Shelter Dog Stories

Oso!

2011-01-04T18:20:00.000-08:00

Oso means bear in Spanish, and it's easy to see why someone might choose this name for this guy. He's brown, and thick bodied, with shaggy fur. He looks, surprise surprise, a lot like a little bear. Hence, Oso.

And I'm glad to say that you won't find him on the humane society's website anymore, because he's been adopted.
That's good, because he'd gotten shier in the time between our first and second walk. He was seeming a little stressed. He shied away from me, and was scared. I had to let him back away from the harness a few times, and then drape it across his neck without fastening it for a while, before we could walk.

Once we went out, though, and he wasn't near the other dog noise, he really prowls. He's a strong boy, and pulls when he wants to, which is most of the time. He is definitely a boy dog: if he can reach it, he's going to pee on it. But it was really nice to watch him go from cowering in the kennel to prancing on the road, and walking with an open-mouthed grin and a peacock's tail.

Drake Update

2010-10-26T20:52:00.001-07:00

To all who have asked how Drake is doing, I'm sorry for the delay. The short answer is, he's doing really well, and we're crazy.

To expand on that a bit, after the first very crippled post-surgery weeks, maybe the first month, Drake started feeling better. He wanted to do the normal Drake things that he does with such passion, like…
chasing squirrels
wrestling with other dogs
jumping around
fetching the ball
playing tug of war
zipping back and forth quickly

The only problem with that list? He was specifically not supposed to do any of them. In fact, we were told, don't let Drake
chase squirrels
play with other dogs (even very small puppies)
jump (ever)
fetch
play tug of war
change direction quickly.

In short, we were told, keep Drake from doing 90+% of the things he loves most in life. Oh yes, Drake was also on a veeeery limited exercise regime. Week 3, for example, he could walk 5 minutes a day. Week 4, he could walk 10 minutes and swim 5 minutes. Week 5, walk 15 and swim 10, and so on.

Well, from about Week 5 through Week 8, he seemed to feel like he was back to normal. He wasn't, of course, and when he overdid it, he ended up limping, or sitting still in recovery. I lost track of how many times I had to carry him home because we went too far and he was in pain and didn't want to walk home. To be fair, the farthest I ever carried him was about a third of a mile, but that's plenty. He weighs about 70 pounds and, even though he loves to be carried, that doesn’t mean it is always easy. For example, in the middle of the longest carry, he suddenly felt really affectionate. This meant I was walking down hill, carrying him in my arms, while he nibbled on my nose and blocked out all vision directly in front of me.

He got very frustrated with being penned up. He started barking at us, a lot, and nipping at us some times. He started being more resistant than before. For example, because he wanted to jump so badly, he'd stop while I was walking him, until the leash and my arm was stretched out behind me. Then he'd run and jump forward, towards the front, snapping the leash straight and yanking my arm darn near out of its socket.

We were supposed to help him on and off the couch; he got good as slinking under our hands and jumping up on his own, and/or slowing down and looking away, so it seemed like he was heading somewhere else, then jumping onto the couch.

As he got more crazy, resistant, and barky, he tried harder to do things that they warned us might blow out the knee and make us start over with a new (and very expensive) surgery. This meant that all of our energy was spent protecting Drake, then snapping over to wanting to kill him. I screamed at Drake more often than I care to admit, and cried with frustration more than once. It seemed like from 6 something in the morning until 11 something PM, we were on Drake duty, and it was just too damn hard.

He is, however, better, and that's very good. At eight weeks they cleared us to up the exercise level, and, at nine weeks, to start doing brief jogs. By weeks 10-11, we were up to 75 -80 minutes walk a day, plus a swim (often), plus 5-7 minutes of running. Week 12, we started throwing the tennis ball again, and today, I let Drake play off leash with a dog friend for the first time in…jeez. Almost four months. He was crazy happy, and is a much better dog today. Which is good, because that means I don't have to kill him.

Greg

3 Week Update

2010-08-19T17:56:00.000-07:00

So, we're at 3 weeks post surgery today for Drake.
Whew! Things are kinda hard some of the time. Maybe a lot of the time.

Today was good. At the two week check up with the vet, Dr. Masan had said Drake could start swimming five minutes a day…in a week. That was a week ago, so today we put his bright yellow life vest on him and took him to the lake, where he got to motor around for five minutes.

Swimming for exercise really isn't his thing: he's more of a "get exercise by chasing/chewing/etc." kind of dog. But we did swim out a ways, and round about, and it was good to see him moving more smoothly.

What's been hard has been the fact that he's feeling better and better, and is only supposed to walk….one block per day. We've broken that up, and taken 30 minutes to go to the mailbox and back. (Literally. I timed it.) And I'll sit with Drake in the sun for blocks of time: probably two hours a day. But he's going crazy from inactivity, and is starting to jump around, which is absolutely forbidden.

Today we got to add five minutes of swimming, and another block of walking, each day. That's a five minute swim and two blocks of walking, plus peeing. That's not so much for a dog that used to get 80-100 minutes of walk, 40+ minutes of swim (and play in the weeds near the water, plus go outside to chase squirrels whenever he wanted).

Everyone's sanity's wearing a little thing.

But the swim helped, and Drake was a big hit at the two week check up. All the workers came out to see him, and he wanted, god help us all, to tackle a big dog to play.

So…I'm tired. Kathy's tired. Drake's tired of being inside invalid dog.

Sigh.
Greg

The First Drake Update

2010-08-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

Whew!I had meant to update everyone on Drake’s condition before this, but his rehab has been so labor intensive that I’ve kept notes, but didn’t have any time to write them up. He’s sleeping now, so I’ll try to update everyone.

In July, Drake was diagnosed with a torn cruciate ligament in his left rear leg. Given his breed and activity level, the vet advised us to have a TPLO, which stands for tibial plateau leveling osteotomy. This would, the specialist assured us, return Drake to 99% of health…after an extended and rigorous rehab.

That’s where we are now. On July 31, 2010, Drake had the TPLO. He stayed at Seattle Veterinary Specialists in Kirkland over night. We picked him up the next day.

He was pretty out of it, then and the next day, and we got our first surprise: he had tried to lick the stitches, which would eventually tear them out, and so had to wear the cone of shame (pictures are coming). They tried a floppy cone. Drake, um, ate it. Well, he shredded it. So, he got the big plastic cone. He hates it, and it was too big for the crate (at least for him to turn around in it), and since he is supposed to sleep with the leg stretched out, that left us with him sleeping outside the crate. The problem with that? He’s not allowed to jump, climb stairs, get on a couch by himself, or move quickly for some time. That means he has to be in a crate or be watched. Since he can’t be in the crate, that meant Kathy and I were suddenly sleeping on the floor to keep him safe.

We put down cushions and blankets, but Drake has been restless with pain and drugs (we can’t always tell which), and so gets up often. He also bumps the cone into things: things like chairs…faces…groins. He loves being on the couch, and seems to be sleeping there better, some of the time, so we put him up there. Taken together, this means we’re sleeping on the floor and waking every hour to lift Drake, keep him from jumping, move his cone from where he’s stuck, etc.

He started feeling better a few days ago, and that’s not good. Drake is supposed to be kept quiet and still; Drake’s nature is loud and springy. That means when he stopped hurting, he started trying to self-destruct.

This has led to many battles of will, some compromises, and some use of vet-approved sedatives. The battles of will are over how far Drake gets to walk: the vet says only into the yard to pee; Drake says let’s go way down there. As a result, we do a lot of standing at the edge of the yard (as far as I can justify) with me saying “Other way, Drake.” The vet said don’t let Drake go outside, but he goes crazy inside, so I walk him a few feet out, and we sit down in the grass. I then crouch or sit over him, with a hand closed around the collar, so he can’t jump up and blow out his knee. Again. The sedatives have helped calm him down, as we were promised, but the suggested dose was waaay too high, and he ended up loopy. My favorite example of this is that Drake nibbled my nose to say hi…and then fell asleep with his teeth closed on my nose. He actually snored.

