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.

Hercules, demonstrating his power.

Hercules, demonstrating his value.

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

Stella lived for soaking up some serious rays.  

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.)

Once again, Stella soaking up the sun.  

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

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

The Hundred Years War, but with bulldogs

Today, as our really quite bad 29th president Warren G Harding (although his stock may rise by one spot in roughly 4 years) said in the run up to his 1920 presidential campaign: it is time for a return to normalcy. Although he was speaking of the country, I believe this can also apply to a humorous dog blog. Historical records are murky regarding President Harding's love of dogs and/or access to the Internet, but I think we can safely assume he would have enjoyed reading the Home Treat Home Doggy blog in between massive scandals. What this means for today's entry is this: no long narrative about a black lab working as a soothsayer in New Orleans or a sordid tale of two Irish gangster terriers running their block, just a regular story about two bouncing balls of bulldog. Note: we'll get back to the weird stuff soon, but the fact that it's been raining for 3 days straight in Chicago has this blogwriter in the creative doldrums.

That point notwithstanding, this post is a bit of a long time coming. I dogsat for these two international dogs of mystery about a month ago, and the memory is just as fresh and buoyant as it was those many days ago. Some brief introductions: the English bulldog is, perfectly, named Angus; the wee Frenchie puppy is, somehow also perfectly, Lola.

Angus (English bulldog) and Lola (teeny French blip) going for a walk.

They might seem like a bit of an odd couple, but I assure you they fit together like two canine puzzle pieces. Two puzzle pieces of completely different sizes. And colors. And temperament. And drool reservoirs. But somehow, it works. The basic relationship dynamic seems to be Angus as protector/big brother/role model and Lola as precocious tween/ball of energy/small boneless furry blob. Here's an example of a day in the life of dogsitting Angus and Lola, in tried and true Home Treat Home bulleted list fashion (we're currently trying to patent the dogcentric bulleted list, bear with us):

• I enter the domicile.
• Angus bulldozes down the stairs (he was always upstairs when I arrived, GOD KNOWS what he was doing up there) and begins droolin' and shakin' all over my lower half.
• I attempt to get Angus in his harness and leash, which is like trying to put a diaper on a greased bowling ball while someone is trying to bowl with it.
• I feed Angus and triumphantly walk him to where Lola is waiting in her crate.
• Angus, outraged by the imprisonment of his teeny French ward, begins droolin' and shakin' all over my lower half.
• I spring Lola from her oubliette and attempt to feed her. This is only possible by filling her food dish and then immediately looking away, as if the mere thought of her sucking up those mahogany pellets disgusts me. I fear this may be a burgeoning eating disorder for Lola, but then I remember that I've seen dogs eat leaves/garbage/cat excrement and relax.
• I attempt to corral Lola long enough to attach her Byzantine harness and leash, which always has varying levels of success. It felt like the orientation of the harness/leash changed every day, as if enchanted by the malevolent ghost of a disgruntled PetSmart employee.
• I eventually solve the Gordian knot of Lola's leash, and we exit the domicile.
• Angus weighs, roughly, 100 Lolas. However, Lola has the energy of 100 Angii (Anguses?). This causes my left shoulder to PULL FORWARD with the weight of Angus's stout frame while my right shoulder begins to rotate like a Shimano fishing reel with the manic energy of Lola the puppy.
• This continues for the 30-40 minutes of our walk. We weave in and out of trees, fire hydrants, fences, and basically every other impediment we can find to the point where it sorta feels like I'm on a very specific episode of Ninja Warrior.
• We wander back to their house and Angus bounds up the steps as I holster Lola like a furry lil pistol and carry her up to the door. I loose both dogs from their chains and release them into their chambers. They ramble around for a bit and then I massage an unwilling Lola back into her crate. Angus, seeing everything is up to snuff, somersaults back up the stairs into his dimension.

Angus, in his natural state.

A few bits of flavor text that didn't fit in those bullets: Angus likes to set the pace and direction of our walks and in super cute Frenchie puppy fashion, Lola clearly imitates him and follows his lead. She literally makes the same movements as he does. If I had ovaries, I'm sure they would be glowing with radiant motherly energy. Lola ain't no follower though. As you can see in the first picture in this entry, Lola LOVES to grab Angus's leash in her mouth and essentially walk him around. I don't have the heart to tell her that if he wanted to, given the laws of physics, Angus could slingshot her into the troposphere if he wished. Let the wee Frenchie dream. Lastly, Angus had to have a pill thrice daily, which was administered by me with a healthy dose of peanut butter. I know dogs and panut butter have a healthily reported history, but I wish something made me as HAPPY as peanut butter makes Angus. Well...to be honest, I guess peanut butter makes me as happy as peanut butter makes Angus happy. Those with low standards can NEVER be disappointed! All hail George Washington Carver and his edible happiness salve!

