I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  Malta snaps Honeybun back so that her eyeballs bulge while dragging her twenty feet back, roaring, “Enough!!!” Honeybun is certain Malta does not understand what a menace Walt is, the man who travels several months a year to help build churches and homes for struggling people. She snarls again as he moves, which gives Malta the opportunity we have all been waiting for. Malta grabs her ruff and tumbles her down into the “dreaded roll”. Honeybun lays there, tail between her legs, silent. Vindicating me further, once she is allowed up again, she sees Walt move and erupts into Volcano Dog, spewing venom. The dreaded roll descends upon her a second time.

  For several minutes, Walt wanders around my living room as Malta repeats commanding and rolling Honeybun. It takes her an eternity to understand. Walt cringes a little each time the leash is jerked, and I can't say I like watching it either. I am pretty sure Honeybun likes it even less. However, in her current state, we cannot handle Honeybun. We have to know she will not kill the little Girl Scouts who came to our door selling cookies.

  When Honeybun is finally sitting calmly, and looking at me wondering if it really is ok if she lets Walt live, Malta declares it is time now for victim number two. Walt is allowed to leave in one piece. His wife Marge will run the gauntlet next.

  She rings the door bell. Honeybun again barks and lunges, but with a little less gusto. Malta does her alpha dog thing, and Marge plays the victim role. Honeybun is clearly not as anxious to defend my home from the wily and dangerous Marge as she had been with Walt, because frankly, what Malta is doing to her is not too much fun. Malta only has to jerk the leash four or five times, commanding Honeybun, "Enough!" Honeybun's aggression is now reduced to a quick growl, a half hearted lunge, and then she sits looking quietly at Malta. Marge walks back and forth and Honeybun glances back and forth from Marge to Malta. She stays seated however; having figured out that this is the only assurance that she will remain upright.

  It is time for victim number three, Malta announces. Marge rejoins her husband and nods to Carolyn.

  Carolyn now dings the doorbell and marches in. Honeybun grunts some feeble attempts at viciousness, but mostly watches Malta, with one or two half-hearted barks, and glances at me. She begs me to throw these people out and please feed her dinner, which in case I have forgotten has not been served yet.

  Having watched Malta handle our dog with three victims, I am proclaimed sufficiently trained to attempt this myself. With a long history of performance anxiety, I am not thrilled to try this in front of an audience, particularly one that might die by my incompetence.

  "Will you jump in if it looks like she is going to go after Mark?" I implore, "I mean, he is young and has a lot to live for still."

  Malta laughs, assuring me I will do fine; just open the door to Victim #4.

  Taking a deep breath as she hands me the leash, I am ready. I snap Honeybun back while opening the door. She barks briefly, but clearly, her heart is no longer in it. Malta the taskmaster insists I should have dragged her twenty feet back even with mild barking because we need to absolutely squelch all barking or lunging. But Mark is not bitten and I am feeling confident that I can indeed prevent the annihilation of little children entering our home.

  Malta is enjoying herself and as total victory is within her grasp now, she decides to push for a full assault on normalizing this little dog. Carolyn, who is happy to have the free tutorial should she ever acquire a half crazed wild dog is eager to help. Malta orders a group march now so we walk out, towing the subdued Honeybun with us. Marge and Walt have already cut their losses and sneaked home.

  Prompting me to start off with Honeybun heeling beside me, Malta commands us to walk together, and then pass the leash to each other, taking turns walking Honeybun down the street. Her goal is to help Honeybun learn that all humans are alpha dogs, and must be respected. Meanwhile, I glance at my neighbors while passing the leash, hearing their cheers and their joy for me, and feel a little teary. They have given up the better half of a lovely afternoon to help me. They seem genuinely joyful for our communal success. Honeybun glances at them too. Maybe we both have spent a little too long in the solitary wild. It surprises me, this selfless good will. I have lived here for fifteen years, but this is the most time I have spent with my neighbors… ever.

  "She is responding out of fear," Malta tells me as we walk, and the leash is passed to Mark.

