Dogwalking 101: Comparing American dog culture to that which exists across the pond

“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of dog, it’s too dark to read.”

— Groucho Marx, noted humorist

Hello all, it's so grand to be back writing for you! I've been abroad, taking in some European culture and doing instensive research on international pooches of all shapes and sizes. My journey took me to France and England, both absolutely chock full of dogs and dog lovers alike.

Some highlights:

• The French do not appear to have any leash laws—to be fair, they're pretty light on all laws—which resulted in a cavalcade of loose puppers romping around the City of Lights.
   
• A particularly righteous Jack Russell was patrolling the grounds right outside the Eiffel Tower chasing all manner of sticks, birds, irritating tourists taking selfies. He was also getting fed quite well, as almost everyone was picnicking. Smart boy.
   
• There's a park in London called Hyde Park—the irony was not lost on me that I'd travelled 3000 miles only to again arrive at a Hyde Park containing ecosystem—that was absolutely CRAWLING with doggos. Probably saw about 100 doggos running about the park, off leash and absolutely loving it.
   
• There is a large pond in the middle of Hyde Park—Round Pond—replete with all manner of aquatic fowl that was a focal point for quite a few of the park doggos. A lot of retrievers gazed intently at the water, waiting to engage with their genetic heritage and bound into the water to...retrieve...the birds. Unfortunately, the size and aggression of the swans that filled/owned the pond served as insurance that that would not happen on this day.
   
• A cocker spaniel was sitting at the table behind me at a pub called the Churchill Arms, likely enjoying a pint of bitter with his owner, when a waitress went over to them and started lightly howling. As she got a bit louder, the cocker spaniel began to howl with her. Clearly, this dog and its owner were regulars and this had happened many times before. It was the cutest thing in the entire world.
   
• Interestingly, the only English bulldogs I saw were stomping around the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris and the only French bulldogs I saw were somersaulting through Hyde Park. Unclear what this means, but I'm sure there's something deep to it.

The only real comparisons I can make between American dog culture and European/UK dog culture are of the same hue as comparisons between human culture. America is an overly litigious country—meaning everyone sues everyone here. Europe and the UK are not. Thus, you can have dogs off leash everywhere, dogs in pubs, dogs drinking wine, dogs driving on the wrong side of the road, etc. etc. The people seem freer and thus the dogs seem freer. With this freedom comes a necessity for well trained pups, and this was certainly born out in my experience. All the dogs I met, whether on or off leash, were super friendly and responded to their owners' commands perfectly. It was beautiful.

Don't get me wrong, I love all the doggos in America—especially Chicago. But I do think that we could learn a thing or two from the dog culture abroad, perhaps just a more open perspective on life with dogs. I know I'm preaching to the choir here, all of Home Treat Home's clients are exquisite dog owners and their dogs would totally fit in across the pond and be runnin' the place in a matter of weeks. Apologies if this was a lil rambling, I'm still jet lagggggged.

Sean 

Dogwalking 101: So your pet decided to make a REAL MESS of things

This is something that turns a good day into a bad one. I dread these encounters and I honestly don't see them often, but when they do happen it can be damaging to one's good spirits. These "messes" can range from the simple pee break on the kitchen floor to throwing up on your new Nikes. Or worse, just throwing up your Nikes.

Notice how none of their toys have been chewed/torn to bits, yet they managed to find time to tear through your New York Times Best Seller.

Some of you have perfect angels and have never experienced my list of messes. Others may have their own items to add to this list, and if so, please let us know on Facebook or in the comments here. 

Here are the top five messes I see every so often:

• 💩😷💩 , these are the worse of all messes because not only do they stink, but they are a real shit to clean up. Guilty party usually is hiding or begging for forgiveness when I arrive.

• 👠👞👟, the inevitable lost sole. Most of us love our shoes and the fear of telling you that your Jimmy Choo is now Jerky Chew makes me want to hide the evidence and pretend I never saw anything. But of course, the truth, much like the newest collection of Yeezys, must come out. 

• 🕶☀️👓, unfortunately, I have a sunglasses fetish and have seen many a pair go missing because someone thought my Burberry sunglasses were an expensive, oddly shaped, plastic rawhide. 

• 🗞📰📓, newspapers, magazines, and books are always easy targets for mass destruction. Paper bits everywhere. See attached photo for reference.

