Ready, Set... Patience.

Dogs do not come ready-trained whether from a breeder or from a shelter. I've been lucky in that most of the dogs who have stayed here have had some basic knowledge of the human world and adapt rather well to it. Even Cash, who slid across the kitchen table did so only once, as he was eager to please and wanted very much to be a model canine citizen within the human setting.

Gretchen, on the other hand, doesn't seem quite so inclined to learn the necessary manners needed to interact peacefully with others. I was told she was very sweet and a total lovebug. I didn't think to ask about her manners, as I figured someone who was sweet was pretty eager to please and would be able to learn quickly. But apparently when a person tells you a dog is "really sweet," it's like someone telling you that your blind date "has a good personality." Clearly, they're leaving out some pertinent information.

The universe will continually retest you on the lessons you need to learn until you finally learn them. In an ironic twist, I've grown quite impatient with the universe's desire to teach me patience.

I am not a dog trainer. I've been lucky that dogs do as I request because on some level, maybe they don't want to disappoint me or perhaps they're being polite. Gretchen is a sweetie, but I am losing patience on each walk we take as she doesn't give a crap what I think and doesn't know what being polite means.

It's not so much my hands that are raw from leash-burn that causes my tension to rise. It's because first off, she could get herself killed. Her complete obliviousness to me four feet away from her and attached by a nylon umbilical cord is nerve-racking in general, but when she juts out into on coming traffic to get closer to the dog across the street, it's downright dangerous.

Secondly, pit bulls have a bad rap, not just because they're used for fighting, but because people don't train them. They think they come ready-made with all the knowledge and ability to be polite, kind, and decent in public. But it takes time and energy to train them. And once trained, please bring them into the public! Let people see what good dogs these canines can be. But when they're like Gretchen, untrained, balking on the leash with all seventy pounds of her being about to lurch me into the street, people fear her. It's quite clear I have no control of her, and so the passerby's are fearful--and they should be. I don't think Gretchen is going to maul anyone; but she will take off from me to play with someone's dog, and never return.

Gretchen and I both have some learning to do, and we'll only be together till the end of the week. Gretchen needs to learn to walk on a leash. She's actually quite good in all other respects: sitting before eating, taking treats gently, not barking, holding her bladder (so it seems). And I need to learn patience (yes, universe, I know I do... now would you quit testing me?).

There is one thing that seems to be an innate policy for all my canine guests, Gretchen included. None of them want to dirty that nice clean blanket with pawprints on it that is on the bed.

'Cause that would be downright disrespectful.

Cash For the Weekend

There's something to be said for the ability to accept one's situation and not bitch about it.  I mean if you can't change your lot in life, there's no sense being miserable about it all the time. I believe human beings have the ability to change their circumstances, but canines aren't so blessed. Then again, maybe some accept their surroundings because they just don't know how good it could be elsewhere. I think that's the case for the adaptable, lovable, goofy American bulldog mix named Cash that I handled at an adoption fair. That was my whole task for this dog: not transport or foster; just hold his leash for four hours and tell people about him.

Here's Cash at the adoption fair:

And, um, here he is four hours later in my truck:

And, well, here he is Saturday night on my couch:

No one asked me to take Cash for the weekend, but when the call went out to round up all the pups to be transported back to the kennels, I hesitated.

"Is it bad to take him home just for a couple of days?" I asked.

I hadn't had any decent canine time since the Oregon adventure in May; no houseguests in almost three months. I felt like I was a having a nic-fit, but for a dog.

"Two days out of boarding is two days out of boarding," was Christy's response.

"But isn't that just a tease? Then he bonds and I bring him back. Seems mean," I said, acknowledging that perhaps this weekend getaway was more for me than for Cash.

"Dogs live in the moment. He'll be thrilled to be out of the kennel, and yeah he'll be sad to go back, but he’ll get over it," another rescuer said.

Cash was only a year old, and had been rescued out of East Valley Animal Shelter in January.  However, he never found a foster.  Which means, at this point, he's spent over half his life behind bars on a concrete floor in boarding.  But he wasn't "kennel-crazy." He is a goofball and full of energy (although around me, people noted he was much more subdued... I'm still not sure if I calmed him down in a good way or if I sucked the life out of him).

Maybe Cash was just an easy-going dog. He seemed to do quite well in the car, quickly settling in for the drive and trusting me without any qualms to take him on this little adventure.  However, I don't think he suspected an adventure outside his comfort zone. Perhaps he thought he had won a coin toss to get a private chauffeur back to the kennels.

At the apartment complex, he didn't tug to go inside. He saw the slab of concrete at the bottom of the outdoor staircase that was three yards in front of a fence and plopped himself down on it. From where he sat, it looked like he was upgraded to the penthouse kennel with a street-view.

"No, Cash, we're going indoors," I told him.  "After you pee and poop, of course."

I had to assume a dog who was raised in a kennel had no idea where was appropriate to shit and piss. I was correct. However, he's a quick study, learned I was not appreciative of piss on my living room carpet, and never did it again.

It did take me telling him twice not to slide across the coffee table to access the couch, but since every dog that has stayed here at Casa de Canine has attempted it--or given me a look like "PPPllleaasssee... just once?" I can handle his need to have at least two goes before calling it quits.

