Cats Vs. Dogs

A short intermission between Broadway, death, and general annoyance posts.



Despite the recent, irritating trend of long-term bloggers shuttering or, even more vexingly, simply neglecting their online homes without at least the decency of burning them to the ground, there remain some encouraging developments. Renowned and veteran blogger gillboard, for instance, recently created a new blog called  The Puppy Diarist , that aims to chronicle undoubtedly-amusing and heartwarming* tales of how he plays father to two new dogs.

A comment expressing sympathies for his self-imposed calvary shortly appeared in his Comments Section.



Not mine, unfortunately.




While I am, as my About Me section has stated for the past three years, a "harassed father to (a fluctuating number of) psychotic dogs" and now, two kittens, I tend to share the common opinion that cats are indeed smarter than dogs.

As the following video so scientifically, definitively, and hilariously points out.

If you love either smart cats or stupid dogs, do give the video a chance and watch it. I almost died at "...while here a cat who has just enjoyed an amuse-bouche and a snow pea gratin is fascinated by the dinner conversation about Habermas' Dialectic of Enlightenment."

Alas, the video doesn't go into why they're so smug and snooty. 



Aside from evil.



Which, I suppose, is just as well.




-------------------------

*Update : Make that "heartbreak" as well. As of this writing, his latest entry is about the loss of his famous parrot - the one in his avatar and the one I threatened to pluck alive years ago.

For more details, go to his blog and read on.

Baby Mine

Baby mine/ Don't you cry

Baby mine/Dry your eyes

This is Fritz.

My favorite dog. My baby.

I was instantly smitten with him when I saw him at the breeders'. A chinky-eyed, cat-faced, brindle Chow Chow, neither fully cream nor cinnamon. Imperfect and unacceptable to the discriminating dog lover. But my heart went out even more when I saw that his tail was cut short - an accident, said the breeder. Fritz' mother had bitten off most of his tail trying to keep him from attacking his other littermates.

Rest your head/ Close to my heart

Never to part/ Baby of mine

That was another thing. His temperament left much to be desired. He and another Chow were the only pups left in the brood and he was in a cage because he kept attacking his remaining sibling, who I would also end up bringing home with me. 

I figured Fritz was the runt of the litter and was simply trying very hard to establish his place in the world. And I guess I fell in love with the feisty little bastard not despite – but because of – his many imperfections.

I suppose he acutely felt his shortcomings – at least as much as a dog might – because the need to establish dominance and gain total, undivided attention would turn out to be his primary personality trait. Fritz was fiercely possessive of me and would become insanely jealous if any of my other dogs tried to get a piece of my affection and attention.

Little one/ When you play

Pay no heed/ What they say

For all his aggressiveness, Fritz became very affectionate, loving, and devoted to me. In return for being the most beloved, he defied his breed’s disinclination to please and became the most obedient of all my dogs. He would come to me at a single bidding, blue tongue out, truncated tail wagging. He loved licking my face as he leapt up into my arms each time I came home. He liked to lie flat-out like a furry rug at my feet while I worked, or sit by my side, keeping the other dogs at bay and keeping me all to himself.

Tough as he was with the other dogs, Fritz was the least sturdy of them all. He almost died of blood flukes at one point last year, limp and motionless one morning as I carried him outside to the patio. I stroked his fur and in between his labored breathing I whispered “Baby, don’t die. Daddy loves you.” By some miracle, he rallied later that morning, standing up like some canine Lazarus at the sound of my voice. And after three days’ confinement at the vet and lots of medicines, he made a full recovery.

Let your eyes/ Sparkle and shine

Never a tear/ Baby of mine

Two days ago I knew he was coming down with something again because he looked listless and very sad. I feared a blood fluke relapse, but there had been no symptoms. He had been perfectly fine – turning over to offer his belly for a scratching, wrestling with his brother, and threatening my Sibe. In short, normal Fritz behavior.

The night before we confined him at the vet’s, I reached down and stroked his scruff as he sat quietly by my side while I worked. The way we’d done it countless times before.

If they knew/ All about you

They'd end up/ Loving you too

Well.

The thing about the last time is that you don’t always know when it will be the last time.

Fritz died of multiple organ failure at 10:45 a.m. today. He was just a little over 1 year and 4 months in human years.

His yaya went to visit him this morning and she said he took a couple of steps toward her before he collapsed. And then he was gone.

It was quick. He didn't suffer much.

All those same people/ Who scold you

What they'd give/ Just for the right to hold you

If Fritz knew he was dying, then I know he was probably waiting for me to come and get him. But I was at a shoot and although somewhere in the back of my preoccupied mind I vaguely acknowledged the possibility that he might take a turn for the worse, I wasn't expecting it to be so soon.

But then again, it's often like that, isn't it?

My sweet little baby couldn’t wait for me any more, and so his yaya, instead, had the bittersweet privilege of watching him go.

From your head/ Down to your toes

You're not much/ Goodness knows

Had we just a little more time, I would’ve wished he passed away at home.

In my arms. 


Where he belonged.