• 💻📱⌚️, electronics are very rare, but I've seen many remotes destroyed. Plastic and rubber does taste like chicken. 

As all dog owners know, puppies are the most guilty of said messes, but some dogs never grow out of it. In which, you must crate them or barricade them in one room. Do. Not. Feel. Guilty. That's why we are here, to release them from captivity for 30 minutes for some romping and frolicking without them damaging your belongings. For many dogs, too much freedom sans owner can be overwhelming and scary, which is often why things get chewed up in the first place. If crating them means I don't have to clean up your Time Out Chicago magazines—now (counterintuitively) a larger and simultaneuously much smaller collection—I am thankful. 

Luckily, these are all material objects and can be replaced. We love our fur kids unconditionally. Even if they swallowed your brand new Apple Watch whole. FYI, that's never happened. It was just an old Timex and part of your old phone. Same difference really.

Josh

Sweet Lou

Lou means business. And Lou is a wild card. I know these two things because I once read a quote from a very esteemed public figure. I believe I have a copy of that very quote:

“I mean business. And I’m a wild card.”

— Lou, dog

The face of a canine that definitely knows what "business" means.

Jokes and japes aside, Lou is your prototypical "good boy." Lou falls into the category of canines that I call "dictionary dogs," meaning that if you looked up "dog" in the dictionary you would find a picture of Lou. And yes, this works for every dog that you think it would work for—don't ask me how, but the dictionary is a magical instrument and knows what you're looking for. At least mine is and does.

I've heard tell that some think that Lou can be a bit abrasive. I've also heard that he has a bit of a "guard dog" mentality. These are bald-faced lies from people that are likely scary strangers with evil in their hearts. Though it is true that Lou is a bit of a prickly-pear at first blush, once he gets to know you he will ride with you until the very end. I suppose this doesn't bode well for FedEx deliverypeople or mailpersons or that kindly old lady with her bag of groceries (although why would an old lady need that many baguettes in the first place...her teeth are probably soft as brie at this point...seems suspicious...good work barkin' at her Louboy) but it certainly gives me a comforting sense of security. Not that I would ever use Lou's powers for any base reasons, but having a kneehigh, quadripedal peacemaker at your side is not something to turn one's nose up at.

How could you not be abjectly terrified of this face?

Also, Lou only barks at strangers if they try to speak to me, which to be fair, I also sometimes want to do. As long as we give a polite head nod and don't break stride, Lou and I always just cruise on by. I've ran into friends while walking Lou before and had to pretend like I've never met them, walkrunning right past them while muttering something about the weather. It's led to a lot of conversations about whether I am in fact, a incredibly secretive twin, which has proven quite useful in my day-to-day deceptions and doubledeals. However, to obviate the need for such conversations, I've taken to smearing lipstick all over my mouth, wearing a mauve headscarf and the sunglasses they give you after cataract surgery, and sitcking headphones that aren't connected to anything in my ears. It's...working?

Oh, one more Louism: he is very attached to his family and will loose a haunting, plaintive howlcry if he catches even the briefest of glimpses of them while we're out on our walk. It's best to avoid this, because that eerie lilt turns even the lushest, most verdant grasses burnt and brown and weakens the knees of the toughest roughnecks. I'm pretty sure the sun briefly went out last time Lou offered his chilling lament. It's very touching though. Sort of like that feeling you get when you walk over a grave at midnight. Overkill? Let's move on.

Lou, making sure I haven't fallen down/been attacked by a streetperson/burst into flame.

He's a grand walker, save for the occasional barks. Ne'er really comes to a full stop, has all of his bathroom manuvers sorted out and as regular as a German train schedule, and perhaps most cutely, regularly looks over his shoulder to make sure that I'm doing alright on our walks. Maybe he thinks that he's walking me? He sorta is I suppose. Other than that, what else to say about Lou that hasn't been said/fabricated already? He's a loyal, slightly nervy, family-oriented dog that, once you break through his tough candy shell has a pleasant nougaty center. A tale (tail?) as old as time, that. Good boy, Lou. Good boy.

Sean

Dogwalking 101: What to do if your dog LOVES eating street refuse

Trying out something new on this Thursday edition of the Doggy Blog: Dogwalking 101. Peep the nifty graphic that totally took me hours to design!

