I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  Malta’s voice snaps me back to the present instigator and instigatee.

  “If Honeybun were a bite threat, she would have bitten me now, a total stranger walking in your home. She is sketchy, no doubt about that. And she is fearful. But I don’t think she is aggressive.”

  This is a surprising assessment as Honeybun still has her hackles raised and her eyes are sharpened like lasers on the intruders.

  “That stare doesn’t scare you?” I ask.

  “That’s what herding dogs do,” explains Malta.

  “She did that every time before growling at Lucky,” I persist.

  I feel this talk is going on long enough, and don’t want her side-tracked on peripherals like how much we have screwed up with Lucky. Just tell me how to fix this dangerous dog, stop insulting me, and leave before the sun sets.

  “I am not trying to be argumentative,” I add, (despite the distinct appearance otherwise), “But I really don’t think Lucky was doing anything to provoke the attacks.”

  I think Malta is trying hard not to punch me. She sighs and takes the leash from me. She walks around pulling Honeybun after her. Honeybun looks concerned, her loose skinned brow furrowed, but she prances beside Malta. Lucky is scratching at the bedroom door.

  “I think she is insecure and frightened. She doesn’t know who is in control and she feels the need to take control. I suspect she had a hard time scrapping for food and life and doesn’t know who to trust. I am not saying she doesn’t have issues. I just don’t think Lucky is stable, so she doesn’t feel safe.”

  I am feeling more and more certain that we are going to be required to make some deeper adjustments in our lives than initially hoped for.

  “Are you afraid of her?” asks Malta, interrupting my fearful thoughts.

  OK, now this is going a bit far. We are not here to psychoanalyze me. I didn’t go try to take a chunk out of someone’s major artery. Warning bells are dinging in my ears…. I think I am about to be blamed next. First Lucky, now me. Whatever happened to the criminal getting blamed for her own actions? However, Malta raises a good question.

  “Well, yes, when she flips I am. She is completely wild. She doesn’t listen to us and clearly wants to kill him.”

  “She knows you are afraid,” says Malta, “Dogs sense instantly when someone is unbalanced.”

  Was I just insulted? No wonder Malta is doing this for free. Who pays for this kind of abuse?

  “Is it hard for you to be in control?” she asks.

  No! The issues with Lucky are because he is such a headstrong dog. No one could follow through on stopping his barking or his escaping. You would have to be vigilant twenty- six hours a day! And dear God, you are not trying to insinuate that I am not in control because I don’t want that crazy dog to sink her canines in me?

  “Dogs are pack animals,” Malta continues, “And they need a clear hierarchy with a clear pack leader. If they sense fear or hesitation in the human, they will not follow you. You have to be the alpha dog. In fact, every human needs to be the alpha dog in their eyes or they will be a danger.”

  I swallow my burgeoning pride and anger. Some of what she is saying begins to make sense. Lucky loves us, but it is clear he doesn’t respect us. Or at least now it is clear. He whines from the bedroom where he has been banned.

  “How do I become the alpha dog?” I ask sadly.

  I think that sparks the first glimmer of Malta believing she could work with me. She softens a little.

  “First, you need to take away Honeybun’s job. She doesn’t need to be in control if you are. She needs to know that you will protect her from Lucky, and that you are in charge.”

  Protect her from Lucky? Skin from my sister under my nails……

  “But she attacked him.”

  “Because she feels threatened. She has a short trigger, and her response is overblown, but she feels the need to protect herself. She doesn’t know that you will. So the first thing I will do is give you a magic tool. It will solve the dog aggression problem in five minutes.”

  Now why did she wait this long to tell me that? This is the kind of ‘dog whispering’ I like. I suppose I am more like a ‘dog shouter’. Whispering is too subtle and slow-acting. She had mentioned this “magic tool” earlier in the week when she called me. I cannot wait to see this miracle tool. She scurries to the car and returns with a horse whip. I blanch. While wanting to save our dogs, I do not condone animal cruelty. I suspect Honeybun has had enough of that already.

