The one thing in Germany that never fails to charm and fascinate me is the German dog. In England one grows tired of the old breeds, one knows them all so well: the mastiff, the plum-pudding dog, the terrier (black, white or rough-haired, as the case may be, but always quarrelsome), the collie, the bulldog; never anything new. Now in Germany you get variety. You come across dogs the like of which you have never seen before: that until you hear them bark you do not know are dogs. It is all so fresh, so interesting. George stopped a dog in Sigmaringen and drew our attention to it. It suggested a cross between a codfish and a poodle. I would not like to be positive it was not a cross between a codfish and a poodle. Harris tried to photograph it, but it ran up a fence and disappeared through some bushes.
I do not know what the German breeder’s idea is; at present he retains his secret. George suggests he is aiming at a griffin. There is much to bear out this theory, and indeed in one or two cases I have come across success on these lines would seem to have been almost achieved. Yet I cannot bring myself to believe that such are anything more than mere accidents. The German is practical, and I fail to see the object of a griffin. If mere quaintness of design be desired, is there not already the Dachshund! What more is needed? Besides, about a house, a griffin would be so inconvenient: people would be continually treading on its tail. My own idea is that what the Germans are trying for is a mermaid, which they will then train to catch fish.
For your German does not encourage laziness in any living thing. He likes to see his dogs work, and the German dog loves work; of that there can be no doubt. The life of the English dog must be a misery to him. Imagine a strong, active, and intelligent being, of exceptionally energetic temperament, condemned to spend twenty-four hours a day in absolute idleness! How would you like it yourself? No wonder he feels misunderstood, yearns for the unattainable, and gets himself into trouble generally.
Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men on the Bummel, 1914.
August 2, 2015
QotD: German dogs
June 13, 2015
QotD: Washington DC summer weather and swamp dogs
I’ve been doing weather updates on Twitter lately. You know, stuff like “Today’s DC heat-humidity index is: Saigon brothel early in the morning, warming up to Alabama chain gang hot box this afternoon.” Or, “DC heat humidity index: Cool Hand Luke with a chance of Barton Fink.”
Now, you might think this is all about the jocularity, but it’s not. You can’t really get a sense of my rage in these tweets. I hate DC in the summer. Hate. Yes, yes, as a Goldberg I am descended from a desert people, but we like a dry heat. This place is so hot, fetid and humid — actually moist is a better word — that it feels like I’m a homunculus walking around the crotchal region of Al Sharpton’s tracksuit circa 1989 (Yes, you’ll have that image to carry around for the rest of your life. You’re welcome).
Unfortunately, if I were to express my real feelings about the weather on Twitter, it would read like Alistair Cooke walking into a backyard full of garden rakes; just one ear-shattering obscenity after another. Right now I could f-bomb Dresden.
Because both my wife and daughter are out of town, my only companion in all of this misery is my wing-dingo, Zoë. There’s just one hitch, she’s a swamp dog. Every time we go outside into the cloying miasma of aerosolized muck, the look on her face reminds me of the special crossover issue where Godzilla goes back in time to meet Devil Dinosaur. For the tiny number of you who didn’t immediately get the reference, Godzilla really dug the hot sulfuric climate in Dinosaur World. And Zoë loves this climate. It’s like she gets extra energy from it. The deer poop stays fresh longer, the squirrels are more likely to lose a step as they flee her wrath.
I went on Amazon and bought at least a dozen dog toys just to keep her occupied when I am trying to work or sleep. How’d that work out? Well, you know that cliché in the movies where the rookie cop visits his first gruesome crime scene and barfs at the horror? Well, if I were from a planet of sentient plush toys, I would be that rookie cop pretty much every morning. I come downstairs in the grey light of dawn every day to find a “living” room that looks like Charles Manson’s clan declared Helter Skelter on plush toys. It’s a dog-toy abattoir in here; Faux-felt moose and pigs are splayed across furniture in unnatural positions, their viscera scattered about.
Jonah Goldberg, “Tales from the Homefront”, The Goldberg File email “news”letter, 2014-07-11.
November 16, 2014
Where does your dog rank?
An infographic in Slate slices and dices doggy data to provide you with a quick way to alienate half of dog owners (whose beloved mutts fall into the “Inexplicably overrated” or “Rightly ignored” quadrants:
As a dog owner myself, I am pleased to note that Brittany (Xander) and Corgi (Kaylee, although she’s a Corgi mix) both fall into the “Hot dog!” quadrant (and our late-and-still-lamented Shi-Tzu would also be in that quadrant). This clearly must indicate that the chart is 100% accurate.