Lola, trying out her brand new facial expression: "bitewinking".

Woah, almost went back into that weird territory. Glad to know I still have that gear available. Anyways, I had a wonderful time with these two kooks. If you see them out, give them a stoic head nod from me. And maybe some peanut butter. In fact, if you see me, give me the same.

Sean

The Big Easy: Nola's Grand Adventure

I'm happy to introduce you all to Nola, one of my favorite doggos to walk. She's a fine ol' Southern belle of a black lab who, in true New Orleans fashion, loves eating green beans. 

A not very great photograph of a very great dog about to enjoy a healthy snack.

To be totally honest, I've never checked to confirm if Nola's name is in any way related to the deeelightful burg of New Orleans. However, in true Doggy Blog fashion, I have constructed an elaborate narrative about Nola's early life in the antebellum South and her subsequent escape to a new life in north side Chicago. Let's dive in with a beautiful bulleted list—also in true Doggy Blog fashion!

• 1867 AD, New Orleans, LA. Nola is enjoying life as a soothsayer in the French Quarter, trading her mystical abilities for green beans. She comes from a mysterious lineage, known for magical abilities and looong lifespans. Her business is booming in the recently upended Southern cultural and economical ecosystem, as many citizens seek a new direction in the occult. Nola, as any sound businesswoman would, expands her business into the apothecarian arts: tonic brewing, protective salt crystallization, alchemical tinctures, potion bottling, etc. Things are good.
• 1872 AD, New Orleans, LA. Casie Blount, of the much respected and oft feared Louisiana Blounts, saunters into Nola's now well-established shop looking for a nerve tonic to soothe her jittery hysteria. Nola, aware of the import of this transaction and thus a bit nervous herself, reaches for her popular "Ms. Nola's Pacifying Potion, No. IV". Unfortunately, in her anxious stupor, she accidentally grabs "Ms. Nola's Pacifying Potion, No. III," essentially a diluted rodent poison. She accepts Ms. Blount's bag of Confederate currency and bids her adieu.
• Later that same day. Ms. Blount, after drinking said potion, is poisoned and passes away, hand still clutching the rose-tinted bottle. A mob is formed and Ms. Nola is chased from her shop, and subsequently town. She heads north.
• 1968 AD, Chicago, IL. Nola has wandered the continental United States for nearly 100 years, haunted by the lingering influence of the Blount family. In an effort to conceal her identity, she had become a resolute Democrat and fervent opponent of the war in Vietnam. Running in these circles had introduced Nola to many movers and shakers, many of whom  dabbled in the apothecarian arts that had brought Nola such fame and eventual misfortune. While attending a protest at the Democratic National Convention, Nola was stopped by a policeman. Upon seeing his badge and name, Nola was aghast: printed in bold, san serif font on the policeman's lapel was the name "Blount". Clearly the Blount family passed down a likeness of Nola over the last century, and the officer recognized her immediately. Nola turned to flee, reaching into her pocket for a small vial given to her by Timothy Leary, labeled "For Emergencies Only." Nola ducked down an alleyway and quaffed the black liquid. This, as you probably already guessed, transformed her into a black lab just as Officer Blount turned the corner. Blount, finding no evidence of the Louisianian soothsayer, picked up the kindly black lab and ironically adopted her.
• 1998 AD, Chicago, IL. Over the years, she gains his trust and finally explains her side of the story to Officer Blount on his death bed. He forgives her with his last breath, and Nola feels at peace for the first time in years.
• 2016 AD, Chicago, IL (north side). I begin walking Nola. After several walks, green beans, and head scratches, I gain her confidence and hear tell of this amazing story. And with her permission, and to ease the burden of over a century of guilt and persecution, I now share it with you.

Nola, relieved after telling me her life story after a beautiful springtime walk.

And that's basically the story of Nola the sweet ol' black lab. She's a wonderful creature, wise, friendly, very stubborn in her walking tendencies and not afraid to pull a mere Yankee like me around like a kite with legs.

