I don't need a DNA test to figure out that Tommy is of the canine species, that his unique conformation is pookie face, bat ears that show at least five expressions (sad, happy, hungry, adorable and aren't-you-giving-me-some-of-that-toast? I also know that can run that 100 pound-butt around the yard and use the same weight and height to stretch out diagonally across the bed leaving it impossible to sleep comfortably. 

Beyond that, I can't wait to see what the test shows me. I hope it's specific in certain breeds since pit bull is a phrase that can mean a handful of different types of dogs. The American Kennel Club calls their version the American Staffordshire Terrier. You'll stand corrected the first time you tell an owner you love their pit bull. Uhhh, he's not a Pit Bull they spit out like they are literally spitting out a peach pit. 

 There's been dog DNA testing for years. I waited until they finally completed the genome of larger breeds. But it seems like completing that genetic strandTommy's DNA is finding a DNA testing kit in Memphis and keeping the little bristle sticks balanced in the box. 

Checked three places this weekend for DNA kits. Nope. My plan was to buy a couple different brands to see if the results were similar. I finally found one at PetSmart. Wisdom Panel 2.0. Apparently, DNA tests are in such low demand, that the pet store chain keeps only one box in stock locked in the store manager's office.  Cost: $97.49. Plus tax: $107.51. Yep, more than $100 bucks to find out what kind of breeds this big lug might be mixed with.

It's the most-asked question asked about this boy. I've never taken him out walking or for a car ride without someone asking about him. Truth is that I've always wanted to know myself. So here I am, waiting until the timer started ticking on his life, to check it out.

It says it takes three weeks to get the results. That's my first red flag. THREE WEEKS? Since most pet stores don't carry them and the ones that do keep one in stock locked in the manager's office, how busy are they? 

I checked the mailing label to see if I was sending it to the mountains of Tibet. Nope, Lincoln Nebraska. 

So I open the package and pull out the Easy-to-Follow Instructions. 

They are easy. 
1. Open swab sleeve. Take out swab.
2. Firmly roll the swabs bristles between the inner surface of the cheek and gums about 15 seconds. One Sugarplum Fairy. Two, Sugarplum Fairy. Three, Sugarplum Fairy. Four, sugarplum fairy. I made it to about the 12th Sugarplum Fairy before he started waving that big head around like he was going to snap my swab in two. 

3. I stood the little swab, in one of two holes provided in the box. The picture shows them standing pencil straight. Mine kept teetering. I was afraid they were going to fall in the floor and be snatched up by the beagle, the equivalent of flushing $107.45 down the drain. 

4. I managed to get the second swab in with a bit of a fuss. For Pete's sake, I wasn't expressing his anal glands (don't know about that? Google it.) He couldn't just tolerate a few turns of a swab between the cheeks and the gums. I put them back in the sleeve, but did not reseal the sleeve as this can cause bacterial growth. Okay.

I was just about to log on to the website to get Tommy registered and receive my confirmation label, when my caught the smaller font of a more important message labeled IMPORTANT, which I failed to read, because I went straight to the larger No. 1 message of "Open Swab Sleeve."

IMPORTANT: Please wait approximately 2 hours after a meal or treat to begin my dog's DNA Collection.

WHAT?
WHAT?
I call a foul. How could you put information like that in a smaller font, up under  boldly labeled illustrations?

Just an hour ago, Tommy ate his Rachel Ray kibble, mixed with CocoLicious canned food, Duck flavor. That was followed by five marshmallows stuffed with medicine and peanut butter. 

Who wants to bet that his DNA shows he's a cross between a Mallard and a cashew? 

It can happen at 5 a.m. or midnight. Our property invaders don't keep a schedule. We have an around the clock security system that carefully monitors for intruders. We've been lucky because our invaders usually aren't packing heat; just rooting around like four-legged crack addicts trying to get a fix or find an acorn that a dealer might trade for a pecan.  The only ones that have made it into the three-bedroom, one-bath headquarters are usually dead, carried in by a proud soldier who has done his job.

Right now we are in the season of the squirrel, of the mouse or worse, the roof rat. The sentries work shifts, based on whichever one is up to get a drink of water or just needs to stretch a bit. That guard gingerly pushes the plastic dog door cover open, snout first. There's the slightest wiggle and faint inhale from a nose the size of a walnut. 

