I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  Rebekah will probably be in touch with you to discuss the home school group tours and such. This is not my forte. You know if you are interested we are currently seeking out our 2009 board members..... Think about it.... not much to it. No costs involved

  Malta

  I certainly do not need to take on any more responsibility. I am already too busy, with homeschooling, two dogs, my small art teaching business, my own art career, running the Destination Imagination group, teaching Sunday school, and occasionally vacuuming and dusting. Can I possibly add LCR board member to the list?

  As I am rereading the emails and pondering, the early morning sun is streaming through the front window, broken into geometric splashes of gold splattered across the rocking chairs and piano. Honeybun comes up to me dipping her head and wagging her tail. She has already greeted me that morning. In the past, she always wanted to be near, but she rarely sought attention. She clearly likes us in her presence, but that is enough. Lucky, on the other hand, is constantly begging to be pet, or snuggled close to us, lifting his head and ramming it against us, entreating us to wrap every molecule of ourselves around him. But lately, Honeybun comes and wags and looks at me as though she wants something. So I pause in my work, and with an impulsive flood of love for the little dog, scoop her up and lay her on my lap. She is not really a lap dog. She is forty pounds, and doesn’t love being picked up, particularly belly up. But, she lays there, her brows furrowed, and I smell a fishy smell. The vet told me that dogs express those notorious anal glands when nervous. Well, at least that saves a $20 vet visit.....

  I begin scootching her belly and rubbing her neck. She never quite relaxes, but she doesn’t struggle. When I put her down, she scurries away and crashes down on her bed near me. She looks at me with dark unblinking eyes. This evening, Matt will be home for Thanksgiving. She has not seen him since late August. Will she remember him? Will she waggle for him the way she greets us... or will she growl and bark like she still does with strangers? And Christmas is coming soon. How will she respond to my dear Anders, my towering, quiet beloved first born whom she has never met? He comes home so rarely. I care a great deal how welcoming she will be. Will she sense or smell the family connection?

  While wondering.... I am inexplicably not worried. I have the whip if needed and will deal with what catastrophes are sure to develop when they happen. Uncharacteristically, I don’t have a checklist of behaviors that need overcoming in the next month, with little boxes to check off. However, we do have a lot to do over the next few weeks and the calendar is full of scribbled events. The new dog classes start soon, another commitment.

  Asherel walks in and sees Honeybun curled up in her wicker basket, near me. She sits down next to her dog and scratches her near her tail. Honeybun stretches languorously.

  “Look Mom!” Asherel calls, “She’s likes this. She’s smiling.”

  I peer over at the little dog and I don’t see a smile. I see the holidays before us and the uncertainty of newly controlled aggression. I see the calendar filled with obligations, and cold nights coming while standing watching her on the agility field, ready to fend off any potential mauling or marauding. I am far too busy to think about adding a new responsibility. Still, we have made progress. Me and Asherel…. and Arvo, and Malta, and Will, and Lloyd, and Vicci, and Deb, and Nina…..and my neighbors and my friends.

  I decide at that moment to accept the Board of Directors offer.

  Dear Father,

  Please guide me as I ponder taking on more responsibility in an overfull life. I have loved my family well, but I wonder if I have reached out to help others even as willingly as I reached out to help this dog…. And I guess it is no secret to you that “willing” did not always describe my attitude even then. Help me overcome my selfish grasp on my time and energy.

  Thank you for pushing me to persevere. I never envisioned Honeybun winning an award. I think we are both slowly improving, aren’t we? I hope so anyway. I don’t think I have ever had to persist at a task for so long as helping this dog with so little skill and so little chance of success. I am beginning to understand how weary you must be with us thick headed creations who take so long to learn the lessons you so lovingly place before us.

  I didn’t expect a pitbull to ever give me a lesson about tolerance or worth. You really don’t make junk, though. I shouldn’t be surprised by what you use to get through to me at this point. I know I have not looked deeply enough at any of your creation, marveled at each human being as bearing your image, your mark.