Here's to many more walks with Nola, a proud ol' Southern belle with a heart of gold!

Sean

As a palate cleanser after that story, here's my fave pic of Nola. She's the cutest.

Dogwalking 101: The Humble Fanny Pack

The fanny pack is an essential tool in the warm weather dogwalker's toolkit. In the colder months, one can put the myriad keys, bags, notecards, sunglasses, treats, etc. in one's jacket pockets. This is not the case in the warm and humid Chicago spring and summer, where wearing a jacket would essentially put you in the same camp perspirationally as a college wrestler trying to suck down those last five pounds. The fanny pack frees you to shed those pesky outer layers AND gives you 4-6 external pockets of various sizes. Now, that is VALUE.

Josh, demonstrating the VALUE of the fanny pack out and about in the city.

Full disclosure: I've been touting the VALUE of the fanny pack for years now, with varying levels of disgust from my significant other, friends, familly, clergy, etc. I believe it started on the rugby pitch, where you are forced to wear pocketless rugby shorts. This isn't much of a problem during the game, but afterwards when you're icing up your knees and drinking a covert beer on sidelines, pockets are a necessity. I took to wearing a fanny pack to rugby games probably back in 2008 and I haven't really slowed down since. I won't lie to you, dear readers, it's taken not a small amount of bravery to continue to man the battlements of Fanny Pack Castle all these years. To proudly wear the fanny pack in the dark years where it was relegated to the realm of nerdy dads and that weird kid from high school that always ran between classes was not easy. But god dammit, a man without principles isn't a man at all.

Still life with Sean's fanny pack, a prime blend of utility and flair. A bit worn down.

However, mine eyes have noticed a recent uptick in the number of outwardly "cool lookin'" guys and gals (sound more like an alien Sean, really) wearing the formerly maligned accessory. Dare I say, the ultimate in hipcentric pocketry is indeed becoming HIP in its own right? GUYS I CAN'T HELP MYSELF, THIS ENTIRE BLOG POST WAS DESIGNED TO MAKE THAT ONE JOKE WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE—bullllllleted list save me from myselllllllf:

Benefits of the fanny pack

• External pockets. I know I mentioned this before, but it needs some more detail. Typically, you get one large main pocket and one smaller front pocket. These are the workhorses of the pack. They'll carry your wallet, keys, phone, notecards, a beer, etc. However, on any fanny pack that is worth its mettle you also get two smaller satellite pockets on the sides. These are the darkhorses of the FP, and can fit any number of interesting itemry. Recently I've found that if you put a roll of dog bags in one and half zip it, you can pull them out individually without the whole roll popping out. LIVING THE DREAM OVER HERE.

• Fashion statement/creative expression. The fanny pack is like a billboard for your pelvis. It gives you another avenue to express WHO. YOU. ARE. as a person through color and assorted pins or patches. Keep it light with the pins tho, dogs hate that Hot Topic vibe (especially golden retrievers—can you imagine a less "Hot Topic" breed than the sunny golden?). We at Home Treat Home recommend you go sporty and fun with your pack: think bright colors, exotic zipper angles, slung low on the hip. However, if you're going to go utilitarian, at least add some flair.

• Unanimous appreciation and jealousy from the public. If I'm not getting stopped whilst walking Mr. Cooper, I'm usually getting stopped by people asking where I got that fly fanny pack. They're all like, "Damn, that fanny is lookin' dope kid!" and I'm like "Thanks BRO!" even if it's a lady and then we do a three-way high five with whatever dog I'm walking and there's a freeze frame and then cue J. Geils Band's "Freeze Frame" and roll credits. I would say, conservatively, this happens every single day.

• The word "fanny". The word "fanny" is amazing. It's childish and antiquated and is probably the politest way to say "butt" (though I've heard different definitions from our friends across the pond). And you don't really ever have the chance to say it—unless you are wearing the pack that proudly displays the term like a god damn badge.

Those really cover all the bases, I think. It's hard to argue with pure utility, radiant creative expression, near-constant public adoration, and the word fanny.

Wrong kind of dog fanny pack.

