Doggy Blog

Baxter Crazy

Hello all! Apologies for the hiatus! We have returned after a wee summer break in which we slaved over analytics and dog metrics in order to bring you the best possible Doggy Blog. As I said in a previous post, we've covered over 20 of your furry friends since rebooting the blog last fall and we wanted to use that milestone to reflect and figure out where to go from here. Ultimately, we decided to continue giving you the highest quality, dutifully researched, and of course 100% true stories about your puppers and doggos. And yes, before you flood our inbox with electronic mail, we will continue posting our uber popular Dogwalking 101 columns as well. You can also look forward to meeting some members of the Home Treat Away Team, dogs that we don't personally work with but still respect and aspire to rub the bellies of. Oh and lest we forget, there will be some Cameows from the glorious felines in our lives (#catsarepetstoo).

Phew, now that that's all taken care of we can check out a dog that I was SURE that I had covered before but apparently not. Due to my faulty memory, you are in for an ABSOLUTE treat today:

Not the type of whimsical creature you'd want to meet down a dark alley.

This is Baxter. A marvelous creature made of whimsy. He doesn't walk so much as he floats across the sidewalk. This may be due to potent magic bestowed on all creatures touched by the fey or because his mass is so low as to not be affected by the unflagging pull of gravity. I'm leaning towards the "touched by the fey" angle because of his heritage. He is, perhaps obviously, a teacup Yorkshire terrier. Yorkshire is a region of England. England is well known to contain pockets of great ancestral mysticism. Further, the name Baxter has very old Anglo-Saxon and Scottish roots, and I'm pretty sure when you combine those two regions a dragon battling a wizard pops out. Pretty damn magical. (I've also heard tell that Baxter means "baker" but that does not fit my narrative here so I'm completely ignoring it.)

Baxter, after changing his coloring through illusory magic.

So we've determined that Baxter is a being from another plane. BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Well I'll tell you what it means, in a convenient listicle detailing REAL THINGS that HAVE HAPPENED on our walks together:

Baxter once vanished, only to return seconds later with a bag of precious jewels. We were strolling down a street in BEAUTIFUL Edgewater Glen (a made up neighborhood, but a very nice made up neighborhood) when I was distracted by a dragonfly shimmering in the sunshine. When my attention returned to Baxter he was gone, my leash laying limply on the pavement. Then the sound of a slide whistle burped out into the tranquil afternoon and Baxter was back. With a small burlap bag filled to bursting with emeralds, rubies, and garnets. A tiny crown sat cockeyed on his teeny head. I looked around to see if anyone else had seen us, then put the crown in the bag and the bag in my backpack. I ushered Baxter upstairs. I'm pretty sure that he apparated that dragonfly too.
He made a bird burst into blue flames by looking at it. You can sort of tell the power of Baxter's gaze from that first picture, but the picture doesn't compare ONE IOTA to what it's like in person. He once winked at me and I felt compelled to go buy a pound and a half of ham and feed it to him slice by slice. Luckily, my willpower won out. The bird wasn't quite as lucky. It was ANOTHER gorgeous afternoon in Chicago and we were on a real banger of a stroll. Then: a mourning dove's distinctive "coo" rang out. Baxter's attention immediately turned to the nearest treetop. Seconds later, a bird shaped ball of blue flame appeared about 35 feet up. Seconds after that, it was gone. I again looked around and quickly ushered Baxter back to his keep.
He recited "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by WB Yeats to me on a particularly melancholy, rainy walk. It was one of those typical summer days where it rains on and off for about 14 hours. Walking dogs is always a real treat, but in the rain the fun is a bit dampened (ha). My umbrella was getting battered about by the wind and rain and I won't lie to you, spirits were low. Baxter, unbelievably dry despite the monsoon besetting our walk, looked at me. His tongue, normally lolling out of his mouth rolled right back in and he cleared his throat. Before I knew what was happening, he was reciting the poem in pitch perfect English. Upon hearing "...But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams." a single tear fell down my cheek and the rain stopped. I stood flabbergasted. We hurried inside.

I know this all may seem far-fetched. But sometimes, when confronted with stories of eldritch power, one must drop all preconceived notions of natural law and accept the inevitable. I for one celebrate Baxter as a true spiritual guardian. Also, and please don't tell him I said this, but he is cute as a damn button. Here's to you Baxter, long may you watch over this mortal plane!

Sean

Sit On A Potato Pan, Otis

We're back! After a long hiatus! A long unexpected hiatus! Partly due to being unable to log in to Squarespace the last week, and partly due to a busier than usual schedule! But that's not important now, we have returned. I suppose I could have just made a claim that we had planned on taking a break until the summer solstice and then retroactively edited our last post to reflect that, but that wouldn't be honest would it? And when you're in the dog business, you need to be honest above all else. 'Cause the puppers can tell when you're lying. And they DO NOT like it and THEY WILL bite your feet as punishment.

