The Time Keeper

".... I am going to have continue this tomorrow. Fips is barking at me, telling me it's bedtime. He will not stop. He wants to go to bed, and I have to be there ... Is that nuts or what?"

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The Party Pooper

Rosco is being a real asshole. Fipsy is all friendly and let's play and Rosco just wants to sulk by himself. He just snapped at Fips and now Fips is upset.

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A Brother's Keeper

Fips is the most astonishing dog -- part human and sweet to boot.

Towards dusk, I looked up from the glow box and noticed that Rosco wasn't around. He did not feel nearby either. I checked around and, sure enough, he had gone for an unauthorized pad-about. I looked down at Fips who was looking up at me. "Where's Rosci?" I asked. Fips went to the dining room and looked outside. Outside the dining room, I ask again "Where's Rosco?" Fips looks toward the river and back out at the road. He lead follows to the gate. I open the gate and repeat, "Where's Rosco?" Fips heads down the road toward the bridge.

Fips is walking briskly and does not stop to sniff until we pass over the bridge. He walks to the left of the road and back to the right, where he sniffs briefly. Then down a bit and back to the left. Then to the right where he stays till we get to the Mirabel curve. These quick sniffs lead me to conclude that he is scenting for Rosco and not just getting distracted. After all, why in the world am I predisposed to thinking that Rosco left in a straight line?

At the crest of the curve, Fips stops to sniff by the pine needles and leaves. This is a usual sniffing spot for both of them. I look down the road and see nothing. I peer harder and think I detect a dark spot in the greyness of the asphalt. I squint ... yes ... the dark spot is moving ... getting closer.

"Oh Rosci!" I reach down and pat him. Fips is wagging his tail and hop-humping about Rosco. Rosco is not in the mood and gives a mild snap. "Oh no, Rosco," say as I pet the two of them. I don't scold Rosco or encourage Fips. We then make our way back.

Returning home, Fips will not stop his circling around Rosco. His tail is wagging and he nudges Roscoe's ear and butt. Near the bridge, Fips humps. Rosco stands still, morosely uninterested. "C'mon you guys; lets go back now."

Back inside the gate, I return to the glow box. After a while I noticed that neither dog is inside. I get up and look for them. I find them by the truck. Rosco is staring into the neighbor's yard and Fips is sitting by staring at Rosco. I figure I'll let them work out whatever is going on.

Somewhat later, Rosco his back inside and I notice that he is definitely not his self. He is lethargic and shivering mildly. I kneel down to feel him up and check him out, as he lays on his side. Fips is standing right by. He looks at me, looks at Rosco and looks back at me. His eyes reflect a combination of concern, curiosity and expectation...as if to say, "Are you going to make it OK?" I look at Fips and say, "Yes, Fipsie; Rosco's not OK. He's sick." There is no doubt in my mind that Fips understands. At one point, Fips either licks Rosco's penis or nudges his butt. There's no question that he wants to help.

I check Rosco's ear, paws, gums and nose. They seem normal, but he is decidedly unresponsive. I do a test by walking over to the chew-bone box. Both dogs follow. Fips is excited but Rosco could care less. Poor Rosco is definitely not feeling well.

We walk back to the dining room where Rosco resumes his laying about. I lay alongside, stroking him while I think about it. Fips pulls up into the crook of me knees and hangs his head over my thigh looking at me and at Rosco.

I am amazed. This is not just joining the cuddling. It is not mere curiousity. It is concerned curiosity. Fips knows something is wrong and is standing by with an aura of brotherly responsibility, even though he expects me to fix it.

There's not much I can do. I massage Rosco's tummy and penis, thinking that maybe he's constipated. Fips looks on. It doesn't seem to do much good and so I eventually stop. With these two critters, one never knows how much of the shivering is drama. So I leave Rosco alone for a while to see just how much of the shivering is purely physical and how much is his way of saying he's not feeling well.