  "That is really the hardest aggression to heal, but it can be done. You will need to practice this often. Get your friends to come and ask them to ring the doorbell. She will learn, but it will take time."

  Funny, I have thought of them as neighbors, but not really friends. Carolyn is raising her hand and bobbing her head. “We’ll do that!” she exults.

  And while I am waxing poetic about friends, that nasty old message of perseverance clangs into my consciousness. I am getting mightily tired of Malta’s message that anything worth having with this dog, is worth working for. And even worse, this work will be arduous and time consuming. Goals will not be reached in time for dinner.

  Honeybun trots complacently beside each of us, seemingly unconcerned about who is at the helm. Despite my reservations, my anxiety is draining away. Burgeoning enthusiasm and hope is tapping at my heart. The village has turned out to help me and my poor nutty dog. My little dog, less impressed, emphatically asks, “Can I have dinner now?”

  Malta calls the next day. She informs me she has just left the house of someone with a dog that makes Honeybun look like a choir member.

  "I had a great idea," she cries, "This dog lives just down the street from you. He needs victims to help him train his dog, and you need victims. I was thinking I could get all you people with bad dogs together, and you could be victims for each other."

  I pause and consider her idea, "We could call it the Bad Dog Club."

  "Do you know of any other bad dogs?' she asks.

  "Oh we have lots of bad dogs in the neighborhood," I admit, "The problem is most of them don't know their dogs are bad. It could be sticky inviting them into the club."

  "Well I think we have a movement going," she chuckles, "The guy I just left says he has seen people suddenly all over the place walking their dogs while carrying a whip."

  We are changing the world, one whip at a time.

  Dear Lord,

  Now I see why you had me wait so long for victory. Perhaps I had not trusted enough in what I could not see. I know faith is being certain of what we do not see. When I started this project, I sure didn’t see how much struggle would ensue. I didn’t envision months of perseverance, nor the financial drain, nor the need to trust others. I didn’t expect saving the dog to teach me about friendship…. Or community. I am pretty astounded at how you worked that message in. I hope you are almost done now, because I am getting weary.

  I have learned that good works don’t necessarily mean life will be easy or stress-free. In fact, I think it means sometimes following you involves hardship and duress. I have learned that I am not able to do everything on my own, and sometimes relying on others is a good thing. I also am not very nice to others sometimes… and I do feel a little conviction on that point. And of course, most of all I have learned to be still and trust that you will empower me to accomplish your purposes. Personally, I am thinking those are plenty enough lessons from such a small dog.

  Amen.

  CHAPTER 7 Introverted, Immodest, Isolated

  I have tried to teach all my rather shy, introverted children that they should reach beyond their natural isolationist temperament to try to talk to everyone they meet as everyone has value. I try to teach them while avoiding social intercourse myself because I am shy and not certain I really like people. I prefer to hide in the bushes and shove them forward, and then yell at them for being an introvert. From the vantage point of the sidelines, I expostulate that every person can either teach them something, or perhaps they can be a blessing in some way to that person. Every encounter is a divine appointment, and an opportunity waiting to happen
.

  I want desperately for them to learn this, knowing how hard it is to overcome shyness, that inclination to withdraw within oneself. As a creative, introspective person myself, with an introverted nature, I understand firsthand how talking with people can be a chore. Honeybun is becoming a conduit for opening those floodgates of shyness for both Asherel and me, but I have a long way to travel on the path to social grace. I probably need to get past my pervasive belief that most people are dumbkofs, thick headed morons. Jesus would likely take issue with this but He may not be paying close attention to the “sans cerebrums” in my milieu. Naturally, I do not tell my children this is how I view others, because that might defeat my goal of teaching godly tolerance and love.

