I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  "It reminds me of Texas, when my dad was alive. 4 years ago he passed away, and today is his birthday," she says sadly, "I want to do it as a memorial for him."

  The class is silent. What do you say to that?

  Putting my arm around her shoulder, I tell her I know that it must be a very hard day for her, and I will help her make it a lovely picture to honor her dad.

  And then I commence feeling like a dung beetle for all my kvetching about how I am too busy to run my art classes or train my dog. We are all called upon to be "guard geese" at times, looking beyond ourselves to the needs of the gaggle. And sometimes it can be in the form of something as mundane as an art class or saving a wounded beast. The little girl does not speak the whole class period, just silently and mournfully spreads pastel fog and water across her paper of grief and comfort.

  The private lessons with Deb have ended, and we have a brief respite before the classes at the dog club will begin. Asherel is signed up for a class called “Contacts”, which means that she will be working with Honeybun over the A-frame, teeter, weaves, pause table, and dog walk. Deb told us she is far beyond beginner level at this point and will be the star of the class. I am not so sure, since there will be many dogs around. She has never done agility work with other dogs. However, Asherel is now feeling very confident.

  The first class is an informational meeting, just like the first Rally class had been. This time when we walk in, we feel entirely different than we had those many months ago when we had first entered the building. Asherel is still one of only two people there not dependent on Medicare, but this time, we greet many familiar faces.

  The general meeting reiterates all the soothing points about all dogs not being friendly, stay out of other dog's "personal space", ask before petting, have fun, etc. Then we break to our small group settings for the specific class in which we are registered. Asherel and I know Vicci, Lloyd’s wife, who is the assistant instructor. We have met Bit, the lead instructor, and respect her just from watching the perfect obedience of her chocolate lab. The first thing out of Bit's mouth is to warn the whole class that Honeybun does not like other dogs in her face, and that everyone is to respect that. Asherel and I stand there like lepers as the others gawk at us.

  "But my dog loves everyone," complains one lady, “She will want to race up to play."

  "But you will have perfect recall, as required in this class," admonishes Bit sternly, "So that won't be an issue."

  Perfect recall? I don’t remember that as being a prerequisite. Asherel and I studiously avoid looking at each other.

  "Remember," reminds Bit, "This class assumes a level of obedience before the dog is ready for performance work. It must be able to come consistently. There will be a lot of distractions and other dogs. Most of our work will be off leash."

  Vicci is smiling, like she always does, and looking encouragingly at me and Asherel nodding like a bobble head doll. I avoid her gaze. Perfect recall? Come consistently? Level of obedience? All those ominous phrases are clanging in my head. Bit asks how many dogs have any experience on agility equipment. Finally, something we can look her in the eyes to respond to!

  Vicci pipes up, "Honeybun has been working with Deb Knowles.”

  Bit looks impressed, "What has she done?"

  Asherel lists the full array of equipment, but admits Honeybun is slow through the weaves.

  The other members have also had agility training. One dog is new to agility, but his owner has competed with other agility dogs. Far from being the hopeful star of the class, it looks like Honeybun will be the dog with imperfect, inconsistent, maybe even absent recall and no more training than anyone else there in agility.

  As we drive home, Asherel perkily chatters, "I can't wait for next week when we start!"

  I am lost in the miasma of doom and gloom, envisioning being handed a yellow paper with giant letters saying “Excused from class by reason of nonexistent recall and gross misrepresentation.”

  "I am not sure about that perfect recall bit," I say morosely.

  Asherel admits that might be a cause for concern.

  "But you have a week..... If you work on it really hard every day....” I trail off.

  So she starts the next day working very hard on perfect recall. She takes Honeybun out back and within seconds, I hear Honeybun inside, skittering across the floor. Asherel is standing outside, looking in through the sliding glass door.

  "Maybe we should do an obedience class instead?" she calls, tapping on the door.

  "Maybe we should write to Bit in the spirit of full disclosure and tell her we don't have perfect recall. What do you think?"

  Asherel nods.

  I email Bit admitting that we had thought the class started with the dog on leash, and while Honeybun does come consistently indoors with no distractions and lots of yummy treats, she does not have anything remotely resembling perfect recall. We do not want to set her up for failure, and if Bit recommends we do a different class, we will certainly consider her suggestion.

  Bit writes back. Actually, the class description had specified off leash and consistent recall essential, but that was mostly to ensure there weren't dogs running all over the place out of control wasting class time. She wants to give Honeybun a shot, let her try.... she may surprise us. She may indeed, I think, I hope it is a pleasant surprise.

  Class day is bitter cold. Worse yet, our class doesn't start till 6:30 that evening. We bundle up and gather the very best treats we can find- honey baked ham, chicken cordon bleu, and Italian meatballs. Honeybun is salivating the whole car drive. We arrive a half hour early- not knowing how traffic will be at that time of the evening. The leaders are busy dragging out the heavy agility equipment. We introduce Bit to Honeybun, who wags her tail, and Asherel lets Honeybun sniff the surroundings while I help set up. Asherel is nervous. I am too. Can I be prosecuted for murder if I knowingly unleash a dog with imperfect recall? Honeybun has come a long way but she has never been off leash around other dogs. At 6:30, only one other dog has shown up. Despite praying this will be all that come, the other five dogs meander in. I am then praying that God will remove all Honeybun’s teeth painlessly, miraculously, and quickly.