Thus far, on Day 9 after the surgery, Drake seems to be healing well. We, however, are exhausted, and counting the days until Drake’s 2 week check up. That’s when he gets his stitches out, which means he can sleep in his crate and we can sleep in the bed. That’s also when he gets to start taking little walks, and (cross your fingers) going for brief swims.

Let’s see, what else is interesting about the post-surgery days? Oh yes, between the empty belly on the surgery days and the side effects of the pain killers, it was days before he pooped. This meant Drake got to extend every “walk” for a long time, with me waiting for…well. Things to move through the system.

Also, the signals. Drake gets regular walks, and the back yard is fenced, so he can go to the bathroom whenever he wants. What this means is, we’ve never had to learn his “I have to go outside” signals, and he’s never had to give them. So, some of the time he’s whining, due to frustration, and we read it as a need to pee. Some of the time he’s whimpering to poop, and we think he’s frustrated. It’s led to some confusion.

Drake’s extremely affectionate, but he’s more than ready to be done with this. In fact, I’ll close this first update with the best example of that. He whimpered, and I thought I read it right: he has to poop. He hobbled outside (I’m supporting his hindquarters with a sling), past the nearby bushes, and…led me to the car. Where he sat down, to wait for me to open the door and drive him to the lake to swim.

Sigh.

A Meeting of the Mutts

2010-07-20T16:23:00.001-07:00

Drake has to have surgery soon, and he'll be doing hydrotherapy afterwards, to rehab his leg. The head of the humane society was gracious enough to offer her old life jackets for Drake, so we went out to the shelter to get them today. This meant Drake got to be returning royalty for a bit, with the workers fawning over him.

It also meant that, just by chance, he got to meet Nalu, and I got to see him again before he left. Yes, Nalu is at long last in foster care. However, before he left, I walked into the lobby of the humane society. A worker warned me: "There's another dog in here. Nalu."

"Oh, Nalu." And we went in. Now, the non-workers there were a little scared by two male pit bulls in a small space, but I knew my boys. They pulled to get to each other, sniffing and playing, and in general had a good time.

Once we got them outside, I put Drake in the car, and turned back to Nalu. He rushed at me and lunged his front paws into the air, so he could hug me. He burrowed his snout into my belly, as if saying, "I’m not leaving."

He was, though. He had to, and unless we were going to adopt him, which we couldn't really do with Drake having the surgery, he was better off.

But my boys met, and Nalu is finally out of that box. That's a good day.

Greg

Eagles and Puppies and Pit Bulls, Oh My!

2010-07-19T15:32:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday Drake I went swimming. That's not news. Ever since he followed two labs into the water about six weeks ago, we've gone swimming almost every day at noon.

Some days we have the lake to ourselves, and I let him off leash. Other days, now that it is warm, we have to share the lake, and I keep him on leash and we swim together. (I just get concerned about people overreacting about a pit bull running free.) Yesterday as we were headed down the trail to the beach, we ran into two teenagers. They were very attentive: "Is your dog friendly?""Yes, absolutely. He loves other dogs."

"Oh good." We saw the reason for their concern a few seconds later. A tiny black lab puppy came bounding around the curve in the trail. He was soaked, and the boys told me, rather proudly, that he'd just had his first swim. He and Drake had a friendly meeting (nose to nose, both tails flailing away, etc.), then Drake told me it was time to go swimming, and we did.

Drake loves other dogs so much that I wasn't sure he'd stay with me, so I kept him on leash for a while. We went swimming out to the center of the little cove, and then something in the air caught my eye.
It was one of the local eagles (there's a nest in the woods we visit most often), flying overhead with a small fish in its beak. "Eagles, Drake!" Drake dropped the tennis ball he was holding and starting swimming in a circle, looking for whatever had caught my eye.

Then something more caught my eye. The eagle was being followed by a crow, who was doing a little Top Gun action on him, trying to get the fish. The crow was diving bombing the eagle, so that the eagle had to turn its beak to one side to keep the fish safe.

I was stunned. The crow was enough smaller than the eagle that at first I thought it was an eaglet, but he wasn't backing down. The eagle flew in a big circle to try to shake him, and the crow hung on, coming at him from above, below, and both sides, trying to get that fish. "Look at that crow!" I yelled.

Eventually, I realized my yelling was freaking Drake out, and since I was standing on firm ground but he was swimming in water over his head, I calmed us down. I helped him float while the aerial battle played out. The eagle kept the fish, but the crow won my respect.

Nalu

2010-07-17T18:06:00.000-07:00

Last week Drake went to doggie day care at Tails a Wagging. (A great place: I can't say too much about it.)The theory behind Drake going to doggie day care is that he'll get a chance to play with other dogs, and we'll get a chance to get things done with him not there.

The reality is, we brought another dog home from the humane society for a day, sort of a one day foster trip. Nalu is a fantastic pit bull I'd been walking at the shelter. Everyone there loves him, and it's hard to say too many good things about him. He is stubborn, of course, but he only uses his stubbornness to try to stay out in the grass, or to lengthen his walks, which makes a lot of sense to me. As nice as the shelter workers are, the kennel has to be a little bit like going to jail. Maybe more than a little bit like that.

In any case, Nalu is a fantastic dog: loving, gentle, etc. He is, however, a male pit bull, and so he's been sitting in the shelter for weeks. He seemed to be going a little crazy, so we brought him home.

It was like springing a kid from boring school and taking him to Disneyland. Nalu loves the grass (rolling in it, lying in it, eating it), and so loved the back yard. But he also misses being someone's dog, and so he slept on Kathy's legs, and on my feet at the desk. He would run in from the outside and jump on to the couch, throwing his head in our laps.

We tried to get everything in on one day: toys, treats, walks in the woods, meeting people, a roll in the water, sleeping with people. He was so happy. If Drake weren't injured, and we weren't afraid of becoming the crazy pit bull house, we'd snap him up. He is simply pure love.

The only painful time of the day was when I took him back to the shelter. He was perfectly willing to go into the building and lick everyone…but he wouldn't look at the door to the kennels. He laid down on the floor and looked away, then looked up to charm /beg me. He was ready to be my dog.
Sigh.

Things in my Pits

2010-07-16T20:21:00.000-07:00

As a mailbox was ruffling my underarm hair, I mused over just how many things I've had in my armpits.

It isn't something I used to give much thought to. After all, for most people there's a shirt, a finger, and, ideally, deodorant. Otherwise…?

However, in recent months I've accumulated quite the tally of things in my pits. Today, of course, saw not one but six mailboxes, one after another, skimming the flesh and hair o'me pits. Or rather, five skimmed, and one kind of dug in, because Drake shifted a bit, pulling me forward.

In other words, I blame Drake for these many things in my armpits. Today he wanted to walk on the other side of the mailboxes, and I thought it was easier to let him than to renegotiate with a stubborn pit bull. I was largely correct, until one mailbox was a little taller than the rest. Scrape!

I've also lost track of how many trees I've had in my armpits. This sounds unlikely, I know, but the woods near our house has a lot of scrub trees in it. They're pretty flexible, and many are only four or five foot tall. Since Drake likes to take the smallest trails he can, we sometimes end up walking right over these trees, with the trunks sliding along the leash and popping up again in a tingling and spritely fashion into my armpits.

There's the leash itself, of course, which sometimes gets wrapped around, especially when I'm bracing myself, and any number of bugs and blackberry thorns, which carve brief and bloody trails through areas best left unplowed.

Recently, there's been a Boston Terrier by the name of Roscoe. Drake and I have been getting him to take him for walks, and he likes to ride on the arm rest between Drake and me, his soft and pointy gargoyle ears tickling my pits.