I digress. Here is Otis:

Otis is a black lab puppy, obviously. He is also, as I believe I've mentioned before, a being of pure light and joy. I don't have to tell you guys how awesome puppies are, but a black lab puppy is a special kind of awesome. I mean, lookit that tail! Waggin' away! A veritable blur of excited puppymotion! And those puppydog eyes! I gave him my watch right after the above picture was taken! He didn't even ask for it!

In reality, after the above picture was taken Otis likely leapt at my shins, slid down them like a fireman, and began attacking my shoes and their laces. You see, Otis is teething, which means everything is a target for his nascent chompers. Things Otis has chewed on since I've been walking him:

My hands. I swear to god, my hands must taste like ambrosia to the wee Otis, because he takes every opportunity to envelop my fingers/palm with his teeny lil jaws and just GNAW on them. He does have that so called "soft mouth" common to retrievers—or at least he has the notion that he should treat things in his mouth with a certain softness—so his bites are more like gentle gum smotherings punctuated by shards of pearly enamel. He has the coordination of a nearsighted middle schooler, so it's not difficult to get away from him, so the whole thing turns out to be very cute.
His leash. Otis's second favorite thing to chew on. I totally understand this tendency, because if my mouth was full of dental stalagmites incrementally puuuuushing their way through my soft tissue I would also enjoy chewing on woven nylon. In fact, I suppose if you asked my parents, I probably did enjoy chewing on woven nylon when I was teething. However, as a baby boy I was blessedly unleashed whereas Otis finds himself lassoed by his own chew toy, leading to hilarious slapstick routines where Otis stares down his leash, jumps at it, pulls at it with his mouth, and subsequently topples over in a way that spits in the face of my understanding of spinal structure.
Leaves. This is probably tied with the leash in the chewing hierarchy. Otis loves leaves. Or maybe he hates them and is trying to kill them with his gnashing teeth? Either way, he attempts to chew on every single one that we come across. I sort of wish it were autumn so I could see his wee brain meltdown at the sheer abundance of leaves. Oh man, a black lab puppy jumping in and out of piles of crunchy leaves, twisting and turning with absolute delight? Be still my heart. Perhaps I can stunt his growth so he doesn't grow until September? Just start feeding him coffee and giving him Marlboros? Probably a bad idea.
Other people's hands/belts/bags/clothing. This one is a bit problematic. Everyone in the universe wants to pet Otis, because he is a puppy. However, Otis wants to chew on everything in the universe. Thus, when a gaggle of kindergartners approach from the west with puppylove in their eyes, I must remain alert. For Otis will pounce upon them, covering them with puppylicks at first, but then perhaps tossing in a quick gnaw of one of the toddler's ring fingers. In my mind, this will directly result in a lawsuit, and we all know Otis doesn't have any money.
His actual chew toys. This is definitely at the bottom of the list. He shows little interest in the objects that were designed for his teeth to be embedded in. Why chew on a thick, knotted rope when you can attempt to separate Sean's distal phalanges from the rest of his hand? Why chew on a piece of rigid, yet flexible rubber when I can gleefully attack the straps on Sean's backpack? Why would you EVER chew on a piece of rawhide when you can wrap your teeth around Sean's keys? And so on.

Sometimes Otis does use his chewing for good. Like when he eats. MY GOD does he like to eat. From the second I walk in in the morning and let Otis out of his crate, he dives at my ankles and jumps at my knees eagerly awaiting his vittles. I dutifully retrieve (ha) his bowl of food, put a bit of water in it to soften up the food for his wittle mouth—although he does try to chew on MY KEYS so who knows—and then attempt to place the bowl on the floor. I try to keep Otis away from the bowl as I set it down, so he doesn't knock his head into the bottom of it and send it flying. I'm often successful. He then devours the softened wet dry food like a fuzzy black vacuum cleaner. In this state, his is ignorant of all other things happening around him. I could start firing a flare gun in the living room while reciting Alec Baldwin's monologue from Glengary Glen Ross through a megaphone and he would just solemnly continue wolfing down his food. It's amazing.

Otis getting ready for his first day of schooooooooool!

The above picture is what happens when I put my fannypack on Otis's back so that he can have a backpack for his first day of dog school. I think it was like 95 degrees that day, so I may have been suffering from mild heatstroke. It was an adorable hyperthermic mania though! In summation, Otis is a being of pure light and joy (and teeth) and he makes me and everyone he meets feel better about their lives. Not bad for a scraggly ball of fur. Here's to you Otis!

Sean

Dogwalking 101: Everybody's Walking for the Weekend

I would apologize for that horrible pun title, but we're way past that now aren't we? Good.

Today was the first legitimate perfect summer day in Chicago. It was 80 degrees, a few clouds dotting the sky, and everyone in the world out and about. Chicago operates in a cycle of social hibernation and then overexposure. People huddle up inside under their precious snuggies and watch Netflix from around November 25th to mid March. Then, like the humble cicada, they emerge from their pits, rub the sleep from their eyes, beat their crystalline wings, and greet the world again. This escalates rapidly, and soon—especially on days like today—the streets are clogged with the tank-topped husks of the great unwashed masses. That sounded too negative. It's actually quite life affirming to see everyone out again after the long, cold winter.

