Old Dogs, New Tricks OR It's All in the Cards

There is an idiom that “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Ripley and I disagree. Ripley is considered an elderly canine (the oldest Doberman we’ve ever had) and I’m now just one year away from starting another significant decade. At least one of us is an “old dog.”

Ripley and I have learned a lot of new tricks here in Florida. For instance, Ripley has learned about the buoyancy of salt-water and loves a great salt-water swim. He reverts back to full-on puppy mode when in the water, splashing and playing with the most energetic of dogs. On one visit to the beach, something large came up so close to him that the wave nearly washed over his head. Ripley can now say, unlike Luca Brasi, that he swam with the fishes and lived to bark the tale. He’s learned that the sandy soil here in Florida is almost as cool and refreshing as the sandy soil at a certain northern Wisconsin cottage. He never enjoyed such relaxation at our home in Wauwatosa. Ripley met the neighborhood Big Dog, “Macho,” and promptly humped him. Florida dog.

I’ve relearned to enjoy reading a hard copy of the Sunday paper. With a bigger audience, the Tampa Bay Times, unlike the Milwaukee Shopper, is a real, bulky and satisfying page-turner. 

I’ve learned that a one-hour commute can be a relaxing opportunity to catch up on world and local events, both morning and evening. As my son Carl puts it, it’s my NPR time. I’ve even learned to overlook the sloppy transitions from local NPR to national NPR on WUSF. I’m confident that with our new sustainer contribution they’ll up their game. 

And parking, I’ve learned to not be bothered by parking on the front lawn, because, sometimes it’s the only place to park. No! It’s not a white trash thing. Florida!

I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut about politics. Again, because, Florida! All of the yard signs tell me to stick to the weather. I’ve learned to let my hair air-dry. It’s really the best option. The humidity is my friend as I grow out my locks, adding body and bounce to previously stick-straight hair. And sleeping au naturel is finally a comfortable option, because, Florida!

I’ve come to enjoy not having an assigned desk at work. I pick the workspace that will best meet my needs for the day, alternating between sitting and standing. Okay, I must admit that I’m an early bird in an office of late arrivals and I usually – no, always – gravitate to the same sit/stand desk next to the window. But I leave it absolutely clean every night so that if someone beats me into the office the next day, they could choose that desk (and endure my stink-eye).

I’ve embraced “jeans every day” in the workplace, pushing aside all the work dresses I’ve acquired over the years, saving only a few for the occasional business trip. It’s a pleasure to shop “smart casual.” Of course I need new clothes! Florida bonus.

The biggest change is something we hoped would happen when we took the plunge and moved here. We wanted to reinvent ourselves. Push into uncharted territory. My job has allowed me to do that. I am working on programs that I have never worked on before. I am in a brand new position where I am making the template that others will follow. I am not an old dog in this position—I am the puppy bringing excitement and enthusiasm to help support the folks who are working with really sexy products like bandages and mouthwash. And I love it.

Still challenging is making new friends. Months ago we planned a trip to De Soto Beach, a lovely spot with a beach for dogs. Dan packed two gourmet sandwiches, two small bags of chips, two little bottles of wine for me and a six-pack of good beer. In a slight huff I asked why he needed six beers for lunch. He replied that it’s always better to be prepared.

Once at the beach Ripley was having a blast, romping through the surf and tackling smaller dogs in a frenzy of play. A couple our age walked toward us with their dog, and soon the two dogs were running together like beasts in the wild. It turns out the man was a retired Wauwatosa Fire Fighter, and he, his wife and dog were traveling the country in their restored 1965 GMC bus. Dan did the Wisconsin thing of offering them a beer. They did the Wisconsin thing of accepting. They offered us a business card with their electronic info. I keep in touch with her on Facebook. The reason for the six-pack revealed. Wisconsin!

This led to Dan ordering cards for us (new trick)! This has been a great icebreaker as we meet new people. It’s a safe and less creepy way to say “Give us a call sometime!” In the words of the sage Carl Johnson, “Mom—this isn't like college, you don’t have a semester to work out whether someone may be a friend or not. Act on it now.” After the first scary few months, things are settling down nicely.

