Home Again

When it was time for Gilda to return to her first foster mom, Katya, it was a bit of a sad day for me, I must say. Gilda was not the cuddly dog I am used to; she and I didn't have some special connection like Tia and I had; but something made me sad to see her go. I just didn't feel like I finished my mission with her. We weren't done yet.

The moment Gilda saw Katya and her beagle Ophelia through the passenger side window, Gilda became a lively little pup I had only had a glimpse of the night before on her after-midnight play time. Gilda struggled to get out of the car as quickly as possible, lest Katya and Ophelia leave her. And then once down on the ground, she bounced on Katya, and hugged Ophelia, and smiled wide, her eyes shining brightly through her tufts of hair.

She bounded up the staircase to the front door and into the house, not sure exactly what order to express her joy of seeing it all again: Katya, Ophelia, the couch, the living room, the kitchen. My goodness! Things she thought were a distant memory: here they were again!

She ran and smiled, and I had not seen joy like that from her before. I again wondered if perhaps I do suck the life out of dogs. But a kind friend said, "Well, it could just be peaceful. I mean, you don't go skipping into a spa."

I felt no sadness leaving her there. She was happy in a way I had seen before in my presence. I gave her a hug good bye, and she turned to look at Katya: "Wait, am I supposed to go or stay?"

"I gotta go, kid. You stay here," I told her, and stood up to leave.

I saw her little face of confusion as Katya closed the door, and I couldn't bear to turn around and look through the window to watch her watch me go. Ten minutes later, I received a text from Katya: She was so upset when you left. It would have made you cry... and smile.

Every ending is bittersweet. Even this one, this false ending, as my role in Gilda's life wasn't yet complete.

That very day, I got a job (yes, finally, I got a job!)... in San Mateo, California (just south of San Francisco). I was scheduled to leave Wednesday. It was exactly what I needed and wanted: a job till the end of the year to make up for all my non-employment the rest of the year, and be close enough to drive or fly back home for a few days if I wished. It was perfect.... but then the perfection became even more perfect:

A text from Katya: This is so crazy! You're not going to believe this. I've been talking with  lovely couple in San Francisco who really want Gilda! We still need to get the adoption application and home check, but if it works out, would you mind driving Gilda north with you?

What a silly question: "Would I mind driving Gilda?" Of course not! The only thing better than being the driver who springs a dog from a shelter, is being the one who delivers them to their forever home. Beginnings and endings: just where I like to be. But could it really be? Could all the pieces truly fall into place this way? I tend not to trust things that work so well... but maybe the universe is keeping me on my toes.

Wednesday morning, 7:30am, I returned from one of my trips packing up the truck to see Katya in my doorway calling for me, and a leash extended from her hand into my living room.

"Right here!" I said and came up the walk.

"Gilda, who's that?" Katya said, and Gilda came out of my apartment and saw me.

There it was: that moment of joy she had for Katya, she now had for me. She remembered me; there was no doubt. She may have even missed me. I can only say that from her reaction, she certainly loved me.

I knelt down on the ground and she came up, so excited in her expressions of love: licking my face, wrapping her legs around my neck, pressing her body into my chest. She was genuinely happy to see me, and I her.

Now was the bittersweet moment for Katya. It was her turn to say goodbye. I told Gilda what a lucky dog she was: not only did she get two foster moms, but now she was headed to a home with, well, two moms!

Gilda watched Katya go, and sat at the screen door for a time, perhaps thinking she might come back, perhaps contemplating the time she had with Katya.

Katya later told me that around 4:00 a.m. that morning, Gilda walked over to her on the bed and licked her nose, a little kiss of thanks out of the blue, as if Gilda knew. And how couldn't she know, really? Katya had spent the car ride with her to my house explaining that she loved Gilda, and would keep her for herself but that she couldn't. But that didn't mean that she didn't love her.

