The Office... Dog

It takes a certain personality to handle office life—a personality that I don’t have. Therefore I never expect a canine to have it either. Granted I don’t work in a “real office.” The thought of spending 25 years in a cubicle on the 27^th floor pushing paper around and going to staff meetings makes my palms sweat and my heart race.

In the career I’ve chosen, “office life” is a little bit unorthodox. Rarely are cubicles involved; the office can be anything from a fold out table to a room in a 19^th century building with an executive desk. Depending on the circumstances, we can play tunes, talk loudly, curse creatively, and at this particular studio, bring a dog to work.

I was surprised to learn that Marty does indeed have the personality for the office. Maybe not cubicles, although unlike me, I think he’d fare well there too. Granted, there were challenges to overcome this week.

Marty has taken well to car rides. Unlike many dogs who prefer to just curl up and sleep, Marty likes to ride high and alert in the passenger seat, watching the world through the front windshield like a proper co-pilot should. The first couple of days I had to assist him in getting up into the seat, but now as soon as I open the door, he expertly hops right up to the floor, crawls up on the seat and gives me a lick on the face while I buckle him in.

Marty was up for following me wherever I took him until it came time to enter the building. I was supposed to have gotten a “permit” for him, a canine badge to allow him entry. However since I had made the decision late Sunday night to bring him, there was no time. I was told to just keep him on the down low, and if anyone questioned me, just say it’s in the works.

So, I was a little annoyed with my cohort that I was supposed to keep incognito, when he balked at going into the building. Awkwardly carrying my usual work bag, his day bag, a water bowl, and a dog bed, I was not in any physical position to fight with a stubborn dog on a harness.

Marty backed up and crouched down (his preferred protest position), taking advantage of all the gravitational pull he could muster and refused to even look at the front door. As more employees started to walk by, I started to panic.

“Marty, come on. It’s not the vet’s,” I harshly whispered and then, against every training suggestion ever written and much to the probable horror of onlookers, I dragged him across the threshold.

Once inside, I felt the need to explain myself and Marty to the people who witnessed this. “He’s never been in here before. It’s new to him.”

Marty was cowering, unable to move on this new floor surface which wasn’t just flat tile or linoleum; it was a bumpy rubbery surface that he had never experienced before.

I didn’t want to traumatize him with the elevator, as I can understand that this is a scary new thing, so I opted for the stairwell, unawares that this was just as frightening.

Marty had been going up and down my deck stairs perfectly fine, but a full flight of concrete stairs is a very different thing. He lowered himself to the ground and again, refused to move.

I urged him onward, and while I watched him awkwardly try to navigate the stairs, I was reminded of Dew, my timid two year-old Missouri driving partner. Marty had never seen stairs such as this before. I figured going down the stairs would take some serious courage, but up the stairs, in my simple human mind, seemed perfectly easy. Not so, for Marty.

Marty made it a couple of steps up and then turned to go back down. I gently coaxed him on, and he made it to the first landing. He shivered and lowered himself to the floor, and then tried to go back down the stairs.

“No, honey, come on, you can do it; it's just a little further now.”

He didn’t believe me. He refused to make eye contact, and instead wallowed in his fear.

“Marty, sweetie, you can do it,” I said, also crouched down on the stairs above him trying to get him to come to me (not that he always did that even on a flat surface.)

Marty did indeed rise to the challenge with me pushing him (or in this case pulling him) until he got to the final landing and collapsed all the way to the ground right in front of the door. Now we couldn’t get out of the stairwell.

“Marty, come here, come away from the door. I can’t open it if you’re in front of it.”

This has been a common misunderstanding—one we have every time we leave the house. He doesn’t grasp that standing directly in front of the door prevents me from opening it. But this time it was blind fear, not ignorance, that stopped him from getting out of the way.

When I gently shoved him, he stood half way, and I realized that he thought he was going to fall down. He was uneasy on the floor, seeming not to trust that it would hold him this high up. I had not ever seen a dog react in this way, as this seemed like a gross over-calculation for a canine.

