The Possibility Dogs

by Susannah Charleson

  That public-speaking breakdown was a ferocious disclosure—it was the stuff of nightmares for many people—but Alex has no regrets. Without it, he might never have heard of PAWS and almost certainly would never have volunteered there, a good move in so many directions. His interaction was hesitant initially, but at the shelter he became more engaged, communicative—first with dogs and then increasingly with the other volunteers—and his quality of life improved. It was progress by inches. While he was waiting to receive professional documentation of his need for a service partner, Alex was searching among the rescues for a dog that might fill that need. Moved by their homeless numbers, Alex knew he wanted a pit bull or pit bull mix. He got that in skinny, abandoned Roscoe.

  He also got something else.

  I adopted a pit bull and brought home a whippet—that’s Alex’s take on Roscoe now. He was a good dog, a great dog, even, but he was a dog that needed space, and he was a dog built for speed. His energy had been obvious in the shelter environment and Alex thought he “got” the dog that Roscoe was, but he was in no way prepared for the dog that Roscoe would become. Now safe and well cared for in a loving environment, with an owner that paid attention, the scrawny pit bull mix quickly matured into a powerhouse athlete that lived to run.

  The first service the dog gave Alex was indirect, less by task than by change of habit. Roscoe needed a large life. When the dog lived too contained, he grew anxious, restless, chewed at a lick granuloma on his foot. There was no way to restrict a creature like Roscoe to a low-key life as a house dog. Alex knew it would be an impossible cruelty. He was intrigued by his changing sense of the dog he’d brought home. Had Roscoe’s energy been the deal breaker for the couple that first adopted him? The dog needed dedicated outings and room to run, and he needed wilderness. Responsive and responsible to his dog, Alex was shoved from seclusion by sheer force of nature. Roscoe could not be denied.

  In the wilderness, he became a different dog. Sure, he blew off plenty of energy playing ball the way any dog might, but then he wanted to explore—anything, everything, winding through gates and along trails, choosing rough terrain over easy. He was extremely visual. Where possible, Roscoe would scale the face of cliffs to reach the higher view, Alex scaling and viewing behind him. For many service dogs, this amount of drive would have been a problem, but Alex says Roscoe, who got him out of the house and thrust him into situations where he’d have to interact, was exactly the dog he needed. Alex could not remain a recluse. Roscoe’s service came wrapped in a certain tough love.

  Roscoe brought other issues to surface. When bus schedules didn’t match up well to their joint needs, Alex overcame his reluctance to drive. He’s up front about this: “I learned to drive for my dog.” His concentration and attention had improved enough for him to feel safe in a car, and with Roscoe in it, his sense of responsibility for Roscoe’s safety helped him focus. So he and the dog loaded up daily in a two-door white Mazda. Sitting behind the driver’s seat, blissed out by speed and weather, the dog loved to lift his face out the window to the rain or snow; he loved to be on the highway going fast.

  Roscoe’s idiosyncrasies were part of his charm. Photographs of him seem to show an all-terrain, all-weather kind of dog devoted mostly to his ball, but Alex describes a conflicted, almost dainty way about him at home. On the move, Roscoe never worried about mud, water, or sludge of any kind—he braved it all and once ran up to Alex so muddy that Alex didn’t recognize his own dog. But at rest, Roscoe would sit with his feet well up under him, never fully down; he disliked having his bottom touch the ground. How could a dog be so fastidious at home—the word prissy comes to mind—and so gregarious in the woods?

  Roscoe could also obsess over things, wanting this ball, only this ball. He would ignore all others. Sometimes on a given day he would return a fetch, no matter which direction the ball was thrown, by taking only one track back through the woods. Alex liked to test this. He sometimes threw the ball in directions that would make it so much easier to come back another way, only to watch Roscoe take the harder route over rocks and through brush to return along the favored path of the moment.

  He didn’t mind taking center stage. Where some dogs might have fought it, and Alex had expected Roscoe to resist, Roscoe graciously acquiesced to a Flash Gordon costume for a Halloween dog-park event. In fact, Roscoe not only acquiesced but seemed to enjoy the attention he got blazing back and forth through the crowds in red-and-yellow polyester with lightning bolts bobbing from the back of his head.

