Skippy and Binge Eating

Skippy is a very devoted dog. When I come home from work she is very excited to see me. Now this may because she wants a belly rub, but she wants it from me. My wife is home with her all day, but it's me she is waiting to see. Sometimes I'll come in and sit down in my chair and put my feet up on the stool. There's just room enough for on that stool so she jumps up and curls herself next to me feet. Other times I will come in and lay down on the kitchen floor and talk to Anna while she's making dinner. Skippy curls herself up close to my side and waits impatiently for a belly rub. All this lasts for about five minutes until Skippy is secure in the knowledge that I am home and not leaving again. Then the real reason why she was so eager for me to come home becomes apparent: my loving and loyal Jack Russell has starved herself while I was away.

This is something that has always confused me about Skippy: she will only eat when I'm home. And now comes the binge. For the next ten minutes or so she will polish off her food dish and then yell at us for more. She polishes off another. Sometimes she vomits. Sometimes she'll wait an hour and demand more. I can't imagine that this is at all healthy. It also makes no sense, given that she is an animal with survival instincts.

I apologize for writing this in the present tense, as I myself find too much of this narrative style tedious to read, but in this case it is very appropriate. I am not talking about an isolated or even occasional incident. This is ongoing; and a perpetual conundrum.

Tail Envy

Throughout the brief history of this blog I've devoted several posts illuminating the love-hate relationship between Skippy, our hopelessly devoted Jack Russell, and her older teen-aged sibling, Kitty. The hate portion of the relationship perhaps makes for more interesting stories, but the love also has it's moments simply because it is only shared by Skippy—the most recent display of this affection coming in the form of what I like to call, tail envy.

Now I'm not really sure if this has anything to do with Skippy's tail measuring just shy of three inches, but Skippy's love for Kitty's tail is on the verge of taking root as another one of her more bizarre neuroses. Things aren't as restless around the house as they have been with these two, as Kitty seems to have developed more of a tolerant attitude toward her lesser canine housemate. They can now usually walk past each other without Skippy getting hissed at or batted in the face. On some occasions, like a young preteen follows her idol, Skippy tags along close behind Kitty without incident, hoping to get feather dusted by her tail.

Even when Skippy is resting, her eyes follow the tail, casually swaying from side to side as the cat slowly saunters past. But the visual is only a cheap substitute for the real thing; for the touch of that soft fur, moving as if a mind all its own, upon the nose or as it brushes lightly across the eyes. And when the cat is perched close by, the temptation is far too great for this wee Jack Russell to resist. Skippy will move across the couch or shift in the chair just to put herself in way of the silky pendulum that swings to its own rhythm; a feeling she will never experience from her own tail that could keep time for the Ramones. What I think I find even more amusing than Skippy's obsession is Kitty's willingness to feed it. Like Hera in all her glory, she thrives on the power to hold her subjects hostage to her unrivaled beauty and grace. And Skippy is honoured to simply sit in her presence, just hoping to touch the hem of her garment.

You want this? Come a little closer.

It's not long and lavish, but it sure is fast.

Belly Rub and Tag, You're It!

I've mentioned in a post from September, "I Might Be a Wee Bit of a Harlot," this ridiculous habit Skippy has where she rolls on her back, twitches, kicks, nudges, and even sneezes just to get us to rub her belly. Well here's just an example:

Click to see Skippy's belly rub begging on youtube

Pathetic? Perhaps even a little cute? But definitely very funny.

I also mentioned in another September post, "Duped Again," Kitty's love of hiding on Skippy and then jumping out at her from behind furniture. I actually managed to get this on video by fluke when I intended to film Skippy bolting down the living room floor after being let in from outside. I think Kitty was just playing tag. She just didn't tell Skippy that`s what they were going to play.

Click to see "Tag, You're It!" on youtube

Forward Thinking With No Strings Attached

If you haven't read my previous post, "Can You Help Me Please? I'm Stuck Again," I encourage you to do so before you read this just to give you some prior knowledge of Skippy's inability to retrace her steps. She also has a knack for getting herself tangled in her outside rope. In that previous post I talked about her getting tangled around the wheels of the Jeep and my motorcycle, but even two nights ago, she had gotten so tangled in between the porch steps and the flower pot, I couldn't figure out how she did it. I had to unhook her and pull the rope free from the other end. But this ability to get stuck truly has nothing to do with rope, and everything to do with her ability to only conceptualize forward motion.

Before you read on, check the picture below on Skippy sitting happily on the rock. What you can't see, is that rock is easily 10 feet high and directly in front of Skippy is a straight drop to the ground. Skippy managed to walk through woods to the right of it and eventually found her way to the top. It's just a gradual slope that comes up behind. You can see from her expression that she is very proud of herself as she towers over all of us.

