Dog Lived (and So Will I)

by Rhyne, Teresa J.

  I knew what I had to do. Because the dog had not yet cost me my entire life savings, I hired a dog trainer for help. And not just any trainer. Oh no. One who had been trained by one who’d been trained by none other than Cesar Milan. The Dog Whisperer himself, twice removed.

  The moment Nicole walked into the house, Seamus knew there was a problem. Normally he happily howls, run toward the visitor, jumps up (bad, bad dog), and sniffs around waiting to be petted or to rifle through the visitor’s purse. When Nicole walked in the house, Seamus stopped, backed up, and returned to his bed in the corner of the living room. The one with the pile of toys and several blankets. He glared at her from the safety of his turf.

  Nicole and I sat down on the couch.

  “So, is this how Seamus lives?”

  I looked around the room. He had a comfortable bed, a pile of toys, and another bed in the laundry room (a mere twenty feet from the other bed). There was a canister of treats on one counter, a collection of pill bottles on another, and there was a baby (read: beagle) lock on the kitchen cupboard below the sink, where the trash can was. I was sure I didn’t like where this was going.

  “Yes. Pretty much. Well, he’s been sick. Remember, I mentioned he has or…well…he had…cancer? He’s in chemo right now? So, um. Well, yeah. This is how we live.”

  “And these blankets?” She patted the blankets on the couch—two of them, folded up to be the size of, for example, a beagle. “Does Seamus come up on the couch with you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When he wants to?”

  Um, yes. Those times.

  Seamus also could see where this was going. So just to embarrass me further or to have his say, or both, he joined us on the couch and snuggled in next to me, paw thrown across my leg.

  “See that?” Nicole said, pointing to the paw on my leg.

  “Yes. He does that all the time. Most of my other beagles never cuddled like Seamus,” I said, beaming. My dog is absolutely the cutest. She surely could see that. He’d melt that icy exterior of hers.

  “That’s a claim. He’s claiming you as part of his pack. He’s the boss here, and he’s letting you know that.”

  It’s not cute??!!!

  She went on to explain some pack leader/follower thing and something about my lack of leadership skills, while I rubbed Seamus’s belly, cooed at him, and was generally dismayed that Nicole could overlook how totally adorable Seamus was. It’s a good thing I didn’t have children.

  Nicole made it clear she was training me, not the dog (and Seamus and I both balked at the concept that he was merely a dog). First, she ordered me to remove all comforts I had been providing Seamus except one bed. Apparently four beds and two couches in one small townhome was more than any dog needed. The theory was that I had allowed Seamus the run of the house, and it was time to make him earn his rewards. No toys, no time on the couch, no human food, no jumping on my bed, only one dog bed, and worst of all, no petting until he had done something that deserved a reward or occasionally when I felt like it, but only at my own instigation and only very occasionally. Seamus had a lot to learn. And, she seemed intent on telling me, so did I.

  “But he had cancer. Cancer! And he’s still in treatment. He’s on chemo. Even right now.”

  “Yes, and if he had only that year to live, I’d probably agree with you. Spoil away. But, he likely has another ten years or so, and this behavior cannot continue.”

  Seamus skulked off to a corner. I briefly considered moving to the country, but I live in a townhome for a reason. (Or several, namely I’m not big on yard work, housekeeping, maintenance, and dark, scary places with no neighbors. Also, I need a Starbucks nearby at all times.) This training regime looked like it might prove more deadly than the cancer.

  Other than turning my home into what appeared to Seamus and I both to be Guantanamo Doggie Bay, our training consisted of a lot of exercises that involved rewarding Seamus with treats when he did what I was instructing him to do—sit, stay, come, follow me without straining on the leash. And walking. A lot of walking.

