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By Beth Quinn, Goshen
My dogs are bored this time of year.
The holidays are over, and there’s no longer a tree in the house to urinate on. There are no more ornaments for Huck to break with a wagging tail and no more presents for Tom to step on with his oversized feet.
Outside, there’s no garden to dig in, no puddles to splash through, no kids on the swing set to play with.
There are only the squirrels, and even they come down from their messy nests only rarely in winter. They stay up there in the high branches eating the fruits of their autumn labor, I suppose, not even bothering to tidy up and remove the acorn shells from their beds.
Thus it is that, out of sheer boredom, Tom and Huck have taken up new activities to pass the time.
There are things they’ve decided should be closely investigated now, such as the inside of the refrigerator each time I open the door.
“Get your head out of the refrigerator,” I tell Huck for the hundredth time in a day.
She looks at me as if to say, “Oh sure, of course, thanks a lot. I love eating the same food every night for dinner.”
Tom has begun a tennis ball collection beneath the basement stairs. Whenever I open the door to go down, he nearly knocks me over in his zeal to check on the balls. At last count, there were six. I don’t know where he gets them. Perhaps he goes shopping at Dick’s when I’m not paying attention.
He’s also storing a few slow-moving house flies on the dining room window ledge to stare at with knitted brow whenever the spirit moves him. Sometimes he takes a half-hearted swipe at them, but there’s no pleasure in the game on either side. The bugs are as lethargic as the dogs.
Tom is also now playing a game called Go Outside Then Come Back Inside Then Go Outside Again. He doesn’t do anything on either side of the dog door. He just goes and comes.
In truth, Tom is not a good planner, even when he’s not bored. Nor is he a good rememberer. It’s altogether possible that he’s going in and out because he forgot what he went or came back for.
Huck is more likely to think things through, but I’ll say this for Tom. What he lacks in foresight he makes up for with sheer brute strength. In a tug of war over a pot roast, Tom would definitely prevail.
Huck, though, has begun keeping a diary. I don’t know what it says because she keeps it locked with that little brass key that she wears around her neck. She’s very furtive about it.
Perhaps she’s creating a battle plan for taking over the refrigerator the next time I open the door. Tom would probably help if he hasn’t already filled up on those house flies.
In truth, I’m probably the one who’s bored right now, not the dogs. And lazy. It’s that time of year. In fact, if I can shove the dogs aside, I think I’ll go curl up in that sun spot over there on the couch for a long winter’s rest.
We’ll see you all in the spring.
Beth Quinn can be reached at huckquinn@gmail.com.
A German Shepard named Pi once at a pile of screws, shown here on an X-ray of the misdeed taken at the Warwick Valley Veterinary Hospital. Pi survived the incident.
By Beth Quinn, Goshen
Whenever I play Throw the Tennis Ball with my dogs – a game we play at least four times a day involving a) me throwing tennis balls and b) the dogs getting them – I’m always surprised that Huckleberry doesn’t swallow a ball.
That’s because she is a greedy dog and seemingly has a hinged jaw like one of those Amazon snakes that lie around for days digesting a whole goat. Huck usually prances around with three tennis balls in her mouth at once, and it seems a miracle that one hasn’t ended up in her gullet.
In her case, swallowing a ball would be kind of an accidental sports injury. She wouldn’t eat a non-food item on purpose like some dogs do. When I was a child, we had a Dalmatian called Mike who ate one of my father’s doubled-edged razor blades.
I recall my parents searching through Mike’s poop and reassembling the blade pieces to be sure it had all moved through and out and the other end.
Talk about recycling.
The fact is, most of us aren’t living with Rin Tin Tin, and we have dogs who are not so hot at thinking things through. Local vets have their own tales to tell about items they’ve retrieved from retrievers and other breeds with rather poor judgment, which is mainly all of them.
According to the staff at Orange County Veterinary Hospital in Goshen, the most unusual item they’ve had to remove was a cue ball that a dog stole off his owner’s pool table.