  “You don’t hit the dog with this,” she assures me, though not until she has a moment of satisfaction that I thought she was Hitler, “Unless of course you are attacked or your other dog is in danger. Everyone has the right to self defense.”

  She has me review the episodes that triggered the aggression.

  “The food issue for a dog that was starving takes time to work through. For now, the food issue will be dealt with by separating the dogs. Always feed them in their crates.”

  A worried frown crosses my normally happy face. Time? How much time? You mean past 3:00?

  “You do have crates, don’t you?”

  Of course we have a crate…. We had borrowed it two days before. Time, I don’t have… I have a life I want to return to and I would like to return to it ASAP.

  “Put Honeybun in the crate every time you feed her. Put her in now and do you have a biscuit? Get that, and then let Lucky out.”

  I follow her instructions, glancing at my watch. Honeybun settles down happily to her biscuit, and Lucky comes rushing over to sniff at the crate. True to form, Honeybun leaps up and growls. There is a terrifying crash of metal crunching, causing me to lose my balance as I jump back. Malta has slammed the whip down on the crate creating a deafening fright in all of us. Except Will. He smiles placidly. I have not heard him speak at all yet. With Attila the Hun as a wife, one probably learns to still the tongue. Honeybun too yelps and cringes. But she doesn’t growl again.

  “Do that every time you hear a growl. Stop the small signs of aggression and you will be more likely to keep them from escalating. It is much harder to break up a fight than to prevent it.”

  Similarly, she commands that when the dogs rush the door, we are to slam the whip on the ground with a resounding crack and force them back. We are to get between them and the door, and “claim” the door, “own the visitors”, and show the dogs we are in control. We decide who they can or cannot kill.

  Then she demonstrates. She has Will sneak outside and ring the doorbell. As expected, the dogs perform a reenactment of Armageddon. Malta cracks the whip as they warn us of hell breaking open, and they realize with a yip that life as they know it has ended. All sound ceases as they scatter. The echoes of the whip melt to silence. The dogs stand like statues in the far corners of the room, de-barked. I am speechless as well.

  “Problem solved,” says Malta. My kind of solution! I love instant fixes!

  She teaches us numerous strategies in becoming the alpha dog that afternoon. With whip in hand, I know no dog will ever mess with me again. She has Will ring the door bell again and let me crack the whip this time. The dogs scramble to hide as before, peering at me from a safe distance, their barks sucked right out of their throats.

  "Learn to read her signs," advises Malta. She warns us that rehabilitating and gaining trust is a long process. I am not to expect results overnight and there will be setbacks, and more fights. My pasted smile does not reveal the distress such words inspire in my fast-food soul.

  As she leaves, she pauses to stroke the little dog's soft fur. "I suspect this dog will teach you things about yourself you never knew," she says gently. I suspect they are things I would rather not know.

  From that moment on, the whip is with me wherever I go, even to the bathroom. The whip is my talisman, my amulet, my shield against a sea of troubles. Whenever Honeybun growls at Lucky, I smack the whip on the floor and tell her to desist or be destroyed. When I feed them, Honeybun is always crated, but if Lucky comes n
ear, she growls. The whip thunders disapproval and no more growls at least for that meal. Within a day of the whip treatment, I feel courageous enough to untie Honeybun from the pool table. We still separate them at night, but during the day, they roam freely in the house together. The whip is with me, and I am in charge, alpha wolf, top dog, Pluribus Unum, numero uno. No more sweating at the teeth of the wild dog. With my claiming of the door, life is good and worth living again. We tell my parents of our hopeful progress, and my dad sends money to have both our dogs microchipped. He cannot bear the thought of this little dog facing the despair she had faced on her own ever again. Confidence glistens like a firefighter in Hell, and we bring Honeybun to the vet to be microchipped. We will keep her...and the whip.

