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?