My New Magnum

The ongoing depredations of the Infernal Eternal Internal Revenue Service pretty much make Buy A Gun Day a fiscal impossibility for me (gotta keep those entitlement slags happy so they'll vote for Democrats again). But that didn't mean I couldn't get a new Magnum on April 15, 2011.

Meet Design's Airlite Magnum:

He's three years old now and weighs all of seven pounds.  His littermates are named Colt and Remington, so this was pretty much fated to be. His name is appropriate, since he’s the dog version of a .357 scandium J-frame: small and lightweight but packing quite a wallop.

After a lifetime of German Shepherds, Greyhounds, and a hundred-plus-pound Scottish Deerhound who stood three feet tall at the shoulder, a dog this small is like an alien life form.

I’m thoroughly accustomed to Greyhounds who learned to open the refrigerator and help themselves. I could deal with a Deerhound who was so tall on his hind legs that I was not physically capable of holding food out of his reach. I figured a dog this small couldn't get into much trouble, right?

This little monster goes places and does things my cats never dreamed of. Like getting in my kitchen sink by running straight up the front of the cabinet like a military working dog scaling an eight-foot barricade. That's why he's kenneled for his own protection whenever I can't devote my full, undivided attention to keeping him from killing himself.

My other three dogs are seventy-to-ninety-pound retired racing Greyhounds, to whom a seven-pound fuzzball* looks mighty like prey. They will never share floor space with him. Without exception there are never less than two physical barriers between them.  That doesn't make them bad, it just makes them Greyhounds. It's not their fault they have exactly the characteristics for which they've been bred for 4,000 years.

Magnum has such a powerful presence that I can't think of him as a tiny dog.  He's a very big dog in a conveniently-sized package.  He has none of the deformities and neuroses that make so many toy-breed dogs utterly loathsome.  My vets just love him, although every time they see him they still say they can't believe I have a little dog.

Well, Whaddaya Know?

There really IS a pony under all that hair.

Note the Labrador Retriever behind him for a full appreciation of Milton The EvilPony's™ size -- or lack thereof.

That's Erin, the oh-so-patient hoofcare professional trimming the little monster's feet, getting down to his level rather than ruining her back.

Believe it or not, Milton has actually lost some weight since his 24x7 corn-vacuuming adventure last winter.

It Sneaks Up On You

My dogs' favorite food in the whole world is green tripe. Raw-frozen is better for them, but canned will do in a pinch. No matter how you package it, though, green tripe is vile.

Since they love it so much, I decided that would be their Christmas dinner (I celebrate Yule, not Christmas, but take full advantage of the days off to do the "heavy lifting"). Since I store the dogs' food in the barely-heated foyer and I happened to have canned tripe on hand, I opened the cans and set them on the woodstove to warm up.

Really cold green tripe has very little odor. When the tripe was nice and warm, I thought my residual head cold was protecting me from the awfulness. Unfortunately, the rate at which it warms up and stinks appears to equal the rate of human olfactory fatigue. I found this out the hard way after I fed the dogs and went outside to do some chores.

When I came back in the house, I walked into a nearly tangible wall of stench. I've worked in a slaughterhouse and a morgue without any difficulty at all, but this was nearly enough to make me hurl. Generous use of bayberry candles and fresh orange peel (aided no doubt by the aforementioned olfactory fatigue) eventually rendered the house habitable, but I still hung my jackets outside for the rest of the day.

I found the following essay years ago on the Greyhound-L mail list. I think it was originally written by a member of the Dogwood Rottweiler Club, but their website is currently down. If the site comes back, I will verify and attribute. Whatever its source, though, it accurately describes Green Tripe In A Can in all its horrific glory.

Tripe In A Can

You know, I used to think I was tough. That I could handle just about anything! After all, I LAUGHED at fresh Green Tripe!

So it was with much joy when I discovered that one could BUY Fresh Green Tripe, in a CAN!

