The Haunted Dog

By Shirley Bahlmann
Bibs was just four days old, a little black weiner with a small white dot between her shoulder blades, like she'd been touched by a ghost. (Just look at her spooky eyes!) I didn't really want a Border Collie, I was more interested in a cute little whisker dog like my cousins, Guy and Janette Rallison, have. But Bob and the boys would have none of that. We weren't sure Bibs was our puppy until we did "doggy tests" at five weeks old. All three boys chose her from the litter, and that was good enough for me.
When Bibs came to our house, she was too scared to sleep alone, so the boys hunkered down in their sleeping bags in her dog run. When the weather turned cold enough, they came inside and she stayed out.
When she first met our cats, they were all about the same size, but they wouldn't play nice. Sometimes our white-as-a-ghost cat, Dusty, would trot away to find a sunny spot and Bibs would happily give chase. Our black cat, Slick, never turned tail to Bibs. Even though Bibs grew to ten times his size, Dusty's the one who makes Bibs run.
The ghost touch has done other damage to Bibs' bravado. She's afraid to go in our living room, is afraid of the bathtub, blinking lights, and being behind closed doors. But worst of all, she's afraid of her dog feeder.
It's a terrific feeder that holds a whole bag of dog food with a lid to keep it clean and dry. We knew she wasn't fond of pushing open the little hinged door with her nose to get at her food, so we propped it open with a rock and thought we would live happily ever after.
Wrong.
Last month, Bibs was in our house when Bob asked, "Does she have any food?"
"I saw some in her feeding tray," I said. "Why?"
"She acts likes she's starving," he said.
It was true. She was doing more than vacuuming the kitchen floor, she was trying to root in the garbage can and stand up to the counter when she thought we weren't looking and attempting to open cupboards with her nose. So when I took her back outside, I inspected the feeder more closely. I found spider webs woven across the feeding tray. Was she scared of spiders, or had they set up shop there because she never her nose in to eat her food? When I opened the lid, it was chock full of dog food, clear to the top.
"Bibs!" I said. "I can't believe you're scared of your feeder!" She lowered her head between her white-spotted shoulders and wagged her tail in apology.
I took pity on the ghost-touched dog and scooped some food out for her.
I think we're going to dress her up as a werewolf for Halloween.

Dog Food Cookies

by Shirley Bahlmann
They are the ugliest edible creation in the world, but once I get one between my teeth, I want more, and more, and more! My sons think they're so ugly, they call them "dog food cookies," or worse. (Yeah, what biological process happens after a dog eats? If you've ever been around boys, you won't even shudder at the thought.)
I baked some dog food cookies yesterday. The recipe is simple. Mix two boxes of spice cake mix and one 28 oz. can of pumpkin. Toss in chocolate chips, nuts, or whatever else you want to try. (I once threw in some trail mix with delicious results.) Bake cookie-shaped lumps at 350 for about 20 minutes. (Adjust time to individual ovens.)
Once my delectable vegetable food group delights were done, I sat down with about six of them, a glass of cold milk, and a good book. While I was eating, my 14-year-old brought our dog, Bibs, in from her dog run. I was so lost in my book and my taste bud party that I didn't pay attention to much else. When I was through, I carried my plate back into the kitchen. Hey, the cooling rack was empty. I was sure I'd left half a dozen cookies on it. "Did you eat any cookies?" I asked Brian.
He called back, "No, they're disgusting. Why would I eat your disgusting cookies?"
Bibs came trotting into the kitchen, her brown eyes looking up at me with adoration. That's when I noticed the cookie sheet on the stove top, minus the fresh batch of cookies that had been cooling there. Only two sat in the far corner, huddled there as though afraid of something big and toothy.
"Bibs!" I cried. "Did you eat my cookies?"
She did not deny it.
I plucked one of the remaining cookies from the cookie sheet and opened the door. Bibs raced to her dog run and looked hopefully at me from between the bars.
"Yeah, you did it," I grumbled, slipping the cookie between the bars before latching the dog run door.
I couldn't really blame her. For all I know, she heard me call them "dog food cookies." At least she got her vegetables, but I'm not going to tell her that I have a bowl full of delicious dog food cookie dough chilling in the refrigerator.

Single Purpose

by Shirley Bahlmann
I once saw a cartoon that claimed to interpret what pets think. The word balloon over the cartoon mutt's head described our dog exactly. It read, "Throw the ball, throw the ball, throw the ball."
Honestly, last week I realized what a waste of time I'd spent feeling all mushy about having Bibs (our dog) since she was a puppy, and how she would be bereft if we ever had to send her to another family. NOT EVEN! As long as her new owners would kick or throw a ball until their legs fell off, she'd be in doggie heaven.
When my sister visited, she thought it was nice that Bibs always brought the ball back. Her dog just runs after the ball, then gets interested in something else. What a relief that would be!
One thing I have to admire about Bibs is her tenacity. She knows what she wants and she makes no apologies for going after it. In a way, we could all stand to be more focused on what it is we really want, dog slobber, ant seasoning, and all.
Okay, so all dogs can't be like Benjy or Lassie or else those shows wouldn't hold so much appeal. We'll keep our mutt, and keep the tennis ball industry in the black.

