A Seat at the Table

One of the first rules I learned when I started living with Mom was no people food. That doesn’t stop me from still trying to sneak a bite here or there, but sometimes, when I look up and see everyone eating at the table, I can’t help but feel a little left out.

Jack seemed to notice this last weekend, so he picked me up and put me up on a seat at the table, with Mom’s permission, of course. I wasn’t allowed to eat any food, but sitting was just fine! I was surprised to see that my family doesn’t eat the same brand of kibble that I do. Their food smells much better.... but I know if I try to sneak a bite, my seat at the table is as good as gone.

Still, it’s nice to be included with the big kids every now and then!

Loot!

I hear that in the 1960s, kids who went in for check-ups got lollipops.

By the 1990s, sugar had been exposed as a health hazard, so pediatricians started handing out stickers to their young patients instead.

I gotta tell you, those old-time docs got nothing on mine!

The other day I went in for a routine Bortedella booster. Mom waited patiently in the lobby as way more time than necessary passed. Finally, the veterinary technician brought me back to her.

“Administering a shot doesn’t usually take so long,” she apologized. “But we all wanted a turn to cuddle with Scout.”

My membership in VCA Care Club meant there was no charge for the vaccine, but Mom didn’t know that. As she approached the front desk preparing to pay, the receptionist asked, “Does Scout like to play with balls?” She waggled a mini-tennis ball before me as Mom considered whether to take it.

“We know Scout likes to wear bandanas,” she said. (Apparently, they read my blog!) “Maybe you’d prefer a bandana?”

“Orange or blue?” her colleague asked me.

“Oh, give him one of each,” the first one said. “And a ball.”

I came home with a bushelful of loot — so much I hardly remember the shot! Now that’s what I call good bedside manner.

What am I?

What am I? No, it’s not an existential question. It’s a question I get all the time. As in, “He’s sooooo cute! What is he?”

I assume it’s obvious I’m of the canine persuasion. So they must be asking about my breed.

First of all, it’s kind of personal question, right? It’s not exactly politically correct to question another’s parentage. But what the hay? We’re among intimates here on ScoutAbout.dog. DNA testing is all the rage, not that I’m going to go that far here, but I will share what I know with you, my dear reader,  and explain the sad facts of why I don’t know more.

You see, I’m a rescue dog. I was shuttled from family to family — four, count ‘em four times in three years — before I got scooped up into my forever home. (What a happy day that was!)  I never knew my parents and my paper trail is a little bit spotty, with various veterinary records rather poorly redacting prior owners’ names and addresses. (“Redacting” is word I learned watching the news this spring!) 

One document identified me as Pomeranian, which, as you can see, is not even close. Others have labeled me “Terrier” — itself a catch-all for many breeds — as well as “Havanese,” “Mixed Breed,” and “Terrier-Havanese Mix.” (Click on the photo to see the breeds)

I took a look at Google images, and frankly, West Highland Terriers looks kind of like cousins. The Jack Russell Terrier’s color pattern and stocky body type look a little bit like mine. Neither are a perfect match.

Here’s a photo of a Havanese I grabbed from the web. It’s almost like looking in the mirror, right? The Havanese is a Cuban circus dog, bred for the aptitude to perform clever tricks. I love to do tricks. I can balance a treat on my nose, roll over, beg, spin, dance, and jump through Her legs. Just sayin’... I am pretty good at tricks. But I am about 30 percent bigger than a Havanese, and more barrel-chested.

So what am I? Wavanese? Javanese? Tavanese? Herrier?

In the end, what does it matter?

I’m pretty happy just being Scout.

Thunder is too Frightening!

As the house security, I have to be a tough guy; there’s not a lot that scares me. I try to be brave, but every now and then something shocks me back to feeling like a little puppy again… I don’t really like thinking about when I was a puppy, I had to grow up fast…

There was a lot of rain this weekend, and with rain comes thunder! The distant rolls of the storm are like a big bark; sometimes the sound of it makes me imagine a big scary dog with a deep booming voice. I don’t really like big dogs either…

While I was cuddling with my Mom on Sunday, the storm had blown directly overhead, and there was a tremendous crack of thunder, way louder than anything we had heard before. There was a bright flash, and I felt like the house was shaking. Immediately I jumped out of bed, and scampered away upstairs. I had to go, I didn’t know where, but that loud noise was way too scary.

Mom called after me, and searched for me in all of my usual spots, but I wouldn’t come out. She found me upstairs hiding in the corner of her office, under a chair. Even when I saw her, I was too scared to move, but she patiently waited for me, calling in a soft voice. Paralyzed, I just whined. I couldn’t budge, so she slowly moved the chair and picked me up. (I appreciate that she didn’t reach in to get me, I think seeing a probing hand reaching towards me would have scared me even more!)

We snuggled for a few hours before I felt like I could walk on my own again. I don’t know, sometimes things just snap you back to a different time. I’m just glad those times are behind me, and whenever I lose control Mom can pull me back to the present.

Toothless

Some readers (fans?) have noticed that my smile is a little different from other dogs, and there’s a reason for that: I’m missing like 12 teeth!