  One snappy crisp day in the orange of autumn, Asherel and I are sauntering home from our power migration with the dogs. Out of nowhere, a little ball of bulldog muscle comes racing at us, snarling and in full attack mode. A retractable leash trails ineffectually behind him. (How I have come to despise retractable leashes!) The owner is calling the unneutered and rather overly testosteroned bulldog, but he could not have cared less. He blasts like a torpedo for Honeybun and Asherel. Asherel is an enormously cool kid under fire. It was she that had calmed me down a few months ago when I had almost stepped on a Copperhead snake in our hallway. Now, she calmly tugs on Honeybun's leash so that Honeybun will not attack, and figuring they are fast enough to outrun a bulldog, she sprints away. Honeybun snarls briefly in warning, and then quietly trots off with Asherel. The owner steps on the leash, in a desperate lunge, and the bulldog screeches to a stop, his teeth snapping in the space between him and my child. Asherel stops, completely unflustered, ordering Honeybun to sit. Lucky sits calmly beside me; Honeybun sits calmly beside Asherel, and the bulldog is barking, snarling, lunging. My normal response of smug superiority is dampened by the fact that I recognize up until a month ago, our own sweet dog behaved just like that bulldog. Instead, I sympathize with the mortified owner.

  "I am so sorry!" she yelps, nearly in tears.

  "That's okay," comforts Asherel sweetly. Honeybun lies down, the poster dog of obedience.

  "You have done us a service," I console, "Don't apologize. We have been training our dog for three months not to be aggressive, and this was a really good test."

  The poor lady is still struggling with the bulldog.

  "But if I could offer some advice," I continue, feeling I have earned the right to speak, "Your dog is just what my dog was like three months ago."

  Surprisingly, the lady pours out her heart in response, rather than tell me to mind my own business. She laments about how hard it is, how sweet the dog really is, but how walks have become a nightmare. Her husband refuses to be consistent in disciplining and controlling the dog, and it is growing increasingly difficult for them to handle him. Their marriage is suffering.

  "But I have seen you and your daughter," she states, "I noticed how you always make your dogs sit when we go by. I remember how that one used to bark and pull.... and look at her now."

  "You can do it too," I encourage her, "And the first thing you should do is get rid of that retractable leash. They are dangerous, and you have no control of your dog. And worse, he is going to use the whip like effect of that long lead and injure your arm."

  "Next," I suggest, "Our trainer showed us a magical way to make your dog sit. When dogs go by, you make your dog sit, and be calm. And don’t move on until he is. "

  Her dog is still straining at the leash and growling.

  "Put one finger on either side of the base of his tail and push while saying sit."

  The bulldog sinks into sit, disgruntled but overcome by the pressure point. He doesn’t stay there, but I implore her to keep doing it, and not stop until he gets the idea. He finally sits still, and is blessedly silent.

  "See?" I congratulate, "It will not be easy, but I promise you, if you do that consistently, every time, and don't let up, he will be calm when you pass other dogs."

  After recommending the great books I have read, we talk a long time about how dogs must know they are not the ones in control. I feel good about spreading my infinite, hard won wisdom. As we walk on, I praise Asherel for her cool, calm response and the amazing good our little dog is slowly spreading. Unfortunately, altruism and arrogance are kissing cousins in shallow souls. My deep reservoir of canine knowledge and expertise and the showers of wisdom cascading from my every word can now be collected by bucketfuls. I begin to calculate how soon I should be writing Cesar Milan, the reigning dog expert with my advice. However, I do chuckle at my conceit. Based on past experience, I am probably in for some soul popping deflation within the hour.

  A few weeks later I see the bulldog and owner again. As we pass, her dog sits calmly. She asserts that her husband, seeing the difference in the dog, is now doing the same training method as she, and the whole family is growing closer as a result. I pet the furry marriage counselor at my side. As is clearly evident, I don’t like to brag unless my efforts go unnoticed, but I will not be surprised if the Nobel Peace prize committee is soon knocking at my door. I wonder if I should get my hair cut with the expensive stylist. Again, as these thoughts bump up with the honest joy for the bulldog and his happy owners, I laugh at myself. Will I ever get past these irrepressible spats of self-adulation? Honeybun, on the other hand, ducks away from my congratulatory pats and murmurs of “Good dog!” She is satisfied to be who she is without notice as long as we notice if many hours have elapsed without dog biscuits forthcoming.

