The Truth About Teaching Old Dogs, New Tricks

More or less, for the last 37 years I've had a dog or two in my life. All have been wonderful animals who earned lots of "good boy" or "girl"s, as dog-praising goes. For the most part they were rescued and adopted from questionable circumstances, so they weren't exactly up-to-speed with basic commands. But when faced with "NO" they seemed to understand to stop whatever unsavory activity they were up to, no matter how completely occupied they were by it. Even the slightly demented five-year-old springer spaniel my former husband brought home one day - he chased his little tail stub BACKWARDS (the dog, not the husband) - knew to stop, even though it probably took a few dozen "NO"s and a Milk Bone.

I have two dogs now, both shelter rescues adopted at older ages. Snoopy (Dog 1) is nine now, and Reesie (#2) is five. They're wonderful dogs....curious and pokey as puppies still, sweet-souled, eager to play and to please, love to walk and run and hike, and love to eat even more. But inevitably they do things, which usually are much more laughable than they are scold-worthy. Until recently. I think they're deep into cabin fever, because they've started doing two things that are driving me ab-so-lute-ly nuts.

The first, I actually can't blame them for because it's partly my fault. Plus, if I were a dog, I'd do it every chance I got. This week they disappeared into the acres of woods surrounding my Mom's home, and ignored every call and bribe to come back. This was inconvenient, since my sole role was to get my Mom to the hospital for surgery and help with various post-operative things. I knew the dogs would be fine - we could hear lots of happy barking and other dog-chasing-critter activity way in the distance - and would eventually stagger back, gasping, exhausted, happy, and hungry. But they chose the romp over food bribes and quite honestly, ME....and, my pride took a little blow. My Mom took this with great humor. And yes, the dogs limped back, totally thrilled with themselves and their adventure. So I was actually happy for them (even though Dog 2 still smells a little weird). It's just that the next time we ventured into the yard, they were ready to take off again, and ignore me. So I kept them leashed, and felt a little badly for spoiling their next romp. We're back home and they're still exploring every nook in the fenced back yard but, in my mind, they seem a little disappointed.

Which brings me to the next thing. The other activity that's almost sent me running from the cabin (as in, fever) is something a friend has described as, "turdsicles". You KNOW what I mean.

The dogs eat them. Apparently, turdsicles are the irresistible snack choice of dogs who are not ever ever going to be near starving, and know exactly when they'll get their next meal. They're all over the yard now, because it's impossible to keep up with poop-scooping the backyard during prolonged snow emergencies, when we're not taking the same long walks during which the poop-scooping typically happens. I don't mean to spoil your appetite, but Snoopy never showed interest in these until Reesie came along, and now he's shadowing her, and both are filling up on them faster than I can get the NOs! out. This has not hurt my pride. It just makes me want to figure out how I can make dogs gargle before they lick me and everyone who pays a visit.

Both of these things have helped me to realize that my use of dog commands, really kind of stinks big ones.

So, if turdsicles are to NO what kryptonite is to Superman (old Mr. Boettcher would've liked that analogy), and woodland adventures are impervious to ME, then maybe I should try a different approach to them. Which is why I'm thinking the "Leave it" command might work just fine. If you click that "leave it", you'll find the online training guide I found to try. It outlines seven steps, starting with a "willing" dog in step 1. Since the training involved food rewards, I felt pretty good about the willing dog part.

This looked simple and completely do-able. I didn't see much to be concerned about except that maybe I wouldn't find a "jackpot" treat, since these dogs eat everything offered in the same ravenously, joyful way. But some leftover meatloaf seemed like a perfectly good jackpot treat so I took some of that, and started with Dog 2.

And, ended with Dog 2. Reesie got it, quickly, and moved right into the "behavior generalization" of step 7. With Snoopy, however, we were stuck on the "....your dog will probably look up at you in a quizzical, puzzled manner" described in step 3 or 4. I think because he knows I'm a sucker, and frankly, because he's nine and doesn't give a damn about my new commands. He's still an obedient boy and good listener, but I'm noticing in the last year he's become a little more like my Irish Grandpa was....dead set on enjoying the few small vices he has, no matter what anyone else thinks about it.

So, I'm not going to fuss about turdsicles anymore, and will be sure to find safe, open spaces where they can run free and explore.

I think Snoopy just taught me a new trick. Good Boy.....

My Mom, the Sherpa

My Mom became an honorary Sherpa last week.

Okay...technically that might be stretching it a little bit, since her long gravel driveway and steep front yard are about as far from the Himalayan region as I am from ever being carded again at the wine and spirits store. But I think she deserves a loving hug (or twenty) because she was such a trouper during Pittsburgh's recent "snow-maggedon".