And then, on the ride north, Gilda looking sad (or maybe just hungry--Katya hadn't fed her so she wouldn't throw up in the car), I told her that she was a lucky girl to get to live in San Francisco. She was going to have two moms, and a little sister.

Gilda didn't seem terribly happy. Maybe she was nervous. Maybe she just knew the power of endings and beginnings.

Gilda was a silent companion on the trip, snoozing away, even when I tried pointing out the Bay, and the fog, and the city that would be her home.

She didn't seem interested... yet she seemed to know something was up, that something was about to happen.

Way up on the hill, in a very expensive part of San Francisco overlooking the city, is where Gilda's new home is. We drove up the winding streets, Gilda getting tossed this way and that as she finally took an active interest in what was going on, and tried looking out the window.

As we came to a stop on the dead end street, Gilda stood up, demanding to get out.

I thought she might have to go to the bathroom from the way she was walking, but there wasn't an adequate place for her atop this windy mountain peak: just concrete or a prickly plant covered hill off to the side.

Zwazzi, of Zwazzi & Naomi (Gilda's new moms), came down to greet us. I had wanted Gilda to meet Bambi, their little Chihuahua, outside before coming in, but Zwazzi said that would probably freak Bambi out more. I wasn't worried about Gilda (it's always the little dogs you have to watch out for).

Gilda navigated the stairs like a pro and once inside the apartment acted as if it was her own. She wandered around, she sniffed, and when the cleaning guy who was there dumped the couch pillows on the floor to vacuum the couch, Gilda was all about floor-diving in comfort, throwing herself onto the pillows, under the pillows, kicking them with her feet. She was more relaxed than I had ever seen her, aside from when she was with Katya.

Bambi was not a threat in the least; in fact it was she who was threatened. She retreated to the balcony upon my arrival and stood at the farthest corner, cowering and shivering.

Zwazzi said Bambi is afraid of people, not dogs, so it was my fault the little dog was having a conniption fit. Gilda, who could take or leave any dog, was merely curious about the freaked out dog outside. She walked over to the balcony... and right into the screen door.  She looked perplexed for a second, and then just avoided the area, wondering how to get out to the dog.

I was worried about the balcony: the bars were wide enough that Gilda could jump through them off the three story hilltop... or worse--and more likely--Gilda (who just walked into a screen door) could easily and clumsily fall through the bars.

The home check was scheduled for Saturday, and Zwazzi said no dog had fallen yet, and they often had visitor dogs. So, I told them to just please watch Gilda when she's out there, and that the person doing the home check would probably mention putting up some chicken wire or fencing about a foot high all the way around the bottom of the balcony.

I was more worried about Bambi than Gilda. Zwazzi explained that Bambi was Naomi's dog, which is why she didn't want to push Bambi to come inside and meet us: she didn't think Bambi would react well to it. Bambi didn't have the same bond with Zwazzi as she did with Naomi.

The two of them had had a Tibetan terrier who had passed away at the age of nineteen. Nineteen! Clearly, these two could make sure Gilda wouldn't fall off the balcony, if they could keep a dog alive for close to twenty years!

I think Zwazzi was a bit disappointed that Gilda wasn't an immediately cuddly, affectionate dog--presumably like her dog who had passed away. I explained to her that Gilda is affectionate, but in her own way. The way she greeted me that morning was clearly affectionate. And she always wanted to be near me, at my feet. She wasn't a lap dog for me; she was for Katya though--but that took a lot of time. Gilda is shy, she's stingy with her love. Maybe she's been hurt before. Maybe she's got good reason. Maybe she should give her love to only those who truly deserve it.

I was worried that Gilda might have to go the bathroom, and since the grassy pee spot on the balcony was being blocked by the shivering Bambi, Zwazzi and I took Gilda back out front, and it was time for me to say good bye.

This time, I did cry. I didn't know why though. Maybe because like Katya said, this one is special. She is. And I hate being the one to choose the fate of a dog. I knew Gilda would be fine there, but Zwazzi didn't seem as excited as I thought she should be. Naomi, though, would be home later. Perhaps Naomi expressed more excitement.