  I grow so impatient when my prayers are seemingly unanswered. My parents grow old and as far as I know, have not asked Jesus into their lives. I beg and pour tears across my pillow, but still friends get sick or even die. But I begin to see that the hand that holds me dear holds every creature near, and longs for all of us to raise our eyes and look upon Him with love. We are chewed up, broken, ugly things… but you have placed us on a Trophy shelf, lovingly patted our broken pieces together, and loved us anyway.

  Help me to love like that, to persist like that, to value like that.

  And thank you for what this confounded dog is teaching me about you.

  Amen.

  CHAPTER 10 Selflessness

  Honeybun greets Matt joyfully as he crashes through the door laden with schoolbooks and dirty laundry. She remembers him, or else she is simply healed enough that strangers are welcome, as they invariably mean treats for her. Interestingly, as she is settling deeper into normalcy, Lucky is tending towards psychoses. It is highly likely that Lucky always had that in him, but it took the advent of Honeybun to expose his weak links.

  He has been ricocheting out the dog door when the toaster pops for some time now. Asherel’s desensitizing techniques are not working. We watched the Dog Whisperer show on a similar issue. Unbelievably, there is more than one dog that has Toaster Fear. Cesar, the Dog Whisperer, had the owner put the dog on leash and keep him at her side as she went through her breakfast prep routine. So, Asherel puts Lucky's leash on, and then sits by the toaster. She pops it repeatedly. He flinches and tries to run away each time it snaps up.

  "Pair it with treats," I suggest, "Then maybe he will link the toaster sound with something good."

  Asherel spends the next several minutes popping the toaster, and stuffing a treat in Lucky's mouth. When she finally lets him off leash, he sprints outside. She repeats the same session every morning.

  I have been feeding Honeybun off leash for a couple of months by this time. She is very respectful of Lucky, who is a slower eater. She sits nearby, but doesn’t approach until he finishes. She stares at him, those dark predator eyes unblinking, licking her chops after her own hastily engulfed breakfast. The toaster problem is only indirectly caused by Honeybun. We never used to feed Lucky breakfast. He always had food available, and nibbled at it all day. I have since learned this is what dopes who don’t read dog care books do. With Honeybun’s food issues, it becomes critical that we feed the dogs at the same time. Lucky quickly discerns that if he doesn’t gobble his kibble post haste, the demon dog will arrive with salivary glands dripping like artillery fire.

  Any way, now his breakfast coincides with our breakfast, and he is subjected to those horrifying toaster noises. He gulps a few mouthfuls of food and then runs outside. I pull him back inside, and make some munching sounds to entice him to eat. Sometimes I add some chicken broth, which he loves, and he eats, though warily. When he tries to run away, which he does more and more frequently, I block him and lead him back to his food. Then he stands there, nose in the dog food bowl, but not eating. He is a condemned prisoner, being forced to have breakfast.

  "Eat!"I command.

  He nibbles one bite. Stands there. Head hanging. Tail lowered.

  "You can't force him to eat," cautions Arvo, "Have you called Malta?"

  Amazingly, though it seems impossible, our strange dog becomes even stranger. As soon as Asherel appears in the morning, Lucky no longer greets her joyfully as he did in th
e past. Instead, he leaps out of a sound sleep and gallops to the back yard. With drooping ears, he cowers at the far back edges of the lawn, looking at us, as we stand at the back door wondering what on earth is going on in that nutty terrier brain. I hold up his food bowl and call him in. Honeybun sits nearby, ears perked, begging me to let her eat the stupid one’s food. I can't feed her until Lucky is in or she will certainly be sitting nearby, ready to pounce while he eats. That is not a relaxing dining atmosphere for him. Eventually, he comes inside, and I put down the food bowls. He sniffs, glances at us, and then bolts again.

  I can't figure it out. Since we shop at a wholesale store and get huge bulk bags of dog food, by the late stages of the bag, maybe he is just sick of the food. I begin shopping in regular grocery stores and buying smaller bags of food to keep him interested. I even succumb to purchasing his very favorite food; one that our vet has warned is not as healthy as the ones we had been buying.