Finally, of course, there's Drake himself, who is a rather… intimate dog. He can time a yawn perfectly, to lick the inside of your mouth, and who seems to think that any bend in a limb is an invitation to snuggle in. Unlike some animals, who only tuck certain parts in when they snuggle, Drake's fine with any part of his body being tucked into any bend in someone else's. So a snout? Sure. A doggy knee? Of course. A bizarrely exposed groin? You know it.

All in me pits.

Darn Ducks

2010-06-01T20:38:00.000-07:00

So, Drake and I had another encounter with the ducks, and this one was a lot scarier. The first one, I was scared that Drake would catch a duckling and chomp chomp chomp. This time, I was getting ready for a little mouth to snout resuscitation.

You see, we went to the lake, like we have every day for the past two weeks. For those of you watching the weather here in the northwest, that means there's been some swimming in 50 degree weather after nights in the 40s, in a steady rain. In fact, the guy making my sandwich today asked, "So how's your day going?"

"Pretty good," I answered. "I took the dog swimming at noon."

"Dogs are amazing," he said. "They can tolerate such cold water. They go swimming when we wouldn't even think about it."

"Um, I went with him."

"Dear God!"

But I digress.

In any case, we went back to the same beach, and I made loud noises to scare away Momma Duck. She was nowhere to be seen, and I thought we were fine. We started throwing and retrieving the ball…and some other ducks showed up.

If the first batch were "Aw shucks ain't that cute" ducklings, these were the "Let's stick our beaks in here and see what happens" teenage boys of ducks. For example, when I clapped my hands at Momma Duck, she and the ducklings paddled away as fast as possible. When I clapped my hands at these half-grown ducks, they swim fluttered towards me, to see what the loud noises were. Shouts of "Get away you stupid ducks!" rolled off their backs like…and I was surprised to see that they went after tennis balls.

And when they did, Drake swam after them. He almost got them, and there was no kidding around like Momma Duck had done. They weren't going slowly to tease him, they mistimed the leap, and they almost died.

Cue the revenge of the ducks. They swam straight out from shore. So did Drake.

They swam farther, until they were barely visible. So did Drake.

They got out to the navigation buoys, far beyond where I usually went. So did Drake.

I was yelling after them, promising Drake all kinds of treats, and eventually, he gave up and let the ducks escape. He made this sloooow turn around, and by this time he was flailing. Remember, he's not a lab. He's a pit pull, about as buoyant as a brick, and he's only been swimming for about two and a half weeks. His endurance is still pretty low. So I'm wading out towards him, in the freaking rain and freaking chilly lake, waving my arms.

The first time he went swimming, he got this panicked look when he turned around and saw how far away the shore was. He was about three times that far out today, and he got that same look.

He swam past a lone piling, the only remnant of an old dock. He tried to clamp on with his jaws for a rest, but couldn't get a grip.

So he swam for me, wheezing and blowing, and churning away. And he made it.

He wouldn’t have drowned—I was ready to swim after him—but I was pretty sure he was going under. And I was wrong, and he wasn't worried at all. Once he got back to shore. But he was so cold he was shivering, and he was exhausted.

Darn ducks.

I Almost Killed Bambi's Mother

2010-05-24T20:32:00.001-07:00

So, I almost killed Bambi's mother today. Well, actually, technically speaking, Drake almost killed a dozen baby ducks, but it felt the same.

You see, it happened this way. We went to the lake, as we've done almost every day since Drake learned to swim. We made our way along the trail to the little beach, and I unhooked Drake's leash.

As I finished, I noticed that something was bobbing in the water, just on the other side of the massive log that floats in front of the beach. After—naturally—the leash was off, I realized it was a mother duck and what looked like a dozen baby ducklings. They were cute and fuzzy, and Drake was after them like a shot.

I said, "Oh, crap," and started to wade in after him, several beats behind. And all of a sudden, we switched genres. We weren't in Bambi, and Bambi's mother wasn't about to die. Instead, we were in a textbook nature show.

Because as soon as Drake leapt the log, the ducklings all peeled off to the right, and the momma duck swam to the left. I've seen ducks swim. They can swim faster than this. She was keeping it intentionally slow, to stay just a few feet ahead of Drake. They can also swim smoother than this, and quieter. Momma Duck was splashing as she swam, to keep Drake's attention, and letting out a continually changing stream of duck sounds.

qua-Quack-ak-ak-QUACK, mix and repeat.

Drake was hypnotized. He swam after her all the way along the beach, until the public property ended and the sand was replaced by grass and a dock. Momma Duck could have flown away at any time, but she led him all the way past the sand, turned left up the grass, and led Drake out of line of sight of the water. Only then did she fly away, up and over the bushes, and past me in the air as she headed off to the right where every one of the ducklings had successfully disappeared.
Drake spent some time looking for her, thus confirming her victory, and then eventually ambled back to the water.

That was one skilled Momma Duck. The ducklings were much slower, and far more vulnerable. And she saved each and every one of them.

Drake Learns to Swim

2010-05-20T19:54:00.001-07:00

When we first got Drake, he was bizarrely and emphatically opposed to getting wet. If he stepped in a puddle, he'd jump into the air. If it was raining, he'd slap his but down on the porch and refuse to step out into it, even if it meant holding his pee for hours. He never had an accident, but he never let himself get pulled out into the rain, either.
He's slowly gotten better. He will now walk in mist, and he doesn't jump into the air when he gets a paw wet.

Well, about 10 days ago, there was a breakthrough. Drake learned to swim. We were at an off leash dog park, and some of the impromptu pack were chasing one another along the shore. Drake followed.

One of the other humans there threw a ball for her dog. The dog swam out to get it. And Drake followed.

The dog came back, and someone else threw the ball a long, long way. The dog swam out after it. And Drake followed…until the dog decided the ball was too far away and turned around. The dog swam back to shore, and Drake lurched on. He wasn't good at swimming, and he was splashing in every direction. I got ready to swim after him, but he got the ball, motored around, and wheezed his way back to shore. It may be the first time a pit bull has ever out swum a lab. It was more stubbornness than sense, but it was impressive.

That's Not a Trail

2010-05-18T17:21:00.000-07:00

Drake and I have an ongoing disagreement.

He thinks that any gap in the underbrush should be considered a trail, and that we can walk that trail.

I think that for something to be considered a trail, I should be able to a) stand up and b) not bleed while walking on it. Thus far, we are still arguing over who is right.

It's not that I'm not willing to crawl to take him on a "walk." I've done it before. Actually, I did it this morning. It wasn't that long a crawl, after all, and how else could we get through the space in the bush that Drake had leapt through? He was already on the other side, hot on the scent (literally: he was panting after some deer trail), and trying to coax him back didn't seem the best idea. Since the bush got really thick about three and a half feet above ground, I crawled. No problem.

It's also not like the trail has to exist at all points along the way. At one point in Whatcom Falls Park, there's a trail that has eroded away, so that it's just a flat vertical surface on the cliff face at some points. It wasn't the wisest thing to do, but I have slung Drake over my shoulder and streeeeeched from foothold to foothold. We didn't die.

Likewise, I'm willing to bleed if I have to. I actually don't begrudge Drake the time he jumped as I was trying to go uphill, and I landed on the edge of a cut stump and sliced my shin open. That was mostly my fault; I hadn't slowed him down.

But crawling and bleeding: that's where I draw the line. And you know, it's particularly hard to get stinging nettles out of your flesh when you're crawling on them. Or maybe that's just me.
So, the disagreement: that's not a trail. He's willing to meet me part way. He'll take another trail if it is a better trail. He'll take another trail if he can't get through (and a trail that's so thickly overgrown that an energetic young pit bull can't get through is, no questions asked, not a trail). He'll take another trail if he'd have to walk in especially cold water. But then there's that fuzzy gray area where we're still negotiating.

Say it with me: That's not a trail.

The Man in Black?

2010-01-13T17:48:00.000-08:00

I don't know who named Johnny Cash Johnny Cash.

I mean, shouldn't Johnny Cash be the dog in black, as in a black lab or Rottweiler? Or maybe a Doberman?