  I was to walk Seamus for at least an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening, and at all times I was to have complete control of the dog—he was not to be sniffing, pulling, howling, smelling, “marking” territory, or in any way…well, enjoying the walk. Or that’s how it seemed to us. I was not getting any enjoyment out of the walks either. I was nowhere near an hour in the morning (let’s call it twenty minutes) and only getting about a half hour in the evening. But it felt like more. A walk spent tugging, barking commands, and battling for control was no fun for Seamus or me (and we took turns doing each of those things).

  This wasn’t supposed to be fun, Nicole assured me. The fun would come later. This was the exercise and discipline parts. The parts that had been missing from Seamus’s life and the reason he was terrorizing my neighbors.

  I did pretty well, for me, getting up and walking Seamus each morning. My townhouse was about one-third of the way up a very steep hill. I walked Seamus to the top and then stood trying to catch my breath and breaking the rules by letting Seamus sniff and enjoy the grass in the small park at the top of the hill. Then we followed the road up and around, circling the tree and boulders several times, which I told myself amounted to a real walk without having to leave the safety of my townhouse complex. Plus, if I dropped dead from cardiac arrest, someone would see me, and Seamus could easily find his way back home.

  I told myself that Seamus was in chemo and didn’t have much energy and thus the twenty-minute morning walks should be fine. But after about the tenth time we arrived home and Seamus ran howling and racing through the house, stopping at my feet to howl and herd me toward his empty bowl, I had to be a bit more honest with myself. He was having no trouble with this chemo. The steroids seemed to be the only pills affecting him, as he was now a solid thirty-seven pounds with the usual voracious beagle appetite.

  Nicole’s suggestion was a backpack. Luckily, she meant for Seamus. I bought a cute little dark green “Outward Hound” backpack and, as instructed, put a full twelve-ounce water bottle in each side pocket. This added three pounds to Seamus and was supposed to make him work harder and burn extra energy. And of course, I was supposed to increase that walk to at least a half hour. At least.

  On weekends, Chris took Seamus for serious hour-long walks up and down hills throughout our neighborhood. It was a testament to my leadership that when Chris reached for the backpack, Seamus ran to hide behind my legs.

  I worked up to a half hour in the morning and about the same in the evenings. Eventually, over a few months, I also lost ten pounds so I felt I must have been doing something right.

  I wasn’t.

  The neighbor complaints continued to roll in. If Chris and I went to dinner or a movie or ran an errand, however short, I was constantly checking my cell phone to see if the neighbors had called. I dreaded coming back home. As I approached my garage I’d slow up the car, roll down my windows, and listen for the inevitable howling. If I didn’t hear it, I could breathe again, but then as soon as the garage door opener was pressed, the frantic howling would begin and I’d know Seamus was at the gate. I’d race out of the car and into the house, hurrying Seamus inside. Next I’d check the answering machine—if the light was flashing, I knew the neighbors had called. I called them back; I left notes; I emailed them. I implored them: I’m working on it, I swear. I’ve hired a trainer. We’re trying everything. But for the love of god people, call me on my cell phone so I can come home and stop the dog! I can’t do anything about it if I don’t know it’s happening. And if he’s howling, it’s because I’m not at home. You see how leaving a message on my home phone does not help?? But, I was learning, my neighbors are of a generation that doesn’t use cell phones. And my dog was driving them more in the direction of pitchforks.

  The answering machine message light conti
nued to flash.

  I phoned Nicole desperate for more help. Nothing seemed to be working. She returned for more training. This time when she came in the house she called Seamus out from his bed where he had retreated the moment her car was parked. He came to her, tail tucked, ears back. I couldn’t see that she was doing anything in particular. Sure, her voice was firm and her demeanor calm, but I did not sense whatever it was that Seamus sensed.

  She ordered him to sit. He looked at me, eyes huge. Do something! I looked away. Seamus sat.

  Then she made him lie down. This was accomplished by showing him a treat, bringing it down to floor level so that his eyes—when not pleading with me—followed. She then brought the treat out a few inches so that Seamus extended himself forward, eventually reaching a prone position. She gave him the treat and ordered him to stay. He stayed.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “This is a very stubborn dog,” she said.

