Spring 2011

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Godzilla Eyes and Puppy BreathSpring 2011

Author and Photographer:Natasha Eshoo

Publisher:Dasmüte Press

Contributors:David EshooEramiah Eshoo

Godzilla Eyes and Puppy Breath is a Zine dedicated to my hell–raising, inbred, sweet–enough–to–induce-cavities, source of boundless destruction, love, and insanity, Malamute and Husky mix boy, Arthas.

Please send all inquiries and comments to:das_mute@yahoo.com.

© 2011 Dasmüte Press

Content3 . . . . . . . . . About Malamutes

7 . . . . . . Names And Bad Habits

9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aging

12 . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Sucked Away’ by Eramiah Eshoo

14 . . . . . . ‘Something About You’

17 . . . . . . . . . . . Cannon Beach

19 . . . . . . . . ‘A Pair, We Two’

21 . . . . . . . . . . . Crescent Lake

23 . . . . . . . . . . Food And Issues

24 . . . . . . . . . . . . Treat Recipe

28 . . . . . . Life With A Malamute

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About Alaskan Malamutes:

Mahla–Myoot

They were bred and used for sled and weight pulling by North American Inuit tribes, specifically the Mahlemut (where they derive their name) in northern Alaska. Their thick coat repels dirt and water, and they shed all year as well as the typical heavy shedding for winter and summer. They’re not known to really be barkers, and instead make more of a woo-woo when they ‘talk’. Their ‘survival of the fittest’ ancestry and breeding is what makes them independent, not good with small animals, and more difficult to train. They can live anywhere, but are not suited for hot environments or cramped city living.

Lifespan: Up to 14 years, average is about 10.Weight: 70–95 pounds

Height: 22–26’’Build: Stocky and powerful.

Coat: Thick double coat.Intelligence: Smart, can learn a lot if it wants to.

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About Arthas:

Or What That Information Really Means

Arthas takes after his malamute side far more than he does the husky, which is why the focus here is on Alaskan Malamutes. This is especially true regarding his size. Big dog means they needs lots of room; something most apartments cannot offer. Smart equals bored easily, which means they often turn to destruction to alleviate boredom. As a working breed, they also require regular, more rigorous exercise. No walk around the block will cut it; they need the intensive running befitting of dogs bred for long distance freight pulling. Malamutes were bred for stamina, and huskies for speed. The double coat means that you’ll have more hair than you’ll know what to do with. Which floats like cat hair. As with any dog large enough to reach the counters—and smart enough to know he can get away with it when no one’s looking—nothing is safe.

Weight: 112 poundsHeight: 31’’

Build: Strength is in the front end, since his bad hip and knee means he doesn’t use his back legs as much as his front ones.

Coat: Thick double coat—more like that of a husky—and lacking the typical long, ‘boofy’ hair of a malamute.

Intelligence: Far too smart for his own good. Very stubborn, and has a bad habit of throwing out his hearing aid when he doesn’t want to listen.

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Bad Habits

All dogs come with behaviors. Things that they do that make you so angry you could tear your hair out, or punch a hole in the wall. Any responsible dog owner knows to do their research on a breed before going out to get one. Here’s something that I feel needs to be shared. Malamutes (and huskies) are incredibly smart, and incredibly destructive. Intelligence = bored easily. Some dogs chew shoes. Some dogs are large enough to chew through walls. Some dogs bark constantly. Some you can never housebreak.

Arthas does the following:

– He counter–surfs. He’s huge, and can get to things on top of the microwave, a good 4+ feet off the floor and back against the wall. Usually without knocking anything over. Like some evil malamute voodoo magic.

– He shreds. Just about everything. He prefers slippers over shoes. He loves leather and plastic.

What’s In A Name?

Of course, true to form as a dog owner, I have a number of nicknames for my

boy.

