Tag Archives: dog

Lady Byng, ? – 2025

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I love all dogs. I’ve been blessed in my life to share a home with many of them, from the very gentle 80-plus-pound pittie Chiquita, the kindest and gentlest soul to walk the Earth, to the 5 pounds of nervous chihuahua energy that was Spike. They were all the best dogs, and I mourned their passing.

But Byng was different. She chose me. The Official Sweetie and I were at the shelter, and she was in a cage at the end of the row. I stuck my fingers through the bars to scritch her head, and she pressed up hard against the metal to make it as easy as possible for me. But I couldn’t stay all day there. When I stopped, she looked up at me and put her little paw through the bars, and put her hook through my heart. You can’t possibly be done. She was right. We brought her home.

At the shelter they called her Beyoncé, but that was not who this little girl was. We named her Lady Byng, after the hockey award for a player with high skill who doesn’t get penalties. NHL’s Miss Congeniality. Sometimes it seemed the name didn’t fit: while she was always graceful, and a fierce competitor, I think she might have spent some time in the penalty box for teaching puppies how things work in this league.

She chose me, and I was hers. And only hers. At the dog park, I was popular among the canine population. Always ready to play chase, or throw a ball, or just to give some good, solid, lovin’. A few other dogs would rush to greet me when we arrived. But if Byng felt like I might like another dog a little too much, intervention was called for. If I threw a ball and another dog chased it, she would head that dog off on their return path with teeth bared to prevent them from bringing the ball back so I could throw it again.

She had no patience for amateur dogs. Puppies and whatnot. At the park she was the schoolmarm and would brook no impertinence, no matter the size of the other dog. Great Dane? Sit your ass down, kid. Other people there would laugh and thank Lady Byng for educating their dogs. “Respect the lady, Diesel.”

At home, there were other dogs, and she was fine with them as long as she was closer to me than they were. I was hers, and she shared only grudgingly.

She had been living on the streets before she was captured and brought to the shelter. Having been hungry, she was world-class at figuring out how to get food. We started teaching her tricks, and she could jump, run, weave, or dance her way to a treat. Always at breakneck speed — and I mean that literally; we had to take “roll over” off the trick sheet because she would throw herself over so violently while keeping an eye on the reward that she would injure herself.

But the best times were the quiet ones, when my restless hands scritched her noggin, and her back, and then she would use her paw to guide my hand to her belly. The belly! Belly rubs were the best of all rubs. A good rubbin’ on a full belly was all she asked for out of life, and what she worked her whole life to achieve, and in return she gave joy and (in her mind) protection. She was Daddy’s Little Girl, no doubt about that. I thought sometimes I was going to rub the fur off her belly.

When I go to work tomorrow, I will not ask Lady Byng to take care of mommy, the way I have for the last twelve years.

I don’t want to talk here about the last weeks. There were ups and downs, and then it was over. I hope, but I can never know, that she knew it was me holding her and scritching her at the end. “She’s gone,” the vet said.

But she’s not gone. She is everywhere in this house, though that will slowly fade. Right now, reminders are everywhere. I cried when I poured out her water bowl this morning. But she won’t really be gone until I am gone, and all the other humans she has charmed are gone.

It is simpler when you are a dog; there is no urge to Be Remembered. No need to erect a monument with your name and a couple of numbers on it, to be sniffed at by other dogs. Our pack has done miles in the nearby cemetery, and while the humans read the monuments and consider their mortality, the canines just sniff, and march, and pee, and have a good ol’ time.

She would dance when we opened the fireplace, and the moment her red velvet pillow was ready she would settle in (as fast as possible) to quietly enjoy the radiant heat of the fire. I think, now, that wherever I see a hearth, I will also see a red velvet pillow.

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Winston Needs a Home

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The official Sweetie of Muddled Ramblings and Half-Baked Ideas has a heart the size of a planet. She monitors the web site of the shelter across the street to see if there is a neglected dog with special needs, that no one would ever adopt. She bonds with those dogs, sight unseen, because she is empathetic and she wants all living things to be happy.

Winston, honestly, sounded pretty dire. Half of his legs didn’t work. His mobility was forever impaired (spoiler… I just took a break from typing this to have a very kinetic funtime with that poor immobile guy), and he had other issues as well. His weight was listed at 10 pounds, which made him an ideal subordinate for Lady Byng, our dog in residence.

It has not worked out that way, but for the best of reasons. Winston has put on some weight, he can run (if you ignore the occasional face-plant as effortlessly as he does), and he loves people. Big dogs, not so much.

He is a people-pleasin’ bundle of fun, and it breaks my heart that he and Lady Byng don’t get along. But that’s the way in the canine world.

