Column: Petmania, If I had a tail to wag, I would
When it's time to go for a walk, he's all wiggles. I put down my book or cell phone, change my shoes, and head out. I'm no longer a sloth sitting on the couch.
Nancy Turner digs into mania - Petmania that is. I think the bubble backpack for a feline friend might fit the bill.
By Nancy Turner
I thought Pet-mania was a clever title for an article about my love of my pets. I Googled it and discovered it is the name of an online business. Petmania is a 100% Irish-owned chain of pet shops and dog grooming in Ireland. When they advertise providing all your pet's favorite foods or beds they spell it “favourites”. I love people who, like me, don't know how to spell.
I researched the meaning of mania. It is a condition in which you have a period of abnormally elevated, extreme changes in your mood or emotions, energy or activity level. To be called mania this highly energized level of physical and mental activity must be a change from your usual self and be noticeable by others. This fits my dog's behavior. When it's time to go for a walk, he's all wiggles. I put down my book or cell phone, change my shoes, and head out. I'm no longer a sloth sitting on the couch. My dog's enthusiasm is contagious. I don't look manic, but I feel it. If I had a tail to wag, I would.
One day when the sky was clear I drove past Home Depot to the Eagle's Caves Trail. Instead of climbing up the steep incline at the beginning of the trail, I chose the level path that parallels the ridge. We were off-leash, so my dog Pippin could dash ahead on his own. After a mile or so the trail heads uphill through an oak forest to the ridge. My head was bowed as I lumbered along watching my feet. When I reached a clearing beyond the trees, crows were squawking and squawking. It sounded like a serious political discussion, a caucus of some kind. I ignored the racket. Pippin was about fifty feet ahead of me, his nose to the ground. I finally glanced upward to see what all the noise was about. Five eagles silently circled in perfect formation above Pippin. The tips of their wide wings almost touched as they flew in a tight circle above my little white dog. He weighs thirteen pounds, about the size of a large rabbit or baby lamb, and probably looked like lunch.
I called him to me. He scampered over immediately. The moment I clipped the leash onto his collar the eagles flew away. I've heard of eagles swooping down and lifting a small dog out of a backyard, but in this instance, they must have sensed I wouldn't let go. The crows in the trees fell silent. According to a PBS show, “Crow Facts: A Murder of Crows”, they are very social and caring creatures and also among the smartest animals on the planet. When my heart stopped racing I realized they had saved my dog's life.
I felt so grateful and wanted to thank them. I don't know much about birds, so I asked a friend what I might do to demonstrate gratitude to wild birds. She said to offer them unsalted peanuts in the shell. I headed to Bi-Mart, the only place in The Dalles where I could find a bag of unsalted peanuts. A month later Pippin and I headed to the same hillside. No crows. I could hear their squawks in a distant ravine but couldn't see any nearby. I scattered the peanuts anyway, figuring some wild creature would eat them. As Pippin and I continued up the hill and turned north along the ridge I saw crows fly over to where I'd left the peanuts.
Crows are able to use tools and can recognize human faces. When I lived on an acre of land a couple of miles outside of Portland, I created a vegetable garden. From a nearby tree, a murder of crows watched me plant seeds. As soon as I left the garden they hopped along the rows, digging up and eating the seeds. Sometimes they waited a few days to feast on the tender new sprouts.
They are so smart.
I was determined to outwit these pests. I went to the Goodwill bins outlet in Portland where jumbled items are sold by the pound. Super cheap. I found a long sleeve shirt, jeans, red cowboy boots, a toy pistol, a plastic wine glass, a soccer ball, a wide-brimmed sun hat, and a wig. With an indelible pen, I drew a face on the soccer ball. Using old rags for stuffing, I assembled a human figure sitting on a plastic lawn chair. I ended up with a rough copy of myself. I propped her up with crossed legs, a pistol in one hand and a wine glass in the other.
It worked. I successfully deceived those smart alecks. By the end of summer, I actually was able to harvest some vegetables. Well, except for the corn. The neighborhood raccoon, Mr. Stub-tail, got the corn.
Each spring eagles gather along the Columbia River to fish, nest, and raise their young. In fact, there is an Eagle Watch at the Dalles Dam Visitor Center every January (gorgefriends.org.eagle-watch).
Pippin may not be too fond of this new vest. The little guy is taking a cue from the stegosaurus with these spikes and bristles. Beasts from air, beware. Plus, he could hit a punk rock concert later.
Watching raptors is one thing, but I wanted them to stick to eating salmon, not dog. I don't remember where I saw it advertised, but the need to protect Pippin and the posting online of a “Coyote Vest” was synchronistic. I had to buy it. The thick vest is held snugly on the dog by velcro straps. Two rows of sharp spikes sticking out from one end of the vest to the other look like metal but are actually made of plastic. It's remarkably lightweight. The multi-colored plumes running down the middle of the back are flexible yet make the dog appear larger than he really is. Eagles have exceptional eyesight. I hope they get a good chuckle when they see Pippin sporting his new vest. It also comes in handy when Pippin is around big dogs who playfully want to pounce on him. He hates that. The vest basically says, “back off, buckwheat”.
Another aspect of my pet-mania is caring for cats. I can boast finding new homes for eleven cats last year. I use “Lost & Found Pets” (The Dalles) on Facebook, and word of mouth. Remember that ice storm we had this past winter? There was ice everywhere and the temperatures hovered in the low teens. A friend of mine opened her back door to find a mama cat and four babies. Debra already had three cats and was feeding strays on her back porch, but what could she do? She took this desperate family inside and kept them in a spare bedroom. As soon as the kittens were old enough I found homes for all of them. Well, almost. I had to keep one. Just one. As my son pointed out, “Mom, you are a Crazy Cat Lady Level 4. That's an accurate diagnosis. I now have four cats, all keepers.
Knowing this, last winter a friend gave me a backpack for carrying small animals. The pack has a row of air holes and a large clear plastic bubble so that whatever critter is riding inside can see out. While Pippin and I gear up to walk around town, I call out, “Walk! Walk!” Before I even get my bootlaces tied, Bodhi comes running from upstairs. He's a kitten eager for adventure. He flops down in the plastic shell. I zip up the pack and off we go. If you want to be another weirdo who takes her cat (or tiny dog) for walks, check online using words like Cat Backpack Breathable Bubble Carrier. Your cat will thank you. Your neighbors will smile at the silliness of it all.
