The Problem Pup… Has Another Problem.

 On Tuesday, we finally had our private session with our wonderful dog trainer, Donna.  It’s been a long-awaited meeting… she’s going to help us with the Milo and Skimble problem.  We hope.

Donna did a walkthrough of the house, and met Skimble (who had been confined in the computer room for the morning).  Her first suggestion - get a tall baby gate across the hall to increase Skimble’s “territory” and get Milo used to seeing the cat up and about.  Since this was something that I’d considered doing already, I felt validated in my good instincts.

Before we discussed the cat more, however, Donna asked me to bring Milo and Ariel in from the yard.  And that’s where the meeting went sideways.  What I saw was normal Milo behavior… he rushed in first, greeted Donna first, and pretty much got in the way of Ariel getting her share of attention.  Donna noticed this, too.

“Chris,” she said, “I think we’ve got a problem we’re going to need to deal with before we can really address the cat issue.”  In less than five minutes, watching the same two dogs I’d been watching, she’d counted seven instances of canine bullying.  Milo wasn’t just asserting himself and claiming the position of Top Dog.  He was actively keeping Ariel from seeking or receiving attention with his gaze and with his body.  Where I’d seen him sitting politely at my feet, Donna saw something else:  “Look.  He’s guarding you.”

Once pointed out, I could see it clearly.  Ariel, who loves attention and greeting visitors, was hanging far back, her curled tail unwound and hanging low.  Every time she made a move to come forward, Milo would lean forward or take a step towards her and stare.  Hard.  And Ariel backed off.

Milo, in short, is a canine bully… and the focus of his bullying is Ariel, and possibly Skimble.

Donna explained what I would need to do.  First, Milo would need to learn to go to “his spot” and stay there, no matter what.  Next, all human family members would need to learn how to recognize Milo’s bullying body language - and stop it.  No more rushing to the bedroom to finish off any food Ariel had left behind.  No more harassing Ariel, trying to get her to “play.”  No more hard stares to tell her to back off.  Finally, we would continue to work on getting Milo to tolerate Ariel getting attention and treats in his presence.

This is not going to be easy, I think.  It’s going to require exquisite timing and consistency from all humans.  And there is no timeline for success… all we know is that it’s not going to be a quick fix.

And my anxiety has kicked into overdrive.  I want to believe that I, and my family with me, am capable of retraining Milo.  I want to believe that he can be retrained… that this is just a temporary problem, born of Milo’s unknown, and likely inappropriate, early puppy months.  But…

There is ALWAYS a “but.”

But I keep “hearing” the CPR staffers telling me that this wasn’t a good match.  That I should return Milo to them, let them place him in a home with no other pets, let them help me adopt a different dog.

But I keep “hearing” my mother and sisters asking why I keep him, and don’t I feel more loyalty to the pets I already had?  He’s a nice dog, but he’s scaring my cat and stressing my other dog.

And when these inner voices get loud, I start questioning my strength and abilities.

The day after Donna came - leaving with a hug and a smile, assuring me that we could do this, it would just be slow, methodical work - Tom and I left on vacation.  Ariel went to stay with my sister-in-law.  Milo went to a sitter.  In their absence, I’m left with thoughts that have no good or easy answers.

I love Milo.  We’ve bonded, and I feel like he needs me.  But I also love Ariel and Skimble.  I want them to live their best, most comfortable lives.  As a result… I don’t know quite what to do.  

All I know is that the decision needs to be mine, either way I go.  

MUTTS - The Comic Strip

 One of the simple joys in my life has always been reading the comics.  Peanuts was my first great love, though I’ve always had a particular soft spot in my heart for the earliest strips, where Snoopy still walked on all fours and acted like a dog.  Later, I fell for the family strip For Better or Worse and the ever-popular Calvin and Hobbes.  But one strip has almost taken the space in my heart formerly reserved for Good Ol’ Charlie Brown: Mutts by Patrick McDonnell.

