Instinctive Impressions

NICU

2012-01-04T14:26:00.001-08:00

My topics have bee-bopped back and forth in time, but such is the nature of my mind...I'll dive back into the linear version of Ella's and my "walkabout" journey soon enough (especially now that winter prompts me to escape in imagination to warmer days). My previous blog recounted my manner of celebrating that journey by capping it off with my first marathon. Ella needed her own recognition of accomplishment. Since they wouldn't allow me to take her on the marathon, she took a decidedly different approach when on December 6th, 2011, she welcomed a new litter of pups. OK, so it wasn't something she chose as celebration, but she was so radiantly healthy and fit after our two months of free-range rambling that when she came into heat shortly after our return (around the time of my marathon) I thought, what better way to memorialize this accomplishment than a legacy for Ella? And yeah, she did thoroughly enjoy the process...she and Ieuan were allowed the fun and games of natural conception in the back yard...none of that hold 'em still and slam/bam/thank you ma'am that constitutes the norm for arranged breedings.

Flash forward to early December and Ella was glowing. She had a magnificent belly, lustrous coat, and energy to spare. That, as it turns out, is where the trouble started. Her energy is innate (she demanded six mile daily walks from the time she was six months old) but enhanced by her new level of fitness. Sadly, being back here with all the other dogs means my walking time is split among many...she being pregnant, I'd begun letting her take her exercise in the large paddocks, while my walk time was given to Caron, Zeva and Ember, among others.

But that freedom in the paddock spelled trouble for a soon-to-be-mama with a big belly. When Ella refused food about five days prior to her due date, I knew what an ominous sign that was from a dog who will eat anything, anytime, anywhere. With ironic premonition, my own stomach did flips. Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, she worsened, not just refusing food but beginning to show signs of labor, far too early. Per my ex, there was nothing to do but monitor her for the time being...he wouldn't do an elective Cesarian since the likelihood of survival wanes with each day prior to their full gestation.

The little hand-held Doppler he'd given me for Christmas two or three years ago has been a literal lifesaver many times over. Using it, I could detect two heartbeats, but only from one horn of her uterus (dogs don't have one ovoid vessel like humans do, theirs is elongate and bifurcated). Nothing but the gurgles and gushes of Ella's own body sounds on the other side. Again, my stomach lurched.

Abbreviating the story somewhat, a Caesarian was what ultimately had to happen, two days early, and the discovery made during surgery was that during her hijinks in the exercise paddock, Ella's uterus had torsioned (twisted), which cut off the blood supply to the pups in that horn of her uterus. Their death had triggered a cascade of physiological processes so that there was ultimately no recourse but to bring the remaining two living pups into the world sooner than Mother Nature intended. (Spoiler alert: that's one of them looking at you from the crook of Kyle's girlfriend's arms.) Two utterly gorgeous girls, with deep black & red pigment and chunky little bodies. For the first three days I had to tube feed them, since Ella's milk hadn't yet come in and they weren't ready or strong enough to suckle on their own. But by the third day things picked up, and Ella took over completely. Now we could celebrate.

Ella herself barely showed signs of having had major surgery. More major than even the Caesarian, since the damage to her uterus from the loss of blood supply necessitated her being simultaneously spayed. My first-born was via Caesarian, and I can tell you that I was not doing stairs the day after, nor was I even particularly excited about sitting up in bed, and I dreaded coughs and sneezes like the devil. But I had the wonder of new life, my little Jessica.

Contrast that with Ella, who was wanting to bound up and down stairs as soon as the grogginess of anesthesia wore off. Once again she so ably demonstrated how to accept, how to be right exactly where she was without wasting a moment of her life. She didn't whine over her ordeal, that was in the past; she didn't bemoan the loss of future litters, for she had kids she loved to attend to in the here and now.

I try, Ella, I do; I want to live fully present, I want to feel joy for what is, not obsess over what was (or maybe never really was, only now imagined), or live in fear of what may be.

The high anxiety wasn't over, as it turns out. While Ella's kids grew, opened their eyes, began walking and eating, Luna's pregnancy became the in-your-face kind where you look at the dog and groan in sympathy. Her belly was so enormous she waddled. With an appetite sufficient for an entire pack, she was happy to hang out in the whelping room awaiting delivery day. Until she, too, stopped eating.

Deja vu, all over again. She hadn't been rampaging around in an exercise paddock, so I felt confident it wasn't another freak accident like Ella's. She was so huge it was easy to imagine there simply was no room for her stomach to expand, or that eating caused acid reflux or other disincentives for eating. Coaxed with chicken or steak or tripe, she ate a mouthful here and there, just enough to avoid utter starvation, while her insatiable unborn pups sucked the protein right out of her muscle tissue for their own growth needs.

Doppler readings showed normal heart rates, and nothing drastic seemed awry, but that did nothing to allay my growing anxiety. Once burned, twice shy, as they say, and over the course of thirty years of breeding I've been burned enough times to have an outright phobic response to anything other than perfect text-book births. And then...Caesarian number two for the month of December... resulting in eight lively little babies, two girls, six boys. Of course, having been semi-starved for a week or more, her body was too weak to produce enough milk, so I found myself tube-feeding the little pack every three hours 'round the clock. Now, a bit more than a week later, Luna's sufficiently recovered to (mostly) feed them herself, and in short order they'll be eating solid food and taking some of the burden off mama Luna. Neither pups nor mom will remember their rough start, they'll just be a happy family.

But wait, we're not done. Rio was due a week after Luna, was looking as radiant and active as Ella had been, and appeared to my eye to be carrying between four and six pups. She ate like a fiend until the day she went into labor, proceeded into labor with no fuss or hiccups, and summarily set out to bring pups into the world the way the book says they should. Or, so it first seemed. When three hours of hard labor had not brought forth the firstborn, I was on the phone with the emergency clinic at 4:00 AM. Bring her right down, they advised. Not so fast...I wanted suggestions, not surgical intervention. I'm a newbie to this side of the phone line...after thirty years of running a vet clinic, answering just this kind of question, conferring on cases with my husband, I can't seem to get it into my head I'm the one who stopped at a B.S. to support him while he got the D.V.M....no medical degree means no authority to dictate medical procedures. Hang up from Emergency clinician, call ex-husband.

No go. He's got his new life, his new routine, his new priorities. He's been generous with his professional help, but any diminution of access to the acumen I helped him acquire is a painful reminder of the many losses of our union. As the jabs of yet another volley of sharp reality darts hit home, I'm literally on my knees, head bent to the floor to see what I'm doing, one latex-gloved hand compressing Rio's belly to aid contractions, the other desperately trying to hook what little of the pup I could contact as it breached, for the umpteenth time, the lip of the pelvic rim. With no hands free, the now-dead cell phone was still held scrunched to my shoulder by my badly-torqued neck.

No aid to be had, it was up to Rio and me. I got down to the business of getting that pup born. Rio was a wonder in patience and experience-based cooperative effort. She bore down, I pulled and wiggled and pushed and strained, trying to follow the medical maxim of "first, do no harm" but knowing full well once I'd gotten the pup's head past the pelvis that I had to get it out fast one way or another or it would suffocate. It seemed hopeless, and the poor thing's lips were blue as it gasped desperately for air that the compressions of birth wouldn't let it draw deeply into its lungs. Finally, against all odds and my own expectations, with expediency winning over caution, I applied more force than I thought wise and the shoulders and body emerged in one smooth rush. He gasped instantly, sending a warm flood of relief cascading the length of my body. Pragmatic Rio set about cleaning and acquainting herself with her newborn. His brother arrived three hours later in much the same fashion, previous success having lent Rio and I the dogged determination and cooperative teamwork to get through the tough stuff and celebrate the new arrival.

There is no formula. Worthwhile efforts can be as simple as (literally) pie, as challenging as scaling a mountain, or as potentially life-threatening as bringing new life into the world. The effort we put in does not guarantee a positive outcome, nor does an unwanted outcome have to be experienced as "bad." The more I watch these dogs, the less I like labels at all. What is, is. It's only good or bad if you assign a valence to it. Otherwise, it's just life, and embracing it is a joyful process.

The Upshot...

2011-12-22T20:34:00.000-08:00

What, you might well ask, is a photo of filthy feet doing on a blog about life with dogs? If you've been reading about the mileage logged with Ella on our walkabout, you'll know those feet have covered a lot of miles. A lot of miles. What I may not have mentioned, and if I did it bears repeating, is that all those miles were done in Teva sandals. Every last mile of preparation for the journey, the journey itself, and afterwards until the frosts hit (and with a pair of socks, I extended it a few weeks beyond). They carried me over jagged crags and gentle meadows, waded refreshing brooks and slogged through quicksand-like quagmires. My mother always said, only half-jokingly, that she and Dad had been so poor they couldn't buy baby shoes for me, and by the time they could afford my first pair of shoes I could outrun them...so long after most girls were in nylons and high heels, I was still running around barefoot. The Teva's are a concession to heel spurs and the vagaries of age...otherwise I might've been tempted to try the whole thing entirely shoeless.

The idea for freeing my feet from the bondage of shoes didn't stem from a sudden yearning for the good ol' days of childhood. I'd long-since acquiesced to the apparent necessity of specialized footwear for various functions; cross-trainers for off-road runs, sandals for summertime, thinsulate/gore-tex boots for winter, pumps, heels, riding boots, dance shoes, shoes for slacks, skirts....suffice it to say the over-stuffed nature of my closet is evidence that I like shoes. But Born to Run had planted concepts that were germinating, and I'd been wearing Teva's one hot summer day when I headed to the Delaware Water Gap to meet Jess, my daughter, for a hike. I'd thrown my boots in the car intending to put them on at the trailhead. Unfortunately, I forgot to also toss in socks. There's simply no way to wear boots without socks, so my choice was to bag the hike after driving an hour or to suck it up and try it in Teva's. I'm never one to turn away from a trailhead.

Wow. It was an instantaneous conversion. Jess had been trying to convince me that she was more sure-footed when wearing her Teva's on hikes, and I'd scoffed and continued to lecture her with the "you need ankle support on rocky terrain" b.s. that I'd absorbed and believed without question. Time for a big serving of crow. The girl was right. Not only did the Teva's have better traction on rocks, but my balance and dexterity was markedly improved. Because I could feel the terrain under my feet, the nerve-endings in the soles of my feet transmitted information to my brain about the substrate, resulting in instinctive compensation in how I moved; net result absolute certainty of foot placement and zero twisted ankles. Not to mention that my usual plantar fasciitis didn't flare in the least (and ultimately, after consistently walking in my Teva's, resolved completely on its own). It was nothing short of astounding.

That was in 2010. This year I started the season in Teva's, so doing my walkabout in them was never really a question. Sure, I hauled my Lowa hikers along, but I wore them twice and regretted it both times...shouldn't have bought into the locals' advice as to the rocky conditions -- nothing I encountered was more of an ankle-buster than conditions found in our favorite loops at the Delaware Water Gap.

Gradually I learned to trust my body, trust my judgment, trust my Self. Ella and I were alone, with utter freedom, minimal agenda, and no one to answer to. With Ella as example, I got down to the business of being wherever I was. It's raining? You still hike, and before long the rain is you is the rain...what's the difference? Being there, in the rain, or the sun, or the wind, whatever There had to offer, was all that mattered, all-consuming. Being There in my "uniform" of shorts, tank, and Teva's gave my body more contact with the elements, more contact with what's Real. The wind infused my very cells with life force carried from Madagascar or Burundi or Tibet, and swept stagnation away with each exhalation. The rain matted my hair and streaked my glasses and coursed my cheeks, joining the tears, sharing my grief, cleansing my soul. The sun strengthened my bones, rejuvenated my spirits, cradled my heart. Everything I needed was in my backpack or in the Elements around me.

Not quite everything. Companionship is an essential element, and Ella provided that and more. She was muse, and teacher, and friend. She encouraged, she insisted, she prodded, she nagged. She kept me going, she entertained, she inspired. Over the miles, our bodies flourished - I watched Ella morph from a soft housedog to a trail-hardy veteran with chiseled thighs and rippling shoulders. Little did I know, so had I.

During our weeks in the wilderness, my nearly-forgotten entry to the Steamtown Marathon had been bumped from wait-list to acceptance...but being sequestered from all things digital, I didn't know that until my return to civilization. A bit late to begin running, I'd nonetheless logged more than ample mileage to have the legs for the distance. The most I'd done in a day was about 22 miles, which correlated well with the recommendations for peaking a month before the race. My natural walking pace is about 4.2 mph, almost enough to complete the course within their time limit, so I figured if I tossed in a bit of jogging I'd make the cut-off. National Weather Service predicted a picture-perfect day, I'd have been out walking anyway, so what the hell, why not put in 26.2 miles? The only downside - no dogs allowed. Is it possible to walk that far without my canine partner?

As it happens, yes. If you take a good look at the photo above, you'll see the Steamtown race timer strapped to the sandals. I didn't quite meet the 6-hour limit, I'd slowed down to keep company with the oldest entrant in the race when he was complaining of feeling a bit faint, but for those few miles he inspired me...his first race entry was at age 76, if I remember correctly, and he'd done 25 marathons since then.

The physical and the emotional/psychological are conjoined; one cannot be extricated from the other. As I hike, I ruminate. In so doing, I've learned that I can handle adversity in ways that allow the struggle to shape me and hone my internal "muscles" right along with my physical ones. If I don't accept the lessons, if I resist the changes, the brittleness of that resistance will predispose me to break. I can keep getting stronger, or I can sit down and get old. I think I'll do more marathons.

Commitment

2011-10-29T17:35:00.000-07:00

My sabbatical, or pilgrimage, or retreat, or rehab...whatever it was, it's been over for better than a month. That month has flown at triple-time -- catching up, negotiating the present reality, and chipping away at goals that must be dealt with in the near future for the sake of the longer-term. The internal balance I sought during my trip was tenuous at best, and is getting a real workout.

It's so unnerving and disorienting to be this groundless. To maintain any equilibrium, I turn more often to the dogs. Tonight, just flipping through the photos of Ella on the trip, I see the expression in her eyes as she looks over her shoulder at me from her vantage ahead on the trail, and I recall how that look urged me on over miles and miles of trail. I had no real impetus for continuing to move. Even surrounded by grandeur, immersed in the living, breathing wonder of wilderness, my heart didn't respond. But the zest in my dog's eyes prompted me forward, to keep pace with her, to follow her to trail's end. No real inspiration, just a desolate commitment to each step. I'm reminded of a line from a book I read to the kids when they were very small: One foot, then the other.

I've read a lot of Buddhist writings, especially lately. Just finished an anthology called Right Here With You, and previously Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart. I devour the words like a starving person, needful of the sustenance they provide, but immediately depleted when I set the book down and try to grapple with Here and Now. What do to with this being called Beth, whose life mate finds her unworthy of commitment?

I'm surprised and dismayed to realize the intensity of my dependency on the affirmation of others. Or is it not others, but a single other? Shouldn't I value me, trust me, care for me irrespective of his lack of commitment to our promises? It feels like weakness to want his eyes to mirror me as I wish he still saw me; instead they reflect a despised demoness. Must I be that, simply because it's what he sees? To avoid that incarnation, I'm told I must embrace this flawed, weak, wreck of a person, this impostor answering to my name, hold onto her until some semblance of self is restored. But how long must I feel empty and aching and unworthy and directionless?

Does Ella need affirmation? I think not. I had plenty of time to ponder as I dogged after her steady trot, mile after hundreds of miles. She is what she is, always. Aware, attuned. She doesn't know where we're going, but she knows where she is.

I can aspire to the same. I can commit to life as Ella sees it. All of it-- the rugged climbs, interminable descents, numbing cold, biting wind...they're the journey, but the journey is the process. It has its share of blessed moments -- the arc of a bird's flight, the glimpse of a pine marten, the dance of dozens of butterflies on larkspur, a jumble of sweet scents when merely breathing is to taste ambrosia. So long as Ella, or any other fully-present sentient being, will walk the path with me I can commit to this. I'm not ready to solo, but whether I want to or not I do realize that's how it is. We just persuade ourselves to believe otherwise.

