Yesterday Chachi, Jillie and I met Ed Plant and his dog, Tina. Ed is an Air Force reservist. Tina is the Anatolian shepherd mix he brought back from Afghanistan a year ago.

 

We’ve all read stories about the accidental dogs of war and the soldiers who bond with them and wind up taking on all sorts of logistical hassles to get them back to the states. From Baghdad with Love, the story of a marine, Jay Kopelman, and the dog he adopted in Iraq, is probably the best known example. Well, Tina was no different. She appeared at Ed’s FOB (Forward Operating Base) as a barely weaned pup. The guys there took her in, fed her and played with her, and in no time she was a fixture, a source of entertainment and an object of affection all in one. It’s easy to see why: Tina is tan, short-haired and one of those dogs that wears a perpetual grin. “Anatolian” is Turkish for black face, which she has.

 

Ed’s base was in the middle of nowhere (don’t ask me where. I wasn’t taking notes) and was lacking the usual amenities. Tina’s presence was a total morale booster, especially for Ed. He and Tina bonded the most — the last six months they were there she even slept in Ed’s bed.

 

When Ed’s tour of duty was up, he asked if he could bring Tina back to Montana with him. His superiors told him: absolutely. These things are never easy, however. Ed was able to fly home directly, but Tina’s route involved three or four stops and a six-week quarantine. How fearful she must have been! She no doubt assumed she would never see Ed again. When she finally arrived in Montana two months later, she landed at 11:30 p.m. in Billings, 220 miles from Great Falls. Ed was there to pick her up and Tina has been his loyal companion ever since. Ed was quick to add that his wife, Amber, who was a bit skeptical at the idea of introducing Tina to the couple’s three cats, has been won over too. “She spoils Tina more than I do,” he laughed.

 

The bond between dogs and humans never surprises me, because I know how deep it can go. Still, Ed and Tina’s story is special. I hope to cross paths with them again.

 

 

In a fascinating New York Times story this week, Indiana University sociologist David Blouin groups dog owners into one of these three categories.

 

“Dominionists,” he says, view pets as beloved but ultimately replaceable. Families who live in the country tend to meet this definition.

 

“Humanists” see their dog as a primary companion, one to be pampered, allowed to sleep in the owner’s bed and “mourned like a dying child at the end.”

 

His third category is “protectionists” — people who have strong feeling about dogs, who are likely to rescue a dog tied to a tree and then lecture its owner. They tend to think in terms of what is best for the dog.

 

Blouin draws a distinct line between protectionists and pamperers, but I’m thinking I belong in both categories. I pamper our two pups — not with frilly outfits (on a border collie? You’d have to be kidding!) but with my time. Steve and I make sure our BC and husky mix get plenty of exercise, sometimes at the expense of our own priorities. When we’ve had to put a dog to sleep, we’ve made the decision based strictly on what was best for our dog; according to Blouin, that would make us protectionists. But that hasn’t eased our burden: I still mourn every dog we’ve lost. Bosco the sheltie has been gone nearly two years and I still can’t bring myself to throw out his worn-out fleecy bed.

 

I would add a fourth category to Blouin’s list. ”Exploiters.” It would include any breeder who cranks out puppies for profit, leaving their breeding dogs in cages, mired in misery. They claim to love dogs, but they don’t, really. And they need to be put out business.

 

Here’s a link to the NYT story:

 

We had nearly finished our first round when the saddest yowls I’ve ever heard stopped me cold. There at the base of a pine tree crouched a tiny black kitten, her face scrunched with desperation.

 

The dogs were keenly interested in this creature. Uh-huh.  I hustled them on to the car and returned to the scene. The kitten was still there. She looked about six weeks old. I glanced around but saw no signs of a mother cat. In below-freezing weather I doubted this kitty could survive without some help. But the minute I got close she scampered away, across the blanketed lawn and into a tangly bank. I followed, snow seeping down into my shoes. We played hide and seek for five or ten minutes until a jogger happened by who kindly offered to help. With amazing speed he plunged into the branches and snared the kitten. Together we walked her back to my car, opened the hatchback and nestled the kitten into first a blanket and then an empty box.