Mutts is a simple strip.  A gentle strip.  It features two animal friends, Earl the dog and Mooch the cat, and an assortment of their friends, both animal and human.  It doesn’t stray into political issues or pop culture- though animal welfare is always front and center, from the yearly “Shelter Stories” that encourage pet adoption to frequent calls to make “humane choices” when eating (I have not yet gotten on board with the Vegetarian Agenda, however).  In short, Mutts is a joy to read, a treat for the heart.

Watch What You Write

 

I goofed.

I didn’t mean to, but that’s the thing about mistakes… nobody really MEANS to make them.

And, as things so often happen, I had really meant well at the time - but it almost cost me my dog.

It started when I came across an article about pheromones helping ease tensions between cats and dogs.  Because I’ve been concerned about the ongoing difficulties between Milo and Skimble, the idea of having an additional tool to help me with retraining them made me very happy.  I immediately posted a link to the article and a description of the problematic behavior to the Companion Pet Rescue Alumnae Facebook group.  I don’t recall exactly what I wrote… perhaps that when he sees the cat, Milo goes very still, staring, before launching into a chase.  Whatever I said, though, it certainly got a reaction… just not the reaction that I’d hoped for.

Almost immediately, I had a reply from Molli Bowen, president of CPR.  She was very concerned about the safety of my cat, she wrote, and felt that I really ought to return Milo to CPR immediately.  They would help me to find a dog who was a better match, she said.

I went cold from head to toe.  I hadn’t been asking for sympathy or assistance; I’d been sharing a tool I hoped would help my situation.  What had I said that had generated such an instantaneous response? 

As I was formulating a reply, my Facebook messenger dinged.  This time, it was Milo’s foster mom.  She, too, was extremely worried about the Milo-Skimble situation.  She couldn’t recall listing Milo as “good with cats,” she said, though it could have been a mistake (the marker for “good with cats” is close to the marker for “good with kids;” that’s what she had been meaning to indicate).  She also shared her own experience with a cat-aggressive dog that hadn’t ended well.  She urged me to bring Milo back to CPR before something happened that couldn’t be undone.

At this point, I was close to full-out panicking.  I didn’t remember exactly what the adoption contract for CPR had said; could they, somehow, force me to bring Milo back to them?  Was I about to lose my dog?  I called my husband at work, but couldn’t reach him.  I left a message.  Next, I jotted a quick but frantic email to Donna, the dog trainer I’ve been working with.  She wouldn’t be able to answer soon, though.  I was on my own.  I took a deep breath, forced myself to get into a somewhat calmer state, and jotted a response to both CPR ladies.

I thanked them for their concern for Skimble before saying anything else.  That was from the heart; I really did appreciate their caring for my cat’s wellbeing.  I explained that were working with a good trainer, one CPR had recommended, and I really,  REALLY wanted to give retraining Milo a shot.  He was doing very well in obedience class, and we had arranged for a private consultation with Donna about the cat situation.  If retraining Milo didn’t work, I said, we would certainly think about returning him to CPR.  

By this time, my husband had sent me an email.  Take down the post, he said.  Take it down, and pull out the adoption contract.  Make sure there was nothing in there that would give CPR a reason to take Milo back.  And for heaven’s sake, stop posting personal problems on social media.  I took the post down.

Shortly after, I heard from Donna.  She was putting us on her fast track for consultation- the earliest open time was the end of July, but if she had a cancellation, she’d get us in earlier.  Until then, keep the animals apart, keep Milo on a leash inside, and keep working on the commands “stay” and “leave it.”  If CPR wanted, she would be happy to let them know her opinion of the situation.

I didn’t hear anything more from the CPR president, though Milo’s foster mom seemed relieved that we were taking the situation seriously.  Though I was still nervous, I appreciated the fact that CPR wanted the best for its adopters and adoptees… they’re good folks, and in it for more than just the day of adoption.

But I’m definitely going to be more careful about what I put on Facebook from now on.

Dog DNA Results - Wisdom Panel and Embark

One of the first things we did after adopting Milo was to swab his cheek for a DNA sample and send it out for processing with Embark.  Though we could see that some of what Companion Pets Rescue predicted was true - short legs with the knobbly joints did point to Basset Hound ancestry, red and white ticking in a distinctive pattern indicated Australian Cattle Dog - we were curious about what a detailed analysis would turn up.