As consumate walkers of dogs, Home Treat Home employees pick up many tips and tricks that people that own dogs already probably know but hey, it's fun to write about anyways. Today's topic is the canine tendency to consume any and all random items on the ground no matter their source, chemical composition, size, or shape. In order for Home Treat Home to remain "hip," "young," and "trendy," this post will be presented in "listicle" format (a word which is a portmanteau of "list" and "article" even though it sounds quite dirty). This list will cover, in no particular order, a litany of items that I've seen dogs attempt to eat on walks.

NOTE: no dogs have ever succeeded in eating any of these things while on walks with Home Treat Home. We're far too skilled for that.

• Chicken bones. Starting off with the grandaddy of all groundfood, the humble chicken bone. Very common around the city, especially around supermarkets that have hot bars. The chicken bone seems fine—as we've all grown up with the image in our heads of a happy dog chewing on a bone—but it is far from it. When deep fried, the chicken bone loses all structural integrity and tends to "shatter" when chewed, which can be very dangerous for pups. Avoid at all costs.
   
• Small rocks. This tends to be the province of puppies or dogs who don't know the outside world that well. This makes sense because rocks have no detectible aroma, zero taste, don't particularly look like food at all, and are, well, made of rock. Perhaps puppies think they have the digestive system of chickens and need small pebbles, or gastroliths, to aid in crushing up food in their gastric mill. Perhaps they're not thinking at all because they are brand new dags. Avoid at all costs.
   
• Old sandwiches. This category is a bit broad. I've seen dogs go after relatively new looking bits of Subway sandwiches (probably no difference in taste whether on the ground or on a clean plate TBH) and verrry old, verrry questionable looking breadmold colonies packed in triangular plastic boxes. In the scheme of things, probably not a total emergency if your dog eats a recently dropped meatball sub fragment (unless he/she would be breaking vegan/vegetarianism to do so, of COURSE). Hell, I've eaten food off the floor/ground on many occasions and I'm still here. Avoid if possible.
   
• A whole roast chicken. I still feel bad about this one. Can you imagine the unbelievable bounty an ENTIRE ROAST CHICKEN represents to a dog? It would be like a person finding a bag full of money and then being lightly but persistently pulled in the opposite direction by a rope wrapped around your shoulders. Well, to be fair to me, the roast chicken looked quite old and had some suspect green and bluery around its periphery. But still. Avoid if possible.
   
• A lottery ticket. Still confused about this one. Did the doggo think it was a winner? It wasn't. Even if it was, you can't like absorb the power of a winning lottery ticket by eating it. And dogs shouldn't be gambling anyways. My theory is that someone with gravy all over their hands scratched off the ticket, saw that they had lost, poured more gravy on it out of anger, and then discarded it. Avoid at all costs, but likely won't be a problem.

That's all I can think of today. Let me know the weirdest thing your dog tried to eat in the comments (either here or on HTH's Facebook). Have a great Thursday fam.

Sean

Ay, Chihuahua

“We’ve never met a thing we haven’t wanted to bark at. Good thing we’re cute.”

— Nathan and Tucker, small dogs

Nathan in red and Tucker in blue, blissfully unaware of the crazed struggle that was putting those jackets one. 

I have been walking Nathan and Tucker everyday since mid-January, once at 7am and once at 4pm. Coincidentally, today is my last day with that schedule. It's been a learning experience. Not because of the dogs, but rather because in order to get to where they live by 7, I have to be up at 6 and out the door by 6:30. I haven't woken up at 6 since my days working landscaping at a boat marina in Buffalo, NY—and I have to say, I didn't really miss it at all. Being that it is winter in Chicago, albeit a frighteningly warm one, it is dark when I spring (read: stumble) out the door and I get to WAKE UP WITH THE SUN. Sound romantic? It isn't.

Picture me walking/running/sprinting to the bus with one eye coffin-nailed shut, avoiding commuters speeding through eminently visible stop signs/red lights/groups of pedestrians while drinking their coffee/snorting designer amphetamines and texting/sleeping, just getting to the bus stop in time for it to open its bifolding doors to me/speed away in total and complete ignorance of my existence THEN AND ONLY THEN realizing that I forgot my glasses/sanity at home. Perhaps that was a bit hyperbolic. I'm not much of a morning person.