- Wee Man or Little Man

- Swisher

- Mr. Buick or Das Buick

- The Batman

- Shredder

- Mr. Myoot

- The Wolfman© David Eshoo

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Common Questions:

1. How old is he?

2. Is he part wolf?

3. How much does he eat?

4. Will he get any bigger?

5. What does he weigh?

6. Is he friendly?

Answers:

1. 2 years and 6 months. (As of May 2011)

2. No. We do call him The Wolfman, but no.

3. Not as much as you’d think. He goes through a 30 pound bag of food in a month.

4. He may gain another 5–10 pounds.

5. Less than he looks. His last weigh–in was 112 pounds.

6. Yes. He’s so friendly and sweet, he’ll give you cavities.

– He digs. Not all the time, just usually when he smells something, like the ferret our neighbors “accidentally” lost outside that hangs out by our fence under the plexi roof sheeting they have on their lawn.

– He’s a trash hound. This escalated from the kitchen trash to the tall garbage can outside.

Malamutes don’t bark, they wooo.http://www.youtube.com/

watch?v=glw9dFlyc5s

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How

Arthas

Has

Aged

2/26/2009

3 months

2/1/2009

12 weeks

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4/1/2009

4.5 months

© David Eshoo

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6/12/2010

~1.5 years

4/27/2011

~2.5 years

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Tales of the MyootSucked Away

By Eramiah Eshoo

“I dare say, chap. Are you all right? It would seem that you are being sucked away beneath the bed.” Four pawed feet and a tail stuck out from underneath my bed. “I do say. Are you all right?” A few moments of silenced followed my question. “Woo wooooo . . . ” “Pardon me good fellow, but I haven’t a clue as to what that means.”

The feet stretched for a moment. They vanished as though he had been sucked further in. A tail was all that remianed. “’Ol chap . . . ” The tail vanished suddenly. “Oh my . . . ”

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Find

Our

Way

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Something About You

January 2009

I grew up with dogs. This ended at age thirteen, when I moved to Las Vegas with my mom and grandmother. Even before thirteen, however, I always wanted a dog of my own. I wanted a husky, because of pictures in a book on dogs my dad had. I recall having memorized the description of the breed, but that has long since been lost to me. I wanted a dog of my own, to give a cool name and sleep with at night and play with.

This is not what I am thinking of nine years later as I hold my nearly sixteen year old cat in my arms as a vet I have never met before is trying to slide a needle into her vein to ease her suffering. She has been struggling with hyperthyroid disorder for over two years, and kidney problems the past several months. Her kidneys have failed her, and she is in pain. She has been my truest, best, most loyal friend since I was five. I alone have made the decision to end her suffering. I begin counting seconds; I had read an article the day before that the average time it takes for the euthanasia to take over and their fragile life to end is twelve seconds. This does not seem like much. I count. One, two—she becomes limp in my arms—four, five . . . I stop counting. I know that she is gone at five seconds. There is no need to check, no need to be certain. I already know. I can feel the part of me go with her, only an empty space left.

Inside, I whisper and scream things only for her to hear. I make promises, my thoughts incoherent from my burning eyes and throat, my lack of breath from the sobbing. It is the last time I see her. The vet takes her away in the towel, and I leave with my dad; he drove, well aware that I would be unable to do so myself. I light a candle when I get home, a candle I call hers, and several days later a dark wooden box, an engraved plate secure on the top, joins the candle. I light the candle again, and press my fingers to the plate, bearing her name, her dates, and my promise. Always and forever in my heart. I smile.

Feburary 2009

He looks up at me as he paws at the box spring of my bed. His brown eyes, like a light caramel, in a portrait of black with those expressive little white eyebrows. He is an Alaskan malamute and Siberian husky mix, barely twelve weeks old, and it is

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his first night with me. Already he is mine, and I am his. He knows this, and so do I. I was his the moment I saw him in his yard some four hours away from my house, in the backwoods of Walla Walla, Washington. His hair is dark and short, a fluffy sort of fur like the down wool of a lamb. He is already over twenty pounds, but I can easily carry him in one arm. He sleeps as close to me as possible until he leaves the bed some time during the night to sleep on the floor. It is three thirty–two in the morning, and he plays with an empty Mountain Dew bottle.