We had already tested Ariel's DNA shortly after adopting her - at the time, Wisdom Panel was the go-to company to use - and again, the rescue's analysis proved on target.  Ariel had been listed as a Pomeranian Mix; she was definitely that, with more that we could see and agree with (German Spitz) and some that we couldn't see at all (Basset Hound?  Really?)  What was more frustrating than anything else was the 50% of her DNA that could not be unraveled... "too mixed to tell" or "mixed beyond three generations" was what the paperwork said.  Still, we found it comforting to know at least half of her identity... though we know less than nothing about the behavioral traits of the Pom or the Spitz, aside from the fact that they perhaps influence her tendency to roam.

Some folks have no use for DNA testing, and I can't say I blame them.  It's still expensive, and not as accurate as many people would like.  Sometimes, the results are downright perplexing - genetics are funny things, and it's interesting how traits from generations back can pop up in a puppy.  With Ariel, the only thing we can figure about the Basset Hound part of her lineage is her coat, which is shorter than either Pom or Spitz should be, and her coloration and patterning, which matches some of what I've seen in some Bassets.  Other than that, the 1/8 of her that is related to some long-gone hound is hidden.

With Milo, we opted for Embark, a newer company that has blazed a reputation for itself in the field of canine DNA analysis.  It was more expensive - $150 for the base kit, as opposed to Wisdom Panel's $99 - but it was so highly praised by reviewers online that we wanted to give it a shot.  It took almost a month, but the results came in with four distinct breeds identified.

We had definitely expected Cattle Dog - but not quite so much as almost 52%!  And with Milo's clear physical traits pointing to Basset, we were surprised to find only 5.3% of that in his genetics.  What surprised us was the "invisible" breeds... the Treeing Walker Coonhound, which looks like a much larger, long-legged Beagle, and the ever-popular Lab.  We're not sure what to think - nothing in Milo's appearance points back to either breed, though perhaps it's the Lab in his coloration that has faded out the red ticking of the Cattle Dog's distinctive coat pattern.

It's what the test can tell us about Milo's personality and energy level, though, that we're most interested in.  I'd been hoping for a higher percentage of laid-back Basset to mellow out the ultra-high energy of the Australian Cattle Dog; that's what we've seen in our past two ACD/Beagle mixes.  Now, with the top three contributors to Milo's DNA being high-energy breeds, my hopes for having a relatively low-energy pup are greatly diminished - though Milo has, so far, proven to be remarkably mellow indoors.

My worries about Milo's cat-chasing also seem to be pointing to roots in his DNA; Australian Cattle Dogs are dyed-in-the-wool working herding dogs.  Treeing Walker Coonhounds are virtually the gold standard in terms of hunting dogs; online, owners are warned that they can be problematic around cats and small pets if not introduced to them as young puppies.  With Milo's past being pretty much a mystery, it seems that he's only just been introduced to cats at the 4-5 month mark.  Hopefully, however, he's still young enough to retrain.

I've heard some people comment that DNA tests are useless "because it's not like you're going to stop loving your dog because he isn't what you thought he was."  That's a true statement; we wouldn't stop loving either Ariel or Milo because of what a test said about their ancestry.  But I do find it a valuable way to predict or assess behavior and size, and even, perhaps, health (though we didn't spring the extra $50 for that part of the Embark test).  All of this needs to be taken into account with what behaviors and physical traits the dogs is actually showing, however.  As a teacher, I'd never put my entire faith into the written description of a breed identified through a DNA test any more than I put my entire faith into looking at a previous teacher's comments about a student, which are likely more accurate to the individual.

When it comes right down to it, Milo is... Milo.  It is impossible to determine if he's got the herding instincts of the ACD or the hunting heart of a coonhound, the biddable, people-pleasing attitude of a Lab or the mellow laziness of a Basset.  Ariel certainly doesn't exhibit the behavioral traits of Pom, Spitz, or Basset - though in fairness 50% of her is a complete mystery.  All I know is that I adore both of them, regardless of... and because of... what their DNA says about them.

Being a Reptile Person

 

Figment, my Bearded Dragon

I never thought I'd be a reptile person.