But more to the point, you get to see a ton of dogs in this time of social emergence. Whereas catching a pup's on the walkabout was catch as catch can in late February, now I find myself tripping over pups on every street I walk down (not literally, of course). This is grand for the dogs, as they need butts to sniff like a trepanner needs a hole in the head. Also, you get that delightful panting smiley face that dogs do when they're a bit warm. If that doesn't brighten up your mood, I'm not sure what will.

The impetus of this rambling post is a brand new dog—in more ways than one—that I'm walking. He may enjoy the sunny weather more than any other dog. And he seems to attract the most attention from strangers of any dog I walk. His name is Otis, plz behold his glory:

I called him a "farmer" for the entire walk because of the piece of straw in his mouth.

The combination of Otis and the great weather of the past couple days NEARLY caused me to cancel all my other walks/plans/friendships and never leave his side. Honestly, it was really close. The pure joy that Otis exhibits whilst frolicking outside in the sunshine changed me as a human being forever. Things I thought while watching him scoot and jump around:

I should immediately find and apologize to every person that I've ever said anything remotely rude, not held the door for, looked at with the side of my eyeballs, etc.
I should give Otis all the money in my wallet.
I should build a small temple devoted to Otis and amass followers to preach his gospel of innocent joy.
I should graffiti the sides of every building with representations of his wee face.
I should publish a newsletter with short fiction about Otis's life; solicit pieces from luminaries of the day.
Otis should be walking me.
I should pet his belly forever.
I should give him some kind of small hat.
I should enroll him in school and tutor him so that he graduates top of his class.
I should teach him how to play harmonica.
I should read him every Harry Potter book.

This went on for the duration of the walk. The only breaks in my mental wandering occurred when we ran into people on the street and they were compelled by Otis to pet Otis. This happened multiple times on every walk. Because of all the people that were out and about in the nice weather (good call back, Sean). Most of them just let their own dogs go so they could pet Otis. It was a good day.

HE ONLY SITS STILL WHEN YOU'VE TIRED HIM OUT TO THE POINT OF EXHAUSTION.

I am preparing a full post on Otis for the near future, but I have to take a few more pics of him. If you can believe it, he is a little rambunctious and is thus hard to follow with a camera. Have a good weekend everyone, get out there and pet some dogs!

Sean

Ellie Ellie Oxenfree

“Hey...what was that? Over there. Up in the tree over there. You didn’t see that? I definitely saw it. I think I’m going to try to sprint forward as fast as I can and then stand completely still for as long as I can.”

— Ellie, miniature sheltie

A dream of digging deep holes flashes through my mind. I awake. I am under a bed, lightly draped upon a pillow. Same as yesterday. I slide out onto the floor and saunter to my water dish. I look at the water for a long time, but do not drink. I walk to the living room. I look out the window and see a tree rat. I hate tree rats. I walk back to my food dish. I look at the food for a long time, but do not eat. I walk down the hallway, but my path is blocked by a large, ornate gate. Same as yesterday. I know not why, but I accept my limitations. I walk to the couch and jump up. Weary, I rest again.

Me, looking for that thing I saw in that tree.

I snap awake. This time, the dream that dances in my mind is of the tree rat I saw before. I hate tree rats. I feel an emptiness in my home, and know that my beloved owners have left for the day. This makes me nervous, but I know they will return. I return to the window. The tree rat has fled. I know he too will return. And I will be ready.

I find one of my baubles on the floor and bat it away from me. I give chase. I bat it the other way. This is great fun! I will have great fun for hours! I have great fun for hours. I return to my post on the couch and lay my head down in a ray of sunshine. I am not the spry pup I once was—I am already 2 years old. I must conserve my energy for later, when I am loosed from my home for a blessed stroll in the realm of the tree rats. They will know my name by the end of this.

What's this? I hear a jangling at my door! I leap from the couch and position myself as close as I can to the jamb. If I could put myself inside the door, I would. Alas I cannot. The walker at the other side of the door struggles to open the locks. He always struggles. Minutes pass. The door swings open and I welcome the walker to my home in the custom of my people: I jump on his legs and offer a polite, but firm, bark. He mumbles something in what I can only assume to be pidgin English, as I never understand him. I discern "Hello" and "Ellie" but that is it. I roll my eyes and wait for my decorative mantle to be laid upon my head. My walker picks up the performative rope so that he will be able to trail behind me, at a respectful distance of course, without getting lost. We disembark.

Or at least we will disembark shortly. The walker seems to struggle closing the door as well. The jangling resumes. I begin to walk down the stairs anyways. Mumbling erupts from the walkers gaping maw again. Sometimes I stop walking. Then again, sometimes I do not.

