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.

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.