When I used to think of reptile people, I would picture people who wear a lot of black tee shirts printed with the logos of obscure bands.  With a lot of tattoos.  And piercings... lots of piercings.

In fact, when I did my master's project on companion animals in a classroom setting, I wasn't entirely sure what to include as far as reptiles went.  Did they even COUNT as companion animals?  Many keepers, it seemed, treated them as living artwork... collecting high-priced and unusually colored specimens and storing them in large "rack tubs," like the sliding plastic drawers my friend Cathy uses to organize her scrapbooking and crafting materials.  Others displayed them in aquarium tanks or specialized terrariums, rather like terrestrial goldfish.

I did try to like them - reptiles, that is.  (I already liked the reptile people I'd met.)  I wanted a classroom pet, and because furry or feathered pets were out of the question due to student allergies and building air quality concerns, I thought I might want to try a pet of the scaly variety.  Snakes were out of the question - though I had a soft spot for the lovely orange, red, and yellow corn snakes I'd seen in a pet shop, and though I found the western varieties of garter snakes with their bright blue and red checker-mark patterns gorgeous, my mother is deathly afraid of snakes and would never come visit me during the summer were I to keep one in my house.  Besides, most snakes require regular feedings of rats and mice, and those look too much like pets to me.

At first, I thought I'd try a bearded dragon - reputed to be one of the most people-centric and "affectionate" reptile pets that is still manageable in size.  I quickly nixed that idea when I realized that a grown beardie of the species most commonly kept as a pet - the Inland Bearded Dragon, or Pogona vitticeps - requires a home that measures at least 4'x2', and I just didn't have that kind of space in my classroom.  I could, I realized, house a smaller species of bearded dragon, however.

Enter the Rankin's Bearded Dragon, Pogona henrilawsonii.  At half the size of a grown P. vitticeps, the Rankin's dragon was notable for needing a far, far smaller living space.  And, I was told, they enjoy being housed together... so why not get two?  I searched the Internet for breeders - for a species that seemed so eminently suited for pethood, they weren't easy to find - and finally ordered a pair from a Georgia breeder.  Enter Steve and Irwin.  Steve and Irwin were, as I had read, smaller than the traditional beardie.  They were easy to keep in a 3' long terrarium.  They were easy to feed, subsisting mainly on insects and greens.

And they had all the personality of a pair of sticks.

My students were not enamored.  Steve and Irwin sat on their tree branch and didn't do, well, ANYTHING.  They did not like being handled.  They were not affectionate or people-oriented in the slightest.  They preferred people who wanted to look, but not touch.  Not exactly the sort of critters you would call companionable animals, let alone companion animals.  (To be fair to Steve and Irwin, at a much later date, I realized that no young dragon of any species really enjoys handling - they need to be accustomed to it over time - and that personality in bearded dragons develops after they are about a year old.  To be fair to me, there really wasn't a lot of material out there that would let me know this at the time.)

Higgins

I placed an ad on Craigslist and sent them off to a reptile keeper who was thrilled to have them, sticklike personalities and all.

I tried a tortoise after that.  My next-door teacher had a Redfoot tortoise named Henry, who was
personable in the way that Steve and Irwin hadn't been.  Henry looked at you when you approached his habitat.  Henry would munch on a proffered leaf of lettuce if you held one out.  Henry, howerver, was a bit bigger than I wanted for my classroom - about the size of a loaf of bread - and so I did some research and decided upon the Russian Tortoise as my next class pet.  I named her Higgins.

Higgins arrived smaller than the diameter of an English muffin.  On the first morning after I got her, I panicked my entire class when I checked her habitat and could not find her anywhere.  Students were soon crawling on all fours all over the classroom, looking under everything that could be looked under, even calling her name (which wouldn't have mattered in the slightest - she never did learn to come when called).  We soon discovered that baby Russian Tortoises like to bury themselves in their substrate, filling in the hole behind them.  It is excellent camouflage.  If we had been predators wanting to eat her, we'd have been out of a meal.

