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