“The dog’s owner said he was wondering where that ball had disappeared to,” said Dr. Alan Shanker.
Over at the Warwick Valley Veterinary Hospital, the weirdest thing the staff there has seen was cassette tape that had unraveled the length of a Brittany spaniel’s intestines.
“That was a tough one to remove because the doctor could have ended up slicing the intestines if he’d just pulled it out,” said veterinary technician Mary DiCampo.
Rocks, pantyhose, screws, small toys like Ninja action figures, Kongs, corncobs, peach pits, sponges, underwear, baby bottle nipples and socks are high on the list of things the folks at both vet hospitals see inside a dog.
“The more flavorful the better, as far as a dog is concerned,” said Dr. Charlie Brown of the Warwick Veterinary Hospital. Clean socks are just not that appealing. A dog would much prefer the dirty, smelly, awful socks that the teenaged football player in the house might discard on the floor.
Yummy.
So, how do you know if your dog has eaten a non-food item? Well, puking is often one good indicator.
“That’s kind of the cardinal sign,” said Shanker. Lethargy and loss of appetite can also be clues.
And what do you do about it?
Well, sometimes things take care of themselves, said both Brown and Shanker. “Actually the harder objects like rocks are inclined to move along through the intestines provided they aren’t too big,” said Brown. “Soft things like socks and sponges tend to get gummed up and have to be removed surgically.”
And that can cost you. Surgery can run anywhere between $1,300-$2,700 depending on a number of factors, according to the Goshen vet staff , including what tests are needed to visualize the object. Soft items like socks and pantyhose don’t show up on X-ray and it’s sometimes necessary to move on to more costly tests like endoscopy.
If you’re lucky, the vet can sometimes just feel a wad of something or other on external examination. But then it’s still likely to be surgery time.
The best thing, of course, is prevention. Don’t give your dog any left-over bones. (Those small, round ham bones are the worst.) Put your dirty socks in the hamper. And for cryin’ out loud, don’t shoot pool with a rottweiler.
Beth Quinn can be reached at huckquinn@gmail.com.
Beth Quinn, Goshen
The Great Squirrel Uprising began in October 2007 as near as I can figure. At least that’s when I first noticed how uppity the squirrels had become.
It was little things at first. Like, they stopped moving out of my way during my morning walk. Instead of scurrying up a tree when they noticed me, they put their little squirrelly hands on their little hips and just stared me down.
A couple of times, I found myself crossing the street just to avoid a confrontation.
Sometimes they dropped nuts on my head when I walked beneath the hickory tree on my route.
And, back in those early days of the uprising, there was one squirrel living on North Church Street here in Goshen who’d stand in the middle of the road and shout terrible imprecations at small cars heading toward him. He caused more than one traffic snarl-up by refusing to yield his ground.
(I believe it was his body I saw on the side of the road two winters ago, after the snow plow had been through. I can’t say I’m sorry about it. I think he was quite the most demented squirrel I’d ever met, actually.)
Things quieted down for a while after that. The squirrels seemed to grow tired of the uprising, and they went back to their business of building those messy nests and hiding food all over the place. I wondered if perhaps the demented squirrel had been their leader and his defeat by the plow took the starch out of his followers.
But now it’s happening all over again. This summer, they seem more restless than ever. And more ruthless.
There are more of them now, and they tend to gather in groups. Clearly, the squirrels in Hollywood have joined forces, probably unionized as the United Squirrel Workers of America (the USW).
Surely you’ve noticed how many squirrels are taking leading roles in TV commercials? Geico Car Insurance, Bud Lite, Bridgestone Tires, Monroe Shocks and Struts. There’s even a Dutch squirrel in a Snickers commercial for some inexplicable reason.(Perhaps if I spoke Dutch I’d understand, but alas …)
Check them out on YouTube if you doubt me.
Meanwhile, back here in Goshen, it seems all the more … calculating. I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but I think they are stalking me. Me, in particular, as though they’ve had a meeting and decided they want me for something.
