The First Victories

Today I spent about 40 minutes at the humane society. I walked a new dog for about 30 minutes, then sat with Rufous, an Australian Cattle Dog puppy, for about 10 minutes.

The new dog had just been surrendered on Saturday, and had been quite confused then. He—his name's Skylar—is a beautiful young border collie. He's about a year old, and very sweet-tempered. He's a touch submissive, a little shy, but very affectionate.

His humans surrendered him on Saturday because their landlord had changed the terms of their lease. He switched the entire apartment complex from allowing pets to not. I saw the couple drop Skylar off. They were young, maybe 20-21, and didn't look like they had much money. They definitely didn't have enough to move to another place, so Skylar get given away.

When they left, he was put in one of the cages, and he got very confused and lonely. He was stretching his paws through the chain line door at anyone who came by.

He hunkered down when I put the harness and leash on him, but was very obedient. In fact, he was so malleable that when I gave him slight corrections (pulling him out of traffic), he sat down. He wanted to please, and was kind of scared.
So we walked and we ran and we walked, and by the end of it he was smiling and wagging his tail. It sprinkled while we walked, and I had to towel him off. He cuddled up against me and licked my chin.
Then, when I played with Rufous, Skylar got sort of jealous. He made the first sounds I've heard, tiny little barks, and did a lot of head cocking. When Rufous and I played tug of war, Skylar went and got his toys…which had been sitting unused in the corner. He played with them and tossed them in the air, sort of saying, hey, if you're going to play, I'm here, I'm ready, pick me, pick me.

Skylar was a lesson in the dog bond. He looked so confused and punished when his people left him, like he was trying to figure out what he did wrong. Today, it was like he bonded to me in 30 minutes of attention. He's a dog with a bruised soul.
But…Rufous got adopted! My little buddy's going home.

Yeah!

Greg

The Shed

One of the disorienting lessons from Saturday was about the shed, or as I've started thinking about, The Shed.

The Whatcom Humane Society is out by the airport. It's on a road with light industrial businesses and other odds and ends like the National Guard's station. The building is basic cinder block industrial, and there's a chain link fence around it. Nothing that impressive. I had assumed the shed just inside the gate was storage, and had sort of edited from my mind.

It is storage, but not the kind I thought. It's an after hours pet drop off area, one that can only be accessed from the deposit side, and only once. It isn't just inside the fence; it breaches the fence, so one side of it is on the outside of the fence and one side on the inside.

The good thing about this is, people can drop off lost or stray animals at all hours of the day and night, without worrying about filling out forms. Once the animals have been placed in the metal containers, the doors can't be opened from The bad thing is, it means animals might be put in dark metal boxes at just after the society closes, say, 6:15 PM, and not be taken out again until 8 AM. Is it just me being overly sympathetic to be worried about this? I hear the yips and feel the shivers in my mind.

Greg

Learning to Walk a Dog

So, yesterday I went to the Humane Society for my next training. This one was How to Walk a Dog. It was equal parts very interesting/fascinating and kind of basic.
The basic stuff was things like sign in here, park here, wear this name tag, etc. All important, but all fairly mundane.The interesting to fascinating stuff related to the dogs and the dog/human interaction. For example, while we were standing outside talking someone came in with a big bulldog in the back of a pickup truck. I said hi, and it gave me that big gargoyle grin that bulldogs get: ugly friendly, like a cartoon.
Later, when we were inside, someone came into a room we were being shown and the dog…walked? in after. Limped in? Slid in? She recognized me and tried to get to me, to lick my hand. Her human said, "Careful, she's got blood on her chin." "Oh, what happened?""She got hit."And the person caring for the dog went back to cleaning her up, while the dog struggled to stand on legs that couldn't support her, all so she could get petted. Ye gods.

I walked Gladys, who was officially the smallest dog I've ever touched. Well under ten pounds, the size a cat could slaughter without problem. I've seen squirrels bigger. In her kennel she was yipping a very high pitched yipe yipe yich! It was literally painful—my ears hurt for about 20 minutes afterwards. Outside, though, she was ready to cover some ground. We ran, then walked, and she was ready to investigate. Friendly, moderately smart, and completely unconcerned with weighing about as much as a sandwich.

She's getting adopted.