If the sniff and snuffle inspection are clear,  the guard eases its head a little farther out the door for a visual. Dependent on whether the lookout is cataracted or not, the guard might spot the wisp of a squirrel tail as its owner frolics along the back fenceline.

The Sentry alerts the other soldiers with a noise that's somewhere between a sigh or a yelp. If the nearby dogs are stone deaf, the beagle whose ears are as big as Bologna slices will rouse them with a clickity click run on the hardwood. If the older soldiers are fast asleep on their backs, paws straight in the air in a dead cockroach pose, not even the occasional sound of "shooting bunnies" will awaken them. (A friend's euphemism for "cutting the cheese."
  

Poppy, a red merle Australian Shepherd, turned four years old today. He and his 12-year-old buddy Andy, a border collie, believe, just like all herding dogs, that their job is to round up animals or humans, to keep everything safe and orderly. The pair regularly herds those dogs running loose at Shelby Farms dog park. 

Poppy loves to play with a wood puzzle "dog casino" toy from Hollywood Feed. He also likes to steal space on Beth Oken's bed. Beth adopted Poppy from a woman who moved away to Colorado so he could be a buddy to Andy. ​

I hope all of you are doing well. I'm sorry I haven't posted a blog lately. I've been dealing with Tommy and Jack, my elderly boys, and coming to terms that they probably won't be here by the end of the year. At some point, there's a decision I have to make for both of them. It's the worst, isn't it? I tell myself it's a gift to them, but it's also a bullet to my heart.

I cuddle with them more. I give them more treats. I kiss them more. I always make sure Jack has his ball when he goes to bed, even if it means crawling on the floor to look under the sofa .Tommy now waits for me to nuke him a hot dog. He won't eat until I chop it up and put it in his bowl. that I chop up and put in his bowl. He gives a pookie face when he wants me to move the other dogs to another part of the sofa so he can climb up and snuggle against me.

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  There are several reasons why a dog or cat's breath smells bad. We all know dogs and cats will eat some nasty stuff, says Dr. Angie Zinkus, veterinarian at Germantown Parkway Animal Hospital

Dog: Cat Poop, dead animals (that they often roll around in) and other things
Cats: Innards of a rabbit, mouse, rat, bird or other prey

While humans don't eat the nasty things I just mentioned, they also can suffer from halitosis (a polite way to say "bad breath).

The smell of your pet's breath can tell a great deal about their overall health. My job is to sniff out the problem. 

If the bad breath lasts more than a day or two, There may be other problems. One of the most common is periodontal (tooth) disease. That happens when plaque made of bacteria, clings to the teeth. Over a few days, the bacteria will mineralize and develop into tartar. If untreated, the plaque irritates the gum line and creates gingivitis (inflammation of the gums). 
     
​Other signs of dental disease are subtle, and many will not show any signs.  In addition to bad breath, some will have trouble chewing food and others will paw at their mouth.  Other symptoms include excessive drooling, bleeding from the mouth, sudden changes in behavior (such as aggression), inability to open or close mouth, an eye infection, and unusual discharge from the nose.  Occasionally, there's swelling underneath the eyes, which indicates an abscessed tooth.  If you've ever had an abscessed tooth, you'll understand your pet's pain.  If left untreated, the infection from the abscess can get into the bloodstream and become fatal. 

Typically, the first question people ask when they meet Tommy. I tell them: "Pit bull mixed with something big." People usually guess Mastiff, Great Dane, Rottweiler. All possibilities. I've put him against those breeds, and he doesn't seem to have the body structure.
​
He's 13 now. We've done just about everything to help him with his arthritis, but it's getting worse. We are getting close to the point where we will have to put him to sleep. I'm heartbroken. He's a special boy. You'd have to meet him to know what I mean. Girls from Dave's soccer team said they wanted to stop by to see me, truthfully, they wanted to see Tommy....or, more precisely, they wanted Tommy to put his head in their lap. He always obliged. I would do anything to keep him with us, but not to the point that we are making him suffer because we can't bear the pain of his loss.

 I could probably blog about Beagle every day. She always finds a way to torture the other three dogs. Each outweighs her by at least 40 pounds. Tommy is more like 60 pounds, yet she rides roughshod over all of them. I believe she dreams of new ways to drive them crazy.

