The Old Man and the Dog at Sea

As I was leaving the dog park last week, hurrying to get the kids from school, an older gentleman was walking slowly through the parking lot. He approached Our Best Friend, smiled at him, and said, "Sit." Our Best Friend promptly sat. The man extended his hand, OBF lifted a paw, and the two shook hands.

I was quite amazed. OBF doesn't listen to strangers, and is usually aloof with people who try to make friends. Yet he seemed to trust this man on sight. "He likes you," I told the man. "He's not usually friendly with strangers."

"He's a good boy," the man told me. "Let me tell you a story."

Uh oh, I think. I'm already going to be late for the girls. But somehow, I didn't have the heart to say, "Another time, perhaps." There was something about this man that spoke of another time and place. I couldn't just walk off -- and besides, he'd already launched into his story.

"In World War Two, I was in the navy-- the American navy. I was stationed in Honolulu, you know. One day, I was walking down the street, and saw this starved, emaciated dog. He was half-dead, his ribs were showing, so I picked him up and carried him back to the ship.

"Well, as you can imagine, the other men on the boat laughed at me for bringing in this dog. They told me, 'He's your dog, you take of him, you find food, clean up his mess.' Of course I did. They all thought I was crazy.

Maybe this kind of boat? Who knows...

"Now, I was a mechanic. We had a four engines on the ship, and it was my job to clean out the oil that gathered underneath. And I did it at night. At three in the morning, the only people awake on board was me and the guy steering the ship, way up top in the pilot's room.

"So one night I was carrying up buckets of oil from the engine room, which is at the bottom of the boat. I took it on deck, and..." Here he paused, looking sheepish and apologetic. "It's what we did in those days, I tossed the oil overboard. But I must have spilled some on the deck. I came back up with two more pails, and I slipped on the deck. My legs shot out from under me, and I went flying under the railing of the ship. My shirt caught on the hook we used for the landing bumpers. So there I was, hanging on the side of the ship, the waves were hitting me up to here," he said, holding his hand mid-way up his chest. "I yelled and yelled, but no one could hear me over the engines and waves and it was the middle of the night."

I knew what was coming.

"But the dog heard me," he said. "He came running, saw me hanging there, and ran off. I had taught him how to climb the ladders on the ship, so he ran up to the helmsman, barking and tugging on his pant leg. The helmsman followed him down, found me, and pulled me back on board. That dog saved my life."

"Wow," I told him, as I pondered the plausibility. "That's some story."

"I came here after the war," he continued, "and I was afraid to try and bring the dog across the border-- I didn't have shots for him or nothing, I couldn't afford it. So I gave him to a buddy of mine in Boston. Then, a while later, I went to visit my friend. I got in the car, and didn't see the dog in the back seat. Well, the dog recognized my voice, and he jumped over the seat and straight into my lap. He went crazy licking my face. He was a great dog." He took Our Best Friend's paw again. "He's a good dog too. You take good care of him."

"We try to," I answered.

By now I was at least five minutes late picking up the kids from school. I shoved OBF into the back of the van, and as I drove off, I wondered how much, if any, of that story was true. And why he chose to tell it to me. And why I didn't just interrupt him and walk off, so I wouldn't be late for the kids. And what the heck I would do with this bizarre event. I kind of felt like the Wedding Guest in Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner... except this guy didn't have an albatross around his neck.

Fight! Fight!

This story comes from two sources: a witness and a participant. I didn't witness it first-hand.

I love hanging out at the dog park because it's usually such a laid-back place. The atmosphere ranges from tranquil to boisterous good fun, and so far, thank goodness, I haven't had a bad experience. I haven't even witnessed one. But they do happen.

I first heard this from Dee, who has the sweetest lab/Bernese cross named Shy (and she's anything but.) I had left Dee and a group of people, including Ronnie, a few days earlier, and on my way to the car heard a horrible ruckus explode. I was late to get the kids from school, and too far to turn back, but when I saw Dee again a few days later, I asked her what had happened.

She thought, frowning. "Oh, that must have been the fight Ronnie got into!"

It had sounded like a dog fight to me, and I couldn't imagine who had come along ten seconds after my departure to make such scene, but I said, "Ronnie got into a fight? Why?"

"Some guy was throwing a ball for his dog," she explained, "and Holly was chasing it too... he told Ronnie to control Holly... and Ronnie tried, but you know how obedient Holly is... so Ronnie suggested he put his ball away in the park... and then the guy told Ronnie to put Holly on a leash so he could play ball with his dog, and Ronnie told him he doesn't bring the dog to keep her on a leash... Then the guy walked away, but Holly was following him, I guess hoping he'd throw the ball again, so the guy turned to Ronnie and asked, 'Why is your dog still following me?' and Ronnie..." Dee started laughing. "Ronnie said, 'I guess she likes the smell of s***!'" Then she noticed the Middle Child standing there, and apologized profusely for the language. The Middle Child, quite accustomed to inappropriate language from her parents, just rolled her eyes.

"He chose the wrong dude to pick a fight with," I said. "This is Ronnie's park."

A day later I ran into Ronnie. "I heard you're getting into fights these days. Do we have to ban you from the park?"

Ronnie looked puzzled. "What did you hear?"

"Dee told me-- Shy's owner," I explained, because even though Ronnie knows more human names than anyone else, even he doesn't know them all. "The other day, after I left, I heard a lot of yelling. She said Holly was chasing someone's ball..."

"Oh yeah, that's right!" Ronnie started to laugh. "What an a******! I really lost it with that guy." His version of events matched Dee's almost exactly, maybe a few more details and a few more cuss words. "Some attitude, eh? Like the park belongs to him."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I told Dee he picked the wrong guy to mess with. We all know it's your park. Still, I thought I heard a dog fight. It sounded like you were yelling at a dog."