Shouldn't he be a rebel?

Or shouldn't he at least howl soulfully?Well, this Johnny Cash is a pit bull, a patchwork of brown and white. And a sweetheart. He was outside in the exercise area when I came to get him, and when I opened the door, he rose up on his back legs and jammed his body against me, tucking his head against my belly like he was a puppy and I the mama dog. I had to stand hugging him for close to two minutes before we could even start our walk.

Once we did, he was attached and affectionate. He looked at me often, pulled rarely (most of the time I walked him with one finger tucked into the handle of the leash), and in general was a gentle, snuggly guy.
At the half-way point in the walk, when we turned around, he hugged me again, and we had a sitting snuggle. He sat in the road, tail tucked against my feet, and leaned back to licked under the chin. I supported and embraced. (Drake does this so often we have a name for it: the cave.)

He was a little trouble at one point. He isn't fixed, and felt the urge to hump a leg a bit, but hey, if that's all the trouble an unfixed male dog produces on first meeting, that's nothing.

I don't know who named him Johnny Cash, but I do know that he's a sweet dog. Once again I face the central mystery of my time at the humane society: how could anyone give up a dog like this?

On Rainy Days

2010-01-09T16:53:00.000-08:00

On rainy days, I am overwhelmed with guilt and anger. And I'm wet, of course.

I'm overwhelmed because sometimes when I go out to the humane society on rainy days, no one else has been there to walk dogs. Take yesterday as an example. I had gone to the Williamson Way shelter earlier in the day and walked a dog there, then went to the Baker Creek shelter to walk a second dog at the end of my errands.

I got there, said hello to everyone, and ducked into the volunteer office. And froze. There's a chalkboard on the wall so you can track which dogs have been walked and when. The shelter was full…and the chalkboard was blank.

I went back out to the front desk and asked, "Is the board right?"

"Yep."

"So, no dogs have been walked today?"

"Nope, none of them." Then another of the workers laughed and said, "Better get busy."

I was sort of ashamed. It is easy for me to feel responsible, and so even though I'm a volunteer, and even though I didn't surrender those dogs, or abandon them, or, in Melanie's case, neglect and abuse them, I felt like I'd let them down somehow.

To make it worse, I only had time to walk one dog. I grabbed Peppermint Patty, a high energy dog who a) needed the walk and b) could handle the rain. We went out into the rain, and had a joyous soaking. My shoes are still moist, a full day later, but it was worth it. Patty walked in puddles, shook her coat at me, and repeatedly nosed my hand to let me know how happy she was.

We had a great time. And none of the other dogs got to go for walks that day.

Sigh.

The Scaredest Dog Ever

2010-01-07T11:47:00.001-08:00

The other day Kathy was checking the Whatcom Humane Society's site, to see if they'd updated their information on adoptable dogs. They had, and that was sad.

It was sad because Kathy is even more vulnerable than I am in general to the dogs who have been abused, neglected, or abandoned. (I'm just as vulnerable to specific dogs who have had this happen, when I meet them, but Kathy can read about one and want to adopt it.)

I think it was the section about Melanie not receiving proper nutrition that got to Kathy. The idea of a dog's growth being stunted…yeah.

So, on Tuesday I went to the Baker Creek branch of the shelter, rather than my usual Williamson Way shelter, in order to walk Melanie. Melanie is a German Shorthair Pointer, and she is beyond a doubt the scaredest dog I've ever met. This includes Seth, the chocolate lab who was so scared of the road he wouldn't walk, and who just crawled into my lap. This includes the black lab puppy who was separated from her mom at too young an age and glued herself to my neck for as long as I'd stay in the cage.

Melanie is worse. She's skeletally thin. Forget about seeing ribs—you can see them, count them, etc. Above her hips, at the narrowest part of her body, I can get my thumb and index finger over her, like a large orange.

Melanie flattened into her cage, making herself as small as possible, and when the other dogs started barking because I was there, refused to move. She jerks forward in short bursts, then hunkers to the ground. It took four bursts of movement to get her out the short hallway in the shelter, and I only got her outside because one of the workers saw us coming and left the outside door open for us.

The nub of her tail stayed tucked between her legs the entire first walk except for maybe two bursts of about two seconds when it wiggled out. She jumped at every stray sound, every breeze, every unexpected motion.

The one exception? A dachshund puppy escaped from a teenager who was getting into a car, and Mel perked up. It ran towards us, and it was the only thing all walk that she didn't run away from.

More soon.
Greg

Are Either of These Collars His?

2010-01-06T11:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Drake had a Tails Day. This meant he went to Tails a Wagging doggy day care. Many of the folks who take their dogs to Tails do it so their dogs aren't home alone all day. Since I work from home, that's not an issue. We take Drake to Tails because he's so incredibly social that it is a treat for him. He loves other dogs, and this gives him a chance to spend the whole day playing with them.

Tails is a fine establishment. It's a fine blend of caring and professional, and they really accept the dogs for who they are. Here's an example. Yesterday when I picked up Drake, Angi, the owner, brought him out from the back wearing two collars: his own blue one, and a wider one that was bright pink.

"Are either of these collars his?" Angi asked.

"Yes, the blue one is," I said.

"Okay!" Angi started taking off the pink collar.

As she did, I asked, "Why is he wearing two collars?"

"Oh, we often put two or three collars on Drake."

"Um, why?"

"Protection. All the puppies chew on him, and he won't ever push them away, so the extra collars give him some protection."

"Wow!"

That's Drake all over. He loves dogs, but he's especially good with little puppies. He gentles his play style, and is very patient. He just lays there and several puppies will be gnawing on him at the same time. He's a fairly muscular adult pit bull…but so patient with the pups that he has to wear three collars to keep his fur intact.

Drake and Ruby

2010-01-05T09:40:00.000-08:00

Drake has a girlfriend. Okay, Drake has several girlfriends. He's quite the ladies man.

He goes to visit them whenever he can, and stays with one of them and her human sometimes, when we need a dogsitter. That's Ruby.

Drake and Ruby are now YouTube stars, with this video and this other one.
Enjoy!

Greg

Goliath, Goliath

2010-01-04T16:42:00.001-08:00

Goliath, Goliath, we'll love ya, Goliath…
(sung to the tune of "Tomorrow!")
What a good puppy.

I mentioned Goliath the other day, and the fun I had walking him. It's a good thing he is fun, because he's a big strong boy, and I tend to get volunteered to walk those dogs. I don't mind them, and none of them have ever been as stressful as walking Kendra. In fact, I measure all dogs by percentages of Kendra.

How strong is Goliath? He's 2/3s of a Kendra, or the strongest dog I've walked at the human society. And…he's a big puppy.

He brings you his toys to share when you visit him in his cage, and actually listens when he's being walked. At one point we were playing tug of war with a stick and he accidentally clamped down on my coat sleeve. I said, "No, let go…" and paused the tug. And he did. That was within 15 minutes of my meeting him. Imagine what he'd do after he was at home with me.

There are all kinds of reasons we shouldn't adopt Goliath, but there's something really joyous about him.

Two Dogs in the Rain

2010-01-02T15:30:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went out to the humane society. I have gotten better about walking the dogs that need it most. By that I mean, when I first started, I walked the dogs that I liked most. Now, though, I look at the board and see who hasn't been walked yet that day. If everyone's been walked, I walk the dog who's been stuck inside longest.

Yesterday, the problem was, only one of the dogs had been walked. Who, then, of the five or six dogs calling for my attention? I went with the quietest, a shepherd/lab mix named Sharby (I know—talk about a made up name).

I went out to the front desk to get a little background on him, and I was glad I did. They told me, "He's a great dog, but scared. Don't be surprised if he bellycrawls through the door."Yow.

He didn't—but he did cower, and press close to me. He was scared of the world, and it showed in surprising ways. For example, while I kept Sharby on the leash the whole time, I didn't need it. We'd met maybe a minute before the walk, and that was enough to make me his anchor of familiarity in the world. This meant he stayed close enough to touch me at all times, often turning his head back to check on me as we walked.