Christy had said I was one of  "those rescuers" who wants the perfect home for a dog, instead of just a good home... but is it so wrong to want a dog to be as loved and appreciated as humanly possible? I knew Gilda would be okay, but I wondered if she would be loved the way Katya and I loved her. From what Katya said about Naomi, I thought she would; but from what I witnessed from Zwazzi, I couldn't be sure.

A vision came into my head: Gilda and Bambi curled up together, sleeping.

It would be okay. At least, something told me it would, and yet something felt off, but I didn't know what. I said good-bye to Gilda, and she easily went with Zwazzi, only turning around once as she trotted away. The wind blew, brushing her hair out of her eyes, and there before me was Gilda, and in her eyes I read: "Thank you. I got this one. I'll be okay."

Then she turned back around and kept on walking without missing a step.

I got into the truck and started crying. Did she know? Did I leave her with the right people? Was this her fate, or had I driven her some place she wasn't supposed to be? Had I left her at the wrong altar in this arranged marriage?

But that vision of Bambi and her: that's what I kept thinking about. Maybe it's not about the people at all. Maybe Gilda is there for Bambi.

I spoke to Katya later that night, and voiced my concerns that it seemed like Zwazzi wanted an affectionate dog, and Gilda isn't all lovey dovey all the time, and especially not right away. But Gilda was way relaxed, and it seemed as if she knew.

Katya said simply, "We healed her. We did our job."

When Gilda first came home to Katya's, Gilda hid under the bed. She cowered in fear, and it was Ophelia who helped Gilda come out and trust people. Sure, Katya and I had a hand in it, maybe, but it was one dog lending a paw to another that kicked it off.

Maybe, Katya said, now it's Gilda's turn to lend a paw to Bambi.

All those lessons that Gilda learned about trust, about people, about fun, about love, she could now pass that along to Bambi. Maybe not every dog is there to help people. Mankind needs a hell of a lot of help, I won't deny that. But some canines need a little assistance too, and who better to give it than a scruffy little pup who knows more than a thing or two about being on the streets, and about learning to love. The student becomes the teacher; the ultimate success.

Two days later, Zwazzi called to say that Gilda was giving kisses and starting to cuddle a bit. She was opening up; Katya and I knew she would, but she needed to get comfortable.

The most beautiful flowers don't blossom in seconds; sometimes we humans want everything right now, and don’t realize that when things come in their own time, they come with a magnificence and beauty far more powerful than anything forced into being.

Poop or Get Off the Lawn and Other Life Lessons

Any good dog trainer will tell you that although they're the ones teaching the dog, that in the end, it's they as trainers who learn the most. I'm not dog trainer (that's quite clear), but that doesn't mean I haven't learned a few things from Gilda. She's like a walking allegory.

As I wandered up and down the street around midnight, pleading with Gilda to please, go to the bathroom, I realized that I couldn't blame Gilda at all. It is she who will walk to the end of the parking lot and then stop. "No, I don't want to go for a walk. It's miserable."

And she's right: it is miserable--because I then drag her out onto the sidewalk, making it miserable. Her fear is perpetuated every time I lose my shit (excuse the pun) because she's being stubborn and frightened for no reason.

Yesterday I began to wonder if perhaps Gilda is the canine Mr. Magoo. She lurches to the end of her leash in terror when a car drives by on the opposite side of the road, and yet when we cross the street, she has no qualms about stopping in the middle to look at something when a car is heading straight for us.

Gilda's biggest allegory, and my major annoyance due to its metaphorical similarity to myself, is her habit of constantly turning around while we're walking. "Forward, Gilda, face forward," I have to keep repeating, and feel awful about myself every time I tug on the leash. It's just as annoying as someone who is continually living in the past, even though there's nothing there--in the past or at the end of the block--and yet won't just face the future head on.

