“No!” I screech, “Go!”
She slinks back down, and sits in the yard, watching us as we all traipse inside. Lucky greets us, whining. There is a small bite on his leg, but miraculously he is otherwise unscathed. His long wild hair has saved him.
“Please don’t call Animal Control,” begs Asherel, “I know we have to get rid of her, but they will kill her.”
I look out in the backyard where the little dog waits, still panting, outside the door. Oh Lord, I will try not to ask why, but if you could send a heavenly checklist on how, the likelihood of survival would be greatly enhanced.
I have never navigated the “get rid of dog” world before, having always been the one who goes to the pound, anxious to save a dog and make it our pet. Animal rescue is an excruciating world. First of all, there are many small rescue organizations but all busting out of the seams. I call or email all of them within a fifty mile radius. They are without exception filled to capacity, overflowing with discarded dogs. The Humane Society has a waiting list a month long, and they will not take a dog that is aggressive with other dogs anyway. Animal Control will take her, but will euthanize her within twenty-four hours. The outlook is bleak.
Honeybun is banned to the sunroom with closed doors, blocking her from the rest of the house. She sits at the glass door watching us all day long, an eager, hopeful, expectant look on her face. Lucky without access to his beloved sunroom and dog door into the backyard, is despondent.
I spend hours on the internet that morning, emailing rescue organizations and honestly admitting that the dog seems loyal to our family, but hates other dogs, and is wary with strangers. (Ok, "wary" is a bit of a stretch.... but it has a better ring than "blood sucking tyrant"). I call several facilities and leave messages. No one picks up. No one returns my calls. The emails that are responded to all have the same monotonous death toll- no room at the inn.
Whenever I glance at Honeybun through the sunroom door, she wags her tail and cocks her head. Being a confident, persistent soul, I lie my head down and cry. The computer begins to type as my forehead presses against the keyboard. From the primordial ooze of keystrokes, it clacks, “All applicants for Messiah, please review skill in miracles before submitting form.”
The sunroom where Honeybun is serving her sentence in solitary confinement is not air-conditioned. She will be cooked if left there for long with the doors closed. While that will solve our problems, that cannot be on my conscience as well. She pants as she looks at me. Finding a long rope, I tie it to the pool table leg and secure Honeybun to the other end. Now the sunroom doors can be opened and she can roam about ten feet in all directions. Lucky will have to go by her to get outside, but she will not be able to follow him, and if he is quick he might make it unscathed. However, while she watches him with her steely gaze, she remains still and subdued. She seems to understand that she has blown it big time.
The phone rings. Praying it is the hoped for salvation, I snatch it. Please please please be a home for Honeybun. The caller, Peggy, is indeed one of the rescue people, but she quickly tells me she only takes in pit bulls (are you NUTS!?) and like the other rescues, she is full. However, she has the name of a small rescue group in South Carolina that is experienced in working with dog aggression. She also says she will post our information on Petfinder, a web page devoted to matching homeless pets with prospective owners.
Peggy urges me to send her a picture and biography of Honeybun with all the enticing tidbits we know about her. The bio is composed in my mind as she talks: Seeking home for unstable, aggressive dog that seemed normal until her strength returned, at which point she became dangerous to people and other pets. Only serious applicants considered.
“It may take some time,” the Pit Bull rescuer cautions, “So you need to find a way to keep your dogs safe and apart. Meanwhile, I can give you the name of some people trained to help.”
I take the names, but gloomily. How can we afford a dog trainer? And living the way we are now living for more than the next ten minutes seems impossible. How am I going to survive? How are the dogs going to survive? And what about that promise to my husband that if she was ANY trouble, we would find her a home? ANY trouble? She is ALL trouble, through and through. She thumps her tail as I glance at her. Well ok, maybe not through and through. Sending Peggy the bio, and one of the pictures of Honeybun, I walk the fine line between accentuating Honeybun's good traits, and not lying.
Peggy forwards my Petfinder ad to the trainer who specializes in dog aggression issues. Shortly after that, I receive an angry email from that trainer.
This dog needs to be helped or euthanized, she rants. It is criminal to just pass these problems on to someone else. Get the dog off the Petfinder list until the issues are resolved or put the dog down. If you want help, call me.
The trainer, Malta, has a small animal rescue organization called Last Chance Rescue. At first, my gut feels like it has been punched. I haven’t caused the problems. I am the nice lady who pulled the dog from the brink of death, paid to have her patched up, and now am just trying to do the right thing for my family and the dog. After screaming in my mind at the gall of this blunt, insulting email, I write her back. OK, if I want to help this dog, what would I do, and what do you charge?
She emails me back. $250 for a week with my “pack” but for people who rescue dogs…. Free.
Rereading that line, certain I cannot be reading it right, incredulity is morphing to hope.
“I want to be sure I understand. You will come help us with Honeybun for free?”
"Yes, free. People who have the heart to rescue a dying dog deserve a break."