We exit my keep and begin the survey of my territory. It is a beautiful day for this. Initial observations of the land immediately outside my home turn up no tree rats. This is a very good start indeed. I exhaustively sniff at my lawns, bushes, and trees for evidence of the health of my neighborhood. I detect many different odors from many different subjects. The state of the union is very strong. Then, out of the corner of mine eye, I see a flash of blue. Could it be? Could she be back again?

My walker, his eyes covered with dark glass and oblivious to most things, clearly does not notice our fair fortune this afternoon. The lady in blue is a mere block and a half in front of us and he doesn't notice? Idiot. I begin to gallop forward. I reach the terminus of the performative rope and my progress towards the blue lady is impeded. This is a downside of the performative rope, but despite his ignorance I still would prefer not to lose my walker. He is much larger than me, and could prove useful in a pinch. We will get there soon enough. I continue my gallop in proud defiance.

We reach the blue lady and she mumbles to my walker in that same pidgin English. She gazes upon me and my chest swells. She reaches into her blue wheeled bag and reveals a beautiful, brown morsel of heaven. In her mumbling, I hear "Sit" and deign to her request—a matter of trivial importance in the face of this savory hors d'oeuvre. I devour the offering. I nod to the lady in blue and we depart again, sated and satisfied.

We perform several ceremonial loops of my lands and before I know it, we are back at my door. The walker fumbles with the jangle, but eventually gets us back inside. He removes the decorative mantle and perfomative rope and I walk to my water dish. I walk to the opening of the hallway. The walker has set up that damn gate again. I offer a bark of disapproval, but my mind is elsewhere. Something is nagging at me. I walk to my food dish. I stare at the brown bits. Something is wrong.

The tree rats. I didn't see any of them on our walk. Where were they? The nice weather and the early arrival of the lady in blue distracted me. We always run into a few on our walks, where the hell were they today. I run to the window. My mouth falls open. There, perched in my tree are a dozen of the fiends. Staring with those beady black eyes. Their ridiculous tails mocking me. I yell out "TREEEEE RAAAAAATS!" in an attempt to rouse the attention of the walker. His large, lumbering frame will prove useful in this pinch for sure. I hear nothing. I run to the gated hallway. I see nothing. He has gone. I run to the window. The tree rats have disappeared. What are they up to?

I return to my pillow under the bed for some quiet reflection. This has been quite a day.

Sean

A Shaggy Dog Story

Hello everyone, Sean here! I figured that it was about time for a post reflecting on just what we've been doing here twice a week. After all, we've covered about 20 of Home Treat Home's pups since restarting and reengergizing the Doggy Blog last fall. Also, I desperately need to get out there and take some new photos of everyone before I embark (ha ha) on sequels to those fine posts.

Anyways, just wanted to take a moment to say how much I appreciate the chance to hang out with all your dogs every week. I know many of you likely work office jobs during the day, or at least that's what I tell your pups to assuage their fears that you disappear into the ether when you leave in the morning. I also know that all of you would much rather be at home, hanging out with your awesome dogs instead of pecking away at a keyboard (even if you love your job, it's hard to beat spending an afternoon with a pooch). Working for Home Treat Home gives me the opportunity to do just that, from morning to early afternoon, while getting reimbursed for the privilege at the same damn time. It's a pretty great deal. A pretty great deal that would be totally impossible without fantastic clients like you guys (and if you're reading this, have a dog, and don't use us for walks or dogsitting, what exactly are you waiiiiting for?). We really appreciate the relationships we've built with all of you, and all of your dogs, and we hope that you feel the same.

Enough sappy sincerity, people come here for esoteric references and long narratives (fictional or otherwise) about doggo adventures. So, here's a trademark (I should really stop saying this...I don't think you can trademark a syntactical structure) bulleted list of some random anecdotes that haven't fit in any other posts thus far:

Once, while walking Biddy and Mac, who you may remember from their sordid Irish gangstering, we noticed a strange man on the sidewalk acting a bit erratic. Not that out of the ordinary in any large city. Biddy and Mac cracked their collective knuckles and shot me a look as if to say: "You want we should tell him to scram?" I calmed them and we continued walking. Right by Biddy and Mac's apartment is a business with a big front window, in which a dog typically lounges in the sun. As we approached the man and the storefront, we all noticed that the man was leaning forward, kissing the window, pulling his head back, and then repeating the process. The window dog (windog) was rejecting this man's kind offering by ignoring it completely. All I could think of was how dirty that window was.
Daisy and I were walking in her neighborhood when we saw a man gliiiiiding down the street. We both deduced that the man was riding on one of them there hoverboards (which is either a great product name or a horrid one because it implies hovering when clearly you are rolling on big ol' wheels). Daisy rolled her eyes so hard she fell over. I did the same. After collecting ourselves, we followed behind the man watching him as if he were some exotic creature in a zoo. He stopped at a red light and sorta rocked back and forth to retain his balance. As the light turned green, he leaned forward, lost said balance, and simultaneously fell backwards and launched his hoverboard into traffic. His "Batman" hat and wraparound shades stayed on, unfortunately. Daisy and I once again fell over, this time from hideous laughter.
Abby gets a lot of attention from strangers. It's warranted, but not always appreciated—much like any attention one may get from strangers. One time specifically, a man walked up to us and asked what kind of dog she was:
- I replied "Beagle."
- He shook his head.
- I repeated "She's a beagle."
- He shook his head and said "Nahhh that's not a beagle."
- I said "What?"
- He affirmed his disagreement.
- I lost all sense of reality. Looked at Abby, wondered if she was indeed a beagle. Wondered if she looked the same to me as she did to this man. Questioned the subjective nature of my perspective versus his. Who's to say who was right about what kind of dog Abby is. Aren't dog breeds a construct anyways? Where does a beagle end and a basset hound begin?
- The man had walked away.
- Abby proceeded to go #2, as if to confirm her existence. I was reminded of Samuel Johnson's refutation of Bishop Berkeley's assertion that all matter is merely ideal and does not exist in the real universe: Johnson was said to stomp his cane on a large stone in the town square and shout "I refute it thus!"
SImilar to Abby's tale, I was walking Lucy the shar pei one afternoon when we encountered one of her many admirers on the street. This man asked what kind of breed Lucy was, and I responded "shar pei". He asked if she had always been that wrinkly, and I said "Yes". Lucy took this opportunity to do one of her signature moves: shaking her head such that any saliva trapped in her facefolds sprays out in all directions, making a sound akin to slapping one's belly with a firm hand over and over again. She then proceeded to unroll her tongue and clean up her face a bit. The man we had been talking to looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Her tongue is black!? What's wrong with her tongue, man?! What did you do to herrrr tonnnnnnngue?!?!" I assured him that that was a feature of the shar pei, not a bug, and we calmly walked on. Lucy looked ecstatic.

The best picture I've taken thus far of HTH allstars Hutson, and Rocky and Ripley.

That's all for now, we'll be back Friday with a brand new post! Thanks again, we appreciate your friendship and business! Tell your friends! Tell your dogs! Tell your dogs' friends! Tell your friends' dogs!

Sean

Dogwalking 101: Old Dogs

Today on Dogwalking 101: a new post about old dogs. I've always had a soft spot in my heart (which actually sounds like a malady common to some older canines) for dogs that are the back nine, so to speak. I find them very similar to older human beings to be honest. Aaaaaaaaand because it's what I do, here's a bulleted list of more similiarities between old people and old dogs!

Cataracts. Both tend to have some ocular issues, and this milky white devil blotch is often one of them. HOWEVER, whereas I've seen tons of elderly folks with those dope megashades post–cataract surgery, I've never seen a dog with them on. And that's a damn shame, because it would be the coolest thing ever.
White hair. This is a no brainer: old people have white hair and old dogs have white snouts and faces. I assume this happens in both human beings and dogs because all the things they've experienced in life have burned out the part of their heads that is responsible for dyeing their hair before it erupts from their skull.
Slow roll. Neither of them are ever in a hurry to get anywhere. If something is cool, they've already checked it out—and if they haven't, who cares anyways it probably wasn't that cool anyways. This aloof attitude bestows an innate confidence and respectability to their presence. Think about it, who do you respect more: the snot nosed child/puppy that skitters up to you in total manic episode mode OR the smooth old person/doggo that lazily scoots up to you like you mean NOTHING to them?
Distrust of strangers. This dovetails with the Slow roll concept: if they've met you already, you're probably cool, and if they haven't who caaaaaaaaares. This is why both old dogs and your grandpa bark at people from the front porch. (Note: the Cataract point from earlier might also have something to do with this, 'cause when you can't see someone, you sure as hell won't recognize them.)
Cannot drive well. Self-explanatory.
Retired. I suppose this applies to dogs of all age ranges as none of them were ever employed, but old dogs really EMBODY the jobless life. Lots of naps. Lots of snoring. That's (hopefully) all retirement is.
Listen to the radio and cable news. The dog side of this theory is one that I've been working on for a while: no one listens/watches more radio/cable news than dogs that are left at home during the day. People leave the radio/TV on for their pets to create the illusion that the dog has a robust social life hanging out with the disembodied voice of Terry Gross or Sean Hannity (depending on the household). The sheer amount of content the pups must absorb during the day is astounding. There's a good chance that housedogs were more informed than most of the general electorate this last election. AND THEY PROBABLY UNDERSTOOD THE RHETORIC OF THE LEADING REPUBLICAN CANDIDATE TOO, EH?

Well then. Those are the most salient examples of similarities between old people and old dogs. I think we've all learned a lot here! To be serious though, there is a special place in Heaven for people who adopt older dogs from shelters. Or even volunteer their time at shelters to play with the older dogs. They're not hard to find there, as the vast majority of unadopted doggos skew older. So get out there this weekend and go nuzzle some snow-capped dogears or accept a weird smelling face lick from a pale-snouted pooch.

