She starts classes in a little over a month and will be spayed in a few days. All remains quiet in our demilitarized zone. I never venture to any room without the whip. Our peace is really just a truce, brokered by the presence of the whip. And there is a looming problem. We are scheduled to go to a family reunion for a week in Pennsylvania. I investigate boarding costs, lamentably discovering the fee for one dog is not equal to the national budget, but close. If Honeybun could stay in Lucky's crate, it would not require a second mortgage, but we will obviously need to board them separately. Unwilling to declare bankruptcy in order to pay boarding fees, I mention the problem to Malta. Our normal vacation plans in the past either included the dog, or we had a neighbor come in and feed Lucky. Since we have the dog door, he has always had access to come and go as he pleases, and the expense is minimal. What will we do now? Honeybun is far from ready to let a stranger come in our house without us there. Nor would I trust her alone with Lucky yet. This is a cost not considered while deciding whether to help the dying dog on the side of the road. Cost number one million and three not considered…..
"Well we board dogs," proclaims Malta.
"But you are an hour and a half away," I bemoan.
"We can pick them up," she decrees, "After work... and return them to you the morning after you get back. And we will work with them with our dog pack."
Trembling with hope, I ask, “What do you charge?"
"For rescued dogs, $10 a day. Oh and bring your own food."
Malta will work with both of them during that week, and they will be returned to us healed and perfect. She of course didn't promise that but I know while our reward has been delayed a month, it is now Payday. My good deed is finally registering with whatever heavenly department is in charge of Samaritan Awards. I would not have been surprised to see a halo suddenly glow over Malta's head, or wings sprout from her back. Convinced that no physical place Last Chance Rescue really even exists, I envision Lucky and Honeybun spending the week somewhere in the clouds, with the sound of harps lulling them to sleep. If Honeybun doesn't attack the angel, it might all work out after all.
Dear Lord,
You have provided the perfect solution and I am grateful. I know you wanted me to learn to “be still and know that you are God”. Stillness is not generally my forte and I have noticed a disturbing trend in our relationship for you to notice those few things I don’t excel in and then pick at them like a scab. Since you don’t really specify how long I am to be still, I am struggling to know at what point I can stop being still and finish my checklist.
Also, I am a little concerned that while the situation is improving, it has a long way to go. You might consider that the severe shortage of Good Samaritans willing to risk all on your behalf might be due to the lack of tangible or forthcoming rewards. I am not sure I see the blessing in all this. I thought the Bible says that those who trust in the Lord will rise on wings of eagles? I am trusting you, Lord, and flapping like a hummingbird, but my feet are still firmly planted in my trials….Amen.
CHAPTER 5 Irresolute, Intolerant, and Impoverished
In a state of perpetual alert to squelch any sign of aggression. I move like a prison guard through the house, whip in hand. If the whip is raised, the dogs usually stand at attention and salute. Honestly though, I am edgy, knowing our cease-fire is tenuous.
Furthermore, new wrinkles are furrowing my brow over concerns about taking the newly trusting dog to be spayed. While it will only be a few hours she will spend away from us, it will not be a pleasant few hours for her. Her trust in humans is fragile and could be easily shattered. But we have no choice. She has to be spayed.
Since Arvo works near the spay clinic, he takes her with him early in the morning as he heads off to work. We kiss her goodbye, and then go about our day. It is almost like she is still here as the vacuum picks up a full dog's worth of hair. I have never known a dog to shed so much. Every time we pet her, the air fills with a mist of golden hair and we have to put filters over our mouth to breathe.
We go a couple of hours early to the town where the clinic is, so that the moment she is done we can whisk her back home. It is surprising how anxious I am to see her considering how hard she has made my life. When I ask the receptionist if Honey will be able to walk, she laughs. Then Honeybun comes prancing out, happy though a little groggy. She greets us, wagging her tail, and acting like she has just gone out for a quick cup of coffee rather than having her full set of motherhood apparatus put on a table, whacked off, and then guts stuffed back inside her, and stapled closed.