Can you seriously say no to this guy? No, you cannot.

He has some special needs: he has seizures, but Official Sources to Muddled Ramblings and Half-Baked Ideas assert that while they are really effin’ scary for the humans who love him, that he should be OK.

He also hates big dogs. I blame the other dogs for being too big.

Winston loves to play, and in that photo you see Rope. He has Rope. You do not. You want to tug about it? He is ready to tug.

Someone out there needs Winston in their life. Please, for the sake of everyone, help us find that person.

Oh, dang! I forgot to tell y’all how to meet and/or adopt the little guy. To spread the word to your friends, https://www.instagram.com/whataboutwinston_sj/ is his very own instagram account filled with more amazing pics of Winston, along with the contact details with the shelter. Spread this far and wide!

Seriously, whatever you are doing now, stop that and share that link wherever you do social stuff.

If you’re all fired up and ready to meet him yourself, this link will get you to Winston, with all his details.

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The Big Bed

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Every now and then, when it has been an emotionally draining day, we invite the dogs to hop up into the big bed with us, so the whole pack can be together.

While Gilfoyle enjoys being up there, Lady Byng lives to be snuggled with the pack. Last night was a pack night. Tonight, every time I look toward the bedroom, she tears off in maximum excitement, sure that tonight her dream of being on the Big Bed will be realized again. She has cracked the code, knows what to do, and there will be Big Bed nights forevermore.

Except nope, there is nothing she can do to change the outcome tonight. Some outcomes you don’t control, as much as you would like to think you do.

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Gilly

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About two years ago, we welcomed into our house a little asshole we named Gilfoyle. He is at least in part a Lancashire Heeler, a very small dog designed to move large animals. You want to succeed at that job, you better be an asshole.

Gilly sleeping with eyes open. Because the world is full of danger.

Right now he is under my desk, sleeping on my foot, snoring a little bit. Wherever I sit down to work, he will always be close by. He loves Mommy more, but I stay still.

In the evenings, there is a routine. After a few minutes of snacks and training the dogs and the humans take their places on the couch. Gilly (after sniffing the outside air, drinking water, and rubbing his face on the floor) jumps up on the couch (with a tiny, tiny bit of assistance) and takes his place against my left thigh.

Sometimes, if the Official Sweetie and I are still snacking, some tiny treats will also reach the canine elements of our pack. Last night we were eating chips, and now and then a tiny piece of chip would find its way to the pups. They do likes them some chips.

But then I offered Gilfoyle a chip and he went totally fuckin’ nuts. He bit my finger and then went after any part of my body he could reach, barking and flashing teeth and… I dunno, fighting for his life?

I should have been more ready. I had been sipping Tequila, and I’ve seen plenty of times before that when I’m drinking liquor Gilly is much more volatile.

It breaks my heart. I don’t know Gilfoyle’s history, but I can make a few guesses. When Dad’s been drinking, prepare to fight for your life. I will never erase that impulse. I can never love this dog so hard that those scars go away. But Gilfoyle, my friend, my foot warmer, I will never hurt you. I promise.

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Dogs and Tennis

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I’ll admit it, yesterday I snuck over to Facebook to see what people have been saying about my more recent episodes (I probably log in to Facebook as often as once a month these days). In response to my recent episode about getting creative with sports, Candace Reedy said, “I always thought golf and tennis would be greatly improved by retrieving dogs…”

I agree wholeheartedly. And dogs and tennis balls? It’s as natural as beer on Friday. I once wrote somewhere in the million-plus words of this blog, that if dogs could raise a statue, it would be to honor the person who invented the tennis ball.

The Round Mound of Hound in intensive training.

So — dogs and tennis. Obviously a good idea. But how, exactly, would it work? I’m here to help make that real. You don’t have to thank me, it’s what I do.

Overall, I think dogs would add two things to the game: chaos and slobber.

Let’s think about slobber. You’re going to have wet-ball players and dry-ball players. When you serve a ball that is sodden with dog drool, it will feel like you’re hitting a lead weight. If you serve with the usual overhead motion, you will be launching a slug and while it might not get over the net quickly, when it touches the surface on the other side, it will drop flatter than a biological slug. The ultimate dream of topspin players to keep the ball low to the surface on the bounce; with a drool-ball there will hardly be a bounce at all.

But when you toss that saturated ball over your head, dog spittle spinning off, droplets shining in the sun, your opponent will know what is coming, and rush the net. So what do you do instead? The lob-serve. Hit it deep, keep it squishy, and your opponent will be forced to hit it on the volley rather than let it “bounce” – a relatively tough shot.