Just as I finished getting his dinner ready, he hopped up onto my seat at the kitchen table.  Before I could fully absorb the cuteness of that moment and say, "Who told you could eat at the table?" he stood up and plodded across the table top, changing my verbal response to a firm, "Get down. NOW."

Furniture is just one unusual feature in Human World. The most bizarre, of course, the one that takes the most getting used to, is that giant box of light that magic images appear on and sound radiates from. I told Cash the name of the item first, pointed the remote and allowed the television to come to life.

He lay with his foot draped across my leg (like most pitties and pit mixes, physical contact is a soulful necessity), his eyes went wide and a low growl rumbled up from his throat.

"It's okay," I said, psychically telling him to please, please, don't let out a loud earth-shattering bark.

He didn't. He grumbled for a little longer than stared intently. I could practically see the wheels in his mind turning. "Are those people real? Why are some smaller, and some giant, and further away but not further away?" When you really think about photography, moving or otherwise, it truly is a difficult concept to grasp--especially if you're a creature whose primary learning device is scent: something television doesn't come equipped with at all.

Cash did adapt well in that he accepted these human items eventually. And his unfamiliarity was at times a blessing. I've never had a dog willing get into a bathtub, sit his rump down in the water, and allow me to wash him all the while without panting, trembling, or on the verge of jumping out if I let me guard down for even half a second.

And Cash truly enjoyed the queen-sized bed in my bedroom. He began the night like most dogs, lying on his side or curled up on the large expanse of bed available. But somewhere around 4am, he looked at me, lying on my side under the covers with my head on a pillow and thought, "Well that looks mighty comfortable. Why don't I try that?"

And so, without being invited, nor deterred by my sleepy "Hey, no, not on the pillows," Cash walked up to where I lay, flopped down on his side in front of me, and shimmied his body up far enough so his head was next to mine on the pillow next to me. I guess he determined it was comfy, cause that's where he stayed till morning.

My main concern for Cash was no longer that when he got back to the kennels that he would then know what he was missing out on; my main concern was his reaction to being this far out of his comfort zone. Saturday night I tried to calm his nerves as he panted heavily, almost on the verge of hyperventilating. He was fine when he was playing, or when outdoors, but the moment he was on the couch, just lying there looking around, the Twilight Zone aspect of this experience came to light and he freaked the fuck out.

I thought that by Sunday, he would come to enjoy this experience and be calm, but by mid-afternoon I knew I had to get him out of the apartment. He was panting to the point of hyperventilating, and I couldn't reason with him like I would with a human--or just hand him a bag to breathe into.

So, we took a field trip to the coffeehouse. It was nice to be able to sit and read with a calm dog at my feet, just lying on the concrete, completely content to just watch the world go by. No panting, no hyperventilating, no salivating or nose-dripping; just complete calm.

But on the other hand, this is this soulful canine's comfort zone: hard concrete and being ignored by the person at the end of the leash.

Back at the apartment he enjoyed his toys, flipping the bear toy around, chasing a toy, snoozing on my leg, eating dinner (on the floor, not at the table).

But then just relaxing, again the panic attack emerged. This dog is a good dog; an easy, eager learner; a lovebug; a dog who would be a fun and active companion as well as a chill-out-at-your-feet type mutt. He's social and happy. And yet, the idea of being trapped within four walls in the human world makes him shudder down to his very core.

Monday morning when I brought him back to the kennels, I thought for certain he would breathe a sigh of relief.

I wasn't concerned I had damaged him by taking him out for a few days and returning him; if anything I hoped he would get over what I witnessed as a rather traumatic experience for him. Indeed he walked right into his kennel with me and I unclipped his leash so he could go outside through the doggie door onto the concrete patio.

As I stepped out of the kennel, he came back in and almost followed me out. I crouched down to say good bye, figuring I would find a look of contentment on his face at being "back home." But no, to my surprise in his eyes was confusion and sadness, "Wait. You're leaving me here? But I thought we had fun."

I walked away quickly, berating myself for not even explaining why he was back. Maybe he thought I had rejected him. Maybe he'll think upon sleeping in a human bed, or playing with soft toys and now he'll be bummed by the life he leads in the kennel.

On one hand, I hope he never settles for being content in a place of concrete and cages; he's a dog, and every dog deserves much much more. On the other hand, accepting his circumstances with a big goofy smile: that’s survival. Unlike some dogs who lose their sanity after being in a home and then being forced to live in such conditions, Cash will be able to make it through. Maybe he's just one of those souls who find the good in everything.

Cash has no ad up currently (not sure when and where there will be), but here's his Facebook link:

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.162202643827441.38999.158346247546414#!/photo.php?fbid=191144870933218&set=a.162202643827441.38999.158346247546414&type=1&theater

Of course I want Cash to get a forever home, but if that's not possible right now, I think this boy should get better acquainted with the human world in a foster home. He's only a year old, easy to train, eager to please.  He may not know it, or maybe he does but doesn't want to admit it, but Cash deserves more than a concrete bed and spending his days behind bars; he deserves a loving home, a soft bed, and a person to call his own.