Once I arrive at the pup's place, all of that agita disappears and everything is hunky dory. Nathan and Tucker are chihuahua mixes with a high motor, like the New England Patriots' receiving core, and a healthy distrust of all outsiders, like the New England Patriots' coaching staff. Like any dogs worth their salt, it took a little while for the puppers to trust me, and I braved many nips and bite attempts during those first few days. Now we are quite close.

Nathan, wondering why this treat is rectangular and made of glass and metal.

Nathan is the older, calmer, wiser one, with an inquisitive face that says (to me), "I've sniffed it allll before, kemosabe." I'm not sure if this is a characteristic of chihuahuas or not, but Nathan's nose seems to move independently of the rest of his face, granting him the ability (whether purposely or not) to produce a wide range of expressions. Very cute, two vestigial doggo thumbs way, way up. He is also, and god forbid if he reads this, the plumper brother. He does carry it well, though. He's also not a great fan of being leashed up, but once confronted with the inevitability of walking, he lowers his head and accepts his fate. I'm not sure why he is so reticent to get out there, because once we break the plane of the doorway he certainly seems to enjoy himself—wiggling along at a respectable pace for a pup of his stature. 

Tucker, half listening to me explain that not all squirrels intend him bodily harm.

Tucker is the younger, more manic, more curious brother, with super expressive ears that seem to go on for miles. I have no idea what that means. Tucker will jump up on me the second I walk into the apartment, licking my face and hands as if I were made entirely of processed meat (although, what are human beings if not processed meat?). He has a penchant for treats, and I once walked in on him devouring a small handful of pretzel sticks that were clearly not meant for his consumption. I always give the pups a lil treat (not pretzel sticks) about halfway through our walk and Tucker is extremely skilled at licking his own lips and then jumping and snatching these morsels out of the air—it's a very cute combo.

As I said before, both dogs harbor a healthy distust of outsiders. And they consider many, many things outsiders. Most things really. I've gotten very skilled at non-Euclidian geometry in three-dimensional space attempting to avoid these threats. Here's a general list of things they are skeptical of/bark at:

• Other dogs. This one is fairly normal. They tend to only freak out at dogs that are smaller than them and dogs that are larger then them. So far, zero issues with dogs exactly the same size that they are.

• Squirrels. Again, normal. In this case, they only bark at squirrels smaller than them (we have yet to encounter the rare midwestern "goliath" squirrel (taxonomical classification Sciurus gigantius). The pups have a knack for spotting squirrels from up to a country mile away and just absolutely wailing at them until they recieve a light pull on their restraints.

• Schoolbuses. This one makes sense. Schoolbuses are chock full of the natural enemy of chihuahua mixes: schoolchildren. I think everyone can sympathize with this, schoolchildren are objectively horrible.

• The Metra train. This one is problematic given that Nate and Tuck live DIRECTLY next to the Metra train. Luckily their apartment is mostly soundproof. Outside is regrettably sound heavy, and thus they go nuts every time the train zooms by.

• Airplanes. This one is confusing. They're not that loud and they are THOUSANDS OF FEET IN THE AIR. I appreciate their tenacity, but this one is a bit far fetched.

• Nothing at all. This is one is also surprising. The pups will occasionally just lose their minds barking at a tree or at literally just empty space and look at ME like I'm the crazy one when I ask them what they're barking at. Y'all are the ones screaming at nothing, don't gaslight me. I guess I am speaking to two dogs expecting a cogent answer. I guess this one is a wash.

Despite what you may take from that list, I have had a wonderful time walking Nate and Tucker this last month and change—moreso the 4pm walk rather than it's dastardly counterpart at 7am. The pups keep a brisk pace and complement eachother's personalities very well. As long as you give other dogs/squirrels/airplanes a wide berth, they bop right along. And may they bop right along for many years to come.

Sean

Éirinn go Bárk

I cannot believe it took me so long to write a post about Biddy and Mac. When I was looking through my exhaustive dog files this morning, I was ecstatic to see that these two lil terriers were still in my "SOON" column. That sounds more ominous than it is. I digress.

Mac (left) pondering his mortality and Biddy (right) supressing all such thoughts.