Ronnie frowned. "What day was that again?"

"Last Wednesday," I said. "You know, there was me, you, Dee and Shy, that woman and her two dogs..."

"Oh that's right!" He laughed. "You did hear a dog fight. That woman's dog, Kumon, all of a sudden she attacked Shy. I had to pull her off. That dog has issues."

That bothered me more than Ronnie's fight; Kumon is a human-friendly dog, and other than a constant need to jump up and lick my face, I hadn't noticed any "issues." I glanced at Our Best Friend, who has plenty of issues, and prayed that Ronnie would never have to pull him off another dog.

"Well, you watch yourself," I warned Ronnie, "and don't let me catch you fighting again!"

Ronnie got indignant. "I don't fight! I'm an easy-going guy! But I'm not going to put up with attitude from anyone!"

I refrained from pointing out that the comment about personal odour was probably unnecessary, and agreed that, of course, no one should have to put up with attitude from anyone at the dog park.

As I walked back to my car, I considered how interesting it was that, when asked what I had heard, Dee remembered a fight from a day I wasn't there, and failed to remember the attack on her own dog. Dog fights we expect; human fights at the park are a little more memorable. And it emphasizes my belief that, though you first come to the park for the dog, we return because of the people.

(This post is part of:)



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It's Not Just About Dogs and Cats

Short post today to remind everyone it's Adopt the Internet Day on Petfinder. Petfinder is 15 years old, and has helped thousands of animals find their forever homes. Sometimes it takes a while; no one wanted Our Best Friend after several months on Petfinder, so he just stayed with us. And so many of the amazing dogs at our dog park are rescues. But not every animal on Petfinder is so lucky. Some are in high-kill shelters waiting for someone to adopt or foster them before their time runs out.

African Grey Parrot - Fairfax, VA

So get familiar with the rescues in your city. Do a search on Petfinder, see what animals they have listed. Maybe you can't make the total commitment that ownership requires, but maybe you can foster a pet and buy a little time. Puppies, kittens, ferrets, rabbits, even parrots-- lots of pets needs homes, and a home without a pet is a home missing the most unconditional love in the world. Give an animal a home, and give yourself the gift of love and devotion only a pet can bring.

Stylish Blogger Award?!

Tail Waggin gave me-- wait for it-- a Stylish Blogger Award. Clearly this person has never met me; I wear clothing so old it's gone in and out of fashion several times. I guess she means my blog is stylish. There too, not sure I see it, but I'll take what I can get!

So the rules of this award are 1) to share seven things about myself and/or Our Best Friend and 2) to pass this award on to 15 other bloggers. Now, I regret to say I used up everybody I know in the Memetastic Award (yes, I know that's only five people, and yes, I know that makes me pathetic). So I'm afraid the Stylish Blogger Award buck stops here. Besides, every single blog I visit has the logo on its widget bar, I think everyone's gotten it at least twice, and so I don't feel particularly guilty not passing it along AGAIN. I hope I will be forgiven.

Here are six things you may or may not care to know about Our Best Friend, and one about me:

1. When I drop kids off at their homes during carpool, he stands perfectly still in the back of the van, whimpering as he watches them go into the house. I think he can't stand seeing kids on the other side of the glass where he can't protect them.
2. When we first got OBF, he wouldn't come on the beds no matter how much the kids coaxed him. Now he leaps up every night for a ten-to-twenty-minute cuddle, then goes off to sleep on the floor. He still will not come on my bed without express permission.
3. In contradistinction to # 2, he appropriated the Middle Child's bed as his own during the day, yet will not sleep with the children at night. He still sneaks onto the couch in the middle of the night when everyone's asleep, even though he knows he's not allowed.
4. I bought him diet food a few months ago, as he's getting a little chunky. He refused to eat it. When we tried mixing it with his regular kibble, he spit the pieces he didn't like onto the floor. We could tell he was only spitting out the diet stuff because of the size and shape.
5. When he goes nose-to-nose with little dogs, his tail wags gently, and he has the most tender, goofy look you've ever seen on a dog's face.
6. He can turn in a circle, beg, and play dead (although "play dead" looks more like "beg lying on your side" than "dead").
7. My next dog will be small, female, and non-shedding.

That's about as interesting as it gets. Except for the time OBF almost ate the Morkie....

How To Traumatise Small Children Without Really Trying

First, to conclude the last post, here are the falsities, in reverse order:

• I wish number 5 was true. My kids are impossible to feed, and I could use an entire crew of culinary experts devoted to fixing the problem.
• My idea of "working out" is writing my blog from a cafe instead of at home.
• Anyone who has seen me in person knows # 2 is a lie. In our youth-obsessed culture, no one dyes her hair white, unless the performing arts are involved.
• The first claim was a trick question. I did take arts in university, but it was no dramatic reversal. I failed third-term math in grade 12, and flunked out of physics completely in grade 11. I got 90s in biology though-- would have been an excellent biologist, but a lousy scientist. So I got a double honours B.A. in English and Creative Writing, a Master's in English Lit, and then went back for a Master's in educational psychology. In spite of all this, I am still unemployed, probably because I never took a degree in job-finding. So, to preserve my sanity, I take the dog to the park and write a blog about it.

Yes, Number 4 was the correct answer. Some of you may now pat yourselves on the back. The rest of you go sulk somewhere and mumble, "No fair!"

Now on to other things....

Thanks to the ed. psych. degree, I actually know a thing or two about how people learn. Often, small children learn from the examples set for them by friends and family members; when mommy is terrified of the dog, it's not surprising that little Sophie is terrified too. Yet I have friends who absolutely love Our Best Friend, but their children recoil in horror. I would love to know, where does this fear come from?