How novel, I thought! No more mess, no more fuss, just open a can, and feed Green Tripe on demand.

Of course I ordered from this company immediately! And not just one or two cans, but a case! Mind, you, I'm no simpleton! After all, It's Fresh Green Tripe. In a CAN!

So today, that Santa Claus of the mail system UPS came to my door and delivered a LARGE brown box. With a satisfied "Ahh Haaa!!!" I hoisted my prize high over my head and carried it inside, Max following along, sniffing at the box, tail wagging. After all, he knew it was for him!

"What's in the box??" my 13 year old son asked.

"Fresh GREEN tripe! In a can!" I stated emphatically. "A case of it!" What a smart consumer I was indeed! (Oooh! Ooohh! Tim Allen grunt!)

Finally the moment I had waited for, came, later in the evening. Max's dinner time. We put the normal raw beef heart, some veggies, Hokamix, flaxseed meal, and a wee bit of kibble in his dish, but the crowning moment was about to happen.

As I looked longingly at the can, it felt almost like a solemn occasion. "Now you will see some good stuff!" I smiled as I positioned the can into the electric can opener. Clink, Chink Whhhhrrrrrrrr!!

Went the can opener. For a brief moment in time, it felt as though time itself had stopped, so intent were we to see this wondrous marvel of modern science. Green Tripe in a can, why it was almost as if we were discovering the lost Ark of the Covenant. Dog, Child and myself were held in awe. With a final CHINK! The can lid was released… And then I smelled something.

"What is THAT?!?!" my son exclaimed. One of our cats who had been sitting by the kitchen door, quickly sidled out. She was smart.

"Green Tripe, in a can…" I tried to sound parental and authoritative, but I could feel the first churning of my stomach.

The dog's eyes were on me intently, like two laser beams.

With a daring poke, I took off the lid to the can. And then it hit us. "Oh Geeeshhhh!!!!" and then my normally angelic son cursed for the first time, in my presence, "What the $&%@ is that *@#*???!!!"

And with that he ran away.

AT that point a smell hit me, so foul, so putrefied and grotesque, that bathing in fresh skunk spray would have been a pleasure. A smell so rancid, that it made a raw sewage plant in a hot southern sun, smell nice.

I felt my insides roil dangerously.

Max now had two long lines of drool that hung from his mouth, and with a sickening slurp! He licked his lips, willing me to give him what was in that can.

"You're sick," I said to him through clenched teeth. I had to clench them or else I knew my dinner would be revisiting at that very moment.

This Green Tripe in a can was nothing like the fresh tripe I had dealt with. No, this stuff was insidious, vile, and deadly. The US Military should use it as a biological weapon. I could see squadrons of men falling before this stuff.

I held the can at arms length like radioactive plutonium and gingerly waggled it over the dog's dish, aiming for his food bowl. Sluuuurrrrk!!! It made a sickening noise as it slid out of the can. By now my vision was clouded, and I could have sworn I saw GREEN vapors leaking out of the can, like some mad scientist's experiment gone wrong.

I thrust the dogs dish down, and he immediately threw himself into eating it, like a starving man at a banquet.

"Aaaaaaaacck!" was all I managed to say, as I WILLED myself not to hurl my cookies. "Steve! Help me! Find the plastic lid cover!" I cried plaintively to my son.

"Nuh-uh!" he screamed from somewhere deep in the house, "That stuff REEKS!"

Now it was my turn to come up with colorful expletives as I dug up a plastic lid cover to try and hide the horrible bomb that had been unleashed in the house. I just KNEW that the smell would be forever imbedded in my walls, my furniture, my cat's fur, and thanks to the central AC, the putrefying fragrance was being spread to all corners of the house.

Finally in disgust I managed to cover the can and thrust it into the refrigerator. The dog had finished his dinner, and stood looking at me, as though hoping for more. I knew I would be sterilizing the dogs dish, and probably his mouth with hot water. Heck I may just throw them both in an autoclave. If a hurricane hit my house now, it would not have been a bad time. It may even clear the air. I realized now why they called it GREEN tripe. It was. And it was in a can. And it was deadly.