We at Home Treat Home predict a bright future for the fanny pack, and are adjusting our investment portfolio accordingly. In fact, and I shouldn't even mention this, our diligent Home Treat Home technicians are busy in the lab (pun intended) working on a fanny pack just for dogs. Think of the possibilities. A world of dogs with fanny packs and wraparound sunglasses, playing volleyball on the beach and high fiving. It's almost too beautiful to imagine.

The one thing we need is a fancy name for our new creation. Please comment here or on our Facebook page with your best names for a fanny pack for dogs (not the abomination to the left here, that's the wrong kind). Happy Friday everyone, grab a fanny pack and get out there!

Sean

We <3 Lucy

Lucy, looking like the damn MGM lion.

Lucy is a recent addition to the growing stable of stellar Home Treat Home canine talent, and we could not be happier about it. Shar Peis are not especially common, and especially not shar peis of Lucy's pedigree (she is related to a top show dog but I have been sworn to secrecy and cannot say any more about that ever). Now I should say that we don't treat our dogs like Pokémon and we love and value them all equally—but it is pretty cool to see a rare breed every once in a while. And I mean, they're undenialby cool looking. Foldy faces. Eyes hidden behind said voluminous folds. Billowing lips. Curiously flapping nose. What do the Shar Peis hide under all that extra dermis? Secrets? McGuffins? Mysterium tremendum et fascinans.

Back to reality. I actually walked Lucy several months ago when she was a puppy, but since she was literally a quarter of the size she is now, I did not recognize her when I was reacquainted last week. For hardcore Doggy Blog followers, I walked Lucy with HTH social media stalwart Captain, but before you ask I DON'T HAVE A PICTURE OF THIS BLESSED OCCASION FOR SOME REASON. Needless to say, if you can perform a mental age regression program on the picture at the top, Lucy was extremely cute as a puppy. She's still cute, but the Platonic "puppiness" has matured into that wise, all-knowing radiance that exudes from all corners of her many wrinkles.

Lucy has very little time for puny mortal concerns like leash maintenance.

Related to this, I have been stopped more on the street in regards to Lucy than I have with any other dog. Actually, likely every other dog I've been walking combined—if you take out Cooper from the equation. And bear in mind, I've only been walking her for a week. It's definitely the rarity and resplendence of the Shar Pei mythos that caused this spike in street questioning, but it's been fun. Here's a typical exchange:

Passerby: Hey! What kinda dog is that?
Me: A Shar Pei!
P: A sharpie? Don't smell like no sharpie...
M: No, a SHAR PEI.
P: Oh, you mean the traditional Chinese breed, whose name comes from the British translation of a Cantonese word meaning "sand skin" and whose fierce loyalty and fighting ability made them a particular favorite of Chinese emperors in the Han Dynasty?
M: ...
P: Yeah yeah, that's the one. Did you know that the Western Shar Pei looks quite different than the traditional Eastern breed? And in fact, denizens of Southern China, Hong-Kong, and Macau call the Western breed "meat mouth" or "bone mouth" to differentiate the two?
M: Please don't talk to me or my large adult canine daughter Lucy ever again.

That for sure happened. Actually a lot of that came from the extensive research (Wikipedia and Wikipedia adjacent websites) that I do on these Doggy Blogs. I also learned this fact about shar peis: 

The Shar Pei's loose skin and extremely prickly coat were originally developed to help the dogs fend off wild boar, as they were used to hunt...These enhanced traits made the Shar Pei difficult to grab and hold on to, and so that if a boar did manage to hold on, the Shar Pei would still have room to maneuver and bite back; when grabbed by any loose wrinkle, a Shar Pei can actually twist in their skin and face in their opponent's direction...they would twist in their skin to bite the assailant back.

That's amazing. Arguments about selective dog breeding aside (and there are many, many points to be made on that topic), developing excess neck and head skin to increase manuverability in an altercation is banana nuts crazy. It would be like if a boxer got really very obese, then had liposuction without any skin removal surgery in an attempt to accrue enough extra skin to be able to "twist in his skin" to counterpunch his opponent. It would be like fighting the drapes. Or a man draped in fleshy beach towels.

Well that's just too many weird words there, Sean.

Just one of the best dogheads out there. Now also featuring curly tail.

