We brought Grafin home when she was 7 weeks old, and she was a bouncing nine pound ball of energy. She partakes in the typical play of a puppy, chewing, biting and jumping on everything in sight. However, I titled this post “Sybil” for a reason. Grafin goes through “zoomies” a couple of times each day, and her version should more aptly be described as “sonic-boomies.” (For those of you who never owned a dog, zoomies are more technically described as “FRAPs,” which are Frenetic Random Activity Periods. In other words, your puppy or dog expends stored up energy suddenly and in violent bursts.) Grafin will often lay down innocently, and then suddenly sprint toward one of us and leap through the air, aiming to score a loose piece of clothing. Her aim is not always spot on, as random bite marks can attest. I believe that her goal is to have fun, but it’s often difficult to tell when you are under attack.

One of her most disturbing and puzzling habits is to bark feverishly when excited. In my view, hers is not typical puppy barking. A new neighbor has added two dogs to Grafin’s environment, and one of them is a 55 pound puppy. Grafin loves to bark at him through the fence, and when I try to intervene, Grafin often redirects her barking toward me. I’ve read that my reaction should be one of disinterest, walking away rather than scolding. This is not always easy, as I don’t want the neighbors to think (confirm?) that our new pet is out of control. On multiple occasions, I have reprimanded Grafin for chewing on the furniture. My firm “No!” accompanied by a wagging finger often elicits angry barking from this “unassuming” pup. These outbursts are sporadic and brief, and I’m working on remedies. Sybil indeed.

Grafin’s crate training was a bit more difficult than Blaze’s, although Grafin did get the hang of it fairly quickly. The first couple of nights were stressful to say the least, as that little pup emitted guttural howls that would have made a Saint Bernard proud. My wife and I took turns sleeping near the crate, and by the third night, Grafin’s whining was relatively short-lived. I’ve been getting up with her every night at 2 AM for five weeks now, allowing her to take a quick potty break while her tiny bladder (and bowels) grow. Most experts say that dogs can sleep through the night by 16 weeks of age (Grafin is now 12 weeks old), so most likely I have another month of interrupted sleep. For the last few nights, Grafin hasn’t been interested in leaving her crate in the middle of the night, but after some coercion she always manages to take care of business outside. Better safe than sorry.

The key to raising a healthy (and well-behaved) pup is training and exercise. She is very smart and has learned several commands, but at her age her attention span and memory are a bit fleeting. She loves to play tug and fetch, but again, those random attacks come when you least expect them. For the initial four weeks, I kept her in our yard, away from other dogs. She has now had three vet appointments, and has had most of her vaccinations. She weighed in at 15 pounds at her last visit, a healthy 6 pound weight gain in 3 weeks. She loves to eat, everything from dog food to grass, bark, mulch, sticks, nuts, rocks and everything else that isn’t tied down. I’m now using a slow feeder bowl to enable some breathing during her three daily meals.

In order to calm down her mood swings, I started walking her in the neighborhood this week. She often gets worn out quickly, as evidenced by her randomly plopping down in shaded areas. Mission accomplished. We have a fenced-in back yard, but she can fit through the vertical bars so I keep her on a long lead to prevent escape. I’ve also started increasing her stays in the crate, which is forcing her to rest and helping me to keep my sanity. Today was a milestone for her, as I introduced her to another dog for the first time since she left her litter mates. Finn is an 85 pound gentle giant, and Grafin and he got along swimmingly. GSPs are known to be very friendly and unaggressive, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed and doing what I can to teach her good manners.

When I envisioned owning a GSP, the picture in my mind was always of a full-grown dog rather than a frisky puppy. Now I know why. Sometimes your subconscious knows best.

#gsp #puppy #zoomies

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As described in another blog, round one of the Grafin saga ended sadly. Our adopted dog, who was intended to be Grafin the GSP but was unmasked as Daisy the Bluetick Coonhound, passed away tragically. Round two started on July 17th, when a litter of GSPs was whelped in Lula, Georgia. An ERAU friend of my daughter bought a pup from Ruff On Birds GSP in Lula a couple of years ago, and I followed suit.

GSPs come in many variations, from solid black or brown to white, liver, roan, ticked and / or patched. The original Grafin was what I considered a classic-colored GSP, white with liver patches and ticks. This is what I was looking for, and I definitely wanted a female dog. I was placed on a waiting list, which didn’t take long as the GSPs were very busy up in Lula. After the third litter in July, I was notified that some females were available.