But you're so/ Precious to me

Sweet as can be/ Baby of mine

Goodnight, Fritzi baby. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you in the end. But I hope you know Daddy loves you very, very, very much.

And Daddy always will.

Dog Day Afternoon

If it's Tuesday, it must be time to bore you with some dog tales.

Right after I posted my last pet entry, things started looking up. The Sibe and the cat seemed to declare a truce, with the Sibe's initial aggression transforming into something more of an excited curiosity. But since that's what killed the cat, so to speak, I still have to supervise their encounters, like a good U.N. peacekeeper.

For his part, the cat has promoted the Sibe from "Sheer Hatred" to his normal "Contemptuous Dismissal." As for Chow 1, for a good while he seemed to have warmed up to the  Sibe, to the extent of wrestling playfully with him. And all was right with rudeboy's doghouse.

Alas, there is no such thing as a lasting peace.

For some unknown reason, for the past couple of days Chow1 has reverted to aggression towards the Sibe, relentlessly going after his tail every waking chance he gets. Is he trying to establish his place in the pecking order? Is it jealousy? Or madness?

I don't know. All I know is all of them have had their shots, but if this backwards state of events continues, I know I'm going to need shots of my own. Vodka shots. Lots of them.

Alas, my nose is pressed to the grindstone once again, so while I go back to the salt mines (as my Art Director used to say), let me leave you with this imaginary exchange between the members of my animal farm:

Click to view full. And also so you can actually read what's going on.

Pet Peeved

Sigh.

As I predicted, the new addition to my household critters has not been met with universal approval.

I'd already said that the Sibe and the Persian instantly hated each other upon first meeting. And now the rest of the dogs of war have weighed in.

The battle lines are drawn thus:

I had anticipated some jealousy and territoriality from the other members of the tribe upon the arrival of this Sibe. Luckily, thus far he has been accepted by most of my dogs, with the possible exception of Chow 1 and the definite exception of my ancient Lab mutt.

The Lab has been proven to be the most problematic. He's my oldest dog, in terms of seniority, and with age has become a cranky old coot. While he has grudgingly accepted new members of the family over the years, I'm pretty sure their diminutive sizes, relative to his, played no small part in his establishing rank. It doesn't help that this young Sibe is a tad larger than he is, and enjoys the privilege of being an indoors dog. It wasn't my idea to banish the Lab outside; he had elected to stay in the backyard with the other dogs for quite sometime now, with only occasional sorties into the house - usually when it's raining outside and he can't be bothered with the damp.

And guess what kind of weather we've been having lately.

I have no problems keeping him inside again except I've had two close calls when he tried to attack the Sibe. So far the newbie has diplomatically accepted his current bottom-rung standing, but a run-in with Chow 1 one night - when he fought back when the jealous critter lunged for his tail for the nth time - proves that he won't put up with harassment forever.

Nature will run its course despite my best efforts at brokering peace, and the dogs will establish a new pecking order amongst themselves sooner or later. Which means a Battle Royale is in the offing. I already know the main combatants. The only questions left unanswered are when, how bloody, and who will achieve flawless victory.

And then of course, there's the cat. Being of the feline persuasion, he's quickly learned to stake out higher ground knowing that a murderous Sibe is just behind Door No. 2. This translates into wicker baskets and empty wine bottles being knocked off unceremoniously from the top kitchen shelves, as well as any object left atop the fridge. While I shouldn't worry too much about his instincts for self-preservation, it's not beyond him to taunt the Sibe when we're out for our daily walks, prancing, preening, and staying just out of reach while my arms and shoulders get a full workout trying to hold the big beast back. For his sake, I hope cats truly have 9 lives, because he plays with this one far too foolishly.

I feel as effective as the fucking U.N. here. And just about as impotent.

Well, if the Romans had their Pax Romana, I want my Pax Canibus.

Si vis pacem, para bellum.*


* Attributed to a quotation from Roman military writer Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus: "Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum." Literally meaning "If you want peace, prepare for war."

Full House

Pictured: Not me, not my dogs

If you bother to read profiles, you would have read that mine says "Harassed father to six psychotic dogs, and one snotty cat."

Make that seven dogs.

I've always wanted a Siberian Husky but, given the longevity of dogs, I've had to wait years for vacancies in my kennel. But Huskies just weren't available whenever a beloved member of my little pack flew off to Dog Heaven. True, just months ago I lost three new puppies to parvo, but they were quickly replaced by two Chows. Two stubborn, rambunctious brothers who have been my constant companions in the study room where I work, hammer out this blog, and surf for porn. I have spent more quality time with these two than any other dog I've ever owned; not just because I love them (oh, puh-leeeze), but more because I wanted to ensure I would not lose any more battles with parvo. So for the past two months they've been living in a dog crib behind me, snoring like pigs when they sleep, as I peck away at this keyboard.

There they will remain, quarantined from the rest of my mutts until I'm convinced they're in the safe zone. I have never mopped up and sprayed odor-concealer and picked up so much poo in my life. I must admit this is the first time I have ever taken this much of a hands-on approach to dog care, and fulfilled the "harassed father" moniker in my bio. Normally, once they're housebroken and more importantly, know who's boss, my dogs get relegated to the care of their yaya - my fortunately-doting maid - and only see me for the occasional hugs, playtime, and trips to the vet.
 