  It doesn't matter. His behavior continues, such that he is eating only every other breakfast. Dinner seems thus far unaffected. I pick up his breakfast bowl, and he gets no more food until dinner. His backbone becomes more prominent, and I know he is hungry. He looks eager while waiting for the breakfast bowl, but as soon as it is set down, he skedaddles out the dog door. Then he begins doing the same crazy antics with his dinner.

  "Have you asked Malta what to do?" queries Asherel.

  "I am afraid to," I admit, "She will scream at me."

  I know what Malta will say. A dog will eat if it gets hungry enough. Ignore the stupid behavior, put down the bowl at food time, pick it up in a few minutes and case closed. He will not starve.

  The day before Thanksgiving, I always make most of the meal ahead of time, so on turkey day itself, all that is left to prepare is the turkey and stuffing, and everything else just has to be warmed. I am indeed feeling a little bad about the turkey, picturing Malta's brightly colored Tom strutting and letting the little girls pet him. I had been a vegetarian for fifteen years or so in my young adulthood, just for that reason. I love animals, and would prefer not to eat them, however developed some very strong food allergies. My allergist told me I needed to return to my carnivore roots.

  This thanksgiving, I am making a fresh cranberry relish my sister Amy raves about. Unfortunately, my only food processor is a tiny one cup model. I try using a very old, weak blender, which makes sad whirring noises, and chugs, but doesn’t really chop many cranberries. With no other options, the tiny food processor mulches a half cup at a time and the blender tries as hard as its old motor will allow. The going is slow and arduous, another symbol of patient slogging of which my life is currently replete. I remove the cover off the blender to see how it is doing as it chug chugs sluggishly through the cranberries, and suddenly it surges and spews a mess of staining red cranberry bits all over the floor, the counter and the couch in the room beside the kitchen. Julia Child, I am not.

  "Mom?" calls Asherel, who is nearby as I am teaching her to cook. Someday I want to be sure she also knows how to spew cranberry bits all over two adjoining rooms just in time for her Thanksgiving guests. Learn at the hands of the master, little one….

  "Why is Lucky trembling?" she asks.

  I glance up from my cranberry disaster. Lucky is standing outside the dog door, looking in, and trembling all over, visibly shaking like the shuddering blender.

  Asherel scurries over and hauls him inside. She tugs him onto her lap. Lucky is not a lap dog, indeed at fifty pounds he is even less of a lap dog than Honeybun. However, unlike Honeybun, Lucky loves sitting on our laps. So he curls on her lap (with parts of him off her lap), shaking and trembling. Evidently, his neurosis is growing. No longer is his malady restricted to Toaster Fear. We now have full blown Appliance Fear Syndrome.

  Lucky is in for a rough day. The cranberry debacle takes well over an hour. There is still to come the sweet potato mashing, the bake ahead mashed potato casserole mashing, and then finally the blending for the corn bread casserole. I am in the kitchen most of the day running various appliances. Lucky spends much of the day standing on the deck, watching and shivering in the brisk cold. It is clear the disease has progressed to the point where I need professional advice.

  Dear Malta,

  Having successfully with much gnashing of teeth healed the vicious attack dog Honeybun, I am now faced with a new and even more daunting issue. Lucky has developed a severe case of Appliance Fear Syndrome (AFS). At first, he would just be terrified and run outside if the toaster popped up. Asherel put him on leash and fed him treats while popping the toaster over and over again, for about a week. Then Lucky started racing out of the house every morning as soon as he saw Asherel. During my Thanksgiving cooking yesterday, I was running all kinds of appliances... blenders, food processors.... and Lucky was trembling in absolute fear. He almost never eats his breakfast anymore, though he seems eager for it. When I put it down, (in the kitchen where the dreaded toaster is), he looks at the food and then races outside. I am pretty sure it is connected to AFS. I am hopeful that in your many years of dog rehab, you have encountered AFS before. Do you have any suggestions? Blessings, and Happy Thanksgiving!