Biddy and Mac are Irish, not by birth or naturalization (could you IMAGINE how long it would take two DOGS to figure out an American customs office? I have HUMAN friends who baaarely got their green cards), but rather by association with their human owner. If you didn't know, canine nationality works by a kind of associative osmosis wherein the doggos absorb the culture and ancestry of their human through headrubs and snuggles. It's all very scientific. More importantly, Biddy and Mac, at least in my head, are also old timey gangsters from the turn of the century: the Lawrence Gang.

If this doesn't strike abject terror in your heart, you have antifreeze for blood, mate.

Mac, the larger white and grey spotted terrier, is the muscle. He is hesitant and careful, not because of any kind of guile or cunning, but rather because he knows the world can be a scary place full of garbage trucks or literally any other dog. A gentle eight-pound giant, if you will. Picture Lennie from Of Mice and Men or Pinky from Pinky and the Brain, but you know, with his head on swivel and a tommygun slung over his shoulder. If you need a door busted in, a rival's knuckles broken, or a stump indiscriminately peed on, Mac is your man. Er...dog.

No one has the cojones to tell Biddy "The Black Widow" Lawrence that she has something on her face.

Biddy, on the other hand, is the brains of the whole operation. Dressed in a jet black shift dress made of the finest fur—a small Derringer pistol concealed underneath, of course—she plans the gang's various capers, heists, and long cons. Notable among such deeds: 

The Bully Stick Robbery of 2016

In which the gang made off with tens of thousands of bully sticks that were left out by the garbage because they are long, tough strands of unspeakable origin that exist in defiance of God. The gang got off scot free because a police report was never filed because ewwwwww.

 

The Great Squirrel Massacre

A 2017 turf war in which no squirrels were actually harmed but were certainly glared at very harshly and timidly barked. In addition, many tense, furtive glances were reportedly exchanged between Biddy and Mac. More of a moral victory for the Lawrence Gang, but a victory nonetheless.

For an analogical cue (that word DOESN'T look like it means "relating to an analogy," but Merriam-Webster insists it is correct) picture Faye Dunaway as Bonnie Parker in Bonnie and Clyde. Actually, picture Faye Dunaway in any role. What I'm saying is that Biddy is Faye Dunaway as a dog—Faye Dogaway. It's all very scientific.

I will—begrudgingly—admit that this elaborate fantasy of dog gangsterdom is spun whole-cloth out of my overactive mind and that in REALITY Biddy and Mac are just two little button-cute canines with no real ties to Chicago's seamy underbelly. To wit, when I first met them, Mac ambled up to me and put his lil paws up on my thighs and gave a big ol' yawn and Biddy, in perhaps the cutest introduction I've ever experienced, was alllllmost completely hidden behind the couch with just her nose and one eye stickin' out. That just isn't the behavior of hardened criminal pups, and I admit that.

In terms of walkers, they're very chill and easygoing. Mac tends to walk a bit, then sniff and stall a bit, then shoot me a plaintive look, then reluctantly walk a bit more. Biddy is a stone-cold shuffler, loosely shambling from tree to fire hydrant to corner-of-building, Biddy does this thing when she wants to go inside where she sorta half smiles, half bears her teeth and slowly oscillates up and down. It's hard to explain. Harder to explain is why my reaction is to weirdly half-smile, half show my teeth back at her. It just always seemed like the right thing to do. Earned a few strange looks from passersby for that, thank you very much.

Back at the apartment, they sit calmly as they are unleashed. Biddy RUNS AS FAST AS POSSIBLE to the other side of the room, and Mac sits dejectedly, preparing himself for his LEAST FAVORITE THING. I haven't touched on this yet, partly because it is a little embarrassing for ol' Mac (although, it's highly unlikely that he'll read this) and partly because is completely dispels the gangster storyline I invested sooo much mental energy in to. You see, Mac has a bit of separation anxiety which results in him piddling if he's left alone for too long. Thus, in what must be the ultimate indignity for a dog (indognity?), Mac must wear a diaper. And Mac doesn't like wearing a diaper. Even sadder, he doesn't even struggle or run away, he just hangs his lil head and accepts that teal pad being velcroed around his midriff. I always give him a treat after this, which seems to brighten his spirits a bit.

