Sunday, March 7, 2010

Fun and rough play at the dog park

HERE'S LADY RUNNING, NOT FIGHTING, AT
THE DOG PARK. SHE'S THE WHITE-AND-
BROWN DOG AT THE TOP RIGHT.

IF YOU'RE GOING TO take your dog to a dog park — and you might — you need to know some of the proper etiquette. These don't fall under rules and regulations; it just works.

The first two times Lady went to the park, she didn't get along. Each time, a dominant male stood over her — apparently a no-no in doggiedom — and, each time, Lady snapped at him. One woman asked, "Has your dog ever been socialized?"

Yes, she had. She'd just never been in a situation like that before.

When many dogs first go to the dog park, they spend a day or two sniffing the perimeter and staying away from people and other dogs. They're scoping out the territory. Lady did that. Other dogs jump into greeting humans and playing with other dogs.

Lady quickly figured out how to handle herself. She visits nearly every human she encounters, except for the occasional child who runs up to her to pet her; then, she runs. People she knows get a lick on the chin.

You'll quickly realize that dog owners will know the names of 30 or 40 dogs, but few people know each other's names.

ADULTS BREAK THE RULES now and then, bringing a child to the park who's under 12 years old. They assume their child's safe, not realizing that racing dogs sometimes knock adults down. They don't realize what they could do to a child. An older woman once suffered a broken leg, and an ambulance was brought in the park to retrieve her.

Other humans realize that bringing water in the winter and towels are a good idea. Occasionally, a towel is used to wipe up blood when an ear is bitten.

Of course there are humans who haven't learned proper dog-park etiquette. Once, a woman kept saying that her dog was NOT a pit bull. "It's an American Staffordshire terrier," she'd say firmly. "Looks like a pit bull," others would reply.  One day, Lady and her owner arrived at the park with two police cars out front. Two women were talking to a pair of policemen, who were keeping the women apart. Their dogs, including the non-pit bull, were looking out of car windows as their mistresses pleaded their cases to the police.

Apparently, the woman with the American Staffordshire terrier never showed up again.

Sunday, a white dog growled at Lady and jumped at her, trying to bite her on the face. Trying to keep her standing as a lady, she turned to the side and let her massive scruff protect her from being bitten. A woman grabbed her dog, admonished it and sheepishly apologized. Lady trotted off, looking for adventure.

Occasionally, she'll encounter a dog she can't handle, of course. Usually, it's two or three times her 54 pounds or so of bone, muscle and fur. Once, a white husky jumped Lady and dominated her for several minutes as I tried futilely to get him off. After what seemed like forever, a couple calmly stepped forward, grabbed their huffy husky and left the park. No apologies, how-do-you-dos or by-your-leaves. Good riddance.

Another time, she was trying to play with a big airedale named Pinot, but he was too large and too young for her. She got rolled maybe 20 times before someone got the playful Pinot away.

Other times, she's mastered the situation. One day, a young, white pit bull — or perhaps it was an American... well, you know — was bullying dogs at the park. No owner offered  to help, which is, of course, a breach of dog-park etiquette. Lady ran into the park, and the youngster immediately jumped her. Within two seconds, the white dog was on its back, and Lady had him by the throat. She didn't apply pressure; she seemed to want to let him know that he'd done a no-no.

The owner hurried to save her precious pup. They left in a huff.

Never did figure out how she got the dog — dare we say pit bull? — on his back so easily. Maybe she knows doggie kung fu — would it be kung poo?

Another time, Lady didn't use anything fancy. A big dog curled his lip, snarled and jumped her. She used her copious fur to protect herself for maybe 15 seconds before she found the perfect method of protecting herself. She bit the bully in the crotch. She didn't bite hard, but he squealed and took off toward the other corner of the five-acre field. The only thing that stopped his flight was the corner of the fence, and he ran in circles, still squealing, as his owner raced to get him.

Most of the time, disputes end peaceably. Once, a tiny black dog was on the big-dog side and was railing at Lady. She patiently waited a few seconds, reached out and licked the pushy pup on the nose. It ceased its growling, looking stunned. Another time, a tiny dog was barking, growling and making a general nuisance of himself as Ajax, a giant mastiff, towered above. After a few beats, Ajax  turned his head down and dumped a big ball of drool on the fuzzball's head. Yuck. Fortunately, about four nearby dog owners had towels, and all stepped forward.

Most dogs get along, of course. Lady likes to romp with Ajax, who weighs nearly four times as much as she does. Marcus is a favorite playmate, as is a beautiful husky with unmatched eyes.

The most beloved dog at the park may be Major, an old-but-wily golden retriever who has sorted out his priorities. He loves people and collecting toys, not necessarily in that order. When other dogs want to play, he'll ignore them and look for other sport. Often, someone will throw a ball, and four dogs will pursue it. Old Major, with a bad hip and a hitch in his giddyup, will flail along behind them, and, more often than not, he'll come back with the ball.

Apparently he knows kung poo, too.

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Wednesday, March 3, 2010

The old man and the dog

(NOTE: I didn't write this, but it brought a tear to my eye when a friend emailed it to me today. I would have named it "Angel with a cold nose.")

The old man and the dog
"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.

"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving.."

My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.

Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts ... dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often.

The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.

At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders.

Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.

Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue.

Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.

But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain.

Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article."

I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big, too small, too much hair.

As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.

Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hip bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.

I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?"

The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow."

He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"

"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."

I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch... "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!"

Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad ?" I screamed.

At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.

It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne.

Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night.

I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life.

And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."

"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article...

Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter ... his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father ... and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

(NOTE: The dog's unwavering look bothered me, since dogs generally look away from humans. Maybe that's how you can tell he's an angel.)
 

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