Gilda learned the hard way how dangerous that can be, as we crossed the street and I said, "Come on, Gilda, let's run," to which she did, but with her head turned back, looking behind her. Two seconds later, and I know the leash wasn't tight but it was of Gilda's own volition, she ran straight into the curb, biffing out, skidding across the sidewalk on her chest and face. I checked her out thoroughly to make sure she hadn't done any real damage to herself, and it appears her locks of hair broke her fall. But it does make me wonder just how damaging always looking at the past can be to moving forward.

Something else she taught me isn't so much a lesson as a reminder of how independent I once was and how I lost that in certain eras of my life. Having pit bulls is like having a lover who has no life and can't stand to be more than a few inches away from you at all times. They need to be on you, they need to share themselves with you; they never want to leave you. They're the reason cat people believe all dog people are co-dependent.

But then there's Gilda, who is much more like the dog of my teenage years, the doxie named Dutchess. Gilda doesn't need to be pet and touched and cuddled, and in fact would prefer not to. Unlike Dutchess who felt her time was better spent gnawing on a laundry detergent lid or tearing apart an empty paper towel roll, Miss Gilda would simply prefer to lay at your feet or across the room, dreaming her doggie dreams. Given a choice, she'd rather sleep on the floor then on my lap. She proves that she can love someone while still being her own independent self in her own space.

In respect of that, I offered up Gilda a unique sleeping situation. I told Katya about it and she simply replied, "She sleeps with you on your bed on her bed?! That is ADORABLE." She likes comfort and she likes to be near me, but she also appreciates her own space.

For a dog too tense to poop without a forty-five minute warning and prep time, she is quite at ease when unconscious.

I've accepted that Gilda is a unique little pup. My frustrations for her not peeing and pooping truly are because I can't understand why she doesn't go and part of me thinks it's because it hurts her. I feel as if I'm not communicating with her enough to understand that this is her chance to go, and if she doesn't, she has to hold it. I feel like an evil pet guardian. Of course, the entire neighborhood already perceives me as such as I go from the crazy nice lady who keeps repeating in a soft voice, "Go pee, Gilda, go pee, it's okay," for half an hour straight at midnight while traipsing up and down the street, to crazy insane lady who suddenly squats down in front of the dog, grabs her face to look her in the eye and tells her how upset she is that she won't go to the fucking bathroom.

I don't think I've ever spent so much time dealing with a canine's urinary habits as I have with Gilda. Gretchen was a particular pooper, and we often had to restart the search for the perfect spot after someone walked by, but Gilda is different. She must find the perfect place to pee. As for taking a dump, the moment she's relaxed enough, she simply stops mid-stride during our walk (which sends me toppling over her), and poops right in the middle of the sidewalk. It's anything but graceful.

I have to admit that when I come home after running an errand, I do enjoy those precious sweet moments with this scruffy Muppet who in all honesty appears to have missed me. The second I'm in the door, she's jumping on me, pawing at my legs, and when I get down to greet her, she places her front paws around my neck and licks my face repeatedly while wagging her shaggy tail. She never seems distraught about me leaving, but evidently coming home deserves a few displays of affection.

Gilda truly will make someone a fantastic independent little companion. She accompanied me to a party on Saturday night, and although it took her quite a bit of time to warm up, she did finally lead me to the bar (Good job, Gilda!). She was quiet and reserved, content to sit on my lap or on the ground next to me while people milled about. I think with the right human companion, her social side will show through more quickly.

She really is all about patience: patience to get to know her, patience to pee, patience to show affection. It doesn't mean she's just not that into you; it just means that she can love with her whole heart and still be her own independent self. It's been said that in order to find your "other half," you must first be whole yourself. Gilda is proof of that. She truly is her own whole unique self, ready to find her other half.

