sometime Saturday. I figured it would be some new dog, though.

Stella hadn't quite made it to the trail when I first saw her this time. She was nervously making her way through the neighborhood, randomly running from yard to street. Before greeting Luke and me (which is how I caught her), she nearly got hit by a car.

I should have known that was too easy. Not five minutes after I called her owner, skinny Stella slipped out of our backyard gate with Zach. So began a 20-minute game of chase as she zipped around the neighborhood a couple of blocks over. Her most infuriating trick is lying down in the grass as if she's tired and looking at you with eyes that beg for a pet. As soon as you get close to her, she takes off again.

Fortunately, she ran right up to a young couple and their son, who, as the owners of a sweet brindle pit bull named Zeus, were willing to help us nab Stella. Enticing her with french fries, their child, the chance for a car ride and the chance to go inside still seemed to take forever. But someone finally snagged her collar, and Zach fashioned his belt into a makeshift leash.

When we got back to our house, Stella's owner was pacing our property in confusion. He seemed embarrassed that I was returning his dog for the third time in about a month. (Apparently, this time storm damage messed up their fence.) As he put one of those slip-leashes the vet gives you around the dog's head, he explained that she's supposed to be part Greyhound. No wonder she can run.

Wayward dog #2 - Bella

When I first noticed this dog, she appeared to be walking off leash with a guy and another dog. When she got distracted, a woman reached for her, missed and shouted after the dude. He shrugged his shoulders and kept going. (People like this are really annoying. C'mon, dude, you have a dog. Now, have some sympathy for someone else's.) The dog kept going, too -- in the opposite direction.

I grabbed a leash (but not my phone, hence no picture) and took up chase. The well-groomed creamy white and tan creature, however, was not interested in being caught. She loped down the trail, occasionally slowing to sniff around someone else's dogs or a trash can, but as soon as I got within in 10 feet, she'd dart. After three blocks, I just about gave up, but some bicyclists assured me she was just ahead, and when I rounded the bend, there she was. With a guy, who was gripping her collar.


My relief was doubled when he said he was her owner, who turned out to be a really nice guy. He'd been at the bar and received a voicemail from his roommate informing him his dog Bella had gotten out. He was, in fact, just beginning to search when the dog found him. Smart dog.

Because Bella's owner was headed the same way I came, we walked together. Within a few sentences, he figured out that I live in the house with the new garden that he rides his bicycle past every day. I started to describe my own dogs, but he cut me off with his own descriptions -- "the cool ones who lay in the yard" and the "little one who always barks at me when I ride past." I didn't really know what to say beyond that, except, "Yeah, I was planting when we saw your dog but was actually a little relieved for the break."

I'm still getting used to being the person in the neighborhood with the crazy, evolving yard. We've taken out trees and put in trees, built a retaining wall and planted, planted, planted. It's awesome. I'm so proud of us and excited about what's to come. But I'm also aware that to some people, this endeavor could make us seem like the neighborhood eccentrics.

So does chasing after lost dogs. This, I felt keenly in the awkward non-response that Bella's owner provided after I breathlessly explained 1) that I just started a blog about lost dogs and 2) how we recently chased a hunting dog probably two miles before giving up.

Oh, well. It's not like he could judge me.

Go away, Trolley Trail rapist!

This was one of those weeks when I could have written a post every day. But for lack of time I've had to look forward to the brain dump, impressions mounting, for three days. And now I don't know where to start.

Do I update the status of my cat? (He didn't die, but I think it's my fault that he came close.) Do I explain my pursuit of Bella, the rough coat collie/akita mix? (She found her dad on the trail, and he turned out to know my own motley pack.) Or do I ruminate on how I feel about the fact that a woman got raped yesterday on the trail? (Pretty pissed off.)

Perhaps expecting to write a separate post about each of these events is neurotic. But I want to record notable and relevant experiences as they happen -- that's kind of the point of a blog. Surely, not every week will be so eventful...

In fact, it'd be great if the genesis for this whole project (lost dogs) ultimately didn't yield many posts -- dogs ought not be out dodging cars and bicyclists, anyway. As for everything else, I suspect the notable moments will occur intermittently or in waves. Isn't that what life's always like?

While I've been writing, probably 12 people -- some on bikes, some with dogs, some who'd obviously rather be traveling in a car -- have gone by. At this moment, three young, swishy guys are ambling slowly in one direction and two hipster chicks are biking fast in the other. We are told that the guy who lived in this home before us built it to face the trail, because that was back when the trail was actually a trolley track, and he worked on it. Supposedly, in his later years, he also used to sit and watch the joggers, bicyclists, dog-walkers and barflies go by. He'd wave.

Since summer hit and our neighbors began introducing themselves and asking what we're doing to our yard, we've been waving, too. Zach started it. Along with physically transforming the corner we live on, we decided also to tap into (if not transform) the spirit of the neighborhood by showing joy to the people who wander near and into our sphere.

It's actually great fun to flick your wrist and grin at unsuspecting drivers. If they don't know us -- and most of them don't -- confusion crinkles across their faces until, heck, they give in and smile back. It's awesome.

When we're out working in the garden, drivers are as likely as trail travelers to stop for a minute and talk to us about growing things. Occasionally, that whole phenomenon keeps us from getting tasks accomplished, but I like feeling connected to our neighbors and I am flattered by how impressed many of them seem by our effort to turn our property into a site of beauty and home food production. I guess I took for granted the prominence of our endeavor until I chased that collie dog several blocks down the trail on Wednesday and met a stranger to whom I wasn't so strange. (Well, actually, I think I was strange to him, but he had an idea of who I was.)