Five hours later, the smell STILL lingers around, in cruel little whiffs. But hey, who am I to complain, I was smart, right? After all, I only have 11 and 1/2 cans to go, of Green Tripe in a CAN!

Fortunately, the horses' favorite delicacies weren't disgusting. Baby carrots, cut-up apples, and Mrs. Pasture's Horse Cookies are all favorites. None of my current herd like peppermints, oddly enough, and weird old Max refuses anything except his normal Triple Crown Senior.

I'm afraid I just can't bring myself to give Milton The EvilPony™ his favorite treat in cold weather. He absolutely loves Edy's frozen strawberry bars.

Histopath's Back

The histopath results came back for Judge's ear tumor. Surprise, surprise, it was a sarcoid and not a melanoma.

That's kind of good, because sarcoids are technically benign. It's bad in that sarcoids almost always come back aggressively and in many cases can only be managed, not eradicated.

So we'll hope for the best but expect the worst. New treatment options are being discovered all the time that can dramatically change the rules of the game.

Judge can count on one thing, though. While sarcoids are the number-one skin-related condition resulting in euthanasia of horses, typically because the tumors interfere with being ridden or are so unsightly the horse becomes unsaleable, when bad things happen I don't cut my losses and run.

Raw Diets For Dogs

I'm a label reader, and the ingredients in commercial dog foods disgusted me. I also watched my very first dog, a Brittany, decline in old age while being fed a Hill's product formulated for geriatric dogs prescribed by my vet. It contained ground peanut shells among other things I felt could not possibly be good for even a facultative carnivore, but I followed what I was told. My dog paid the price.

Then my aunt's dog started losing function in her rear legs and we took her to Iowa State's veterinary teaching hospital. There, the chief of neurology diagnosed her with spinal myelopathy and said there was no treatment. Brandy would continue to deteriorate with ascending paralysis until euthanasia would become necessary. Again, we followed what we were told, and that's exactly what happened.

Then I stumbled across an article describing Dr. Wendell Belfield's successful treatment of this same "fatal" condition. I read, and learned, and changed the way I fed and cared for my dogs.

By this time I was up to my eyeballs in Greyhound adoption and vice-president of GPA's Midwest Chapter. A Grade-A running Greyhound owned by a friend who was the chapter president started having problems just like my aunt's dog. He went to ISU and was diagnosed by the same board-certified neurologist with spinal myelopathy. My friend called me to say that Conway couldn't stand up by himself any more and they were going to put him down. I told her to start giving him high doses of vitamin C, and that I would take the dog and see if he could get better.

I called Dr. Belfield's office, and he was happy to advise a local vet on a treatment protocol. No vet would cooperate, so I tried a less-aggressive regimen involving oral vitamin C to bowel tolerance, other supplements, homeopathic support, chiropractic adjustments, and a raw diet. Long story short, Conway got better. He got back up, and except for some minor incoordination between his front and rear ends remained happily chasing tennis balls for the rest of his life. His breeder/racing owner saw how well he had recovered, and I gave Dr. Sharon Willoughby, his chiropractor, copies of both his and Brandy's patient files from ISU. He was also the star of a number of Dr. Willoughby's teaching seminars in Illinois.

Seeing how diet helped Conway convinced me that raw food was definitely the way to go for dogs. I don't feel qualified to address cat nutrition, because I've never successfully transitioned a cat to a completely raw diet. Their tendency to go into hepatic hyperlipidosis has always scared me off taking the hard line of not offering the commercial food the cat will eat to force them to eat the raw stuff they're refusing.