  Alex laughs and says that to some degree, he and his dog were maybe too much alike. They had the same kinds of issues, which shouldn’t have worked for a dog in assistance to Alex, but somehow it did. Perhaps it was because Roscoe was more attuned to humans than his own kind. Rescued Roscoe had rarely played with groups of other dogs, and now the loose social order of the dog park confused him. He was excited by the noise, the energetic rabble, but didn’t seem to understand how to engage with it. Roscoe ran with a pack in periphery, circling wide, rarely in the midst. Alex could be describing his own nature in a group of strangers, he says. Not unfriendly, just self-conscious and extremely uncertain. Dog-to-dog social skills came to Roscoe by way of Lulubelle, owned by Alex’s housemate, Dan. Lulubelle, herself a brindle pit bull mix, was aloof with most dogs but immediately adored Roscoe when he came into the house. She was an affectionate, timely influence. Her presence seemed to lessen any stress Roscoe had. Alex jokes that while Roscoe was his service dog, Lulubelle was Roscoe’s.

  Smarts to burn. Roscoe had plenty of smarts, but he was an odd dog at first. He wasn’t sure what to make of fetch. Roscoe was simply too infatuated with the complete perfection of ball. Initially the dog would simply go after the ball and then run with it in his mouth, joyful, heedless of everything and everyone else: Here is this thing I’ve caught and now I have it I have it I have it. Fetch took a little patience on Alex’s part. Plenty of games began and ended with just the one throw. But Alex could see the dog was eager and conflicted. He wanted to possess, but he also wanted to run, and he wanted Alex’s attention too. How to do all at once? Alex taught him to fetch by alternately throwing two balls. Once he learned the routine, Roscoe seemed overjoyed by the concept of a game involving all of his favorite things: the ball, the run, and his person, all of which could be had over and over again.

  Roscoe too was attentive, so ardent a communicator it seemed like he was almost straining to be human. Where he was remote with other dogs, he was direct with humans—a lot of interaction, a lot of eye gaze, a consistent use of the common nonverbal language he and Alex both understood. He had some smart-dog tricks. Alex could put photographs of Roscoe’s toys in a low place on the refrigerator, and Roscoe would point to the toy he wanted. The dog listened, too, and remembered what he heard. Over time he understood far more words than Alex was prepared for, and when planning a day’s activity with his housemate, Alex found himself creating synonyms for park, ball, play, and even for Roscoe’s name—the dog grasped the essence of even long sentences too well, and he would not be patient about a dog-park outing that might be five hours away.

  How well did Roscoe understand Alex’s condition? Alex can’t be sure, but Roscoe was “one hundred percent my dog,” Alex says. “He was with me.” The dog had a strong sense of when to lead Alex out of places and when to intercede where he was. Serving somewhere in the netherworld between emotional support animal and assistance dog, Roscoe helped Alex build the skills that had previously eluded him. Think what a dog needs from a thoughtful owner: attention, interaction, considered care, and socialization. These were the things Alex also needed—and needed to be able to give.

  Alex says at first a few friends were skeptical about his documented need for Roscoe, but later they admitted they could see the difference. Alex’s improvement beside the dog was tangible. The dog’s solid presence translated to a sense of strength for his partner and made it possible for Alex to hold conversations with strangers. It held the panic at
tacks at bay. Talking about dogs at the park came fairly easily to Alex, and from those small interactions came familiarity, confidence, and control, sensations that gradually stretched beyond the boundaries of the dog park and became more reliable in daily activities. Alex grew even more outgoing. His volunteerism expanded from PAWS to a wildlife rehabilitation group. In time, Alex didn’t need Roscoe beside him everywhere he went, but Roscoe’s influence traveled.

  Alex credits part of his own growth to his love for Roscoe and his willingness to give back to the dog. Roscoe’s commitment was a gift that had changed him. Focusing on Roscoe’s needs had also changed him—preventing Alex from thinking too much about himself.