  “Yes, I know. He’s a beagle.”

  “It’s not just the breed. Are you walking him?”

  “Yes.”

  “An hour in the morning?”

  I looked down at Seamus, and he immediately began to get up. Without looking at him, she ordered him back down. He looked at me. I looked at her. Seamus slunk back down.

  “Um, no. I don’t have an hour in the morning.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have a dog.”

  After everything I’ve done for this dog? Are you kidding me? If I didn’t have this dog, he’d be dead twice over! He was a street beagle with cancer, for godssake!

  “I’m doing the best I can.” That’s all I could muster. I looked as pathetic as Seamus. She may as well have ordered me down.

  “Seamus is still very much in control in this house. He’s a real problem, and you’ve got to learn to handle this. Watch.”

  She used her boot-clad foot to roll Seamus over onto his back. Seamus curled his lips back. I’d never seen those canine teeth before unless food was being pried from his mouth. And I’d never heard a growl like that one. She held him in place.

  “You see that?”

  “Yes. I do. Let him up!”

  “No. He needs to know he’s not the leader here. He needs to learn respect.”

  The growls increased, and Seamus snapped at her boot.

  “Oh my god! I’ve never seen him do anything like that!”

  “This is a red zone dog,” she said, still calmly holding down what was now an enraged, fangs-bared, snapping beagle under a boot. “This is not acceptable behavior, and if you do not do anything about this, you will have a much bigger problem on your hands than just the howling.”

  Yes, I would. If anyone broke into my house, rolled my dog onto his back, and held him there under their boot, my dog was likely to bite them. I’m not seeing the problem. He’s a beagle. A beagle! Snoopy? Shiloh? A beagle!

  “Let go of him. Let him up. This is ridiculous.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ll let him up when he stops fighting.” She then explained that “red zone” meant a dangerous dog. A dog out of balance. A dog that could become a serious problem. And if his dominance continued, he may… And that’s where she lost me. He may keep howling? He may be completely ornery? Sure. Okay. But that’s not a vicious, snarling danger to society. Or me. Or even himself.

  “Don’t hurt him. He’s been through enough.”

  “I would never hurt an animal. I’m not hurting him.”

  I couldn’t even watch. I walked away while she said something to me about my energy level and a dog’s ability to perceive emotions or stability or mental health. Something like that. Then she called me back into the room.

  Seamus had stopped fighting. He lay, exhausted, under her boot, not looking at her or me.

  “That’s submissive behavior. That’s what you want to accomplish.”

  “I’m not sure it is.” I was pretty sure it wasn’t. Seamus looked miserable.

  She took her foot off the dog. “Stay.” He didn’t get up.

  “This whole thing seems to take all the fun out of having a dog.”

  “For now. You have to get…stay…in control of the dog…stay…first.” Seamus had made a few lame attempts to get up. Again, without looking at him, she had given commands that he obeyed. It was just sad. Hadn’t this dog been through enough?

  Finally she said, “Okay. Up.” Seamus got up slowly, not trusting that there wouldn’t be another command. He slunk over to me, and, of course, I went to pet him.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t pet him?”

  “He didn’t do anything to deserve petting.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. Petting should be a reward for now. He was a very bad dog. Did you see how long it took him to submit? That’s not behavior you reward. Tell him to sit. When he sits and holds the sit, you can pet him.”

  This was perhaps the perfect storm of bad behavior—Seamus’s stubbornness, my unwillingness and inability to discipline him, and an overly strident, unreasonable trainer. I was at a loss.

  At Chris’s suggestion, we began watching The Dog Whisperer on television. I even read his book. Chris, who had never been a dog person, decided that the training made sense and he began to seriously follow the techniques. Seamus and I decided the Dog Whisperer was Satan himself.