Wait. You say missed it? "Snow-pocalypse"? I'm really happy for you if you did. Honestly. Because right now I feel like starting a snowball fight with the snowplow man who has single-handedly built and rebuilt Mt. Dover (my street's name) at the end of my driveway, for almost 2 weeks now. I'm not mad at him - he's doing a really GREAT job of clearing everything else - just very, very sore. I should stop shoveling, hide my dogs' toys inside Mt. Dover, and let them dig right through just as they're doing in the back yard.....after they've returned from scaling the fence because the snow is so high.

But that's a different story. This, is about my Mom.

She is a trouper. This shouldn't surprise me because her Dad was a warm and strong Irish steelworker, and her Mom a gutsy, beautiful Ukranian...and ahead of her time. My Grandma was born in 1910, worked in a candy factory after high school, and moved to Washington D.C. at 19 to work as an administrator in a government agency. My Mom's extended family all seemed to have similar stories - nothing seemed to phase them. As my Grandpa used to say...."everyone's got to eat a peck of dirt before they die". And so they did.

My Mom was accomplished and independent at a young age. Maybe it was the combination of my grandparent's trust and her resourcefulness and determination, but as a pre-teen, my Mom would hop the trolley from McKeesport into Oakland for her Tam-O-Shanter art classes each week, and make her way without adult supervision for her other regular extra-curricular activities, too.

She quit her job at KDKA-TV after having her first child, and started to apply all of that creativity and resourcefulness to home and family. She did all of the typical Mom things. But she did it with gleaming gusto. My Mom created a warm and wonderful home, managed the finances, investments, car maintenance and repairs, and the schedules of three active girls. Plus, my Dad. She usually fed at least two extra kids who were at our house each day, and rescued our dog from whatever game we tried to involve him in. And, my Mom learned the little ins and outs of basic plumbing, gardening, landscaping, household repairs....she would've looked great in an appropriately feminine toolbelt, if she'd ever thought to get one. My Dad would've loved that, maybe even as much as he loved her legs!

During really snowy winters, she and my Dad took turns climbing the roof to shovel snow, and to steer our boat of a station wagon through nearly impassable South Hills roads to fetch us from school when the buses couldn't. Mom also made a very respectable snowman, wonderful snow angels, and the best hot chocolate and mac 'n cheese on snowy playdays. I don't remember what year, but one wicked January when we lost power for 3 or 4 days, my family moved to the basement with our sleeping bags, a pack or two of hot dogs, and wood for the fire we used to cook and for warmth. I have no idea how the poor dog managed his business, but we all managed just fine. And we had a blast.

So why did I worry so much when the recent storm zapped her home's power? Even though she managed all that? Even though I knew we'd "rescue" her and bring her to one of our homes?

Well, I didn't worry because she's faint-hearted, literally or figuratively. My Mom may look like a merry Irish elf, but she has a physical and emotional stamina that I hope I've inherited. She still manages the home and property we all moved to 38 years ago, volunteers with her parish and works all of their festivals, meets friends and relatives for monthly breakfasts and roadtrips, and flies to visit the high-school friends she's still very close to. And she does Zumba - which I haven't - she does yoga - which I haven't - and she does aerobics - which I've sworn off since a regrettable step-class incident a few years ago (that, is another story).

My Mom hasn't lost any of the ladylike gusto with which she has always approached her life. So maybe I worried because she has lost so much else, including my Dad three years ago. But she probably wouldn't see it that way. She'd say she's gained the enormous benefits of the experiences and relationships, not lost them.

So she lost her power and was "rescued", and stayed here til things at home started to hum again. She never got angry with Allegheny Power. Instead, for almost a week we hugged good morning and goodnight, read the paper, shared crosswords, drank lots of coffee, shared the pleasures of Steak 'n Shake (my Mom, an S & S virgin no more!), rubbed dogs' bellies, made big breakfasts and dinners and sipped way too much tawny port (her favorite), laughed about long-ago snow-mageddons, and giggled about her very cute Valentine's Day socks. And lots of other things. Really, we had a blast.

And when it was time to get her back home my Mom trekked through the two feet of snow still on her long gravel driveway - twice back and forth - inspected the house and the pipes, turned her water back on, and marveled that her car started right up. I think she could've hot-wired something if it hadn't. And driving home I realized I'd stopped worrying the minute we first showed up to liberate her from a freezing home, when she'd marched through all that snow to my car like Buddy the Elf, as though this was just another adventure to savor. With her Valentine's socks remembered, and packed.

So, my Mom lost her power. And I gained a week of dear experiences, and a deeper appreciation for her stamina and spirit.

Cheers to you, Mom. And thank you, Allegheny Power.

More Cowbell, Please....

The Olympics are here. The Olympics are here. The O-LYM-PIIIICS.....!

Sorry, for shouting.

