Sometimes, I’m too close to what I’m writing about to tell if something works. The story below about Daisy was one of those things. It struck me as funny because I know Daisy — I know how she often just stands there for ages with that blank expression old dogs get when their mind is long gone or only visits on occasion. She isn’t suffering. Mostly, she’s just barely there. It can be like a breathing dog statue. I’ve seen taxidermy more lifelike.

I ask this because someone gave me hell over leaving Daisy outside on the porch. It occurred to me then that I hadn’t told the whole story–I’d left out the part about why we put her outside. Incontinence had something to do with it, but so did us having slick hardwood floors that she could’ve never stood up on, as well as our dogs and cats that that make her jumpy and nervous. Besides, our porch is big and covered and carpeted and cool, with no steps to maneuver.

I’m one of those people who tends to go overboard when it comes to caring for animals, so to get reamed for being cruel was a shock. It stung.

Anyway, Miss Daisy is doing extraordinarily well, and we’ve met even more of our neighbors. One brought us fresh cookies this week!  I absolutely love living in South Charleston! 

Changing the subject — our Poca house is under contract for the third time, and I’m hoping the third time is a charm. We need it to be. I’ve gone from nervous to anxious to stressed to panicked. It’s so frustrating. It’s a good house in a great neighborhood, but we keep getting bad contracts. This latest seems sound and the people are great, but I’m still trying not to get my hopes up. I’ll be nervous right up until the papers are signed.

I generally try to avoid writing two pet-related columns in a row, but since my life has been going to the dogs lately, it’s hard to stray from the subject.

Just a few days after Furry Murry’s frightening adventure with raisins (which, if you missed reading last Sunday, I learned can be deadly to dogs), my brother invited our parents to a professional baseball game in Cleveland. Attending the game would require my parents to stay away overnight, which meant finding someone to watch their dog, Daisy.

Our South Charleston house is about 25 miles from where my parents live in Red House, so driving back and forth repeatedly to dog sit would be unaffordable, but since our new house has a large porch and fantastic back yard, we volunteered to keep their dog here. It was only one night. How hard could it be? Especially since Daisy’s so ancient that snails often whiz past her (along with the occasional Ohio driver).

 My parents hate to leave Daisy. She’s had a hard life. A Winn Dixie look-alike (only shorter), Daisy was already well past her prime when they adopted her from the shelter. Although there’s no way of knowing her age, a vet recently estimated her at about 15 years old. That’s 105 in dog years.

Daisy, who is deaf and almost totally blind, also suffers from a neurological problem that affects her balance, so on the few times a day she stands and propels herself forward, she looks like she’s been hitting the sauce. Stagger to the left, totter to the right. Sit down harder than planned in a totally unladylike fashion. But, much like those who’ve been hitting the sauce, Daisy dotters around seeming blissfully unaware of her condition.

When my parents dropped her off Saturday morning, Daisy plopped down on the porch and dozed off. I woke her to eat and visit the yard, trying to anticipate the way of her wobble to help keep her steady. She would walk as little as possible, then drop down again for another long snooze.

Just before bed, I took the dogs out one last time. Once Daisy was safely back on the porch, I barricaded the openings with boards so she couldn’t accidentally fall off during the night. When I went inside, she was sound asleep close to the door and appeared to be out for the night. Which she probably would’ve been had I not turned off the light.

Now please, someone tell me–since when are dogs afraid of the dark? Especially dogs that can’t see? And since when is fear of the dark such a powerful stimulant that it can completely overcome a neurological disorder?

But that’s exactly what happened. Apparently, when Daisy woke in the dark, her level of panic was so high it empowered her to knock down the largest of my three barricades, travel down an incline, across our yard, through the woods, down a hill, over fallen logs and rocky ditches, through neighboring yards, until she came upon the one obstruction that slowed her–a street drain.

That’s where Norma and Johnny Bane of South Charleston come in. Thankfully, our new next-street neighbors were returning home around midnight when, after pulling into their driveway, Norma spotted Daisy’s face peeking out of the drain. While everyone at our house was sleeping peacefully, unaware of Daisy’s adventure, Norma and Johnny were calling one place after another trying to get help rescuing a dog from the drain. But no one would come. Finally, a few hours later, Daisy managed to scramble out of the drain on her own. The Bane’s ushered her onto their back porch, gave her food and water, and tried to calm her.

That’s when Norma looked at Daisy’s nametag and saw the address for Red House. Twenty-five miles away.