Even as I write this, there are three squirrels brazenly staring at me through my office window. Not chattering, not eating seeds or berries, not whisking their tails around.
Just staring at me.
The dogs have long since given up chasing them. There was a time when Tom and Huck chased squirrels for the sport of it. In fact, I think the squirrels enjoyed the game. They’d knock on the back door and ask if the dogs could come out to play. Then they’d leap to the top of the fence and say, “Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah! You can’t get me!!!”
And the dogs would bark and bark and bark endlessly on the theory that if they just kept barking … well, never mind. I suspect they had no theory, really. They just barked.
But there’s no joy in the game any longer. The squirrels rarely invite the dogs out to play, and the dogs are listless and pay no heed when they see them gathering in hordes at the end of the property.
In fact, I see a group of them now, all wearing gang colors and saggy pants. Good grief! They’re approaching the house and it seems they’re carrying a … what is it?? A sign of some sort.
And here they are, holding it up to the window for me to read. It says … what on earth is it? It says ….
GET RID OF THAT STUPID SQUIRREL-PROOF BIRD FEEDER!
WE WANT A BIRD-PROOF SQUIRREL FEEDER OF OUR OWN!
DO IT OR WE’LL BE LINING OUR WINTER NESTS WITH DOG FUR!
I plan to feed the squirrels this coming winter. You’d be well advised to do the same. Chuck-a-Nut Premium Squirrel Food is available online. $25 for 20 pounds. Or you could just gut a bunch of pumpkins and save the seeds.
Do it. The squirrels tell me they’re done being second-class backyard citizens. Do it for me. Do it for my dogs.
Please and thank you.
Contact Beth at huckquinn@gmail.com.
Beth Quinn, Goshen
We have a deer herd that wanders down the side of our house every night at 1:20 a.m. I know this because the dogs so inform us.
Huck and Tom bark and bark and bark about it. They just chatter away, telling the deer to move on because if they don’t, by God, they’ll … they’ll … they’ll … bark and bark and bark some more!
Also, Huckleberry sneezes when the deer come by. It’s her favorite way of informing me about the event taking place in our neighborhood at 1:20 a.m. She straddles my head with her forelegs and then sneezes on my face.
I am awake.
The deer, of course, are entirely indifferent to the chaos they’ve caused in our household. Maybe they’re hard of hearing, I don’t know. More likely, they get it that there’s a whole house between them and the frenzied dogs.
Instead of heeding the dogs, the deer casually nibble on our hosta and whatever other edibles in our gardens they find to their taste, flicking their white tails at Tom and Huck, who are lathering up the bay window with dog spit.
Then, probably to make a statement about their supreme indifference to barking dogs, they poop on the lawn. One night last week, one deer pooped right on Tom’s tennis ball, which he’d left out front. I don’t know if it was intentional, but it certainly seemed designed to send a message:
I poop on thee, you noisy nitwit!
When they’re done toying with my dogs and gardens, the herd moves on, ambling across the street single file. Bambi on parade.
That’s when Diesel and Daisy inform the residents on that side of the street that the deer have come. I can hear Trish, their owner, over there shouting, “Shut up, Diesel! It’s just the deer, stupid! Daisy, stop it! It’s the deer!”
That works beautifully, of course. Just like it does when I tell Tom and Huck to “Stop it!” Instead of stopping, Tom and Huck and Diesel and Daisy just start barking at each other.
Pretty soon, all the dogs in the neighborhood are passing the message along, informing the whole of Goshen that the deer are here. Again! Think of that!
And naturally, all the well informed people are wide awake. We should have a block party every night at 1:30 since we’re all up anyway. Might as well light a bonfire and throw back a few.
Meanwhile, our hosta and day lilies are in tatters.
The reality is, the deer have taken over the suburbs. They love our fertilized grass and our gardens. And there are more deer in New York State now than there were in the days before the white man showed up and started taking them out with muskets.
But the hunters have not kept their end of the bargain. They’re just not killing the deer at a decent rate these days, so there’s no longer a balance between the deer and human populations.