Galadrielle vom hohlen Huegel

2011-10-17T20:38:00.000-07:00

Being "in dogs" for nearly three decades, or a lifetime if you want to count all the years with dogs that had nothing to do with shows or titles or breeding, there simply aren't enough hours in the day to recount the anecdotes of heroism and humor and hilarity that these dogs have brought me and the hundreds of loving homes into which I've entrusted my puppies.

Today one of those folks paid a visit for the first time in many years, to become acquainted with the next generation of Hollow Hills' dogs. Her beloved Star v Hasenborn daughter, Gala, had passed away. Like her father before her, this was a dog who inspired superlatives. I have my own memories of Gala, who was born here and spent her first four years with me, but let me share the memorial that appeared in the Spring 2011 newsletter published by Southern Tier Hospice and Palliative Care:

"Remembering Gala
For many people, their dogs aren't just pets, they are members of the family. That's true here at Southern Tier Hospice and Palliative Care. It's not uncommon to run into a canine pal in the office hallway as they pay a visit and sniff out the people with the treats.

But some dogs are more than friends, and that was true of Gala, a noble German Shepherd who died recently. Gala was our first therapy dog, working alongside her favorite person, retired hospice nurse Joni Pirrozolo. She visited patients and offered what dogs do best -- unconditional love.

Says Joni of Gala's work with patients, "It was just the medicine they needed, comfort and unconditional love."

While not all patients are interested in visits from a therapy dog, Gala brought many a smile to those who loved her. She made such an impact on Donna Mashanic of Horseheads that when Donna died, her family asked that Gala attend the funeral.

"I would get out of the car, and the family would ask, 'Where's Gala? You can't come in without her," Joni Said. Gala would go directly to Donna's room whenever they visited and gave both Donna and her family something on which to focus besides illness.

Gala also helped people talk about loss and express their grief, a difficult task that can be eased by stroking a loving companion."

Going The Distance

2011-09-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

Since my August 1st departure from home, I've logged 5,784 miles...by car. In comparison, the foot mileage doesn't sound so impressive, but a conservative estimate puts it at 345 miles. That's official trail miles, not counting the various running around a person does in the course of a day. That averages out to just under 9 miles per hike, after accounting for the many days that were spent behind the wheel when no hiking took place.

I'd hoped to do better. I'd hoped to do much more than that, and not just in mileage. Originally, as I imagined a glistening necklace of days stretching forward into the fall, I anticipated time to indulge myself with visits to museums, sidetrips to quaint villages, perhaps sketching pets or passersby in a park. As I gathered the links of that necklace, however, it was all I could do to find trailheads, navigate the terrain, set up my tent, feed myself and the dog, and perhaps jot a few notes on the laptop (if I'd had opportunity to charge it) before crawling into (or onto, depending on the temperatures) the sleeping bag to recharge the biological batteries.

Each change of venue, each footstep along the trail, at first required Herculean effort to accomplish. Not because I was out of shape like Ella (poor girl, she had her struggles, too); I came to the trip well-prepared physically. My biggest hurdles were internal.

Leaving home almost didn't happen. The pear trees were laden and nearly ripe. The apples were blushing with promise. The garden literally bursting beyond its boundaries with produce. Katydid and cicada choruses announced the height of summer, the glorious pinnacle of the year. Why leave now, of all times? For practical reasons...caretakers for the animals aren't easy to come by, and their schedule dictated my own. So, it was now or never, and as the sun bronzed my skin on that last afternoon while pondering my options on my porch steps, I was ready to opt for never. I was too old. It was too self-indulgent. I was asking too much of my son (the primary critter caretaker). I'd miss out on favorite seasonal rites, the fairs and festivals of August.

But I'd done all that. What I hadn't done, needed to do, was find a way forward. Whether that path would lead back to NEPA (NorthEast PA) or to parts unknown, didn't matter...I couldn't predict, I had to discover. So, with sorrow and considerable trepidation, we hit the trail, Ella and I. Initially I didn't know where each next step would land until I felt it hit the earth.

The first necessity for planning my future, I soon learned, was to let go of any delusion of knowing what each next moment held for me. To be balanced in the Now, one can't be constantly pushing forward into Then. As each footfall in the Now became a link along that necklace of possibility, the succession of footfalls did indeed approach the goals I'd labeled Clarity, Closure and Compassion. Not immediately. Not even quickly. And not yet completely.

Still, I find that each Now is more readily appreciable, more available for the effort of growth and change, than it had been before logging those 435 miles. It wasn't the mileage that was exhausting, it was the struggle to overcome my clinging to the past, the invisible effort of waking up and of maintaining that awareness of and vulnerability to the pain and beauty of being Alive. Dazed, clueless, single, and often lost, but alive to the experience and possibility of each new moment.

Changes

2011-09-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

Like any worthwhile experience, this sabbatical has already wrought changes that will take time to fully realize. The purpose in undertaking the trip was multi-focal, which made it both easier to claim success and harder to attain fulfillment. Clarity, closure, and compassion were the original Three C's guiding the overall format, to which I added confidence, capability and innumerable other vague descriptors that I thought sounded worthy.

And just in case I hadn't set my sites broadly enough, I wanted to investigate places with an eye towards relocating, which meant checking into realty prices and opportunities for employment. I wanted to challenge myself physically and end up in the best shape of my life (with an eye towards making it from the wait list to the participate in the Steamtown marathon). I wanted to challenge my character and grit so as to come home ready to face and grapple with choices and realities that have been overwhelming me. And I thought I really wouldn't mind if somewhere, somehow, someone swept me off my feet. I hoped the experiences along the way would coalesce into a great book idea. And I wanted to accomplish all this without any firm direction or commitment of where to be or when to be there. I had no absolute requirements but that it had to involve as much time as possible in the wilderness.

And so it has, punctuated by pit-stops with family and friends both old and new-found. Spontaneity has never been my strong suite, but by not having firm travel plans, I've had ample opportunity to "go with the flow." Since rigidity and control are issues of mine, I wrangled with myself every time an unanticipated opportunity presented itself. Thus I discovered that I can couch-surf with the best of them, and in so doing learned that coming out of the wilderness and into the glow of artificial lighting can delight the soul with gratitude for the pleasure of a bath, clean skin, a warm meal. The generosity of strangers has blown me away. Forest rangers engaged in work projects took time to describe fabulous trails and detailed descriptions of routes. A woman with her Malamute and Husky, after sharing a couple of hours with me on a trail in the Tetons, invited me to help myself to her home even though she wouldn't be there. Then after learning a bit about my personal situation, went further to invite other friends to join us, providing me with an evening of camaraderie and commiseration.

And what of Miss Ella, the Chosen One from among the Hollow Hills gang? Little Ella was not in the best of shape starting out, as outlined in the previous blog. But she has by necessity become more fit and now finds herself with enough extra energy to give chase to the myriad chipmunks and red squirrels that tease and torment her. Previously she just dogged-it at my heels or made half-hearted lunges at the more audacious creatures that leaped belatedly to safety. Her endurance has grown, but it's her attitude that has commanded my notice. That will require a separate entry, and may end up being the focal point for my book...since my own journey is about acceptance of loss, acceptance of life, who better than a dog to guide me on how to just Be?

On the Trail

2011-08-14T19:56:00.000-07:00

Over the past few months I can't claim to have been blogging frequently enough to qualify even as intermittently. I'm hopeful that my current circumstances may contribute to more regularity, given that I've set a few (very few) goals for myself for the next six weeks, and one of those is a daily commitment to writing. Then again, since the other goals involve hiking and backpacking, my access to things in the wired-world are minimal at best...which obviously makes blog entries tricky.

Thunderstorms drove me to a hotel so I'm surrounded by the trappings of civilization for the first time in a week, which is how I happen to have the luxury of internet access...and a bed, and running water, and soap and electricity.... That's in contrast to a one-man tent occupied by myself and a German Shepherd, surrounded only by the sounds of crickets and owls.

Let me back up. For the past week I've been hiking in the Monongahela wilderness in West Virginia. This is just a starting point, but I plan to be on the road for six to eight weeks...I'm calling it a sabbatical, or a pilgrimage; it doesn't really qualify as vacation, but hopefully it'll be restorative, or transformative. The idea is to log as many miles as I can in other national forests and various backroads and byways and small towns, and to write...and write, and write. Maybe with a little luck a book will take shape.

The car is so full of gear that there's only room for one dog, so after much angst I chose Ella as my traveling buddy. She's eight years old and hasn't had the physical conditioning she should have for a trip like this, but I picked her specifically because she's my peer or perhaps a tad older, chronologically speaking (that's in dog years)and I wanted to demonstrate to myself how gracefully a dog of my years can handle herself under the stresses of the road and trail. Not to mention she's my most reliable personal protection dog, and when a woman travels alone it's always reassuring to know your partner will provide not just companionship but protection if it's called for.

So far we've averaged a ten mile hike a day on foot (quite a bit more by car), but I want to increase that steadily. We did a fifteen-miler one day and Ella was a tad cranky by the end, lifting her lip at an overly-friendly Lab mix we met on the trail and clicking her teeth at an English setter whose only offense was a gentle sweep of her feathery tail (the setter in question had originated from DeCoverly, just up the road from Hollow Hills!).

In spite of the fully-loaded car, it appears that I left home without the cable that allows me to upload photos from my camera to my laptop, so you'll have to use your imagination to "see" the photos that I meant to accompany this post--they show Ella in eye-popping mountain scenery...more precisely you can imagine pictures of Ella's tail-end as she leads me up yet another trail, onward to scenes and experiences that I hope will renew us both.

Perhaps we're past our prime, but by the time we're through we'll be stronger than ever.

Plans

2011-07-08T18:48:00.000-07:00

It's a bit late for honoring Independence Day, but since I missed Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter, and every other day in between my last post and this, I'm hoping I'll be forgiven for being a few days late with this lovely photo of Geni. Geni has practically become the poster-girl for Instinctive Impressions, and I found this portrait particularly stunning...a GSD in her full, radiant maturity. So we'll let her represent Summer in all its glory.

"Hey, love your blog." "When are you posting a new blog?" "We've got to get you blogging again." I've heard these and dozens of similar comments these past few months. Finally, here's an evening when I intend to break the grip of inertia.

Intentions...funny things, those. Some days' events force me to wonder why I bother planning or scheduling at all. One thing goes awry and the domino effect crashes every other intended activity for the day. All that careful choreography goes right out the window. Sometimes the forces blowing you off-course have been in effect for a long time, years perhaps, all the while you somehow avoid seeing that your ship has been careening towards the rocky shoreline all along. I'm still regaining consciousness from just such a crash-landing. Bruised, battered, bewildered, but on my feet again.

But on this particular Friday I had occasion to ponder the illusion of control that we like to believe our personal decisions make in our own lives. I'd made a simple plan, merely intending (see how insidious it is?) to drive to New Bloomfield to visit Ieuan and Uma, who are in training for their schutzhund titles with friends of mine at Muddy River K-9. I miss them both but Ieuan desperately, he having been my hiking buddy for the past nearly three years since he was past puppyhood. So, with arrangements made for care of the rest of the crew, I was set to make the 5.5 hour round trip, planning (there's that word again) to take Ieaun hiking at Little Buffalo State Park and generally spend time renewing our bond.

That was before I looked at the weather map. An entire week of sheer summertime perfection behind us, with a lovely weekend predicted...but the one day I planned (sigh) to spend with my beloved Ieaun, and Mother Nature had other plans...severe thunderstorms coinciding exactly with the time frame set aside for the trip. Since the intention (!) was to be outdoors, suddenly the plan (I give up) needed revision.

Revision in this case meant bagging it, with hopes to reschedule again soon before my dogs forget me entirely. With an entire day suddenly opened up before me, and the predicted storm not yet descended upon Northeastern PA, I leashed Ieuan's half-sis Ember, threw on walking shoes and headed for the hills with no particular deadline and no particular destination, only a vague goal of keeping my face to the sun until it was obscured behind the encroaching storm clouds.

Today's ruined plans, like the shattered shell of an egg, had released the golden possibilities within. Back in May my daughter and I and a friend walked the West Highland Way in Scotland...after conditioning to walk fifteen to twenty miles a day, it's been hard since then to find satisfaction in the abbreviated walks that time typically allows...six to eight miles may not sound short, but for bodies conditioned for more, it's frustrating. So a few miles along our usual route I guided Ember up a side road, on the impulse that the sun would hit me more squarely in that direction. A mile or so later a path lead off to the left, following a pipeline right-of-way steeply uphill....the broad brambly way finally reached a saddle at the base of a larger mountain, from which I could see the infinite slash of the right-of-way cutting an unbending line through forests and over hills beyond. But to the left a narrower logging trail beckoned upwards again, into the forest. I couldn't resist, and Ember was handling the heat well, so we left the sunshine for the woods.

The track was made by motorized vehicles, with nary a bend or switch-back, and given the steepness of the grade I found myself grabbing a sapling for balance whenever I stopped to catch my breath. As we climbed, the track became a foot path which deteriorated to a barely-discernible deer trail, and still we climbed. By now vague memories were flashing across my mind of a climb done fifteen years or so ago with the kids...so more with instinct than conscious thought, I chose lefts and rights as the paths branched, ultimately emerging onto a rocky plateau known locally as Bald Mountain.

About then the trainer texted, saying I'd made a wise choice since they were anticipating 4" of rain. Another friend texted to say it was pouring in NJ. There I was, drying my sweaty self on a sun-warmed boulder atop a peak that gave me a 360 degree vista of the most gorgeous landscape imaginable, with no where to be but here, no requirements but to enjoy the moment, with a happy dog licking water from pockets in the rocks and grinning her appreciation of the outing. Plans? Who needs plans when simply being is everything?

We make our plans, we may even take the appropriate actions to see those plans through, and we expect things to turn out as we imagined...the fairy-tale fueled imaginings of our childhoods. But one thing, one unforeseen or misinterpreted happenstance, can deconstruct our world. The trick, then, is to recognize the value in the bits and pieces revealed in the deconstruction process, the raw elements of potential joy.

A friend sent me this tonight from an album titled (I think) Plans, and though not exactly derived from the same thought process, I thought I'd include it:

"What Sarah Said"
-- Death Cab for Cutie

And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time
As I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409
And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself that I'd already taken too much today
As each descending peak of the LCD took you a little farther away from me

Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines in a place where we only say goodbye
It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds
But I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all
And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground as the TV entertained itself

'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news
And then the nurse comes round and everyone will lift their heads
But I'm thinking of what Sarah said that "Love is watching someone die"

So who's going to watch you die?..

In explaining the theme of the album, Ben Gibbard said the following:
I don't think there's necessarily a story, but there's definitely a theme here. One of my favorite kind of dark jokes is, 'How do you make God laugh? You make a plan.' Nobody ever makes a plan that they're gonna go out and get hit by a car. A plan almost always has a happy ending. Essentially, every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time. I really like the idea of a plan not being seen as having definite outcomes, but more like little wishes.

Frosty Pumpkins

2010-11-02T19:18:00.000-07:00

Genni's owners are so adept at depicting the changing seasons that I'm seriously considering letting her be the model for each blog entry. Not a taxing job, considering I've deteriorated to less-than-monthly postings of late! October came and went with nary a mention, consumed as it was with preparations for the North American Sieger Show, harvest, raising Ella's pups, and the goings-on around Hollow Hills. What goings-on? Well, now that you ask...