Fortunately, dogs aren't so fussy or stubborn, and generally love raw meat and bones. Most of my dogs' food is exactly that: raw meaty bones. Ten-pound bags of chicken hindquarters are a staple. Pork neck bones and pigs' feet are another favorite -- modern farming practices have made trichinosis a thing of the past. The rest of the diet is a glop of "green slime:" raw vegetables run through a juicer with the juice mixed back in. Sometimes we change it up with some canned mackerel, cooked but still better than dog food. None of my dogs like raw fish, unless they can hide it long enough to get nice and rank. Then they roll on it.

Harriet in particular likes to bury food, then dig it up and eat it later. Doesn't bother her in the least. I certainly don't encourage it, but canids are predator-scavengers, and a healthy dog can handle carrion just fine.

Once in a while, I throw in a multivitamin on general principles, half of one of the caplets I take myself. Everything my dogs ingest regularly is sold for human consumption. Which vitamin formula? Doesn't matter. What are the dietary proportions? Doesn't matter. Does every bite we eat have to be "complete and balanced for growth and maintenance?" Of course not. Same goes for dogs.

There are plenty of raw diet plans out there that are wonderfully complicated. I started out that way, and over time learned it wasn't necessary. Probably 95+% of what my dogs eat is raw meat and bones. The rest is green slime, or a blob of canned pumpkin if I don't have time to mess around with the juicer. Notice the total absence of grain products. I used to feed whole grains, but not any more. The dogs do far better without them.

Periodic fasting is also good for carnivores on a natural diet. They'll even fast themselves with absolutely no ill effects. One day every week or two on water only is a good cleanout.

Feeding raw may be a bit more expensive than quality dog food, but you'll more than make it up in vet bill savings.

There is way more information available on raw feeding than I can link to individually here. There are also lots of holistic vets around now with whom you don't have to play the "don't ask, don't tell" game.

I take a team approach with my animals' health, with holistic and conventional practitioners. My conventional small-animal vet once told me, "If an average client asks us about raw feeding, we'll advise against it since they're not going to take the time to do it right. Your dogs live longer, healthier lives than theirs do, so whatever you're doing, keep it up."

Works for me.

Equine Melanoma Update

The worst winter in memory (damn global warming) took a heavy toll on my ability to keep up with Judge's ear melanoma. It grew quite a bit, more than doubling in size.

Now that I can get out there regularly again, the frankincense essential oil is doing a good job. I was surprised to see the pure oil is much more effective than when some DMSO is added. I expected the penetrating agent would improve the results.

Another surprise was finding the interior of the tumor is pinkish-white instead of black. My vet said that's normal, though, and only some melanomas are black throughout.

In the clinical protocol, the oil is applied and/or injected into the tumors multiple times per day. With Judge, rubbing the oil into the surface of the tumor and then giving it a day or two to work seems to give the best results. The surface becomes hard and crumbly, and can be easily and painlessly removed.

So far, the treatment is easy, inexpensive, and seems to be getting results.

Oh Yeah, It's Spring All Right

The hair, the hair is everywhere.

That's what I got with one swipe of the rubber curry.

Melting

Temps are finally starting to get back up to "normal," and the tons of Global Warming are melting. As much as we got this year, I'm amazed Milton The EvilPony™ didn't high-center.

The dogs' yard is still fence-to-fence ice, but they don't have any problems getting around. Me, when picking up poop, not so much.

As usual, the amount of mud on my horses varies directly with how light in color they are. The two grays are beyond gross and disgusting, while the chestnut, bay, blue roan, and black are nearly spotless. I tried to get some pictures, but it was already getting dark. No problem, I'm sure I'll have plenty of other chances to get pictures of filthy horses before the mud dries out.

Sarge's scar made it through the winter in great shape. I was concerned how all that hairless skin would tolerate the long stretches of double-digit-subzero days and nights, but it did just fine. Sarge will be four years old on June 1, and it looks like he's grown over the winter.

Early spring is flood season, when ice breaks up, floats down the rivers, and forms ice jams. They're calling for rain on four of the next five days. Neither my property or the barn is in a floodplain, but more wet is not what anyone needs.

