Adventures in nail trimming

One aspect of Mila Grey’s personality which I often refer to on this blog, but never quite seem to expand on is her penchant for the dramatic. She is the first to let you know when she is experiencing discomfort of any kind, or does not like what you are doing (or about to do) to her. Of course, I can handle all of that – but the problem is, in letting us know how she feels about something Mila tends to have trouble in differentiating between things that: (a) legitimately hurt; (b) cause her some level of discomfort/surprise; and (c) are just plain annoying. 

It means that her reaction when she cuts, bruises or scrapes herself is the same as the one where she is woken up unexpectedly, which is the same as the one where wind-blown newspaper chases her down the road, which (unfortunately for me) is the same as the one where someone tries to cut her nails. 

In other words, the Greyhound Scream of Death is bandied about our place like it’s going out of fashion.

I remember watching Irene at the GAP kennels in Sanson trimming Mila’s nails with an electric Dremel (which is like a miniature orbital sander) before she came to live with us. Mila stood there nice and calmly, allowing her legs and paws to be handled, and patiently waiting for the job to be done. 

When we got home, I bought a pair of nail clippers, thinking that it would be pretty simple to pick up where the GAP ladies left off. I soon discovered that the guillotine clippers had no place in Mila’s beauty regime. Admittedly, I am not the most confident of pedicurists at the best of times (where is the quick in all those black nails??) but each clip brought with it a fresh squeal of horror and a jerk of the leg. After four different sessions of attempted nail trims, both Mila and I were thoroughly sick of the whole thing and the clippers were retired to the junk drawer.  

Mila doesn’t have too much trouble with her feet and legs being touched (unless she is taken by surprise) and she is not scared of the nail clippers generally. She will sniff them happily when they are brought out and will even come to stand by me when I have them in my hand. But the second that I try to clip her “beautiful” long nails, it’s all over. 

When Mila went to Day Care, I asked the guys there if they could help us out. Paul has pretty much seen it all when it comes to the reactions of greyhounds, owning two retired racers of his own. He clipped Mila’s nails for us one day while she was there.  Apparently, his trick is to cover their head with a towel so they can’t see what is happening and don’t know to get themselves worked up and when to react. Sounds like a great idea in theory, but when I tried it she just knew. Same reaction, same result. 

Mila’s nails are naturally long and in need of regular attention. So a couple of weeks back, I relented and bought us a Dremel from Bunnings. I felt like a bit of an idiot spending $100 on a power tool for the purposes of grooming my dog – but now that we have two greyhounds, I kind of figure that the investment is worth it – and anything that can make the drama that is nail trimming an easier process for everyone gets a big tick in my book. 

And you would think that after that, we all lived happily ever after? Not quite. After three 20-minute sessions involving a number of treats and Mike and I working in tandem to make the Dremel experience as pleasurable as possible, we have three paws worth of trimming done and are building up to the last. We even got Chris involved in the process, acting as a model to show how patiently standing to have your nails trimmed gets you a lot of pats and some chocolate drops. Funnily enough, Chris was all done within about 20 minutes. 

"Why would you even think about trimming these beautiful long things??"

By the time we finally get Mila’s nails all done, we will be about ready to start all over again. While I’m counting on next time being a (slightly) smoother process, any tips or tricks you have for dealing with the nails of a hypochondriac greyhound in the meantime would be much appreciated.

A Whole New World

We’ve had Mila for coming up a year. In that time, we have lived at the same house, with the same section, and more specifically, the same backyard.

However, it has only been in the last week or so that Mila has come to realise that our backyard is A LOT larger and A LOT more fun than she originally gave it credit for. Don’t ask me why it has taken her so long…we haven’t exactly been hiding it from her.  But I blame Mike for leading her to her latest discovery.

Come on!! Look at this awesome new playground I found!

Let me explain. Our property is divided into two parts: the part that is easy to get to (which includes the house, the front yard and the courtyard); and the part that you almost need tramping gear for (the steep, overgrown terraced section at the back of the property with the stone steps carved into the 3 metre cliff face and the immaculate view out over the city).

Mila has just found that second part.

We first realised that she had learnt to negotiate the backyard, when we let the hounds out to run around the flat part of the yard one morning.  They ran around the house, played in (and peed on) the pile of cut branches we had made from our gardening mission and generally enjoyed themselves while we had breakfast inside. Then Chris came back inside. While this in itself isn’t weird (Chris has a limited tolerance for outdoor activities), Mila’s fear of missing out is usually enough to ensure that she is not far behind. 

No Mila.

So I go outside, wander around the house, check the gates, come back inside, check the bed/couch/floor and then stand there stupidly, contemplating how a 30 kg dog can vanish into thin air. One more check outside – and in the tall grass above me appears a black face with a goofy grin and a long pink tongue. Mila has spent the last 10 minutes negotiating the steps and racing through the grass from terrace to terrace, getting herself covered in cobwebs and muck in the process. At least the furiously-circling tail is doing an excellent job of flattening the grass behind her.