Stunned, knowing this can’t possibly be true; I ask her how far she is from us in the next email. There must be a catch. No one helps strangers for free. Her response comes immediately: An hour and a half away. Oh great. For a moment I had thought another miracle was developing before my eyes. But Malta is just too far away to be of any use. I thank her for taking the time to email me, but I don’t know how we can work it out as she is so far away.
"Oh," she tells me, "We are in Charlotte right near you every day. We install sound systems and there isn't any business for us here in the country where we live. I am working down the street from you next week. How is Wednesday for you?"
How is Wednesday for me!? How is lobster dripping with butter, hot fudge brownie sundaes drowned in whipped cream, fifty year old faces without wrinkles, and thighs that don’t jiggle...?!! Wednesday is fine! After calling to arrange the time, Malta listens as I describe the situation we face. She gives me some simple advice. Don’t allow the aggression. It is your home and your dog. Claim it.
Yeah, right. She makes it sound ridiculously easy, and also vaguely as though it is indeed all my fault. Not daring to say anything however that might keep the Dog Messiah from coming, promises pour forth about how hard I will work at claiming my home and my dog. Can she be more specific, perhaps? She cannot. Just do it. The dog is responding to you. If you let her be aggressive, she will be aggressive. Don't let her be. And, she assures me, she will solve the dog aggression in five minutes. Just hang on until Wednesday. I find her claims preposterous, but am desperate, and the price is right.
Wednesday is light years away. How to survive until Wednesday? First, after making sure Honeybun is securely attached to the pool table, another trip to the library and another stack of books on dog training. Upon returning home, I make a cup of tea, and settle down in the sunroom. Honeybun comes and lies at my feet. Her fur is starting to grow in the patchy areas, and her limp is less pronounced. She still has a small discharge that is likely from the recent birthing of her pups. I have never had a female unspayed dog, and wonder how one deals with them when they come in heat. The images that flit through my head are disturbing.
She needs to be spayed. Just in case we still have her, the last thing I want to go through is a dog in heat, with whatever gruesome things that entails. Time to call the vet at Petsmart that has been so he
lpful to us.
A spay will be $300. Good grief. Perhaps you didn't hear me right... I don't want to buy a uterus, I want one removed. No wonder there is a glut of unwanted dogs! Further research divulges a $65 spay in a Cabarrus county clinic, a half hour away. That I can deal with and immediately call and schedule the earliest available slot- a month hence. She will be long gone, but better safe than sorry.
The books, especially those by Cesar Milan, the "dog whisperer", blast me into an uncharted universe. I have seen his shows on television, but not paid much attention as while Lucky is clearly kooky, no one is in danger of dying from his aberrations. While entertaining, Cesar had never been crucial to my life. With the advent of Honeybun, that all changes. Unlike Lucky with his relatively benign issues, Honeybun's issues could result in hospital bills.
Cesar's training tips mirror the little advice Malta has given. An aggressive dog has to know who the alpha dog is, and it better be every human in the household. Without a clear leader in the home, the dog feels it needs to take charge. It may not even want that role, but in a vacuum of leadership, will respond by trying to take over. Cesar says the human must seize control, exude positive, assertive energy, and communicate with every molecule that he is in charge, and the dog can just enjoy being a happy follower.
Hope lifts a cautious beak to nibble at the worm of worry. I try to think like Cesar. For the next few days, waiting for Malta to come and change our lives, I chant empowering verses to my family about positive energy. Think like a dog, like an alpha dog.
Contrary to what most well-meaning pet owners believe, love is not the most important thing a dog needs. He needs exercise, discipline, food, and then affection- in that order. A dog needs to know not only his place in the pack, but also that he can trust and count on the alpha dog to keep order in the pack. If the alpha dog does his job, the other dogs are secure and content. Ready or not, I must be the alpha dog. Some are born to greatness and some are thrust tail first into it. I am being thrust tail first into an office I have not campaigned for, and would decline if nominated. Only I have no choice. Having rescued the dog, my impulsive nature is reaping what it has sown. Later there will be time to reflect upon the verse, "Count the costs...." I don't know all that alpha status entails, but hope it doesn't mean chewing and regurgitating food like birds, or being the head goose flapping my wings to exhaustion so everyone else can fly in my draft. This much is clear- lead confidently, and if unable to muster confidence, be a convincing fake. Dogs sense weakness faster than a lemming lurches off a cliff, so under no circumstances give in to my quivering insecurities.
The exercise part of transforming dogs in ten easy steps is child’s play in comparison. I faithfully run Honeybun twice a day. Asherel and I begin regimented obedience training. We keep the dogs separated most of the time. The days amble slowly by with the dogs surviving and no further incidents. It is Tuesday night and we have not all become extinct. Malta, the dog whisperette, will be here tomorrow. I can hardly wait, and huddle under my sheets with one eye peeking out as the first ray of dawn breaks.
Dear Lord,
Thank you for helping me persevere for so long. Two weeks of trials are all I can bear and you have told me in your Word that you will never give me more than I can bear. Thank you for sending me Malta, and bringing our trials to an end and finally showing me that victory is within the grasp of all those who diligently seek you. I have learned the lessons you so graciously deigned to teach me, and now rest in the knowledge that you are blessing me for my hard won patience and persistence. Amen.