After a brief "departure" I return. Fips is sitting upright by Rosco. Rosco's shivering seems to be only "20%" of what it was. So I leave them alone for a while longer.

After a while, I check up on them again. They are still upstairs. Fips has not left Rosco's side and Rosco is still laying on his side. At this point, I call the vet to talk things over and to make pre-arrangements should I have to call her at 3 a.m.

Poisoning is the main concern. We go over the details of the area, likely causes and so on. Lisa says that if it was freon "he's toast" no matter what. There's nothing that can be done. But we decide that there was not likely to be any freon where he was walking. What about snail bait, rat poision and the like? What kind of "trembling" and "shivering" are we talking about? I ask. She says that I would know it when I saw it. There's "brr-brrr" type shivering, there's convulsions and vomiting and, in between, there, shaking, spasdicating type trembling. Rosco's seems to have the first and which is indicative of general discomfort. So we decide to wait and keep an eye on things.

I go back to the glow box and after a while, still not noticing the dogs, I check around. Roscoe is on the front "lawn" and Fips is standing by him. I walk over, check them out and return inside. The dogs follow.

Keeping an eye on things, I go to bed. Fips is on the bed and Rosco is on the floor. Lights out. I feel Fips jump off the bed. So I get up, turn on the lights and notice that Rosco has gone outside and Fips has followed to the flap of the doggie-door. Rosco heads into the garden, Fips follows. In the beam of the flashlight, I see Rosco lying in the garden and Fips standing by him.

Eventually Rosco comes back inside. I go back to bed. After a while I hear some rustling and get up again. This time I find the two fuzzies in the office. It's obviously going to go on this way all night long and so I decide to lock all the doors so that Rosco will be inside where I can hear him if he starts to convulse or something.

Throughout all of this Fips has never left Rosco's side. I finally doze to sleep with the odd assurance that if something does start to happen, Fips will wake me.

In the morning, Rosco seems to be a little better. Still pokey, but alive. Fips is still shadowing at Rosco's haunchies. I'm pretty blown away by Fips' awareness, sympathy and sense of responsibility. He knows, he wants to do something and no question but that he loves his little brother.

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Another Chien Fatale Performance

After finishing up some accounting, I went to the kitchen to get some cohwfy. When I came back, Fips was standing on the carpetted part of my office holding up a limp patito. "Fix it, please?" So I kneel down to do a patito check. Schmips is very patient. Then he decides to do chien fatale and just keels over on his side with an air of total hopelessness and passivity.

I find absolutely nothing. I go back up to the kitchen and Fips is now trying to follow, limping on three's and pathetically trying in this fashion to ascend the stairs. What drama! I tell him to sit, that I'll be right back.

I'm right back. He flops on his side again. I inspect again. He had been curled up tight in the corner of my file cabinets and I'm suspecting that his foot has simply fallen asleep. So I gently massage his shoulder joints. Fips is completely unresponsive, but then looks up and starts to kissie pooh. Well, it's hard to say, but maybe he feels better.

I suppose sleepy patito is what it was. I sure didn't feel any joints snapping into place. Anon, anon, Fips is back to normal. We drive to town where I shop. When I return to the truck, two fuzzie faces are expectantly peering out the driver-side window. The doggies get chew chips the sight of which produce a looooooooong drool from Rosco.

Back home. Fips is now now trying to interest Roscoe in pouncies. Rosco is doing his "nothing doing" sprawl. Fips is wagging his tail and poking Roscoe's ear and butt.

The evening news is blathering: "Camps..., how safe are they? What every parent should know about summer camp." Arrrrgggghhh. Mute. I count myself lucky to have the sterling artistry of Fipsie Drama

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The Sleep of Innocents

A friend of mine started his banking career as a fledgling trust officer. Among other miscellaneous duties, he was assigned to routinely check up on the fulfillment of some millionaireness' Trust for Fifi. Her entire Piedmont Hills estate was to be maintained "just as it was" for the life of her canine darling who had to be fed a precise menu of filet mignon from a silver bowl...and so on and so forth. Two caretakers lived at the estate for this sole purpose. Every other Tuesday or so, my friend would straighten his tie and head on out, saying "Well, it's time to go make sure darling Fifi is being taken care of...."