If you're looking for an independent, willful, but loving dog who (as someone commented at the party) could pass as Sprocket from Fraggle Rock, check her out:

 http://www.adoptapet.com/pet6015127.html

Getting to Know Gilda

A few years ago, a co-worker was discussing her boyfriend with me. She commented how funny and awesome he was, but as soon as they would get into a social situation, he clammed up, got quiet, and didn't speak.

Her response to this was to ask him, "Why you gotta be so stingy?"

Her opinion was that not sharing yourself with others is being stingy; keeping your thoughts and feelings to yourself is selfish, as your greatest gift to share is You.

I feel like Gilda is a bit stingy. She's choosy with who she shares her awesome soul with, and I've been delighted with each layer she reveals as she considers me worthy of.

That's not say there haven't been battles, and although she has come close to sinking my battleship, she hasn't won the war yet. I'm trying to learn the way dogs learn: by making it fun. I try my best to think of every problem as a mystery to be solved, rather than her just being stubborn and trying to piss me off.

The mystery of why she feels the need to always looks suspiciously behind her on our walks, studying the empty sidewalk and street that we've just come from as if she might be assassinated, is still unsolved. I've explained to her that no matter how hard she tries, she won't be able to see the ninjas because, well, they're ninjas.

Gilda was found wandering around a studio lot. This means that she was hunted down and trapped. The constant paranoia that at any moment she might be nabbed is a very real consideration. Or perhaps, she is fearful of going too far from the apartment because she might become lost--which might be how she ended up on the lot to begin with.

Every dog is an individual. They have their unique needs, quirks, and ways of perceiving the world. For Gilda, I have to turn any training thoughts off, and go with a special kind of logic.

For instance, this dog refuses to go to the bathroom. Unlike other dogs who you train by after they pee and poop, you keep walking; otherwise they'll think once they pee it's the end of the walk and will refuse to go, just to keep walking. Gilda's reward for going isn't to keep walking; it's to go home. She just doesn't want to leave the apartment, and once out, is constantly trying to get back to it. And it appears conveniently for her, that she has an extra bladder or other storage facility. Twice a day was her limit for pee and poop... or so I thought.

On day three, after no longer wanting to traumatize her by dragging her down the street mid-afternoon for an unsuccessful pee break, I thought we'd just head out to PetSmart and get her some interactive toys. Perhaps some intellectual challenges designed specifically for dogs would make her stop her mind games with me.

Just as I was about to finish up in PetSmart, there's a tug on the leash, and I see that Gilda has stopped and suddenly squatted right at the end of the aisle. I don't want to give the girl a complex, so I quietly but firmly tell her to "Stop, get up," and give her a nudge with my butt.  She ignores me completely, and finishes up her shit as if nothing wrong has transpired.

I had noticed that she poops only on sidewalks... a strange occurrence for a dog in my experience. She doesn't go in the grass, just pavement. She pees only on lawn though.  Since I had discovered that she always shits before pissing, I quickly checked out at the cashier's and sped home so she could pee somewhere. There was no grass outside the store, and oftentimes, the peeing comes an hour after the pooping. I just couldn't get a hold of this dog's rhythm.

After another frustrating walk involving me dragging her down the street (Why is it that it's unacceptable for a dog to pull, but I'm doing the exact same thing to her right now?), she finally went.

That night at 11:00, on our futile last pee break before bed, I returned after an hour, frustrated yet again. I bumped into a couple of friends out for a smoke break and told them of my troubles.

"I was told she likes walks. Maybe she would if I wasn't such a frustrated, angry crazy lady who just wants her to pee. I just don't understand why she doesn't get it. She should take this opportunity to go, but she doesn't."

"Maybe she's just fucking with you," was the response of one of my friends.

Maybe she's just fucking with me.  Huh.  You know what? I think he might have solved the mystery.

"Maybe she does have to go, but is like, 'You know, maybe I'll hold it a little longer. This chick is freaking out; kinda entertaining.'"