CHAPTER 4 Impudent, Impetuous, and Other I Words
I am nervous all day, waiting for Malta. It has been a rough two weeks. I am a prison guard who knows the moment the rifle is lowered, there will be carrion. Honeybun still stares at Lucky whenever he comes near, with a piercing stillness. Her concentration is complete, like a stalking lion. At these times, banshee shrieks divert her and she glances away, but the constant need to watch her every move is definitely cramping the peaceful calm of our former life. I pore over every available book related to dog aggression, well past my 8:00 bedtime each night. Every suggestion is implemented, and still Honeybun glares with that intimidating stare, and growls when Lucky comes near. Not every time, but enough times. It is apparent if they are left alone together, someone will be missing a tail when I return. My diligence and steadfast spirit has its limits. Malta will not arrive a minute too soon. Lucky slinks about the house with darting glances. Honeybun remains tied to the pool table.
The interminable hours tick by and I watch the animals that are refusing to be cured. I begin to be nervous less for what Malta will think of Honeybun, whose issues we had innocently inherited, and more concerned about what she will think of Lucky whose issues we will have to take full blame for. While waiting, my objective eye turns to the so-called “good dog”. Some disturbing thoughts develop. Is it really considered good when you only come if you are called one out of ten times? Is it well-behaved if you bark all night, even when we have dragged you inside twenty times and the neighbors are throwing rocks at you and at us? Is it really obedient if you dig under the fence and when that is blocked, climb it like a cat, and then saunter off down the street? An uncomfortable conviction grows that we have not been as persistent with Lucky’s training as we should have been.
Technically we had rescued Lucky too, but at six weeks old. His character had not been permanently marred by horrendous living yet. Lucky's addition to our family was another example of my impulsive leaping with no regard for where I might land. Suffice it to say that we found him in the sewer pipes beneath our street, and we were not looking for a dog, but the dog was looking for us. The puppy needed a home, and I was there. Thank God he wasn’t a homeless elephant when I walked by.
Lucky had issues from the start. First, he had mange, which can be awful, but in his case, the vet was able to treat it and in a short time his coat was shiny and healthy. We should’ve known that his escapist overly curious nature that landed him in the sewer system was the same nature that would cost us thousands of dollars in fences that could not contain him. Little did we know that this terrier (same root as “terra firma”), this earth dog, would be able to dig his way out of any enclosure. Could it be possible that I should have spent more time and effort with Lucky?
I realize, while waiting for Malta that Lucky is not a good dog. And it is our fault. We have let him rule our lives because he is nice about it. The few minutes left before Malta arrives will probably not be time enough to reform him. But I give it my best shot.
“Sit,” I call out, hoping a crash course might yield a miracle. Lucky laughs at me.
Malta rings the doorbell. Both dogs charge the door, barking loudly enough to destroy what multiple ear infections have left unimpaired of my hearing. Malta peers in while I try to corral the two dogs, leashing Honeybun and kicking at Lucky. Finally I open the door while shooing Lucky away with my foot. He easily moves around me and races up to Malta and her husband, Will. Honeybun strains at the leash, barking and snarling. Lucky stuffs his face in our visitors’ crotches, and then licks and slurps their legs, tail wagging. Honeybun continues to yank at the leash.
Malta must have extensive experience with people with jellyfish brains. She does not seem at all put off, or fearful. She walks backwards, back to Honeybun, who looks ready to pounce. Malta keeps her eyes on me and instructs Will to ignore the dogs. This is not an easy demand, as Lucky is trying to discern Will’s gender in a most impolite manner. After about five minutes, both dogs are quiet and Malta is reaching out the back of her hand to Honeybun. Lucky meanwhile keeps nosing against Malta, winding his way between her and Honeybun. Why had I ever thought he was endearing? She asks me to put Lucky in a back room.
“Your first problem,” Malta snaps, “Is Lucky.” (I have a sinking feeling this is not going to be an ego building visit.) “He is actually the more unstable of the two.”
“How do you see that?” I query, keeping
the sudden flood of disbelief out of my voice.
“Do you see how when I reach out to Honeybun, he keeps getting in the way? He is demanding my attention and in a very annoying way.”
So what is wrong with wanting attention? And besides, sometimes you have to demand because sometimes people don’t know your needs. Personally, I see no problem with desiring attention, do you? This does not necessarily indicate deep seated neuroses or even shallow neuroses, does it? Who doesn’t want attention, after all?
“He’s trying to manipulate you and I suspect some of the behavior you have seen in Honeybun is in response to him instigating it.”
I almost wish Honeybun would bite Malta now. I mean Lucky may have a few sponges instead of grey matter, but he hardly can be blamed for Honeybun trying to kill him. A surprising flashback from my childhood poofs to mind. I was insanely jealous of my talented older sister and used to scratch her with my fingernails, at which point she would attack and pummel me. Of course I would cry and Mom would race in and punish Wendy. Wendy proclaimed she was unjustly provoked and urged my mom to just look under my fingernails where the bloody evidence lay.
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