  Whenever the AKC (American Kennel Club) National dog show comes on TV, Asherel and I make a lapful of goodies, and camp out before the television. We always laugh at the hairless Chinese Crested, or the bull terrier with his egghead, or the Pekingese that looks just like a furry caterpillar. We cheer for the terriers, out of loyalty to our own nutty terrier. However, my unquestioning approval of the AKC is challenged with Honeybun's entrance into our life. Unexpectedly, this occurs with the discovery we might almost have a pedigree dog.

  The kind Pit Bull rescuer, Peggy, who had first responded to our pleas for help and led us to Malta, is delighted to hear that we will be keeping Honeybun. After examining our dog's picture on Petfinder, Peggy writes and excitedly informs us she feels certain she has found Honeybun’s breed. We know her breed- all American mutt. She has a spotted purple tongue which we think signifies she is part chow. The little I know about chows is enough to insure I never wanted one. Some insurance companies raise home insurance rates for chow owners and some campgrounds don’t allow chows. It is considered an aggressive breed. While Honeybun looks nothing like a chow, the vet assumed the purple tongue signified chow and it was indelibly put on Honeybun's record. They may as well have branded her with a swastika. I sadly write Peggy back, and tell her the vet claimed Honeybun was part chow, a breed I had vowed never to own.

  Peggy replies, “No, she looks nothing like a Chow. This dog looks exactly like a Carolina Dog- maybe even purebred.”

  Purebred? Our dog could be of the caliber of those dogs we watch on television? Outed as a closet canine snob, it is with mounting excitement that I read Peggy's email.

  She sends me the websites with information on Carolina Dogs as well as photos. It could’ve been our Honeybun in every picture. Perusing the photos and descriptions, I feel there is no doubt. She is clearly a Carolina Dog. Her size is correct, her coloration, her ruff, her tail, her dainty paws. Everything matches the website details. I tingle with the first bit of real excitement this dog has engendered. Not only are chows not the only dog with purple tongues, Peggy informs me, but Honeybun looks nothing like a chow, and she looks exactly like a dog that is so fascinating, even National Geographic has written about them.

  Carolina Dogs are a primitive breed, descended perhaps from Dingos (and are also called American Dingos or Carolina Swamp dogs). They are still found in feral packs in the remote swamps of South Carolina. They are considered among the oldest domesticated breeds in America, and yet, the AKC does not recognize them as a breed.

  “Well why not????” I shout at the computer, "We are turning our lives upside down for this exotic and mildly dangerous Carolina Dog, and you are telling me it is not recognized as a breed?”

  Initially angry with them, I later learn it is not the fault of the AKC, but of the Carolina Dog Association(CDA). Entrance into AKC would require closing the gene pool on the breed, and the CDA is concerned that would lead to genetic problems with such a small pool of registered Carolina Dogs. Malta on the other hand dislikes the AKC and any other group that promotes breeding of any animal.

  "Just what we need," she smirks, "More dogs for me to save."

  We now look at Honeybun with new respect. She is a noble non-breed, maybe even a purebred non-breed, descended from some of the oldest and most noble dogs to ever roam the earth. Her behavior matches what the websites describe, including some very bizarre behavior. These dogs are known for a curious habit of digging little "snout pits" in the dirt, and seemingly eating the dirt. Honeybun makes "snout pits" in her bed. She nibbles on the blanket, never ripping or tearing a hole, but nibbling as though to kill vermin lurking inside the material. I have never seen a dog do this, but Honeybun does it every single time she settles down for the night. We have already noticed that Honeybun, like all Carolina Dogs is a “den builder”. Almost immediately upon exploring the back yard that first day, Honeybun vigorously went to work noodling her way into the dense thicket of bush out back, and then digging a pit. We also read that they make excellent pets, after the initial adjustment period. Ah. What we have been going through is an adjustment period. They go into heat more often, and younger than other breeds…. What!!!! I check the calendar. The spay operation is in 2 weeks. Whew! Agile and fast, they make great Agility Trial dogs. Asherel's eyes light up when we read that.