We buy an Elizabethan collar (E-collar), designed to keep the dog's snout out of reach of stitches. Unexpectedly, she never once tries to rip them out. Since everything that can go wrong according to the dog rescue manual has up to this point, it is comforting to have a small stroke of good fortune.
The E-collar is amusing if one has a sadistic nature. It is a big plastic cone that fits over the dog's head, a bull’s-eye in the plastic target. Since she doesn't bother the stitches, we put the E collar away, hoping never to need it again. Famous last words…..
We are given a list of instructions. They encourage us to keep her on leash and quiet for a week, no climbing or running or jumping. At the end of two weeks she can resume her activities slowly. This of course, means two full weeks of no agility training, to Asherel's chagrin. I ask the receptionist how she has been, with all those strangers handling her this morning. She had been fine, friendly and sweet they tell us. “What definition of ‘sweet” are you using?” I ask.
Ten days after she is spayed, she is finally allowed outside off leash. As she comes trotting inside, fresh blood drips in her wake. Panicking, I conclude her guts are on the verge of spilling onto my kitchen floor but upon inspection, see that she has ripped open one of the non-weight bearing pads on her leg. Note- the alarm is less for the severity of the wound and more for the quick calculation of the impending vet bill. In case you are keeping track, this is now unexpected expense number three looming for this dog that I promised would be no trouble. We have already decimated Asherel’s piggy bank savings, so now we have no choice but to consider liquidating IRAs or robbing a bank.
I clean the cut, a little tenuously at first since I have never handled her when she was injured before and don’t know how she will respond. She is completely submissive, allowing me to look at the deep cut, clean it, and wrap an antiseptic pad on it. Not sure if it is deep enough for stitches, I bring her to the vet, hoping they will examine the cut while checking her spay stitches, and perhaps give her the go ahead for normal activity. Asherel can’t wait for her to get the "all clear" so she can continue her agility practice again. So we traipse off, once more, to our home away from home, the animal hospital. While the spay wound is healed enough that she can resume jumping, the pad needs stitches now The good news is that since the stitched area is not in her paw but on the back of her lower leg, she will be able to walk or jump without any trouble.
Unlike our experience with the spaying, the moment we get home and take off her bandage per vet instructions, she promptly removes a stitch before I can say, "watch our money go flooding out the door like the Nile". I figure the three remaining stitches will be adequate, re-tape her foot, and hope all will be fine. It is not. Within an hour she has removed the tape and is working on stitch number two. We have no choice but to try the Elizabethan collar till the vet reopens in the morning.
Honeybun is a smart dog, but the E collar apparently sucks her brain out and pushes it into her rear end, decreasing effective cognition. She walks into walls, and then stands there, stuck, because she doesn’t realize she can walk backwards. Or she walks into the chair, and remains stoically disconsolate, head lowered, for hours if we leave her, until we take pity and pull her back. She goes to drink, and dumps the bowl countless times as the E collar smashes into its edge, toppling it. I am wondering if it would’ve been easier just to amputate her foot.
The vet glues the wound back toget
her and warns me to never remove the E collar.... for ten days. We begin counting seconds, stretching into interminable minutes as Honeybun pathetically looks at us, her woebegone eyes framed in the white plastic cone. Ten days? We can't leave the house because we know if we do she will spend the whole time stuck on a piece of furniture. She tries to go out the dog door, and her head goes through, but not the collar. She stands there, head in the great outdoors, and bottom still inside, unable to figure out what to do. This may be why it is human beings that drive cars and develop computers, because dogs, while highly intelligent, don't adapt to technology.
