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.