My children, if ever I have any, will most likely meet the same fate.

Crate training is not the same as housebreaking, though. While the Chows have made great progress in terms of obedience and potty times, they still have little "accidents" whenever I let them have a trial run of the house. So it's always back to the crate until they learn that pee-pee and poo-poo are a no-no in the housey.

All three of us are lucky that I got them at the start of an extended work hiatus. I don't acquire any new pets during toxic periods at work because one needs to devote sufficient quality time for bonding and training. It is imperative that new members of my canine clan learn to recognize me as the alpha dog, and that in our pack, my word is law.

Anyhow, I'm on the cusp of the last onslaught of work for the year. Looking at my project list, we'd be lucky to finish all productions by first week December. So as I was bracing for this last-quarter storm, I get a call from a friend:

"Hey."
"What?"
"You like dogs, right?"
"Yeahhhhhhhh...whhhhyyy?"
"Would you like a Siberian Husky?"

She might as well have asked me if I wanted a Lamborghini.

My friends know me a little too well, sometimes. Of the seven dogs and one cat in my current menagerie, half are adoptees entrusted to me by friends for sanctuary. The reasons cited range from "I can't keep the poor thing any more because my kid developed allergies to the fur." to "They won't let me keep pets at the new condo I'm moving to, eh." And all entreaties end with "I know naman you'll take good care of him."

I'm the fucking Angelina Jolie of dogs.

So now I have a new mouth to feed. Thank God none of them ever need to go to college. And good for this Sibe, I've always hankered for one of his kind (you couldn't get me to adopt a Rottweiler, a chihuahua, or a pit bull for love or money.) Sibes are a very friendly, clean, and most importantly, intelligent breed.

Just one catch at the moment, though. Sibes have a strong prey instinct, and must be introduced to small animals like cats at an early age. This Sibe is already a strapping one-year old, and the moment he and the cat locked eyes it was hate at first sight. All the dogs that have ever passed through this house have managed to accept my furry feline as a meowing member of the pack. For his sake, I hope it's not too late for him and this Husky to reach a détente.

Otherwise, I might end up with seven dogs. And a late, lamented Persian.

Gone, Babies, Gone

Awoke to a text this morning at 10:46 am

"Gudam sir. Boris and Sasha did not make it.
Continuous vomiting and bloody diarrhea
yesterday even with the meds given.
Condolences."

Give Rufus my love, you two.

Doggone It!

This is not how I wanted to spend my hiatus.

Had to take my Malinois pups, Boris and Sasha, to the vet this morning because when I went out for our usual greet-the-dogs-come-to-papa routine, I wasn't besieged by a flurry of paws all excitedly scrambling for my attention.

Boris - who's a crybaby but usually first to lay claim on my lap - didn't come bounding like he usually does. Instead, he shuffled, more than walked, slowly to me, tail wagging half-heartedly.

Uh.....oh.

And Sasha, his sister, who's even more competitive, was nowhere to be found.

With a sinking heart, I already knew what it was.

Goddamned parvo.

It was Bruno, the Dalmatian-beagle mutt, who first contracted it about three weeks back. From years of having dogs, I knew lethargy coupled with loss of appetite was never a good sign. And Bruno - whom I derisively call Akyat-Bahay because of his amazing cat-like dexterity in climbing over just about anything - was downer than a club kid on Mogs.

A quick trip to the vet confirmed my suspicions: you've got parvo!

He was always a scrappy mutt and, three days and P5000.00 later, Bruno was back home, hale and hearty as though nothing ever happened. Doc said he was supposed to be quarantined for a month - the parvo virus can stay dormant in the surrounding soil for about that time, and can be transmitted via feces. It was doubly important because three of the current members of my canine brood were still puppies, and the required series of innoculations - 5+1, in particular - were not yet complete.

However, the other dogs were only too happy to have their kennel-mate back, so they frolicked and rough-housed a bit before I had Bruno banished, like an H1N1 carrier, to the bodega.

A little too little, a little too late, alas.

Three mornings later, I was calling for my beloved Chow - the pedigreed Rufus Van Hufflepuff . His playmate-and-only-other-dog-allowed-to-live-inside-the-house, Bruce the good Pom, scampered into my arms, but Rufus was nowhere to be found. I finally discovered him wedged between the wall and a wicker chest in the dining room. Lethargic and sad.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

Another quick visit to the vet confirmed my second case of parvo. Rufus took the IV without complaint, and didn't make a sound - not a whimper nor a whine - when they took him away for confinement.

Two days later, I received a text:

"Pls contact vet regarding Rufus."

That was not reassuring.

With a heavy heart, I phoned the vet and received the sad news. My dear, beloved Rufus, the most well-behaved and well-mannered of my dogs, did not survive parvo.

I buried him in our little pet cemetery in front of the house just five days ago.

And now Boris and Sasha are confined at the vet's. With parvo. Just like he was.

This is going to be a long week.