I’ve come to the conclusion that the dogs with the most to
learn have the most to teach me. I had it easy with Norman. It was my
pre-school class of life lessons – just getting into the swing of things, and
no homework. I thought Marty was a handful, but really he was a breeze. He was
Freshman year of high school: at the time it was devastatingly hard compared to
junior high, but in hindsight, it was a breeze.
And then came Lucy. Evidently, the universe felt I could
skip college and take up a masters degree in life learning.
Lucy was supposed to be just a weekend guest, a reprieve
from her current boarding situation at the veterinarian’s office. She had an
appointment with a trainer and rescuer on that Sunday to assess her and give
her lessons. I had finished a job on Friday and thought a new job on Monday
might be available – so it fit my schedule perfectly. But then the job fell
through, and I couldn’t rightly see any reason to send the girl back to a tiny
cage when I had a whole house to myself. So, before even meeting her, I booked
her to Casa de Canine.
Completely opposite from Marty’s frozen state, this fifty
pound pit bull was crazed, her eyes and nose darted everywhere and her feet
slipped on the floor as she tried to race in every direction at once. Belinda,
her rescuer, had said on a video introduction of her that Lucy was “active.” I
welcomed that, as I wanted a hiking and walking partner to get me back in
shape. But the thing is “active” is one of those words like “cozy” and
“vintage.” Cozy doesn’t mean inviting; it means “tiny.” And vintage... try
“found in the garage and we’re not sure what it once was.” “Active” in this
case, wasn’t a running partner, but an untamed, untrained street dog with two
months of pent-up energy.
Lucy arrived at South LA Shelter pregnant. She had her pups
there and raised them until they were all adopted. As is what happens with so
many pregnant canines in the shelter, the puppies are adopted and the mom is
left to die. Lucy was just a pup herself. Belinda (a cat rescuer) networked
Lucy, raised some funds, found a foster, and arranged for Lucy to get spayed,
have a few days at the vet’s office to recuperate and then be transported to
the foster two hours away.
A month later the vet called: “When are you picking up Lucy?”
Errr....
The foster had spoken out of turn; the rescue had never
agreed to take on Lucy. That left Lucy sitting at the vets while Belinda came
up with a very late Plan B. Belinda had to get this dog a foster and preferably
some sort of assessment by a dog-expert so she could place her more
appropriately. That’s what Sunday was for: meet down at the LA Coliseum for the
free dog training and meet a pit bull rescuer.
Lucy, who didn’t know her own name, was most definitely not
ready for this class. The dogs leapt from one bench to another, off leash,
following their owners with precession and dedication. Lucy was out of her
league with this class, and I was out of my league with her. I knew I could do the basics:
sit, stay, come, lay down, etc. But teaching a dog to walk on a leash, teaching
her to not lunge at people, teaching her to have some sort of respect for the
human world: this was beyond my common knowledge.
A light bulb went on in my head: this is what Amanda was
used to; this is why she was so over-reactive to Marty. She had grown
accustomed to the out of control, unruly pit bull. She couldn’t believe Marty
really was a gentleman.
Lucy, on the other hand, was no lady. She is the first dog
to piss in my house. Right in front of me. Only twenty minutes after she had
gone out. When I admonished her, she didn’t even acknowledge my existence.
The rescuer we were supposed to meet to assess Lucy did not
show. It was probably for the best. You can’t rightly train a dog when she
doesn’t even care what you think and you can’t even call her name.
Testing out a few names, Lucy was dropped for Missy. I don’t
believe that’s really her name, but she responded to it 50% of the time (which
was 100% more than she responded to Lucy.) Her crazed, a.k.a. “active,”
personality calmed some after a couple of days. I had construction going on in
the house, meaning she had to be either in a crate or outside while it was
going on. The crate Belinda loaned me was three times larger than the vet’s
office cage she had been in for two months, but it still didn’t feel right.
However, not only could I not trust her to not attack the boys working, but I
had no idea when she’d just drop trou and take a shit on the floor.
Which is also why she unfortunately sleeps in the crate in
the living room every night. It feels so unnatural to not have her in my
bedroom, but I can’t risk her having an accident (or, what appears to me to be
an “on purpose.”) She is crate-trained, so when I tell her to go to bed, she
does just that and I have no worries that she’ll last the night.
While workers tore down my stand-up shower to create a
laundry closet, Missy and I worked outside on her skills. She was a bit
underweight when I got her, so adding a few pounds in treats for a job well
done certainly wasn’t an issue. I watched Victoria Stillwell youtube videos
trying to glean how to get her to walk on a leash without pissing me off within
thirty seconds.