  Chris became a freelance writer full time, which allowed him to spend more time at my place. (It also made his Los Angeles apartment unnecessary, but I wasn’t focusing on that just yet.) That also meant he was taking Seamus on longer walks, which did at least burn up some of that beagle energy. Chris also learned the training exercises from Nicole, and we took Seamus to the large lawn in front of the townhouse complex and practiced. I figured it couldn’t hurt if the neighbors at least saw how hard I was trying. And I was trying. No matter what Nicole thought.

  I bought a thirty-foot lead and used it to teach Seamus to sit, stay, and come when called. On the large front lawn at the entrance to my townhome complex, Seamus sat, on the leash, with me thirty feet away circling around him. If he tried to come toward me, he was ordered back. When he sat long enough that I could walk a full circle around him, I was allowed to call him to me and reward him with a treat. This was supposed to use up some of the dog’s mental energy as well as physical. And, of course, it was to assert my dominance. We practiced regularly. Eventually, Seamus figured out the game and merely sat, looking bored and not even following me with his eyes, until I returned to my original spot, at which point he’d perk up, wait for me to say come, and then charge at my hand that held the treat. He’d give me tolerance, but not submission. Fine, lady. You’ve got me on a leash. I can wait you out.

  I was certain we were not making progress on the separation anxiety and howling front, but I had to keep trying.

  When I wasn’t walking Seamus, exercising Seamus, running Seamus through boot camp drills, and avoiding anything as harmful as petting him or letting him on my bed or couch or other couch or any of his extra beds or feeding him table scraps, I was marking off days on the paper calendar and checking the boxes after giving him the correct tapering dosages of steroid, and then the Cytoxan itself on days eight, nine, ten, and eleven only (and wait, does the day of the appointment count as day one or is that day zero?), getting his blood checked, and then driving back to the cancer center for the IV chemo only to start the process over again. This went on for four more months. Other than a weight gain that pushed him close to forty pounds, there was no evidence Seamus was in treatment for cancer. He was full of energy, howling, eating voraciously, and feeling fine.

  Still though, I was cautious and a bit apprehensive about the state of my life. Seamus’s health may have been improving, but the problems with Chris’s family were not. True to his word, Chris had not spoken to his parents for several months. While he seemed un
affected by this, I was worried.

  Chapter 12

  ANY OTHER DOG

  The three of us fell into a pattern of sorts, isolating our trio and spending our days walking, training, and drugging (Seamus only, and all prescription, I swear). On those walks and, of course, in the hot tub, Chris and I began to talk about moving in together.

  Without paying rent on his apartment and driving 120 miles round-trip a couple of times a week, Chris would have the chance to focus more on his writing. He now wrote two monthly wine columns and was working on a novel, in addition to the freelance copywriting work he did for his prior employer. And I found I liked having Chris around more than I liked being alone. Seamus liked having Chris around, too. That was obvious.

  Seamus was coming to the end of his chemotherapy, we were not actively battling Chris’s family’s opinions, and my friends who had voiced disapproval had, if not changed those opinions entirely, at least stopped voicing them. It was a peaceful time for us. We felt ready to move forward. Though I still worried about the situation with his family, I couldn’t deny there was a certain freedom that came with having no outside opinions or negativity to contend with. We decided that he’d move in at the end of summer. I silently wondered if he’d contact his parents with his new address, but I didn’t ask. Our living together was only going to add insult to that injury.

  Emboldened by our decision and Seamus’s improving health, we went out one evening after Chris had taken Seamus for a particularly long walk and we were convinced the dog was tired enough to stay calm. When we got home, Seamus happily greeted us at the garage door, wagging his tail and putting his front paws up on my thighs, the better to reach up and inhale my scent when I bent down to pet him. He seemed fine. Not anxious and not spinning in circles or howling into my face. Nonetheless, I trudged upstairs to the master bedroom to check the answering machine.