With the rain unabated, I email my art class, my Sunday school class, and my Destination Imagination group with the appeal for blankets, towels, and dog food. There is no one else I can think to accost. Having never sold even a Girl Scout cookie because I hate asking others to support anything I do, this somehow seems worthy enough to grovel and beg.
Sunday, LCR collection pick- up day, dawns overcast and grey. Oh dear. I have been up from 12-4a.m., unable to sleep. On my morning run, it sprinkles a little, which concerns me. Will people leave things out in the rain? After church, Asherel and I wait anxiously for 2:00 which is the pickup time designated in the appeal letters. It is now sprinkling steadily outside. As I walk to the car, a neighbor drives up and hauls out a fifty pound bag of dog food.
"I didn't want it to get wet," she explains.
We drive around the block, spotting bags marked “LCR” sprinkled like wild flowers all along the route. I collect over two hundred pounds of dogfood, fifty towels and twenty blankets. On the porch is a little note with two cans of dog food and a bone. It’s from a friend who is a pastor’s wife. They are in the process of selling their home and the church building as times are tough and money is rapidly vanishing. Funny how that tiny offering fills my van with the glow of heaven.
Dear Lord,
I am humbled by the kindness of others. Thank you for the outpouring of food by strangers to discarded dogs they have never seen. Thank you for the spirit of selflessness that I have perhaps not noticed often enough. Create in me a spirit that would seek to comfort others who have no hope of repaying me for the sheer delight of being more like you.
I pray for the dear widow and her family that I met this week. Thank you that I can offer something that is useful to them. I have to say, Father, I did not expect reducing my income purposefully to feel so good…..
Thank you for helping Lucky overcome his fear of toasters. I suppose all fears look equally ridiculous to you. After all, if we truly believe that you love us, you who made heaven and earth and can silence any storm, then we really ought to understand that whatever you bring is for the best. Yet how much of my life is controlled by fear? Too much. I fear rejection so I don’t tell others about you strongly enough. I fear failure so I don’t start difficult tasks. I fear loss so I hold too tightly to what I really need to let go.
Please Lord, help Honeybun to let her fears go, to know that she no longer has to fear the strangers in her life. They are not there to kick her any more. She is safe, and beloved.
Oh my, dear Lord. So am I, aren’t I? Amen. Amen.
CHAPTER 11 Determination
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
William Butler Yeats
Asherel and Honeybun prepare to attend the third private agility class with Deb, but Asherel is worried. She has been faithfully working with Honeybun on her agility practice in the back yard, and for the past week, Honeybun seems disinterested. Asherel has a high value "cookie"- luncheon ham. That can’t be the problem. But Honeybun lackadaisically trots up to the jumps, sometimes half-heartedly jumping but often walking around them. She weaves at a snail's pace. She refuses to come when Asherel calls, and instead sniffs the grass. I glance outside a few times and wonder what is up with Honeybun.
Right before class, Asherel stumbles inside crying.
"She won't do it, Mom," she mutters with little chokes of crying. It is clear she has been frustrated into tears for a while.
"Maybe she is tired," I suggest, "I did take her on a five mile run today. Maybe you should just work her on the weaves."
"I did!" wails Asherel, "She just stops and sniffs every one."
"I don't know what to tell you," I comfort helplessly, "Maybe it is her ear infection. Maybe the medicine makes her feel sick."
Or maybe she is just weary of all the demands of civilized life. I know I am. The long runs to exhaust the dogs, the constant surveillance reading any signs of imminent viciousness, the expensive classes and vet bills, the rolling, and whipping, and interminable future of never relaxing….. I can see why Honeybun might be tempted to just pack her suitcase and return to the ticks and the swamp.
We traipse to class hoping Deb will spark some fire in the disinterested dog. While hoping this is just a passing problem, I feel a little worried and sad for Asherel. She loves the prospect of Agility trials with this dog. She has been working towards this dream for years, with her attendance over the years at all the area Agility trials, working with Lucky, and finally Honeybun. What if Honeybun decides she just doesn’t want the fame and fortune, the talk show circuit of world-renowned agility stars? What if all Asherel’s determination leads to nothing?
We warn Deb that Honeybun seems under the weather. Surprisingly, Honeybun perks up and while still somewhat slowly lumbering through the course, she attempts everything. She looks better than she has all week, at least. Relieved, I realize how cautiously hopeful we have been rolling towards a goal. How very dismaying it would be to stop short of it. It is not such a big thing, entering an agility trial, but it is the spark that sometimes was all that lit a very dismaying darkness, and I want it now as much as Asherel.
Deb has the full sized A- frame set up, which is quite tall and quite steep. Honeybun has only done the smaller, tottering A- frame that Asherel built up to that point. Yet, Honeybun clambers up it without pause. She has to scramble to make it over the apex, and then scramble to keep from tumbling snoot over tail on the way down, but she does so fearlessly. Asherel resumes her more typically content and happy demeanor, and I exhale.