Valid point. So in the path of least resistance, I decided to be aloof. If she goes, she goes, and if she doesn't, she doesn't. It's her kidneys. You can't express to a dog that what they're not doing is upsetting you; it's like trying to prove something doesn't exist.

And go she does, suddenly and without warning. The day after the PetSmart incident on our way to the car, she dropped trou' without notice, shitting in the parking lot behind my neighbor's car.

Katya had said that Gilda is quirky, and indeed she is--and not just in weird urination and bowel movement ways. I think she might be part cat.

I had said that to Katya the first day I met Gilda. I scratched Gilda's back, right at the base of her tail, and most dogs will express their enjoyment of this by collapsing to the ground in a melty, relaxed mess. Gilda, on the other hand, lifted her tail high and "presented" herself like a cat. Um, no, dear, I don't want to see your butt hole. Truly.

When she walks around the living room, she makes it a point to go under the coffee table to rub her back on the underside of it, and wrap her body around the legs. When greeting me now that I've left her for a few minutes at a time, she will greet me by rubbing her head and body on my legs like a cat.

Her aloofness to me to begin with perhaps wasn't hatred or condescension; perhaps it was just her feline genes coming to the surface. She even "floor dives" like a cat, throwing herself into the floor and rubbing her back on the ground, stretching her legs out, pawing at the air and ground.

She is one nutty little dog.

And surprising, eventually, when she determines you're worthy, even affectionate.

Gilda spent the other night on my lap, head buried in my arm, trying to block the light out as I was up super late with a friend watching movies and talking. She had come to me of her own accord, and when she did so, I was just as pleased and surprised as when a cat does so, as Gilda didn't give me her love because she's a dog; she gave it to me because she wanted to.

For every dog, their human-canine bond is an arranged marriage that they have little to no say in. Oh sure, the occasional gutsy canine will break out of a bad relationship, climb over a fence, and take to living on the streets or find his own new guardian. When a dog chooses you, not the other way around, there is a special bond between the two of you; one like you will never have with another human being, for the dog knows better than us who they belong with. But those are the lucky few. For the rest, they are forced to cohabitate with whomever has chosen them, and all they can do is make the best of it.

I appreciate that fact, and so, I try my best to make it at least fun. Given that Gilda appears to be goofy yet highly intelligent at the same time, I opted to entertain her by taking her to the theater: Shakespeare's Love's Labor Lost.

She was a good kid, and only became restless about forty-five minutes in. I calmed her down, took her for a walk during intermission, and then she returned to watch the play. She didn't bark at the madcap players; she did seem perplexed by one woman's singing, but other than that, she sat and watched the play unfold.

I hope that whomever wants to give Gilda a forever home will give her more than a day. I hope they understand that Gilda is one cool little dog with some crazy quirks and strange habits, but she's a bit protective of who she is. She's a special dog, and maybe we don't all deserve to get to know her. Maybe she has every right to be stingy. 

I walked back into the apartment this afternoon after only an hour away, and her happy scruffy face awaiting me, was a joy I hadn't received in a long time. Sure, I've had pitties to sit on my lap and snuggle with, but because it took so long to earn Gilda's appreciation, every cat-like body rub on my leg, every little dog hug and sweet little kiss I get from her means so much more.

Gilda's going to stick around a bit longer than I initially planned. And now that she's opened herself up, a big sign of trust to be vulnerable and herself with me, I'm glad. I wouldn't want her to think now that I know her I'm giving her back. So, one more week of Gilda for me. I can't wait for her to reveal even more layers of who she is, her wacky attitude, her strange habits, and the affection she feels I deserve.

Gilda's adoption link can be found here:

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet6015127.html 

And please, give her a bit of time: she's worth the wait. You just need to have a little patience.

Pint-Sized Patience

Here I naively thought the universe was giving me a bit a break in the "Patience" class. I was wrong. It simply decided that if I wasn't ready for a 70 pound dog pulling on a leash, perhaps I should instead deal with a 26 pound dog who downright refuses to walk at all.