Today, October 3, is my birthday. I’ve come to grips with the fact that there will be no color changes in the trees. No tangy & crisp McIntosh apples (my favorites are a bit mushy here). On the bright side, most of the trees are so green that Dan can see them. I won’t have to listen to him whine “What’s the big deal with fall?” Evening temperatures will be in the 70s, the humidity is going down and I probably won’t need to bring out a sweatshirt until sometime in December or January.   

On the other hand, this was a scary move for Ripley. He lost his home, his CARPETING, and everything he knew. He lived in a tiny hovel with two squabbling people for too many months. But it has changed. He likes the new house. He likes Griffin, the neighbor kid who stops by almost daily to play with him. He likes Macho. He loves being a salty-sea dog. And there is one room in the house with carpet so he can get a grip on his rawhide and have a good chew. He needs his own cards.

Old dog, new tricks? No problem.

Music that resonates:

Hello Milwaukee - Five Card Studs

Agnes Was Well Loved and Raised Chickens

Dan has learned this from the neighbors: There’s Mary next door (her dad bought the lot where her house stands today for $150), DeeDee (and her daughter’s puppy) across the street, Woody (his father built “most of the neighborhood”), Ed (leaf removal for $25 bucks), Chris (man-bun with shaved sides), Jack (beyond wrinkled) and Jeff who came by to rent a ladder. Dan’s been talking (I’ve been listening) and has been informed that Agnes lived here for about 20-years. She raised chickens in a fenced in area of the yard and her husband lived here occasionally, when he wasn’t incarcerated. This is 3^rd Avenue NE in Largo, Florida, the temporary location of Villa Johnson South.

724 3rd Ave NE  Largo, FL  33770

We landed here on Monday, March 25^th at 9:30 in the morning. The street is a quiet cul-de-sac, the trash is picked up twice weekly and we are close to a lot of shopping options. The beach is a quick 10-minute drive away. We quickly connected with cousins who live in the vicinity. We take walks around the neighborhood, I’ve gotten a library card and overall it’s been a gentle landing.

This house is a glorious 624-square feet, with eight windows, five rooms, three closets, and two points of ingress/egress. The realtor measured our former living room as 20’ X 25’. That’s 500 square feet. Add 124 more and you’ve got this house. Halfway through unloading the truck the guys had to stop bringing things into the house because we couldn’t move around.

#1 - Living Room (Dog added for scale)

#2 - Kitchen (Dan and dog added for scale)

#3 - Bathroom, after plumbing fix

Day one I made the serious mistake of thinking the toilet was functional. Yes, Carl, poop is still funny, but never so funny as when it backs up into your bathtub. And a good seven hours later we got the plumber’s diagnosis, too much toilet paper, three squares only, please! He’s been here twice, because, as it turns out Agnes hasn’t lived here for over five years, and the large tree in the back yard has invaded all available pipes. Every time we flush we cross our fingers. (Dan note: Agnes died on January 5, 2010 at 3:30 am in a hospice. Her kids came at two that afternoon and took what they wanted. The house sat empty for five years. Thanks neighbor Mary for the info and sorry you have to live with your grandson’s girlfriend who is a hoarder.)

Backyard-buried treasure

Our first Sunday was spent digging, uncovering a walkway between the house and the laundry “annex” after removing three inches of dirt and dead leaves. Florida is buried treasure country, right? Second Monday, and the plumber is here again to investigate why the washer (four towels max) causes soapy water to bubble up in the newly revealed exterior plumbing stack.

The one thing I am worried about is dental care. According to the National Institute of Dental & Craniofacial Research, the average adult between the ages of 20 and 64 has 24.92 remaining teeth. After having four removed during orthodontia and four wisdom teeth removed, I have 24. I’m already below the average. And based on the neighbors we’ve met, this street is definitely on the lower end of the bell curve.