While the calmness and passivity might not be the right attitude for Agility, it is actually working in her favor in the rest of her life. She is becoming a stable, gentle, almost reliable dog. When we return home, a meat salesman rings the doorbell, and Honeybun skids into the door and leaps up on it, barking as usual. I walk over calmly, smack the whip, and order her back. I have the routine down pat. I dream about smacking whips and rolling dogs.
"Just one moment," I say politely to the meat man, and then smack the whip again and command Honeybun to sit. Amazingly, she does. She wags her tail and makes little anxious moaning sounds, but she remains sitting while I open the door. The salesman looks concerned.
"I don't hit her with this," I explain, waving the whip, "She is in training."
He still looks worried, as the door is open, but says tremulously, "Well good luck with that."
As he makes his pitch, my eye remains on Honeybun. Every time she twitches as though to stand, I point the whip at her, warning her to stay. She has never listened to me off leash with such a tempting intruder like a salesman, but she is listening this time. The poor meat man doesn’t know that I have no intention of buying his meat but am just enjoying the opportunity to train our dog. Strangers are hard to come by. He keeps a wary eye on her, while trying to sail gracefully and convincingly through his shtick. Finally I put both him and Honeybun out of their misery.
"Thank you, but I don't eat meat," I say and he swirls gratefully away.
At that point, as the door closes, I release Honeybun, telling her what a good dog she is. She remains quiet as she watches the meat man drive away. Why, if she is so good, did I not buy her a small sirloin?
This day is also the final art class for the year. Asherel asks if she can put Honeybun on leash during class and not crate her since she has been doing so well. I agree. As the kids file in, Honeybun doesn’t even bark. She wags her tail, and she sniffs all the kids, and then lies at Asherel's feet. This is all very encouraging. Anders will be home in two days, and all signs are pointing to Honeybun not leaping to suck out his ey
eballs. That will be the final test for me of Honeybun's complete rehabilitation. If she sweetly welcomes Anders, then I am ready to call her completely cured. At that point, I intend to take a long nap.
The day finally arrives when he flies home for Christmas. Anders works in Boston in a start-up business he and three MIT friends are developing. We last saw him in June, when we attended his graduation from MIT. I have been sending weekly updates on Honeybun and our trials and tribulations. He is busy starting the new business working nonstop, and it is likely he has not read any of the emails, however. Even if our life was remotely interesting, he is too swamped with the demands of this new job to read my many updates.
Anders has a sweet gentle core, but sometimes you have to be willing to dig a little to find it. His exterior demeanor comes across a little differently. He is very quiet, and very serious. Though keenly intelligent with perceptiveness that often surprises me, he is not interested in most conversations. He can be curt, and gruff, and distant. He doesn’t seem very people oriented at all, but I may misread him at times. As with Honeybun, I don’t always read the signs correctly. And as with Honeybun, I am determined to get past his bite.
His world is of the intellect. Most of social intercourse confuses and bores him. He has always been silently communicative with babies and animals, but people in general hold little interest for him….at least people who don’t know what a “release candidate kernel” is, which is 99.999% of the world. He is very tall, and a young man- just the sort of threatening presence Honeybun displays her remaining aggression towards.
As we drive back from the airport, we prep Anders on how to greet Honeybun.
"She is really very sweet," I assure him, and myself, "But she can be funny when meeting people, especially when they first walk in. So, we will go in first and put her on leash. You wait outside until we tell you it is ok."
He nods.
"She has never bitten anyone," I assert (but not because she hasn't tried, I don’t add.)
I urge him to ignore her when he enters the laboratory, er, home.
Anders quietly stands on the porch as the dogs come crashing to the door, barking and leaping for joy. Honeybun stands with her nose pressed against the window, wagging her tail.
Asherel goes in first, like the Marines, and snaps the leash on the overjoyed Honeybun. Lucky squishes between her legs and races over to Anders. It has been a year since Lucky last saw Anders, and he is beside himself with delight.
"OK," I say, holding open the door, "Come on in Anders."
Honeybun is busy licking all of us, dashing from one to the other, when she looks up and sees Anders. She moves toward him, that piercing still look on her face, tail still wagging. His face was the same unperturbed look he has worn since babyhood.
"Hello Honeybun," he says.
She licks his hand.
Despite my instructions to ignore her, a second later, he is kneeling and petting her. Funny how animals see right through all the flotsam and jetsam of the outer rings of character. Honeybun ignores the gruff, silent, and towering exterior and plows right through to the kindness of his soul that reveals itself cautiously and rarely. Later, I see him silently returning her stare, and am about to warn him to stop, that that is perceived as a challenge to a dog, but then she leans against him, and he pets her.
I am taking notes in my head. What is it about the dog that is bringing out such a quiet gentleness in my gruff son? I suspect it is her unquestioning and unconditional acceptance of who he is. She is not telling him he looks like a wet mop with those shoulder length corkscrew curls. She is not asking him if he is content, financially solvent, or has brushed his teeth. She is just leaning against him with her silky soft presence.