It takes roughly two to three weeks for the puppies to open their eyes and become relatively mobile and photogenic. Ruff On Birds sent me a few sets of photos, and I chose the third pup (mug shot above). She’s not exactly what I had pictured, but fairly close (solid brown head, whitish / roan coat with liver patches). I’ve been told that their colors don’t change drastically after three or so weeks, so I’m anxious to receive the next set of photos. Puppies can be brought home after eight weeks.

There can never be another Blaze, but we’re really looking forward to welcoming Grafin to our family.

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Blaze was nearly fourteen when she had to be put to rest. We had adopted her from the local Humane Society when she was a puppy, so she basically grew up with our kids. A lot of people commented over the years that we “really got lucky with that dog,” but I’d like to think that much of her good behavior and temperament could be attributed to the nice environment that she lived in. She was truly part of the family.

After living so long under our roof, her absence creates a tremendous void. I still wake up daily with the thought of our habitual morning meal and long walk. I often search for her to let her outside, and still carefully place food in secure positions outside of her eager range. When I enter the house, I expect her loving greeting, complete with a wagging, fluffy tail.

My wife Helen gave me a slightly-delayed birthday present this year. As I opened the package, she eagerly awaited my reaction. I saw the gift, and didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. It was a portrait of Blaze, Photoshopped in a football jersey. Blaze wore a sullen expression and her hair was slightly unkempt, which seemed in line with how many football players posed for team photos. Helen explained that the portrait represented two things that I love, Blaze and football.

There never was a better dog.

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Blaze was always an active dog, and her navigation of the natural obstacles in our back yard while running at full speed was legendary. She was fast and agile. As an Aussie mix, she had an innate ability to herd. Nothing thrilled her more than our daily walks, retrieving a toy, or simply running in the yard. She was extremely intelligent, and could learn new tricks (via voice command or hand signals) at any age. She loved meeting other dogs and people, and she got along quite well with our cat. She was quite a dog.

When she was around twelve years old, she lost her hearing. She never went completely deaf, but only a loud noise or whistle could get her attention. This didn’t really faze her, but she did lose her ability to sneak a nap on the couch and deftly get down when she heard someone coming. The loss of hearing didn’t seem to impact her balance, as she could still move and weave with the best of them.

During her thirteenth year, her health slowly deteriorated. One day, she started falling over uncontrollably. It was sad to see and very difficult to watch, and I was afraid that the end was near. We immediately took her to the vet, who diagnosed something called Vestibular Syndrome. He prescribed medication, and said that it was very common for older dogs and would go away quickly. I was skeptical, but within a couple of days, Blaze was back to normal. However, her new “normal” involved much more rest throughout the day. She often wouldn’t bother finding a comfy cushion or carpeted area, but rather would simply lay in a flat position on the hardwood floor, as shown in the photo above. Getting back upright was now a bit of a chore, but she still enjoyed daily walks and would come when beckoned.

Soon thereafter, Blaze started limping slightly. It wasn’t a constant limp, but we knew that her right rear leg had an issue. The vet took an x-ray, and he discovered that one of Blaze’s toes was deteriorating due to cancer. He also determined that Blaze was fighting the onset of kidney disease. With the proper medication and diet, the vet assured us that the kidney problem would not yet cause her pain, but he did warn that older dogs did not fare well with kidney issues. We struggled with our decision as to how to proceed. Blaze was already at an advanced age for an Australian Shepherd / Welsh Springer Spaniel mix, and we didn’t want to prolong her pain for our benefit. Additional x-rays assured us that the cancer hadn’t spread, so we decided to have her “problem toe” amputated.

Post-surgery medication and rest soon had Blaze running around like her old self. She seemed very happy, and life was good. Within a couple of months, we noticed that a tumor was growing on the “problem leg.” The tumor grew very rapidly, and Blaze soon developed an occasional limp. I told myself that dogs had a higher tolerance for pain than we did, but the vet informed me that a limping dog meant that she was in pain. A dog’s nature will push her to act as normally as possible, simply to obey her family. The vet recommended medicating Blaze until her time came. This would allow her to enjoy the things that made her happy, including long walks, for as long as possible.