Higgins was everything that Steve and Irwin were not.  She not only displayed a lively interest in the people looking into her habitat, she had her favorites... she would follow one of my teacher's assistants back and forth.  She loved to be hand fed, and during dandelion season, students brought her baggies full of fresh picked dandelion greens and flowers.  When I brought my class outside for lessons, Higgins came outside, too.  She was absurdly easy to keep - her droppings were small, her needs minimal, her diet predictable and easy to fulfill.  Why, I wondered, had I never had a tortoise before?

At home, over the summer, I created a spacious outdoor paddock for Higgins out of a kiddie pool and planted it with leafy greens she would enjoy.  She could burrow or bask as she wished and occasionally escaped, but was always found in the corner of the yard where the raspberry bushes grew, munching on low-hanging berries.  She grew healthy and strong, with none of the "pyramiding" of the shell that ill-kept tortoises develop.  I loved that little tortoise.

And then the district decided, quite out of the blue, that no teacher who was not a science teacher would be allowed classroom pets of any sort.  As the pet of a language arts teacher, that meant that Higgins was out of a home within the halls of academia... and I was faced with a problem.  

Higgins had grown to a size that required a much larger habitat - a tortoise table, in fact, which is in construction similar to a bookcase flipped on its back, often supported by legs.  The recommended size for a tortoise table to house a mature Russian is 8'x4' at the minimum.  Henry, the Redfoot tortoise next door, lived in a smallish rabbit cage when he wasn't free-roaming the classroom.  I felt I had to do better for Higgins.

After flinching and remembering how I had thought that I couldn't fit a 4'x2' Bearded Dragon tank in the classroom, and after wondering briefly how I would manage a habitat twice those dimensions, I'd mustered my courage and had been planning to build Higgins a multilevel classroom tortoise table to try to maximize the amount of required floorspace.  What would work for my classroom, unfortunately, would not work once I had to house Higgins at home.

Even a split-level tortoise table would not fit well in the living space of our 1,100 square foot ranch home.  It would take up a sizable chunk of our living room, which was problematic enough, but as I soon discovered upon moving Higgins in, our cats liked to use the tortoise habitat as a cat litter box... and use the basking area for their own basking.  I considered enclosing the space on all sides using a puppy X pen and chicken wire, but the cats kept finding ways in... or onto... the desired warm spots.  I contemplated housing Higgins in the basement, but the thought of exiling my personable little shelled friend to the land of cobwebs and laundry didn't sit well with me.  

In my world, when you take in a pet, you give that pet the best possible life you are capable of.  As a teacher, I felt it was my duty to model not just "acceptable" animal husbandry, but EXCEPTIONAL animal husbandry.  If you cannot provide an exceptional life for your pet, and if you've exhausted all other options, there is no shame in locating someone who can.  Reptiles are kinder to their keepers in this respect than cats and dogs are; I've never heard of a reptile who grieved its former home, so long as the home it went on to provided appropriate care.

I contacted Higgins' breeder, who happened to also run Turtle Rescue of Long Island.  Thankfully, she was not the judgmental sort, and assured me that if she did not keep Higgins herself, she would have no problem finding her a good home.  Higgins went off with many tears on my part, but not so much as a backward glance on hers.

After that, I dropped the idea of reptiles for quite some time.

I knew that, for me, a pet needed to be personable and people-oriented.  It also needed to fit into my limited living space.  Since at the time Higgins left I was breeding and showing gerbils, space was at a premium; one entire room of our home was devoted to my critters, and we were up to our eyeballs in rodents.  

It was only after my very patient husband discovered that he was allergic not only to cats but to rodents of all sorts that reptiles crossed my mind again.

The gerbils were long gone.  The parakeets, too.  Two rats, for whom we had driven clear to the Maine border to adopt, had been returned to their rescue - they were fear biters, unlike my earlier beloved Ratboys, and my husband's allergies had gotten worse, besides.  We were down to two dogs, two cats, and a couple of goldfish.

Jarvis

I was still not convinced that a reptile could be the sort of pet I was looking for.  I thought wistfully of Higgins, knowing that we still could not fit a tortoise table into the house.  I tried a leopard gecko, who was exceptionally cute (besides being brightly colored, they have lovely eyes and a permanently smiling face) and could live in a twenty gallon aquarium tank; Jarvis stayed for quite some time, but was not all that different to my way of thinking than my goldfish, except for the fact that Jarvis didn't mind at all being held.  He was eventually passed on to a colleague who wanted him for a classroom pet.  (Yes, the colleague taught science.)