It is almost Christmas, near the end of one of the most challenging years of my life. It seems a lifetime ago that we found Honeybun. All those struggles so sharp and cutting early on are blurring to a softened haze of memory, morphing to the image that fills my heart now. She is not perfect, but then who is? It is an incomparable joy for me to have all my children home, however briefly. Anders goes right to work fixing all the things that have gone wrong with all our computers since he last fixed them for us. I sit nearby with a good book, while Matt, Asherel, and Arvo watch a football game. Lucky tries to inch his way up on the forbidden couch, and Honeybun lies near Anders' feet, her unblinking eyes watching him. One ear is cockeyed, and one ear is up, alert, listening. I try to mimic her as much as I can this visit, and it is largely peaceful, though flies by in near silence. This is difficult for me and I cry as his plane whisks him back to Boston, so much unsaid. Goodbye son. Honeybun gently licks me, a rare gift, when I return home.
Things are going so well that I begin to open the door to friends without leashing Honeybun. I tell her "back", smack the whip on the ground and hold it threateningly. Lucky nearly always manages to get around me. I need eyes all around my head and ten arms to keep both dogs under control. Since Honeybun is the less reliable in terms of aggression, I focus on her. Sometimes I even open the door to children without my whip in hand. She seems to universally like kids now. That is a huge worry off my heart.
I schedule a farm field trip, and add my services as an art teacher to entice more students. We will draw one of the farm animals under my instruction. The information is sent out to all my email groups, and my homeschool network. An immediate flood of responses pour back. Ten kids sign up the first day, at $15 per person. Malta can accommodate twenty. Maybe I can be useful! That is $150 already for the farm, and a likely $300 by the time the field trip deadline rolls around. That feeds Malta’s animals for at least a week…..
With Malta and Will now working seventy hour weeks, seven days a week, she does not have the time to work with her rescued horses. They need a "humane horse trainer" which she is willing to train. She sends an email plea to her “farm friends” list. I write back instantly intrigued.
"Do Asherel and I qualify as a humane horse trainer? She has worked with horses since age 5, and I worked with them a lot when I was growing up, and was on the college riding team. I am rusty, but I think I could relearn pretty quickly. I am making no promises, but can you tell me what is involved?"
Malta quickly responds,
"Safety is the big issue. You would need helmets. I can train you in an hour and you could come whenever you were able. It involves basic building trust with humans- no dressage for a while..... things like feeding, brushing, picking hooves. Sadie won't even let anyone touch her yet. I just don't have the time to work with her. She needs to learn that not all humans are monsters."
We meet in a week to go over the details. When informing Arvo that Asherel and I will be volunteering to work with the horses since Malta doesn’t have time, he yelps, “My daughter will be working with wild horses?"
"No, not wild, just psychotic."
"Great," he answers.
"We will be wearing helmets," I assure him.
Meanwhile, we decide that with the economy in shambles and interest rates at an all time low, it is time to refinance. The appraiser shows up at lunch time. We are ready with Honeybun on leash. When she sees Chad the appraiser, she reverts to the fiend she had been months ago. She lunges, snaps, snarls, and barks. The only thing she doesn’t do is pull out a gun, and I think if she had opposable thumbs, she would have. We jerk her back like Malta taught us, yelling "Enough!" in deep baritones. Will my life never be normal again?
"She does have some aggression issues, doesn't she?" notes Chad.
“Oh she is much better,” I claim. He can of course see that for himself.
The entire half hour he is at our house, Honeybun unveils her wild demon. Sometimes Asherel has the leash, and when Chad is within biting range, I take over. She sits quietly when he is in the room a while, but each time he moves, she flies into a rage of barking and lunging. She gags as I snap her back, time after time.
When Chad leaves and I reattach my arm, Asherel pets her and proclaims cheerily, "That wen
t well. She was pretty good."
I stare at Asherel.
"Good for what? A convicted murderer?"
Writing to Malta, I inform her that her Honeybun training days are not over.
She writes back and assures me the problem will be easily solved, but is too busy to think straight right now. I am getting the sense that Malta is cutting me loose. She has given me the tools and now I am required to plow forward on my own. I have been puffing up a little too much, and now is deflation time. A needle in my pride is not welcome, but some would argue, necessary at times. We have had this dog over six months now, and there is still so much work to be done. I have no choice but to be impatiently patient. Stick with the program. Stop whining.
However, I am feeling a little overwhelmed yet again. So much to do. On top of all the demands of home school, I am busy with my various roles as team manager for DI, Sunday school teacher, and art class teacher.
"Sometimes I wonder why I teach this class," I complain to Asherel, "I just don't have the time with homeschooling and all the other things we are doing!"
With this admirable attitude, I open the door to my little art group. They set busily and happily to work, when one straggler comes in- quiet, late, subdued. She is normally cheerful and talks a mile a minute. Not today. She has also forgotten a picture to draw from. So I give her my pile of photos saved for such emergencies, and she quietly leafs through them. She chooses a beautiful peaceful scene and tells me this reminds her of Texas and so she will draw this one. I give her some instructions and am about to scurry on to the next child amidst the controlled mayhem of the chattering class, when she asks if she can tell me why she chose that picture.
I'm Listening With a Broken Ear Page 19