Our Goldendoodle, the Non-Shedding, Shedding Dog

Our Goldendoodle, the Non-Shedding, Shedding Dog

By Kimberly Jensen

It was a cold February day and the skies threatened another storm, but that didn't stop my family or my neighbor's family from piling into the car for a road trip. Sometimes I have no idea how I get roped into things but I do, and I think I agreed to this one. My neighbor and good friend Lisa had called that very morning saying she had found Goldendoodle puppies on the internet and they were just a short three hours away (yes, it is a mix of a golden retriever and standard-sized poodle) So we drove three hours south with five kids in the car to go check out puppies. I had just said "I will think about it" less than 12 hours before when my kids asked if they could get another dog. I had several requirements; it wouldn't be a yap-yap dog, the kids would take care of it, clean up after it and feed it and it couldn't be a breed that shed. So we arrived at the puppy mill-yes it just like the ones you see on a raid on 60 minutes-and we fell in love with a fat little guy. We selected him and two weeks later he came to our house to live full time. One year later he is 75 pounds and has turds about as big as our neighbor's weiner dog. He slobbers, he sleeps on my pillow and thinks he is a lap dog, and he sheds! But you should see his face! So I deny that I ever agreed to this monster-sized dog and I refuse to clean up after him or feed him, but when nobody else is around I fuss over him like a newborn baby. Shhhh....don't tell my family that I love him to pieces....hair balls and all!

My Sixteen Year Long Visiting Teaching Blessing

My first book is a fictionalized story about visiting teaching, but sixteen years ago I really did go visiting teaching and from it got a blessing that changed my life. The woman I was assigned to visit hardly ever came to church and hated making appointments. She had a small farm and never left it, but I found that on Saturdays she loved it if my boys would come to play with her son.

One sunny Saturday afternoon we were sitting in lawn chairs watching our boys on the backs of three geldings kicking their heels against the sides of the fat horses who were far more interested in eating than in walking forward. I gave her the lesson and then the conversation drifted to what we were facing in our lives. Renee sighed, "I've got to drown a puppy today."

"What?" I asked horrified.

"Yeah, the sheltie got in with Pearl our blue heeler and so now we have a worthless mutt. If I don't get rid of it today, I won't be able to sell the rest of litter as purebreds."

"I'll take it," I practically begged. With a new baby the thought of ending a new life was more than I could handle.

Renee shook her head, "You don't want this dog. Its worthless. You'll have to be up hours every night to feed it." But despite her best attempts to talk me out of it, I went home that day with a little ball of fur. She really wasn't a pretty dog either with the coloring of a sheltie except the white had the grey mottled look of a blue heeler so she always looked dirty.

My daughter Anna was a toddler at the time and fell in love with her new living doll. I don't think she let that poor creature touch the ground the entire first year of its existence. I'd often come outside to find the puppy dressed in doll clothes strapped to the stroller or stuck in a big cardboard box with cut out windows and filled with doll furniture. Thinking I'd free the dog from its torture, invaribly I'd find Tinker panting happily, wagging her tail and loving the attention.

A few years later we had a tornado hit our area in the middle of the night. At that time we had a barn and hoped the dog had taken shelter there. The next morning branches littered our backyard, the swingset was ripped out of the ground and twisted, and the trampoline was flung 50 feet away, sitting upside down. Then we heard Tinker wimpering loudly. The whole family went out in the backyard to look for her, moving debris and calling. Finally my husband got one of my sons to help him turn over the trampoline. The little bump in the middle had been Tinker. She was unhurt but from that day on was terrified of thunderstorms. If one was coming she would be in the same room with you. If it was intense, Tinker was in your lap or in one of the kid's bed.

For the last sixteen years Tinker has been a great dog. She never barked too much, would let toddlers pull on her tail or yank her fur, never peed in the house, has been great fun on family campouts and has only bitten one person who totally deserved it (and who I wish I could have bitten myself.)

Last week after seeing she wasn't feeling well for quite a while, she passed away from liver failure. I know everyone has heard that phrase, "All dogs go to heaven" (or seen the movie) but as I walked away from the vet's office empty-handed, I felt that she was up there, playing with my father and my little boy Thomas. I imagine on that day when it is my turn to pass through the veil, when I am greeted by family and friends, there will be one more waiting to greet me. A little funny looking dog wagging her tail. Until then I'll miss her, my sixteen year long visiting teaching blessing.

Going to the dogs

Beulah May: "Did someone say purple shirt?"