A Cinderella Story

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!

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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