I had received an email from Christy that Katya was looking for a temp foster for two weeks for a dog her husband had found a couple of weeks earlier. Katya would be in and out of town, but didn't want the poor girl being bounced around; she wanted one foster for two weeks. I told Christy she would probably find someone, but if not, I was free for one week.

Well, no one came through, so Gilda, named after Gilda Radner (Katya is still the queen of nomenclature), has come to stay with me.

"She has no issues," Katya said of the dog who was found wandering around a studio lot with a collar on, but no one claimed to be her guardian. "She's housetrained, she's quiet, and she's a dogpark dog, she's great with dogs and with people. She's a little shy at first, but then once she trusts you, she's so funny!" (Hence, the name Gilda.)

It takes a bit of physical adjustment to go from a seventy pound canine companion to under thirty in only 24 hours. But the culture shock is going from seventy pounds of uninhibited love and snuggle who can't think of a better place to sleep than directly on you, to less than a couple stone's worth of shy napping at the other end of the room.

Last night I stopped by a neighbor's yard who had a beautiful pit bull named Gunner. We were chatting, and I said, "It's so different to have a pit one day and a little terrier the next."

"Well, he is a..."

Der.  "..an American Staffordshire Terrier," I finished with a smile. I forget that they are technically terriers.

Meanwhile, the dog at the end of my leash, the one not just ignoring my existence but secretly hoping I'm not really there, is not a terrier at all despite being labeled a Tibetan Terrier.

Here's my feeling on Am Staff's versus other terriers: Pit Bulls are driven by emotion. They do things for you because they love you. They have intelligence, don't get me wrong, but when it comes down to a big decision, they're going with their gut, with their heart, not their logic. Which is why you hear stories about pit bulls running through fires to get their guardians, and pit bulls head-on lunging at an attacker of their guardian and being shot to death. Granted, many are total wusses; I'm not saying they're all glorious heroes, but in general, pits will go with their passion.

Terriers, the little ones that is, are more logic than love driven. They'll consider the consequences first. Where Gretchen would try to manipulate me with a snuggle and cuddle and look on her face; this one appears to be sizing me up to find out whether or not I will intrude on her plans to take over the world.

I feel like if I ask her if she wants to play a game, she'll respond with, "Would you prefer Chess or Global Thermonuclear Warfare?"

Gilda doesn't like toys. Katya already mentioned that up front. And so, I wonder, how do I entertain this canine? I asked her if she thought Backgammon would be appropriate, but even that seemed far too simple a game for her superior intellect.

She's a stubborn one. Unlike Gretchen who pulled this way and that, Gilda will walk to the end of the parking lot and stand. Just stand. Not moving. I thought perhaps it was the harness throwing her off, so I resorted to using the Martingale collar she has been wearing for two weeks. That didn't work either.

Once she gets going, however, she trucks along at a quick pace, pulling the leash with all of her 26 pounds.

She hasn't warmed up to me yet, but given her more left-brained thought process, I don't think her feelings toward me are going to affect her level of respect and command acceptance. She's stubborn, and won't be tempted with a warm heart.

So, universe, you got me. Emotional manipulation and big dog hugs are no longer part of the equation; now I just have to win one battle of wits after another... patiently.

Game on.

The Truth About Consequences

Anger is the not the path of least of resistance, and seldom gets you anywhere other than maybe feeling slightly better knowing the cause of your anger has been notified. My venting to Gretchen about her obliviousness to my needs at the end of the leash wasn't getting through to her, so I certainly wasn't feeling any better afterwards.

I took a few breaths and looked up some interesting solutions online. The one I chose to try was what I had been lacking all along: making it fun. Let's face it, we don't do anything in life because it's miserable; we do it because we enjoy it, because we get something out of it. Gretchen needed to get something out of not pulling on the leash, and what I chose to give her was treats.