I construct a temporary booty to cover the stitches, knowing none of us will survive ten days with the E collar. An old backpack is called into service for a plastic outer coating which will hopefully keep the booty dry when she goes out, and keep her teeth from ripping it when we aren’t watching her every nanosecond. A sock taped around her leg a few inches above and then below the wound is added to our makeshift armor. I only slip the plastic part of the booty on when she goes outside or when we are not right there guarding her. As long as we watch unceasingly, she leaves it alone. Impressed with my ingenuity, I wonder if I can market the booty to cover the vet bills.
Several field trips and fun outings must be cancelled while we are on dog watch. These long dreary hours afford me uninterrupted periods of deep thought, and I pull out my diary to write the same sentence one hundred times- "Drive by dying dogs no matter what."
Oodles of time stretch before me to ponder what my impetuosity has gained us. We are several hundred dollars poorer, living in a state of constant tension, with Lucky lurking in the shadows avoiding possible confrontations. Our house has a fine layer of red-gold fur accumulating at an alarming speed. My homeschool days are frequently interrupted with visits to the vet, power walks twice a day with the dogs, and ongoing instruction and training as I pour over a constant stream of dog obedience books. American History and Algebra take a back seat to “Basic Wild Dingo Control”. We have been forced to come to the uncomfortable realization that we are horrid dog owners, and the one dog we thought was good is an underhanded, disobedient instigator, and as much a problem as the dog we rescued.
Honeybun, oblivious to the turmoil she is stirring in my soul, follows me wherever I settle in the house, curls at my feet with her little booty tucked beneath her, nibbles a snout pit, and lies down. Her languid eyes gaze rapturously upon me, until they slowly drift closed and within seconds she is snoring. I am still commiserating. Lucky lies down nearby, and I realize that he has not been barking so continually, incessantly, annoyingly to both us and the neighborhood. Nor has he attempted an escape in a month.
The ten days somehow pass and finally with the walking money pit now whole and stitch free, it is time for obedience class to start. We have been filled with excitement and trepidation over this next hurdle in Honeybun's rehabilitation. I do not want to share too much information on the class application regarding our concern that Honeybun might kill every animal and person in the class, as they may have reservations regarding our participation. However, it is prudent to give them some insight into our fears so they can have trained sharpshooters nearby.
We arrive an hour early so we can chat with the instructor about Honeybun's "issues". It is readily apparent that the instructor's philosophy is totally different from Malta's. This instructor is the equivalent of some people who believe if we just were nicer to terrorists, they wouldn't fly airplanes into our buildings. She is very sweet, and assures me that the answer to Honeybun wanting to rip the intestines out of visitors is not whips or discipline, but more treats! She proposes that Honeybun sees visitors as a bad thing, and my response of restraining her and screaming at her as she tries to remove their fingers from their hands is just exacerbating the situation. She needs to know visitors are good, and so I should have them give her lots of treats. While all for positive reinforcement, this trainer's approach is so different from Malta's that I immediately suspect the quality of the class we have signed up for. I trust Malta, who has saved our lives, in my opinion. Honeybun while far from healed, is certainly better than when we first found her. It did tickle the back of my mind, however, that what this trainer is saying makes some sense. Are we doing the right thing? Yes, Honeybun is better, but far from perfect. Is Malta’s tactic the best one?
This philosophy of "ignore bad behavior and reward good behavior" is how the trainer approaches the obedience class as well. The pitfalls of this approach are manifested immediately. When the class arrives, one dog barks like a metronome. None of us can hear a word the trainer is saying because no one tries to quiet the dog since we are ignoring bad behavior. The fact that this particular bad behavior is impossible to ignore does not dissuade our brave leader. A little dachshund dog on a retractable leash ziplines into Honeybun's face. Oblivious, the owner misses the looks Asherel shoots him as well as Honeybun's menacing stillness. I glance at the trainer, who has been clearly forewarned that if a dog gets in Honeybun's face, all bets are off as to whether we leave the floor slippery with blood or not. Asherel quietly moves a few seats away from the dog. The trainer is so busy ignoring bad behavior that she doesn’t seem to notice the impending disaster. The little hot- dog continues to pull over to torment Honeybun. Finally, I can stand it no longer. Not anxious to undermine the person supposedly in charge, I feel I have no choice if the trainer is not going to prevent the inevitable carnage that this little dog is about to cause.