There are three red rubber Kong balls for the Jack and Deuce, the labs. Some days all three are missing. Not under any stick of furniture, stuck in a corner or anywhere in the yard. I check possible hiding spots. I found one once in a rotted hole in a tree stump. She's also put one in the vent thingys that come from underneath the crawlspace of our house.

Other than that, she's better than a packrat. After a few days, a ball will magically appear in the middle of the yard. No indication of where it had been. Now and then, all three emerge. Those days are the best because I have a fair chance of playing one ball/one dog. 

It usually doesn't work out because Deuce, the youngest of the pack can run to the back of the yard to catch her pop fly then race back in time to catch the second ball headed for the home plate.
Jack the sweetest dog who ever lived as learned that even if the ball is within inches of his mouth, he'd do better to step to the side before the furry cannonball crashes into him. It happened once, Jack's mouth was open his paw/eye coordination was deadly accurate. Out of nowhere this black blur flies through the air with a body slam that sent poor Jack flipping twice.

I rushed to Jack while I screamed and scolded Deuce  My words didn't faze Deuce, who strutted around like she caught the last ball to win the World Series. 

So what kind of mischief can the Beagle bring to the party? First, she's low to the ground. I would have thought she'd be slower given the larger strides of the big dogs. For her, it's an advantage. Her belly skims across the Earth as those pencil-length legs kick up dust underneath her.
She can catch a bird in mid-air. Let's not talk about the squirrels. 

It doesn't matter if Deuce or Jack catch the ball. She immediately launches into attack mode. Poor Deuce will stand in the back yard with the ball in her mouth while the beagle stands back a few feet. Every time Deuce tries to move one way, so does the Beagle. It's a canine game of tag with a snarling 40-pound chunk of willpower. If Deuce makes a run for it, Beagle gets up under her neck with a growling/biting action not meant to hurt, per se, but definitely to winkle that ball out of Deuce's mouth Sometimes Deuce gets around her, but then the Beagle follows him like a pilot fish under a shark.

If Deuce tries to drop the ball, the beagle will pounce on it, so Deuce wanders the yard looking for a safe place. I trail behind trying to coax Deuce into bringing it to me, which she will never do. But, she will drop it in front of her while she pretends to be interested in a pecan or stick.

She does that so Jack can pick it up and bring it to me. It's as if Deuce doesn't want to appear like she's surrendering by giving the ball to me. If Jack isn't quick enough, the Beagle pounces and trots away with the ball, her tail twirling like a helicopter propeller. The labs trot along behind her while I do my obligatory walk behind them and say, "bad beagle." She loves that name. She walks just fast enough to be out of reach. When she finally stops, she rolls over on her belly so I can pay the toll of rubbing the belly to collect the ball. 

I make a short toss to Jack. His mouth is open; the ball's in the proper trajectory to hit the spot when a furry secret service agent flies in front of Jack to grab the ball and take whatever assassin's bullet might be headed that way.

Later on, the balls will disappear into a Beagle stash. One day, I hope to find this cute hair barrette, my blush brush, a skein of yarn and a toothbrush I liked. Until then, we must endure her arrogant prance around the yard while we look like chumps.

I'm working on a magazine piece, so I haven't blogged much. I have so many things to talk about: acupuncture for pets, hydrotherapy for my dog Tommy. I have a Pet Pro question and answer. Also, I have a nifty product to show you that helps your aging pets stand up easier on your hardwood floors. 

For now, I'll keep you entertained with a couple of your favorite pet columns from my years at  "The Commercial Appeal." They usually involve my beagle, the smallest creature in my house and the one that causes the most trouble. Here you go. 

The Beagle and the Dead Squirrel

I was about to head to work. Makeup done, hair looking cute with just the right amount of product to make the ends look all razor-like. Clothed. Shod. Ready to roll. 

I made a final walk through my back yard as I always do before I left. The beagle was trotting toward the back carrying something. That's never good. She's not the kind of girl to grab a stick or something appropriate, like, say, one of her toys. I followed her. 

She was holding a dead squirrel the size of one of those trendy purse dogs in her mouth. I called gently, but she did as she always does when I issue a "come" command; she took off in the opposite direction. She headed for no man's land, something I call the thicket.