(Dan edits: Before we moved here, Paula and I discussed at length that this was an opportunity to reinvent ourselves. We didn’t have to be the old Dan and Paula, or the old Ripley. As I’ve walked through the Home Depot, Lowes, Winn Dixie or Publix, I am encountering tons of old white people. TONS. The guys in the new Mercedes or BMW convertibles are even older. Seriously dude, if you are intimidated by a straight six 1960 Ranchero on the highway, you need to be in a golf cart.

The axiom that Florida is “Death’s Waiting Room” is true. But this neighborhood is not. It’s like our first house in Riverwest, when money was tight, good beer was rare, but parties were constant. This is a young, vibrant, but poorer part of town. We have lived in a stratified atmosphere for many years, when picking up the tab was easier than figuring out who had the iced tea and who had the appetizer. When people asked how much something cost and I had no idea. When neighbors owning a brewery or large business were passé. “Of course we’ll be in Mexico diving this year.” “Have you SEEN what the rates went up to at Pier House in Key West?” When having four cars seemed—too few (there was one glorious day I had seven).

This is a young, friendly, vibrant neighborhood where every introduction ends in “Now if you need a hand with anything…”

No, we won’t talk politics, or orthodontia, or why parking on the lawn is bad, or why your rottie/pit-bull seems to bark all the time. Ripley is acting like a puppy with all of the new kids in the neighborhood. My young snaggle-tooth neighbor Chris correctly identified the Ranchero as 1960, and guessed that the taillights were Buick, “1961?” 1960. “We bleed blue on this block” was his response.

Wisconsin Dan, unfortunately, would have broad-brushed these folks as, well, I am embarrassed to say. Florida Dan, who is on a tight budget until one of us has a job, is seeing things a lot differently. When my neighbor Jeff asked today to rent my ladder (he had a $200 hedge trimming job but didn’t have a ladder!) I said take it, and he offered his driver’s license as collateral. He offered $25, but I said make it a 12-pack and we’ll share it. He returned the ladder tonight—the beer is forthcoming. Florida Dan is cool with that. What’s the rush?

We’ve made the move. We have a lot to learn about living in Florida and about ourselves. Change isn’t easy, and big changes are the hardest of all. While we live in Agnes’ house and get to know her neighbors, the former beneficiaries of free eggs, we will be open to reinvention and the kindness of strangers.

What happened next...

The little dog remembered being snuggled in a box with his brothers and sisters. He was warm and full and happy. His mother was there, and he played and ate and slept. It was wonderful, and the only reason he remembers it, is because of what happened next.

A man and a woman and a little boy came to look at he and his brothers and sisters. After playing with all of the puppies, the little boy picked out the little dog to take home with him. The little dog thought it was a great adventure, and thought that he'd never forget how exciting it was to be in a “car.” But that was before what happened next.

The man and the woman and the little boy had a fine house, with many fine toys. And for a while the little boy and the little dog were great friends. But slowly the little boy didn't have time to play with the little dog, and when the little dog made his own games, the man and the woman and the little boy became very angry.

By now the little dog wasn't warm and wasn't full and wasn't happy at all. He missed his brothers and sisters. He missed the exciting car ride. He even missed the little boy. And this is how he would have felt forever, except for what happened next.

A lady in a big van came to the house, and talked to the man and the woman. The little dog knew they were talking about him, because the lady kept pointing at him and talking in a voice that sounded a little angry. Then she walked over, put the little dog on a leash, and led him to the van. Inside it was scary, and the little dog could smell many other dogs that had also been afraid. It wasn't anything like the exciting car ride. 

When the van stopped the lady took the little dog into her house. The house was full of barking dogs in crates, and the little dog was afraid. The lady gave him a warm bath and a plate of food, and put him in his own crate. The little dog was warm and full, but he still wasn't happy. And that’s how he thought things were going to stay, until what happened next.

A few weeks later, a man and a woman and a big, BIG dog came to visit the lady with the dogs in the crates. The man and the woman and the big, BIG dog played with each of the dogs one at a time. The little dog got his turn, and then he watched as the man and the woman and the lady talked and pointed to each of the dogs. Finally, the man signed some papers, and the lady put the little dog on a leash and led him out to their car. The little dog remembered the last car ride and wasn't too happy to be leaving. He was scared for the whole trip. 