Part of the fear, of course, comes from the lack of dogs in our community, but that's not the whole story. Last week, coming home from the park with Our Best Friend, I walked past Ben's house. His six-year-old was out front playing with the upstairs neighbour. Now, the boy from upstairs barely knows me, though I know his mother quite well, while Ben's little Howie has known me all his life. Ben and his wife love animals, including OBF, and the kids know it; little Johnny-from-upstairs's mother... not so much. She's not scared; she's just not a dog lover. So which of the two boys would you guess showed more interest in OBF?

The conversation went like this:

LITTLE JOHNNY FROM UPSTAIRS: Can I pat your dog?

ME: Of course you can! (To dog): OBF, sit.

Dog sits. Little boy comes down the hill and cautiously pats the dog.

ME: Take off your mitten and feel how soft his ears are! (Little boy removes mitten and REALLY pats the dog.)

JFU (to Howie): Come pat the dog!

HOWIE: No! I’m scared! He's going to bite me!

JFU (puzzled): No he’s not! Come pat him!

HOWIE: No!! He’s going to bite me!

JFU: But he’s a nice dog! He doesn’t bite! (Puts his mitten back on and moves back.)

ME (to JFU): Did the dog bite you?

JFU: No…

ME: Are you sure? Maybe you should count your fingers!

JFU (counting his fingers): One, two, three, four, five!

ME: Got them all?

JFU: Yes!

ME: Then I guess he didn’t bite you!

JFU and I laughed, but Howie is not convinced. I tell young Johnny to visit us any time he likes.

I promise you Howie's parents love animals. Howie's older brothers have played with OBF in our back yard a number of times. Where does Howie's fear come from? And why is Johnny, who has had almost zero positive exposure to animals, so fascinated and fearless?

Two weeks ago, we had lunch guests who came with four girls, ages one, three, five, and eight. The baby was indifferent to the dog; ages three and eight were initially nervous, but the eight-year-old was all over Our Best Friend by the end of the afternoon. The five-year-old screamed in terror every time she heard the tags on his collar rattle. Like little Howie, she was thoroughly convinced OBF would bite her. It was a very trying afternoon for her. Nothing her parents said, nothing she saw, could convince her that the dog wouldn't bite her. By the end of the day, the mother wondered if she should consult a psychologist.

Blackie

I wouldn't bother. My Middle Child's best friend, Yvonne, was equally terrified of dogs at that age. She and her family came to visit us up north one summer, where we were babysitting a friend's cottage, along with the cats and her dog Blackie. Now, Blackie is the gentlest, sweetest dog in creation. She doesn't even bark. If you step on her, she licks your hand. (Honest.) And Yvonne spent the entire day screaming in terror at the sight of her, which confused Blackie and made her very sad.

It took Yvonne a few years. By the time she was seven or eight, she could push past the dog and pretend she wasn't there. Now, at age 12, she is a raging dog lover. I take her home from school every day, and if I don't have the dog in the car, she lets me know how unhappy she is. Her mother got so sick of the nagging refrain, "Can we get our own dog? Please, please please?" she fined her five cents every time the word "dog" came past her lips. (I almost got fined for encouraging her.)

So I have reason to hope that, with enough positive exposure, Howie, my friend's five-year-old, and other assorted frightened children will come around in time. (Not so sure about the frightened parents, though.) We just have to bring more doggie ambassadors-- ones a little less intimidating than Our Best Friend-- into the neighbourhood.

(This post was part of the Saturday Blog Hop-- click here to join in!)

Lies I Tell You-- Lies!

I awoke this morning to an unexpected delight in my inbox-- a blog "award" from Rescued Insanity. The term award deserves quotation marks; it's not so much an award as a blog chain letter. I have to provide my readers with four lies and one truth about myself, and they have to figure out which is which. Then I have to pass this award on to five other bloggers, who probably won't thank me for it.


So let's see how well people know me. Which of the following statements is true?

1. I excelled in math and science in high school, and made a dramatic shift to arts in university.
2. I dye my hair this colour.
3. I am a fitness fanatic and work out daily.
4. If it wasn't for the dog park, I'd be blogging from behind barred windows and locked doors.
5. I am about to launch a reality competition on the Food Network called "Feed My Kids-- Please."

Now to name five bloggers to take up this challenge:

1. Back Alley Soapbox (because it's sure to be amusing)
2. Peggy's Pet Place (because someone who writes about dieting knows brutal honesty and the art of the cover-up)
3. According to Gus (because I want to learn a little more about them before they show up on my doorstep in four or five months!)
4. Kid Lit Reader (because she can't lie to save her life)
5. Back Seat View (because her blog is so honest, yet I think she can come up with some whoppers, and pictures to illustrate them!)

And one bonus blogger: The VSL Poltroon, because my own brother better not try to lie to me.

Well, there you go, and I hope the people listed are still speaking to me after this. Please excuse the interruption in our regularly scheduled programming, which will resume tomorrow (or maybe the next day).

Relationships

"I don't read your blog," a friend told me bluntly, but with a hint of apology in the tone. "I'm just not interested in dogs."

"It's not really about dogs," I told her. "It's about how people interact because of dogs, and how dogs affect your life."

"Oh," she said. She's still not going to read my blog.

Once upon a time you were bound to your family and friends by ties of blood and proximity. If you were lucky, these people shared your hobbies, interests, and values. If they didn't, you pursued them alone. Our metropolitan world and the Internet have allowed us to expand our lives to include people who, in a different time, we could never have met. Thus we form many social communities, with various purposes and payoffs. Though it clearly has many benefits, sometimes it leads to a fractured sense of self.

