A Home for the Holidays

I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful that they accept me for who I am—which is not the girl who brings her new boyfriend home for the holidays, but rather the girl who brings her new homeless canine to Thanksgiving dinner.

It’s been a rough week—even for identities. Starlight became Max by Monday afternoon, but whenever I spoke to him, I found myself calling him Maxi, which seemed just as awful as Starlight for a dude dog who needed self-confidence. After thirty-six hours of being Max, my canine houseguest evolved into Marty, who he remains being to this day.

I spent two nights on the couch while Marty (then Max) slept on a dogbed on the floor beneath me. I couldn’t leave him alone in the living room, and it was clear that first night that he wasn’t getting off the dogbed. In the morning, I once again couldn’t afford him the time he needed, and found myself cruelly dragging a terrified canine across my living floor to the kitchen (dogbed coming along for the ride.)

Monday night I again had to sleep on the couch. Marty didn’t even know there were other rooms in the house. His entire world consisted of the kitchen and living room of which he was dragged between on a dogbed, or on his feet if the dogbed fell away along the journey.

The initial Fear he had that first night seemed to be melting away, but he still wouldn’t walk from the living room to the kitchen. He slept in the enormous crate while I was at work, and when I came home for lunch, he was delighted to see me. But the delight wasn’t enough to get him out of the crate and across the floor. Monday evening when I came home, I saw the cogs of his brain in motion. He stepped out of the crate, and in one giant stride, hit the dog bed next the crate. There he lay down, unable to go any further.

So there it was: my dog-friendly house has the most un-dogfriendly floors: hardwood. Not a scrap of rug to be found anywhere. All Marty could do was leapfrog from one dog bed to another.

Tuesday morning, in an effort to show him that the house was more than just two rooms, I took him for a ride. “Hang on, Marty. You’re getting the grand tour.”

He lay there relaxed on his dog bed, while I dragged the bed through the first threshold and into the front room. His eyes opened wide, astonished that there was more to this edifice. Next came the hallway, and although he looked into the office with curiosity, he did not disembark the vessel. He sniffed at the bathroom in passing. Then like a light at the end of the tunnel, he espied the dogbed in my bedroom in front of the patio doors. He exited the ride and carefully trod through the bedroom, arrived at the dog bed, and plopped himself down.

I had no worries that he would pee in the house or eat anything forbidden. He wasn’t leaving that dog bed of his own accord. Ever.

I finished getting ready for work, leaving him alone in the bedroom. When it was time to leave, I had to raise him up using his harness and walk him across the bedroom floor where he got back onto the vehicle which brought him there, and I dragged him back to the living room.

“Never again. Got it. You do this on your own from now on,” I told him as he got off the dogbed in the living room and crawled into his crate.

“Never” is evidently a loose term for me. He got two more rides on the dogbed scooter, and by Thursday morning, he left the bedroom (where he slept on a dogbed the night before so I could sleep in my own bed) using his own four feet.

My friends had already told me that any canine houseguest I had was welcome to Thanksgiving dinner. They have an 18-month old who adores dogs. I was less worried about Marty injuring the kid and more worried that Marty might find a child overwhelming. I had already decided not to take him, but Thursday morning, with how well Marty had been doing, I couldn’t miss this opportunity.

I had four days—four days to turn this timid creature into a perfect office dog. I couldn’t keep coming home for lunch. I had about 100 hours of work to do in 5 business days. And leaving him home alone on a holiday—that just seemed wrong.

Marty didn’t always respond to his name, and the concept of “Come” and “Stay” eluded him, but he had Sit nailed and was getting the hang of Down as well. Marty wasn’t a sprinter; I wasn’t worried about him taking off from me. I was assured that Ben, the 18-month old, was a model citizen toward dogs, and the backyard was secure and child-safe, meaning it was also dog-safe.

And so Marty was my Thanksgiving date. 

And like all first dates one takes home for the holidays to meet the family, a faux pas or two are expected. Marty made his straight out of the gate—or rather, just inside the gate of their backyard. Despite having just gone for a pee break walk before our drive, Marty confidently waltzed over to Ben’s plastic slide, lifted his leg, and let out the longest stream of urine I had ever witnessed. Perhaps it was in slow motion only for me. Perhaps it really did last 45 seconds. Either way, I was mortified, my friends laughed assuring me it was funny and totally okay, and Marty was completely unaffected by his action and my response.

 

“As long as he doesn’t do it in the house...” my friend said, and I assured her that he wouldn’t. Indoors, Marty was the perfect guest. He easily walked through the threshold into their kitchen and then onto the living room where he plunked down on their rug, and stayed the entire afternoon.

Luckily for Marty, Ben was sleepy upon introduction, having just woken up from his nap. Marty wasn’t confronted with an exuberant two year old, but rather a slightly dazed child wondering how this heap of canine magically appeared in his playroom.

I was proud of Marty, and glad that Fear didn’t stop me from taking him. He was a perfect gentleman, staying low to the ground to be smaller than the child (or maybe just because he didn't feel like standing up.) He gently licked and sniffed. Ben was kind as well, and a mutual understanding took place between boy and dog. There before me was the seeds of that sacred bond that can never be broken: the bond between a boy and a dog. 

Ben tried to share his toys with Marty, graciously giving Marty both Tigger and Pooh. Marty looked up at me wearily: “Really? This is what the car ride was for?” he seemed to say.  

I looked into his amber eyes, and swear if he could speak he would have said, “You owe me, woman,” as he politely turned his head away from Ben’s gifts.

I had been filled with doubt four nights earlier. I doubted myself for being able to handle this terrified canine, and I doubted Marty for being able to handle all this newness. But it had just been Fear. I had let Fear get the better of me. I still contended the kid needed a bit more help than I could provide, but he seemed to be doing okay with the little I had to offer.

Three more days—three more days to help Marty discover his inner confidence, feel secure in new surroundings, and learn that the world isn’t out to get him. My instinct had been right: there were snags in the process and it wouldn’t be easy. But my first instinct had been right as well: this was the dog I needed. And just maybe I was the person this dog needed.