Like all novelties that wear off, Skippy became satisfied with her time away from us and decided she wanted to return to the world of people's shins. This is the problem that now confronted Skippy: "How do I get down from here by stepping forward?" She looked behind her to see the gradual decline of the forest floor that would return her to safety. But it was "behind" her, and therefore, a mere pipe dream, a flight of fancy, an "if only." She looked forward again. Forward was the only way she knew.

She peered over the ten-foot drop, then looked at us for a last-resort solution: but there was none other than the one before her. She stepped to the edge of the tiny cliff and lowered her back to its pre-leap stance, and I realized that she was really going to jump. I yelled her name and she backed up an inch and kept her eyes trained on me as I walked around to the back of the large boulder, picked her up and brought her down.

Even with all of the insane and non-sensical things she has done, it did not occur to me at all that a jump from that height was even an option, let alone the only option. I wonder if she conceptualized her own broken bones as she processed her decision to move forward. And if she had, it clearly didn't matter. So, what is up with my Jack Russell? Anyone?

Think you're clever, eh? Let's see you get down.

No Cue How to Play

I don't know if it's because she missed out on opportunities for positive social interaction as a puppy, owing to the puppy mill upbringing, but somehow Skippy missed the lesson on how to play. By the time we got her at about three years old, the concept had already escaped her. She tries sometimes, but has never quite developed the knack for it.

She has been around other dogs but treads lightly and awkwardly upon the social plane where her role within the group or the one-on-one dynamic is established. Seemingly unable to interpret the signals and social cues sent out by other dogs that it's time to play, she either runs away, barks aggressively, or turns to us with that pleading look of complete confusion. And with the cat she tries to play, but the Kitty usually responds negatively to high-pitched barking in her face, and to having a Jack Russell barrel across the living-room floor at her.

With humans, it is no different. When a small ball or stick is thrown she just looks up at you still waiting to see what will happen, not realizing that the game is afoot and the next step requires her participation. Conversely, she will misinterpret the most common human experiences as an attempt at play.

Just yesterday, while visiting my wife's parents, Skippy assumed that my father-in-law's act of tying his shoes was actually a new game. Now to us the rules were unclear, but to Skippy it was obvious that in this game it was her job to do whatever it took to prevent the shoes from being tied, while it was grandpa's job to keep trying. Some of her tactics included nosing his hands so he couldn't grip the laces, lightly nipping his fingers, lying across the laces, and stepping away quickly, then charging at his hands just as he was about to manage a loop. Eventually we had to take her away so he could finally tie his shoes. Well played, Skippy–you won by forfeit.

I don't think it's a big deal. If nothing else, it's entertaining. The concept of play as a social function will continue to elude Skippy indefinitely. Her understanding will remain limited to her reactions to misinterpreted cues or, more commonly, no cues at all. Hey, Skippy. Let's play that game again where I throw the ball and you stand still and watch the ball, then look at me like I'm a complete idiot. That's always fun. And so here I am, staring at my confused dog, asking myself: what is up with my Jack Russell?

The Grass is Greener on Your Pillow

Growing up in my home we had the most annoying house rule: it was expected that if you got up from your seat at family functions when comfortable chairs were scarce, you would then forfeit that seat to anyone who was quick enough to take it from you. I'm not saying this was a good rule. It was as much a stupid rule as it was an annoying one. Can you tell that I lost my seat a lot? Somehow, Skippy, my possibly demented, autistic, senile, and eccentric Jack Russell, has learned this old family rule, and it's even more bothersome now than it was then.

Skippy likes to be close. If there are only three inches between you and the arm of the couch, she will wedge her way in and then brace her legs against the arm and push her her back into your thigh until there is enough room to settle in comfortably. If I get up for any reason, I've lost my spot. Even if she's on the floor, and I leave to get a drink or answer the phone, there is a Jack Russell now sitting where I once sat. And if you happened to have read my post, "Extremely Stubborn or Incredibly Lazy," then you know that this dog will not move. I've tested the strength of her resolve after she has stolen my seat by feigning to sit on her. She will actually let me apply a fair bit of weight before I have to yield and just pick her up.

Any pillow being used by someone else must obviously be better than the one Skippy is using. She tends to be even more brazen in her attempts to usurp other people's pillows. On a few occasions she has actually jumped on the couch and then backed herself in between me and the pillow I was leaning on, as if there was a little garage there to house her rear end. "Oh, my apologies. Did you want to lie on this pillow, Skippy? Here, let me get out of your way." Every night at bedtime, before my wife gets in, Skippy will always go to the head of the bed and lie on her pillow. If I happen to sit up so I can move her, she quickly jumps to my pillow, then stares at me with this look like, "What? I'm just going to sleep on this pillow. What's the big deal? We're family, right? You got up. That's the rule.

I was sitting on this couch not 5 seconds earlier. Can I at least have my Star Wars pillow back, Skippy?