I've come to realize that when folks ask "what have you been up to?" there really is no way to answer the question. When I answer literally, replying with what I feel is a succinct summary, the facial expression of the listener often spurs my inclination to add "you shouldn't ask if you're going to let your eyes glaze over like that." Granted, detailed descriptions of poopy puppy papers or repetitious tales of exercising the dogs, digging potatoes, or gathering eggs, regardless of the subtle joy of simple work well done, doesn't mean much to those not familiar with such activities. But if I accept the inquiry as social custom generally intends it and say simply, "oh, not much" I always feel I've copped out by condoning meaningless, hypocritical, superficiality. Does the question ever really imply a sincere desire to know what's going on in another person's life? Couldn't we better translate it as "do you have anything juicy to tell me?" or even more narcissistically "hurry up and ask me what's going on in my life."

I thought that would segue into the contrasting experience with dogs and how very different that relationship is. They do seem genuinely more attentive than the average human listener. But my thoughts snagged on countless images of being pawed, pushed, herded, manipulated and generally bamboozled into doing precisely what my furry buddies want. Frankly, dogs are just about as self-centered as people. In fact, when training, that's the very principle that I utilize to get them to comply with my own wishes. I have what they want, be it food or toys, and I convey to them through body language that I'm willing to trade that desired-object for certain behaviors on their part. I'm catering to their obsessive self-interest, if you want to look at it that way, in a sort of reverse-psychology trade-off. Their perspective flips it around, though; from their vantage, they've figured out how to manipulate me into giving them what they want!

With dogs, at least, there are occasions when their focus on me seems to extend beyond self-interest, at least I like to believe the gaze directed at me is, sometimes, one of affection, devoid of ulterior motives. Can the same be said of people? The clarity and unguarded directness of my dogs' eyes convey a depth and wisdom that seems largely absent from most human encounters. We all know the story of Hachi, the Akita who returned to look for his deceased master every day for the rest of his life. Yet when a person is "crazy about" another person, how very rarely does that devotion continue when the object of that devotion no longer stokes the fire?

I'm convinced that humans give only to get. And maybe that's not such a terrible thing - maybe it's not as gratuitous as it sounds. Sure, I'm a soon-to-be-divorcee, a daughter and granddaughter of divorced couples, so admittedly my thoughts on the matter may be a tad cynical. I ask myself, as I've asked myself innumerable previous times, whether this dog/animal-centric life I've orchestrated for myself is the cop-out; have I chickened out of the more difficult, complex, heart-breaking but potentially enriching prospect of meaningful relationships with my own kind? And when a friendship fades or a romance withers, I ask myself whether I will ever know if my relationships with animals are, for me, the path of least resistance, or guides to a deeper, truer connection? Am I waiting for someone to be as open-hearted, as honest as my dogs? As unfailingly direct as my horse? As charming as my cat? Is the bar too high?

another cycle

2010-09-11T19:25:00.000-07:00

The summer came and went, as summers always seem to, in a blur of perfect days. My walking partner and I comment on what a perfect day it is for a walk...every day. Rain. Shine. Wind. Heat. In summer, of course it's perfect. But now the golden rod is coming into its glory and the doves, what few of them there seem to be left, are gathering on the phone wires to converse about their upcoming trip. The faintest blush is creeping into the hilltops, foretelling the changes to come. In some respects I welcome it...being relieved from garden duty will return many daily hours back to the hopper for redistribution to other activities.

Just in time, since the turning of the season brings an onslaught of fall dog activities. Looking at the calendar this morning I realized there is only one weekend left between now and the end of October that doesn't have a commitment to a dog show or trial. I'm tired just thinking about it. It's not only the shows themselves, although running for hours around a ring can be exhausting. It's what it takes to turn a well-bred dog into a winner, a true show dog. Show potential is what a promising pup is born with; actual show dogs are made, not born.

People who see and appreciate the quality of my dogs can't truly grasp what goes into those radiant, glowingly healthy animals...the hours spent "road-working" the dog (which can mean biking him, running her over hill and dale, putting the dog on a treadmill, or literally plodding miles on the road) to develop the muscling and endurance required for a true canine athlete. The hours grinding and preparing meat, or for that matter raising that meat, to give the dogs the nutrition and energy needed to perform at that peak level, not to mention providing them with a brilliant coat, flashy white smile, and the "look of eagles" described in the standard. The hours driving to trainers, stud dogs, seminars, airports, training fields, tracking fields, socialization opportunities, vet visits. And that's every day of the year...so when show season hits and the competition is fierce, the effort gets ramped up several notches. The dogs owners have to become top athletes, as well, so I find myself running hills and doing wind sprints just to have any hope of keeping up with my dogs.

Sure, I just got back from the wilderness in Colorado, struggling along under the weight of a backpack at 13,000 feet, so "walking the doggies" (which conjures a WHOLE other image for most people, versus what I actually do with mine!) and running around a show ring ought to be a cakewalk, right? In response I'd say backpacking up the Continental Divide is a good start, but had I just finished up a show season before the backpacking trip, I'd have been buff enough to have skipped up those mountains!

Neglect of, well... everything

2010-08-14T20:46:00.000-07:00

So what's become of my summer? And whither the energy for blogging? Plenty of ideas, plenty of inspiration, just zero, absolutely NIL, in the time department. I used to (only semi-jokingly) refer to the dogs as the hobby that stole my life. Now I've added chickens, rabbits, horses, and a garden that resembles the jungles we saw in Costa Rica. Maybe a tad *too* much horse manure this spring???? The squash plants are almost scary-big! And the produce...one single squash is large enough to feed me for a week, so what am I supposed to do with the rest? I so enjoyed them last year that I planted about twice as much this year. And about four times as much corn and at least four times more beans...which means now, only about halfway through harvest, I've filled all my freezers and don't know how to can, so what to do with Nature's largess? Does *anyone* out there need fresh, organic produce?

Other than weeding, picking, processing, freezing, eating, picking...summer has been a blur of puppies. The rat terriers proliferated in my absence last spring so I had a wondrous array of little tuxedo and piebald cuties to contend with, followed by Ember's litter of eight and Godiva's singleton. Some will head to new homes this week prior to my departure for Colorado (!). Now Elatha's litter is three weeks old and starting to eat solid food, so the fun will continue well into the fall. I haven't yet been able to determine whether Vixen conceived three weeks ago (a repeat of the lovely "V" litter of earlier this year) and then there's the possibility of the Champion-to-Champion breeding of Beemer to Giddy. With so many dog shows & trials this fall and a houseful of visitors in October, all these puppies will make for some challenging logistics.

The Edgar Sawtelle discussion is still uppermost in my mind, and as I walk dogs or play with puppies there are countless observations that relate to various ideas in the book. Or, from my perspective the book gives me reference points for discussion of concepts I've been mulling from my observations.

Those observations together with other research I've come across catalyzed some theories I've been pondering. Dogs and people have co-evolved for many tens of thousands of years. In so doing we've synchronized our evolution in ways that almost imply a conjoined species...dogs have lost their ability to live independently of us, and we've lost much of the strength of our physical senses that we had earlier in our development. We count on their superior scenting ability and they depend on our superior technological ability...dogs eat better than their comrades in the wild, at least dogs whose owners are savvy to the crap marketed as "dog food." So it makes sense that dogs recognize, correctly interpret, and respond to our facial expressions, gestures, and other body cues better than our primate relatives or their own wild canid brethren. They need to understand their packmates in order to have efficient function within the pack, and we are that pack whether we know it or not.

One interesting factoid I came across recently referenced a study that demonstrated dogs' mimicking human behavior. For example, if a person used their hand to reach under furniture to retrieve a lost item, the dog would take its paw to reach. If the human used their nose to open a door then the dog used its nose(this was a controlled experiment...not that people would normally open doors with their noses!). At first glance this may not seem all that profound, because living with dogs provides so many daily examples that we take it for granted. But to me this suggests that dogs have mirror-neurons, as we do, that enable them to empathize and make inferences of our internal states and intentions based on the "lighting up" of comparable regions of their own brains when they watch us do something. One could infer that any strongly social animal has mirror neurons. I also read about a study proving that people's minds really do "meld" (a la the Vulcan mind-meld, minus Spock's hand-to-forehead grip) when they're involved in a mutually gratifying conversation...research subjects referred to the feeling of "clicking" at times when their brain waves had synchronized.

So now I'm wondering how much our minds might "meld" with our canine companions...is this really what's happening when we "train"...I, like David Wroblewski (the author of Edgar Sawtelle) think that training is really just a means by which the dog and the trainer can come to agree upon a vocabulary to convey ideas. We can use whatever words we want and eventually, if our body language and voice tone are consistent, the dog will catch on to our meaning. If it's a cooperative dog, it'll agree with us about the meaning. If we are observant trainers, we'll catch on to signals (non-verbal "words") that he dog offers to us, and then we have the chance for instructive two-way communication. Hunters, search & rescue personnel, police k-9 handlers, drug-detection handlers and anyone who has walked a dog alone at night down a dark, scary street knows that dogs communicate a legion of information...it's usually our own inattentiveness that leaves us clueless. I, for one, want to learn to live with better, preferably constant, openness to the information our co-evolutionary partners have to offer.

Edgar Sawtelle

2010-07-08T22:15:00.000-07:00

A discussion with a client revealed that I'd somehow missed one of the Books of the Year a couple of years back. Not just any book, but *the* dog novel. How can that be, don't you know *I* am writing the Great American Dog Novel? my ego raged, even while I smiled and nodded and voiced wonder and interest. So, the client being a generous sort, a copy of Edgar Sawtelle, by David Wroblewski, arrived in the mail. I read it with a great deal of interest, for not only does it serve up a feast of sumptuous prose, raise intriguing questions about cognition and communication, delve into motive and intent vis-a-vis instinct and consciousness, it is the only book I've ever read that was so obviously written by someone who himself lived the life I lead, or one very near to it.

All of those topics are primary foci of this blog. Certainly the life I've lead is in large measure an experience of total immersion in a world of dogs and various critters both domestic and wild. Without doubt it's my work with non-verbal animals, far more than my human interactions, that forced me to dig deeper into layers of communication than most people require or even want. In that regard I'm reminded of eighth grade Latin class, when I learned far more about grammar and the English language than I had understood from all those previous years of exposure to my native tongue; the contrast helps delineate what's going on, what's really being conveyed.

Animals reveal and reflect truth. Yes, they are capable of subterfuge, particularly among our primate cousins who have been shown to engage in some pretty impressive Machiavellian behavior. But I know of no non-human animals who will enter into a game of pretense with me...just imagine a dog trying to pretend they trust you when they don't. They can't; if you're looking, truly receptive to what they're saying, the message is clear. You have a problem that creates distrust in others; fix it if you want to be trustworthy, or at least be aware that while people may be willing to pretend you're a peach of a person, the dog's not capable of pretense. It may love you anyway, but the effect of distrust and fear will be loud and clear in body language. I am of the opinion that Zen can be taught by dogs, if the pupil is sensitive and receptive.

I didn't check any reviews prior to reading the book, other than a quick perusal of the dust jacket blurbs, but was disgruntled enough over various aspects of the writing that I was motivated to scan through some of the major media opinions. It has received almost universal accolades. Only on Amazon did I find a couple of reviewers who shared some of the feelings of consternation that arose in my own mind. I'll leave the specifics of the critiques, theirs and mine, for other venues because overall I do recommend it as a worthy read and one of the only ways to see inside a wholly doggy life. At least, until the publication of my own! So, I hope to generate a bit more discussion than usual in the next few entries because I'd love to address many of the threads that comprise the fabric of Edgar Sawtelle.

Minor victories

2010-07-01T19:44:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has followed these postings back a few months knows that around here the concept of "natural birth" had attained a reputation much like the mythical unicorn; people said it was possible but I hadn't seen one. Well I must have slipped into fairytale country, because, wonder of wonders, Ember delivered her eight puppies the old-fashioned, non-surgical way! Of course, to keep the universe in balance, Godiva had her single puppy by the (now) tradition of Caesarian, but both mom and pup are well. I'm almost afraid to state that publicly for fear of jinxing the next delivery (Elatha's) but on the other hand it's a welcome bit of happy news.

On other happy news fronts, a few days ago I was contacted by officers of the National Rat Terrier Association (NRTA) and asked if I wouldn't like to have Animal Planet tape my dogs to be featured on "Dogs.101" Well....why not? So, Wednesday evening a very nice fellow followed the Rat Terriers around with a camera. Being somewhat clownish anyway and having a captive audience, they put on some particularly good shows for him. The pups pounced and leaped and cavorted and somersaulted for all they were worth, and the adults did stunts and chased frisbees and did their ever-lovin' best to charm the socks off anyone who sees that footage. Unfortunately, three hours of taping gets reduced to about six minutes of actual air time, so the majority of the dog's antics will end up on the cutting room floor. Watch for the rat terrier feature this fall; the cameraman figured sometime in October but couldn't be more specific.

So we head into a holiday weekend, feet tapping to Sousa marches, flags waving, sparklers illuminating kids' faces under starry skies, our sound-sensitive dogs tucked into bedrooms or crates. Have a Happy National Birthday!

technical difficulties

2010-06-23T07:55:00.001-07:00

just checking...is this thing working?

chow time

2010-06-10T23:14:00.000-07:00

I'm frequently asked what I feed my dogs, and at least half the time the primary question is whether or not I recommend a BARF (Bones And Raw Food)diet. The current trend towards BARF diets isn't quite as new as it appears to the general public, since breeders (and many private owners) have been preparing their own food for their dogs forever. I support the trend in general, but when it comes to advising my own puppy buyers I tend to recommend good quality kibble (currently recommending Solid Gold "Wolf Cub" for my shepherd pups, maintaining them on it for at least one year; recommending Canidae ALS or Taste of the Wild for the adults and rat terriers) because most people won't be painstaking about ensuring a balanced diet if they prepare food for their dogs.

However, if you're willing to be meticulous and are dedicated to the task, a BARF diet is great for adults. I'm leery about using it as the exclusive nutrient source for puppies since their skeletal and organ systems need a careful balance of vitamins and minerals, but adults seem to flourish on it.

When I last ordered in a pallet of kibbled food, the cost just bowled me over. So much so that it drove me to lug home 150 pounds of chicken while muttering about second mortgages on the house. The jury is still out in my mind as to which is cheaper, homemade or store bought. With some persistence you can locate chicken at 39 cents a pound, beef liver similarly, and the occasional beef chuck or roast for around $1.99.

As one might guess given the price differential, my dogs eat a lot of chicken. A LOT of chicken. Now, I'm fine with feeding raw chicken if I raised the bird myself and know how it was processed (a delicate word for rendering my pretty birds that sit on my shoulder and peck my boots into dead carcasses). But store bought chicken evokes scenes of bacteria-rife processing plants so I haven't yet convinced myself to go for the "R" in BARF with any real commitment. BAF food doesn't have the same ring, but the dogs don't mind.

Thus, I cook my chicken. This used to involve every enormous pot on every burner, hours of stink from the bubbling over that such large batches invariably did, and then more hours of waiting for it cool enough to debone, followed by the bagging and freezing of the finished product. It was exhausting and often spilled over into a sleepless night getting all that meat safely stored away. This meant I didn't do it often and the dogs weren't getting as much "real food" as I like to provide.

A fellow breeder encouraged me to get a meat/bone grinder, and finally she wore me down until I did. I recently had my first stint. Oh glorious time-saver! Like anything else, there are pros and cons. But overall, it does seem that it'll cut the processing time to a fraction, not to mention making all that nutrition from the bones available to the dogs. I still cook it but it is so much faster when ground. Speaking of which, time to feed the dogs and put them (and me) to bed!

Hangin' with dogs

2010-05-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

An owner of a pup from one of my spring litters posed an interesting question that represents good insights and appreciation of dog psychology: "How do you separate training sessions (which should be short, right?) from walks and things where you’re not actively training? It seems like different rules for different situations could be counterproductive." I recall having had similar thoughts early in my dog-training life, so I'm sure that most dog owners find themselves faced with what appears to be a dilemma. I say "appears to be" because the question needs reformulating; difficulty begins when people think in terms of training versus non-training interactions with their dogs.