Update: Forgot to H/T Megan McArdle for the link.
October 12, 2014
QotD: Montmorency, the fox-terrier
Montmorency […] does not revel in romantic solitude. Give him something noisy; and if a trifle low, so much the jollier. To look at Montmorency you would imagine that he was an angel sent upon the earth, for some reason withheld from mankind, in the shape of a small fox-terrier. There is a sort of Oh-what-a-wicked-world-this-is-and-how-I-wish-I-could-do-something-to-make-it-better-and-nobler expression about Montmorency that has been known to bring the tears into the eyes of pious old ladies and gentlemen.
When first he came to live at my expense, I never thought I should be able to get him to stop long. I used to sit down and look at him, as he sat on the rug and looked up at me, and think: “Oh, that dog will never live. He will be snatched up to the bright skies in a chariot, that is what will happen to him.”
But, when I had paid for about a dozen chickens that he had killed; and had dragged him, growling and kicking, by the scruff of his neck, out of a hundred and fourteen street fights; and had had a dead cat brought round for my inspection by an irate female, who called me a murderer; and had been summoned by the man next door but one for having a ferocious dog at large, that had kept him pinned up in his own tool-shed, afraid to venture his nose outside the door for over two hours on a cold night; and had learned that the gardener, unknown to myself, had won thirty shillings by backing him to kill rats against time, then I began to think that maybe they’d let him remain on earth for a bit longer, after all.
To hang about a stable, and collect a gang of the most disreputable dogs to be found in the town, and lead them out to march round the slums to fight other disreputable dogs, is Montmorency’s idea of “life;” and so, as I before observed, he gave to the suggestion of inns, and pubs., and hotels his most emphatic approbation.
Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men in a Boat (to say nothing of the dog), 1889.
August 16, 2014
QotD: The nature of fox-terriers
I remember being in the lobby of the Haymarket Stores one day, and all round about me were dogs, waiting for the return of their owners, who were shopping inside. There were a mastiff, and one or two collies, and a St. Bernard, a few retrievers and Newfoundlands, a boar-hound, a French poodle, with plenty of hair round its head, but mangy about the middle; a bull-dog, a few Lowther Arcade sort of animals, about the size of rats, and a couple of Yorkshire tykes.
There they sat, patient, good, and thoughtful. A solemn peacefulness seemed to reign in that lobby. An air of calmness and resignation — of gentle sadness pervaded the room.
Then a sweet young lady entered, leading a meek-looking little fox-terrier, and left him, chained up there, between the bull-dog and the poodle. He sat and looked about him for a minute. Then he cast up his eyes to the ceiling, and seemed, judging from his expression, to be thinking of his mother. Then he yawned. Then he looked round at the other dogs, all silent, grave, and dignified.
He looked at the bull-dog, sleeping dreamlessly on his right. He looked at the poodle, erect and haughty, on his left. Then, without a word of warning, without the shadow of a provocation, he bit that poodle’s near fore-leg, and a yelp of agony rang through the quiet shades of that lobby.
The result of his first experiment seemed highly satisfactory to him, and he determined to go on and make things lively all round. He sprang over the poodle and vigorously attacked a collie, and the collie woke up, and immediately commenced a fierce and noisy contest with the poodle. Then Foxey came back to his own place, and caught the bull-dog by the ear, and tried to throw him away; and the bull-dog, a curiously impartial animal, went for everything he could reach, including the hall-porter, which gave that dear little terrier the opportunity to enjoy an uninterrupted fight of his own with an equally willing Yorkshire tyke.
Anyone who knows canine nature need hardly, be told that, by this time, all the other dogs in the place were fighting as if their hearths and homes depended on the fray. The big dogs fought each other indiscriminately; and the little dogs fought among themselves, and filled up their spare time by biting the legs of the big dogs.
The whole lobby was a perfect pandemonium, and the din was terrific. A crowd assembled outside in the Haymarket, and asked if it was a vestry meeting; or, if not, who was being murdered, and why? Men came with poles and ropes, and tried to separate the dogs, and the police were sent for.
And in the midst of the riot that sweet young lady returned, and snatched up that sweet little dog of hers (he had laid the tyke up for a month, and had on the expression, now, of a new-born lamb) into her arms, and kissed him, and asked him if he was killed, and what those great nasty brutes of dogs had been doing to him; and he nestled up against her, and gazed up into her face with a look that seemed to say: “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come to take me away from this disgraceful scene!”