Tearing up the stairs is the best part!!

Ever the spoil-sport, I call her down to see me, worried that she will fall down the hill. Down she comes full-speed (heart in mouth) until she reaches the steps again where she must choose where she walks wisely if she wants to avoid losing her footing and hurting herself. All credit to her, she understands that she needs to be careful and thinks before taking each step toward the ground.

You mean there's MORE??

Ever since that morning, Mila has taken every single chance she can to get up the back again and chase the birds, butterflies – and sometimes cats (they’re okay) that hang out in our little urban jungle. Wind, rain and mud are no impediment to her missions, and it appears that strategically placed rubbish bins, wheel barrows, bricks and wooden boards aren’t much of a deterrent either. She doesn’t even care about ruining her jarmies on the way up the hill!

She loves it so much up there – and can’t believe that this magical place is actually somewhere very close to her own house! She is always thoroughly worn out by the time she makes it inside.

Contemplating our next move...

Far be it from me to deny someone such a glorious adventure in their own backyard (literally), but there is a reason that that section of the property is particularly unkempt. It is hard enough for a human being to negotiate the cliff, let alone a gangly-limbed greyhound who manages to hurt herself (if you ask her, quite seriously) walking into walls in the comfort of her own home.  

Mike’s logic is that four legs is always better than two when it comes to keeping your balance and negotiating rocky terrain - and having a much lower centre of gravity makes it less scary too – but I worry that one day she will take those steps too fast or try to walk in just the wrong place and will end up tumbling down the hill and doing some serious damage. Looks like I’m going to have to be the meanie that blocks off access to the backyard, as much for my own piece of mind as for the safety of young Mila Grey.

...and pausing to survey our kingdom.

I'll sleep when I'm dead (apparently)

I have come to appreciate that greyhounds are very much creatures of routine.

At our house, that means waking up at 6.30 am every morning (regardless of whether it is the weekend or not) for breakfast and a morning walk. After much bustling about, the humans leave at about 8 am (most of the time, anyway – why is it that twice a week they refuse to leave us in peace??), and the dogs to sleep undisturbed for the best part of 9 hours. At 6pm, everyone is home again and it is time for toileting, dinner, another walk and some more sleeping. Somewhere in there is a bit of play time and a few pats – and then it is off to bed for the night at about 10.30 pm.

The hounds know what to do and when to do it – and they love it. They know how long to hold their bladders, when their next meal is coming and when it is time to relax.

You would think that with that kind of timetabling, we might have been able to stay in bed until a reasonable hour on Sunday morning when Daylight Saving ticked over.

Because dogs don’t do daylight savings, I was prepared for the prospect of having the dogs getting up at the regular time (waking me up in the process) and instead of it being 6.30 am, it would be 7.30 am – so I could at least feel like I was getting up at a semi-sensible time for a Sunday morning. I thought that maybe we could run on “lazy Sunday morning” human time instead of “I’m awake – why aren’t you awake? I’m going to poke my nose in your eye to check if you are alive and WHERE is my breakfast??” greyhound time.

But Chris was on to it. He knew that was something was happening with the clocks and that his sleeping patterns were about to change. Worst of all, he knew that the whole thing was just an elaborate scheme by me to try to trick him into staying in bed for longer than he had to.

So, Chris made sure that he didn’t let the clocks get the better of him and decided to make his own mind up about when he would be getting up. And he got it all wrong. At 5.30 am (with my body is telling me it’s 4.30 am but Chris convinced that it was 6.30am), there are noises from the other room as the old man wakes up, stretches his legs and bounces out of bed. On his way past Mila, Chris “accidentally” brushes her leg, causing her to bolt awake and let out a howl – and then there were two of them rearing to go for the day.

And there was no coming back from there. Unfortunately, the latch to our bedroom door doesn’t work properly and is no match for a hound on a mission. In they both come, trotting around either side of the bed, poking noses in eyes, slapping tails against walls, breathing loudly, brushing past each other and generally letting us know that “lazy Sunday morning” human time is off the table as an option. 

When it became evident that we weren’t moving in a hurry (and were still pretending to be asleep), the dogs lay down beside the bed for 0.2 of a second and then get up to try it all over again. They race down the hallway (wooden floors – so I could hear every single foot step) to check if breakfast has magically appeared and then back again to tell me that it hasn’t. They get back on to their beds and spend the next 10 minutes repositioning themselves to get comfortable. One more race up and down the hallway and any chance I thought I had of a sleep-in has disappeared.  At 6 am (body screaming at me that it is only 5 am AND Sunday!!), I am up - reading the paper, feeding the dogs, grumpy, and wondering what to do with myself for the day. Mike seems to have mastered the art of just staying in bed and hoping that someone else deals with the problem. He saunters in to the dining room at 9am (three hours later!!), looking refreshed and ready to face the day. 

And what have the hounds been doing since we got up? Sleeping on the couch, of course.
 

All tuckered out after an early Sunday start. If anyone should be curled up on there - it's me!