Overall, I don't mind being prominent. If our garden work and dog lovin' happens to inspire other people to behave similarly, while simultaneously yielding us fresh food, the enjoyment of nature, neighbors and doggy kisses, that's great.

But now a monster with a wayward sex drive had to go and revive my suspicious nature.

Every woman in this neighborhood had to be suspicious last year, when a serial rapist was on the loose in the area. The whole situation created a kind of mass hysteria. I tried not to get too caught up in it, but it's impossible not to worry a little. The worry can bring people together, but it can also drive them apart.

Since I heard yesterday's news, I've been thinking twice before smiling, much less waving, especially at men, unless Zach is within (their) eyesight. I wonder constantly if my dogs are big enough to deter a creep should I brave the trail on my own, in the dark.

I know better than to live my life in fear. The weirdest shit (like your cat losing motor control at 2 o'clock on a Saturday night) always happens when you least expect it, anyway. But I reserve the right to be angry about a jackass violating a woman on our trail. My trail. Her trail. Anywhere.

Ditched bike

Some kid just rolled by our house looking shifty and then ditched this cool old Schwinn bike half a block later.

Spotted on the trail

This is not a wayward dog that I found, but we spotted this poster on a walk. I'm glad other people in the neighborhood are kind enough to help out a list puppy. I hope his owners materialize!

What's going on with my cat?

Luxor and me. Blue-eyed and bright in our first year together.

Last night marked my first foray to an emergency vet. I feel lucky that I never needed to take one of my pets there until now. I always expected I'd be taking one of the dogs first...

Luxor did not come to me in typically wayward fashion. Rather, I sought him out via Craigslist. I had impulsively decided that I must have an oversized cat -- to go with my microscopic dog. In the photo and description provided by his former owner, Luxor seemed like the perfect candidate. With his arresting blue eyes, pink nose and creamy gray and charcoal Lynx Point Siamese markings, Luxor was undeniambly handsome. He had also spent the first two years of his life with a dachshund, so it seemed likely that he'd manage to get along with my miniature pinscher Scooby.

For the most part, they are friends. Scooby and I have both sustained many painful catbites over the past three years, and I swear that Luxor has framed Scooby for a few "accidents." But I have caught the two of them snuggling -- by themselves and with our other dogs -- on many occasions. My own relationship with the cat has been rocky. As I said, he's a biter, and I am his most frequent target. He has also done more damage to my house than any of the dogs. But when Luxor is being good (and that's most of the time, especially when weather permits him to get adequate backyard time), he's a dream. And he's definitely always on his best behavior around guests, so he happens to be one of those cats that all of my friends and family go ga-ga over.

Luxor's illness came on suddenly last night. He had been puky for about a day, but that's kind of a cat thing, so I didn't think much of it. Around midnight, I searched for him and found him lying in a clearly distressed state, huddled against a door in the darkest part of the house. Thinking I could comfort him, I brought him into the bedroom. On the bed, he seemed to go to sleep but his body seemed more limp than usual, and his legs, ears and muscles kept twitching. A few minutes later, Scooby scared him, and he took off but seemed unsteady on his feet. I actually thought he was going to fall backwards from the top step of our staircase.

Terrified that he might be experiencing an allergic reaction to some flea spray I had applied to him the night before (against my own better judgment), I rushed to the vet. By the time we got there, one of his blue eyes was clouded with blood.

The actual diagnosis is still not complete. According to the vet, it seems to just be a coincidence that I happened to apply flea spray shortly before this episode. Rather, it seems that some underlying unknown issues are coming to a head -- glaucoma and likely lymphoma. He can't come home until tomorrow at the earliest. And we have a lot to think about.

Wayward dog #1 - Stella

This is Stella. She was the first wayward dog that I chased down (and reunited with her owners) this summer. It was an unbearably hot morning, and as I stepped out onto my back porch I caught sight of a brindle blur loping down the jogging trail across the street. I darted.

Once I hit the road, I realized a bicyclist was following the dog. "Oh! She's yours?" I shouted sheepishly. "No," the woman replied. "I just can't catch her."

So I tried.

The dog chase was pretty typical: I darted one way; the dog darted another. She'd whiz by me, and my fingers would just graze her shoulder. This went on for three or four minutes. Then, she ran to our front door and cast a pleading eye back at me. I charged! Scared, the dog dashed off again, but just to the edge of the yard.

It was 90 degrees. Her tongue was practically dragging on the ground. I tricked her into my possession with a dish of water.

Fortunately, Stella's owners are responsible enough to tag their dog. Name, phone number, address, expired rabies license. It's all there. When I couldn't reach them on the phone, Stella and I hoofed it to the address (only about six blocks from my house). As I returned her, I sorta got the vibe that she runs off all the time.

So, I wasn't too surprised this morning when I glimpsed a familar figure soliciting two obviously disinterested joggers on the trail for a play session. Unlike the bicyclist from before, these ladies didn't even feign concern over what was obviously somebody's lost pet. This time, I grabbed Zach's dogcatching tool -- our golden retriever Luke -- and dashed down the trail. Stella greeted us like old friends.

This is what it's all about.