Most dogs catch on that when they pull and you stop, that to
get you to walk again, they back up taking the tension off their leash. Missy
doesn’t get this. Much like she doesn’t get boundaries: i.e., the counter is
not something to put your paws on to reach more treats; the doors are made of
glass, and thereby impermeable to thrashing canines trying to get at the
squirrel across the yard; when I say, “It’s okay, stop now,” I actually know
what I’m talking about, so SHUT UP.
First and foremost, Missy had to give a shit. Perhaps she
had never bonded with a human before. She seemed sweet for the most part,
except when she lunged at people while out walking. (After day two, I had to
restrict our ventures to the backyard until I at least had control of her on
the leash and she’d listen to me.) I informed Belinda that Missy needs to go
into professional training – it may be something I can’t solve. By day four,
she cared what I thought -- mainly because while I was thinking, I had a treat
in my hand. She’ll do anything for a treat. And given her possible street
status, I didn’t even need to buy special treats: just plain old dog food was
enough to get her attention.
Despite spending two months in an animal hospital, Missy’s
health wasn’t top notch. When I picked her up she had a cone on her head and a
bandage on her tail. The sad diagnosis was “Happy Tail” – when a dog wags her
tail so much in a cage that it cuts opens and won’t heal.
I opted to forgo the cone as I saw her neck was red with a
rash from it. Within two days of her being at my place she was an itchy mess,
rubbing herself on walls, me, even the stucco. When I took her to the vet, she
scratched so hard on their reception desk area that it took the paint off. And that wasn’t even the main reason I
took her in. Last Tuesday night, while I dealt with the aftermath of
contractors at my place, she took the bandage off her tail. The side of my
house now has blood splatters on it. And, I just realized last night, so does
my living room wall.
Missy is distinctly different from Marty in this: she has a
benefactor. There is no hassle when she needs health care. Within only hours,
Belinda had made an appointment with the nearest vet to me and a credit card
was already on file there. My foster was a trustafarian of sorts. Fostercare is
by astronomically easier in this case.
Missy got her tail re-bandaged and some meds for her
ever-increasing itchiness. Unfortunately, although steroids decrease itching,
they increase the need for food and water and thereby also urinating.
House-training was going to get even more difficult. But, I wouldn’t be missing
chunks of wall from where she scraped her ribs across the corners.
Belinda met me again at the Coliseum this past Sunday,
coffee and breakfast in hand. She noticed it right away: Missy was starting to
get in tune with me. She listened. She watched. Sure, a soccer game, a kid running quickly, a squirrel darting
across the lawn – all those would leave me a faint memory in Missy’s mind. But,
in an average normal situation, Missy cared what I thought; she wanted to
please me, or maybe she just wanted a cookie. Either way, she no longer was the
wholly independent street momma. She had a human.
I was that human. And she would guard me with her life. She
hasn’t been aggressive, but her body language says it all. The way she sits
just in front of me, scanning the horizon.
Hell, she even guarded my laundry
center before it was installed.
Now I have to teach her that I’m here
to protect her and she needn’t take all the responsibility.
Any time you bring a dog into your life, there’s a period of
adjustment – and I don’t mean for you. Missy has to learn how to live in a
house, how to walk next to a human, how to let me lead, not her, and that
although I appreciate her protecting me, she needs to know that I reciprocate
in kind. A dog is not “owned” by a human. It is a relationship of balance. She
protects me, and I protect her. I still need the upperhand; she’s my sidekick,
not the other way around.
I don’t know how long it will take for her understand that.
The vet looked at her teeth and assessed that she was a “cage biter.” Her teeth
are ground down to the pulp in a few areas where she’s try to gnaw her way out
of a cage – and not at the vet’s. This young girl may have never known what it
is to relate to a human with humanity.
Belinda is looking into getting Missy into a professional
training program - a two week bootcamp where she will be boarded and trained.
But until then, I can only do my best, only just get by in the master’s class.
Training isn’t just about command and response. I can do some of that, but
mostly what I can do is provide a foundation: the love and bond that it takes
for a dog to care; to prove to Missy that indeed we humans do have humanity.
Life isn’t about popping out puppies while trapped in a cage. Life is about romping
in a yard, cuddling with your person, and most of all it’s about love.
Missy, I’ll do the best I can. Maybe you won’t be able to
walk on a leash by the time you leave here, but you’ll at least know what it is
to be truly loved.