I very nearly called it quits on reptiles after that.

To be honest, the reptiles I had crossed paths with had taught me that yes, I did LIKE reptiles.  I liked having them around, liked that they were slightly less demanding than cats and dogs, liked their alien nature.  It was the personality that was the problem - personality, and housing.  Species that had a "big personality" had an exponentially large need for a sizable living space.  And when you live in a tiny ranch house, you're limited in terms of reptile furnishings.  I suppose if you wanted to create a coffee table / tortoise table for your living room it could be managed, or if you didn't mind giving up a sofa in favor of an extra large terrarium.  Recently, I've seen people who have managed incredible feats of interior decorating with reptile habitats as a centerpiece.  But at the time, I wasn't one of those people.  

Still, I had a yen for another pet... one I was determined, come hell or high water, to keep this time.

I started reading books.  I watched YouTube videos... Clint's Reptiles, with its handy rating system for reptile pets, was a favorite right from the start (at the time, Leopard Geckos had the highest overall rating, followed up by Bearded Dragons).  I went to reptile expos.  I browsed websites, read magazine articles, created a pros and cons list.  I talked with my husband, with reptile owners, with perfect strangers I met in the reptile section at Petco.

I came to one realization:  I had started this journey wanting a Bearded Dragon, and never along the winding road of pet ownership had I actually GOTTEN that Bearded Dragon.  It was still true that I could not fit a four foot long tank in my classroom... but now that I had stopped my gerbil breeding, I could fit one in my house.  Unlike a tortoise table, a four foot terrarium could be managed in the computer room where the gerbils had once lived.  In fact, it would fit in there quite well.

And so to Figment.

I had every intention of getting Figment from a good breeder.  I had been lurking around Fire and Ice Dragons, lusting after the vibrant yellows and pristine whites that establishment produces.  I'd heard wonderful things about Daichu Dragons, about their quality and health and the helpfulness of the husband and wife who ran that breeding program.  But I fell in love with a charming little beardie in the Petco nearest my home, and when that little dragon got sold the very day I'd come to buy him, I kinda lost my head and became fixated on getting a dragon NOW.  

Impulse buying is not something I'd recommend to anyone as an appropriate way to bring any pet into the home... particularly when I knew very well that I could have waited a week and gotten my Daichu dragon from a reptile expo... but I found Figment in another Petco and scooped him up.  Would I do the same again?  Nope.  I've learned too much about "big box" pet retailers and where their poor animals come from to be okay with that.  Do I regret getting Figment to begin with?  Not for a heartbeat.

Figment as a Baby

In the two years (give or take a few months) since I've had Figment, he's proven to be everything I'd
wanted in a reptile pet.  He has been healthy, personable, and pleasant to interact with.  I have truly enjoyed setting up his home in my corner office... I use and recommend Zen Habitats, who make custom sized 4'x2'x2' Bearded Dragon abodes.  Having a terrarium is like having a dollhouse for a scaly little doll... what you make of it is entirely up to you, but you can go full-bore bioactive and have a planted ecosystem in a box - or furnish the tank with a tiled floor, plush beds and couches, hammocks, and climbing structures.  

Figment is also an easy keeper, though he was a veritable bug vacuum for the first year of his life (and nobody, but nobody, tells new owners that they'll be dropping a hundred a month on mail order insects for the first year).  He loves his salads now, though as a hatchling he couldn't have cared less for them, and it's fun to watch him eat his greens and insect treats.  He seems to enjoy being petted and held, though he also loves his daily walkabouts of the computer room.  He will watch you inquisitively when you approach his tank and seems to listen when you talk to him, though if you're busy and don't have time for daily play sessions, he's quite forgiving (as long as dinner arrives on schedule).  I've enjoyed being part of the online Bearded Dragon community - I prefer, and recommend, www.beardeddragon.org as a helpful, informative forum where there is little to no drama.  

