Schnauzer Splitsville by Ruth Ross Saucier

                           [As noted elsewhere, my family once included six schnauzers.]

Carting all six schnauzers around often approached clown-car pandemonium, but sometimes it seemed like the right thing to do. For example, when they all needed something at the vet, taking all six seemed like a time-saving choice.  So one day we headed off to the vet with six fifteen-pound dogs, all of them competing for either Mom’s lap or a spot at a window.

When you travel with six schnauzers, you get laughter. We once made a trip to Dick’s (a favorite Seattle burger drive-in) with the whole family, pulling in and throwing open the hatch.  The Schnau all lined up and behaved reasonably well, given the clear promise of cheeseburger treats. The spectacle entertained the entire parking lot for the duration of dinner time.

Our vet was located a few miles away in a beautiful building that had floor-to-ceiling windows in the waiting area.  We managed to acquire a parking space on the street directly in front of those windows, a Godsend really, since wrassling six schnauzers on leashes tends to be chaotic, even if they were calm and trained, which they were most definitely not.

Having put on a street side show for the entire lobby full of pet owners, we made our way inside and waited to be taken into an exam room. After making noisy friends with several patients, the techs did the only smart thing and swept us into a room with alacrity. Dad Shadow and Uncle Snickers needed exams, so they were first up.  When they were done, my husband and the vet quickly agreed that it would probably be good if I were to take the boys out and deposit them in the car while my husband stayed with the four girls.

           I hustled the boys out and made it to the car, attracting once again the attention of the pet parents still waiting.  When I opened the car door, I discovered that the deafening car alarm was engaged and was now blaring at a truly painful decibel level. By now, ALL the pet parents were watching the audible debacle and waiting impatiently for me to stop that Infernal Noise. But I didn’t have my alarm fob; handling the schnauzer herd had distracted me from that little necessity.

Amelia Peabody and Derry meet Santa. Nope, picture is not related
to story. . . it's just here so you can see why we decided to keep
these little marauders.  

But I knew there was a backup alarm release under the passenger side dashboard somewhere, so I threw the dogs inside, bent over and presented my posterior to the crowd, and began searching for the backup alarm release. The noise was worse under the dash and it was terribly hard to see anything there. The noise went on and on as I struggled futilely, bent over and bum-up to the audience.

Finally, my husband came racing around the corner with the four little girls and beeped the alarm into silence. The ride home was equally silent, particularly because I was half dead and wholly pissed; I had hated car alarms with a passion before this incident, but now I was ready to tear the damn thing out with my bare hands.

When we reached home, the dogs and my husband raced inside as I walked slowly up the garden stairs. My darling neighbor lady leaned over the fence and asked how I was doing, saying I looked stressed and a bit exhausted. I assured her I was just tired from wrangling the herd and trudged past her, up the walkway.

“Oh, Ruth,” she called out when I was past her. “Sorry, honey, but I thought you should know—your slacks are split up the back.”

My hand flew to my posterior.  Sure enough, my trousers were split wide open. Must have happened under cover of the alarm, when I was bending over to find the off switch.  I had just mooned a full waiting room.

Schnauzer Schenanigans (Sic) by Ruth Ross Saucier

In 1977 we bought a ‘40s bungalow in Seattle. It was small and decidedly a fixer, but it came with a classic knotty pine basement, two small bedrooms, and a large yard. The floors were adorned with gold shag carpet in the living room; gold, orange, and brown indoor-outdoor carpet (glued down) in the dining room; and green linoleum with gold flakes in the kitchen. Ghastly.

However, under the carpet-of-ages we discovered solid oak floors that were a good four inches deep and untouched. A do-it-yourself project was born.

Schnauzers are the enemy of all carpets, and it was past time that the gold shag and indoor-outdoor carpet got pulled out.  The job was disgusting and sneeze-inducing.  But the worst job was mine: removing the glued-down indoor-outdoor carpet was a nightmare.  Every square inch required convincing.

