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.