We passed a woman walking the opposite direction on the other side of the street. He froze up, hiding behind me the best he could.

He was loving when we got back in his cage, but in general, the boy is scared.

When I got back, they were putting Goliath in his kennel. They commented on how big and strong he was, and I knew I had to walk him, because if I didn't, he might not get walked. He is big (97 pounds of Rottweiller) and I guess strong, but mostly, he's a big friendly puffball.

We went out into the rain, and he loped a long, pulling occasionally but mostly content to be out in the world. If you want to make him happy, here's a secret. Pick up a stick. He loves to play tug of stick, and we did, starting with an 8-10 foot branch that the wind had knocked down. We'd tug—he'd snap off a branch. He'd clamp on to another branch. We'd tug, he'd snap, repeat, repeat, repeat. I think we stood in the rain whittling a branch to a pile of toothpicks for five minutes.
He carried the last six inches of the branch all the way back to the humane society. That was one happy dog.

A Cinderella Story

2009-12-29T18:48:00.000-08:00

So, today I walked an extremely silly dog. Like all dogs I meet these days (or so it seems), she was named Bailey.
She's a lively and attractive dog (see picture), a German Shepherd mix about seven months old. If you went by appearances, you'd think she'd be adopted already. She's cute! She's young! Etc.

However, if you go by behavior, you might fear, as I did, that she'd never get adopted. Why? Because she's mouthy. I don't mean people-mouthy, like she barks at you. I mean she uses her mouth when she plays.

The first time I walked her, she chewed on the leash for the first five minutes of the walk. Only the fierce guard dog at a local business shocked her out of it. She also jumped to play with me, exuberant and loving. And mouthy. She dodged, ha! She juked, hey! And she nipped me on the arm hard enough that I thought she might have drawn blood. Through the jacket sleeve.

I wasn't the only one. Several workers and other volunteers mentioned being nipped—always playfully, but nipped.

She's not aggressive or angry. Today in the middle of the walk she sat down and cuddled against me, sort of pressing against me like a pup on a mama dog. She licked, licked, licked my chin…and then nipped me there. She's just not…calibrated. She nips like she's playing with a bushel of puppies.

Well, in any case, someone met and loved her, and she him, right away. The papers have been filed, and we're all waiting.

Not 1 but 2!

2009-10-07T10:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the challenge in keeping this blog up to date is that living interferes. Sometimes, though, the challenge is that Drake and I do so much it is hard to tell which parts to write about. Since yesterday, for example, we've had two long and three short walks, and both long walks and one of the short ones had doggy adventures included. In between, Drake was ultra-loving, and insisted on curling up in our laps. Admittedly, that last doesn't sound that exciting to outsiders, but there's something very moving and attention grabbing about him doing it. Remember he's a pit bull, and quite stocky—and remember that my lap is sometimes propped in front of a computer screen. All of a sudden I've got a pit bull in my lap, nuzzled against my neck and ready to stay for a long time. That's a kind of excitement.

However, it's a very different kind of excitement from this morning's. We had headed over to the lake, following our normal route. We'd crossed the one busy street, and were, in general, having a lovely but basic morning: crisp fall air, leaves changing colors and falling, etc. Then, all of a sudden, we heard it.

Both Drake and I looked around. The flapping sound continued. It was big, and it was getting closer.

Suddenly, not one, but two bald eagles emerged from behind the tree tops. They were circling, and coming down low as they did. For whatever reason, they decided to buzz the street we were on. They flew side by side, maybe 12-14 foot off the ground. When they passed overhead, their wings were spread immensely wide, so they were gliding silently. And friggin' ominously.

Now, Drake chases all kinds of things: Squirrels. Deer. Motorcycles. Trash trucks. What Drake does not chase, apparently, is bald eagles. He froze where he was. His only motion was a swiveling head. Look at the huge birds. Look at me, with a "What the heck is THAT!" expression. Look at the birds. Repeat look at me.

One of the eagles landed for a moment, sort of skittering to a halt on the pavement. It sat for just a few seconds, then took off again. It had to work to get airborne again, and so for a chunk of time was flying right about the level of Drake's eyes. He didn't even try to sneak forward towards it. He just stared.

The eagles did one more loop, a bit higher, and then they were gone. Drake, though, was hypersensitive to all noises, especially from the trees. Any creak of a tree branch and he was on it!

Two eagles!

Greg

He Stood in His Mouth?

2009-10-06T11:32:00.001-07:00

So, our daughter Bethany has a new Boston Terrier puppy. Roscoe is 12 weeks old, about 6-7 pounds in weight, growing every time we see him, and apparently absolutely fearless.

We were curious how Drake would do with such a tiny dog, but he's been fantastic. It's like watching a patient momma dog at work. Roscoe gnaws on Drake's tail, belly, back, elbows…Drake just stares. They "wrestle," with Roscoe's tiny paws going a mile a minute and Rosco throwing his whole weight into things…and Drake lying down. They chase, and Drake actually runs from the little guy.

However, the most extreme example of the trust and control demonstrated is when Drake was lying down with his mouth open. Roscoe ran up to Drake and climbed into his mouth in order to attack him. His back legs are sitting in Drake's mouth as he chomps away on Drake's ears.

I found myself blinking in awe. Okay, okay, they definitely both know this is just play, because Roscoe wouldn't stand there and Drake…might close his mouth.

Chomp!

Greg

Dogs That Come Back

2009-09-27T10:40:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday I walked Tank. Tank had been one of the shelter's recent success stories: not just adopted, but adopted in a cool way. He'd been adopted by someone who lived on a sailboat. They got along well, and the guy had gotten Tank his own life jacket…it sounded cool.
Tank's back at the shelter. When I asked about this, they told me he'd been afraid of the water, and had really hated being on the boat, so much so that when the guy had brought him back, he'd seemed happier in the shelter than out adopted!

Sigh. So I walked Tank yesterday, who is a calm and impressive joy of a dog. He's so think in the jaw and neck that he's like the incredible Hulk of dogs—at least half again as wide as Drake, my pit bull—and when you first enter the kennel, he's so eager to get going that he sort of jumps and grabs at you, wrapping paws around legs or torso.

And then he calms down and you can walk him with one finger. (Literally—I took turns switching which single finger I had through the leash handle.) He motors along at a steady pace, enjoying the walk, until he gets to taller grass.
Some of it he wades through, as if he enjoys the tickle on his belly. Other times he throws himself down on his back to roll around in it. Still other times he sweeps that great wide head back and forth through it, cocking his head to grin at me.

He's a big, gentle guy.

A Dog's Dog

2009-08-20T10:47:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday we went out to meet Kendra. Kendra is currently being fostered by the Alternative Humane Society of Whatcom County. We went to meet her because we're thinking about getting Drake a sister.

Drake is the most dog-crazy dog I've ever met. For a dog he really likes (Emma is the best example), Drake will turn away from squirrels, deer, and treats, just to get a chance to play. When he has to spend too long away from other dogs, he pines and pouts. When he gets to play, he's like a joy generator. We're hoping to keep him on that side of things by getting a second dog.
We've consulted our dog advisors—the humane society, Angi, who runs Tails a Wagging , and other folks who know dogs. They gave some good basic advice on integrating the second dog, and we're combining that with our knowledge of Drake and the family to look for the right second dog. The ideal would be female, at least medium-sized, lively, social with humans and people, and sturdy enough to wrestle a lot.

Kendra may be it, but it's not certain. She was nice enough—a pretty black lab, at ease in her fur and with other dogs--but thus we're missing that spark that we had with Drake. Now granted, I didn't have it with Drake at first, so it may be a first meeting thing. She also doesn't like the heat and it was the hottest part of the day.

We'll bring Drake to meet her, though. And we'll keep our paws crossed.
Greg

Zeus

2009-08-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I went to the humane society, where I walked Zeus and had several firsts.