She said that the people at the Stores had no right to allow great savage things like those other dogs to be put with respectable people’s dogs, and that she had a great mind to summon somebody.
Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men in a Boat (to say nothing of the dog), 1889.
July 10, 2014
QotD: Montmorency helps to pack
Montmorency was in it all, of course. Montmorency’s ambition in life, is to get in the way and be sworn at. If he can squirm in anywhere where he particularly is not wanted, and be a perfect nuisance, and make people mad, and have things thrown at his head, then he feels his day has not been wasted.
To get somebody to stumble over him, and curse him steadily for an hour, is his highest aim and object; and, when he has succeeded in accomplishing this, his conceit becomes quite unbearable.
He came and sat down on things, just when they were wanted to be packed; and he laboured under the fixed belief that, whenever Harris or George reached out their hand for anything, it was his cold, damp nose that they wanted. He put his leg into the jam, and he worried the teaspoons, and he pretended that the lemons were rats, and got into the hamper and killed three of them before Harris could land him with the frying-pan.
Harris said I encouraged him. I didn’t encourage him. A dog like that don’t want any encouragement. It’s the natural, original sin that is born in him that makes him do things like that.
Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men in a Boat (to say nothing of the dog), 1889.
April 2, 2014
Dog adoptions – the economics are trickier than you think
In the Harvard Business Review, Paul Oyer explains some of the changes in the market for adopting dogs over the last decade or so:
Lots of people are looking for a canine companion to brighten their lives, and there are always plenty of dogs “on the market” at shelters or through breeders. Yet, too many dogs don’t find homes, and they often pay the ultimate price (especially if they are in Sochi). So what stands in the way of dogs and owners finding one another?
For starters, the supply and demand at any given time in any given area is typically thin and random. Thankfully, online pet boards have thickened the market by enabling potential adopters, especially those who want to rescue a dog, to find a broader range of options rather than just settling for what the shelter happens to have the day they go there. Sites such as petfinder.com lead to many adoptions, many of which cross significant geographic territory.
[…]
A second problem — and this is much harder to solve than the thin-market problem — is there are a lot of duds on both sides of the dog adoption market, and it’s hard to tell exactly who they are. A breeder could describe a bad, Cujo-like dog as “good with children” while potential owners like Michael Vicks’ former associates would surely claim they would give a dog a safe home.
Shelters address this issue by thoroughly screening would-be adopters (I have always found it ironic that they give you your baby to take home after it is born with no questions asked, but you have to jump through a lot of hoops to adopt a puppy or kitten that will otherwise be euthanized.) But there is no evidence that these screenings are very effective.
November 4, 2013
“…almost half of all firearms discharges by police officers involve the shooting of a dog”
Even if you’re not a dog lover, this story from Charles C.W. Cooke should get you upset:
A Google search for “dog shot by police officer” returns countless stories from across the United States. YouTube, too, is full of harrowing videos. There is even a website, the bluntly titled “Dogs That Cops Killed” blog, which seeks to “collect a few of the innumerable instances of police officers killing dogs” and to push back against the “wars on drugs, peace, and liberty.”
This unlovely trend has claimed the attention of Patrick Reasonover, a libertarian filmmaker in California who is currently raising money for a proposed documentary, Puppycide, through the crowdsourcing service Kickstarter. “We’re excited by this one,” Reasonover tells me, “because on so many issues — the War on Drugs, for example — it’s impossible to move the ball. You can feature the problems with the drug war, but there are so many embedded interests that one documentary isn’t really going to solve the problem. With this issue, however? We feel that it could.”
Around eight months ago, Reasonover began to notice the proliferation of online videos of police officers shooting dogs. “People were going nuts about it,” he recalls. “There were tons of views on these things. We had dogs and we were disturbed, so we thought we’d reach out and start contacting some of the victims.” In doing so, he quickly learned that the news reports and the published footage were only the beginning of the story. Because police departments don’t keep easily accessible records of dog shootings, it is hard to gauge the scale. A recent review of public records by the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals concluded that almost half of all firearms discharges by police officers involve the shooting of a dog. But nobody really knows.