Every three hours I wake just as he does so he can go outside. He pees on my floor, just a little bit before I can stop him, each time. I carry him up and down the stairs in the dark. He sleeps beside me on the bed, but does not wake me when he gets up to sleep on the floor. I only wake when he gets up and needs out, though he does not let me know. Much like waking up minutes before my alarm goes off, no matter the time, I wake up just as he does. I am at a loss how to explain this.

His name is Arthas. With us for barely two days, and already he has a nickname. My dad calls him “Wee Man”, after Wee Man from Jackass. We call him this because he is dwarfed by two huge rottweilers. Our female, Eicca, becomes his “auntie”. She plays with him as if he is her baby; a gentle giant who knows how to let him beat her, being rough without harm.

January 2010

It is the one year anniversary of the death of my cat, White Kitty. I am laying in bed, staring at the picture of her on my nightstand. Arthas gets up to stand beside the bed, and rests his head on the blankets, watching me. My eyes meet his, and his tail begins to swish from side to side. He does not wag, he swishes. His eyebrows shift up and down, and slowly he puts one huge hoof of a paw on the edge of the bed. He crawls his way up, since at just a year and two months old, he needs hip and knee surgery. He flops down next to me, and I put an arm around him. His back is against me, but he lays his head so he can look at me.

Bailey’s Irish Creme. It is how I once described the color of his eyes to a friend. There is something in those eyes that I can lose myself trying to find. His ears are tucked back as I pet his head, rubbing my knuckles between his eyes. He closes them, but only until I stop. He gives a heavy sigh and returns to watching me. I kiss his nose, he licks mine, and my sight blurs with tears. I can see his ears come forward until I put my arms around his neck, holding him, and the ears tuck back again. I can feel his tail swish, whapping gently against my legs under the comforter and blankets. He turns suddenly, I let go of him, and he rolls onto his back, halfway laying on me,

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pinning my blankets down. His back legs kick as he tries to adjust himself, and he looks at me upside down. He does not seem to care or be fazed by this. He licks at my chin, my nose, or whatever part of my face he can reach.

A dark buttermilk surrounding a black pupil. I watch his eyes close in sleep, giving in and letting his body move from his back to his side. There is a sigh, and he falls asleep. I put an arm across his side, tucking my hand under his arm and resting my head against his neck. He smells like he needs a bath, but I smile. He is the one who knows all my secrets. He is the one there when I go to bed and wake in the morning. Always with those soft, cream colored eyes. Over a hundred pounds, his head over waist high to me, he is my “little man”. He roughhouses with rottweilers and gently kisses babies in pet stores. He destroys things when left alone for too long, and snuggles up to me when we go to bed.

He watches me sit at my computer and play Dragon Age and write stories. He sleeps to my music, and watches my candles burn to misshapen pools of colored, scented wax. He looks at me and sees things, his eyes holding an understanding that only he can have. My Wee Man, my handsome boy, my Arthas. Everything is in that rich cream of his eyes.

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‘Out There’

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Cannon

Beach

Oregon

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A Pair, We TwoSwish–Swish.

How your tail expresses your joyevery morning,

greeting me with eyeslike Bailey’s Irish Creme.

Woo–Woo.With a puppy’s voiceyou speak and sing,

and never failto bring a smile to my face.

Bounce–Bounce.You don’t jump, but bounceat the sound of “Coffee?”,

bouncing as I take up your leashand ready you to leave.

Bye–Bye.Your favorite wordsin my side mirror,smiling like you do

as my first mate and copilot.

© Eramiah Eshoo

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‘Keeping Watch’

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‘Lakeside’

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Crescent

Lake

Oregon

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About Food

As a northern breed—which are known to commonly have allergies and sensitivity to commercial dog foods—Arthas had problems with food since day 1. It took 9 different brands of dog food—while feeding him homecooked meals in the meantime—before discovering that Taste of the Wild dry kibble with salmon as the main protein/meat source was the only food he could eat without getting indigestion that required being taken outside every two hours.