Sean

Hercules: A Doggo Amongst Puppers

Hercules lives up to his name. As you can probably tell from the above picture. He exudes a certain strength, not only of body but also of personality. I've only been walking him for a couple weeks and he's already convinced me to buy into three pyramid schemes. When I walk into his apartment (and while dogs owning apartments is usually a joke, in this case I have it on good record that the deed for the building has Hercules' name and pawprint on it), he doesn't even bark or freak out like most (lesser) dogs would upon someone walking into their abode. Not Herc. He is such an alpha that he immediately retreats back to his post on the sectional, rolls over, and exposes his soft underbelly for admiration. If that isn't confidence, I don't know what is. He clearly determined that I was no threat from the second I walked in the door. Probably looked at my weak, anemic, pianist fingers and assumed that such weak appendages wouldn't be able to inflict any harm on his sterling canine frame.

Here are some additional true facts about this legend of a dog:

I swear to god that he once looked at a squirrel for too long and it burst into flames.
Men want to pet him and women also want to pet him.
That big Pez candy lookin' thing in the above pic is a Nylabone. One of the hardest things I've ever briefly touched. Herc gnaws on it like it's a piece of damn funnel cake.
Also related to the above picture: he doesn't even need to focus his eyes on objects. He DOESN'T HAVE TIME AND THEY DON'T DESERVE HIS GAZE.
My friend, his owner (in name only, again Herc def calls the shots) tried to thin out his coat with one of them there brushes when the weather was getting warm. He ended up with a giant ball of steel wool. Herc was unchanged.
I think that Herc is part jackal. Maybe hyena too. He has that look to him. And he's definitely been to Africa—I've seen his passport.
- And yes I understand that merely going to Africa as a grown dog wouldn't affect his genetic makeup—I'm implying that Herc drained a jackal and hyena of their vital humours and thus was imbued with their characteristics.
He winked at me once and I forgot my ATM pin number.
Herc is not only allowed to fly on airplanes with no legal documentation, he often fills in for the Federal Air Marshal. He's also been asked to land a few birds in particularly inclement weather.
His leash is made of the same material that the Navy uses to snag F16s out of the air on aircraft carriers. The difference? Herc has torn through his leash twice.
OH DID I FORGET TO MENTION THAT HIS COLLAR IS AN AMERICAN DAMN FLAG? Well it is. And I have it on good record that it was made from a fragment of the first American damn flag sewn by Besty damn Ross in 1802.
- I tried to take a picture of Herc wearing this collar, but an American damn eagle swooped down and took my iPhone. Probably for the best.
Herc once volunteered to be a seeing eye dog last summer, but decided to cure an entire hospital ward of blindness instead.

Those are the all the secrets that I've gleaned so far from my time with Hercules. I hope to learn more. Despite all of his immensity, Herc is a down to earth pooch that seems to enjoy our walks very much. All hail Hercules, a true doggo amongst puppers!

Sean

This One Goes Out to My Homie, Stella Bella

“The world can be a dangerous place. Trust no one until they have proven themselves through belly rubs, long walks, and cuddles.”

— Stella

Being a dog walker is such a fulfilling job for me. I gave up the office gig so I could be outside and around "people" I can tolerate, dogs. Dogs bring a certain energy to our lives that naturally raises our endorphins. Dogs are always happy to see you even if you scolded them five minutes ago. Dogs can show true trust and loyalty and no other dog proved that to me than Stella.

"You guys go ahead. I'm just gonna lie here for a minute."

Stella was a unique dog. What I mean is, she hated everyone and everything until you proved your trust to her. She would've been such a good Chicago gangster. We never had a boring walk. Here is why: as soon as I opened the door, Stella would be high-fiving me. She literally would raise her paw for me. It was our secret hand shake. She knew that it was time to go outside and pawtrol the neighborhood. Stella truly pawtroled the hood. Her idea of pawtroling is to attack anything and everything that would approach us from a bicyclist to an elderly woman carrying her groceries home. If she didn't know ya, she didn't like ya. I honestly could relate to Stella. I also don't trust many people until I get to know them. As you can imagine, this made for some very alert walks for us. No texting and walking with this fur kid. (Note: HTH does not promote texting and walking.)

As you may have gathered from this blog, Stella passed away recently. I walked Stella with her brother, Tucker, for over two years. On our initial meet and greet, Stella wanted nothing more than to bite my hand off, but with time and cheese, plenty of cheese, and not just any cheese, we are talking Whole Foods premier Gouda, her frosty heart melted for me. Stella and I had to have two meet and greets. She really needs to build that trust before she allows you in her gang. Once I gained her acceptance, I believe I became her favorite.

Stella & Tucker, Paws on Petals, 2017 — Stella & Tucker, *Paws on Petals,* 2017

The hardest part of being a dogwalker is losing your fur friends. Unfortunately, our fur friends don't live as long as us and therefore I have seen a many of them pass in my years. I miss Stella a lot. I understood her and it breaks my heart when I walk through that door and no one is there to greet me with a high-five. Dogs can touch us and they are precious no matter how vicious they can be. Here is to Stella, one bad ass bitch who had more courage than any human I have ever met. Love ya, Bella!