Indeed, even animal-rights activists aren’t fully aware of the numbers in their communities. “They would tell us that there were, say, five news stories on these dogs that got shot,” Reasonover says. “But through my digging and persistence I found out that actually, you know, 22 were shot and no one ever knew.” One thing led to another, and he discovered that “there is a set of people who are working across the nation, through lawsuits or legislation or appealing to the Justice Department.” As part of his project, Reasonover is hoping to file Freedom of Information Act requests in all major cities and jurisdictions in the U.S. and to get hold of all firearm-discharge records. From that, he hopes to assemble a better list.
It may make brutal reading. A recent lawsuit in Milwaukee filed by a woman whose dog was killed forced that city to compile its records. “They found that a dog was shot every seven days,” Reasonover says. “Just in Milwaukee.” And, unless something changes, the number will only continue to rise. “Over the course of the past forty or fifty years, dogs have moved from the barnyard to the back yard to the bedroom,” Ledy Vankavage, the senior legislative attorney at Best Friends Animal Society, has observed. In the meantime, the drug war has been ratcheted up, terrorism has become a pressing concern, and, as Radley Balko has so distressingly chronicled, the police have become increasingly militarized. “You have this recipe for these police entering our lives more and more and more,” Reasonover explains. “The dogs are there, and so they are killed.”
September 16, 2013
Day-late dog photos
A few weeks back, we said goodbye to our older dog, Buffy. Yesterday, we welcomed the newest member of the pack, Maggie:
Maggie and Xander on an introductory walk before we adopted her
Maggie is a rescue dog from Oklahoma. She’s part Corgi and part Basset Hound (the original rescue group noted her being a “Basset Mix”). We were told she’s about two years old, but she seems younger to us. She’s had at least one batch of puppies but has now been spayed.
Maggie and Xander got on well during our introductory walk at the rescue group, and they’ve played very well together since we picked her up yesterday. The rescue group has a minimum 24-hour cooling off period after you agree to adopt one of their dogs … I guess they had too many people changing their minds very soon after taking on a dog.
After we picked her up yesterday afternoon, we brought her back to the house and then took both dogs for a long walk around the area. Both of them were eager to walk and didn’t object to the other one being along for the experience. We got home and Xander came in first, followed by Maggie, then it was out to the back yard for exploration and some rough-housing. She’s very affectionate and moves very quickly, so getting a clear photo of her was a bit of a challenge … here she is just having come up for a quick petting before she goes and chases Xander again:
One of our key concerns about getting another dog was that any new addition would have to be able to cope with Xander’s combination of high energy and occasional fits of idiocy: Maggie already seems to have his number and plays with him very well indeed. It helps that she’s nearly as heavy as he is, but built closer to the ground: she can push him around when she really tries. I think he’s enjoying having another dog in the house again, and he almost certainly needs the exercise!
August 26, 2013
The worst part of being a pet owner
Saying goodbye. Goodbye Buffy.
Buffy 1999?-26 August 2013
Buffy was a rescue dog we adopted in July, 2007 as a companion for our first dog Xander. Xander accepted her immediately as the top dog in the pack. She’d had a very rough early life, including being used as a breeder dog in a puppy mill and had clearly been abused (the pet rescue organization said she’d been thrown from a moving vehicle on an interstate highway in Ohio). She was blind in one eye (which we had to have removed shortly after we adopted her) and had only minimal sight in the other eye. In spite of her injuries and the increasing debility of age (Cushing’s Disease and diabetes), she was a very dignified dog … and other dogs almost always gave her the space a dog ten times her size would command.
We like to think we gave her a happy home.
May 17, 2011
Who’s going to feed Fluffy if you get taken up in the Rapture?
Sorry, of course I mean when you leave for your seat at the right hand of God. For a small advance fee, you can be (relatively) certain that Fluffy or Rover will be seen to by After The Rapture Pet Care:
In case you hadn’t heard, Judgment Day is pencilled in for 21 May and any Christians among you who hadn’t made provision for your pets’ wellbeing after the Rapture had better pull your fingers out before you take your place at God’s right hand and your poor moggy is left stuck here on Earth staring at an empty bowl.
Make no mistake, this is serious. Harold Camping, the 89-year-old founder of Family Radio, has spent years scouring the Bible for evidence of just when it’s time for believers to pack their celestial suitcases. True, they had to unpack again back in September 2004 following Camping’s first shot at naming the big day, but he assures that this time it is “absolutely going to happen without any question”.