To Biddy and Mac, may the road rise to meet you! Or rather, the sidewalk—we all know you're afraid of the road.

Sean

Maddie About You

First things first, in no way is the subpar sitcom starring Paul Reiser and Helen Hunt related to the lil ball of introverted sweetness that is Maddie the terrier. I am just getting over the headcold from hell, and my cup of puns and pop culture references has runneth a bit dry. Maddie is probably more like Tony Shaloub from Monk, but way cuter. Meaning, she can be a bit idiosyncratic and introverted, but you can't help but give her Emmy after Emmy after Emmy. Maybe my fever is still working its confusing magic.

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Probably more of a Reiser than a Hunt, but let's not tell her that.

Anyways, esoteric television references aside, Maddie is great! It took a little while for me to really "get" her, in that she was very affectionate towards me but seemed unwilling to leave the relative comfort of her apartment (...how does she afford the rent? She doesn't even have thumbs). We got around that little impediment in the way you get around everything with doggos: the much vaunted TREAT. After offering one of those bone-shaped bits of kibble to Maddie, she barely noticed that I attached her leash and whisked her out into the hallway.

Maddie also does this thing that I've noticed is common to particularly anxious terriers (and strange children) where she will spin around in circles when she is unsure of anything. In this case, being in the hallway instead of in her apartment. She will also longingly gaze back at the apartment door over her wee shoulder, like a canine wife of Lot. I try to blow by this anxiety with some friendly bluster:

ME: "Nice hallway we have here, eh Maddie?"
MADDIE: *spinning in circles*
ME: "I really like what they've done with these stair runners!"
MADDIE: *SPINNING INTENSIFIES*
ME: "And just LOOK at that wainscoting! Tremendous!"
MADDIE: "That's just floor moulding you plebian, get a clue."

What Maddie lacks in confidence, she makes up for in knowledge of interior design.

A candid shot of Maddie ready to throw down after reading this blog.

Once we're actually outside, things go more smoothly. I always start the walk like Michael Johnson off the block, speeding away from the comforting sight of the apartment's front door as quickly as is comfortable. Now, I don't have children, but I imagine that Maddie is feeling the same thing that a lil tyke would feel leaving home for Kindergarten for the first time: a little scared, a little excited, limited control over one's urine, etc. etc. Luckily for Maddie, that last one is covered.

We bop around the streets for a while, Maddie sniffin' on some leaves and brush, throwing the occasional spin move at the errant squirrel, just doin' terrier things. It does amaze me how cool Maddie is with the outside world after being so reticent just 12 minutes before. And because my mind runs like aforementioned Michael Johnson when I'm out walkin' dags, I extrapolate this experience to my own life. As I'm sure is true of all of you, there are days when you just don't want to leave your house; perhaps you're hungover, or maybe you have a stressful day at work waiting for you, or maybe you just don't want to deal with the random lottery of meaningless tragedy and series of near escapes that some days seem bound to hold. The trick is just to get out your front door real quick and don't turn back. Just pretend that you're Maddie—canine wife of Lot—but unlike her, you don't want to turn into that proverbial pillar of salt.

Now if that isn't some SAPPY armchair philosophy I don't know what is, but it is truly what spins through my head when I'm out walking dogs. And what better place than here to write about it? So raise a glass (or mug of coffee, it is early when I'm publishing this) to Maddie, may we all have the courage to stumble out our front doors—even if we don't really want to.

Actually, from this angle I can see the similarities to Helen Hunt.

Sean

The Altgeld Girls

"We know how to sit, shake, and look super cute."

Hello all! Josh here with a post about some of the dogs on my daily route. In fact, you may already know them. If you've ever liked a photo on Home Treat Home's Instagram page, chances are it was of one of the Altgeld Girls: Grace, the white golden retriever; Bernie, the doodle; and Daisy, a golden retriever. I've been walking these gal pals for years. They are like the kids from, "Stranger Things," except we've never been to the upside-down world and I am okay with that. Neighborhood friends who grew up together on the same cul-de-sac. Which happens to be Altgeld Ave in Lincoln Park. These ladies are well-behaved and a joy to be around. They never fight with eachother and are always guarding their turf. Let me tell you a little about each of them and I am sure you'll fall in love with them too.