It should be clear by now that I don't just go to the dog park for Our Best Friend. And it's not really in my best interest either; I get more benefit actually walking the dog than standing around chatting. But I love meeting people who have no expectation of who I should be. No one at the park worries about my parenting, wonders about the depth of my religious commitment, or cares what I do for a living. I'm just another dog owner, one with a beautiful dog who attracts looks, questions, and admiration because he comes when called.

We had a nice day last week. I think it was Thursday. As a result, there were actually people at the park, instead of just icy wind, and better yet, people (and dogs) I know. Four of us, including Ronnie, chatted about dogs, dog sitters, the weather. Ronnie mentioned someone not present. "You all know Bob, right?" The three of us shook our heads. "You don't know Bob? He has a lab cross, Happy."

Our frowny faces immediately cleared. "Oh, of course I know him!" I said. Happy is one my favourite dogs. "His name is Bob?" I looked at the other two people standing there. "Let's be honest. Who here knows the names of more dogs than owners?" And all three of us raised our hands. Even funnier, we didn't ask if we knew each other's names. I'm pretty sure we avoided that 'cause none of us do. Ronnie, on the other hand, probably does. That's why he's Ronnie.

Such is the convoluted nature of relationships in the modern age. People whose names I don't know care more about my dog than people related to me by blood. They've watched him grow, offered advice, and encouraged me to persevere in spite of Our Best Friend's on-going issues. Likewise, most of my friends don't read my blog; strangers do. Strangers whom I'm getting to know through commenting back and forth through cyberspace. My best friend is running a marathon, but it's a blogger across the continent who successfully guilted me into walking my dog more regularly, in spite of the weather.

But friends from cyberspace or the dog park don't pick my kids up from school when I can't make it. They don't meet me for lunch, come over and cut my bangs to save me a trip to the salon, or listen to my personal woes on demand. We don't share holidays and life cycle events. Saying "We're on a first-name basis" usually connotes intimacy; at the dog park it's just one step above a no-name basis. At the end of the day, they are still strangers whom I know nothing about except what kind of dog they have. We have little in common except a love of dogs; my friends and I have much in common except a love of dogs. It all balances out.

I am grateful to live in a time when I have the opportunity to meet different people with whom I can share different parts of myself-- my kids, my dog, my writing, my neuroses. (Maybe no one else is happy about that, but some people put up with it.) To my friends and family in the here and now, who aren't reading this (and to the half-a-dozen that are): Thanks for being part of my life. I hope I’ve been a good friend back. To the subscribers, who read and leave the occasional comment: Thanks for keeping me from shouting in the wind. It motivates me to keep writing (and to walk the dog). And to my dog park friends, the focus of all this effort, and who have no idea I keep this blog: I'll see you later at the park.

The "Perks" of Dog Ownership #5

Warning: If you are at all squeamish, stop reading right now and come back on a less vulgar day. Life can be messy; this is one of those times.


On Sunday the girls took Our Best Friend outside to play. He got a little over-excited and lost his lunch in the snow, so the girls brought him back in.

Fast forward two days. The Middle Child took OBF out for a bathroom break, but returned almost immediately. "Mommy, OBF was being VILE! He dug up his barf and wanted to eat it! It was SO GROSS! So I made him come in."

Later it was the Oldest's turn. She, too, came back in almost immediately. "OBF is SO DISGUSTING!!! He found his vomit, it's all frozen, and I couldn't make him leave it alone! So I brought him back."
Well, the dog still hadn't done what he'd gone out to do. So even though it was colder out than I can stand, I bundled up and took him out. And damn if those girls weren't right. There was no separating him from his leftover waste. It was completely frozen-- a barfsicle, if you will-- no amount of tugging on the leash could make him come, and nothing would make him drop it. I tried burying it under the snow again, kicking pieces across the yard... he went after every single chunk like it was the most tender bits of steak. Unlike the girls, I was determined to stay out until did his rightful business. As a result, I think the whole disgusting mess ended up right back inside him. And in the end I don't think he even did what I wanted him to do. I'm with the girls-- ew, gross, vile, disgusting. And he better not kiss me with that mouth.

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership, Part VI(b): Our Best Friend and the Trainer

After Trainer #1 Jason quoted us $500 to whip Our Best Friend into shape, I immediately contacted Marisa to put OBF back up on her Petfinder site. I was willing to foster/adopt a different dog, if Marisa would just get this anxious, aggressive mutt off my hands.

Placing him, with all his issues, would be tricky. There was one nibble of interest, but the potential fosters already had a dog, and that ruled out OBF. So Marisa asked,

Is there anyway you would be willing to work with his behaviours to keep him? Perhaps I can find someone to help you? pls let me know what you think thanks.

Meeting with a free trainer was a no-brainer. Even if we didn't keep OBF, better behaviour would make him more adoptable. Marisa introduced us to Jared via e-mail, and we all met in person at the City Centre park.

Because OBF was so impossible to walk, this was the first time we had taken him to the park, which is a very popular spot for walkers, joggers, bike riders, in-line skaters, and of course, their dogs. OBF started barking the minute we took him out of the car. It was mortifying. He wasn't just barking, he was yelping and jumping and basically behaving like a wild animal instead of a domesticated dog. It was clear we had no control over his behaviour, and I really wondered how wise this outing was.

Jared had two dogs of his own-- Brooklyn, a Staffordshire terrier mix who covered our girls in kisses, and Duke, a Boston terrier loaded with character. Both were rehabilitated rescue dogs, but you'd never know it. Neither showed the slightest sign of aggression, and OBF's insane barking didn't faze them in the slightest. Obviously Jared was good at what he did.