Wrapping our brains around the reality that there is no such thing as a non-training interaction would go a long way towards clearing up the miscues and negative learning that takes place in most households. Every moment we are present with our dogs they are learning...they learn that a nudge of your elbow with a nose gets a pet, or gets a rebuke...are you consistent? Have you even thought whether you do or don't want the dog to do that? What about the joyous leap-to-greet? Great for the ego, bad for dress suits. Dogs don't necessarily "get" the difference between weekend sweat pants and workday slacks, and will be understandably confused if you hug him back one time and swat him off the next. You can think of gazillions of similar examples.

So, how to un-muddy the waters? First, to break down the questions asked, beginning with the last: "It seems like different rules for different situations could be counterproductive." Agreed, it does seem so. However I give dogs tremendous credit for understanding context and being able to apply different behavioral rules to different situations. For example, indoor versus outdoor play. I don't think I've ever had to "explain" to my dogs that you don't race around my living room shaking a stick - the same dog that out in the yard would knock me down in her attempt to grab a ball from my hand will upon coming indoors immediately seek a patch of floor to hold in place and will do so for hours. Different situation, different rules; how does the dog understand that outdoors is for rough housing, indoors for self-restraint?

Furthermore, if one defines the rules from a broader perspective, then there really isn't any discrepancy, there's only one Rule to follow. The Prime Directive for dogs is Do Master's bidding. If Master bids you walk by her side, do so. If Master bids you walk hither and thither at will within the range of the leash, then feel free.

My contention is that dogs are so attuned to our body language that their ability to infer our wishes is virtually like mind-reading. So, in order for our dogs to follow the Prime Directive, someone has to actually be the Master at all times. If we are certain that a behavior is or isn't ok, the dog will know our opinion on the matter by observing the tiniest muscle tension or intake of breath. If we are uncertain or ambivalent, be assured the dog will know that, too.

Once you stop thinking "now I'm training my dog" and "now I'm done training my dog" you can begin utilizing the Prime Directive. The puppy owner asked the question in the context of walking, so let's look at that. I'm guessing she wants to give the pup freedom to just be a puppy out for a walk without having to formally heel, yet doesn't want to be yanked from pine tree to pond. So, take a few moments to determine for yourself what's allowed and what isn't? In my case, for my dogs pull on the leash is acceptable so long as the force isn't enough to pull me off balance; if I can restrain the dog with just two fingers on the leash, that's allowable. They must always be attentive to me...if their enthusiasm escalates and they "forget" that they're answerable to me, they'll be "reminded" that there are rules to be followed...that they have crossed a line that I drew in the sand. I use conversational cues, commands if you will, to let them know that something specific is expected of them. If they're pulling too hard, "easy" combined with a purposeful slowing of my speed will convey the message. They settle down, I'll speed back up to reward them for compliance. They choose to continue to act up, I might stop or turn around. This isn't "formal training" in the way people tend to think of it, but it is absolutely effective in conveying a concept to the dog.

Workin' Dawgs

2010-05-19T22:48:00.000-07:00

I'm frequently asked whether my dogs are from "working lines" or "show lines." The answer differs subject to the point of view of the questioner. I have to establish some commonality of definition before I can begin to answer. Are these pet people who have seen the terms somewhere and been told that "show dogs" are genetically inferior to "working dogs"? Are they folk who have done schutzhund and want a pup to compete for regional or national placements? Have they owned a GSD before, and if so what was its bloodline?

Generally speaking, from the perspective of the competitive schutzhund folks, my dogs are "show dogs." From the perspective of AKC show competitors, my dogs are "working dogs." And from the perspective of the German and international organizations that establish the Standard for the breed, my dogs are from the "High Lines" that epitomize the versatility and functionality of the true German Shepherd Dog. With such disparity, where's the consensus?

I once belonged to a few online communities of GSD folk, and discussions would arise that reminded me of the old Kennel Ration commercials (who out there is old enough to remember the brand, let alone the commercial?). The jingle went like this:
"My dog's better'n your dog. My dog's better'n yours. My dog's better cuz he eats Kennel Ration - my dog's better'n yours." If you substitute "bites harder" or "has way more prey drive" for "eats Kennel Ration" you'd have the gist of the argument. The focus in these exchanges wasn't so much an honest discussion of what constitutes true working character in a dog, it was a building-up-by-putting-down process of comparing single elements of the dogs' vast array of capabilities.

For instance, biting. Now, the word tends to conjure a picture of inappropriate aggression, but in the venue of these discussions it referred to the Schutzhund "grip" or the drive to grip sheep, bad guys, or other "prey" ("grip" being the sanitized equivalent of "bite"). Grip is utilized to stop a sheep from escaping the flock, or just as effectively to stop a thief from escaping arrest. It's a useful and desirable trait that should be inherent in the breed. But if the grip is applied without provocation or is so hair-trigger that the dog is dangerous to the general public, or the dog has so much drive that it is useless for anything other than grip work, or its structure and type are so far off standard that it doesn't have the stamina to trot for hours, is it still a true GSD?

Another single element of judgment often applied by tunnel-vision fanciers: sidegait. The movement of the GSD is crucial from a practical standpoint in that the breed is designed to trot effortlessly for hours on end. The application was originally in huge, fence-less mountain meadows where the dogs would circle the herds of sheep all day, every day, throughout the grazing season. To keep that up, the dogs' conformation needed to allow easy, energy-conserving movement. Dog shows are intended to evaluate that movement. But dog shows don't usually evaluate the "sheep sense" at the same time.

Enter the High Lines. These dogs are evaluated as a package...their tracking ability, response to threat, and reliability in real-life situations are assessed together with a nose-to-tail physical critique that spells out their faults and strengths. Outstanding capabilities in one or a few aspects will not buy admission to the end goal of recommendations for breeding --- each dog must possess the full spectrum of qualities or it is not given the KoerMeister's highest rating.

So, are my dogs "working dogs"? Absolutely. Are they show dogs? Definitely. My working dogs rip into the "bad guy", carry their own backpacks on hiking trips, help locate narcotics and lost persons, and allow me to sleep safe and secure at night. My show dogs bring home trophies, cause people to literally lean out of their cars to gush over their beauty, and can stop your heart with their exquisite form when racing through the pasture. Are these dogs one and the same animals? You betcha!!!

Highlands

2010-05-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

Having been home a week now, I should be caught up, back in the saddle, in the swing...pick your metaphor. If only that were so. Many have asked me about the trip, and I've intended to synopsize the experience before the details are lost but my Grandma had a saying about good intentions and the pavement along the Road to Hell.

Still, the cold winds, fitful rainstorms and generally moody/glowering skies we had today brought Scottish memories back to the fore. Tonight what comes to mind most strongly are the sheep...everywhere. Sheep far outnumber the humans in Scotland. In New Zealand it seemed to be a point of pride that there are sheep an order of magnitude more than the humans. I didn't hear any Scots bragging about their woolly citizenry, but it appeared that if you live in northern Scotland you're either a sheep farmer or a Bed & Breakfast owner. Or Royal. Other options weren't readily apparent.

The rusted heather hillsides were dotted with the grayish shapes of unshorn sheep, followed by the bright white, unstained new lambs. April is the thick of lambing season, and everywhere we hiked we could scarcely avoid treading on Scottish black faced and Lleyn lambs curled together or dashing out of our way, bleating and baaing their fright to complacent ewes. The Lleyn lambs looked for all the world, when lying down, like Easter bunnies...their fleece is short which gives their erectly-held ears a disproportionately large and bunnyish silhouette.

Fences seem only a means of delineating property lines not of actual livestock containment. Sheep run the roadways and ditches and public lands and highlands, yards and even woodlands. Almost anyplace we stopped to take in the scenery we could watch shepherds working the flocks together with the ubiquitous Border Collies. There might have been a Lab or a mutt here or there, but Border Collies ruled the countryside. What a treat it was to watch true working farm dogs doing what their ancestors have done since the dawn of domestication. Found myself wishing I had tried harder to bring one of the GSDs along...they would have learned a thing or two from watching.

Everything in that land was rugged, from the topography of ancient basalt bedrock to the hardy breeds of livestock and dogs, to the people themselves. We learned quickly that they count on their tourists being rather rugged and capable as well...hiking trails were, shall we say, less than well marked. Blazes like one expects to see here in the States must be unthinkable to these hardy souls. And I've got the bog-stained boots to prove it!

Karma?

2010-04-19T09:32:00.000-07:00

One's sense of time is a subjective thing, at least I've noticed my own being stretched like a telescope of compressed like a slinky under various circumstances. Many a poet has waxed on about a lover's sense of time versus a condemned man's, a young child's versus an octogenarian's. In my current situation, my removal from things familiar, from the routine of farm chores and obligations to the animals, plus the need to contend with unfamiliar stresses, has turned my perceptions of the past four days into a slurry of images without definitive edges. That is what I had hoped...but I had hoped it would be occurring because of the miles that I had expected to have logged on Scotland's moors and highlands. Unfortunately, Eyjafjallajokul (the volcano in Iceland) had other plans for me...and millions of others.

So, a much-anticipated wilderness adventure has morphed into an education in acceptance and flexibility. As I've stood in lines, lines, and more lines these past four days (nope, I still don't have my luggage, and the Wal-Mart blouse I bought on Friday is developing an interesting "musk") I've struck up conversations with folks from Sweden, Denmark, Belgium, England, Ireland and quite a number of Germans. Their stories vary, but all tend to remind me that my situation is far from dire.

Many are like me, frustrated and inconvenienced and racking up hotel/living expenses. They express concerns over their inability to get back to work/family/home and I can relate to the see-saw of emotions inevitable in situations where conflicting information contributes to repeatedly dashed hopes. Some folks' stories are heart-rending, like the woman who had cut short her vacation with the husband she rarely sees to attend a funeral in England, only to find herself unable to be with her grieving family or to rejoin her bound-for-Greece husband. A grandma who was so agitated she literally was bouncing on tiptoe, hoping against hope she'd make it to Italy to see her grandson's first communion. One couple couldn't even make it to their own wedding! Of course the news has been full of more high-profile consequences, like the cancelation of many dignitaries' attendance at the Polish president's funeral, or Angela Merkel's inability to get back to Germany.

But the individual, Common Man stories I'm hearing day after day have reminded me of my experience flying home from Germany on 9/11. The Canadians housed everyone on my flight and several other planeloads of stranded travelers in military barracks a couple of hours outside of Halifax. The thousands of passengers that found their fate linked by those events formed a camaraderie of need. People relaxed their usual facade, forging bonds of a deeper and more acute intimacy than society normally supports. The stories that were shared with me, then and now, were under circumstances that compel unvarnished emotional honesty.

Gardens and Grooming

2010-04-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

The pups have had the use of my garden area as a play yard for the past couple of months, but today's play sessions were cut somewhat short. Mom, they soon learned, hasn't much patience for all their "help" when actual work needs to get done. It was funny at first; I marveled at the intelligence expressed by the twelve-week old Rio daughter who started digging every time I wielded a shovel and who grabbed and shook the clumps of grass and weeds as I hoed. I watched her sidelong...she was looking at me, looking at the task, then copying. She didn't know why, she didn't know the purpose, but she wanted to participate. I had to lean on my hoe and laugh. But about the fourth time she gamboled up and down the furrows as I kicked dirt over the corn seed, I had to scoop her up and send her packing. The howling that wafted from the kennel was quite mournful...she's going to be quite a character. The pup pictured is a son of Vixen & Ieuan.

Besides getting the corn planted and the potatoes cut and the manure spread, I raked out several garbage bags full of hair from the two molting horses and a half dozen of the shepherds before my arm gave out. Since the birds are already nesting, I like to leave some of the softest undercoat clinging to shrubs and bushes so their nestlings have a nice warm, soft start in life. From there I took to the mower and managed to cut about a third of the pastures and property before running out of gas; that's gasoline, but it pretty accurately portrays my overall state -- out of gas. Regardless of what the calendar says, Mother Nature has committed to bringing forth spring. And just as She sends squirrels spiraling barber-pole patterns on the oaks and maples and cardinals bashing against the windows, She dictates my steps. The warmth and sunshine pushes me into an unwinnable race to get my garden planted, all the dogs and horses groomed out, perennials that proved their fitness by surviving winter in their pots still beg to be planted, and, oh yeah, maybe I should pack?

Pack, as in prepare for two weeks of hiking the Highlands of Scotland. I leave Thursday, but even if I had every minute between now and then with nothing to do but prepare, I don't see how I'd manage. And I find myself coming up with multitudes of essential projects(it's not procrastinating if you're doing something truly useful and necessary, right?) as it becomes apparent that I've managed to schedule myself to be away during some of the best of what PA has to offer. The wisteria will bloom while I'm gone...I curse that vine all year long just so for one brief, glorious week (or so) I can breathe the cool grape-scented midnight air under those magnificent pendulous purple blossoms. And the lilacs, those delicate reminders of the bouquets my mother always placed in each room every spring...no wonder I'm ambivalent about leaving.

So, Scotland, what do you have for me to compensate for a two-year gap between filling my nose with the scent of lilacs and wisteria, and not being here to watch as these pups expand their world?

April going on July

2010-04-06T20:18:00.000-07:00

Little did I know how completely ludicrous that photo of the dogs playing in snow would look just a couple of weeks later. Here I am with the windows open to try to entice a breeze to sweep the heat of the day out of the house. My skin is itchy from dried salt-- my evening walk had me sweating like a work horse. Everyone's commenting on the lovely weather, and sure, I'm loving it. But at the same time, it terrifies me...it's been hovering in the high 70's and even over 80 a time or two...this is APRIL(!?!) The apple trees have opened their leaf buds and are quickly developing flower buds. The quince (japonica) will open by the weekend, the jonquils are in full glory, even the lilac looks like it'll bloom while I'm gone.

When we moved here from New Jersey, on Memorial Day weekend 1984, at first glance I thought there had been a horrible insect blight because the trees had no leaves. So, a quarter century ago, trees were at approximately the stage at the end of May that they are now at the beginning of April. That's nearly two-months' difference over the course of a geological nano-second! I've been reading the stats as spring arrives earlier and earlier, but I don't think the official proclamations match the on-the-ground reality of the abrupt climate change being wrought. I wish I could stop thinking of implications and just enjoy the rapturous wonder that is spring.

And spring on my hilltop truly is rapturous. Even in a normal spring, one dominated by Mud Season, one can't help joining the rabbits in their maddened "March Hare" dances...squirrels spiral up oaks, the horses donate their winter cloaks to the birds who frantically weave it into their nests, and Beth and the dogs go gamboling through the woods. OK, the dogs gambol. I trudge, but with much lighter step than usual. Tonight I counted seventeen turkeys, four kingfishers, two wood ducks, as-yet unidentified geese that made intriguing whistling sounds, and myriad cardinals, robins, wood thrush, chickadees, juncos, blue jays...and their calls were capped by the ear-drum piercing, brain-mush-inducing shrill of spring peepers calling from every wetland.

Tomorrow, back to hauling manure to my garden. The sprouts are ready to transplant, and I have potatoes to set.

Good intentions

2010-03-15T09:55:00.000-07:00

Another lesson in doing what I intend to do when I originally intend to do it. Because now it looks like spring outside, with cardinals singing and Canada geese winging north overhead. But back in the initial days of the Big Snow Dump of 2010 I witnessed something I wanted to share. Diva and Xico (daughter and father) had "entertained" me with antics that reminded me of how children vie for their parents' attention.

Now that the Big Snow has become The Big Melt, the story is still pertinent but less timely. A mere two weeks ago we were still in serious winter here. Snowy, cold days seem to bring out the child in all of us, and this deep snowfall elicited a frenzied joy from the dogs. In particular, Diva's exuberance reached almost physically dangerous levels...dangerous, that is, to her poor dad. Normally I do not feel even slightly sorry for Xico, who can be domineering and rather bullying to his kennel mates. But since his daughter has grown up she can hang out with him; astoundingly the tables have been turned. One could say it's a reverse of the old Parents' Curse ("one day may you have a child just like you"), or perhaps it's an example of the type of behavior that warrants the Parents' Curse in the first place.