The next day we started the sanding and the cleaning and on the third day, our goal was two layers of polyurethane in one day. I plead youth and stupidity. But by 9:00 the living room, dining room, and hall floors had two coats of polyurethane. We were exhausted, starved, and cramped up, despite our youth.

The Gang of Six schnauzers had been cooped up most of the day. We let them out for a potty run and then shut them back into a room with a dog gate while we drove three blocks to the closest local restaurant for a quick dinner. 

When we returned at 10:00, they had broken out.  First time ever. Dog gates had ALWAYS worked until that night.

The entire floor was still very lightly sticky-damp with the last coat of polyurethane, but it now had a distinct furry footprint pattern. The little meatheads had broken through the gate, scampered everywhere over the sticky floors, and were now acting ashamed and cowed, their very furry paws all stiff and sticky.

Exhausted, we tried washing their paws, but the fur was dry, stiff, and prickly; we ended up trimming them (all 24). The dogs then went on lockdown and we rushed to save the floor by the quick addition of a third coat of poly while the second coat was still damp.*  Our own footprints didn’t help, but the tactic worked.  

The floors were finished by midnight. . . and so were we.

*(The floors turned out great. We were terrified that if we let it dry, the imprints would not even sand out unless we completely obliterated the two coats that we’d struggled all day to finish.)

Schnaggle of Schnauzers by Ruth Ross Saucier

I was once the mother to a schnaggle of six schnauzers. Yes, the AKC has dubbed a collection of schnauzers as either a “shout” or a “schnuggle” of schnauzers, but schnaggle sounds more like the chaos I experienced, so that’s my call.

Due to a precocious boy who didn’t listen when the vet said he couldn’t, we were the proud parents of Mom Liesl, Dad Shadow, Uncle Snickers, and the three little girls: Emily, Peabody, and Derry. They were generally a joy, but occasionally a trial.

One winter evening I came home to an unsettling sight: the house was all lit up and the front and side doors were wide open to the frigid night. From inside came a banging and a clashing accompanied by occasional grumbling and swearing.

But where were the dogs? The doors were never wide open!

I peered into the living room to see damp floors and no sign of dogs. An irate husband explained this way (heavily edited to avoid offending your sensibilities):

The latest trip to Costco had scored enormous bags of rawhide chews, Milkbones, and multi-colored pasta. All the bags had been squirreled away in the back of kitchen cabinets, but one of the Gang of Six had discovered how to open cabinet doors and drag out all three humungous containers onto the floor—along with miscellaneous other bottles, boxes, and canisters.

All six reaped the bounty.  They started by gorging on the Milkbones and then found the rawhide chews.  Since any self-respecting schnauzer knows that the rawhide chew you have is never as good as the one your sister has, they did their usual routine: chew yours, steal hers, argue over it, and then when you’re tired, stash as many as you can where nobody else will see them. And then somebody found the multi-colored pasta, ripped into the bag, scattered the contents everywhere, and chewed several, searching for one that tasted better than the last.

The all-day Bacchanalia ended predictably: Everybody threw up, here and there, hither and yon, and then proceeded to repeat the procedure above.  And the hording was epic. Milkbones, rawhide chews, and pasta [both untouched and regurgitated] were found stashed in every nook and cranny: next to, behind, on top and under the piano, the sofa, the fireplace, and the books. 

The dogs were quarantined in the bathroom while the whole house got a liberal swabbing. And then, of course, that was followed by six baths, since it’s hard to wrassle over a chew bone without rolling in puke. 

Two years later we moved the sofa from one side of the room to the other. In the old spot there were a few rawhide bones on the floor.  Thinking that was odd, I tipped the sofa up to investigate. A few more chew bones spilled out and a torn liner disgorged the schnauzers’ secret stockpile. A full inventory revealed over 125 chew bones, stashed in the underside of the sofa. Yes, 125.

Child locks went on the kitchen cabinet the next day.