Zeus was a Great Dane/Boxer mix. At seven months old, he weighed in at a cool 97 pounds. I hadn't ever walked a dog that big, so I checked with the front desk. Any issues? Nah. He's a sweetie.

And so he was. Big, friendly (in a cool sort of way), gentle, he was easy to walk. In fact, I could walk him with one finger through the leash handle.

So, what were the firsts?

First dog that big.

First dog markedly bigger than the German Shepherd who guards the helicopter company down the street from the humane society. The shepherd looked at Zeus and kinda froze. Then he hunkered down. Then he rushed the fence anyway, making himself as big as possible.

First recognition. The family of the woman who donated Zeus for adoption drove by while I was walking him. They stopped in the street, rolled down a window, and asked, "Is that Zeus?"

First time I'd seen so many people smitten with one dog (well, one non-puppy). I thought Zeus was nice enough, but two teenage girls in the lobby melted when they saw him and threw themselves on him, hugging and kissing. So did a four year old girl. So did an older woman. My wife kinda melted when I described him, etc. Maybe it's a girl thing.

Greg

the spark

2009-08-10T11:28:00.001-07:00

While I was back in Ohio for the family reunion, I took a walk around Findlay. As I was enjoying the old houses and decades of memory, I saw a little spaniel running towards me. Well, kind of loping, kind of tumbling. He was so clumsy that I thought he was a puppy. He was on the other side of the street, and he was ignoring his owner’s commands in an attempt to get to me. He was obvious friendly, and obviously on a mission, so I crossed the street to him.

The owner was apologizing for him, saying he was so old he hardly knew where he was going these days, but all he wanted was to snuffle me, then he was happy.

It may have just been an old dog, but it seems more like I’m getting the spark—the dog spark. It’s not a huge fire, like the famous dog trainers have, where they can calm any dog and understand them immediately. But the mix of taking care of Oz when she was sick, the long walks, the many play visits, and the humane society have sort of marked me. Dogs want to greet me in ways they didn’t before.

Yesterday I stopped by the library. Someone had tied a big Lab /Lab mix outside the door, and she was just unwrapping the leash from the hand rail when I was going by to enter the library. She got the leash free from the rail—and her dog surged forward to jam his nose into my hands. It wasn’t for long, just a quick “I know, hi guy, how you doing,” but he caught her completely off guard. She was apologizing, but it was done and over. I watched. He didn’t do that with the other folks leaving the library.

Now, it may be something really basic, like the fact that since I’ve always recently been near a dog, I smell like dogs, or that since I carry treats in my pockets often, they might smell like treats. But it seems more like they’re reading me. It’s small, but nice.

first day back

2009-08-03T11:56:00.000-07:00

So I went out to the humane society the other day, for the first time in more than two weeks—probably closer to three. It was a sunny Saturday, and full of people and dogs. There was a high drama hairball going on, with some woman seizing the moral high ground because she'd "paid good money for a pure breed dog" (only to have it repeatedly picked up by animal control), but I wasn't part of that.

Instead, I walked through the dog holding areas, looking to see who was there. I was struck again by the raw need roiling off these dogs. They are confused and lonely (and these days hot), and they don't know why they're there. I had to fight the urge to hug them all, or to take them all home. The little Boston Terrier was trembling so badly…

When it came time to choose who to walk, I made myself be firm. Instead of walking the loudest dog (rewarding bad behavior), or the one I liked most, I read the records board and selected one of the two dogs who hadn't yet been walked that day. This was Genevieve, who looked to be some Irish Setter/Golden Retriever mix.

Long-haired and gentle, Genevieve was a joy to walk. Except for when we walked past the guard dog at the helicopter yard and she got all protective and challenged the much larger German Shepherd, Genevieve was a one finger walk. I hooked my index finger through the leash handle and away we went.

At first, every few steps she came back to check in, nosing and licking my hand. Then we settled into a rhythm and it was easy. We did about a mile and a half, nice and slow in the sun, and at one point stopped in the shade so she could rest and lick my face in gratitude.

Ah!

Greg

Windows

2009-08-01T17:13:00.000-07:00

Oh, I should add that now when we see Emma riding in a car, her humans grab her...because she now assumes she can and should jump from a moving vehicle to see Drake.

Greg

After the Wedding

2009-08-01T17:05:00.001-07:00

Last Sunday our daughter Beth got married. This meant that the week before was full of frantic preparations, and that the week since was full of aftermath, cleaning up, details, and hosting my parents.
And oh yes, trying to get back to a regular routine. Whew!

Drake was part of the burden, though a well-behaved part. That is to say, we had to take him to Tails-a-Wagging several days (which he loves!). We had to get dog sitters three other times—the rehearsal, and then two to split the day of the wedding.

The day of the wedding we left him with neighbors who he loves. He loves the mom, dad, and little boy, and they have chocolate lab, and that means Drake's in heaven. Even with that, though, he tried to follow me when I left and pouted afterwards.

It all worked out. He's very social, and had a blast with all of his friends. However, by the end, he was pretty darn tired of having his routine disrupted. He was very clingy/affectionate the first days after everyone was gone, and he's remained so. It is as if he was a little afraid he was going back to the shelter, what with all the time away from us. Now, though, he's all the more loving.

Greg

Adventures With Drake 1

2009-07-04T08:57:00.001-07:00

Okay, yesterday was a day of high adventure with Drake. The first one came on our noon walk. We had stopped by the love of his life's house, but for a variety of reasons (mainly background noise), Emma's humans hadn't been able to hear her barking to get out. So, I tugged and yanked and bribed Drake to walk on.

About five minutes later, a car pulled up beside us on the road. It was Julie, Emma's owner, with Emma in the back seat. She slowed to walking pace and said, "Hi guys!"

And Emma jumped out of the back window of the moving car. Now, granted, it was moving slowly—just walking pace—but it was still a bit of a shock.

However, it was only a shock for the humans involved. Emma landed perfectly, and Drake seemed to take it as completely normal that the being he loves most in the world would drop from the sky to start licking him on the snout.

It's a strange world.

Greg

Trying Not to Complain (all the time)

2009-07-01T15:59:00.001-07:00

I know I've fallen silent here, and I'm sorry. I've been trying not to complain, at least, not all the time.

You see, Drake has been being a) high energy and b) a brat. We make jokes about it, and he's damn loving and cute when he's loving and cute, and those two factors together are about the only things keeping him alive right now.

Take last night as an example. We had settled in to watch television, and Drake was in his winding down mode. He'd flop down and sprawl for a little while, maybe chew on a tennis ball for a while, then he'd get up and roam around.

Drake gets a certain look in his eyes at that time. We talk about him as a great white shark. He's moving in arcs, maybe circles, looking for something to chew on. Last night, it was a pencil sharpener.

We'd thought it was safe. It was sitting on an end table, behind my glass of soda, and he never knocks food over. Well, we'd underestimated his sneaky striking ability. Zip, he was in and out, and crunch, the pencil sharpener was a pile of plastic shards and pencil shavings. Why? We haven't got a clue. He felt like it.

We haven't lost anything valuable, but we're losing rolls of toilet paper, getting sponges chewed on, etc. He loves to chew. He also loves attention, even if you're not sure what he wants. I'll throw the tennis ball for him until he's tired of it and flops down on the ground, but if I turn to go inside, he's up and running towards me, sounding like a little pony.

He's been very draining.

Greg

A Stubborn Dog

2009-06-22T09:13:00.001-07:00

Drake is a loving dog. Drake is a social dog. Drake is an entertaining dog. And…Drake is a stubborn dog. No, make that a very stubborn dog. Whew!

Our old dog Oz used to get fixed on specific smells. She'd find something that really appealed to her and she'd lock her legs to keep inhaling it. Drake will do that sometimes, but he'll also lock his legs when he's not interested in walking farther. When he wants to turn left rather than right. And sometimes—and this is hardest to deal with—for no apparent reason at all.