On this particular day Diva was relentless, haranguing papa Xico with lightning-like strikes of her teeth, latching onto his mane, his cheeks, his ears, bashing him forcefully with her chest, rearing up like a stallion to crash into him, pursuing him when he would like to have avoided her, all accompanied by sound effects that (were I not there to see for myself) would have brought me bolting from the house...it sounded like a battle to the death.

Interestingly enough, this all ceased if I wasn't present. While I was in their exercise paddock, Diva would ratchet her behavior to a level that I thought intolerable - I was actually encouraging Xico to give some back. If I walked to another area in the exercise yard, the bedlam followed me. They steered the antics specifically near me, in front of me where I couldn't help but see them. It finally occurred to me that this wasn't just an interaction between the two of them, this was a performance of sorts with me as audience. I was reminded of a summer evening a decade or so ago when I sat on the back porch feeling rather blue, watching my son Kyle shooting hoops. He recognized my mood and started shooting crazy shots, leaping and twisting and attempting the most impossible moves. It worked; I couldn't help but grin and I even eventually got off my duff and joined in. Diva and Xico certainly had me grinning and shaking my head. Then again, the dogs' behavior also had a similarity to much-earlier days when my two kids would huddle near my legs when I was trying to cook, even though far more entertaining games and toys were all over the family room and the great outdoors beckoned with endless possibilities...they wanted to pinch each other and fight over nothing in my presence.

So what was happening this wintry day? Were Diva & Xico really picking up on my sadness or despondency and trying to intervene? Was it as simple as vying for attention, like my kids' trying to get me to focus on them rather than the work I was involved in? Was it a display of strength, in effect saying hey, I am worthy - pick me as your next in command, your Right Hand, your Main Partner? When I left their exercise yard and moved to the next, the rambunctiousness subsided; when I returned, it escalated again. Clearly the message was aimed at me.

The canine mind is endlessly astonishing, and the more time I spend in their presence, the more fully I appreciate not just their behavior but comparable human gestures. I get glimpses of the complexity of feelings, thoughts, and motivations underlying behavior and attachment. What a privilege.

Yin/Yang

2010-03-06T18:29:00.000-08:00

So how does an entire month go by between blogs? In a blur, that's how. The puppies from the litters already posted in previous blogs are now eight and ten weeks old, romping and wrestling and making finger paintings on my kitchen tile. Since their arrival, Vixen presented her litter of five (Caesarian...I've run out of any expectation of a normal birth occurring ever again) who are now five weeks old, and Saga was relieved of her one big, gorgeous, dead male puppy (also via Caesarian...I am beyond being able to talk about it) and then had to be spayed on the table due to blood loss.

Anyone out there thinking of becoming a breeder? Please re-read the last four or five posts and think *hard* before going down this road.

After doing this for three decades it's impossible to count how many times I've heard some variation of the phrase "oh, I'd love to do what you do...I've dreamed of living in the country, surrounded by animals. You must love it!"

Well, yes. I love the dogs. I love the horses. I even love the chickens.

And --- no. Because so much of the "it" that I do is just plain drudgery. The sheer volume of feces I pick up, bag, and then haul to the road to be picked up by the garbage men (bless them) weekly is enough to dim the most devoted dog lover's enthusiasm. The hundreds of pounds of dog food I haul from car to kennel weekly (to account for all that feces) is back-breaking, although I keep reminding myself that it's my cheap gym substitute (bend, lift, twist, hoist, repeat twenty times). Just keeping up with the feeding, cleaning, grooming, bathing, socializing, exercising, client inquiries, paperwork, vaccinations, entry deadlines, pedigree research, tracking, training, conditioning, breeding, whelping, LAUNDRY, and the aforementioned schlepping is impossible. That's the bare minimum, before I've gone to my "real work." Heaven forbid the dogs get sick; not really sick like worried-over-them-at-the-vet's, just sick like couldn't-wait-for-me-to-get-home-to-let-them-out-of-the-crate sick. Days end when I can't keep my eyes open. They begin when the dogs say they begin. A day when I can stop to hug or hang out with one of them is a very good day indeed. Days when visitors are scheduled to come meet the dogs are days I can stop the clock and experience the joy of puppy breath and gnawed fingers, untied shoelaces and exuberant kisses.

So, yes, I love what I do. When I'm particularly centered, grounded, whatever you want to call it I can even say I love chipping poop from the packed-solid ice on a day when the north wind sucks all life from my fingers in the first moments of exposure. There's an art to it, a sort of Zen in just doing what needs to be done, even if I've done it ten bazillion times before and there is no end to the number of times I'll need to do it again. Because puppies, every single one, are worth it.

Minding Dogs/dogs minds

2010-02-10T13:04:00.000-08:00

I've been mulling something. Two somethings, actually. And since the latest blizzard has me housebound, I figured this was as good a time as any to try to put those thoughts into some sort of order.

I notice my dogs making assumptions quite often, in ways that mirror behavior I've observed in my children or my friends, or, if I look in the mirror, myself. There are two concepts on my mind, both of which seem to hold some much deeper implications about the nature of self-concepts. Let me try to sketch it out.

My thoughts started down this path as I've been comparing Elatha's versus Brianne's versus Star's behavior in the morning. The bedroom was always Star's exclusive domain but since his passing the other dogs take turns (my allergist insists that I only have one dog in the bedroom at a time...he would actually prefer zero dogs, but we compromise...I tell him there's only one at a time because that's what he wants to hear and I don't think the Pomeranian on my pillow counts...he's not a "real" dog anyhow). Star always knew when I was actually leaving the bedroom in the morning and after an initial "good morning" greeting he'd curl up until I was ready to head out; nothing moved but his eyes, which were always on me. I could make the bed or not make the bed, I could brush my teeth with the electric or manual toothbrush, I could put my shoes on or run downstairs barefoot, I could move towards the door to get something but he didn't cue on anything but my eventual opening of the door.

Brianne parks herself in front of the door, and if I pass near her she flips to expose her belly. That's her morning greeting..."rub me!" Star wanted a face rub, Brianne wants a belly rub. Other than the rolling over, she, too, stays relatively quiet while I go through my morning rituals. Neither she nor Star ever presumed to suggest I should get out of bed before I was good and ready.

Elatha, on the other hand, is the only one of my shepherds who has taken the liberty of enthroning herself on the settee in window tower of my room, the better to survey her kingdom below. When she is rested and ready to begin her day, she begins pacing. Even as deeply as I sleep it's hard not to be awakened by the click-click-click of her nails on the hardwood. If by chance I still don't stir, she unceremoniously shoves her snoot into my face. Repeatedly. Whine, shove, pace, repeat. Once I'm on my feet, she by now has had it with confinement and has no patience for my routine. I'm barely vertical and she's herding me to the door. Ignoring her only ensures that she'll position herself immediately in front of me no matter which way I turn. Banishing her back to the settee gets a sigh and an eye-roll (reminiscent of my daughter as a teenager) but at least gains me a couple of undisturbed minutes. Let me even lean in the direction of the door and Ella bridges the distance from the settee to the foyer in a flash, clocking me with her hard head as she zips by. We were leaving, right Mom? You finally are heeding my instructions, arentcha?

Brianne and Star seemed to have a mature outlook on life; things happen that you can ignore, and it's wiser to save your energy until you're called upon for action. Ella is a classic "type A" who never quite got over the sense that the world evolves around her.

Ella's behavior appears to be presumptive, whereas many of my other dogs seem more assumptive. That's where it gets really interesting insofar as what it reveals about what's happening in their heads. Similar to the situation with Ella in the morning, I often find that when I've engaged in a stationary project, anything that keeps me still and requires the dogs to chill awhile, the instant I even ease my concentration on my work the dogs pop up as if someone passed a current of electricity through the floor. And no matter what direction I might head (maybe the bathroom, maybe the fridge) they all assume that I'm going wherever it is they've been wishing I was going. The outdoors, usually. This I know because once again my knees are bruised by their heads and rib-cages as our conflicting intentions collide. And then they look at me, from the door or the cupboard or partway to their hoped-for destination, with eyes that reveal their thoughts. This is where you meant to go, right?

As opposed to Ella, who tries to control my behavior to suit herself, I believe these other instances reflect situations where the dogs assume that what they want is what I want...that since I'm getting up I must surely be headed to the place/thing/event they want to go/eat/do. This happens with people all the time, why not dogs? We assume that others think or feel as we do, that they want and desire the same things we do, that they would be happy having what we want.

Illustrative side note: my ex never did understand that I do not like pepper, that it burns my tongue. Absolutely did not matter how many Sunday brunches I reminded him, please don't pepper my eggs...salt only! He'd serve 'em up peppered and get mad and hurt when I put them on his plate and wouldn't eat them. Surely I was just being contrary? Surely I just wanted to make his life difficult? Surely I was mistaken about my likes or dislikes and would see it his way if I wasn't so doggone bitchy and stubborn? I'll spare you any more significant scenarios, but I would imagine you can all think of examples in your own lives.

Back to the dogs. I know I'm painting with too broad a brush, and that some of the anticipatory behavior I've described could just as well be indicative of doggy hope, or suggestion, or request (or demand), or (ahem, Miss Elatha) just plain old fashioned domineering, control-freak-iness. But the intrigue lies in the possibility that dogs might consciously think they know what we have in mind, that they might assume that because they want something we also want that thing. If they do...what does that say about their fundamental psychology? How much self-awareness might they actually possess?

And, what about an unconscious mind? Might dogs be motivated and driven by their unconscious much as we are; or to flip the question, might we be driven by our unconscious just as they are? I'm not talking instincts or hard-wired behaviors here, but the unconscious mind that in reality dictates much of what we human beings think and feel and do, whether we care to admit it or not. I just googled and don't find much reference to scientific inquiry into the concept of conscious versus pre- or unconscious thought processes in dogs. But I'm betting it would be enlightening.

The assumptions we make about our experiences throughout life influence what sort of person we become. We assume we understand something, and our next learning opportunity is limited by and predicated on a set of parameters that we regard as "facts" that may in actuality be somewhat or even totally wrong...we build constructs from faulty templates and ultimately might get so off-base we begin re-drawing Reality to fit our inner fantasy. Some folks are more in tune with What Is than others, but we all have our backlog of misperceptions that affect our capacity to appropriately respond to people and events. I think dogs are less subject to that problem, more in touch with Reality, probably because their conscious minds don't interfere or override what their unconscious minds tell them. My dogs may try to dictate my actions, may occasionally succeed; nonetheless, I find in them an antidote to the insanity so rampant in the human world.

Dog People

2010-01-24T16:56:00.000-08:00

Some days I can’t help wondering what it is about dogs that entrances us so…why do some of us weave the strands of our lives inextricably with theirs? Why are some so obsessively in love with our four-legged pals as to virtually eat-sleep-breathe dogs? And, perhaps more illuminating, there’s the completely incomprehensible (to dog lovers) question of why some folks do not.

Dog lovers and non-dog folk come in every stripe; you’re not going to differentiate dog-centric versus non-dog people through easily categorized distinctions like athletes versus sedentary types, country versus city dwellers, extroverts versus hermits. Sub-categories further complicate the picture - dog owners who profess to love their dogs may provide well for their physical needs but have no meaningful relationship with them (which opens up parallel inquiries into similar human conundrums); vet clinics are full of doting dog owners who literally kill their dogs with kindness; people on street corners gush over every dog they meet but don’t own one, believing they couldn’t do right by them (maybe correctly, maybe not); and the list goes on. Since my curiosity is directed towards those of us whose lives are modified dramatically by dogs versus the opposite leg of the bell curve, I’d really love to get a discussion going as to what drives some of us “to the dogs.” Is this obsession a sign that we dog-folk are a tad off-kilter, or can we claim to be the enlightened ones?

I’ve wondered if it has to do with whether or not we’re raised with dogs, conjecturing that lack of exposure early in life might atrophy some crucial psychological process, some developmental milestone when mirror neurons need stimulation to allow toddlers to develop healthy empathy for other beings. If parents or caregivers weren’t particularly good at providing those opportunities, or even if they were, those of us with canine pack-mates learned early-on, likely when pre- or barely-verbal, to read the real-time emotional reactions that dogs give. Humans say one thing but mean another; dogs give it to you straight. Children who don’t have the opportunity to see the cause and effect of pulling a dog’s whisker might never develop quite the same capacity for simpatico as those of us who grew up with dog hair pasted to our sticky fingers.

Taking it further back in the dog/human symbiotic evolutionary process, perhaps proto-dogs originally gravitated to human encampments because children snuck a few mammoth bones away from the hearth to lure in a puppy to play with. If proto-dogs had to choose between (A) accepting the sure thing (the bone) versus (B) snatching the more succulent but riskier (because of adult retribution) toddler, I’m betting that both child and proto-dog learned to read each other’s every gesture and expression quite accurately. Only those dogs that made choice (A) survived to produce pups to come back for a mammoth bone another day. Fast-forward a few million years and today’s dogs still provide children with non-verbal but very communicative pack-mates which may help prepare them to navigate the complex, broader human network. I’m thinking there is far more to this human-dog symbiotic exchange than we usually wonder about.

But ok, what about the adults…what about those of us who openly admit we prefer the company of dogs to that of people. What gives? Surely that’s not a “normal” or healthy position? Is it? (please tell me it is). While it may be true that we can trust our dogs whereas our fellow hominids are suspect, is our preference for dogs symptomatic of something gone awry in our psychological development? Yes, our dogs love us unconditionally while our kids/spouses/bosses expect us to minister to their needs in one form or another. But still, have we failed to navigate some essential transition from our childhood canine connections to evolutionarily essential human ones? Or should we just be grateful that we’re among the ones who have the benefit of the rich, funny, infuriating, blissful pleasure of being loved by dogs and loving them back?

I do know that there seems to be a longing for understanding that dogs satisfy, maybe one stemming from those long-ago fireside exchanges when eyes at the fringe of darkness reflected the firelight back and two intelligent, social beings really saw one another. Dogs meet a need for direct, raw, unfiltered connection that doesn’t happen often or easily with other humans. I suspect that the modern world alienates us from the immediacy of living, and our domestic wolves let us tap into what is still real and wild and alive in ourselves.

Character(s)

2010-01-20T19:51:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite TV channels has the slogan "characters welcome." I guess it resonates with me because I would like to believe it...as one who has always heard a different drummer, I have wasted a lot of imaginative energy wishing our society and culture truly welcomed characters. For the most part that just isn't so. Characters, or persons of character, stand out from the crowd. They turn heads, create a stir. But in this country, for the most part, conformity garners likability, convictions generate division. Originality is unrecognized or ridiculed. Pretense is tolerated; honesty is reviled and sometimes downright dangerous.

One thing dogs are, it's honest. They're pissed, you know it. They're sad, their entire being radiates dejection. They adore you, you bask in an aura of love. And if they don't like you, well, pretending is not in a dog's repertoire. I've probably spent more time in the company of dogs than among my fellow humans. Some of their attributes have informed the way I interact with the world; sometimes that's good, sometimes not so much. I tend to call it like I see it, as they do. That's not generally well-received.

Our expectations for our dogs far outstrip equivalent human capacity to measure up. We expect our dogs to never be irritable, or if they are, to not show that in any obvious way. We expect a dog to tolerate whatever comes their way, whatever is dished out. Inappropriate discipline, inadequate socialization, minimal mental stimulation, social isolation, lack of exercise, poor nutrition, all of these and more are heaped on our dogs and we expect them to keep on wagging their tails, keep on licking our hands, keep on wearing stupid costumes and tolerating the baby's fingers in their ears and our tread on their tails. A dog that growls is seen as bad, even dangerous. A dog that snaps is "disloyal" or has "turned." A dog that actually does bite is condemned, sometimes to a life in a cage and muzzle, sometimes to death.