Greg

Sadness and Learning

Since we lost Oz, Kathy and I have been haunting dog venues. We aren't ready to adopt yet for a number of reasons both practical (we want to take a trip, we aren't sure where Kathy's going to school, etc.) and emotional (mourning). However, we've become regular visitors to the humane societies' sites (local, local alternative, the next county over, etc.), and regular viewers of their shows.

I hadn't known that the local humane societies did broadcasts on public television of dogs available for adoption, but it is a strange blend of treat and torment.


Learning is an odd thing. I've mentioned my stunned disdain for people who give up dogs because they grow up, etc., so I'll leave that for now…but to learn that certain dog types are less adoptable is hard. Black dogs, apparently, aren't adopted as often. This means that when we see a black dog who looks sad (like Amos on the Pierce County Humane Society broadcast), it feels like a glimpse at death row. No! Don't look down or shy! People won't adopt you, and that might mean people run out of room and have to kill you.
Smile or die, doggies. Smile or die.

Wow.
Greg

The Next Steps

So, on Tuesday I went to the orientation for the Humane Society volunteers. It was fun, interesting, and sad. The fun came from meeting these people who live for animals and those who were volunteering. The interesting parts came from learning just how much the Humane Society does (who knew?). The sad came from learning just how much the Humane Society has to do. Dear god, they have to rescue animals? And they have how many people dumping how many animals for what stupid reasons?
I'd gotten a hint of this before, since Kathy and I are now semi-addicted to the animal adoption stories on local cable, but it's still…yeah. A beautiful and loving dog, surrendered because…it grew up and isn't a puppy anymore? Are you freakin' kidding me?

No, apparently they aren't.
In any case, there were roughly 20 volunteers there: about 16 women and 4 guys. That ratio is apparently standard; the organizers were overjoyed to see any men, and especially to see those with facial hair. See, some of the dogs have been abused by men, and they need male volunteers to show them that not all guys are abusers. To be nice to them.
Good lord. I suspect I'm going to be crying a lot from my time there.

My next training is on Saturday. They're going to show me how they want the dogs walked. Greg

The Test

So, last week I turned in an application to volunteer at the Whatcom Humane Society. I'm applying to be a dog walker, though the position is technically called a TLC volunteer.

I'd never been to the humane society before, or, indeed, to any shelter. I was afraid that I'd see a bunch of scared and shivering dogs, animals that been abused and neglected. What I found was somewhat more baffling.

The building was pretty basic, and a bit smaller than I expected. It was clean, but not impressive. I dropped my application at the front desk, then asked if I could visit the dogs. They said sure, so I went in.

There were about eight dogs there, and, though one was kind of sad/shy, the rest were doing a kind of audition. They were friendly and perky, and pushed up to the front of their cages. Some immediately sat, to show how well trained they were. Some—a pair of smooth coat collies—had more slender snouts, and they stuck their noses out of the cages to lick the air in greeting.

They were vibrating in welcome. I petted one or two, then skipped out to visit the cats. They were more standoffish, but a couple of them were crazy friendly: rolling and rubbing, purring, etc. I petted one's paws, and he reached out and petted my finger with his paws. Run away!

I stopped at the front desk to ask a few details about volunteering, such as how long I was allowed to take the dogs out for a walk. One woman said, "Well, we close at 6 PM, so you've got to have them back by then. Before that, though, you can take them as long as you want—all day."It's like a dog buffet. I had to run before I adopted them all. All seemed nice, friendly, and ready as hell to get out of their kennels.

Greg

Dog Friend

I keep letting more time go between writing and posting here. It's odd, and once again, sad. When Oz was alive, there would have been, could have been updates several times a day, because we were always doing things. Now, time drifts.

In any case, in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, there was a character who was named "Elf-friend" (or elf friend). The tag came from special service to the elves, and from being friend beyond his race's norm.

Given how many people serve dogs so well, I'm hardly a standout, but I do sometimes feel like a dog friend—like there's some special tag on me, since Oz. When I was in Seattle on Saturday, no strange people (except wait staff) came up to me…but one strange dog did. The same was true in downtown Bellingham.

I'm also moving more towards being engaged in other ways with dogs. I called the humane society about volunteering, looking specifically to walk and socialize dogs. Last night, after a bit of more planned TV, Kathy found a program more or less by accident about the humane society of Houston rescuing animals after a hurricane. A few years ago, I would never have watched something like this. Last night, I still could have passed on it—but once it was on, I found myself deeply moved by the plight of the animals, and by the people who were lining up to help them.
As one example: foster homes were needed for 600 animals for 10 days, so their owners had time to find them all. There were lines of people, ready to take in strange animals for so long/brief a time, after a few moments of meeting!