  The following day, I am on a run with the dogs, and pass a garage sale. There are kids everywhere, all under ten years old. They are swarming around like ants, carrying piles of things out to the garage sale tables. Of course, they all come racing toward us as soon as they see the dogs. I stop, and the dogs sit. The children swarm over us.

  "Stop. You can pet the big one, but not the little one.”

  Several pairs of large dark eyes peer at us. Honeybun sits, wagging her tail. The very large dad approaches, reaching out his hand to Honeybun.

  "You can pet her if you insist," I warn, "But I don't guarantee she won't bite." This is an example of my endearing gentle nature in social situations.

  He kneels down, and holds out his hand. She wags her tail as he scruffs her neck. I am flummoxed. I thought I knew this dog. Where was all this sweetness hiding? Well the kids will have none of that, Dad petting the forbidden dog, but not them?

  "Can we!!!???" they shout.

  "If your dad lets you," I concede, "But one at a time, and let me put my hand over yours cause she won't bite me." (Probably)

  And my vicious rescue dog lets ten small children, jumping, running, and chattering, pet her without a single snarl, growl, bark or aggressive look. She glances at me often, as if to say, “Is this okay with you? Personally, I could do without it, but if this is part of the program for getting those bones and cushy bed at home, I am ok with it."

  Under normal circumstances, I would never interrupt a run. However, Honeybun seems genuinely to enjoy the attention so I click off my stopwatch. Normally I would not bother chatting with strangers either, but as long as I am stuck at the end of a leash of a happy dog…..

  I learn the mob of children is from two huge families, all homeschoolers. A rather frazzled, weary looking woman, mother to five of the urchins emerges and shakes my hand and pets the dog. The man is married to another woman there, who waves but is busily putting garage sale items out. The frazzled woman asks if I live in the neighborhood.

  "One over," I answer, "I homeschool too."

  "Are you the art teacher!?" she exclaims.

  "Yes," I declare, surprised, “How did you know that?"

  "We lived with some friends- and they have a child you teach. We shared their house for about a month."

  I know about this story! My friends are the family that rescued her! This mother of five children had been tragically and suddenly widowed. She was living in an RV, with all those bereaved kids and little mone
y, when a local Messianic church found out about her. The church told our friends of this sad situation, and despite having five kids of their own, they took the family into their home until the poor widow could find a place to live. I don't know exactly what miraculous circumstances put her in the house where she lives now, but she is settling in, homeschooling her kids, and apparently surviving.

  "I need to talk to you about art classes," she remarks.

  My classes are full already, I think in dismay looking at the five children. Knowing she has little money. I don’t dare tell her my prices anyway.

  "For how many?" I question.

  The little boy who is petting Honeybun looks up brightly.

  "For me!" he proclaims.

  "Are you an artist?" I ask.

  "Yes," he asserts, cuddling his face in Honeybun's luxurious ruff.

  I calculate the number of chairs that can be squeezed around the art table. He smiles up at me imploringly. He is a thin boy. It will be tight, but doable. I am not sure what comes over me but I offer him a place in my class for free. If nothing else, Honeybun seems to like him. When I continue my run a half hour later, I feel my legs stretching out with unaccustomed lightness.

  We wait with mounting excitement for the first class at the Dog Training Club. As the first class is an orientation session, we have been instructed not to bring our dog. As we pull into the parking lot, we are astounded by the number of large vans, and pickup trucks with dog crates in them. Most of the crates have dogs in them. Beautiful dogs. We pass a Bernese Mountain Dog, one of my favorites. Another has a gorgeous tan dog with a wrinkled face.... maybe a mastiff. These are not mutts. Not a half-breed in the bunch. These are champions. Some of the crates have ribbons on them, blue ribbons. We feel instantly intimidated and outclassed.