  Asherel has been trying to convince Lucky to become an agility dog for months. He will good-naturedly lumber over jumps and collect his treat, but you can tell his heart is not in it. Lucky is plodding, and grudgingly compliant. He does not particularly enjoy exerting himself, and sees no reason to go over jumps at all, unless we tell him not to. Asherel runs full speed at fallen logs, leaping over them with Lucky in tow, and he plants his feet like anchors, refusing to move. She pulls, cajoles, and bribes.... but he is decidedly disinterested.

  Honeybun is a different story. Asherel turns a log on its side and runs toward it, Honeybun in tow. She sails over it, tail behind her like a rudder, ears lopsidedly perked. Asherel sets up a series of logs. Our little Carolina Dog scampers over the jumps, clearing them joyfully, easily. Her life work is sealed, and Asherel has found her agility dog at last.

  Asherel begins researching how to make agility courses. No longer content with her ersatz jumps, logs and overturned chairs, she wants to make real equipment. After all, she now has a dog of a breed especially suited for Agility work. The easiest kind of jump to make, she discovers is with PVC pipes plunked on a long nail in the ground. Arvo makes two jumps that way, but they are unstable, and difficult to move around. Asherel finds a slightly more complicated design that makes the jumps portable and more stable on a PVC base. However, working many hours with his new job, Arvo balks at making the more sophisticated jumps. If Asherel wants agility jumps, she is going to have to make them herself. I am busy cracking the whip, and Asherel is busy building a dream. Both of us hope to achieve it by Tuesday.

  We hurry to Lowes building supplies, and get sixty feet of PVC pipes, and a pipe cutter, then lay the supplies out on the ping pong table. Arvo teaches her how to use the pipe cutter, and donning her safety glasses, my determined eleven year old sets to work measuring, designing, and cutting. Arvo demonstrates proper drill use, and she drills holes for the screws that will hold varying heights of poles. She works tirelessly. In three days she has made seven jumps. She further honors her dog with the new found pedigree status, by her careful detail and beauty in wrapping red tape in a candy cane swirl around each jump bar.

  Next she researches other agility equipment. In beginner agility trials, the dog must also go through a small tunnel and zigzag through a series of upright poles called weave poles. Asherel notifies me we could find a tunnel at a toy store. She is satisfied for now with the weave poles made from sticks stuck in the ground. Later, she promises me, she will tackle some more permanent design of weaves. In more advanced agility contests, dogs also must go up and down an A-frame, sit on a "pause table", and go up and down a seesaw- like thing called a Teeter. Asherel uses objects she finds around the house to finish her construction of a complete course. The overturned plastic chair will do for now to mimic the A- frame. She places a board over a log for the "teeter". A sawed off stump becomes the "pause table". With her course complete, she begins training Honeybun
eagerly.

  Every moment she is soaring over jumps is a moment I am not on constant alert for growls or raised hackles. I pry my fingers off the whip, and collapse in a chair and close my eyes. Meanwhile, Asherel grows flushed and sweaty, and comes in covered with mosquito bites, but glowing with joy.

  "She is doing great!" she enthusiastically reports, "She loves it Mom! Look, she is smiling." I open one eye and look at the little dog. I don’t see a smile. I see a savings account wiped out, an exhausting burden, and a never-ending project that may not end well.

  Now Asherel sets her sights on greater goals.

  "I want to enter her in agility trials, so we need to do a class," she proclaims.

  Malta feels this is a great idea, that if Honeybun has a job, and an obedience class, it will help with the aggression issues as well. I do some research and find the oldest kennel club in Charlotte has both obedience and agility classes. I write to them filled with my daughter's infectious excitement, but am deflated upon examining their web site more carefully. NO dogs with aggression are allowed, and the handler has to be at least thirteen years old. While we have not seen aggression outside of the home, Honeybun is certainly not yet trustworthy with a classful of other dogs. We find another training facility which doesn't mention age or aggression restrictions, and quickly enroll. They don’t have agility classes, but they have beginner obedience classes. I am not certain Honeybun belongs in a beginner class. Asherel has been working hard with her, and she does all the basic commands fairly consistently. However, she may not respond optimally in a class filled with consumable distractions like other dogs or small children so beginner class seems best.