And I've even started wondering if I can, in fact, fit a four foot long tank in my classroom next year, so Figment can come back and forth to school with me. 

The State of the Ark

Milo has been with us for a full month now. so it seems like a good time to look over things as they stand on our little ark.

The cat is still not speaking to Milo, though Skimble continues to be affectionate with us - in the basement or outside, that is.  Milo is making some progress with the "leave it" command at obedience class, but it's not yet at the level that I would trust him around the cat.  It's also occurred to me that not only will I need to train Milo not to chase the cat... I will need to train the cat not to immediately run away from Milo.  This may take some doing.

Ariel is getting more accustomed to Milo's presence.  She is not overly fond of him, and she still growly-barks at him when he's pestering her, but she will sleep on the floor on her dog bed beside his bed at night - though she could sleep on our bed or elsewhere, if she chose to do so.  She also no longer eats anywhere but inside our closed bedroom, since Milo inhales his food at warp speed, then goes looking for her dish to gobble whatever she hasn't eaten yet.  In her situation, I'd probably want dining privacy, too!

Figment, my bearded dragon, is unmoved by Milo's presence - though he does gaze through the plexiglass front of his terrarium at this new mammal, and puffed up in defensive mode when Milo wandered into the room and sniffed him when Figment was on one of his outings.  Not much phases Figment, however; we could add a dozen cats to the house, and he wouldn't bat an eyelid.

Finally, last but certainly not least, the fish could care less what the mammals are doing or not doing, so long as someone remembers to feed them.

And that's life on our little ark at the moment.
 

Milo vs. the Pet Gate

We knew when we adopted Milo that we would need to confine him somehow when we weren’t home... puppies in the process of housebreaking should not, in general, be given free range of the house.  Milo, having a questionable background before being rescued and having lived in a kennel during his fostering, was not at all accustomed to doing his business outside.  He would have to be taught.

Crating was never really an option; we feel, and many experts agree, that more than five or six hours in a crate is excessive even for an adult dog, and on a good day, Milo would be home for about 7 or 8 hours.  Hiring a midday dog walker isn’t economically feasible for our family, and my husband objected to installing a doggy door to allow free access to the yard, so we settled on the notion of gating him into the kitchen, which could be made puppy-proof and had an easy-clean floor.

At first, we used two panels from my son's long-stored playpen, which stretched across the opening and effectively blocked the way out.  It took Milo less than a day to figure out how to push it out of the way, and nothing we did to secure it could deter him.  Every day we would come home and find him, wagging and at liberty in the house, doing what puppies do - leaving a wake of puddles and shredded paper and cardboard behind him, our shoes scattered down the hall and across the living room.

And so we purchased and installed a very sturdy-looking pet gate across the entrance to the kitchen.  It’s 31” tall and Tom was quite proud of getting it installed, just as I was quite proud of finding the thing.  Locating a gate to span the 54” of our kitchen entryway was a job in itself... it took me close to three weeks to find a suitable gate, with one misfire that didn't fit regardless of what the measurements on the box said.

Tonight, I decided to do a “soft intro” for Milo; I would, I thought, gate him in while eating dinner, and feed Ariel on the other side instead of closing her into the bedroom as we have been doing (because Milo has a habit of inhaling his food and then chasing Ariel away and eating hers, too).  Ariel, however, wanted none of this plan; she eyed Milo and the closed gate nervously and promptly trotted to the bedroom and waited there.  Maybe she was trying to tell me something.

By the time I’d walked down the hall, set down the bowl, closed the bedroom door, and gotten halfway back, Milo was frantically barking and whining.  He was also launching himself at the top of the gate, claws scrabbling.  As I stood and watched, he fell three times in rapid succession- then managed to get both front paws over the top edge, and pulled himself up and over.

Wondering if this was a one-time anomaly, I popped him back in and stood back to watch.

This time, he didn’t bother with barking and whining.  He took a running start, hooked his front and rear claws into the gate, and scrambled over.  He looked up at me, tail wagging, proud of his accomplishment.

So much for gating him into the kitchen.

On the plus side, I think I have a potential agility dog on my hands.