In fact, in the words of New York’s Department of Conservation, “Deer-vehicle collisions have become the greatest source of mortality for deer.”
People, does it seem to you that mowing them down with our cars is the best deer management program we can come up with? The SUV as birth control?
The DEC claims to be investigating other means of controlling the deer population. In fact, they’ve been having deer-related meetings since 2007. The DEC is, after all, a government bureaucracy and these things can’t be rushed.
I wish them all the best and think of them often.
Especially at 1:20 a.m.
Deer-proof your garden
Liquid Fence: Its rotten egg odor is very effective. The smell, though, can also repulse humans when first applied.
Deer Off: Has a more pleasant minty odor and works reasonably well.
Deer candy
Yews
Arbor Vitae
Hosta
Tulips
Day Lilies
Deer kryptonite
Alberta Spruce
Andromeda
Daffodils
Yarrow
Mints
By Beth Quinn, Goshen
Until a few years ago, our lawn was pristine.
It was chemicals that made it that way, of course. Chemicals in partnership with my husband, who deserves an entire chapter in a book called Men and Their Lawns if I were ever to write it.
There were no dandelions and none of those clumps of green weeds that try to pass themselves off as grass, but they’re not. There were no grubs, no brown spots, no bare spots.
OK, there were some yellow spots where Huck and Tom, our two Labs, relieved themselves, but there’s even a chemical treatment for that.
When my husband mowed, he traveled the yard vertically, then did it a second time diagonally. He was well on his way to creating a great looking baseball field on our little patch of the world. It was a shame the TV cameras never came by.
This lawn obsession has been going on since the first Neanderthal guy stepped out of his cave and discovered a bag of lawn seed leaning against a boulder. Or at least since Levittown was built after World War II and men from Brooklyn migrated with their families away from the Land of Hot Sidewalks and moved their families to the Land of Tiny Lawns.
The game was on. Who would have the best looking suburban lawn? Grass would never to be greener on the other side of the fence, by God! So the Man Lawn Competition spread throughout the nation.
When I first moved to Goshen nearly 30 years ago, it was Joe from across the street who had the nicest lawn. It was perfectly mowed, beautifully manicured (even around the split rail fence posts) and – most important – totally green. Dandelions didn’t dare show their heads.
I confess, though, that I didn’t notice – not until a couple of years later when I married Bob and he noticed. The first thing he did after our honeymoon was have a chat with Joe.
Our garage was suddenly filled with big bags of chemicals with enormously long chemically names. We had chemical spreaders and chemical spray bottles. Bob had gloves and protective face masks to wear when he was messing with his chemicals.
We always kept the dogs off the lawn for 12 hours after chemicals were applied. We figured 12 hours would do it.
Then I paid a visit to Advanced Veterinary Care Center in Newburgh for a story about cancer in dogs and cats. This is a specialty center that treats a lot of cancer.
One of the dogs there was being treated for cancer of the sinus cavity. By the time she was diagnosed, she was suffering from nose bleeds. The dog – being a dog – went along with whatever the humans decided. She had surgery and then radiation treatment. Her owners extended her life by several good months. In the end, though, the cancer won.
A doctor there told me she was seeing a growing number of sinus cancers in dogs. She wasn’t sure why, but had an educated guess: lawn pesticides.
If you know dogs, then you know they stick their noses everywhere – mostly where they don’t belong. (That’s not how to say “Hello,” Huck!)They sniff grass, dirt, bugs, poop, tennis balls, long-buried bones and … whatever chemicals are on the grass.
If chemicals can kill weeds, imagine what they’re doing inside a dog’s nose. Can’t be good.
I told Bob what the doctor said. Then he had to make a difficult choice between:
Dandelions or
Dead dogs.
Bob still mows vertically, then diagonally. He makes beautiful gardens. And each spring he goes off in search of the perfect product with which to make a perfect lawn without killing our dogs. But he’s resigned himself to some weeds.
dirt 