In closing, one additional fact about Shar Peis that isn't going to rapidly devolve into analogies about morbidly obese and surgically naive boxers. Their tongues are blackish blue. Yes, like giraffes. This is the go to fact I give to passersby when they ask any question past "What kind of dog is that?" One last scenario—featuring a notably different passerby than the earlier example—before I let you go:

Passerby: So now that I've asked you what kind of dog that is, is there anything else you'd like to tell me about this incredible creature that I might not know?
Me: They have blackish blue tongues.
P: WHAT? THAT IS AMAZING.
M: I KNOW RIGHT. Apparently the Chinese believed that the fearsome hue of the tongue was enough to scare off evil spirits. Although I'm sure that that simple explanation has been watered down over the years and forced through the filter of cultural differences. What's ultimately more interesting is why a black-blue tongue would exist in the first place, genetically speaking of course. Although, why do tongues have to be pink? I guess the entire inside of the mouth is pink. Is it the high concentration of blood in the tissues of the head paired with the generally thinner/moister skin? Or maybe...
P: (walked away several minutes before)
Me to Lucy: Hmm. That genial old man must have been INFESTED with evil djinn magic. He left so early into that riveting conversation. Good work shooing him away, Luce.

I think we've achieved the perfect balance of lunacy and dog backstory in this entry! Good work everyone! All praise be to Lucy, First of Her Name, the Unironed, Queen of the Wrinkled and the Draped Men, Pupleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Leashes, and Mother of Drooling!

I am so sorry for that last one.

Sean
 

Dogwalking 101: Raining Cats and...

Note: I couldn't bring myself to complete that pun in the title. I apologize for my lack of moral fortitude in this matter.

Josh and Bernie, in WATERcolor. Get it?!

Good morning everyone! If you live in Chicago, you know that it has been a rainy week so far. If you are a dog owner, you also know how much of a hassle this is when you're out walking your pup. Some dogs Greg Louganis themselves directly into the nearest (deepest) puddle. Some dogs go for a Warrior Dash through the nearest muddy patch of grass. Some dogs revel in the chaotic precipitation and throw their heads up to the heavens uttering exultant WOOFs and beckoning the gods for more sky tears.  Some dogs—and these are the smart ones—have ZERO time for the rain and get done with their business as quickly as possible to get back inside. No matter what type of dog you have, it's always gonna be a bit of a handful when it's raining. Here are some tips that we've found help out in the spring showers:

• Umbrella. This is an absolute necessity for the walker, but with smaller dogs it can also shield a lot of the wet from them. Larger dogs often do not fit, or do not care to fit underneath the purview of the parapluie, but it can be worth a try. Also, an umbrella is just a weird looking object and I believe dogs are mystified by its workings. Use this to your advantage.
• Raincoat. For sure for you, for the dog if possible. If you don't have a raincoat for your pup, it's a worthwhile investment. Not only is it practical, but it makes the dog look like a people. Dog lookin' like a people is always a fun. Note: This holds even if you have an umbrella. The rain will get through. It always gets through. Always.
• Bring a towel (or paper towels if you hate the Earth). This is used to dry off the pups back, paws, back paws, head, belly, soul, etc. However, it is also useful to towel off your boots or shoes if your canine companion has done the patented "post #2 back paw shovel mud kick" and you were unfortunate enough to be in the way. Also, if you are a spectacled dogwalker like I am, you can use the towel to dry off your glasses. I know what your'e saying: "Won't that make your glasses smudgy?" Probably yes. But I tend to give up all hope in the rain, so I don't really mind. Also good if your dog wears glasses.
• Walk at a reasonable pace and seek trees for cover. In my middle school days I recall having many discussions about whether you would get more wet if you stood still/walked slowly in a rainstorm or if you ran as fast as you could home. The thought being that if you walked slowly, your journey would be longer and thus you would collect rainwater on your person longer, but you could more easily seek shelter. If you ran, we theorized, your journey would be shorter but you would be essentially propelling yourself into more raindrops. I have no idea if that is proven out by physics, but it seemed to make sense. I was always a runner as a child, but now that I have joined the ranks of umbrellamen, I tend towards slow deliberate walks. This bears out when you have a dog. Don't try to rush through the walk, you'll get more wet, your 'brella will turn inside out, you will hit more puddles. It's a mess. Walk slow and seek trees my friends.
• Pop your phone in a sandwich bag. This is a good tip for anytime it's raining, but GREAT for dogwalking. You can still use a touchscreen through a sandwich bag but the rain cannot use your phone to make it a useless hunk of worthless glass and aluminium. And if you're clever you can peek your headphones out of the corner and listen to cool podcasts like I do Extra tip: only listen to music or podcasts with one headphone in so you can listen for other dogs/cars/belligerent strangers.
• Bring a waterproof backpack. This is more of a luxury item, but a very valuable one. If you've walked with us before, you know that we leave little pastel notecards with witty aphorisms and walknotes on them. These dissolve in the rain. However, they stay dry as hot sand in my waterproof bike bag. Other things that stay dry in waterproof bags: extra sweatshirt, extra jacket, towel, lembas bread, etc.
• An item to sacrifice to Nimbus, the pagan god of storms. This is a must-have. You should bring some sort of religious idol or artifact to sacrifice to Nimbus, the pagan god of storms, to beg of him to end the rain. This item should be completely burned to ash and then thrown into the Pool of Nimbus (any random puddle).