We'll be walking along the street, even crossing it, and suddenly he'll put on the brakes. We're there on the yellow line, right square in the middle of the road, and he's decided he wants to stop. He doesn't smell anything (at least, he doesn't bend down to smell anything on the road, and I can't see his nostrils working in the air). He doesn't seem tired. He just locks his legs.

And I'm left with the choice of dragging him across the street, to get him out of traffic, or trying to coax him before the next car comes.

It's not fun.
Greg

He's Trying So Hard

2009-06-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Mr. Drake (AKA Drakers, good dog, Mr. Pit, the Tux, and the little boy) was a stone brat much of the day. Today, he tried so hard to be good it was heartbreaking.

I had an obligation that kept me at the computer for the whole morning, a morning when he was especially eager to get out and run. (It was cool and crisp, and he was full of energy.) Drake wanted to go out so bad…but I had to stay at the machine.

He'd come in the office and stare at me. Then he'd huff or sigh and leave.

He'd come back in and nudge me with his snout. Then he'd grab a bone and flop down like a little pit bull drama queen.

Then he'd whimper, sharp and low. Hrrhrrhrr. Hmmmhmmm.

Finally noon came and I could leave. I stood. Drake stood. I said, "Are you ready to go for a walk?" He started bounding around the office. Then I made the mistake of stepping back toward the computer to close a file and he about tore the office apart. He thought I was going back on my walkword.

But for the most part, he was sweet.

Greg

The Changeable Dog

2009-06-15T19:35:00.000-07:00

Drake is the most changeable dog I've ever known. It's kind of exhausting, actually. I can't always tell what the day is going to be like. No, scratch that. From day to day, or hour to hour, I definitely can't tell. I can tell what's likely to be the case, but there are these wild cards.

Take this morning as an example. He was sleepy when I got him out of the crate, so we sat for a while. I took notes on a book; he snuggled. It was this idealistic picture.

After a while, I needed to work on the computer, so I did. I slowly got up and left him curled on the down comforter that's on the office floor for him. I typed for a while, and then he started making little hrmm sounds, his "I want to go out" noise.

So I decided to take him out for a nice long walk.

He didn't want to go. He stopped every few feet. He wasn't smelling—that I understand. He was standing in the middle of the road, legs locked, stubborn. But about what? I tried turning around. He was just as resistant to going another way, and to going home. He didn't want to walk and he didn't want to go home. I ended up pulling him home a step at a time and very mad at him.

We played for a while once we were home—I threw the ball for him in the back yard—and then he got tired of that. I threw one tennis ball. He watched it sail by. I threw another. He stood still. I threw a third. He looked bored. So I went inside—and he chased after me, seemingly upset that I was leaving him.

He didn't want to walk. He didn't want to play. What the heck did he want? No clue. After a while of near barking (little yips, growls, etc.), he went back to sleep.

Later, we went for a long walk. He was still stopping and resisting some of the time, but less so.

After that, he was a love muffin, snuggling and licking me, sitting on my lap, coming when called.

I haven't got a clue.

Greg

The Dog Who Hugged

2009-06-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

The last time I went in to walk dogs, there weren't too many available. As I tend to do, I went back out to the front desk to touch base with the workers about dogs who had moved on.

"Did Fudge get adopted?"

"Fudge? Oh yes, finally."

"Ah good," I said. "The dog who hugged got a home."

"The dog who barked, more like."

"Huh?"

The workers explained that Fudge, who had been surrendered more than once, had severe separation anxiety. If they left him alone for more than a moment, he started to bark, and then to dig to get out.

Hmm. This was news to me. To me, Fudge was the dog who hugged. When I'd gone into his kennel, he'd been so lonely and so eager to see me that he'd reared up on his back legs and wrapped his front paws around me, pressing his muzzle to my belly. It was as if he were saying, "Oh god, oh god, thank god you're here. I'm so glad someone is here."

I had to peel him off me to go for a walk, on which he was a perfect gentleman. To learn he'd been so irritating was a shock. Upon reflection, though, these were two sides of the same coin. He was lonely, so he hugged me. He was lonely, so he barked for attention and dug to get to people. The same need, different symptoms.

bo, Bo, BO!

2009-05-30T18:46:00.000-07:00

One of the nice things about volunteering at the humane society is watching the change in some of the dogs.

Take Bo, for example. I've walked him three times.

The first time, he'd just been brought to the shelter, less than 24 hours previously. He was a nice enough dog—polite, non-threatening, etc.—but clearly scared. He was also skeletal. You could count ribs and vertebrae by hand or eye. He didn't have much of a personality.

The second time, the folks at the humane society had been feeding him up for a while. His ribs were somewhat less visible, and his personality somewhat more so. Someone had donated some homemade dog biscuits. They were sitting in a big basket outside the office door. Bo picked one up and carried it proudly for almost a mile before suddenly eating it.

The third time, the ribs were definitely hidden (yes!) beneath fur, and Bo was actually outgoing—daring, even. Not far from the shelter there's a business with a large guard dog. This German Shepherd takes his guarding seriously. He sprints to the fence, fangs out, barking a clear warning. The first time we walked, Bo flinched away from him. The second time, Bo ignored him. The third time, Bo teased him, dancing on the other side of the fence and getting almost but not quite close enough to touch.

Go Bo!Greg

Partial Stories

2009-05-24T11:17:00.001-07:00

One of the things that defines a family is shared stories. There are the stories about how mom and dad met, vacation stories, disaster stories, etc.

It's the same with a beloved pet. Every family tells stories about the time that Fido got caught in the sheets, or the way Fluffy was so protective of her kittens.

With a shelter dog, one of the quiet stresses are the partial stories. Why was this dog surrendered? Well, the owners said…That dog was found wandering on the street. Was anyone looking for him? More importantly, what was his life like before that? You don't know.

Sometimes you can trace fragments of these partial stories on the dog itself. Bo, for example, came in with ribs that could be counted. He was desperately underweight. Other times you get baffling glimpses, like I did yesterday with Drake.

A bit of background: Drake is a happy-go-lucky dog. You can startle him, certainly. The humane society's out by the airport, and low flying planes made him flinch. So did especially loud car sounds. Then he'd take a moment, figure out that nothing was wrong, and go back to bounding along the sidewalk.

Another example: a Great Dane who wasn't on a leash jumped on his head the first week we had him. Squashed beneath the paws, Drake just sort of looked at me, as if he were saying, "Yo, you going to do something here?" And I did, of course. But no fear, just a kind of patience.

Yesterday, though, I saw fear. We went through a park and Drake decided he wanted to sniff the swing set. Okay, no problem. It's his walk—he can sniff whatever he wanted. Except that when we got close, a breeze shifted the swings, and a chain clanked.

Drake freaked out. Just freaked. He bolted to the end of the leash, where he jerked to a halt, flipping around in mid-air. His head was down, his tail was tucked, and when I raised a hand to reassure him, he flinched.

He stayed afraid. We had to take a long detour around the swing set, and he was twitchy for five minutes after that.

I know that some dogs have neuroses that seem to come from nowhere…but this was so sudden and so specific that it makes me wonder if there's a chain in Drake's background. And I'll never know.
Greg

Adopting Drake

2009-05-24T09:12:00.000-07:00

The day we brought Drake home from the humane society was typical of the adoption process in some ways, but not typical in others. Most people who adopt dogs come out to see the dogs and look for what they want. If they see a dog who sparks their fancy—or speaks to their heart—they file papers to adopt them.

In some cases, the immediate spark is close to magic. Rosie was a black Lab who had been very unhappy in the shelter. She barked continually, and jumped up to my eye level. She was so wild I wasn't sure I could walk her…but when the right guy came in, firm but kind, with a farm so she could run around, it was one meeting and love for life.