Keeping my expectations low, I was amazed with the success. Gretchen kept close by, almost in a heel position, as every now and again, I'd say, "Good girl," and hand her a treat. And on this walk of calmness and obedience (or rather, on this buffet-in-motion walk where the focus was consuming tasty treats), more people commented on how beautiful she was, asked more about her, and even approached her. Previously, her lunging and tugging me off balance made people cross the street.

When I explained to a woman that I was trying to train Gretchen to walk on a leash, she said, "They know when someone loves them; that helps."

"That, and my pocket full of treats," I replied as Gretchen sat calmly, intent on my left hand where some remnants of treat molecules still lingered.

However, with every success comes consequences. For Gretchen, that meant a night of diarrhea, and for me, that meant trying to watch TV with a canine butt on my lap that expelled noxious gases every few minutes.

Gretchen is a particular pooper to begin with. When she finds an adequate location, she must pace back and forth for a few minutes, getting just the right place to squat and her nose sniffing the right direction. If she doesn't find this within the first few paces, she gets agitated (and might I even say, impatient), and begins whining and huffing about the place.

If a human walks by, then the poop task must cease. Often not momentarily, but as if the human has taken off with the very idea of defecation, leaving Gretchen wondering why the hell she was standing there to begin with. Perhaps five minutes later, she remembers that she has a load, and then the process of finding a proper dumping ground begins again. With diarrhea, this becomes a far more urgent need.

I'll accept the flatulence consequences for a calm and enjoyable walk twice a day. And I'm pretty sure Gretchen didn't mind her consequences as she looked up at me with those amber eyes, sitting sweetly, end of her long tail wagging ever so slightly in anticipation of tasty goodness in her mouth.

It also helps to accept these consequences and learning experiences when the student is one loveable pup who really just wants to love and be loved... regardless of her stature.

"Look, I can fit on your lap."

 No, you can't.

"Yes I can.  See?"

No sweetie, you can't, but good try.

"Aww, but I want to."

At night, in typical pit bull style, she lay next to me, her head on my shoulder, her muzzle pointed into my neck, and dreaming her doggy dreams. (So much better to have that end in my face than the other end.)

Pat called to pick up Gretchen, and although I needed her to pick her up so I could get ready for my next houseguest (yes, Casa de Canine is now booked through the end of next week), when I got off the phone, a little pang of sadness crept into my heart.

I was going to miss my big, bumbling lady Gretchen.  I convinced myself it was best for her. And it was. And is. The poor girl would whine and cry every time she saw another dog, and in fact that was the only trigger left to her pulling. She would get so excited and then frustrated on not being able to interact with them, that she would rush ahead, as if she could walk away the memory of seeing them.

Gretchen needs other dogs to play with. In their absence, she tried to play with me as a dog, and I wasn't very accepting of that. She would bat my face with her paw, try to "play nip" which I put an end to pronto, and would full body tackle me on her way back from fetching a ball.  The kid needs some friends of her own species.

Gretchen spent most of her days sleeping:

Here:

And here:

And here.

And here:

And even here, making herself as small as possible...

When she would release a grand dramatic sigh, I was consumed with guilt. My place is great for a dog who is person-oriented. It's fantastic for dogs who are ill and can't be with other canine companions, or for those who just hate their own race. But for a gregarious, fun, and playful dog, this isn't a place for them for very long.

Gretchen is a good dog. In the beginning I thought she was nowhere near being ready for adoption. But honestly, she is. She just needs to the right person who is willing and patient enough to teach her things, and the right person Gretchen feels like learning from and for.

Gretchen's adoption link is:

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet5999807.html

When she finds her soulmate, I'm sure she will do anything for him or her. But they need to realize that she was a street momma, an independent woman on her own, and it might take some doing to convince her to see it your way... if she does get convinced at all.

Whether or not she does, she will always give you love and snuggles, and that certainly isn't a bad a deal as far as consequences go.