How many times have we lost our temper, said or done something we'd like to take back, something hurtful, something vile, something bruising to relationships or even bodies? I know I don't measure up. I've snapped at my daughter, ducked a call from an old friend, been snide to another friend, forgotten my brother's anniversary, my sister-in-law's birthday, ripped a few folks a new asshole. And that's just in the past week...I couldn't begin to document the faults and failings of this particular character over my half-century in this world. I'm just glad I'm not a dog, I'd have been given the long sleep a long time ago. The world prefers its characters in a format controllable with a remote.

More trauma

2010-01-10T16:49:00.000-08:00

"So how's she doing?" I'd fielded the question many times in the past two weeks, but now I needed an antecedent for the pronoun.

"Which one?" I figured I knew, given that the person asking was my (almost) ex who had performed both Caesarians but who was fairly transparently fishing for compliments.

His expression told me he'd forgotten there was another; no surprise there, he can't keep my dogs straight. He covered with "The one that nearly died" hoping, I'm sure, that distinguished the one he was thinking of, and also confirming my suspicion that he wanted a little ego-stroking. He had, afterall, saved her life.

"Her" being Rio. I blogged about Cymri two weeks ago when she had to have a Caesarian to deliver her three pups. In the meantime Rio blossomed to a size that was painful just to look at. I knew she was carrying a huge litter, and the potential complications of overly large litters are scarier than unusually small ones. So I'd been on pins'n'needles for the last couple of weeks, especially when Rio stopped eating. That in itself is not terribly unusual; a female carrying so many puppies has trouble finding room for food. But she just didn't seem....right.

She went into labor a day early, again not surprising with her body under such stress. Two pups were born readily then nothing more happened for five hours. A little calcium coaxed two more, but once again she shut down for several hours. More calcium brought forth another three, but she was exhausted and depleted...more ominously, she was pasty, wan, and frightened. I pressed her gums...they stayed white. Minimal capillary refill...she was going into shock. Given the size of her uterus and the struggle, I worried the uterus had ruptured and she might be bleeding internally. I pulled out my little Doppler and couldn't find any fetal heartbeats; there was no more time for midwifery no matter how skilled-- she needed immediate veterinary intervention. I called the clinic, gathered up the five living puppies into a box with a hot water bottle, grabbed Brianne in case a blood donor was needed, helped Rio into the backseat and wished I could teleport to town.

An X-ray revealed three more puppies. Surgery was commenced quickly, and once again I found myself receiving three soggy, limp bodies warm from their mother's belly. Unfortunately one was long dead and though we got gasps from the other two, only one of those progressed to steady breathing in spite of our best efforts.

Puppy resuscitation attempts took place in a treatment room so I wasn't present to watch the struggle going on in the surgery ward. But the techs' comings and goings back and forth past the doorway had a hushed urgency and finally I had to go check, carrying the puppy whose heart I was still massaging. The heart monitor was beeping, the O2 stats looked fine, but several saturated towels on the floor attested to the amount of blood that had overflowed the surgery table, and the intensity with which the two techs were struggling to get a blood pressure reading dropped my heart into my gut.

"No pulse?" My question was sharper than I'd intended. "Oh, she has a pulse, we just can't find it." I couldn't tell if Keith's answer was meant to be reassuring, glib, or if if I should take it at face value. I opted for the latter and retreated for the puppy room, but snagged the next tech as she raced back by. PCV (packed cell volume) was through the floor. My hope went right with it.

But I knew Brianne was there, I knew we had blood available, we just lacked a trauma team to be able to work several procedures at once, and this was a situation that required a multi-pronged effort. The office manager had run to another clinic to get a blood-collection bottle, but everyone else already had a role to play in the process. And our surgeon was also our clinician so we couldn't collect the blood that Rio so desperately needed while he was still in the middle of surgery. He had her on a hyper-tonic (?) IV to help stabilize her blood vessels but that was only a stop-gap.

Finally he got her closed, I abandoned my fruitless efforts with the second pup, put the surviving one with the five from home, and brought Brianne into an exam room. Her face revealed her thoughts, thoughts which astounded me...the wrinkles on her forehead might have been concern, might have been fear, might have been foreknowledge. All I know is that she walked onto the exam table, looked me in the eye, licked my chin, and held completely still with her nose pointed skyward for ten minutes while a needle in her jugular pulled deep rich, platelet- and red cell-laden blood into a bottle.

Then the wait began while Rio lay inert on a blanket, babies tucked in beside her to nurse, an IV pumping fluids into one foreleg while the other, the beautiful crimson one, dripped life back into her other foreleg one pulse at a time.

Today as I watched her race towards me through the snow, grinning and beautiful, I marvel. I marvel that she doesn't waste a moment of today thinking about how she almost died last Tuesday. She doesn't regret, she doesn't bemoan, she doesn't fear. She lives.

Meditation for 2010

2010-01-03T07:58:00.000-08:00

Nothing need be said:

http://blog.beliefnet.com/onecity/2010/01/another-cycle-begins.html?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=13&ppc=&utm_campaign=Buddhist&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

A Breeder's Christmas

2009-12-30T07:45:00.000-08:00

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I’ve attended and assisted in a whelping, each time one of my girls is expecting I become just as anxious as I ever was. In truth I am more so; the more I have learned and seen over the years regarding what can go wrong (and very badly wrong) the more nervous I am for each impending birth.

The day before Christmas Eve my most recent litter arrived. It was textbook…at first. Her temperature dropped 36 hours ahead, giving me fair warning to stay close at hand. She began nesting and fretting, clinging and whining on cue. I spent the night on the floor with her when I knew it was probably too early and I should get my rest in a real bed. So far, so good, everything seemed normal. But on the morning of her due date, though she was sleeping and seemed peaceful and alert, my own inner barometer was dropping. Something seemed amiss, though nothing overt that I could point to. Cymri’s expression had shifted from that “something really strange is happening and I’m terrified” to “ahhhh, I get it. I am capable, I am Mama Dog” and she appeared confident and strong, waiting for the progression of events she somehow knew would come next. Still, I stewed. My turn to pace and fret.

I called the clinic, put them on notice that I had a girl in first stage labor and anticipated I may need assistance at some point. Then, I grabbed Christmas cards, my address book, and tried to settle in to wait. Obligingly, Cymri’s contractions started almost immediately. Strong but intermittent at first, then increasing in frequency and intensity. Each time she bore down I was sure this was it, but as the hours stretched into the afternoon and there appeared to be no progress, my concern escalated. I could palpate the puppy, face first as it should be, yet she didn’t seem able to bring it over the pelvic rim in spite of vigorous contractions. I administered sub-Q calcium, which bolstered her efforts tremendously and still no change in the pup’s position. Since I couldn’t quite hook a finger around the pup, I wrangled with external manipulations to aid her contractions. No go. By now it was mid-afternoon and the clinic would be closing earlier than usual for the holiday. I pulled out the mini-sonogram that I had received the previous Christmas and was relieved to find a normal heartbeat…at least one pup wasn’t stressed yet. Couldn’t find any other heartbeats.

I called the clinic again, helped Cymri into the back of my Pilot, and tore out for town. As is usual in a vet clinic the day before (or after) a holiday, it was packed. Cymri and I hung out; she hunkering to the ground to push and strain every few minutes, me cranky and pushy with the employees who were only trying to show concern. Get my dog on the surgery table! Tell those other people this is a flippin’ emergency and get the doc in here with Cymri where he’s really needed! I wanted to shout at them.

Finally he came to check her, did another ultrasound, and miraculously enough located two heartbeats. Around the same time I noticed movement, so I knew at least some pups were still alive. With “the pups aren’t stressed, I’ll be back” he left to go back to the other patients. My pacing and fretting began again in earnest. I’d seen this scenario before, and immediately had myself convinced we were headed for a repeat performance…in years past I’ve had both a cat (I used to breed Abyssinians) and a dog at a crucial point in labor when I knew veterinary intervention was needed; in two cases I was told all was well, only to end up back at the clinic again a few hours later with a mother in distress and the babies already dead….the poor mother still has to go through a Caesarian but has no babies to show for all that pain and effort. I wasn’t about to let that happen a third time.

Eventually, hours later (ok, maybe it was thirty minutes or so) he began prepping Cymri for the Caesarian and the staff stood around like cheerleaders. With a towel drapped from arm-to-arm I waited for the first newborn. One of the technicians is a breeder and normally the two of us make a great tag-team in resuscitating limp babies (anesthesia depresses the central nervous system). But she wasn’t working that day and I had two new receptionists to help me – the sole technician was assisting the surgery itself. The first pup came out limp and blue; before I’d even dried her the next pup was extracted and passed on to a receptionist. I traded the one I’d gotten partially cleaned for the new one. Neither looked viable to me.

I am not a calm or accepting midwife. I grabbed Dopram, placed drops under the tongues of each of them. I demonstrated how to hold them head down along the thigh and thump their ribs to stimulate drainage of any amniotic fluid they may have inhaled. I shook the one I held. I did mouth to muzzle. A third pup was handed off with the announcement that was the last of t hem, so my “team” and I concentrated on passing the three limp, soggy, blue babies back and forth while I tried every trick in my thirty years of experience. The first gasp brought smiles to my helpers. I was just incredulous; I had given them up for goners. Gradually, periodically, each would gasp and I began to hold some hope. The girls, sure that this meant all was well, began discussing names.

That was last week, and this week I have three fat, squirmy babies and a wonderful, attentive, devoted mama. Life is good.

2009-12-11T14:27:00.000-08:00

Fall is dog season; in my experience it's the only time of the year the dogs and I agree completely on the utter joy of being outdoors. Spring, for all its rejuvenating energy, is mud season in these parts and though I welcome its warmth and renewal, I dread the muck and mess the dogs drag in. Summer, my time of year, is when my darling canine partners seek out the nearest shade tree and look at me like the reptilian throw-back I may well be. And winter...the bitterness of these past few days, the killing, bone-cracking cold...every instinct my hardy ancestors passed along to me says "get thee inside near a fire!"

And indeed I would, for I respect my ancestors, those tough opportunists. But, the dogs have other ideas. My dogs have grown coats that render them impervious. Not only impervious, they are audaciously, recklessly celebratory of this season. There is no question they are happiest in winter. They grin. They frolic. They bound and roll and plow and spin and make noises I do not hear at any other time of the year. They are in their full glory in the snow.

Because of the dogs, I pry myself away from the radiant heater that keeps life in my bones this time of year. I put layers over layers, a vest over those layers, struggle to zipper a shell over the vest, cram my fists into my pockets and curse as I leave the relative comfort of my fifty degree house. The curses cease when the wind rips the very breath from my lungs. Fingers stiffen in the short distance from house to kennel so that putting a collar on a dog becomes a battle, particularly when I’m hampered by the cumbersome layers and the dog is jazzed for the walk it anticipates. Said dog then launches itself with rapturous abandon, yanking my frozen limbs nearly out of my boots. I beg, I plead, I implore them not to make me move so fast when my muscles are still in a state of shock; I whine, I whimper, my eyes actually tear (it’s that cold!). I act altogether unlike any kind of dog trainer should act…

But then, a mile or so down the cold dark road, a transition occurs. At first that’s because I become so numb all over that I no longer perceive discomfort. But another mile or so further and I am entranced by the sky. This time of year there is a lingering light that creates colors in the dusk and early evening that is unequaled at other times. The depth and range of blue just after sunset lifts the eyes and thus the mind; no longer is this an exercise in physical endurance, being out in this cold inspires awe, awakens wonder. As Parrish blue bleeds into azure and cobalt, and finally indigo becomes obsidian, the miles click by and the dog and I become extensions of one another. His body movements reveal the presence of creatures I would otherwise have no means of recognizing. The excitement with which he responds to a vole differs enormously from the out-of-his-mind scrambling that scent of a deer evokes. Coyotes bring the hackles up, bear bring him right alongside me, a deep rumble of fear in his chest. We plunge on in the darkness, senses zinging.

By the time we get home a couple of hours later, I am so invigorated that I want to take a couple more dogs out. Cold? Pshawww! I am Woman, descendant of cave woman…tamer of wolves, walker of dogs…a little cold is a tonic for my strong body!

Now, where’s my hot tea and radiant heater….???

Blue Moon

2009-12-06T00:20:00.000-08:00

Full moon this week enabled me to get the garbage hauled to the curb at 2:30 so I didn't have to rise at dawn to make the pickup. I heard, or think I heard, that this month we'll have a blue moon. Or maybe it's next month. I never hear more than bits and snatches of news lately. Should I say that only once-in-a-blue-moon do I hear a news story in its entirety.

Does anyone use phrases like that anymore? My family did...colorful folk sayings, full of arcane meanings that my kids can't relate to. Hell, my peers can't relate. Every so often one of grandma's sayings slips into my conversation and invariably elicits a quizzical raised eyebrow from whomever I'm addressing. Sometimes I know where it arose, but often when stopped like that I realize I don't know the origins.

We rarely question origins. We believe that we know what's what. We base our actions, and in fact our entire existence, on the blithe presumption that what we accept as truth in fact is. Mom said so. My best friend's cousin's co-worker saw it himself. The newspaper/radio/internet had an article. But do we know what's real? Do we even want to experience the full weight of living, or might that merely interfere with the existences we eke out in our little spheres of self-reinforcing conceits? Anyone or anything that is perceived as foreign to our contrived internal system will be shunned, ridiculed, or outright attacked in order to preserve the small space within which we feel safe but which in truth binds us. In effect we gouge out our own eyes, plug our ears, cut ourselves off from that which might inform us of the wonder that awaits the curious, and the growth and evolution that rewards the courageous.

Earlier this night, in that moon-lit darkness that casts shadows, I walked with a friend; well, with two friends. One human, one canine. We three are usually utterly alone on the backroads and pathways, other than being passed now and again by hurtling metal shapes bearing semi-torporific human passengers home to their chemically-laced food-substitutes and their digital entertainments. We three inhabit a world that few seem inclined to experience. Even in warmer months when the sun doesn't set by 5:00 we rarely pass walkers, and in the fall and winter when we step outside, we might as well be the only humans left on the planet. No one seems to know the sound of the horned owls but for their recordings on Discover Channel. But we walkers are serenaded by one in the oaks beside us, another in the hemlocks across the swamp. The coyotes voice their opinions on the quality of the cottontails in the rhododendrons beyond the rock ledge. Beavers slap their tails in startlement as we pass.

My point, if I originally had one, was that being outdoors, at night, is essential. Being soaked by rain is essential. Feeling my hair ruffled by cool winds, or welcoming the sun’s radiance on my skin is essential. These sensations are real. Life is lived just that simply. Every moment I am given the opportunity to be alive, if I will but grasp it. Other animals always do. I live with dogs, with horses, with cats and rabbits and roosters so that I may remember how that’s done, how I may escape the bondage created by my own capacity to live in the past or long for the future. I choose now. Again, and again.

character development

2009-11-30T22:11:00.000-08:00

Hundreds of people have shared stories of their dogs with me over the years, and there are many whose previous dogs were obtained from shelters or found on the street. Often, these kind-hearted folk relate with conviction that their dog had been abused prior to coming to them. As evidence they point to the dogs' behaviors - aggressiveness towards children, avoidance of men or uniforms or brooms, refusal to come when the person calling is holding a leash...the list is endless. Yes, the behaviors are indicative of an emotional reaction, but can the cause be inferred? Is it realistic to assume that this dog, if adopted as a puppy and given a loving home from the start would *not* have developed antisocial behaviors? To believe that the dog is a blank slate, pure and perfect, awaiting the Hand of Man in either kindness or cruelty to instill its eventual personality is to ignore the inherent individuality of that being.