Otto at the dog park.

When they arrived at the house of the man and the woman and the big, BIG dog, he followed them into the house. The man led him to his own fine dog bed, and showed him where his own food bowl was. The man and the big, BIG dog went to the dog park almost every day, and the little dog learned to run as fast as he wanted. He and the big, BIG dog played at the park, and played in the yard, and played at home. And when something called “college” was over, two smaller men came home and knelt on the floor and played with the dogs.

At last he was warm and full and happy. And that’s what happened next.

L-Magnus, R-Otto

This story, about our rescue dog Otto, was written by my husband Dan a few years ago. Last night Otto spent some time at the dog park, had a fine dinner and passed away while sleeping. He was my special dog. I understood his insecurities and his need to be warm and full and happy. 

I will always carry Otto in my heart and I look forward to seeing him warm and full and happy, playing with his big, BIG brother Magnus at the rainbow bridge.

That is not my dog

I don’t have a dog. I had a dog once—Katie—a 10-pound humane society poodle-type mutt that pooped on the driver’s seat of the car if we ever left her alone. A dog that jumped off the third floor of a friend’s office building and survived. But that was many, many years ago. I have no dogs. Dan has dogs. The dog-faced boys took the place of our real boys once they moved out, greeting Dan at the door every night like it’s Christmas morning. Attacking his mittens as he shovels snow. Waking him up at 6 every morning at the cottage for a long walk—waiting until the pot of coffee is ready before howling at the door. And the dog faced boys tolerate me in the house. They listen—sort of. They get out of my way—if I insist. They feel they run the house when Dan’s not around, and while I hate to admit it, they sometimes do.

A few months back one of the dog-faced boys decided the antique love seat wasn’t comfy enough. He dug at it, ripping a hole in the fabric and releasing a storm of feathers that covered a good portion of the living room. This may have been the same dog that chewed the wood trim on the love seat. It may also have been the same dog that clawed the decorative front off the antique “rolled paper” sofa and chewed one of the pillows to shreds. Or, it may have been the other dog. I know for certain it wasn’t my dog, it could only have been Dan’s dog.

The dog-faced boys are Otto and Ripley, two rescue Dobermans. The size of small ponies they run wild in the house. They have a “toy box” full of eviscerated stuffed animals and enough bones to reassemble a cow. They demand affection. Their one skill appears to be an ability to assist any vehicle with a siren by launching into an insane howling. 

I keep waiting for the big payoff, the reason for having giant dogs in the house. I thought dogs would be a deterrent to break-ins. Not so, as evidenced by the intruder who found his way into the house, helping himself to a few items and a hiding spot as police combed the neighborhood. And where were the dogs? At the cottage, with Hunter, frolicking in the lake and running wild in the woods. I’d like to think the dog-face boys would have barked him down the back stairs and out the door, but I’ll never know. In the meantime, they continue to consume a 40-pound bag of dog food every third week.

And this brings me to the care and maintenance of these creatures. For the most part it’s “never my turn”. Dan runs them, picks-up after them and feeds them.  Feeding requires trips to the pet shop for “high-protein, low output” food, low output being a critical factor when the dog can build a turd big enough to trip the unwary. Fortunately we are able to participate in a frequent buyer program. With the purchase of each bag the store makes a note on an index card.  Buy ten bags and the next bag is free!

Again, Dan buys the food. It’s something I insist on after the name change. Dan had grown frustrated with the 5-minute search through all the Johnson’s for the our index card. Having purchased a tenth bag he decided it was time to make things easier. Weeks later I stopped to pick up the food and had a moment of absolute embarrassment when asked for my name. There I stood with a blank look on my face. Finally I said “I don’t know—my husband changed it.” The clerk stared at me, then laughed and said “you must be Mrs. Zzyvox!” Yes...of course I am.

Two dog morning.

The dog-faced boys and I do have one thing in common. On weekend mornings they wake Dan for a quick trip outside. Once back in the house they race up the stairs. I let them settle in on the bed for a good snuggle and some serious sleep. Now these are MY dogs.