I don’t really know how it happened; Mom took me to the vet one day and the next thing I remember, they were gone! Mom wasn’t too happy about it, but I think the lady in the white coat said it was necessary… Honestly I was a little mopey after it first happened. It’s hard to learn how to eat and chew again when you’re a few teeth short. Jack joked for a little bit that we should change my name to Fang, but I don’t think I could handle another name change… But even though it was embarrassing, I practiced and practiced, and now it feels like normal!

Don’t think I’m all bark and no bite either, my teeth are just as good as anyone else’s. I still love to play tug of war, and I can still defend myself, it’s just a little different than it used to be. Change like that can be scary, but I promise, with hard work, you can get through it!

Hunger Games

I suppose it’s a symptom of middle age -- that moment when you tip the scales at the impossibly high number you never thought you could possibly reach.

For me, that number was 19.8 pounds – dangerously close to the 20-pound limit to travel in the cabin of a commercial airplane. One extra treat, one more bite of kibble, and I could be … grounded! Even my vet, the kind and beautiful Dr. Smith, who I like a whole lot, said I needed to lose a few.

This came as a mighty blow. I mean, what does a dog really have to look forward to? A pat on the head, a walk in the park, and chow time! That’s it, at least that’s it if you’ve been neutered, which I have. Food is one of my greatest pleasures.

It’s been a few months on the diet dog food, and I gotta say, it’s been pretty rough. Or roughage. Actually, both. All I can tell you is what goes in one end comes out the other. TMI? Portion control is a whole other story.

Thankfully, my tale has a happy ending. When I got on the scale at Dr. Smith’s today, I weighed in at a svelte, fly-ready 18.6 pounds! That’s seven pounds in dog pounds! Oh, wait. That’s dog years, isn’t it?

Don’t mind me. I’m befuddled by hunger.

But when those black boxes with the little wheels come out of the closet again, I’m in, Baby! I’m in!

Going Bandanas! Or… The Naked Truth

Some people have noticed that I’m a pretty fashionable dog; I always wear a bandanna for flare. I think it’s really boosted my charm, and my mom keeps buying more (I think they’re all different colors but it’s hard for me to tell).

It started with a phone call.

“Your boy Scout is ready,” I heard my groomer speak into the phone.

My heart leaped with joy! Soon She would walk through the door and rescue me from the cacophony of washing and drying and cutting and snipping a dozen other yapping four-leggers parked in kennels all around me.

Me? I sat uncaged next to my groomer as she coifed another. No kennel for me. I am a good boy Scout.

Not long after that, I arrived home with a neckerchief tied around me – standard issue for any good boy scout.

She bought me another. Then another. And another.

The next time I went visiting, I arrived home with yet another kerchief of the bandana variety. Soon, She was changing my bandanas on a monthly rotation to coordinate with the colors of upcoming seasons and holidays.

            I’ve become very attached to my bandanas. Like American Express, I don’t leave home without one. In fact, when my bandana falls off after a wild and woolly game of fetch, I’m embarrassed. The naked truth is… I feel naked!

            At last count I had 17 bandanas. I hear 18 is a lucky number.

What's in a Name?

For a few weeks there, I had no name.

“Here, Boy,” She’d say. “Good Boy.”  

It wasn’t always so. My first family called me Amelio. But then, for reasons I can’t understand, they gave me away. Sure, I messed in the house a little and chewed a shoe or two. I was just a puppy, after all. Talk about no second chances. Before I knew it, I was out.

My second family named me Blaze because I could run like wildfire. I had to. The kids stuck their fingers in my eyes and when I growled my objection, the father whacked me on the snout. It wasn't long until they gave me away, too.

I was kind of scruffy back then….

By the time I was three I’d had two names and three homes and had landed in the custody of Doggie Protective Services. And so I waited in foster care, trotted out at weekend pet fairs, hoping someone nice might come along to rescue me. Competition was steep. There were a lot of rescue dogs to choose from. And by now I had a reputation. No men, no kids were the warnings attached to my adoption papers. I watched as other dogs were adopted, strutting away to their forever homes.

And then one day, She came along. She talked to my foster mom, walked me around the parking lot, sized me up. I really liked her.

 “I’ll take Blaze,” She said.

 “No men in the home?” the boss lady asked. “No children?”

 “No problem,” She said. She looked kind of sad.

The first few weeks at Her house, I had no name.

“Sit, Boy,” She’d say. “Stay, Boy. Good boy.”

Who was Boy?

The house was big and empty. There were a lot of rooms that we never seemed to go in, filled with the faint smells of other people. I slept in a kennel next to Her bed. We walked the block five times a day. She taught me tricks. Sometimes, She cried.

            “Hey, Boy,” She’d greet me in the morning. “Mommy always comes back,” She said whenever she left the house.

And so it went, until one day, snuggling on the sofa watching Her favorite TV show, she cooed, “Hey, Boy, aren’t we lucky we found each other? It sure took you a long time to scout out a good home.”

She looked at me for a moment; something just clicked.

"What do you think about 'Scout'? She smiled and held me close.

That’s how a rescue dog from three homes with two name got his forever name, Scout. As I rested my head on Her cozy lap, I wondered, “Who really rescued whom?”