Dogs, like people, are born with innate tendencies towards weak wills or strong ones, low drive or high, curiosity or dullness, intelligence or stupidity, willingness or oppositionality...the interface of these traits with the experiences the dog has will create templates that the dog uses to deal with every subsequent encounter...so patterns are established. A timid dog that is startled by a stranger's enthusiastic attention may shrink away from the next stranger. No harm was done to the dog in actuality, but within the confines of its own internal world the stranger was experienced as scary and potentially dangerous. That conviction, held as truth, is projected outward by the dog onto subsequent interactions, coloring its experience of even the gentlest touch. A dedicated owner may be able to restore confidence in the dog with time and attention and careful socialization, but if the dog were to end up in new hands, its wariness and overtly fearful manner would likely convince its new owners that it had suffered at the hand of its previous owners, when in fact its own innate character is simply being evinced.

Experience does play an enormous role in the final analysis, that's why I emphasize to my new puppy owners the necessity of controlling a puppy's experiences during the impressionable initial weeks and months. For one thing I'm not a big fan of dog parks, because owners generally are unable to honestly appraise their dog's character. When asked, invariably they assure you that their beloved Fido doesn't bite, isn't aggressive, or...oops, never did that before. Turn your unsuspecting young dog out for a run in a community dog park and if they should encounter the neighborhood Cujo they may have good reason forever afterwards to carry a chip on their shoulder with regard to other dogs. Similarly, though puppies need exposure to kids if they're to learn forbearance and reliability with children, subjecting them to the heavy-handed and insensitive behavior of just any ill-mannered child would be hugely counter-productive.

A pup needs to have happy interactions with a variety of situations, orchestrated by its owner and gauged to the pup's developmental level, if it is to grow up with a happy and confident manner. The underlying character of the dog will dictate the degree to which these efforts are successful, but the effort must be made if one wants a well-adjusted canine partner.

Bonding

2009-11-21T15:53:00.000-08:00

Anytime I have a litter coming, I begin the process of getting to know the folks who are waiting on puppies. Invariably there are several who make the statement to the effect that they want their pups as young as possible so they can begin "the bonding process." One can never know precisely what someone else means by that, but I tend to assume that what they really mean is they don't want to deprive themselves of puppy breath and lots of puddles.

Baby puppies, very young babies, don't bond in the same way that an older pup or adult does...they're a lot like baby humans who can be handed from one capable adult to another without much fuss. They're trusting. They haven't learned that there are things to be feared in the Big Bad Out There, and their worldview barely recognizes the distinction between self and other. Any female dog will do when a baby puppy is hungry, it's only when the non-mom unceremoniously snarls and snaps that baby comprehends the necessity of maintaining the distinction between mom and non-mom if he wishes to avoid injury.

When visitors come, they see the puppies tag after me everywhere and assume they're bonded to me...but they'll follow anybody. Sure, given a choice they'll follow me versus you because I'm the Food Bringer. Three times a day since their foggiest recollections, my scent, footsteps, and voice correlate with the magical appearance of lusciously tasty grub. They come running if I call them because they associate the particular way I say "here puppy, puppy!" with the gratification of warm, full bellies. But they'll follow you just as willingly once you replace me in that roll. The instincts of survival are so imperative they can't help but stick close to the one who provisions them with the necessities of life. They imprint, not bond. They are cute, sweet, funny, heart-warming little users! But are they bonded? Huh-uh. Not yet, not when they're utterly dependent. So, to say that a baby pup needs to be acquired early in order to "bond" to a human owner is misleading and perhaps a tad egoistic.

Give me a dog, a grown up dog that's got a heart and soul looking back at me when I make eye contact. One who has seen a few things, been around a bit, can think for itself and chooses to be my partner. I love meeting adult dogs; sometimes there's an instant liking, an attraction of chemistry not unlike the way interactions with certain total strangers can seem like becoming reacquainted with an old friend. Dogs are what they are, they don't hide behind facades, and they evaluate me even more thoroughly than I can possibly scrutinize them...because they cheat, they have built in chromatography! Their noses enable them to know my emotional state even if I don't; they know my health, my status, probably what I ate for dinner last night. I can exchange a bond of trust with a dog in an instant, and that dog will remember me even if I don't come 'round again for a year. Those bonds, the recognition of a kindred soul that is revealed when we are real and open to such exchanges, outlast the moment, and sustain us in the lonely interludes when it seems there is no one and no thing that we can count on.

Salon Talk

2009-11-13T19:52:00.000-08:00

It's been a week since I made an entry, so don't let the length of this post daunt you...I'm just making up for lost time.

I stopped off for a haircut on my way home last night, and as usually happens in situations where some sort of conversation is appropriate, we chatted about pets. She has an Olde English Bulldogge and several cats, so it gives us some common ground. Around about the time she was scissoring my bangs, she picked up a thread from a previous conversation.

As it happens, she is a newlywed, and during previous haircuts I had learned that her dog Jazz was afraid of her new husband, John. From other things she had said, the impression I had was of a somewhat shy or timid dog. Last night she told me that they had figured out why Jazz kept her distance from the new Man of the House. Their theory was that Jazz felt guilty for misbehaving while home alone during the day, and so because the husband is the first one home in the evening, she avoids him out of a sense of guilt. “You can just see it in her face, she knows she’s done wrong,” my hairdresser said, adding “it’s like she knows she’s going to get into trouble but just can’t help herself.”

I asked more about the situation, because I’ve heard the same song umpteen versions over the years. The upshot of the story is that they expect Jazz to leave the cats’ food alone, to stay off the furniture and to basically lie around and touch nothing during the hours they’re both away at work. Upon returning home, John would find dog hair on the couch (was he absolutely sure it wasn’t cat hair?) and empty cat food dishes (and he’s absolutely sure the cats didn’t eat it all?) and would scold Jazz for being “bad.”

Little wonder Jazz didn’t offer an enthusiastic welcome for John!

That crouched posture, head held low, tail tucked, eyes rolling up in supplication is so often presumed to be guilt that owners find themselves saying “what did you do!?!” the instant they see the signs. A quick look around will reveal something…a loaf of bread knocked off the counter, a plant wilted in the middle of the room with the contents of its pot strewn about and ground into the carpet. In my hairdresser’s scenario, that would probably be sufficient evidence that Jazz “knew” she’d done wrong and anticipated punishment.

But wait. Take the last half of that sentence and play the tape backwards. A dog can certainly anticipate, as anyone who has ever walked a dog knows when you take the leash off the peg on the wall. So the hairdresser is partly right, Jazz no doubt does anticipate punishment. But how did that come to be? If you have ever come home, found something amiss, and punished the dog, then the next time something is amiss the dog will anticipate punishment. But does two and two equal four in a dog’s world? In other words does the dog’s anticipation of punishment imply that they also experience what we humans understand to be guilt as it derives from a sense of wrongdoing or responsibility? Or is this a more complex equation?

In my opinion, this is an example of conditioned response, a sort of inadvertent training. Think of the dog’s perspective. Sometime around 2:00 PM the dog got bored or hungry and chased the cat. The cat jumped on the counter, knocked the loaf of bread off, and in hot pursuit of the cat the dog stepped on the bread, ripping the bag open. After the Dog and cat tired of that game, they wandered back into the kitchen, discovered the bread, dragged the bag by one edge spilling the contents in Hansel & Gretel fashion from room to room, then partied their way back along the bread crumb trail. They had a grand afternoon!

Tired from the antics, Dog is dreaming happy dreams when it hears the familiar car engine sound, the footsteps of the beloved coming up the walk, and the click of the key in the door. Oh joy! Life is good again! Big bounding leap takes the dog to the door, where instead of a hug and reunion celebration, the dog gets a brusque shove-off because Owner, who flipped on a light and got a look at the place, is working up a good steam. Dog, still in greeting mode, is puzzled, then wary, then downright terrified as Owner’s mood dissolves into outright fury.

Maybe Dog is smacked. Maybe Owner shoves dog outdoors and banishes it. Some sort of negative experience is inflicted on Dog. Now, Dog’s bread bowl bash was hours earlier, and it doesn’t connect its actions with the Owner’s reaction. It does, however, see the bread and shredded wrapper strewn everywhere, because dogs notice *everything.* So, while it doesn’t associate its own actions with the human reaction, it *does* associate the mess with the pain of punishment. So, fast-forward to another time Dog knocks something over. It doesn’t feel guilty for doing so, but when that chain of events goes off again (car pulls in, owner walks to door, key opens lock, stuff is strewn about on the floor) then Dog, remembering last time and wanting to save his skin, goes into an all-out attempt to convince Owner that it shouldn’t be punished. That’s what the cringing, slinking, eye-rolling is about…it’s appeasement behavior meant to defuse the situation and avert the Wrath of God. Not guilt, fear.

What about times when Dog acts “guilty” but didn’t actually do anything? Those with multiple-dog households can identify with that concept from watching what happens when you’re angry with one dog. The others, instantly recognizing the body language, avert their eyes, crouch, slink, do their best to disappear into the carpet. They didn’t do a thing, they are simply responding to their instinctive desire to keep the Alpha off their back! Yet, looking at them, it’s the same performance John saw in Jazz and inferred guilt. So, what happened with John and Jazz? If you come home a time or two and find mess or destruction, you’re going to anticipate finding mess and destruction each time you come home. How do you feel as you drive home? Tense? Irritable? What does that do to your breathing? Your posture? If you walk in the door with the angry presumption that something is wrong, your dog will know it before you even get inside. Your entire body is like a radio transmitter, emitting vibes at a frequency your dog reads loud and clear.

I did it just now…I got up to go to the kitchen and the poodle hopped out of his bed to follow (it’s nearly dinner time; he’s hopeful). I stopped a few steps away from the kitchen door (I forget what I’m doing half the time, and have to stop and reconnoiter). The poodle froze in place, head hunkered, afraid to move. I was standing with my hands on my hips, as I often do when I first spot a little “present” that the poodle is inclined to leave for me on my favorite carpets. There was no “present” and the poodle hadn’t done anything…but he sure looked guilty!

Motivation - "carrots"

2009-11-06T19:00:00.000-08:00

“Dumb dog!” Most dog owners, including myself, have said such things in exasperation. But when I’m not vexed by something my four-legged friends have done, I know the phrase isn’t fair – dogs’ inability to speak doesn’t reflect on their I.Q.
Sure, some dogs aren’t quite as quick or as willing to learn as others. And some make more effort to communicate than others. But what we call stupidity is usually just a symptom of lack of understanding or motivation. Why should your dog bother to comply with, or even try to understand, your commandst if you meet its every need or perceived wish just ‘cause that furry face is so darned cute? Honestly, would you get up and go to work every morning if your paycheck arrived no matter what?
How do you motivate a dog whose life is one of indulgence and ease? Your dog has a roof overhead, bed for lounging, food in the bowl, and treats on demand. Grocery store aisles and entire specialty stores offer treats, toys, premium foods and designer clothes to tempt doting owners precisely because humans naturally express their love by lavishing attention and gifts on the family pet. How can your Fido behave like Lassie or Eddie when he thinks his purpose in life is to be petted, played with, and loved?
Dog training is not about dominance or a battle of wills (although both come into play at times); it’s accomplished by establishing a common vocabulary, or currency if you will. That vocabulary has meaning or the currency has value only if you can get this across to your dog: I have what you want- your “paycheck”—and you can have it if you do what I ask of you. Pretty straightforward. The paycheck might be a food treat or a game of fetch, anything that your dog is ballistic about. If you’re serious about achieving results, restrict the dog’s treats or special toys to these training sessions.
Be clear in your own mind what you expect from the dog. Be specific, and be confident. Rather than “My dog is out of control” think “I want my dog to walk calmly on leash” or “my dog should sit to greet strangers.” Clarity of expectation will aid clarity of communication. Reinforcing the behavior – “paying” your dog -- will cement the cause and effect in your dog’s mind. Dog walks calmly, or sits patiently, dog gets treat or other reward. Good behavior is repeated because the dog wants the paycheck. Consistent application of this principle and association of a command word, with repetition produces a mannerly dog that responds promptly and consistently.

Let's Really Talk

2009-11-05T00:12:00.000-08:00

Adesdum. If I said that in a crowd of people, some might recognize it as Latin for “come here” but most would pass by without a clue. If I were in Latvia and spoke in English, I wouldn’t expect many to understand my native tongue. But in either situation, if I were to make eye contact and motion towards myself with my arm, at least some people would comply by approaching me. The words themselves have no inherent meaning. Meaning is ascribed after contextual clues cement the connection between the sound (word) and the object or action.

The key to training our dogs is to help them make that connection by establishing two-way communication. I’m always confounded by how many people think dogs should understand us without having been taught the meaning of the words. Dogs are remarkable students – they notice everything. It’s astounding what they learn, as much in spite of us as because of us. If we say “sit… sit… SIT!” before wrestling the dog into some semblance of that position, the dog, understandably, thinks the procedure is to listen to “sit… sit… SIT!” just prior to being strangled and shoved. No fun for either of you. Why not teach it that a single word, “Sit,” means put your butt on the ground?

One of the biggest impediments to clear communication with our canine companions is anthropomorphism - the projection of human characteristics onto our dogs. Accept that this creature you love is not a fur-person. Dogs are wondrous, beguiling, bewildering Others whose companionship we often take for granted, but whose wolfish DNA co-evolved alongside us, enabling them to understand our gestures, facial expressions, moods, voice tone. They occupy a separate world, overlapping our own but with rules, motivations, and goals that differ from ours. Find what motivates your dog, and you hold the key to a dog that will do back-flips (literally) to please you.

Remarkable things can happen if an owner is equipped with some basic understanding. A handful of key concepts can improve any human/dog relationship with minimal effort; regardless of breed or age, most dogs can be obedient & trustworthy canine citizens.

Know what you mean, say what you mean, mean what you say

2009-11-02T20:06:00.000-08:00

“It’s me, I know it is.” I hear this lament frequently during private lessons, and I always smile and nod. Yes, problems with dog training invariably result from owner miscues, poor timing, and inattentiveness. But if this is you, you’ve got plenty of company. Good dog trainers aren’t born, they’re developed - like great scientists or artists or business execs, they’ve spent countless hours engrossed in their subject.

If you know what you want from your dog, you’ll get it. Success is as much about attitude as it is about technique, although flaws in either will sully the outcome. Communicating with your dog is so crucial to achieving any training goal that it bears repeating (and repeating). Grossly oversimplified, if you know what you expect from your dog, your dog will know it. No, it’s not a matter of aiming intense mental “vibes” towards your dog, or creating a “happy environment” so he’ll “want to" please you. It’s a matter of knowing what you expect, and being a leader. Dogs discern hierarchy, and if you don’t occupy the top tier, your dog will know and will behave accordingly. When a person tells me they’re not afraid of my dogs but my dogs tell me otherwise, I believe the dogs. Dogs don’t lie. People do, and they can fool themselves into believing their circumlocutions are truth.

My students usually don’t realize they’re deceiving themselves. When Student A comes for a lesson with Zeus, her love for him is obvious. His disrespect for her is even more obvious. He’s seven months old, puffed up with his own high opinion of himself which his adoring family’s doting attention reinforces, and exacerbated by lack of clear boundaries. When he behaves rudely (every two minutes or so) Student A engages in a conversation with him (“Mommy’s gonna hafta get after you, you bold boy you. Why won’t you listen to Mommy?”), which he attends to not at all unless she waves a cookie, at which point he treats her like a vending machine. She thinks she wants an attentive, compliant dog, but her body language and behavior says otherwise; so, Zeus gives her what she asks of him, which is a spoiled child-surrogate.

What we want and what we think we want are often vastly different. We want our dogs to know what they should do when we really haven’t decided for ourselves what a “good dog” acts like.

When Student B's dog Kitty jumped up on me, I asked if she’s allowed; Student B said, “Well, sometimes.” Sometimes doesn’t cut it for dogs. If you allow it, fine. If you don’t, don’t. Not once, not sometimes. Clarity, consistency, correction, praise - the vocabulary of training.