Well those are all the tips that we at Home Treat Home have for surviving these rainy days. Stay dry friends! All hail Nimbus!

Sean

April May Juniper July

This may alarm some readers, but I am no huge fan of gin. Something about the Christmas tree taste turns me off—although pine is one of my favorite scents, I've never had the desire to grab a cone and start noshing (or quaffing for that matter). After some cursory research, I found that the juniper berry is not actually berry but actually the female seed cone of the juniper tree. Essentially it is a very small, tightly wound pinecone. So you're drinking pinecone tea when you enjoy a gin martini. Congratulations.

Juniper in repose.

So with that educational tirade out of the way, I can now officially say that Juniper the dog is the ONLY juniper that I do currently enjoy. In fact, she's a bit of a tightly wound pinecone herself. Juniper is an Australian shepherd/collie mix of some sort as far as I can tell, with a lil bobbed tail and a penchant for good, long, ACTIVE walkin'. I have just recently began walking her, and it's already quite the lovefest. She's always super psyched to see me wander into her dojo and is super eager to get her leash on and JUST GET ON WITH THE OUTSIDE TIMES OKAY SEAN? Sometimes when she's really very quite too much excited, she can piddle a teeny bit on the floor—but honestly, who among us isn't guilty of that from time to time? On the rare occasions when that does happen it's always barely a thimble full, so it takes roughly one paper towel to clean up and then we're out and about.

The picture above (above and to the right? I'm never sure how this website renders on peoples' various devices) is what happens when we cease our stroll for really any reason at all. First we stop moving, then Juniper sits, then she twists her jaunty lil frame up like a damn pretzel to get some good scratchin' (read: lightly kicking herself in the head and neck) in. It's very reliable and very cute to watch. I always pitch in with some head scratches when this happens. Although, when walkin' a spark plug like Juniper, it's best to keep moving.

Juniper casting her investigatory eye at me, complete with creepy smile.

Juniper takes time on our strolls to investigate every squirrel, construction worker, puddle, pigeon, or presumed morsel of food that enters her range of vision. If you give her too much lead on the leash, she will saunter up to all these distractions and either pounce at (squirrel, pigeon, morsel of food) or jump onto (construction worker, puddle). She's never gotten close to actually getting a squirrel, pigeon, or morsel of food, but she gives it the ol' college try. She has popped up on the legs of a construction worker a few times, but luckily she's so damn cute that no one ever minds. The puddles I'd rather not speak of, given the proclivity of Chicago's skies to open up and curse me with sheets of water whenever I speak ill of them.

Also, related to Juniper's investigatory spirit, if YOU ever have the opportunity to walk her—which is admittedly probably close to a 0% chance unless of course you are her owner reading this—you should definitely try this (in convenient bullet form!):

• Stop in your tracks
• Say "Hey! Hey Juniper!" to Juniper
• Wait as she cranes her neck and beams at you
• Wait more as she gathers the energy to spring up at you like a portly kid with Moon Shoes
• Brace for impact
• Enjoy as Juniper maniacally hugs and attempts to lick you as long as you deem necessary
• Return to your regularly scheduled walk
• Repeat

The three photos above represent the evolution of the bulleted list from above. I was unable to take a picture of her hugging and jumping and licking because my phone was nearly knocked from my hand shortly after the third photo in the series. As I said before, Juniper is a relatively new walk so this jumpy lil relationship should only get better from here on out. Expect a check in with her in the near future, I can't wait to see how she enjoys the actual summer weather in Chicago. I imagine it will be ADORABLE.

Three cheers for Juniper's energetic friendliness!

Sean