So, you’re ascending to eternal glory and your cat’s litter needs changing. It’s an upsetting thought for any true follower of Christ, but help is at hand in the form of another creature absolutely guaranteed to be left behind by the heavenly mass exodus: the atheist.
March 30, 2010
Nanny state now working entrapment angle
They may be able to get methamphetamines with their breakfast cereal, but the nanny state is determined to ensure that they can’t buy goldfish:
Buying a goldfish at a pet shop used to be an innocent childhood pleasure.
But today an elderly pet shop owner told how she was entrapped into selling a goldfish to a 14-year-old schoolboy, then warned she could face jail.
She had breached a law introduced in 2006 which bans selling live fish to anyone under 16.
After a prosecution estimated to have cost taxpayers £20,0000, Joan Higgins, 66, a great-grandmother who has never been in trouble before, has been forced to wear a tag on her ankle like common criminal and given a seven-week curfew.
Her son, Mark, 47 was also handed a fine and ordered to carry out 120 hours unpaid work in the community.
The notorious criminals could face jail time if they’re brought up on similar charges in the future. The courts are doing everything they can to communicate the extreme seriousness of these crimes, and will stop at nothing to stamp out the evil goldfish sellers.
Apparently, the crime syndicate has been in operation for 28 years, concealing their evil, predatory behaviour behind such innocent-seeming activities as volunteering for PDSA (Peoples Dispensary for Sick Animals) and contributing food for the animals. The hardened criminal mastermind has been banned from contact with at-risk individuals like her own great-grandchildren and prevented from attending known criminal hang-outs like bingo halls and Rod Stewart concerts.
H/T to Kathy Shaidle for the link.
March 13, 2010
QotD: Walking the dog
The ancient struggle between dog-lovers and cat-lovers traditionally has favoured the canines, at least in the English-speaking world. Dogs were the manly animals, guarded the hearth, herded the sheep, helped at the hunt and shoot, retrieved the newspaper and were usually gentle with children.
Cats cannot really be put to any domestic use, except apprehension of mice and rats. They are often affectionate, but are not very demonstrative companions. But they require almost no attention, don’t need help or advice going to the bathroom, rarely mind being left outside, because even pampered housecats can usually catch their own dinner, and they are magnificent physical machines. The feline faction has gained ground in recent years, because of the profusion of working couples who could not leave a dog indoors all day.
My purpose here is to de-escalate, even slightly, the friction between the vast opposing armies of feline and canine admirers. This reflects my own circumstances, as my wife Barbara has become, in my brief and untoward absence, a caricature of a dog-lover, setting out from our homes in Toronto and Palm Beach kitted out like a British girls’ public school games-mistress with a variety of leashes, whistles, timepieces, enticements and fecal-disposal apparatus. She defiantly sends me, a traditional cat-fancier, photographs portraying her as an apparent fugitive from an Agatha Christie movie who has turned walking the dogs into exotic simulations of an all-weather, open-ended, search and rescue mission.
Conrad Black, “The truth about cats and dogs”, National Post, 2010-03-13
July 18, 2009
Healthcare costs
Several years back, Elizabeth worked as an office manager at a vet clinic. She enjoyed the work, although it didn’t pay well. One of the most frequent complaints from the customers was the high cost of vet care. This graph from The Enterprise Blog shows that the rates of increase in healthcare costs are intriguingly similar between pets and their owners (note the different scales on the left and right side of the chart):
The chart [. . .] shows spending on veterinary care, which I pulled from the Consumer Expenditure Survey, and national health expenditures (for people) from the National Income and Product Accounts. Two things are interesting here: first, the rate of growth of spending from 1984 to 2006 wasn’t all that different — and in both cases, spending grew faster than the rate of economic growth. As new technologies are developed for humans, we adopt them for Bowser and Fifi — because we can afford to and we think it’s worth it.
Here in Canada, where we almost never know the actual costs of the healthcare services we receive, the stark reality that healthcare costs money is a nasty surprise. We don’t spend anything like the same real dollars on our dogs, cats, and other pets as on ourselves or our family, and the fact that we don’t have a clue how expensive it is fuels the constant political demand that we provide more “free” healthcare.
On the other hand, in much of Canada, it’s possible to get X-rays, MRI, CT scans, and other diagnostic tests done in hours or days . . . for your pet. For you, weeks or months before you’ll get your appointment. If only there were some obvious conclusion we could draw from these data points . . .
I wrote about the pet health/human health disconnect all the way back in 2004.