“It made me wonder how long that poor dog had been walking,” joked Norma.

“Fortunately, Daisy’s incredible journey ended just as well as did Murry’s. In fact, since her return, my folks report she’s more lively and spry. As for us, we’ve gotten to meet—and experience the kindness of–a few more of our neighbors, which helps make our new house feel like home.

Killer Raisins. Sounds like something from late night TV, or maybe the name of a dried-up wine country band. Instead, it was the theme of a costly lesson for us. 

For the past five years I’ve told many stories about my intellectually challenged dog, Murry. If the typical blonde California surfer dude were packaged in the form of a dog, it would be Murry. Hair forever hanging over his eyes. Big, dopey smile. Easy going and fun. Too adventurous for his own good.

In Murry’s case, the adventurous part rarely extended to food. A cautious eater (which I attribute to early-life trauma caused by my cooking), Murry seldom begged for anything but chicken or cheese. On Monday night, though, he was struck with the munchies, and I made the mistake of leaving my purse on the floor.

So accustomed am I to having my purse rummaged by others that I thought little of seeing him nose through its contents. When he pulled out a snack-sized box of raisins, I was relieved he’d left the twenty alone. A few minutes later, when I looked over again, he’d managed to open the small box and, much to my surprise, was eating the raisins.

Soon after, as I passed my nearly-ten-year-old daughter on my way up the stairs, I mentioned Murry eating the raisins. She instantly looked horrified.

“Raisins kill dogs!” she said. “Raisins and grapes. GranJan just told me about it last weekend.”

“That’s probably one of those urban legends,” I said, not feeling the least bit alarmed. “I’ll pull it up on the computer and show you.”

I sat down at the keyboard and tapped in “snopes.com,” the premier website to debunk urban myths. But instead of seeing the “False” I thoroughly expected to find, I was shocked to see “True.”

“Unlike many of the pieces forwarded from one inbox to the next,” read the Snopes site, “this one has a good deal to it. According to the ASPCA . . . a disturbing trend began to emerge from the AnTox database used by its Animal Poison Control Center. Nearly all the dogs reported to have eaten grapes or raisins developed acute renal (kidney) failure… with the amount eaten varying widely, from over a pound of grapes to as little as a single serving of raisins.”

I immediately called the Animal Emergency Clinic in Spring Hill, fully expecting them to tell me the half-ounce Murry had consumed wasn’t enough to cause any harm.

“You need to get him to vomit immediately,” said the woman who answered the phone, who then explained how we could do that with a small amount of peroxide. Since we couldn’t quickly find the peroxide in all the boxes we’ve yet to unpack, Geoff stayed with Celeste while I rushed my bouncy blonde boy out to the car and down to the clinic to have his stomach pumped.

It seems most everyone knows about the danger of chocolate to dogs, but I’ve not talked to anyone other than Celeste, my mom, and the vet who was aware of the danger of raisins and grapes. (I’ve since learned that macadamia nuts, moldy foods, avocado, yeast dough, and coffee– especially the beans–could all be potentially deadly to dogs.)

It was nearly midnight by the time Murry and I were headed back home. Along with the pumping, he’d been given charcoal and fluids. His stomach was empty, and my credit card full.

He slept soundly that night right beside me, like always, while I attempted to sleep, my hand on his back, feeling him breathe. Terrified the treatment would not be enough. 

But it was.

The lesson had been costly, but it had not cost me my Murry. My sweet, goofy dog is just fine.

OTHER COMMON–BUT LITTLE KNOWN–DANGERS TO PETS

• Antifreeze that contains ethylene glycol has a sweet taste that attracts animals but is deadly if consumed in even small quantities. (One teaspoon can kill a small cat.)
• Cocoa mulch contains ingredients that can be deadly to pets if ingested. Making matters worse, the mulch has a chocolate scent that makes it appetizing.
• Chocolate isn’t just poisonous to dogs, but also to cats and ferrets.
• Pain-killing medications such as acetaminophen and ibuprofen, cold medications, anti-cancer drugs, antidepressants, vitamins, and diet pills can be deadly to dogs. (Don’t trust childproof bottles to keep them out. Most dogs can quickly chew through plastic containers.)
• Also hazardous are onions and onion powder, alcoholic beverages, coffee grounds, the leaves and stems from tomatoes, potatoes, and rhubarbs, and anything with mold growing on it.
• Some of the most common poisonous houseplants include azalea, geraniums, dieffenbachia, lilies, mistletoe, and philodendron.
• Sugarless candy containing the sweetener Xylitol.
• Most dog owners know that chicken bones are bad because of how they can splinter, but so do the bones from cooked turkey, ham, pork chops, and veal. (Raw bones are generally considered safe.)
• Corn cobs can cause partial or complete intestinal obstruction.
• The pits from peach and plums and seeds from pears and apples can be deadly to pets.
• Plastic food wrap can cause choking and intestinal blockages.
• Homemade Play Dough (not the store-bought kind) can be deadly when ingested due to the high salt content.
• Tobacco products (cigarettes, cigarette butts, cigars, pipe and chewing tobacco, and nicotine patches or gum) can be fatal to dogs if ingested.