Bernie Girl is a doodle like no other. She is a human stuck in a dog's body. I've been walking Bernie for about two years now and she has become a best friend. She is always down to hang out and she always greets me with her tail wagging, paws jumpin', and a smile on her face. She looks straight into my eyes to communicate her love and affection for me. She can be cautious of strangers, but is always curious about them. Usually after they have passed her and she comes from behind to sniff their bums. She is very good at startling others and being startled herself. At the end of our walks, she always tries to race me back into the apartment, even though she can't get in without me. It's so adorable. Bernie is the sugar in my morning coffee and I need her to get through my day. 

This is Gracie Girl, aka Grace Nacho. Grace Nacho is an original club kid. Me and this home girl have been hanging out for three years now and we treat each other like uncle and niece. When I walk through the front door, she is always waiting at the top of the stairs with a toy to give me. She is my princess. She's bossy, caring, and loveable. Grace and I are so close that we even exchange gifts on our birthdays. I don't even do that with my human friends. One thing is definitely true about Grace, she's got my back. 

Daisy is the life of the party. She is mostly a guest star in the smash hit sitcom that is The Altgeld Girls, but lives on the same block as Bernie and Grace. Daisy is such a ham. She loves attention and is great at getting everyone worked up on the walks. Her and Grace are best friends in the purest sense of the word. They live to see each other. My favorite thing is to watch her and Gracie play a little game I've dubbed Snow Dolphin. Snow Dolphin is a great game—mostly played by dogs but could be extended to particulary flexible (and perhaps, strange) children— where one acts as if one is a dolphin swimming through deep snow instead of a large body of water. It is a must see. If you have the means, I highly recommend taking in a show.

You might even recognize them from the above Home Treat Home logo picture. Who are we kidding, of course you do, these gals are A-listers. If you are ever in Lincoln Park and run into one of these famed Girls of Altgeld, make sure to say, "HEY, GIRL, HEY!" in your best high-pitched lilt. I am sure they will greet you with ear-to-ear smiles, open paws, and some sloppy kisses. However, they have been known to throw some INTENSE CANINE SHADE from time to time, so prepare accordingly. 

Josh

Rocky and Ripley: The Carmen Crew

Rocky and Ripley are half of the venerable Carmen Crew (that is, they live on Carmen Avenue in Andersonville) and they are undoubtedly the leaders of the pack. What they lack in size, they make up for in personality. For reference, the other two dogs in the Crew are Hutson, an ornery ol' cocker spaniel [or at least part cocker spaniel] that will be written about soon enough and Cooper the pomeranian, who has already rocketed to stardom after being covered on the blog).

Ripley, 'bout to take you to the woodshed.

Ripley has supersonic hearing, or perhaps some kind of telepathy, because I swear he can hear me coming from down the block. Even though they live up on the third floor, the SECOND my keys jangle in the front door, I can hear him start to bark. I'm not sure how he hasn't figured out that it's almost NEVER an armed home invader and ALWAYS me coming up to give him some head scratches and then take 'em on a delightful flight of fancy in the outside world. Especially since I come at the same time every single weekday. His consistency is admirable. Once he confirms that is indeed me and that I still don't mean him or his dojo any harm, he's quite demure and it's not problem leashing him up and departing.

Rocky in full "dust mop" mode.

Rocky doesn't bark or yip or squeal or anything. In fact, he's lucky that Ripley is there, because if I were some kind of cat burglar (ha ha ha ha) intent on stealing the family jewels I'm not sure he would raise any kind of ruckus. He's always snoozing in the other room when I arrive and then reluctantly pops up and ambles over to get leashed up.

Perhaps the most representative anecdote of Rocky's temperament is his reaction to his snow boots and jacket. As I'm sure you all know, in the colder, snowier, rock saltier months, some dogs need lil booties and jackets in order to survive treks out into the tundra. Rocky never puts up a fight while putting these things on, but the second the booties get on, he tumbles to the ground like he was hit by a tranquilizer dart. He will get up eventually, but it takes quite a bit of encouragement. Totally worth it though, because you get pictures like this one.

If it is a particularly wet or puddly day outside, I will towel them off upon returning to the apartment. Both puppers LOVE this tan rain towel, and will shoulder roll and rub their heads onto it with great vigor. In order to amuse myself, I will sometimes toss the towel from great height down onto them. This creates what I like to think of as a living, breathing, towel creature with a mind of its own. After chuckling to myself for a couple seconds, I get down there and fluff the doggos dry.