  When he got sick, Roscoe was five years old, young by most dog standards. The symptoms were vague, if they were really symptoms at all, and in a large-living dog like Roscoe, they were difficult to see. He began to slow down a little in 2010, Alex says, taking shorter runs on some days and resting more often, sometimes in the middle of trails he would once have taken at speed, but the change was so gradual that at first Alex attributed it to approaching middle age. Dogs mature. They slow down.

  But when a lump on Roscoe’s jaw that appeared to be an abscess was diagnosed as osteosarcoma, everything, for a moment, stopped. Osteosarcoma, or bone cancer, is an aggressive and painful disease that in dogs often shows up in the limbs—near the shoulders or knees. By the time of diagnosis, an estimated 90 percent of cases have already metastasized. Timely amputation of the affected limb can save the dog’s life, but amputation was not an option for Roscoe. The disease moves quickly. He was given three months.

  In the wake of that prognosis, Alex and his housemate investigated every available treatment option for Roscoe, including chemotherapy at special canine cancer centers, dietary supplements, naturopathic injections. There were plenty of options, many of them expensive, some of them far-fetched, but few with real hope. The consensus suggested that this disease was a bastard and that chemotherapy might buy Roscoe a little more time but at the cost of either medicated stupor or extreme discomfort. Alex wanted neither for his dog. Determined to give Roscoe quality of life for as long as possible, Alex and Dan decided to take on whatever debts might come. Ultimately, Alex opted for naturopathic treatments offered by Roscoe’s own vet.

  Alex’s mind was on his dog’s happiness. Roscoe deserved diligent care in that sense too. Despite the time now given over to medical treatments, all the dog’s favorite rituals remained, were even extended, when possible—the daily dog-park trips, the games of ball, the tough trail walks that Roscoe continued to choose even as his condition worsened. Roscoe loved the wilderness and he loved his rituals, Alex says; he had deep attachments to routes and places and situations. He was a dog that expanded outdoors, and sometimes, in the early stages of osteosarcoma, it almost seemed he could outrun this; his heart was wild. When Roscoe could no longer run, he loped. When he could no longer lope, he walked. He rested in the shade more and more often.

  The cancer spread through Roscoe’s jaw, and games of ball became impossible. Alex marks that transition at the day when Roscoe could no longer hold the ball in his mouth. Adaptable as he was driven, Roscoe wanted his game. He wanted something thrown. He chose a stick; Alex threw it, and instead of picking it up to return it, Roscoe ran to the stick and placed a paw on it, waiting for Alex to catch up and throw it again. Fetch transitioned to a sort of relay race. Almost as beloved, Stick would be the new game until both the game and the trail were too hard on the weakening dog.

  In time, Roscoe surrendered play in favor of simply going to the park to watch the other dogs, a choice that surprised Alex. Roscoe had never really joined the thick of pack, but now he enjoyed watching the distant noise and tangle. That change resonated for those who had known Roscoe at full speed. Dog-park regulars—human and canine—quietly visited them. For Alex, the former recluse, the company was welcome. Camaraderie had now become second nature. The other dogs seemed to be aware of Roscoe’s illness. They sniffed, circled, wagged small, acknowledging him gently.

  Alex remembers Roscoe in transition, the dog’s considered movements, the way their relationship slowed. They had been fast once. They had blazed trails. Quiet companionship now replaced that exuberant dash. In his final weeks, Roscoe needed Alex to be near and to be still, and Alex, for whom stillness had never been easy, found it in himself to give. Alex remembers long hours at the edge of woods beside his partner, the dog with his wounded head lifted, taking in the wind.

  20

  JAKE PIPER’S MAKING SLOW sense of the Home command. I’m not sure how much he’s really got it. He follows Puzzle readily when she leads us home, but I notice that he is clearly following her. He is a moment behind her dance steps, always, and doesn’t appear to be making any choice of direction. When I give him a handful of trial runs beside her, I realize that as long as she is with us, he will be content to let her lead. I don’t think he’s got it. It’s time to work him on the Home command alone.