I'm about to be a very very very, happy though-fiscally-restricted-grad student. The Olympic Cauldron at the Vancouver 2010 Olympic games will be lit on Friday February 12th, which means I'll be unavailable for anything apart from basic daily living functions (and my job) until the Closing Ceremonies on February 28th. That's over two weeks of my Facebook friends not knowing how to respond to my posts about the Men's Curling Round Robin Session 11 action, or the St. Moritz hotelier who created bobsledding in the late 1800s.

Olympic Games, why do I love you so much?

My family has always been a little nuts for the Games, both Summer and Winter. As kids we even created our version of the Summer games one weekend, at my maternal grandparent's house. Events included the Milk Dud Relay, which involved rolling a sad little Milk Dud across the ground with your nose while hands tied-behind your back, and, Bike Hurdling, which involved multiple injury timeouts. My sisters, cousins and I re-named ourselves so that we could represent as many nationalities as possible, which resulted in many memorable monikers such as, "Yucca Plucca" (I believe she was Romanian), "Ima DeFastust" (Welsh, maybe?), and, "Ken" (sigh...my cousin, no creativity at that age). My Ukrainian great-grandmother, who lived with my grandparents, was still alive then. She watched us with shining eyes, clapping and nodding even though I'm sure we confused her a little bit. My grandparents and parents, uncles and aunts, even the next-door-neighbors, gave us free access to property and props. The only adult-dictated rule I remember is that we try not to get ourselves killed by accidently plunging down the formidably-steep, tree-studded hill on one side of the house.

I have no idea who won what - Yucca Plucca still claims gold-medal victories in all of her events (she's 44, her memory is shot) - but I do know that we competed hard, laughed non-stop, and that the adults celebrated it all with us. Even my Uncle Joe, who could fall asleep at a monster truck pull, stayed awake to officiate.

But that was Summer. And I LOVE summer. So why do the Winter Games do if for me a little more? Is it the mammoth crush I had on Eric Heiden and his thighs? Coach Herb Brooks, Mark Johnson, Mike Eruzione, Jim Craig, and the rest of the 1980 U.S. Men's Hockey Team's "miracle" in Lake Placid? And I maaay have had a thing for Alberto Tomba.

Hmmm, pattern here....but there's probably more to it than teen-crush hormones.

Maybe it's the athletes who commit bodies and souls to competing in sometimes obscure winter sports (like, skeleton), which has a "for the love of the game" aspect that I just love. Maybe it's the fantasy winter wonderland venues, that make both the athletes and the spectators seem like other humanly creatures and part of the earth. Maybe I'm just a sucker for neoprene. Whatever the reason, since the 1976 Innsbruck Games I've been worthless between torch lighting and extinguishing (I cry at both), to almost everyone except anyone glued to the tv with me.

But I couldn't watch the '02 Games in Salt Lake City. Because I was IN Salt Lake City. With tickets to some of the most unforgettable sporting events, in unspeakably beautiful venues. Sometimes I still can't believe I was there, watching Lemieux and his Canadian teammates in a bad loss to a very blond (kid you not) Swedish team in the first round (ultimately, they won Gold), Bode Miller literally rip through Deer Valley in a wicked downward manner on his way to Silver, the U.S. Men's Curling team silently edge past Russian and Japanese athletes, hundreds of distance cross-country skiers talk themselves through every wall to finish what they came to do...and others.

And as truly awesome as the events themselves were, the real soul and humor and Olympic experience came from unexpected sources......like standing literally three feet from the cross-country skiers (and their sweat, and their coaches) as they powered through the killer course at gorgeous Soldier's Hollow, hot chili breakfasts, the Jamaican cross-country skier who came in dead last but got the biggest ovation from the thousands of people willing him across the finish (a good hour behind everyone else), cowbells, bare-chested and face-painted U.S. Curling Team fanatics who made more noise in two minutes than a rink full of curlers did in 3 hours, more cowbell, thousands of engaging volunteers with wide open faces who instantly made visitors feel like natives, more yummy hot chili, making instant friends with strangers from all over the world who happened to be sitting or standing near you, soooo many cowbells, the nasty fan-fight two rows ahead of me at the Canada-Sweden hockey game, a day off spent at Antelope Island hiking remote areas and running along the bay (heavenly), sneaking down a sidestreet aside Rice-Eccles Olympic Stadium to stare at the Flame one night (also heavenly). And, too many more little things to recount that all added up to one, awe-inspiring, experience-of-a-lifetime.

So, I've got my Olympic cowbells, chili, hockey puck, and O attitude. I'm completely ready to watch. And to remember to pay attention to little things, too.

C'mon over. There's enough for everyone.

It's Not A Foot Fetish If You Get Paid For It

I get paid to touch and do things to people's feet, sometimes while their loved ones watch. And to inspect feet as their owners walk back and forth like doomed ducks in the arcade shooting game. And, to listen or talk about arches, bunions, toenails, and all sorts of foot-bound things. Honestly, I don't have a fetish. I work at a running store.