Thwack! Thud, thud. Thwack! Thud, thud. Thwack! Thud, thud.“

I TOLD YOU NOT TO THROW THE BALL IN THE HOUSE!” I screech. But screeching alone isn’t enough. I stomp from my room, snatch the ball from my daughter, open the door and throw it hard across our back yard. It’s nighttime and raining, and the ball isn’t hers. A friend left it at our house. “But you didn’t tell me not to …” my girl starts to say. I stop her words with a look.

The long weekend was my undoing. That cherished-by-most extra day. 

It hadn’t been terribly difficult to dodge the swimsuit bullet on Saturday and Sunday, but by Monday, I’d exhausted my supply of excuses. I was forced to face down the suit. I was asking a lot from that Lycra. If it was capable of performing the kind of miracle I needed, the Vatican should fast-track it for sainthood.  

As I slipped into my suit (I say “slipped” because the process involved a goodly bit of oil to achieve), I recalled another Memorial Day trip to the pool, one I will never forget. No matter how hard I try. 

I had been a fairly new mother that year. Celeste was still in her baby pool days, a timid toddler content to merely moisten her toes while watching other kids play. I, her equally timid mother, sat beside her, attempting to conceal my still-bulgy belly under an inflatable ring, my tired, red-rimmed eyes under dark sunglasses, and my big, ugly feet under the pool’s few inches of water. Although I doubt this needs clarification, I was not feeling attractive. 

I suspect my complete lack of attractiveness is what compelled Model Mom to choose me to sit next to. The moment her size zero toned cheeks touched down upon the cement at pool’s edge, I felt transformed. She was the After. I was Before. My self-esteem was on its last gasps when a self-preservational thought surfaced. No wonder she looks like that. She mustn’t have kids. That body could’ve never been through a birth. 

“Which one is yours?” I asked, already expecting to hear that she was merely the sitter.  She smiled and pointed to a boy preparing to dive. He appeared about ten.  

So that’s it. I thought. She’s had years to recover.  

“And those are my twins over there,” she said, pointing to a set of kindergarten-aged identicals. “And the baby is sleeping over there in the pop-up.” 

She leaned back, stretching her long, muscled legs, wiggling her dainty feet in the warm, shallow water. Her toenails, I observed, appeared to be manicured. 

It was then that I took notice of my own feet, realizing first that my glow-in-the-dark Care Bear Band Aids were flapping and loose, and second, that rather than hiding the size of my feet, the few inches of water served only to magnify their enormity. 

Well, I imagine I’d have time for pedicures, too, if I weren’t working full time, I thought, feeling a bit smug about my latest presumption. 

“It’s so nice to have an extra day out of the office, isn’t it?” she said. “Last week was a nightmare.” She went on to tell me about a case she was preparing to try—some complicated tax issue thing—and how she’d been running so late she’d had to cancel the aerobics class she teaches two nights a week. At a women’s shelter. 

As I listened to her talk, I realized she was one of those moms who have it all under control, who have discovered a magic that enables them to get more from their daily allotment of hours than the most of us do. 

I bet her magic is meth, I thought, feeling mean.

I studied her face and demeanor for signs. She appeared rested and calm. But wait! There were lines around her eyes. So maybe she was managing to be ultra fit while working full-time and volunteering, but her schedule was taking a toll. She couldn’t have been more than 30, but those lines made her look at least a few years older than that.  

“My OB was a bit concerned about having children at my age,” she said. “But I told him 40 is the new 30.” 

“So you were 40 when you had your last baby?” I asked, beginning to feel a bit queasy. 

“Oh no,” she said, laughing. “I was back when I had the twins.”  

It was then that I did what any self-respecting, thick-thighed woman would do.  

I switched pools.