In terms of walkers, R and R—as I have taken to calling them to save time—are an energetic, frenetic, kinetic experience. Without fail, they always manage to pull in completely opposite directions, which always makes me feel a bit like legendary strongman of antiquity Louis Cyr. Except that R and R probably weigh a couple pounds less than two fully grown horses.

Walking Rocky and Ripley is a tremendous workout.

They're very curious pups as well, stopping to sniff and nasally examine every street sign, tree stump, and fence post in the greater metropolitan area. They are dedicated smellvestigators as well, and typically won't budge from a particularly interesting street corner until I give them a lil tug on the leash. They also harbor a slight mistrust of most other dogs, and while they're not aggressive and don't bite or even nip really, they will bark and get a bit rowdy. I can't blame them—the Carmen Crew has quite a rep to maintain and you gotta protect your home turf.

Ripley doin' some pushups on the yard while Rocky menaces me with a hard stare.

In closing, it's great fun to walk these two little firecrackers and perhaps even greater fun to take pictures of them. I literally have dozens of photos of these dogs. R+R4L y'all.

Sean

O Captain My Captain

Captain, the consumate host, greeting me at the door.

Captain is a wire fox terrier with a heart of gold. He always greets me at the door with that crooked, fanged smile fitting to the general head shape of wire fox terriers and typically a lopsided ear situation, as in the picture to the right.

He will then immediately head off to find a tennis ball. Luckily, he's super easy to wrangle and leash up and I reckon part of that is that he knows that while we're not playing with tennis balls RIGHT NOW, we DEFINITELY WILL after our walk.

We head down the stairs at a loping pace and rocket out the door, ready to take on the world. And the squirrels. All the squirrels. Much like Liam Neeson in Taken, Captain has a very particular set of skills for dealing with unsavory characters, which in this case (and much unlike Mr. Neeson, unless there is a very strange sequel planned) are small urban woodland creatures.

Upon seeing a squirrel skittering up a tree, the Cap'n explodes forwards like a defensive end in the NFL, leaping up the tree two or three bounds and growling a bit. It's very impressive. His dedication is likewise impressive, as he would probably remain at the tree for hours, just waiting for that lil squirrel to make a mistake. However, a short tug on the leash, and we're back to walkin'.

Cap has this great bouncy stride that causes his lil velveteen ears to bob up and down with each step. Truly a dream of a walk.

A boy and his ball. 

After our 30 minute jaunt, we head back inside for some light calisthenics—meaning tossing the tennis ball and watching Captain lose his ENTIRE MIND as he retrieves it. It's a delight to watch. As you can see in the picture to the left, he has a great many toys, but only really cares about the spherical, yellow-green ones. The one in his mouth in the picture is his personal favorite, as it is larger than a normal tennis ball and has a squeaky element inside of it. It's also the easiest one to get out of his gaping maw, which is nice.

Occasionally, he will do this adorable thing where, after some tug-of-war with the ball, the Cap will drop it and begin vigorously licking my face. This is obviously a very common "dog thing," but that doesn't make it any less awesome.

A boy and his dogspit-covered face.

After we're done with our tennis ballesthenics and face licking, we get to engage with Captain's most idiosyncratic trait—and my personal favorite part about him. The dog absolutely LOVES baby carrots. His total devotion to the orange nubbins positively dwarfs his hatred of squirrels and his love of tennis balls COMBINED.

Damn near took a finger off here.

As soon as I make a move for the fridge, Cap will dart behind me and park his butt on the floor. Then, with all the jittery patience of a junkie waiting for his dealer, he will sit and watch me take the container out of the fridge, crack the top, pull out his favorite lil root vegetable, and dangle it above him. Sometimes he will wait for me to drop it into his eager gob. Sometimes however, he will ROCKET UPWARDS WITH THE FORCE OF A THOUSAND APOLLO MISSIONS AND TAKE WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY HIS. And as I mentioned before, he has the quickness and fortitude of thigh of an elite NFL athlete, so there is little a puny human like myself can do to deny him. It's a spectacle and I love it.

Godspeed Captain, may your reign be long, peaceful, and prosperous.

Sean