I stumbled upon this job, which is not uncommon because I stumble on lots of things. Usually this ends badly, with me icing a throbbing body part (or two) with a bag of frozen blueberries and cursing at the bandaids that never stay where I need them. But I'm lucky. I have months of free time before starting a full-time graduate program in June, and wanted to find a part-time commitment where I'd be useful on the days I didn't have a "read-nap-read-nap-nap" scheduled (it's brutal....I know).

This is a perfect temporary part-time job. It's in a respected, local running store, owned by a former corporate guy who encountered the perfect storm of a brother's untimely death, corporate distaste, love of sports, love of people and community service....all leading to the creation of this store. That is grossly simplifying Kevin's journey from the whitest-collar background to store owner, but ten-plus years later he has a robust business that's much more than just a place to buy running shoes. And now, I'm a little part of it.

I'm a runner (we RUN, not jog), and have loved it for years. The longest I've gone without running is a month, not counting the 6 weeks off to let a broken foot heal. I love it so much I ran a marathon on that broken foot, which some have said makes me a fool. It's sometimes hard to explain to people who ask, that my love of running has nothing to do with fitness. It's a spiritual and emotional necessity, which is why I suppose I generally don't share the actual running with anyone but a very few. So, working in a running store gives me the chance to hangout with and help others who have the running bug, too. These store visitors, and my new co-workers, and the store's approach to its visitors, are all wonderful.

So, I'm feeling it's time for an inaugural "The best parts about working at a cool running store (so far)" tribute. And I swear....the guys at the store did not put me up to it.

Best Part #1: The staff.

I'll save detailed staff descriptions for another time but for now, I'll just say that Kevin (the owner) and his three full-time 20-something associate 'dudes', are in love with all things running, and are especially passionate about - and excellent at - teaching people and helping them fulfill their running and wellness goals. They know as much about shoes, equipment, biomechanics, and injury prevention and treatment as some licensed therapists I know. They're all smart, quick-witted, slightly nuts, and just ooze a genuine lovin' life vibe. They're also some of the nicest souls I've met. I love the fact that each of these guys own more shoes than I've had in a lifetime, they run in shorts in 23 degrees, that they don't blink at the size of my appetite, they like when their beards freeze, and that the 'dudes' think I'm only maybe, ten years older than they are. Don't ask me why they're apparently delusional about women's ages. Juuuuust let'em think, what they think.

Best Part #2: The shoes. Or actually, the shoe education.

Shoes, shoe components, and the nuanced differences between Brooks, vs. Adidas, vs. Asics, vs. all the others. Who knew such precise adjustments to flex grooves and hydroflo insets and patented foams and rubbers and all the other things, would result in such performance differences for people. It's fascinating. OK, I'm a geek. Apparel can be tricky, too. I thought I knew running, until I started this job. Now I realize I only know anatomy and muscle physiology and biomechanics, and enough about training to be respectable....but almost nothing about all the rest of it. Which is a lot. I'd really like my work hours to count as credits towards my upcoming graduate degree. I mean, Kevin gives TESTS! I have the basics down now, but have a 10-K's worth of "insider" info to learn still. So, bear with me if I agree with you - for just a sec - that the best reason to buy that pair of Asics is because they make your feet look cute. Or fast.

Best Part #3: The customers.

Ho-hum, la-de-da, typical list stuff so far, you're thinking. But as educational as the store's merchandise is - at least for me - the store's customers are even more so. I didn't make up the 'make my feet look cute' comment. A woman last weekend - let's call her a "cougar" - spent approximately 68 minutes trying on everything but the shoe we wanted her to try, because all the others made her feet look more cute or matched her CAR, and there was just no way she needed an 8 1/2 in any shoe because she'd never worn an 8/12 in anything before in her life. I am sure she has a weekly mani-pedi, and may be in denial about one or two things other than her foot size. If that sounds like a complaint, I didn't mean it to be. She was a challenge but ultimately a good sport, and the source of endless good-hearted entertainment for us long after she left (with the right pair of 8 1/2 shoes!).

Like her, everyone visiting the store, is a story. This may sound cliche, but the staff really tries hard to unearth each one, and respect the story they find. Even the cougar's, especially hers. And apart from her, almost everyone visiting the store is in an open, exploratory, full-of-hope state of mind. It's refreshing. So far I've met octogenarians who still tear up their treadmills, women with tremendous weight-loss stories, people bouncing back from life-saving surgeries, folks of all ages who are training for their first races, experienced ultramarathoners, high school athletes of all abilities....and it's only been three weeks! Who will walk through the door next, is anyone's guess. That's part of the learning, and a big part of the "how cool is this!" factor.

So, I'm heading off to see if this is the day that Mario, or Marc-Andre, or my Mom, will finally walk through the store door.

And, let me give their feet a little above-the-board lovin'.