At THIS estate, Rosci kept this caretaker up till about 3 am. Every time I was just about to fall asleep, he started up and ran out the flap door barking furiously. At one point, I heard what sounded like snarling, so I got up, went to the door naked, saw nothing, got dressed and went outside looking for him with a flash light. He was nowhere to be seen. Then, out of the dark, darts this little rocket doggie, vacuuming the ground with his nose. Jes' sniffin. So I bring him inside and give him a chew bone, hoping it will distract him. For a while it's quietish... gnaw, gnaw, gnaw... And then: WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! ... Oh gawd!!!! Will it never end??

This morning while I am drying off from the shower, I see Fipsie draped over the bed. Where is Rosco I wonder? Nowhere to be seen. Then I look more closely and protruding out from under the mountain of blankets is a very round fuzzy butt. What a charmed life he leads.... barking till three, sleeping the Sleep of the Innocents till ten.

I return home later in the afternoon to the sounds of Hobbes is doing his Chinese Meaow Torture. I snarl at him several times to no avail. He WILL be fed, on the mark NOW. In fact 'myaoh, myaoh, myaoh' starts to sound like, 'now, now, now'. So the nanimoos got fed on the earlier side today.

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A Sufficient Forgetting

This morning, we noticed that Rosco was compulsively licking his right paw which, on inspection, was puffy and swollen between two digies. Oh no.....

The thought of a $500.00 foxtail operation was certainly enough to throw a wet blanket on an otherwise sunny day, but it did not look like anything we could pinch or poke out. So Fips and Mike and Rosco and I piled into the truck and drove down the road to the Mid-own vet.

They're pretty good, I said to Michael, and if Lisa Hoffman is there, she'll try to get it out without anesthesia. A few minutes later we arrived and went inside. Dr. Lisa was there.

As Mike and Fips waited in the front office, I took Rosco into the examining room and lifted him onto the table. Perhaps it is due to his horrible fish-hook ordeal but, whatever the case, Rosco has never been as non-chalant as Fips. When it comes to examining tables, Rosco displays the typical doggie distrust and anxiety -- which is hardly unreasonable, after all.

All things considered, though, Rosco stayed pretty calm as Lisa probed his diggies with hers. "Do you think you can get it out," I asked. "We can try," she said. "I'll hold him."

As I held Rosco's fuzzy muscle-body tight, Lisa inserted a small forceps into the swollen abscess. Rosco quivered in my arms as she fished around. She pulled out part of sliver and probed some more, finding nothing. During one last final probe she hit a nerve and Rosco let out a piercing yelp of pain.

Michael said that both he and Fips heard the yelp outside and that both of them felt absolutely terrible. So did I. The anguish is so pure and piercing.

Lisa apologized as I stroked Rosco's head. "Well I guess that's it," she said, adding that she did not think anything was left inside. After she sponged up the wound with gauze, I put him down and he ran eagerly to press his nose against the door.

We spent the rest of the day giving Rosco treats and cuddlies and the like. But he forgot about it soon enough and was back to his normal rambunctious self.

I convince myself that Rosco will remember "that place of pain" and I wonder if I should take him back just to get a treat. But, on reflection, I doubt that doggie brains work that way. After all, ours don't. If there were some present good -- say a chunk of steak hanging on the front door -- Rosco would hardly shy away. Otherwise the danger/alert memory of a past painful experience can't be so cheaply erased with the counterbalancing happenstance of a milk bone. If it could be, the whole purpose of registering a memory alert would be defeated. Nah... he's happy now; best to leave him to his own devices. Sufficient for the day is the forgetfulness thereof.

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