Drake Update

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.