 

Even before Miss Kitty had been captured, I called my friend Pam Lemelin to ask if she was interested in a new pet. At the very least, she said, she would be willing to foster the kitten. She knew of a second friend who might be interested too. Back at home, I situated the kitten in a bathroom, the dogs whimpering excitedly on the other side of the door. Thus followed a series of phone calls and emails about the kitten’s fate (as much as I would have loved to keep her, my border collie had way too big of a gleam in her eye). In between fielding calls, I dug out an electric pad, Googled stray/cat/feed and held my new pal tightly in my lap.

 

By 4 p.m. we had a plan. I would take the kitten to my vet’s, where she would be tested for ringworm, distemper and anything else a feral kitten might have. Once the tests are done, Pam will take her home to see if her other cat, Cairo, can tolerate the newcomer.

 

I never did get any work done, but by suppertime my bad mood had vanished. Great Falls has an estimated 2,000 homeless cats. It felt good to have played a part in rescuing one.

 

I sprained my ankle at the Dog Park in Great Falls yesterday. Boy, did I sprain it! I was chatting with a fellow dog owner and not paying attention when a pack of tussling/galloping dogs slammed into me and knocked me flat. I am reasonably certain our border collie Jillie was among the troublemakers: she has a habit of dashing first and looking second.

 

The first thought I had after gathering my wits was: Great. Who’s going to walk the dogs? Chachi, our husky mix, and Jillie adore their morning field trips. We stroll three miles, enough distance to sniff plenty of bushes and trees, mark territory often and check in with a dozen or so dogs along the way. It’s a mental thing as much as physical, and without it, we all suffer.

 

Naturally, my husband Steve is back East for a few days. I managed to get the dogs back in the car and drive the mile and half home using my left foot to put on the brake. Not ideal; I won’t be driving again for several days. My good friend Becky Scott escorted me to the podiatrist this morning and I’ll begin four weeks of physical therapy next Tuesday.

 

I was frantically trying to line up dog-walkers (thank you, dogsitter Beth, for coming through) when it dawned me yet again how lucky our two have it. Aside from the constant contact and affection, they get a morning walk, an evening visit to the dog park, regular visits to doggy day care and car rides galore – the kind of lives puppy mill dogs can’t begin to envision. My two can endure a couple of days of down time and still have it good.

And next time we visit the DP, I’ll be looking both ways.

 

 

 

The dog, a brown poodle, was sitting on the back dash — the hottest possible place — and barking his head off.

 

I noticed the dog as I was headed to Cartridge World in Great Falls to drop off some empty cartridges. The proprietor of the store gave me a yellow Post-it note so I could scribble a message to the dog’s owner. “It is waaaay too hot to leave a dog in this car!” I wrote. I pasted the note to the driver’s door as I passed back by. And then I noticed the line of customers inside the pizza place a couple of doors down. I walked down to the store, stuck my head inside the door and asked, loudly, “Does anyone here own the car with the dog?”

 

This is nothing new for me. Two or three times a summer I take on the role of public scold when I see a dog in a hot car. Only once have I encountered an appreciative, apologetic owner.

 

This time, a woman four back in line spoke up. Yes, she confirmed, that was her dog. “It’s too hot to leave your dog out,” I told her. “I know,” she said slowly and emphatically, widening her eyes to let me know she really did understand it could be a problem. Yet she made no move to step out of line to rescue her pooch.

 

I waited a couple of seconds and then said ”All it takes if a few minutes to overheat a dog,” which seemed to be pointing out the obvious. Again she replied: “I knowwww!”

 

The other customers were watching. The woman clearly planned to stand in line another 10 minutes or so. I glowered at her for a second or two, then threw my arms up in the air and walked out. And, on the way out of the parking lot, I called the city police. After a protracted conversation with them about the dangers of keeping dogs in hot cars, the dispatcher promised to call Animal Control.

 

I have no idea if she did so. When I drove back by the parking lot a half hour later, the car was gone.