  I’ve watched him work his nose since the very first day he came to us, and what I know about Jake Piper is that he’s got a keen sense of scent and a high drive impulse. But, unlike Puzzle, he doesn’t have six years of finding a specific something and leading me to it with his nose. Jake also naturally works more head down across the turf than head up across the wind. He can trail a rabbit’s recent path through our backyard quite easily, but it’s Puzzle, head up, who seems to snag the airborne scent of passing humans long before they reach the house. It’s Puzzle that picks up on the roof-hugging squirrel pressed flat to the tiles above us. Of course, she is a field dog by birth and long trained to work air scent, and he is all raw nose talent and completely unversed. I’m interested to see just how quickly he picks up the Home command and recognizes what I need him to do. I’m curious if he’ll consistently backtrack our trail or if he, too, in time will simply take us home by moving from scent zone to scent zone regardless of the path we took outbound. It’s possible he won’t pick up this command at all.

  Jake learns words quickly, so I start with teaching him what I mean by home. Walking along the boundary of the property, I’ll suggest we go home, and then, as we approach the front of the house, tell him to find the door. Jake has successfully learned that the Door command can mean door in as well as door out, so I hope to build on that understanding. Where once it was just about finding the door, Jake’s task now demands he find home and the door. For a week’s worth of sessions, I simply say, “Let’s go home,” as we approach the house, adding the Door command as we step onto the property. Jake learns commands well. The first time I say, “Let’s go home,” along the back fence of the property, and he chooses to run the length of the fence and then turn right to get to the front door, I mark it as a success. Yes, he did pee over other dog marks on the way—a quick hike of leg out of form rather than function—but he got us there. He enjoys the command, the job, and the big, big praise for a good dog doing well. In this he is much like Puzzle. Home is a happy command to give a once abandoned dog like Jake. Every time we work it, I’m reminded that in a way Home celebrates what he nearly never had.

  We begin to train farther away. This is tougher for Jake, working across a universe of distractions. Even one house down from ours there are enticements: a cat arching in a window, any number of piss marks on trees, a child’s sock, a dead pigeon. Before we can nail the Home command, Jake has to reliably Leave It, a term he now understands. Usually good about it, he occasionally plays dumb and lunges for whatever (Never heard that command in my life). He also plays deaf (Even if I do know the command, I didn’t hear it).

  Jake’s a curious beast, leaving the taunting cat and the rotting pigeon much more readily than the piss marks, leaving the child’s sock most reluctantly of all. He doesn’t try to snatch the sock as toy, but he’s curious about it. When Jake does Leave It on the second command, he looks up at me in puzzled innocence, as though he’s wounded by my tone of voice.

  In a few days, from o
ne house away, he leads me home. In a week, from two houses away, he leads me home. When the month is out, I can give him the Home command as we round any block leading to the house, and he’ll take me there, long lead drooping and scraping across the sidewalk, a loose connection between us so that I can be certain I’m not cuing him with tugs even I don’t recognize. For a time we work into the sun so that my shadow is thrown behind me—I want to make sure I’m not even cuing him by some lean of body he can see, though I’m not sure he recognizes what a shadow is.

  We have several good Home finds from a block away, once even approaching from a side of the block we had not taken outbound, and I think it’s time to let Jake Piper advance a little more. We take a long, free-to-be-dog walk into town, and halfway back I put on his service vest. He stands still for the putting-on-of-uniform, slides into it easily, and I see the change of demeanor I see in Puzzle when the vest goes on, as if he understands which rules apply.

  “Take me home, Jake,” I say. We are about three blocks away. It’s a big step up from the block he had been doing, but we’re on the very road we took outbound, and we are walking into the wind. With any luck, it’s blowing straight over the house and into our faces. With any luck, Jake has so much of our outbound scent and home’s scent that the path back glows.

  Jake perks at the command and starts off with great energy. Too much energy. For a moment I have to rush to keep the lead slack between us. If we weren’t near traffic, I’d drop the lead entirely to see which route he’d take. Jake’s head is lifted. The spotted left ear is standing almost straight up. The right ear twists like a corn chip. Everything about him looks happy, and with a terrier’s easy, distinctive trot, he moves confidently in the right direction. His pace is steady: Jake-Home-Jake-Home-Jake-Home-Jake-Home. A couple of times he turns around to shoot me a glance. It’s a check-in but so confident and prideful that it reads less like How am I doing? and more like I am so on this. Who’s the good Jakey?