I opened the door and Marty entered, ears flat, half-walking, half-crawling. But then alas, the oasis he had been searching for: carpeted floor.

Marty rose to his full height, and although timid in the new surrounding, he at least had solid footing. We trekked down to the end of the hallway, into my office, and the moment I placed the dog bed on the floor, Marty plopped down on top of it content as could be.

I had put the dog bed behind the empty desk across from me, creating a cave-like hovel for him. I wrapped the tie-out from my backyard around the bottom of the desk a few times and then attached it to Marty’s harness so he was free to roam the room. Silly me has only either a 4 foot leash or a 40 foot tie-out; it’s all or nothing, no in between. The tie-out got tangled around the desk and appropriately allowed Marty only about 10 feet, the perfect length to get him to the doorway of the hall.

Of course he never really went to the hall. I could come and go to the copy room or kitchen or anywhere for minutes at a time, and Marty simply stayed on the dog bed. He seemed disappointed that he wasn’t allowed to stay at home on the comfy couch all day, but had to settle for the mediocre dog bed. However, I couldn’t afford the time loss going home in the afternoon for a couple of hours. So, he was stuck here.

Marty has a live and let live policy. Even now as I write this at the coffee house, I’m watching him simply looking at the birds only four feet away from him. He’s not chasing them, just watching them. He’s pretty aloof to other dogs, content to say Hello if approached, but otherwise ignores them. I think this might be his natural mellow attitude, but it also could be a sign of his pure laziness.

So lazy in fact, that eating lunch didn’t even warrant scooting his rear end up into a sit position let alone stand.

I have since learned to place the plate far enough away from  him that he’s required to move his lazy ass in order to dine.

I often worry that my fosters are bored as they have no playmates, but with Marty, I feel as though he’s perfectly content doing nothing. He doesn’t have high expectations; just being is quite enough for him.

Since the stairs proved terrifying for him, I taught him about the elevator, even though I felt rather silly taking it to go only one floor. That too, frightened him—and why not? It is a small, closed-in metal box that moves of its own volition, and once the doors close, you’re trapped in it; when the doors open, a whole new scene presents itself than when the doors had closed. After four times, Marty was okay with this new mode of transportation. But I still wanted him to conquer the stairs. What if he had adopters who lived on the second floor of an apartment building? He needed to master stairs.

My boss brought in his gorgeous and exuberant golden retriever on Thursday. I thought this would give Marty an opportunity to play, but instead Marty let out a warning growl before even seeing the new visitor. I said hello to Hudson, the two year old Goldie, and realized that maybe Marty could simply sense this kid’s energy. Marty was completely opposite on the energy scale. Hudson was clumsily and frantically running about and didn't seem very bright. Marty is more of the cranky-old man grumbling if you jostle him awake in the early morning, and intolerant of shenanigans.

On our afternoon walk, Hudson went into the building ahead of us and I watched him go up the stairwell. I then challenged Marty, telling him he couldn’t be outdone by that silly boy. Marty gave it his all, and although there was some stopping and starting, he did make it up the stairs. And much to surprise, going down the stairs was no trouble at all for him later that evening.

I must retract my initial statement that Marty is unadoptable. He just needs an understanding and caring adopter who can help him gain confidence—someone who takes him on new adventures and gives him the proper time to adjust.

Due to my snap judgment though, Amanda now believes that Marty can only go to an “experienced adopter” and that he requires extensive training. Christy came by and met Marty this weekend, and said, “Are you kidding? This dog doesn’t need training. He’s the perfect dog—just lazy and willing to chill out.”

Does Marty always listen to my requests? Of course not. He’s got a mind of his own. If he’s walking away from me and I tell him to come back, he pretends as if he can’t hear me at all. But if he’s on a leash and he walks away and I stand my ground, he stops and waits for me.

Marty would make a great office dog, or bar dog—the mascot of a store or public place where he could greet people when he was feeling outgoing and then sleep in the corner when he got tired of it all.

