"Do you have to paint it two colors?" argues Arvo.
"Yes," persists Asherel, "The bottom third is yellow. That is the contact zone. The dog knows all its paws have to touch there." (I wonder how they knew that, being as dogs are color blind, but Asherel is doing so well wrapping us around her little finger that I do not bother to ask.)
$135 later, we walk out of the store. Arvo is ominously silent. I suspect he is beginning to add up how much this “free” dog is costing us, and is not liking how many times he is carrying numbers to columns parading leftward. However, as he unloads the purchases, he begins to metamorphosize. He likes to build things. It is dark, but he advises Asherel to come out with him now and they will get the A-frame started to the point where she can do the rest herself. By porch light, they install the hinges, the eyebolts, and the chain to keep it from collapsing. They finish the bright red taping of the weave poles.
With still a half hour till bedtime, Asherel collects some green material and the sewing machine, and makes Honeybun an elf cap. The Kennel Club is having Christmas photos taken for the dog's graduation from class next week. Asherel will wear a Santa hat, but she wants Honeybun to be an elf, her helper. The little green cap with its zigzag edges, bell on top, and elastic to hold it on is a work of art. Honeybun raises a sleepy head as Asherel tries it on her. She looks at me, the bell on her hat slightly jingling.
She does not seem at all nonplussed by wearing an elf cap. She had accepted with equanimity the little doggy sweater Asherel made a few weeks ago, complete with the embroidered words, “Dogmatic Dingo" on the side. Honeybun has become the model of patient sufferance. She seems to have an uncanny grasp of what is worth getting upset about. A dog stealing dinner is worth killing over, but wearing an elf hat is only a minor annoyance.
We are already gone to our field trip on the day Will comes to pick Honeybun up for her sty removal. We return home to Lucky, alone, looking a little confused, but happy to see us. We are amazed at how silent the house is without the excited prancing and clicking of Honeybun's toenails on the wood floor. No waggling wildly gyrating body, licking us for the only moment of the day that her enthusiasm becomes so overwhelming that she has to lick. I write to Malta:
"Help! Someone has kidnapped our valuable Carolina Dog! Do you have any knowledge of the perpetrator of this crime? The only evidence we see is a trail of blood leading from the dog door."
Malta writes back that she has effectively proven our house can be easily burglarized.
"Honeybun barked, and then ran, and Will grabbed her. Lucky just stood by watching... no barking, no attempt to save his sister. So much for your attack dog biting the intruder."
I guess every victory involves a loss. She continues with her email telling me Honeybun is mingling with the other dogs, like she has always been there. Malta will bring her to the vet in the morning.
Meanwhile, we have little time to worry about the morning and Honeybun's upcoming ordeal. The next day is Election Day, and I have run a Kids’ Voting booth for fifteen years. Asherel and I are volunteering all day on this historic Election Day. As an American, I am always excited by the blessing of freedom and being able to vote. I call the vet midday, and am assured all has gone well, Honeybun is fine, and on her way back to Malta's. I am instructed to put some antibiotic cream in her eye four times a day, and take her back to our Charlotte vet for the stitches out in two weeks.
Will returns Honeybun the following morning. She looks fine, with just a little swelling in the eyelid. We watch her carefully to see whether she needs the Elizabethan torture collar to keep her from scratching out her stitches. Alas, she starts rubbing at her eye, and we have to put the collar on. That is easy compared to putting the antibiotic goop in her eye. I cuddle her on my lap and put her head under my arm in a vise grip. She looks at me woefully, but is silent and still. I squeeze a drop in, and the sweet long-suffering Honeybun blinks and lays still for whatever further torture I might care to inflict.
That evening, she will be required to wear her elf hat for her Christmas portrait. She lays her head down as the big plastic cone around her neck rustles, and heaves a long deep sigh. I hope she is not remembering fondly the good old days when ticks in the ear and starvation were the only atrocities she had to suffer.
When we were first dealing with all the issues of aggression, and working with Malta regularly, eager to heal everything and be done, I asked her countless times when we would overcome completely whatever issue we happened to be discussing. How will I know when I can let her loose when strangers arrive....how will I know when I can feed the dogs with Honeybun off leash.....how will I know when she will be safe to let children pet her....etc?
Malta, with barely restrained patience sighs and tells me, "You will just know. I can't tell you when that will happen for you. But you will know."
Yes, but what should I look for? What behavior will be the tip off? How long do such cases typically take?
"You will just know," Malta repeats. I know from what she has often said about how she has to be diplomatic with all the idiots in the world, that at these moments, I am another one of these babbling idiots. It doesn’t matter. I do not need Malta's approval as much as I need a checklist. Tell me what to expect and when, and let me check it off. It works for groceries, and household chores. Surely it holds true for killer dogs.
Sigh. "Vicky, if it were me, I would let her off right now. But if it makes you nervous, you need to wait till you are not nervous or she will pick up on that and do exactly the awful thing you expect her to do. Trust me. You will know."
I know I do not look convinced.
"You will learn to read her body language," Malta offers.