Blaze’s last day was July 1st, nine days short of her fourteenth birthday. Her slight limp had suddenly progressed into a debilitating hobble. Our family quickly made the joint decision that we couldn’t let our little girl suffer any longer. It was time.

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We were approved for adoption and signed the paperwork, and were all set to sport our lederhosen and pick up our new pet. The dog’s foster parent lived in South Florida, and agreed to meet Erika and her boyfriend Ben half way. When Erika and Ben picked up the dog and sent a photo, my first reaction was (in the words of Scooby Doo) ruh roh! This dog looked more like a hound dog than a GSP, and Elvis started ringing in my ears. When we received the paperwork, I noted that a previous visit to the vet had resulted in an identification as a Bluetick Coonhound. I wrote to the adoption agency, and they assured me that Daisy Mae was a GSP, and that this breed was often misidentified due to the coloring. I crossed my fingers and convinced myself that we owned a GSP.

It should be noted that Daisy Mae was her original name, and I was going to change it. This name sounded like that of a Coonhound (or at least a cast member from The Dukes of Hazard), and I wanted to own a GSP. Daisy was about the sweetest dog imaginable, but she did have several “character flaws.” First, when it was feeding time, she drooled as if we turned on a faucet. She took roughly 30 seconds to wolf down an entire bowl of food, so I had to purchase a special bowl to slow her down. Second, she wasn’t exactly house broken. On her first day with us, I noticed her head to an area rug and promptly pee all over it. She did this numerous times during her short stay with us. As she was five years old, she should have been house broken, but all bets are off when a dog is adopted. Too many unknowns from her past. Her third major “flaw” was quickly discovered when she spotted other dogs. The ear-piercing baying could wake the dead. She did this on one of our pre-sunrise walks, and I thought that the HOA would soon be knocking on our door. I was again convinced that Daisy was a hound dog.

I decided to purchase a Wisdom Panel DNA test, and I promptly swabbed her cheeks and sent off the kit. The results came back as I feared: 75% Bluetick Coonhound, 12.5% Harrier (another breed of hound), and 12.5% “other hounds.” So much for adopting from a certified GSP rescue agency.

After a short time with us, Daisy started getting sick quite often (from both ends). I can’t accurately describe the situation, as I’d have to rate this post as R-rated or worse, but suffice it to say that it wasn’t pretty. A trip to the vet revealed that Daisy had worms, and since our dog had never had them and Daisy hadn’t been in contact with other dogs since the adoption, we realized that they were a package deal. Great! Unfortunately, Daisy’s health didn’t improve and after a couple of additional trips to the vet, we were told the bad news. Daisy had an inoperable malignant tumor at the base of her abdomen and small intestine, which caused a severe blockage. The poor hound had to be put down.

We hope that Daisy was happy for at least some of her time with us. She really was a good girl.

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The litter was a mix of black and brown, all with patches of white. The sign on the cage stated that they were an Australian Shepherd / Welsh Springer Spaniel mix, and had been born on July 10th (my birthday). They were adorable. As soon as we were back home, I called my wife (Helen) and asked if we could adopt one of the pups. To my surprise, she said yes, with very little begging and arm twisting. Helen, our daughter Erika, Bobby and I soon headed back to the agency to pick out our dog.

Unfortunately, these puppies were adopted very quickly, and there was only one female left. (I prefer female to male dogs for a variety of reasons, details for another time.) Anyway, the remaining female was fairly thin, and had some spots of hair loss. She was also very timid and docile, which we took for a good thing. Helen and Erika whispered in a corner and conspired to name the puppy Tootsie, as in Tootsie Roll, because she was black and white. I conjured up images of Dustin Hoffman running around in high heels, and decreed “Over my dead body! I’m not going to walk around the neighborhood shouting ‘here Tootsie!'” As Erika rode horses, her second choice was Blaze, as the dog had a white blaze on her forehead similar to that of many horses. Sold!

We took Blaze home, the vet pronounced her healthy, and her hair filled in. However, her passive behavior soon gave way to becoming a little Bobby doppelganger. My fellow puppy parents at the PetSmart dog training clinic affectionately called her “the ADD dog.” Walking her on the leash became my best source of exercise, and I’m certain that my arms lengthened with each walk.

Fourteen years and thousands of walks later, Blaze passed away on July 1st. There has never been a better dog.

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