Whenever we’re driving around town, I see him living a trucker’s life, on the open highways of America, taking in the sights of the ever-changing landscape. But I know he’s a bit timid around new places, and although driving is his thing, truck stops might be a bit overwhelming for him.

Marty’s potential new life is limitless. But he needs to find it soon. If he doesn’t get a home before I leave for the holidays, he’s going to get shipped back to the ranch, where he’ll most likely live for many more months, tucked away and inaccessible to finding his Forever Person who I am convinced is out there waiting to meet him.

If you or someone you know is looking for a mellow companion for long drives up the coast or long days in the office or business venture, check out Marty’s ad. (Ignore the “experienced adopter” line,.. and yes, he’s still listed as Starlight, but consider that his “AKC” name; he prefers his street name Marty.)

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet/6742829-malibu-california-australian-shepherd-mix

The Evolution of Marty

Change doesn’t always happen instantly. Gaining confidence is something of an evolutionary process. It’s not like catching a flyball and instantly you have it; it grows and plateaus and grows some more and at any point can be blown down by a gust of wind.

I had no real plan to help Marty with his confidence. My main goal was make him the best office dog possible in only four days’ time. Thanksgiving had proven a success, but that was still home-living. It wasn’t an office building, parking structure, strange noises like copy machines, and lots of voices of people who may or may not be within view. Before I felt he could encounter any of those new challenges, he needed to respond to his name, acknowledge when I spoke to him, and more frequently than not, do as I ask of him.

And of course, the foundation of whether or not a dog will do what you request is that he gives a shit what you think of him. So, I needed Marty to care if I was happy with him or not. I didn’t want him to do my commands for fear I’d beat him; I wanted him to do them because he liked to make me smile and figured out that doing what I asked would make me happy.

He knew ignoring me really pissed me off. I must admit that keeping up with positive reinforcement training is a rather trying experience when your student is staring at you in defiance from across the room while you repeat “Marty, come. Marty, come. Marty, come here. Come. Come on...” It’s quite easy to yell, “Marty!!! Come OVER HERE NOW!” Sometimes frustration fogs the realization that if someone was to yell at you like that, the last thing you’d do is go over to greet him or her.

Perhaps because I slept two nights on the couch and was overtired from work, Friday began with Marty and me bonding in my most favorite way: napping on the couch.

I had given him a bath on Wednesday night because although I didn’t want to traumatize him, he was way too stinky to be up on the couch or anywhere within five feet of me really. I weighed out my options and given that he wasn’t fully comfortable with me yet, it made more sense to traumatize him now rather than wait until he fully trusted me and then throw him into the tub.

Amanda had wanted me to take Marty to the vet to get the metal suture from his neutering removed—something that should have been done ten months ago. She felt it was urgent. I felt it was better for me to form a bond with him and get him used to happy car rides. However, I noticed during his bath time that his ears were caked with black gunk and he had been flapping and scratching his ears a lot lately. It only got worse after the bath. So now it was my urgency to take him in case he had an ear infection.

Amanda had said she’d try to find a vet near me Friday morning, which is why I felt it was fine to nap the morning and part of the afternoon away. By 3pm, I called to ask her if she had a vet yet. She said she didn’t trust any vet she didn’t know and only wanted him to go to her vet in Malibu, some 40 miles away from me.

At some point in the recent past I must have hit my bullshit tolerance level because I just wasn’t (and still am not) putting up with people’s nonsense. I told her it was ridiculous and a waste of money for her drive out here and pick him up when there were perfectly fine vets here that could take out his suture for free and then give me meds for his ears. After us arguing on the phone and talking over one another for ten minutes, I agreed to take him to Malibu, but she was going to pay me gas money.

This is not my usual reaction—I almost never ask to be compensated for fuel or dog food or anything, but not only am I really tight on cash these days, I felt it was the cost she should pay for being stubbornly silly.

This meant that Marty’s second car ride took him to a most dreaded place--the doctor’s. I still had two more days to prove to him that car rides were a good thing and at the end, you usually ended up with happy adventures. 