Finally, while Honeybun's eye is recuperating, her top-heavy cone head drooping in the E-collar, I just know at last! I can feed the dogs separated, but off leash. After all, even if Honeybun attacks Lucky, the cone will smash into him and her teeth will not even get close. I put down Honeybun's bowl, and guide her cone around the bowl. It is very sad to watch her try to eat her food with the cone on if no one helps her. She has to center it exactly right on the bowl, or she is stopped a tantalizing few inches from the food, by the edge of the cone resting on the bowl. Sometimes as she struggles to reach it she tips the bowl over. I center her and shove her head into the food, and then call Lucky to his corner of the kitchen and put down his food. He looks pointedly at me, and then at Honeybun, and starts to run away. If he had full command of English, he would be saying, "You idiot! Do you not remember how that she- devil tried to kill me over my kibbles just three short months ago? Have you lost your mind? Why is she not restrained?"
I catch Lucky and bring him back to his food. He eats, with one eye on Honeybun. She finishes, and with the telltale whapping sound of her cone crashing into the wall as she turns from her food, Lucky is out the dog door. Honestly, I cannot blame him. He clearly does not trust her off leash.
The next day, while putting down Lucky's food as he prepares to run, I add some chicken broth to his bowl. He loves chicken broth. If it were to be his last meal, so be it, he says, as he settles down to eat.
Honeybun finishes- she always finishes first, and then thwaps her cone head into the wall, and sits down. She looks at me, and then stares at Lucky. She doesn’t get up, or approach him, but her unblinking gaze never wavers. Lucky slurps up the last morsels, licks his bowl, and turns away. Honeybun then walks over to the empty bowl. I cheer. She clearly understands she is not to go near his bowl till he finishes, and she shows no aggression. I honestly had thought she would never be trustworthy around food. This is bountiful grace and mercy to a poor stumbling fool! I am feeling so confident, I may even be ready to try poaching an egg, a skill that is tantalizingly elusive.
Meanwhile, as the dreary cone- head days drag interminably on, Asherel continues working on the A- frame. She glues the struts on, and then Arvo helps her set it up so she can paint. The top 2/3rds will be a lovely purple, and the "contact zone" a bright lemo
n yellow. It is a glorious fall day.
She is intently measuring and drawing; the paint cans at her side. I take the dogs on a walk, to give Honeybun a respite from her e- collar, and upon returning notice that Asherel has completed the purple section. After I read the paper, I peek out and the yellow contact zone is painted. I wonder what the neighbors are thinking, watching the lawn slowly metastasizing into something out of the Animal Planet channel. Right on our border stands the eight foot A-frame, bright purple and yellow. Hopefully the neighbors will think of it as modern art.
The next to last rally class day arrives, and despite her newly stitched eye, Honeybun is anxious and happy to go to class. Picture day! She trots in, wearing the green elf cap Asherel has made her, and Asherel is dressed in her Santa hat and red and green holiday sweater. This is my shy, fade into the woodwork daughter. The transformation is not just happening to the wild dingo.
It is also the day for the official rally test, with Lloyd scoring the contestants on an official rally course and official rally sheet. Honeybun, with her weeping stitched eye and elf cap is certainly not in top condition for this.
"Ready?' asks Lloyd to Santa Asherel and Elf Honeybun.
"Ready," declares Santa confidently. There is a little jingle as the elf glances up and nods.
Honeybun prances next to Asherel, her elf hat tinkling. It is a demanding course, with spirals, and "fronts" and "finishes".... and 270 degree turns..... Asherel looks imperturbable in her Santa hat. As she trots off the course, Lloyd hands her the score. She receives a single one point deduction because Honeybun sat before lying down on the down command, but otherwise, a perfect score.
It is hard not to fall to my knees and stretch my arms heavenward. Little victories are all the sweeter for having been fought so recently with so little hope of success. The little wild dog wags her tail as I nuzzle against her. Asherel smiles, giving her some cheese.
With the paint dry on the giant A- frame, it is time to test it. Asherel and I excitedly hurry out and hoist it upright from its side-lying position, hooking the chain on one side to keep it at the steep angle. It promptly falls over. We look at each other. Accompanied with the inconvenient tendency of not remaining upright, it flexes when any weight is put on it. Asherel is crestfallen. All that time, effort, and planning to no avail. Oh bitter reality. However she is not one to give in easily to despair. This is surprising considering the genes she has received on her maternal side.
“We could nail a support board on the bottom to hold it upright," she suggests.
I suspect we need another whole piece of plywood nailed to the bottom of each section, and a support on the bottom. Honeybun is curious though and wants to walk up it. She tries, but it is so slick, and steep, and wobbly, that she slides right off.
"And we need sand in the paint," adds Asherel.
She had told Arvo earlier she needed sand to give the dog traction, and he told her she could scoop it up out of the dirt where the sand box used to be. Asherel was silent. Later, as I tucked her into bed that night, she piped up quietly, "Mom, won’t the dirt in the sand make the paint dirty?"
"Yes," I whispered, “We can find you a small bag of clean sand." She smiled and snuggled into her covers, her vision still intact.