 

What’s the moral of this story? Only that I intend to keep blowing the whistle on reckless dog owners. Even when they tell me they ”know.”

 

 

I came across Jillie’s photo on

Jillie was a Rez dog, one of scores of canines that roam the Blackfeet Reservation in a never-ending search for food and shelter. Veteran rescuer Deb Nickou spied her plopped down in the middle of a road, was struck by her vulnerable beauty and vowed to save her. By the time we hooked up with this thin and dirty creature, she’d spent a couple of months in confinement — a tough task for a border collie. She shut her eyes tightly on the ride home and wagged her tail with confusion when we beckoned her upstairs that first night. Steps were a totally alien concept.

Jillie’s brave ride to her new home

When we adopted him six years ago, Bosco the Sheltie was a bit on the wild side: he stole toast off our plates, riffled through coat pockets to pilfer treats and once even snatched part of a sandwich from a young woman who was sitting cross-legged in the grass.

 

The bowlegged, tricolored fellow with big ears had been taken in by Sheltie Rescue of Georgia after he was found wandering a street in Atlanta one snowy day. He was strongwilled and passionate: about trucks and buses (he circled with excitement when they passed) and even moreso food. But he was also loving, protective of his family and heartbreakingly sweet. He never stopped being grateful for his forever home. Long after the cheap brown fleecy bed I bought for him wore out, he refused to surrender it for a nice one. It was parked right next to our own bed, and at night he burrowed down into it with the same determination he brought to everything else.

 

Bosco was the name his foster family gave him, and it stuck. He was two years old when we got him, we think; with rescued dogs you never know for sure. In the five years we had him, he suffered a series of health problems. There were gallbladder issues. An absence of cartilage in one of his hind legs, which gave him a perpetual limp. A series of benign tumors forced the amputation of one of his toes. We fought the pain with everything from surgery to morphine drips to acupuncture. Bosco persevered as long as he could.

 

Finally, his body had had enough and when he lost his appetite, we knew it was time for that final visit to the vet. We kissed him goodbye a year ago today. Bosco was the neediest of our dogs, and maybe that’s why losing him hurt the worst. His forlorn-looking bed is still tucked in my closet, taking up way too much space. I’ll be ready to toss it someday, but not just yet.

 

 

 

We were celebrating my return home after a week spent with family in Tennessee. I work upstairs in our house in Montana, so when I leave town the dogs really feel the difference. I have to confess, part of me enjoys an occasional break from the pack, the chance not to feel compelled to interrupt work every couple of hours or so to play a round of fetch or tug. At my parents’ in Kingsport, I got my animal fix by hanging out some with my dad’s three goats: a golden-eyed normal-sized goat and two pygmy goats he bought a couple of months ago. The smaller goats were still too skittish to come near, but the bigger goat followed my dad and I along the edge of the barn, cocked her head sideways as my dad scooped out a cupful of feed and, later, stood still as I petted her and my dad curried-combed her coat.

 

Goats strike me as perfectly pleasant pets. They’re low maintenance but good-natured and responsive. If we lived out in the country I’d want some for myself. Sorry, Jillie, but something tells me you would not be able to herd goats.

The thermometer said 1 degree when we left home. By the time we arrived back at the house an hour later, it had risen to 34. Too good to be true! By late afternoon it was in the mid-40s, so we headed out again, this time to the River’s Edge Trail, where Chachi and Jillie crisscrossed back and forth, dodging the icy patches, as we strolled briskly along the Missouri River in the direction of the falls.

Walking a dog is so much more fun than walking solo because you find yourself looking at the world through an animal’s eyes. These two are delighted by sights and sounds I would never notice on my own. To watch them trot along, savoring the adventure, is a reminder that dogs need to get out and experience the world. They are so much more complicated than the dumb, emotionless creatures large-volume dog breeders would have us believe they are. The next time you think of buying a dog, ask yourself: do you really want to do business with anyone who keeps dogs in cages, deprived of even the simplest of life’s pleasures? I don’t care how well-kept a kennel is, if the breeding dogs are confined day in and day out, it’s a puppy mill — the last place you should turn for a new pet.