Editing and Control: Musings ~ by R. R. Saucier, Editor, Writer, Observer

     Old School Control. Let’s talk control. As an editor, I can’t help but note that the job description for editing has morphed since self-publishing became a viable option for writers. In the ‘70’s, I was a grunt for the publishing wing of the Jackson School of International Studies at the University of Washington. Manuscripts were scrupulously combed through. The attention to detail was superb: every word, every bit of punctuation was dealt with at least three times, sometimes more. Despite working with highly educated academics, the editor’s way was gospel. Sure, there were freelancers then and people who wrote term papers – but professional publications were subject to editorial control that was lodged firmly with the editor.

     Control in Free Fall. Today, I work with a lot of authors who are self-published. Some of them have been professionally published, some not. But the power equation has changed. If you hire me to edit your work, I will give you my very best effort and will let you know when the edit is a matter of grammar or opinion. You remain in charge, having relinquished no control at all. You can accept my work, ignore it, and ultimately, decide whether I’m the editor for you. 

     Professional publishing today still retains a high degree of control, however. Try enforcing how you are edited when you are dealing with a publishing house, and you better have good rationales for your choices or great sales! Curiously, many have argued that some famous, professionally-published writers are allowed too much leeway (read: control) over their works. Once their profits soar some readers feel their work suffers, seemingly from a lack of – you guessed it – editing. In other words, some writers can handle control and some cannot. 

Derry, Emily, Amelia at two weeks

     Diverting Uncontrolled Anecdote. I’ve always been a cynic. I gave up on Santa by the age of three and religion by the age of six. I have always believed that control is an illusion; the moment you feel you have it, you’ve got a surprise coming. Falls under the adage, tell God your plans if you want to hear him laugh. Or, as Leia said to Governor Tarkin, “The more you tighten your grip, Tarkin, the more star systems will slip through your fingers.” [Star Wars 4, if you’re counting.] 

     My husband and I had two miniature schnauzers. When one died early of Addison’s disease, we were utterly bereft. We went puppy hunting, having convinced ourselves that our surviving female schnauzer, Liesl, needed company… a ridiculous notion that I doubt either of us really believed. We adopted two male schnauzer puppies that summer; both were charming and a tad precocious.  

     When Liesl went into heat we consulted our vet, who averred unequivocally that the four-month-old boys were too young to father a litter, we were safe. As he was a professional and we were vulnerable, we believed him, but even so, we still kept the two of them separated. Ten days later we were sure the heat was over. And, after all, he was too young anyway, so we relaxed our control over Liesl. Shadow, who had not been informed he was too young, immediately proved the vet wrong. It took him about three seconds to figure it out, and that’s all it took. As Dr. Ian Malcolm would say, “…life, uh…finds a way.” (Jurassic Park, 1993)

     
     My husband wanted a little black female puppy; Liesl, ever his dog, produced three little black females. (Yes, schnauzer pups are born black and achieve their real color with time--but I’m convinced she did it just to please him, like everything else she did). And yes, you guessed it; we ended up keeping them all for a total of six: Mom, Dad, Uncle Snickers, and the three little girls, Emily, Amelia Peabody, and Derry.  

Derry, Emily, Amelia at one year.

     You need some.  Don’t misunderstand. We need control. Control throughout life is vitally important to success, personality, and self-fulfillment. Babies who lack control of language are utterly frustrated until someone figures it out for them. Seniors in nursing homes desperately strive for whatever tiny bit of control they can eke out of that environment; if they lack it utterly, despair is often the result. Children must be given choices and understand that they have control over their choices if they are to become functioning adults. A total lack of control is often cited by those who attempt suicide. Mid-level managers with little or no control who are surrounded by co-workers who are at loggerheads must be ingenious negotiators or risk total frustration.

  So, you gotta have it. Just don’t fool yourself about how much you really have, or you could end up being a schnauzer pack leader. Or just a member of the pack, because, after all, control is tricky--especially with schnauzers.