Josh

The Odd Couple: Ricky and Sophie

Today, continuing our series of "Return to Normalcy" posts, I bring you Ricky and Sophie!

RICKY RICKY YOU'RE SO FINE YOU'RE SO FINE YOU BLOW MY MIND HEY RICKY

First off, Ricky is a chow and shepherd mix. It's the first question I asked when I met him, because of his distinctive visage. The picture above doesn't really capture that as much as seeing him in person does. He has an innate "chunky fluffiness" that is hard to replicate in two dimensions. Second, Ricky is a GREAT name for a dog. You don't hear it that often, for humans or dogs, to the exent that I thought Ricky's name was Nicky when I first heard it because my brain wouldn't process it as a dog name. It just has this...ZAZZ...to it that brings a smile to my face. You know, a certain ZING. ZORK. KAPOWZA. It's that effervescent POP that makes life worth living. Also, even though this Ricky is definitely a male pupper, the name Ricky makes me think of a sassy receptionist that snaps her gum, has long red fingernails, and incessantly curls her hair with her index finger. And yes, for the thousandth time, this is how my brain decides to pass the time: constructing elaborate narratives that don't make sense in a logical way but do have a certain metaphorical ZORK to them.

SOPHIE SOPHIE YOU'RE A TROPHY YOU'RE SUCH A TROPHY YOU BLOW MY MIND

Sophie is likewise a grand name for a doggo, especially one as sweet as Sophie is. She's a grand, ol' dame of golden retriever lineage, with a heart of gold and a nose that just won't quit. She doesn't have the walking speed that she used to, but she doesn't let that stop her. Also, when I walk in the door, Ricky will immediately accost me with a coupla yips and barks and then some hand licking and then, from some distant other room I'll hear a faint "bork bork bork" as if from some deep root cellar. This is Sophie, mustering as much guard doggery as she can and it's always the cutest thing ever. Oh, and Sophie is ABSOLUTELY massive. The pic above doesn't really do her immensity justice, I'm not entirely sure the depth of field on my iPhone camera is advanced enough yet. She's not fat—lord knows I would never call any dog (that wasn't my own) fat, and especially not a lady doggo—but just a solidly framed canine. I feel like golden retrievers range from teeny and reddish to massive and white/gold, almost as if their coloring gets diluted by their big dumb ol' bodies. Sophie is most certainly of the large white gold persuasion.

My personal favorite part of the walks is the contrast betwixt Ricky and Sophie whilst we are out walking/returning home. Ricky instantly explodes out the door and heads out the front gate whereas Sophie often turns the other way and shambles towards the back gate. They both have those leashes that you can retract and lock if you need to, which is very helpful when you have two doggos of such different velocities. To make an analogy, RIck and Soph are like their own planets, Ricky a small rocky body with unpredictable motion, a short period of revolution, and a tendency to bounce off other objects in his path. Sophie is more of a gas giant with a slow deliberate dance and resistance to the gravitational pull of any other bodies.

The best part of the walk is our return to the homestead. Both dogs are super well behaved and very routine oriented, so they stroll right up to the side door to be let in. I pop Ricky off the leash and he runs up the stairs to wait patiently at the door. Sophie, due to her age and hip problems so damn common with goldens, is unable to walk up the stairs anymore. She dutifully waits at the foot o' the staircase for me to get into squat position, pop my hands under her belly, lift her up, and ferry her up the stairs. She makes a strange noise sometimes and tends to pump her legs as we near the top, but she is surprisingly okay with the situation. I mean, who wouldn't be? I wish I had a video of this interaction, because it is probably very amusing to witness. It does add more variety to my dogwalking workout, which is good as I'm putting together the galleys for my upcoming exercise book "Dog Tired: How to Lose that Paunch Walking Pooches" (...title might need a bit of work).

To close, Ricky and Sophie are a great addition to the roster of HTH puppers. Here's a pic of Ricky enjoying a Kirkland Signature doggy treat in his secret spot (please don't share this post with him, he thinks he's invisible down there).

RICKY RICKY MUST YOU HIDE TO EAT YOUR TREAT LET'S TALK ABOUT THIS MAN

Sean

Dogwalking 101: Who Does That?

Happy Friday everyone. I hope you're ready for some prime, dry-aged, coffee-rubbed, pan seared complaining about the public at large this morning. One thing I didn't expect about taking a dogwalking job was the sheer exposure to the mass of humanity and its discontents that I'd experience every single day whilst out and about. To be fair, I'm not talking about the interactions that I have with living, breathing people. Those are typically fine, except for the man that screamed obscenities at me for coasting my bike up the apron onto the sidewalk within 15 feet of him, but he probably just confused me for his mother or something. In fact, and I'm sure that I'm preaching to the dog choir (patent pending) here, but walking with a pooch definitely gives you some kind of charisma advantage over the dogless. People willingly come up to you smiling and happy, and while they often talk directly to the dog and not to you, it is nice to feel like that much vaunted MEMBER OF THE COMMUNITY trope that every politican talks about but never really shows any example of (Did y'all know that Chicago Alderman make 6 figures a year in a position that was initially intended to be a side job? That doesn't sound like the Windy City Politics I know!) Conversely, having a pup tethered to you obviates the need for mindless BS small talk about the weather or sports, which pleases me greatly as a prominent critic of that national pasttime.