Jared took the leash from the Spouse, and forced OBF to walk right beside him. OBF whined and tugged, but Jared didn't give an inch. Finally, OBF lost it, and tried to bite Jared on the foot. Jared immediately grabbed OBF by the collar and neatly flipped him on his back, with his arm against OBF's throat. OBF struggled a bit, then went limp. As soon as he stopped resisting, Jared let him back up. OBF jumped to his feet, wagging his tail and once again tugging at the leash, eager to be off. Clearly he held no grudge against Jared for pinning him to the ground and trying to strangle him.

The girls took turns walking Brooklyn and Duke, who were so obedient a toddler could have controlled them. The Spouse and I took turns with Jared, learning how to use the leash and choke chain to control his pulling. Every time another dog passed us, he barked and tugged; every time the girls got too far ahead, he really went nuts. He was most calm when all five us (or eight, with Jared and his dogs) walked together as a pack.

At the end of an hour and a half, we came back to where we had started and all sat down on the grass. OBF wasn't barking anymore, and he lay companionably beside the other two dogs. Just that alone was progress. Jared was confident that with a little more work, OBF would be a terrific dog. "If I didn't already have two dogs," he told us, "I would take him myself."

We took OBF home, buoyed with hope that all would be well. It just took a firm hand and a lack of fear, I told myself. So when OBF ignored a direct command, I decided I would show him who was in charge. Flush with over-confidence, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled. He snarled and snapped at my hand. I released him immediately, walked out of the house, and called the Spouse on his cel. "I want that dog out NOW," I told him. "He just tried to bite me."

"We'll get rid of him," he answered.

I didn't speak to OBF for days. OBF doesn't harbour grudges; he kept putting his chin on my bed and raising his eyebrows, looking at me with puzzled eyes, and then lying down with a big sigh. Clearly I was mad at him, he didn't know why, and it made him sad. Meanwhile, the girls and the Spouse continued to bond with him, and his protective nature became more and more evident.

Of course I couldn't stay mad at him forever. When he's calm, when his anxieties aren't triggered, he's a fun, loving, and loyal dog. We decided to meet with Jared again, and it was amazing what an improvement we saw. There was less barking and yelping, and it was much more controllable. When we passed other dogs, he didn't always bark, and we were able to refocus his attention to us and the walk. A few days after our second session with Jared, the Spouse and I took OBF for a walk ourselves. The pulling and tugging had decreased; we were even able to divert his attention when we crossed paths with another dog. We were thrilled.

I still didn't want to keep him though. His aggression and anxiety made me too nervous. If we used a tone of voice he didn't like, or pulled him by the collar, he growled and showed his teeth. I couldn't run the risk that one day the girls would have a friend over, and OBF would mistake rough-housing for violence and "protect" his girls by biting someone. I love dogs, I want to help them, but I'm not a professional trainer, and owning a dog that might bite is not a risk I'm willing to take. People like Jared who work with these dogs are amazing and brave, but I have small children to worry about.

So we left Our Best Friend's picture on Petfinder, and waited for someone who would be captivated by his beauty and know what do with a dog with "issues."

Getting Out and About

I had lunch with a dear friend yesterday, and, as is my wont, complained about the weather. "It's too cold to walk the dog, even," I whined, then shut right up at the look she gave me. She's training for a half-marathon, and prior to our lunch had run 6.5 km (about 4 miles) and walked another 6.5. The wind whipped and the snow came down, but she ran, and her two dogs ran with her. I picked the wrong person to complain to.


I have to walk dog more. Not just for him, but for me as well. I was diagnosed a few years ago with osteopenia, the precursor to osteoporosis, and I know walking is the best way to add bone density to the hips.

I did walk him to the park last Thursday and this past Monday, but the weather was decent both days. In spite of being born in a city with a climate similar to Moscow (but worse), in my middle age I've come to loathe the cold. It gets into my bones and makes me miserable. Exercise is supposed to improve mood, not worsen it.

Still, it's embarrassing to be such a wussy-pants, especially when your best friend runs marathons. So I compromised. Today I took Our Best Friend to the park, but I drove there. Once there, I walked back and forth at the north end of the park, on an east-west path. I faced south the entire time; the one time I went a bit south and turned back north, my glasses got frostbite.

And I'm not the only wussy-pants, I guess. There were only five people there, including me. Three came with big, husky dogs, like OBF, but one was a woman who has a very cute Scottish terrier. We are nodding and smiling acquaintances, but a language barrier prevents much communication. I watched in amazement as she marched resolutely the whole circuit of the park, wind in her face and all, and the little terrier marched right along at her heels. They do get snow in the Scottish Highlands, so I guess the breed is hardier than it looks, and he had a lovely little red jacket on. Still, he didn't have booties and he's so small, I got colder just watching him.

Our Best Friend had a wonderful time. And I see his social skills improve day by day. For his sake (and my bone's sake) I'll endure it as best I can. But forgive me if I still whimper, "When is it spring again?"

The Magical Mystery Mutt Tour

Today I am joining a "blog hop." Participating bloggers submit pictures and a write-up of their mixed-breed dogs, so we can all play the game, "Guess Which Breeds?"

We play this game at the dog park all the time. I woke up Thursday morning to blinding sunshine reflecting off Wednesday's big snow dump. To my surprise it wasn't nearly as cold outside as it looked, and in order to ease the ever-present guilt, I walked Our Best Friend to the park.

OBF ran around like a rocket, so happy to be outdoors. Then he tried to play with the most interesting looking dog: big ears, long thin tail with a slight curl, and a black coat with an orange brindle barely showing through. With the "Magical Mystery Mutt Tour" in the back of my mind, I asked the owner what kind of dog she was. "SPCA special," he answered. According to them, she was a black lab/shepherd mix. I shook my head. Not with those ears or that body type. If I'd brought my camera, her picture would be here as well.