Little Things

2009-10-29T20:59:00.000-07:00

I love this photo taken by my daughter, Jess. Like a movie that is appreciated at greater depth with each viewing, I find myself revisiting this depiction of a Bullmastiff studiously sniffing something too small to see in the photo. Very likely the dog is engrossed in a blade of grass bearing a few molecules, but that scent signature conveys an entire story to the dog; she may know that a grouse and her brood fled from this spot in a panic when a red fox sprang upon them last night. She knows the grouse was old, she knows the fox was a malnourished male. She knows this, processes the information, and were it anything relevant to her own interests she would be prepared to act accordingly.

Sometimes we humans seem to spend considerable amounts of energy ignoring the things that are under our own noses. Why? To conform. To avoid confrontation. To make nice. To maintain our own illusions. So, unlike the dog, we are not prepared to act according to our own interests. And then we engage in elaborate personal hoaxes to perpetuate the myth that we are, that we really did, do, want things the way they are. That we're content. We're satisfied. We're happy, dammit!

We're really, really good at charades. Dogs are generally perceived as being guileless. While by comparison to us they may be relatively so, I'm not convinced it's absolutely the case. Yesterday I noted they engage in quite a lot of manipulation. Whether that implies the conscious will required to qualify as guile, I'm not sure.

On the topic of yesterday's blog, someone commented (privately) that when a person owns one or two dogs, they get to know those dogs intimately, while my life with multitudes has enabled me to know the breed. Yes, and no. I agree that with one or two dogs you become incredibly bonded and close. But I'm not sure I'd call that intimacy (with the implication of knowing all the intricacies of their personality) because it's far too easy to contaminate our perception of our beloved companions (human and animal) with what we believe we see. What we want, wish, or need to see. Among other things, having so many dogs has taught me that I never really knew those dogs that I was so in love with back when I had only two or three at a time. Kind of like falling in love with another human being and being swept along by an intensity of feeling for years, only to be startled one day by an action or behavior that leaves us wondering who this stranger is, our adoration of our canine companion blinds one to the truth of the other's Otherness...we're as much or more in love with a projection of a love-object as we are with the real thing. So it is with our in-love-ness with dogs. We become blinded to the bigger picture.

Seeing dogs interact with other dogs as opposed to with people, day in and day out, opened my awareness to the subtleties of their communications. They are less polite, more direct, with each other...or maybe it just seems so because messages are immediately comprehended by other dogs, while a dog has to work harder to get their point across to people. But eventually I came to appreciate their individual motivations, fears, interests, preferences, etc. by observing what they "say" to each other as they form friendships and feuds, partnerships and gangs, as they work out their places in the pack or ascend to pack leadership positions.

With those new insights I began to re-evaluate my understanding of their communications with me. I'm not sure yet what, exactly, that means for my relationship with dogs. I'm still sorting it out. I think that's part of my own interest in doing this blog...I want to know what I've learned, and I have to get it worked out in words. Right now the understanding is more or less gut level, a dog's way of thinking, and I have to work a bit at translating it into English ;-)

Can We Talk?

2009-10-28T19:52:00.000-07:00

"I always dreamed of doing what you do." I hear it fairly frequently; someone contacts me about puppies, emails back and forth and maybe comes for a visit. They imagine an idealized world surrounded by warm, cuddly puppies and devoted, noble shepherds. Of course I *am* surrounded by more dogs at any given time than most people would own in a lifetime. Than most people's family, friends, and acquaintances would own in a lifetime! What they don't see is... well, everything else. They don't think of the hours of poop-scooping, exercising, training. They don't imagine having no days off, of working round the clock. They don't think of sleepless nights helping bring pups into the world, or the medical emergencies that arise. They block the thought of the inevitable and reoccurring losses, and don't realize the hard decisions that go with adhering to a high standard for breeding.

But they also can't appreciate what opportunities are inherent in this life. In an earlier blog I referred to the fact that our dogs learn with every interaction, usually without our intent. It's not a one-way street. Most people are blissfully unaware of being manipulated, "trained" if you will, by their dogs. A soft nose nudges their elbow, they pet the dog's head. Intent brown eyes stare forlornly, or a particularly expressive sigh carries across the room, and as if pulled by marionette strings, the owner grabs the leash for a walk.

But what if you understood what was happening and declined to be pushed. What if you pushed back? What if, at all moments of interaction, you were as aware of your dog's thoughts and intent as he is of yours, and you were the one in the driver's seat?

Living with so many dogs has enabled me to occupy that seat by virtue of having learned their language. It's sort of like the total immersion language programs that are offered to college kids, you pack up and move to the country that speaks the language you hope to master, and being surrounded by that culture and that language 24/7, you pick it up faster than reading books or listening to tapes. So it is for me. Days and weeks and years of watching not just one, or even a half dozen, but literally dozens of dogs interact with each other and with me, with strangers and strange situations, has given me a fair degree of fluency in "dog speak."

So when someone asks me "how do I get my dog to____________" I find myself wanting to somehow transmit the entirety of my "dog speak" knowledge so they can read the dog, but equally essential so their messages to the dog will carry the meaning they intend. Most of the time, dogs learn in spite of us rather than because of us, and that's to the dogs' credit...they are better "mind readers" than we are.

Breath

2009-10-25T22:28:00.001-07:00

Saturday the wind careened in, exultant and sultry as if loosed from the chambers of some secret mistress. The thunderous wrath of her jilted husband that rumbled unexpectedly in the late afternoon finally spooked the wind on to points east. Like grief reaching a crescendo, the rain increased in intensity for the next hour until it settled into gentle, cleansing sheets.

I am often referred to as the Weather Goddess, by those who hike with me, because of my knack for getting us out of the woods (literally) without a drop of rain hitting us. The rains may close in just as the car door shuts, or we may walk all day with visibly threatening storms all around, but somehow we don't generally get wet. Saturday I must have wanted a good soaking. It was Rio's turn to join me, a privilege she quickly had reason to regret, though, being a good dog, she did not take out on me. We had a lovely mile and a half, just enough to get a good cadence going, before the aforementioned thunder cracked the skies wide open. It may have been "smarter" to turn around, but Rio and I felt no ambivalence about going the distance (she was attached to a leash – it’s possible I misinterpret her degree of enthusiasm).

Walking in the rain, in the fall, the sensory experience is transformative. Looking through a window onto such a scene, the words “dreary” or “dismal” or even “depressing” spring to mind. But out in it, it’s enlivening. The moisture commingles the elements into a spicy broth that nourishes the soul. Four miles down a dirt lane, alongside a brook that tumbled crazily, it required a conscious effort to think of adjectives like wet, dry, cold, warm, comfort, misery. And no amount of effort could determine whether any of those applied to me. There was no relative experience, there was only this experience, this moment when I breathed fish.

Fish. Originating in the creek beside me? A pond hidden from view but revealed by a puff of breeze? Or further? Winds had driven this rain from afar, from rivers and ponds and lakes and oceans. From mountain glens and glaciers. From breath, and death. This rain, this drenching exhalate, had been camel, had been albatross, had been earthworm, had been, apparently most recently, fish. And now, it was me.

Instincts and behavior

2009-10-23T01:17:00.000-07:00

Someone recently asked me how to get a Rat Terrier to actually "rat", meaning to chase, capture, and kill their namesake rodent. I'm full of opinions...not necessarily based on personal experience with ratting but from working with the hunting instinct of other breeds.

Two observations...one, my barn was infested with rats last winter and I very smugly ensconced two of my highest-drive ratties there, thinking "HA! foiled you, rattus Norvegicus!" And for a week or so it did seem to work. I never found any bodies, but the rats themselves had vacated. Not for long, however. The signs were unmistakable...they were back, but had simply moved up to run along rafters and ledges that the dogs couldn't reach. And, very successfully, they still snuck into food bins from above...rats can climb quite well. Dogs can't. Strike one, Canis Domesticus. So for the remainder of the winter, the rats proliferated above a height of around six feet (my huntress Tuuliki can leap that high!), the dogs kept the floor of the barn nicely free of rats until the unfortunate day I accidentally left the door to the loft adjar and the dogs took out their frustrations (I think the rats taunted them from on high) on my chickens. My flock of fourteen roosters was reduced to four that day. The dogs moved back to the house, and I put out poison. Second observation: if you really don't want rats in your barn, don't keep chickens AND consign yourself to the grim necessity of poisons.

So much for personal experience. Now, truly, I think you could easily train ratties to rat. We do it with the Shepherds...no, not to catch rats, but to channel their hunting (prey) instincts into goals we have for them; who would think you'd need to teach a dog to bite? But, for schutzhund, that's precisely what we do. We start with youngsters, eight weeks or even younger, and we play with them in structured ways that channel their natural instincts to chase and bite into choreographed behaviors that ultimately end up with the incredible feats you see Police dogs do. Same for ratties...the local terrier people have competitions for "Earth Dogs" and they train their dogs for it...they buy rats, dig artificial "burrows" and teach the dogs to chase and corner the rats. I haven't done it, but I know the basic principle is the same as teaching my shepherds to bite the bad guy...start young, enhance existing instincts, channel the drive towards your goal, reward with a "taste" of the prey; in the shepherds case that's the guy's sleeve, for a rattie it might be, well, some of the trainers I've talked to go through a lot of rats! :))

Zen musings on October

2009-10-21T00:07:00.000-07:00

So it's after 4:00 AM, and as is becoming the norm, I'm just finished with final chores. Yes, final, as in yesterday's. I'm no early bird, but I've lately come to realize that I may as well say I start my day at 3 or 4 and then take a nap - that's what it amounts to, really - before I start my next round. I made a nice big pot of fresh-cooked chicken that delighted my furred friends; their eyes still hold the glow of the kill-frenzy that real meat evokes. Soon they'll be curled up, twitching and whining as they imagine they chased, caught, and killed the chicken that imbues their dreams.

I was told tonight would hold a meteor shower. I gave the sky a good perusal, but saw none; my neck won't tolerate much craning these days. But any excuse to linger was welcome. October has an indescribable element of shadow to it; bright, brisk days that prod my horse to behave unpredictably on rides, a teasing wind that keys the dogs to the edge of insanity at the merest whiff of deer, evenings alive with incipient...something. I'm drawn out, out to the woods, the fields, my legs never seeming to cover enough ground to satisfy that sense of needing to seek out, gather in, roam...I feel it, the horses and dogs feel it. What is the "it" that we feel? Who is the "it" who wonders what "it" is?

Training v guiding v teaching v modeling

2009-10-19T20:21:00.000-07:00

or how do we really train our dogs, anyway? Most people forget, or never knew, that every single moment we are in our dog's presence, he is learning. We had better be sure he's learning what we want him to, because lessons learned are hard to un-learn. It's nigh-on to impossible to say to your dog, "Dog, you will forget you just nudged me and got me to drop my steak so you could eat it" because regardless of whatever disapproving epithets you hurl his way, he did, afterall, get to taste something divine.

Even without something as motivating as a steak, dogs are masterful at manipulating situations to their liking. The poodle has me trained to hold the blanket up to allow him underneath when I sit down on the couch. Stano woofs insistently at the door and knows that while he might, once in awhile, get an angry Beth hollering "Be Quiet!" most of the time he can count on me dutifully letting him in or out, as the case may be.

So I call myself a dog trainer?

Yeah, actually, because I don't kid myself about what's happening. I know I'm being cued by my dogs at least as often as they're being cued by me. It's a constant choreography of signals and responses. I am aware of it, and I monitor for those moments when I must negate the dog's wish or steer its behavior. And because the dog is monitoring me for my response to his cues, the signal I reflect back is almost as subtle as simply having a clear visualization of my expectation. Because clarity is, afterall, the path upon which our intentions either glide or stick; reaching our goals or falling short; having a trained dog, or being a trained dog owner :))

Frost on the Watermelon

2009-10-19T07:37:00.000-07:00

Doing final chores last night (well, in the wee hours of this morning) the slick, treacherous footing as I made my way across leaf-strewn grass let me know I'd find a hard frost come dawn. No surprise, then, to awake to be-jeweled glittering on my lawn, roof, and garden.

Oh, dear - the garden. I never did pick all the last watermelons. Frozen treats, anyone? Now I have to pull all that dead vegetation so I can roto-till, augmenting the soil with the roosters' and horses' contributions to next year's crops.

After several days of snow, slush, rain, and generally frigid conditions, Sunday evening's tentative breakthrough of sunlight is today's brilliant autumn day. Which means....too many necessities crowding out most of the more desirable options. The grass needs one last (?) going-over, which is always a two-day operation given all the paddocks and pastures. The dogs (all of them) need training and road work. Pasadena actually looks forward to being ridden now, and the opportunities are drawing to a close. And the garden, well, one final push and it can rest for a few months.

Dog show this weekend. First of the year...I had given myself and the dogs a hiatus this year, after finishing two Champions here in the U.S. and five in Germany. Haven't prepped for it...this could be another of those times I "ring train" with a couple of laps around the ring before the judge calls us in! Just the boys this time around...Ieuan, Vauxhall, and Quasar. Wish the youngsters could just watch Vaux do his thing, learn the ropes, and go out there looking like pros. If only!

Sunday - Canceled trail ride equals found time for hiking

2009-10-18T21:54:00.000-07:00

Hiking with dogs in the fall, can't beat that. Well, yeah, you can hike with your daughter and the dogs on a challenging climb up to dizzying views of the Delaware Water Gap on a day when the sky bears the moodiness of yesterday's snows and the glory of tomorrow's sun.

Jess's little rat terrier, Anubis, amazes with his gravity-defying vertical leaps up boulders and sheer ascents that proportionately must be equivalent to two-story buildings. Anubis weighs perhaps eight pounds, and wears a fluffy aquamarine sweater (his own hair is probably not even 1/8" long) that makes his athletic prowess all the more incongruous. As my young shepherd, Ieuan, puzzles over the best route through jumbled boulders, and as Jess and I lag further behind both dogs, trying not to twist an ankle, little Anubis's silly appearance fades as the reality of his hardiness becomes undeniable. He's kicking our butts.

Last time we hiked the Water Gap we did the usual AT up, looping over the ridge below Sunfish Pond and back down the green trail as it follows along a carefree creek. Today we took the Taminy Trail, a more challenging climb but not a great distance-- combining it with the blue trail back down to the same creek, plus an exploratory venture on along the ridgeline, I'd guesstimate we did perhaps five miles tops. Several stupendous overlooks gave us opportunity to watch the Delaware River disappear to a silver ribbon below. Ieuan, not an experienced hiker, didn't know how to pace himself, but finally realized that Nubi seemed to know what he was doing and began tailing him. He soon learned to take advantage of the humans' tendency to pull a boxy machine out of a bag and stop to look through it (click, click, aww, that's a great shot!) by flopping down to pant and rest. Always ready for action, he'd pop up the instant the lens cap went back on.

You never sleep

2009-10-17T21:24:00.000-07:00

One final, longing look back over the shoulder towards summer. Huddling by a space heater, I really have to fantasize to remember the warmth of the sun.

It's half-past midnight. Haven't started final kennel chores. Have just succumbed to the insistence of friends that I need a blog. That others need me to blog. Like the world needs another opinionated wretch pouring over the keyboard in search of a niche audience. Not convinced, but taking the plunge.

Guess I just contradicted myself.

What can I offer you? I hope this can evolve into a place for those whose interests in animals borders on the obsessive. For those who don't just want to train their dogs, but want to understand them, to learn to read them as one learns gradually to comprehend a foreign language. There is plenty of written material available if you need the technical side of training, but that's not the focus of this venue. Sure, I'll answer questions of how to get a dog to do something specific, I've always got an opinion. If you've got an issue that's bugging you with your dog, we can discuss it privately if you want a more in-depth analysis and problem-solving plan.

But I'm not limiting things. Topics will be wide-ranging. Photos will be willy-nilly. This is for the dogs, truly!