Eating By Laying On Belly

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Pui Pui loves to eat his food by laying on his belly. We consider him just being lazy. When we talked this to the vet, they said it is not good for dogs to eat laying down on their stomach, as they may get acid reflux. They suggested we get bowl holders so that he can’t eat laying down anymore.  

We tried to get him bowl holders  but he’ll end up not eating anything till the end of the day.  We also made him stand up to eat his meal, but another minutes later he will back laying on his belly again. We find him so funny. We think he really enjoy that position so much and more natural way than standing.

A Dog Story by Jim Willis

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When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.
You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a
couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. ...

Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could
you?" -- but then you'd relent and roll me over for a belly rub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were
terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of
nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams,
and I believed that life could not be any more perfect.

We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice
cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you said),
and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of
the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and
more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently,
comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you
about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when
you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into our
home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you
were happy.

Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was
fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother
them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent
most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I
wanted to love them, but I became a prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and
pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes,
investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything
about them and their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent --
and I would've defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into
their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we
waited for the sound of your car in the driveway.

There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you
produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me.
These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I
had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every
expenditure on my behalf.

Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they
will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the
right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your
only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter.
It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the
paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They
shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing
a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers."

You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed,
"No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and
what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about
love and responsibility, and about respect for all life.

You gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely
refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet
and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said you
probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to
find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could
you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules
allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago.

At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it
was you that you had changed your mind -- that this was all a bad dream...
or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save
me.

When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of
happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner
and waited. I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the
day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A
blissfully quiet room.

She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry.
My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a
sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days.

As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she
bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your
every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her
cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many
years ago.

She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting
and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked
into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She
hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a
better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have
to fend for myself --a place of love and light so very different from this
earthly place.

And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of
my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was directed
at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of you. I will think of you and
wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so
much loyalty.

----------------------------
A Note from the Author:
----------------------------

If "How Could You?" brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did
to mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the
millions of formerly "owned" pets who die each year in American and
Canadian animal shelters. Anyone is welcome to distribute the essay for a
noncommercial purpose, as long as it is properly attributed with the
copyright notice. Please use it to help educate, on your websites, in
newsletters, on animal shelter and vet office bulletin boards. Tell the
public that the decision to add a pet to the family is an important one
for life, that animals deserve our love and sensible care, that finding
another appropriate home for your animal is your responsibility and any
local humane society or animal welfare league can offer you good advice,
and that all life is precious. Please do your part to stop the killing,
and encourage all spay and neuter campaigns in order to prevent unwanted
animals. -Jim Willis-

Fuchi

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Before Bath

After Bath

This skinny and dirty of fur found along the side of the road on two different nights at my brother’s home. His fur and coat were caked thick with dirt and many of them had to be shaved to be cleaned. After being cleaned up enough to reveal he is a Maltese, treated for fleas, and veterinary care, we named him Fu Chi after 福 氣 which means good fortune.

However, today Fu Chi seemed to be in fairly good health. Just like other new member of the family, he was not being welcomed fairly well by Elle, Bette and Puipui. He was very quiet, always hide himself under a chair.

3 years by now, Fu Chi is the leader, the most playful and naughty member of the family. He is very intelligent and loves to learn and observe. When we call him, he thinks we are playing a game and run away from us, always make a sensation such as running around like a whizz as if someone were chasing him. We have spoiled him rotten with love. 

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