Then another woman came up to me, pointed at OBF, and said, "Your dog looks just like mine, only brown!" And he did. Her dog was all shades of grey instead of brown, with the same curly tail and collie-like features around the face. The SPCA labelled him a husky/shepherd mix, just like OBF. Two dogs, with a variety of similarities and differences, yet believed to be the same blend. A mutt is, indeed, a mystery.

Here's a picture of our boy. The muzzle is shepherd. You'll have to take my word for the plumy malamute tail. The eyes are husky. The colouring is Australian shepherd (one chow owner at the park thinks the tail and colouring are chow, of course). And once, looking at calendar with a different collie for each month, we realized that OBF has a collie "mole" on each side of his face, and a collie-like ruff under the chin. He weighs in at about 65-70 pounds, but he's slightly smaller than the average shepherd. And next to a collie, he doesn't look collie at all.

When we walk as a family, he goes insane if the girls walk ahead where he can't protect them. He gallops around them in circles at the park. He's overprotective to an extreme, of us and other dogs he likes, and he's super-intelligent (except when it comes to playing with other dogs). I say he's German shepherd all summer and husky all winter.

Any opinions?

Zach (January 7, 1996 - January 31, 2011)

Zach in his prime

According to the charts, he was 115 (human) years old.  Tibetan Mastiffs have an average lifespan of ten to fourteen years, longer than most large-breed dogs, but any dog owner will tell you it's never long enough.

The Mother-in-Law always called Zach a "gitte neshamah," a "good soul," because of his patience and gentility. When the Brother-in-Law brought him home from Virginia fifteen years ago, he was a big ball of fluff, and the BiL used to carry him around in his arms because he was afraid to climb the stairs. The MiL fell instantly in love with the "big teddy bear," and within a month Zena came north to join her littermate so Mom could have a dog too. Zena was the runt of the litter, and Zach always looked out for her, something that made the BiL pick him in the first place. The two of them never passed each other without a wag of the tail and lick on the face. When Zina was put to sleep two years ago, Zach didn't eat for three days.  He knew someone important to him was gone, and he grieved.

He was a gentle giant, nervous about everything. When he was a puppy, he slid and went splat in the marble entry hall to the condo building; that floor terrified him ever after. Every time he went around the corner from hall to kitchen in the apartment, he put one paw down very gingerly, and took his time; he'd had a fall there too.  He barked up a storm when the doorbell rang, but greeted everyone who entered with a dignified wag of the tail and a gentle nudge of the nose.  He never jumped, and seldom licked.  In the true manner of a TM, he was aloof and independent, yet never unfriendly. He bore up manfully under petting from small children, but would eventually just get up and walk away.

He shed. My lord, did he shed.  The BiL couldn't be bothered to groom him on a regular basis, and the clumps of fur drove me nuts.  I used to take him out on the balcony, and brush and pull and gather enough to knit a sweater.  Zach didn't care much for this.  One day, as I enthusiastically pulled and tugged at his coat, he kept getting up and moving to the door, and I kept grabbing him and pulling him back. Finally, he let me know in no uncertain terms he had had enough. This enormous, 120-pound dog, who could rip my arm off if he wanted to, started to cry. And he won-- I didn't have the heart to keep brushing him.

The family brought him here for the Eldest's birthday last year, because Zach was very much part of the family and we wanted him with us. Our Best Friend felt threatened by the presence of such a big alpha male in his house, and finally attacked him, biting him over the eye. I came very close to getting rid of OBF after that. The BiL convinced me that OBF is a good dog, just insecure, and that time and patience would cure this aggression. As much as I love him, I still haven't forgiven OBF for this. It taught me something important about my dog, but I'm sorry the lesson came at Zach's expense.

Our last visit with Zach involved a trip to his dog park, and I think it was the best good-bye we could have had.  I knew in my heart I probably wouldn't see him again; sure enough, a few weeks later he was diagnosed with a growth on his liver. The BiL didn't think Zach would make it to his birthday, but he did; he even made it to the BiL's birthday a few weeks later.  Then, as last week wound down, it became evident that Zach's quality of life was declining. So today, the BiL, his sister, and mother all went with Zach to the vet for his final visit.

I won't believe he's gone until we go out there on our next visit, and there's no black polar bear to greet us.  The house will seem empty.  Rest in peace, Zach, our gentle giant, our "gitte neshamah."

The Pet Blogger Challenge

I'm a pretty decent writer, but a lousy business person and networker. For quite a while now, I've been trying to find other personal blogs about dogs, or even pets in general, so I could exchange links and acquire new readers. I thought it would be easy, but my poor networking skills translated into bad blog-finding skills. I found blogs that had been abandoned in 2008 after a single post; blogs that were pictures but no text; and glossy, intimidating blogs put together by magazines or non-profit organizations that were slick and professional and not likely to exchange links with the likes of me.

Finally, I typed the simple words "dog blog" into the WordPress search bar and found what I was looking for. And the first thing I found was the pet blogger challenge. Of course, typical of my professional luck in general and my blogging luck in particular, the entry date for the challenge has passed. I'm filling out the questionnaire anyway; what have I got to lose?

1. When did you begin your blog?

I started my blog at www.ourdogpark.blogspot.com on June 22, 2010. I then migrated it to www.thebarkpark.wordpress.com sometime in November or December. Right now I maintain the blog at both URLs. (I have since discovered that ourdogpark.wordpress.com is available too, and grabbed it, but can't figure out how to move the blog to the new URL. Of course, what I really want is thedogpark.worpress.com, but it's taken. And the last post there was 2007. Figures.)