The rule of thumb about what dog foods to use: If you can buy it in the grocery store, don’t feed it to

your dogs.

© Taste of the Wild Pet Food Health Issues

As a large breed dog, health issues tend to be more prevalent, and more expensive to treat. Bloat is always a concern (though this is mostly because of what foods they’re eating, as opposed to how they’re eating), as are joint problems. Coat issues are far more of a concern, due to diet and the fact that most do not have the luxury of living in sub-artic environments anymore. Below is Arthas with a bandaged foot from an abrasion between his toes which became infected, and later developed into a yeast infection.

Issues Specific to Arthas:

– Sensitivity/allergy to most dog foods and preservatives– Hot spots– Subluxation of his hip (a genetic issue from him being inbred)– Torn ligament in his left knee

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Recommended Foods or Supplements for Dogs:

– Cod liver oil (Either as pills or liquid. This is great for their skin and coat.)

– Raw eggs (Arthas often will get a single raw egg mixed in with his dry food. Also good for skin and coat.)

– Plain yogurt (Also mixed in with his food on occasion. Great for digestion.)

– Raw burger (This used to be the only thing he could eat as a puppy, and is now used more as a treat than a diet.)

– Raw turkey neck or chicken wings (The neck and wings contain non–weight baring bones, so are soft and easy to chew up. The only unsafe bones are cooked bones, because they become brittle. This is not the case with raw. The raw meat, skin, and fat are great for skin

and coat as well.)

*Dogs should never be fed pork. All 5 of ours vomit pork up when they get a hold of it.

Peanut Butter Treats(Makes about 24 treats)

1/2 cup (4fl oz/125 ml) water 3 tbsp peanut butter

1 1/4 cups (5 1/2 fl oz/150 g) whole wheat flour

1.) preheat oven to 350’F

2.) mix all ingredients together thoroughly (*I recommend mixing by hand.)

3.) spread the dough evenly on a baking sheet, and cut into desired shapes (*I used the lid of a seasoning container to make circle shapes, since I don’t have cookie cutters. Works great. I also cook these directly on a cookie tray/pan, and just cut them on

baking sheets/wax paper.)

4.) bake for 30 minutes or until lightly browned and crisp

(lasts for about 2–3 weeks in an airtight container)

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‘Footsteps and Footprints’

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Life With a Malamute

Malamutes (and huskies) are beautiful, smart, loving, adorable, and a joy to have. They’re also not for everyone, by any stretch of the imagination. Despite how much I love my boy, had I known what I would be getting myself into, I would have gone with a different breed. He was easy to houstrain, and ironically enough, less destructive as a puppy than he is as an adult. Besides his physical issues stemming from his inbred genetics, his obliteration skills wrought of boredom are truly his greatest fault and my most mind–numbing frustration. On a day to day basis, he’s wonderful, even with that special brand of evil malamute voodoo he has. Mornings start with kisses and nudging by that Buick nose of his. He also has a lot of energy when he gets up, so he always wants to go straight to roughhousing with the dogs—most especially with his auntie Eicca—though will generally calm down and go into couch–potato mode, so long as nothing else gets him riled up. He’s very much a part of the daily coffee–run ritual, and responds to “Want to get coffee?” as much as he does “Want to go bye–bye?”. Trips to the coast are always a blast, and the only time he gets to run off leash—though only when there are no other dogs around. He goes with me pretty much everywhere, because in true destructive malamute form—where he can’t be left alone for long, lest he shred anything he can get his paws on—he loves being with his ‘pack’ and his people, which is me, most of all. He hangs out in the bathroom when I shower, lounges next to my desk, and rode shotgun in my car up until I bought a gate to keep him in the back. Even with all the things he destroys, the medical bills, and the disinclination to listen to me some of the time, there’s nothing in the world that I love more than my boy, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

Godzilla Eyes and Puppy Breath

Spring 2011