But here’s were things could get tedious. Your opponent is just as restricted as you are concerting shot options. She will be sending a lob right back. Not exactly the recipe for excitement.

Except, of course, there are dogs on the court! And the right dog for this game will be expert at shagging lobs. But then what happens? Simple: If the dog catches the ball on the volley, it’s a point for the dog’s team. If the dog catches it on the first bounce, no points for either side, a do-over. The dog can enjoy the ball for a limited time, juicing it up, but when her teammate says “drop”, the ball is returned to play.

Imagine you’re Roger Federer, able to serve a thousand miles an hour, give or take. You’re a dry-ball player. Your dog is an Australian Cattle Dog, nimble as all get-out and filled with energy, but is well-trained to give the ball back before it is too sodden. Your dog’s name is something like “Ace.” 

Today you’re facing an up-and-coming dog-tennis player named Casey, a scrambler in the Michael Chang mold, and his canine teammate Luna, a youngster of uncertain parentage with strong legs and an almost limitless supply of drool. Casey is good at deflecting hard serves so that Luna can have a shot at them, and Casey’s scrambling style will eat you alive once things get sloppy. A classic wet/dry showdown!

Stuff like that is what sport is all about.

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Welcome, Lady Byng!

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Yesterday evening we arrived home from the nearby animal shelter with a new friend.

Lady Byng

She is named for the hockey trophy that is awarded each year to the “player adjudged to have exhibited the best type of sportsmanship and gentlemanly conduct combined with a high standard of playing ability.” Yes, it’s hockey’s Miss Congeniality award. Fitting to her name, she is a very well-behaved little dog, who doesn’t need to be told more than twice where she is not allowed to go (though the subtleties of sofa-with-blanket vs. sofa-without-blanket are still confusing to her after 24 hours).

She is also very quiet. Last night, as we put her into her bed in the laundry room she cried for a while, with some really odd-sounding vocalizations, but nary a bark. Once she figured out that we were still nearby she settled down to sleep.

So, welcome to the pack, Lady Byng.

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A Wee Bit of Happy News

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It was a tough day, overall. I’ll go into details later, maybe. But here’s a happy story, even if it’s a few years old. It’s the story of Popsicle, a puppy found wrapped in a plastic bag in a freezer.

Popsicle was saved, and went on to be awesome. So, yay, Popsicle!

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Round Mound of Hound… Rebound

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Sad news for fans of the Official Muddled Dog: We’ve been busted. You see, the ol’ gal is substantially larger than the nominal limit for our neighborhood. Even at her ideal weight she would be quite a bit too big.

The rule is very inconsistently enforced, however; so as long as no one complains, management is willing to not see the big dog. Well, we’re getting new neighbors and before they moved in they complained. Management has notified us that our quiet, gentle, well-behaved dog must go.

Looking for a home, once again.

To my new neighbors I say, “The next time your &*$#^*@ fence is on fire, there won’t be a dog around to alert people to the trouble.” (True fact: OMD raised the alarm a few days ago when a fence was burning. Just like in Reader’s Digest.) But, I remind myself, we were the ones breaking a rule, we knew we were breaking it, and the neighbors have every right to be jerks and rat on our dog before talking to us. They don’t know us, they don’t know how we would react. The era of neighborliness is sadly over. How long ago was it that when something bothered a neighbor they just went and knocked on the door before calling in higher authority?

Now there’s someone who’s bed is maybe thirty feet from mine, whom I’ve never met, that has pissed me off. Part of me wants to get a new dog that fits the regulations and barks nonstop.

But that’s not constructive. What is constructive is helping to find this fine animal her permanent home. Apparently our role in her life is an interim stop between old and new homes, so we can make sure she lands in a good place.

Please, especially if you’re in the Bay Area, put the word out that there’s eighty pounds of unconditional love just looking for someone who needs her.

It’s going to be really tough to say goodbye.

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More is Better

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In the Official Muddled Dog’s mind, there are three things more awesome than anything else. Food, belly rubs, and tennis balls. I don’t know who invented the modern tennis ball, but if dogs had a museum his statue would be out front. As any tennis player will tell you, however, it’s only a matter of time before a tennis ball is nothing more than a tattered pile of rubber fragments and colored fuzz. It pays, therefore, to buy in bulk.

My sweetie came home from Tennis Balls R Us yesterday with a 12-pack of the fuzzy toys and OMD did not need any prompting to claim the entire bag for herself. Hilarity (and pictures) ensued.

My sister asked if Official Muddled Dog had any positions besides “prone”. I’m happy to answer yes, as long as there’s a tennis ball around. The third shot of the set demonstrates that maybe shooting at f/1.2 isn’t always the right choice — could have used a bit more depth of focus there.

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