2. What was your original purpose for starting a blog?

Blogging serves a double purpose for me: to entertain and to alleviate writer's block. I had not written in years; meanwhile, in the process of fostering abandoned dogs, we had come to own a large, anxiety-ridden, German shepherd/husky/malamute/Australian shepherd/you-name-it cross, who is both a nuisance and a delight. Our experiences with him, and our life at the dog park, provided a blocked writer with the necessary starting place for a blog.

3. Is your current purpose the same? If not, what’s different? If so, how do you feel you’ve met your goals?

I still struggle to write. Sometimes the posts just flow, and sometimes they sit in the draft folder and take ages to see the computer backlight. Although technically it's a blog about dogs and the dog park, I've also blogged about feral cats and our fostering experiences.

The underlying theme of "Our Dog Park" is what our experiences with animals and other pet owners show us about human nature. Part of the goal has always been to tell some funny stories, and reach people who do not own dogs or pets of any kind. If one of my non-animal-loving friends says she enjoyed a post, I feel my writing succeeded. The trick is getting people to read it in the first place, without assuming, "Oh, this won't interest me, I'm not a dog person."

4. Do you blog on a schedule or as the spirit moves you? If the former, how often — and what techniques do you use to stick to it? If the latter, do you worry about… well, whatever you might worry about (e.g. losing traffic, losing momentum)?

I wish I blogged on a regular schedule! We live in a harsh northern clime, so the poor dog (and we along with him) has been languishing indoors most of the time. Generally I write when I feel I have something to write about, but I know that irregular and infrequent posting is the kiss of death for a blog. If you don't post regularly, people will stop checking you out. So I try to find something to write about at least once a week. I don't always succeed.

5. Are you generating income from your blog? If so, how (e.g. sponsor ads, affiliate relationships, spokesperson opportunities)? If not currently, do you hope to in the future — and how?

Money? First you need traffic.... Without enough followers, it's hard attract sponsors or make money. I found AdSense on Blogger too complicated to deal with, and not worth the time for the limited number of hits I generated.
The pipe dream is that one day all these disparate posts will fall into a coherent whole, and I can publish them in book form. (There's no law against dreaming, right?)

6. What do you like most about blogging in general and your blog in particular (bragging is good!)?

I enjoy knowing that whatever I choose to write is available for anyone to read; they just have to be "lucky" enough to stumble upon it. My readers give me lots of positive feedback, though not necessarily in the comment boxes. And I think that what I do is a little bit different from other blogs about animals; I write about dogs, but about people too, and how our similarities often trump our differences. My favourite post is Unfinished Business, which is really about friendship, and how compartmentalized our lives can be.

7. What do you like least?

I had hoped to have a bigger readership by now... Blogging can be like shouting in the wind. Site stats tell you you've had readers, but when they don't leave comments, you don't know if they liked what you wrote or not, or if they'll be back. I wouldn't mind making some money from this, either.

8. How do you see your blog changing or growing in 2011?

I hope to write more posts, attract more readers, generate more comments, and have more fun!

Nemesis

We met King on one of our first visits to the dog park with Our Best Friend. King is a huge malamute with squinty eyes, and he took an immediate dislike to OBF. "Yeah, that's King," his owner said. "He either loves or hates you. Better keep your dog away from him." I detected a hint of pride in his voice at his dog's snobbery, and I resented the idea that my dog was the one who needed to watch his step. By all means, let's allow the bullies to make the rules.


Now, OBF definitely has social issues. He's inept at play, and sometimes barks aggressively or inappropriately at other dogs. But he's trying, and the other dogs will usually just leave him alone. Our friends at the park understand his issues, and try their best to help. If I feel he’s being really over the top, I grab him and make him sit with me. OBF knows "sit" and "stay," and he obeys it, even at the park. He certainly never goes after another dog unprovoked. If he did, I’d be mortified. So would the Spouse. So would any responsible dog owner.

King's owner doesn't have a problem with his dog's selective aggression; if King doesn't like a dog, it’s the other dog’s problem. And King goes out of his way to make OBF feel threatened and unwelcome. He doesn't attack, he doesn't go head-to-head; he just sidles up next to OBF and emits this low, threatening growl. OBF stands there with a confused look on his face, but never reacts. If I call him, he's more than happy to escape King and come to me. When OBF tries to play with another dog, King will come up and try to run OBF off. This all very annoying.

Fortunately, King doesn't seem to come to the park very often anymore.  Then, on our way to the park last week, I saw a woman walking a very large malamute. I thought, "What a huge dog! It's as big as King.... but it can't be him, that's not his owner."

We got to the park, and for some reason I had trouble removing OBF's leash between the gates. Next thing I knew, King had his face pressed against the wire gate, growling at OBF.

Our Best Friend, trapped between two gates, leashed, and feeling hugely vulnerable, finally snapped. He started barking insanely at King; if there hadn't been a gate between them, there would have been blood. I tried to get OBF calm, with zero affect whatsoever. Fortunately, King's owner came running up, and for the first time I met the female half of the family.

I lost it a bit too. I told her that King always aggresses OBF, that this scene was entirely King's fault. She apologized, then gently suggested I take OBF back out so she could distract King. I took OBF out the first gate until King was safely away, then led him back. His eyes were on King as I removed his leash and opened the gate, and he shot off straight at him. Fortunately, King was half-way across the park by then. I called OBF, he stopped to pee, and the moment of crisis passed.

I can't help contrasting the difference between husband and wife. His "my dog can do no wrong" attitude is out of place in a park that prides itself on its safety and welcome for dogs of all sizes and breeds. He gets away with bringing King because King doesn’t attack-- he just threatens. One day some other dog will not take kindly to King's implied threats, and things will get ugly. I'm willing to bet King's owner will blame the other dog.