On the flip side, some people had abandoned their animals, even though the city had provided free crates for transportation. They left tiny dogs in closed buildings and bolted the city. My vision blurred with anger hearing this. Jesus!

Everybody's got a Marley

Ads for Marley and Me show up once in a while. They're fun, and the things Marley does look funny. However, except for the bit about driving the car slowly so he can walk his front paws on the pavement, I have to assume that any person with an active dog is going to have seen his or her dog do something just as charming and funky.

I mentioned this to Kathy, then was reminded of the time Oz and I had walked up Cedar Hills and Thad came biking back around the corner with Lilly. Oz was super happy to see her, and she was happy to see Oz, but Lilly was overheated from the run, and literally frothing at the mouth. Oz tried to play, and Lilly did a little, but only till Thad put some water out for her. Then she flopped down to drink—laying on her side, with her tongue lapping downward into the water. Oz mirrored her, so all of a sudden, there were two dogs on their sides, drinking sideways from a shallow trough of water.

Of course, come to think of it, half the strange/silly stuff Oz did, or more, I was in on. From trying to lick a snarling dog to being buzzed by an owl, we did them together.

Once More to the Lake

Yesterday was New Year's Day. I like to have a little time alone outside on New Year's, so I went to the lake. It was, like many things, bittersweet.

Oz and I went to the lake many times. We went the first day we moved in to this new house, to explore the route and let her have a treat/reward for being so good during the move. It seemed impossibly far away then, because we didn't know the route. The one side of the road is all scrub woods, and at that point, there's a fair curve in Lakeway, which means cars become visible pretty quickly, seeming to zip towards us.

Oz hadn't known we had a destination, of course. She was simply happy to be walking. Then we went on and on…a very long time, which in real minutes was about 12. We got to where I started to see gaps in the trees, and then the mouth of the trail, and then the trail itself. Oz, being scent-driven rather than vision-driven, wasn't as focused. She just kept ambling…until we got on the trails, and got to the point where it forked and we could go toward the water.

That section was longer once again, who knows how long? (90 seconds of twists and turns, in real minutes.) Then we were at the water, and it was good. She was jumping up and down, and looking back and forth from me to the water, etc.

That was the first time. Last year, we went to the lake together on New Year's Day. The lack was frozen near the edges, frozen solid enough to walk on in some places. We did, hesitantly, and Oz left little paw scratches across a stretch of it.

Yesterday, I stood alone on a beach that had been reshaped by the winter storms, as it had been last year. I didn't have to wade. I didn't have to splash. I could stay warm and dry. And sad.

Greg

A Furry Heart

Kathy had run across a show called Dogtown, in which cameramen from the National Geographic channel follow the attempts of a dedicated pet rehab facility in Utah to help every dog they can. Individual episodes have ranged from shocking (the attempt to rehabilitate Michael Vick's pit pulls) to heart breaking (the dog whose leg was so mangled in a car wreck that he was chewing off toes from the pain, apparently).

Each episode, though, reminds us how blessed we were with Oz. The anxious dog who is scared even when she walks over different textures? That reminded me of how Oz liked walking on the bridge in Whatcom Falls park, apparently just because it felt different (and for the view). The dog who liked adults, but got kind of frightened by babies? That reminded us of Oz licking baby toes, gently, gently. The dogs who got violent or protective when someone tried to take their food? That reminded both of us of how easygoing Oz was in this area. We could interrupt a meal, move her plate, take things off of the dish, etc., and the most she might do is follow us and look at us with a question in her eyes. Hey, what's going on? But no violence, no aggression, etc.
Some of this was having a privileged upbringing. Oz never had to doubt that she was accepted, never had to fight for food, etc. But there are dogs who have that who get mean, protective, or scared. Oz was simply a good dog—a gift dog.

With Tug coming to visit and getting the run of the house, I had another "Would Ozma be jealous?" fear. Whenever those come, the answer always follows immediately. I feel her cuddled near my heart, between my arms as she liked to lay on the bed, and a gentle lick under my chin. Don't be daft, she says. You'll never forget me, and Tug was always welcome. Is always welcome. Do I wish I could be there to play with him? Sure. But I'll always share.
And she always would.

Greg