In other cases, though, there's a very real sense in which people are taking a stranger into their homes. One meeting—a second if they are careful, a third if they've got other dogs who need to meet the new pet—then they've got a strange dog in their home. Perhaps one with an unknown history, if he was a stray like Drake.

We had the unknown history part, but otherwise, my volunteer time gave us an advantage. I'd walked Drake every day for weeks. I'd seen him so full of energy he could barely stay on the ground. I'd seen him so tired he decided not to walk. I'd seen him scared, when Rosie wouldn't stop barking, and I'd seen him greeting strangers when he couldn't see me. I knew he was a good dog.

My wife Kathy had heard Drake stories for most of the month, and regularly looke at his picture on the humane society website. Kathy and Jon (our eldest) came out to meet Drake, and he charmed them, rolling on his back and showing his belly to be rubbed. He licked them all over, and played ball in a tiny room. Zach (our youngest) came out to see him. When it came time to take him home, he was leaving on a leash with someone he'd left with 30 times. It helped.

And there were still difficulties…

Bark Anything

2009-05-22T17:31:00.000-07:00

Bark Anything

Remember the movie Say Anything? It's part of what made John Cusack into a star, and it includes a wonderful scene of obsessive teen love in which Cusack stands outside Ione Skye's house with a boom box held over his head, a testimony to his love.

Well, the other night I got to play a supporting role in the dog version of that. Call it Bark Anything. Drake hates water. He won't step in a stream, has leapt up into the air when he accidentally got a paw wet, and will fight me rather than go out in the rain to pee. He locks his legs and tries to stay on the porch. Even if I cover him with the umbrella rather than me, he won't go.

He won't go, that is, unless it is to see Emma. Emma was one of our old dog's dogfriends. She's a half-pit bull, half-black lab bundle of love that I met when she was just a meatloaf. I'll tell the story of how Drake and Emma met later, but for now, an example of his love. We were out on the final walk of the evening. It was a gray and cloudy day, and it had been raining off and on all day.

During the walk, it started raining. Drake's usual response to rain when we're already out in the world is to pee quickly, scowl at me, and then sprint for home. However, the rain started right when our walk led us in front of Emma's house.

Instead of pee, scowl, and sprint, Drake looked his legs, staring through the rain at Emma's door. He fought me to stay still so long I swear to God I heard "In Your Eyes" playing in my head.

Bark Anything.

Meeting Mr. Drake

2009-05-21T08:26:00.000-07:00

The picture at the top of this blog is of Mr. Drake when he was in the shelter. In case you can't quite tell, he's actively being very good there.

That's how he was sitting when I first met him. I'd walked a number of other dogs that week—at that time I was going to the humane society almost every day—and so always knew when a dog was new. Drake suddenly appeared, but with a sign on his cage that said he was on medication.

Sometimes sick dogs can't be walked, and sometimes, of course, they don't feel well, and so don't want to be walked. Drake was sitting so quietly that I couldn't tell which it was, so I went up to the front desk to get more of the story.

"Hi! I was going to walk Drake, but a sign on his cage says he's on medication. Is it okay to walk him?"

"Oh, that's so sad! We almost lost him. He ate part of a toy and almost died. We had to take him to the emergency room, and he barely pulled through."

"Oh," I said. "Should I—is he okay now?"

"He should be. The medication's just for fever. He's a really friendly guy—I'm sure he'd love to go for a walk."

So I went back to the kennel where Mr. Drake was waiting in overt virtue. I found his harness and got a leash, and went to get him out. He immediately began to vibrate and rub against me in excitement…but not so much excitement that he wasn't able to help me get his harness on. He shoved his head through the loop and stood still. Well, as still as he could.

I bungled it, of course, as I did a lot those early days at the shelter. I couldn't get it snapped, and he got excited. He was jumping around and got kind of stuck in my jacket. I found myself thinking, okay, my first pit bull and he's caught in my arm pit. Let's hope he's as nice as they say.

He was. He calmed down, I worked the snaps, and we got silent Drake out of the cage. He exploded into barks, a kind of "Ar! Ar! Ar!" with his head turning right, center, left that seemed translate as "I'm here! I'm here! I'm here!"

We passed the front desk (where Drake barked more, greeting everyone there), then headed out the front door. There I discovered that he was indeed feeling better, because walking Drake right out of the cage is kind of like walking a springbok antelope. There wasn't so much walking as great leaping bounds.

He liked being out of the cage.
Greg

Barron

2009-05-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

I went out to the humane society on Tuesday. I was scheduled to work out, but didn't really feel like it, so I punted. That is to say, I did something I wanted to do that would give me more energy, namely walking dogs.

The weather had been off and on all day, spitting rain and threatening more, so when I got to the shelter, I was surprised to find that almost every dog had already been walked twice. (Often there's a direct correlation between weather and walks. Golden day? Dogs get walked. Raining day? More volunteers stay home.)

The only dog who hadn't been walked twice was Bo, a five year old German Short Haired Pointer who I'd walked twice before. I started towards Bo, but then realized that the "Get Acquainted" room was empty. That's a room the humane society uses for people to meet the animals they're thinking about adopting. When it isn't being used, we can use it for socializing puppies…which is another way of saying I got to snag a puppy from its kennel and play with it. (I still can't believe this is considered a volunteer position. I'd think people would pay to do this.)

Of the two half-lab, half-Dalmatian sibs available, I chose Baron, the black with some white on him, rather than Barnabas, his white with some black on him brother.

Every new dog encounter is an education. Baron was eager for attention, giving little jumps in his cage…but when I opened the door, he ran away. I crouched down and made gentle little noises to reassure him, and he came close enough to pet. I stood up, to take him to the Get Acquainted room—and he ran away, clearly scared. I crouched down. He came back. I stood up. He evaporated.

Eventually, I got him calm enough to carry, and then stood up with him. I carried this wiggling ball o' fur into the Get Acquainted room and put him down. He skittered and leapt. I took off my jacket. He flinched.

If you're getting the idea that Baron's a bit skittish, you're right. Something or someone has scared him. My wife and I talk about the shelter dogs often, and we sometimes refer to "the break," as in when did the break in his trust happen? When did the person who was supposed to take care of him…not? How old was he? Was he, like Baron, at an age when warmth, love, and continual physical contact are essentially biological necessities? Or was, like my dog Drake, enough older for them to simply to be accepted and expected before they vanished?

Once the coat was off and down, and all sudden movements slowed for a bit, Baron settled in to a nice and loving routine. I'd throw a tennis ball. He'd flail after it. He'd come running back. Half the time he ran under a little plastic bench in the corner, as if for shelter, then came to me. The other half of the time he ran straight to me. Both routes ended up with a joyous jump into my lap and a snuggle.

After about every third or fourth throw, he'd hang out for a bit, smelling my shirt or sweats, lolling on my jacket, or just tucking his snout under my chin or against my belly. It must have taken all of three minutes to get him from scared and hiding to a living love sponge.

The only problem after that was that apparently he doesn't like my singing (but then, who does), and that he thought I left to walk Bo too soon.

Greg

A Pit Bull at my Groin

2009-05-19T08:40:00.000-07:00

I started the day with a pit bull at my groin. Then again, I start almost every day with a pit bull at my groin.

Ever since we adopted our dog Drake from the local humane society, we've had a morning routine. I get up, brush my teeth, wash my face, and go in to get Drake out of the crate where he sleeps. He gets out at various speeds (more on that later), and then comes to snuggle.

There's a folded comforter in my office in case he wants to curl up there throughout the day. I sit down in the position on the comforter with my legs spread as wide as I can. Drake presses his body up against mine, tongue licking and tail thumping. After he's greeted me, he curls up between my legs for a morning snuggle.

He presses as much of his body as he can against as much of mine as he can. After a while, he shifts into stretching and grooming. That's when I know I can lure him outside to pee. Before that, well, it technically be possible to take Drake outside, but I'd have to use force. Even with a full bladder and belly, it's more important for him to reconnect than to relieve himself. Or maybe there is more than one kind of relief.

Greg