The wife was more apologetic, and kept King on the other side of the park. At one point he did wander back and did his usual push-up-against OBF's shoulder and growl. I held my breath, thinking OBF would remember the encounter at the gate and lose it, but he didn't. He had his usual confused "I'm not sure what's happening here, but I'm just going to ignore it" look on his face, and came the instant I called, glad for an excuse to get away from King without losing face. King's owner came and grabbed him, and again she apologized. If King's male owner showed as much disapproval of his dog's actions, King might be a better dog.

Cesar Millan believes that dogs learn attitudes and behaviours from their owners. Calm assertive owners have calm obedient dogs, anxious uncertain owners have neurotic dogs. And I suppose men who think aggressive dogs make them seem more macho are going to have dogs like King-- or worse. A dog, like a fancy car, can be an expression of the owner's ego. We're doing everything we can to make Our Best Friend a better dog, to improve his social skills, to lessen his anxiety. When someone approves of their dog's aggressive and anti-social behaviour, it says more about the owner than it does about the dog.

The Winding Path to Dog Ownership, Part VI(a): Enter Our Best Friend

After the disaster of Caramel and Cocoa, we decided to take a break from fostering. While Cookie had been a wonderful experience, we quickly learned that abandoned dogs often come with behaviour problems. While these issues are never the dog’s fault, we are not dog psychologists or professional trainers, and we didn’t have the patience, time, or knowledge needed to, in the words of Cesar Millan, “rehabilitate” dogs.

Well, as they say, man plans, G-d laughs. Barely a week later, our “lady who does” asked if we would take in a dog her granddaughter had picked up in the street. The dog was running loose, but when Stacey called “Come, boy,” he came to her. He had a choke chain, but no ID tags. She knocked on a few doors, asking if anyone knew whose dog it was. Finally, one person told her, “He lives in that house over there, but he’s been outside for a few days now, and I don’t think they’re feeding him.” Stacey went to “that house over there” but no one answered, so she took him home.

The dog had been living with Kate for two days. He was completely housebroken, seemed non-aggressive, and didn’t bother her cats. She showed us a picture. My immediate response was no—I saw a German shepherd mix, and didn’t want anything that big or that potentially aggressive. The Spouse saw a gorgeous animal. The next day I picked up Our Best Friend and home we went.

Well, he is gorgeous. A big, plumy, wavy tail, intelligent face, and a coat all shades of brown. He’s smaller than a shepherd, but just as smart. He learned his new name the first day, and already knew “sit” and “lie down.” Plus he didn’t try to climb on the bed, a bonus for me just recovering from two sleepless months sharing a bed with Caramel and Cocoa.

However, OBF’s anxiety was clear from the moment we met. He cried all the way home in the car, and jumped back and forth over the seats until he squished in between me and the passenger seat. While he seemed friendly and played beautifully with the children, he showed a fear of adult males, and growled at a stern voice saying “No.” When we tried walking him, he pulled on the leash; if he saw another dog, even three blocks away, he lunged forward and barked uncontrollably. Handsome as he was, I saw a big dog with “issues” that could end with someone getting bitten. I told Marisa to put him up on Petfinder and find him a home.

But because of OBF’s dog aggression, Marisa had a tough time finding another home for him, and the longer we had him, the more attached everyone got. OBF was just so darn smart. The Oldest taught him a slew of tricks in no time at all. He loved to play ball in the back yard, and seemed eager to please as long he didn’t feel threatened. In spite of his initial fears, he quickly bonded to the Spouse, and slept on the floor beside him every night. Kate said if we’d keep him, she’d babysit anytime we went out of town. After two months, I invested in rabies shots and a check-up at the vet. We decided to have him evaluated to see if he was “salvageable,” and took him to Jason at K9 Corps, who offered a free assessment.

Jason operated out of a storefront in a rundown commercial area. He asked us a few questions, tested OBF’s reaction to loud noises, and then swung his clipboard toward the dog’s face in a slow-motion move. OBF immediately sprang to his feet and began barking aggressively. Jason nodded and said, “This dog’s been hit.” Some dogs, when abused, become cowering and submissive. Others engage in defensive aggression. OBF clearly fell into the second camp.

Jason then impressed us with a display of obedience from one of his pupils, a little cocker spaniel who obeyed a rapid series of “sit/up/sit/up/sit/up” commands like a marionette on a string, while completely ignoring OBF, who was barking hideously the whole time. He told us OBF could be every bit as obedient—for $500, give or take, with lessons every week for about 6-8 weeks, and 15 minutes of daily reinforcement at home. We told him we’d get back to him.

We put OBF in the back of the van and got in. As we drove off, the Spouse asked, “What do think?”

I started to cry, thinking of how sad the kids would be, and how money, again, had to be a deciding factor. “We don’t have $500. Not for dog training, anyhow. I don’t want a dog that might bite someone, and I don’t have the energy or strength to train a dog that big. If he was Yorkshire terrier, I could pin him to the floor if he tries to bite, but I’m not strong enough to wrestle with Our Best Friend. He’s going to have to go.”

“Whatever you say,” he said, then added, “Let’s see how it goes over the next little while.”

I knew I wasn’t getting rid of this dog so fast.

Fairy Dogparents

Here's a little feel-good story to start off the new year.

Economic times are rough, and animal welfare experts will tell you that when money grows short, the family pet is often abandoned or given to a shelter because its owners have to make a choice between feeding the pet and feeding themselves. At the same time, animal lovers know the difference a pet can make in life of someone who is lonely or struggling with hardship.

Enter Fairy Dogparents.  The brainchild of Marlo Manning, Fairy Dogparents is a non-profit organization  that provides food and vet care for dogs whose owners are facing difficult financial times so they are not forced to give up their pet.  The charity operates in Massachusetts, and is fairly new.

For the full story, watch this "Making a Difference" segment with Brian Williams of NBC.