But for now, the A-frame is not working. The required fixes seem endless, the process never ending. The parallel between the dog equipment and the dog rehabilitation is too obvious to miss. Doesn’t God ever get sick of sending messages about patience and perseverance? Isn’t once enough?
"I think it is too steep for her to start on," I offer.
So we try lying it across the little doghouse we bought years ago that Lucky never uses, which supports its middle, and keeps the slope gradual, more doable for the scrambling dog. Honeybun successfully navigates on the more gentle slope and even Lucky climbs it though with less alacrity. It is not ideal, but it will suffice for now.
Meanwhile, I am busily planning a field trip for my Sunday school class of sixth grade girls. We are going to Last Chance Rescue, to do whatever Malta needs doing. Ten kids have already signed up, and I write Malta joyfully, eager to give back in some small way all she has done for us.
"Okey dokey," she replies, "I will have snacks and juice for the kids, vodka and brie for the adults."
Should I tell her to study some phrases without swear words in them? Nah.... to ask Malta to stifle any part of her might destroy the totality of her effect. An alpha wolf can't go soft, or in the canine world, she will be eaten. I know it will be an experience these young ladies will never forget, and having never been to the farm yet myself, am very eager myself to see this haven of last chances, this place where creatures no one wants find home.
Dear Lord,
I have been so impatient for success, and you have been granting it all along, slowly…I begin to understand that sometimes you can’t rush growth. I suppose that would be like you closing the door to heaven right now, with so many people who don’t know Jesus and don’t know the path He lights to you. It was really not so long ago that I was blind, didn’t see you, didn’t even want to. But you waited for me and beckoned to me, and persistently held a lantern to light my way. If you had lost patience, I would have remained lost.
How easily I fall prey to despair, when things don’t seem to go along the path I had envisioned, or the obstacles are too many and too unfamiliar. Ha! I never really thought of how my journey is like Honeybun learning to run the agility course. None of those obstacles or convoluted paths must make sense to her… and her progress is slow and she is often stymied. But she is learning that if she keeps her eye on her master, she will be guided and directed. I take my eyes off of you too often Lord. I hit the first obstacle and lose faith that you can guide me even over this! I cry and despair, and look at that frightening path before me and all the obstacles yet to scale…. And want to lie down and scratch fleas.
And you have been so gentle reminding me that every hair of my head is numbered, every step that I stumble has been counted, and every trial that I face has strengthened me and helped me understand a little better the One I am however so poorly staggering towards.
Help me keep my eyes on you Jesus, as I run the course.
Amen
PS- I think we have learned the lesson about how to be poor. What about the lesson on how to be rich? I think I am ready for that one now.
CHAPTER 9 Persistence
The last day of Rally Class arrives. Honeybun's graduation treat, meatballs, are carefully sliced and packed. She still has another day of the E-collar, and then stitches come out, and she will be a graduate of both novice rally, and coneheadness. She dances around my feet, sniffing the air, and salivating with the meatball scent drifting through the house. Asherel is sure she knows this is rally night.
"Dogs have a finely developed sense of time," she informs me.
Whatever. Certainly not worth arguing the merits of that observation. I send Asherel out with the dog, the meatballs, and the keys to the car.
"Load, her up," I say, "And I will give Lucky this bone so he doesn't feel left out."
Asherel and Honeybun trot into the night. I feed Lucky the bone which he finishes before I reach the car. I know that, since he is already out the dog door and at the back fence watching us with accusatory eyes as we back out. He really has nothing to complain about. Since Honeybun entered our lives, we now do at least two walks a day, and often three. He is trained in agility by the indefatigable Asherel right after Honeybun’s session, and he has had some discipline instilled in his sorely wanting character. And while her companionship was not necessarily on the plus side of the ledger until recently, Honeybun now likes him, and he likes her. While we are pack members, we don’t speak the language and for all her history of malice towards him, she does know what he is saying in his native tongue. He rarely attempts escapes from the yard anymore, suggesting that he is happier with what he now finds in his fenced- in world. They often sit together in front of the glass doo
r, watching the passersby, and with united ear splitting barks, practice breaking the sound barrier.
"Got the meatballs?" I ask.
"Yep," she asserts, and adds, “Look Mom! She knows where we are going. She is smiling!”
I glance in the mirror. I don’t see a smile. I see dog hair and dirt all over the seat she is on, and I see endless Wednesday nights devoted to endless expensive classes when my heart longs for long soaking baths and inspiring books about patience and kindness.
When we arrive, Asherel begins to gather her things and asks for the light so she can find the meatballs.
"Where are the meatballs?" she asks, sunshine still sparkling in her voice.
I freeze.
"You told me you had the meatballs," I accuse.
"They must be here," she says cheerfully, and proceeds to rip through the many "emergency" items always stored under seats- blankets, jackets, mittens, jack knives, hand cranked radios, ropes, tool kits, flashlights, plastic bags....... everything except meatballs.
"I know they are here," she calls muffled beneath the pile, a little less confidently.
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