“Please sir, if you like your dog, I would advise you keep him away from my dog.”
I am not sure he hears me since he is ignoring his own bad behavior. The barking dog keeps barking, the retractable dog keeps walking up to Honeybun and tempting death by decapitation, and a young Bull Terrier keeps wagging its tail and bounding about with typical puppy exuberance.
Asherel's friend, Lucy is in the class at our suggestion. Her dog Max is well behaved and under control. I am feeling increasingly embarrassed over my recommendation of the class to Lucy. Sitting nearby, her father and I exchange quick glances. The other completely uncontrolled dogs remain apparently unnoticed by the trainer. The din continues unabated, while the bad dogs remain bad, and the trainer smiles complacently. We sit there for twenty minutes, trying to listen to the instructor above the noise, wondering when class will start. She is talking, but it is difficult to hear, and as far as I can tell, we are not yet doing anything but ignoring bad behavior. Since this is the focus, it is good there is so much bad behavior to ignore. Honeybun is a model student. Despite all our voiced concerns to the instructor, Honeybun is the calmest and most attentive dog in the class. After a short time, the man with the retractable dog asks if he can trade his dog in for Honeybun. Not on your life, I think, though I smile sweetly.
The trainer is very personable, but as twenty minutes pass while I wait for class to start, she suddenly informs us that class is over. The only thing the dogs have learned is "look at me" with a treat by our eyes, and "touch" with a treat in our hand. Honeybun's obsession with food holds her in good stead for this difficult maneuver and she is a star with her riveting attention on the treat. This is all we are to learn tonight? Something every dog knows instinctively- when food is swung in front of his face, to keep his eye on it? I am very disappointed, though we all smile like we have just had a college physics class, revealing wonders of the universe. We all sit there, waiting. Surely she is kidding. Even the bad dogs look incredulous. Then the instructor chirps, "Ok, so we will see you next week."
We decide that must be the cue that indeed class is over. Had I unknowingly had an epileptic fit and checked out of consciousness for most of the class? As we file out, still a bit puzzled that class is over when we were never quite sure it had exactly begun, the puppy jumps on Honeybun. Honeybun, with infinite patience and dignity, gives a low warning growl, causing Asherel to quickly jerk the leash. With disdain, Honeybun trots quietly on, disengaging from the exuberant puppy. That was the most instructive moment of the cl
ass for me. Honeybun will conduct herself with reserved dignity and control around other dogs, even other dogs with comatose owners. However, I am determined to un-enroll her from the class. A phone call the next day expressing our concern gets us our money back, and praise from the trainer that our dog really belongs in an advanced class, and Asherel has a future in dog handling.
The next day, I call the oldest dog training club in Charlotte hoping to convince them to suspend the minimum handler age requirement. Explaining our situation, I promise to stay the whole class time, and convince them my eleven year old handler has more control of her dog than all the adults in the class we have just attended. They agree to let Asherel in the "rally novice" class. While elated, I know we are taking a bit of a leap of faith. "Novice Rally" assumes a basic level of obedience classes have been mastered. Honeybun has had no classes, but she obeys at home with no distractions. Still, when she is surrounded by dogs and people, it might be a whole different story. I explain that the trainer at her last obedience class told us that our dog was beyond a beginner level. They seem to accept this, and are willing to give Asherel a chance. The Rally class is not full, so there will be less dogs and people around than in other classes. We all hope this will be a good testing ground for the unpredictable Honeybun. Fortunately, the class doesn’t start for a month, so we have some time to prepare Honeybun and soften those rough edges. Maybe file her teeth……
I'm Listening With a Broken Ear Page 6