At least the horses are starting to shed. Hope they're right.

Gray-Horse Melanoma

Gray horses are born dark and grow lighter over time. They also account for nearly all of the melanoma cases that occur in horses. Roughly seventy percent of grays have at least one visible melanoma by the age of ten. By fifteen, the rate is up to eighty percent.

Many years ago, I saw several aged gray horses die very unpleasantly after their melanomas suddenly went crazy, growing and multiplying wildly. I told myself I would never own a gray, so of course now I have two.

Beau is 14 years old and has the same five tiny tumors that haven't grown at all in the six years I've had him. Almost-10-year-old Judge was cancer-free until two years ago. His first melanoma on his tail grew from about the size of a 00 buckshot to over an inch in diameter since then. A second one appeared down inside his left ear back in April, and rapidly grew to about half an inch.

Based on the rate of cancer growth, my vet said Judge would need to go to a university teaching hospital for treatment. None of the currently available treatments are particularly successful though, none effecting a cure. All too often, they only "wake up" the cancer which then returns far more aggressively, leading to death.

While searching the web for any new progress with equine melanoma, I found references to research at the Virginia-Maryland Regional College of Veterinary Medicine using frankincense essential oil to treat this frustrating disease.

My holistic vet gave the idea of treating Judge's tumors with topical frankincense oil a thumbs-up. The oil is non-irritating to normal tissue, and the worst it would do is have no effect on the cancer while making him smell nice. She said if the straight oil proved to be well-tolerated I should add some DMSO to help it penetrate better.

In the clinical environment, researchers treat the tumors as many as five times a day. There was no way I could match that schedule, so I tried once a day for starters.

To my delight and amazement, the tumor inside Judge's ear began to respond immediately. The tumor had originally been very hard to the touch with a smooth surface. After I started applying the oil, its consistency became much softer. The surface is becoming crumbly and starting to flake away.

The much larger tumor on his tail hasn't shown any noticeable changes yet, but now that I've added the DMSO, I'm hopeful. If only one is going to improve, I'm glad it's the one inside his ear. The tail is a much easier surgical site if it eventually comes to that.

Frankincense has been used in medicine from the first milennium BCE. So-called "modern medicine" likes to denigrate anything outside itself as harmful at worst, quackery at best. If that were true, we never would have survived as a species to this day.

Firsts

Sarge is reaching the point in his training where he trusts me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt. I can present new things for him to learn, and because I haven't hurt him, his immediate reaction is calm curiosity instead of fear.

Today, I decided to try girthing him for the first time. With the scarring in his back, he might not be able to wear a girth comfortably. If so, he would be permanently retired at the ripe old age of three. I seriously doubt he'll ever be able to handle a saddle with the weight of a rider, but driving in harness might still be a possibility.

I used a training surcingle, first letting him look it over and then just laying it over his back. He thought that was okay, so I let down the off side, reached under him, and brought up the buckle end on his near side. Just holding against him was okay, too, so I buckled it on the longest hole.

No objection, so I took it up one notch, then another. The surcingle was girthed as snugly as if it was part of a driving harness. And Sarge's reaction to this? Yawn.

There was none of the excitement that used to happen back in the bad old days, when terrified horses were snubbed to posts as saddles were strapped in place. No bucking, no resistance, no pain, no fear. There was no halter, no rope, no physical restraint at all. And it took less than five minutes from start to finish.

After Sarge wandered around for a while looking bored by the whole thing, I figured why not introduce him to the round pen and longeing? After all, so far so good, and a chance to move out more would test how comfortable the surcingle really was for him.

So I put his halter on and led him out to the round pen. Once inside, I took his halter off to avoid any possibility he could catch it on the fence. Using a longe whip only to wiggle along his side as a suggestion to stay out on the circle instead of right next to me, he walked and trotted calmly in both directions for about ten minutes or so. Plenty of time for a first attempt.