A picture of Ricky to break up the wall of text, unrelated to the topic at hand. However, full blog post to come on Ricky and his sister Sophie soon.

What really messes with my sunny demeanor are the artifacts that these nameless souls leave behind. I've always found litter disgusting, but now that I see it everywhere every day I have become some kind of ecologically minded Rush Limbaugh—but you know, cursing and frothing at the mouth in my head instead of on the airwaves. Here's a neatly formatted bulleted list of the top discarded items that cause me apoplectic full body shivers and shakes while I'm out walking the dogs of Chicago:

Broken glass. Honestly, the animals that break glass all over the sidewalk and adjacent grass need to stop yesterday. I understand that it's likely the people doing this are not in their right mind, but it's just so god damn dangerous for doggo feet. What must happen is that people on their morning commutes find a big pile of broken glass outside their apartments and then they dutifully footsweep it all onto the small rectangle of grass allotted to them for recreation by God Emperor Rahm Emanuel. They smile to themselves at a job well done and zoom off to their finance job. Then I come along a couple of hours later to walk through the veritable minefield left behind by some late night boozehounds and some early morning misguided good Samaritans. It doesn't help that many bottles are as green as the god damn grass they now rest on, shattered and sharp. I always see these borosilicate caltrops before treading upon them and have successfully avoided all incidents thus far and will continue to do so.
Dog waste. I always knew that there were scummy folks that didn't pick up after their dogs but I am absolutely floored at the sheer number of dogpies that I see every day. It's not like you're walking your dog miles and miles from your home in the land of your sworn enemies...you're messing up your own god damn neighborhood. YOU'RE LITERALLY SHITTING WHERE YOU EAT. It also takes like 5 seconds to completely solve this problem, even less with the vessels from our friends at Poop Bags! Not to mention dog waste feeds rats, which I think everyone agrees are probably the most repulsive creatures on this plane of existence (which is a shame, since they're super impressive and hearty and essentially just night squirrels without fuzzy tails—dibs on calling rats "night squirrels" BTW). Oh and not to mention, dog waste can ALSO FEED YOUR WEIRDO DOGGO IF YOU'RE NOT CAREFUL. AND YOU LET THAT DOG LICK YOUR FACE. Pick up after your pets people.
- Dog waste, already in a bag. Seriously people? This is like getting to mile 26 of a marathon and then wandering off into the woods to die. You're so damn close to something great, and then you just have to ruin everything. This is arguably worse than not picking up after your dog at all because it belies an awareness of the problem and then just a complete lack of responsibility. If you just leave the #2 au naturale there's a small chance you didn't notice what your dog was up to (although they LITERALLY make eye contact and make an expression like they're in a school play and just forgot all their lines so I don't buy that shit). But if you bag it up and then just leave it like a teeny tiny garbage bag for the sanitation professionals you're just a dumb jerk and you can lose my number.
Chicken bones. I've been over this one before, but if you've ever walked a pupper by a Jewel Osco you've had your shoulder wrenched out of socket by a possessed canine in search of deep fried wing marrow. Many people figure that since dogs have loved ones since time immemorial, this is a fine lil treat. I ASSURE YOU IT IS NOT. Deep frying the wing causes the bone to shatter when chewed and if your dog's tummy gets a hold of one you will be in a whole mess of trouble. So if you're someone who likes to enjoy a mass market grocery story chicken wing, please dispose of your leftover bones in the trash. Actually, just place the entire meal in the trash before eating it. There's better chicken in Chicago at commensurate prices—don't you like yourself?!
Deceased birds and rodentia. This one is a bit morbid, but absolutely occurs in any city center. Also, this one isn't really anyone's fault per se, but it still is a bit shivery to come across. If you've spent any real time walking the neighborhoods of Chicago, you've seen your share of birds that are no more, run over night squirrels, fallen day squirrels, and the like. While confronting death like this often gives humans pause and forces them to reflect on the precarious tightrope we all walk betwixt this world and the spirit realm, dogs think, in all caps, "WHAT IS THAT CAN I EAT THAT I'M GOING TO TRY TO EAT THAT". Bless their hearts. And then gently pull them away from their supposed bounty, because you don't know what kind of exotic flu or novel viral infection might reside in that mess.

Here's Sophie to break up more textwalls. Look for a blog on her and Ricky on Monday.

These are the heavy hitters of left behind items on the streets of Chicago that mess with my typically rosy days spent dogwalking. There are probably more, but these are the ones that spring to mind. I hope everyone has a great weekend, full of high rate Chicago chicken and bereft of night squirrels.

Sean