  Vicky

  Vicky,

  Yep we can fix this...... I have a fear of chainsaws...... saw Texas chainsaw massacre when I was about 6.... LMAO! True. You may have to germ up your toaster a bit to get him used to it. Sniffs and licks and such. On the other hand you could use the toaster as a control tool.... carry your toaster out on walks with you.... when he misbehaves just whip it out in front of his face. LOL! You need to formally introduce him to the toaster...... Toaster this is Lucky......Lucky meet toaster...... and then introduce him to the rest of the appliance family. You do this casual like... put the toaster or blender in a high traffic area...... or just the blender base...... later add pitcher part and lid..... Couple of hours...... interacting with the blender/appliance in a passive way....... (Not running/turned on). When he can be around them not running and he ignores them we will go from there. (Good place would be by the front door where he has to pass them for walks... or where he likes to walk by most often) Don't plug it in in case he pees on it. (Ultimate dog revenge) lol! Happy T day to you and the fam! No turkey eatin' here!!!

  Malta

  The next morning, I set out Lucky's food bowl, mixing in warm turkey broth to entice him. Honeybun inhales her meal with gusto. Lucky looks at the bowl, and then scuttles out back. I scramble after him, dragging him back inside.

  "Eat," I command, pointing at the food.

  He quakes in his paws and looks at me with terror in his eyes. I stare back.

  As soon as I turn, he shoots past me, back out the dog door. He is truly psychotic, I grumble to myself fumbling for his leash. I catch him, cowering on the back steps, and heave him back over to the kitchen, tying his leash to the closet door near his food. He quivers, every part of him shaking to the tip of his stupid tail. I wait with him. After about ten minutes of shaking, he lies down, still not eating. It is time to put a modified Malta plan into action. Unplugging the toaster and knocking out the crumbs, I put it on the floor near him. Then I grab a doggie snack, and balance it on the toaster lever. Lucky approaches the toaster, nosing it cautiously. Then he pushes it with his nose followed by violent shoving. Repeatedly, angrily, Lucky accosts the dangerous toaster which almost falls over with his savage pushes. With fury, he shoves his face into his food, flipping it wildly onto the floor with his nose. I watch, speechless. It certainly looks like a temper tantrum. It also looks a little bit like Lucky thinks the toaster is alive. He is not going to take it anymore. He is not going to be prey to this nasty toaster anymore. I know it is mean, but I am laughing now, and it does not escape my keen mind that so many of my fears have been ‘toasters’ in my life as well.

  He finally stops and looks at me. The shaking abates.

  Gathering the other appliances, the blender and the mixer, I line them up next to the toaster. He sniffs them, shoves the blender a little,
and ignores the mixer. Then he returns to his food bowl and eats every last morsel. He licks the bowl, devours the food he has dumped on the floor, and lies down to go to sleep.

  The next morning, I call the dogs in for breakfast. As usual, Honeybun is there faster than a squirrel with its tail on fire, sitting before me with smoke coming off her paws as she skids to a stop. Honeybun is never coy about food. Lucky ambles over, wagging his tail. This looks promising. I have prepared a deluxe day after Thanksgiving special, turkey broth mixed in with their kibbles.

  Then I put Honeybun's bowl down, and she submerges her snout before taking another wasted breath. Anxiously, I put the bowl down for Lucky, but he begins eating, slowly wagging his tail. I slip over to the toaster and open my breadbox near it. This is the first sign for Lucky that the world is ending and the toaster is about to come alive. He knows that if he doesn’t dart out back as fast as possible, he may die a horrible death either being toasted or just lightly browned. Remarkably, he continues slurping turkey juice. Next the toaster lever slowly lowers. Lucky remains unfazed. The smell of toast permeates even the turkey smells, but still Lucky laps contentedly. When the toast is almost done, I put my finger on the lever so that the pop is softer, but still quite audible. Lucky keeps eating. Problem solved, as Malta so often says.

  This is a miracle, in my mind. Who would have thought I would find delight in my dog coexisting peacefully with a toaster? Who would think I would find God in a paranoid dog cured of toaster fear? It is my own parting of the Red Sea.