Indeed Marty did have a yeast infection in his ears which I have to administer drops to once a day. He got his nails clipped, was officially weighed in at 62 pounds (not 70), and he had the nasty metal stud removed from his penis. Maybe Marty didn’t think this was such a bad car ride destination after all.

Saturday we stayed clear of the car. I tried to get some better pictures of him, but he had this incessant need to be right next to me, making it difficult to get a picture of anything but the top of his head. When he finally did listen to the command of “Stay” I kept getting pictures of him with his eyes closed.

I wish there a way to show how beautiful he looked in the golden amber autumn leaves. He really has so many different looks.

He’s got the pittie look:

The worry face:

The sleepy, relaxed face:

And probably some more I haven’t discovered yet. I just wish he would smile more.

Taking him on walks, I discovered that this shy little canine is actually an adorable ladies’ man. He knows how to turn on the charm with the women. Everyone comments on how sweet he is, how well-behaved, and how beautiful he is. I admit, he’s a handsome dog, but I wouldn’t think to say anything about it. Clearly he’s projecting something, much like old man Double Bogie from my cross-country trip did. I agreed that he was an awesome dog, but the way people came up and commented on his physical attractiveness, I was beginning to think I saw an entirely different dog at the end of my leash. 

Marty loves the ladies. He’s okay with men, but the women, ah, the women... he just leans up against them, gently licks their hands, and looks up with those gorgeous amber eyes of his. Total heartbreaker, this kid.

Sunday afternoon, it was car ride time. I was surprised to find that Marty didn’t harbor bad memories from the trip to the vet. He needed a little help getting in, but was eager to enjoy the sights on our short drive to the coffee house.

Once there, after watching me topple over my just-purchased coffee and making a spectacle of myself, Marty and I settled in. Marty took to wooing the women at the table next to me and they soaked up his attention. It felt a little like I was on a date with a complete asshole who flirted with everyone but me.

Seeing as Marty is not a dick of a date but a canine in need of a home, his outgoing personality and charm is a good thing. It’s as if he knows he’s looking for his forever-person; I’m just his escort for the journey. At least, I hope this is his take on things. Sure seems that way.

About an hour into sitting there, he finally settled down and just lay on the sidewalk. (The towel I had brought for him to lay on had been soaked with coffee from the spill and then the subsequent cleaning up.) 

Every person who walked by wanted to say hello to him. He really was getting a lot of exposure and it gave me hope that maybe this kid would indeed find a home before Christmas. So many people wanted to know about him that I barely got any writing done—the main excuse for me to go to the coffee house to begin with.

I felt quite confident that Marty would be okay at the office. He was mellow and easy-going. He seemed okay in the car. He wasn’t going to run off on me. He was responding to his name more often, and in a great coup, he managed to walk all the way from the living to the bedroom by himself. The morning I returned from the shower to see him on my bed gave me the hint that if he could spring up from the floor to get on the bed, he was quite capable of walking to the back door on his own.

In four days, Marty had evolved. He was learning more, listening more, and was beginning to care how I felt about his actions, not because he feared that I would hurt him, but because he genuinely liked to see me happy.

I must admit, I’m proud of the kid. He’s come a long way in a short time, a distance I couldn’t fathom him making that very first night. I feel a little guilty not believing in him when I first met him. I really thought he needed someone other me to help him through this. And it very well could be that the next person he meets, he’ll be exactly the same timid little boy who cowered in the corner of my kitchen just last week.

But just maybe he won’t. Maybe it was me that he needed: the naïve and stubborn person who doesn’t give up on a dog, who doesn’t give in to doubts but forges ahead with Hope blindly leading the way. Did I think he would get this far? Of course not. The mind is a jaded place, claiming to be realistic when let’s face it, it’s usually just a big downer. But the Heart, where Hope lives, believes anything is possible.

I’m shutting off my mind for now and listening to my Heart who says Marty has more confidence now, and will continue to grow in confidence the more new experiences he has with me, and that before Christmas Day, Marty will be curled up on the couch with his very own Forever Person.