Then we went back to the barn. I groomed him, told him he was wonderful, and turned him back out. Thus endeth the lesson.

Good horse training appears very boring, because nothing seems to be happening. A horse should walk off the very first time he wears a saddle the same as if it's the thousandth time. If anything more spectacular happens, it's my fault and not the horse's.

Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. Sound familiar?

Sarge Has A Girlfriend

The last time Sarge (and Milton The EvilPony™ Bad Example for company) had to be separated from the herd for a while, a fat roan Quarter Horse mare moved in at the boarding farm. Since the barn owner wisely introduces newcomers gradually, he put her in with just Sarge and Milton at first. She started hanging around with Sarge, and quickly became thoroughly attached.

So now Sarge has a girlfriend, but he doesn't seem nearly as invested in the relationship as she is.

Yesterday when I went out to treat Sarge's scar, all the horses were out in the 50-acre pasture. I saw what looked like a chestnut-colored, Sarge-shaped blob off in the distance, so I called him. His head popped up, he whinnied, and came at a run. Fat Roan Mare initially followed him, but then stopped about fifty yards away.

I sprayed his withers with skin conditioner and treated his one spot of ringworm (love those childhood diseases) without having to halter him. He then chose to leave his herdmates and followed me all the way back to the barn by himself. Not "buddy sour" at all, no sir.

Fat Roan Mare kept calling him, but he ignored her and stayed with me. To reward him for following me back voluntarily, I made a big fuss over him, let him in the barn, and gave him some grain. Fat Roan Mare was still outside, pacing and yelling. He still completely ignored her tantrums, walking out of the barn like a gentleman when I opened the door. Then Sarge and Fat Roan Mare went back out to the pasture together.

That's what I love best about positive horse training, when they do the right things totally of their own volition, because they want to.

But I feel a little sorry for Fat Roan Mare's owners. They will probably get an unpleasant surprise one of these days when they try to take her away from her boyfriend. She sure is the clingy type.

Remind Me Again Why I Have Dogs II

When I went to do dog chores yesterday morning, I smelled blood. Never a good sign.

Since Greyhounds are fast and active with tissue-paper skin, surface injuries are common enough. Whether from running into a branch, snagging themselves on the fence, or each others' teeth when they get carried away while playing, the results are the same. So I check them over and find nothing.

Maybe somebody ate something nasty and had a bloody blowout in a corner somewhere. So I check the floor thoroughly, with a flashlight in the dim corners, and find nothing.

Okay, so who caught something outside and killed it? But there are no signs of a struggle, no blood, no hair, no leftover body parts, indoors or out, and no fleas on any of them. Wild game that can fit through the fence and get into the turnout always comes with fleas.

By this time, I really need to get to work, so I figure I'll run the same drill when I get home, only more so.

But last night, despite crawling around indoors and out with my LED headlamp and reinspecting every square millimeter of every dog, I find absolutely NOTHING. Of course, by then the blood smell was gone.

Yes, I know what blood smells like. Between working in a morgue and a slaughterhouse at various times in my nefarious past, I so know what blood smells like.

Another one of life's little mysteries? I'm getting pretty tired of 'em.

Remind Me Again Why I Have Dogs

This morning I scrubbed out and filled the dogs' four-gallon stainless steel water bucket like I always do and was carrying it over to the bucket holder when . . .

BOOM!

The house shakes, the earth moves. Okay, they must be blasting at the limestone quarry down the road, although they don't usually do it this early in the morning.

And Harriet, the dumbest dog I've ever had in my entire life, freaks out, blasts right through the dog gate, and runs headlong into me spilling four gallons of water on the rug.

Harriet (L) and Lizzie (R)

Insert naughty words here.

At least it was clean water. The rug has seen worse, believe me.

Hmmm, about three cop cars just went screaming down the highway. Maybe it wasn't blasting at the quarry after all . . .