  Bit asks who wants to go first, and I nudge Asherel forward. I cannot stand the suspense any longer figuring it is best to get the carnage over as quickly as possible. Asherel glares at me as she stumbles forward.

  The first piece of equipment is the A-frame. Asherel keeps Honeybun on leash and runs beside her. Honeybun scales the A-frame admirably, but as soon as she finishes, Bit asks "Has she done it off leash?"

  "Yes," says Asherel.

  "Well then do it again off leash," commands Bit.

  She notices a look of concern on Asherel's face, pauses and asks, "She won't go after the other dogs, will she?"

  "I don't think so," answers Asherel slowly.

  Bit looks troubled, but the next dog is already going over the A- frame, and her attention is diverted. When Asherel's turn comes again, she unsnaps the leash, while I wait on the other side of the A-frame, per Bit's instructions.

  "Grab her collar if you need to," warns Bit.

  Honeybun knows I have the mega-value treats in my hand, and she flies over the A-frame, and skids to sit in front of me. I snatch her collar and wipe my palms, mysteriously sweaty in the frigid night.

  "Very good!" calls Bit.

  The next piece of equipment we will defy death and destruction on is the dog walk.

  "Has she done this one?" asks Bit.

  "Oh yes, she loves the dogwalk!" answers Asherel.

  Honeybun actually looks like a real agility dog on the dog walk. She zips across the plank at top speed and sits at the end, to gobble her ham from me.

  By the time we are ready to try the weaves, we are almost enjoying ourselves. Honeybun has shown no interest in attacking anything but the ham and meatballs. She scampers through the weave poles, and then class is over. It has raced by.

  Asherel and I walk cheer
ily back to the car. As we leave the enclosure, Vicci and Bit both tell us how well Honeybun has done. This is the beauty of low expectations. She is not the star of the class, by any means. The other dogs like other dogs, are very obedient, and dash over every piece of equipment with ease. The other owners have all competed in agility and know what they are doing. But Honeybun has not hurt anyone or their dog, and she has tried every piece of equipment without fear. Asherel has done all that is requested of her with a smile, and cheerful understanding. There are no hospital bills to pay or lawsuits to litigate.

  "That went much better than I expected," says Asherel. I nod, too worn out to speak.

  “And Honeybun had fun. Look Mom, she’s smiling!”

  I glance in the mirror. I don’t see a smile. I see endless cold nights tensely poised to grab a canine missile should it target innocent flesh. I see class after expensive class en route to a goal we may never be able to fulfill. But she does look content, sitting in the middle seat, chewing on an empty cracker wrapper. I have to admit, the class was fun for me too, once past the torture aspect of uncertainty. Progress has been slow, but it is still progress. It is like a canoe ride rather than a motor boat, and I am beginning to enjoy the scenery along the way.

  We don't have long to rest on our laurels. The next day we head out to Last Chance Rescue to work with the psychotic horse. I am battling a cold, but feel well enough to go, and Asherel is gurgling with excitement over working with the horses. So we pack our schoolbooks for the long drive and off we venture to blaze these unfamiliar trails. Malta greets us with about ten barking dogs. They all crowd around us, anxious to be petted. One of them, with a face carved in sweetness and love, plants his paws around my waist and leans his head against me. I haven’t had a hug like this in years. This is why I love dogs- no matter how old and wrinkled and ugly you are, you are still the one who operates the can opener…Whenever I move, he moves with me. If I didn't already have two dogs at home, I would've snatched him up.

  On the pillow of a chair with food next to her, lies a tiny Chihuahua. This is the dog we had been warned not to touch when we were there for the fieldtrip. She doesn’t look dangerous, no bigger than a teacup. I watch as Malta gives her filtered water from her glass.

  "Why is her food right on the chair?"

  "She can't walk," answers Malta. Malnutrition in her long life has crippled her legs. She can only crawl. So she reigns like a queen from her chair, waited on hand and foot by Malta and Will. And she terrorizes the big dogs if they bug her. She is a Great Dane in a Chihuahua body. Dogs have Napoleonic complexes too.

  Malta grabs a halter, and we head out to the paddock.

  "I'm gonna start you on an easy horse to show you what to do," Malta explains, as we pass through the deer enclosure. Timmy and Bonnie watch us with their huge doe eyes, and ears like serving platters. As Malta unlocks the gate to the paddock, having gathered our brushes, hoof pick, and lots of treats, she warns us about the little pony that crowds near.

  "Look at his ears. What do they tell you?"

  "That he is not happy," I answer, looking at the ears flattened back.

  "That's right, this is Bob and he is mean. If you turn your back on him, he will bite you. And then he will hide. He terrorizes the other horses too."

  She waves the lead rope at him, swooshing him away.

  "You will work with Sequoia, Will's horse. She is nice and I won't worry at all. That one, the palomino, is Sadie. She is the one that I want you to try to help."

  Sadie stands nearby, watching us, but when Malta reaches out a hand, Sadie skitters away. Meanwhile, as we lead Sequoia into a center enclosed ring to work with her, Bob is raising a ruckus with another group of horses along the fence, baring his teeth, flattening his ears and kicking.

  "Why do you have Bob?" I ask.

  "Because when I was at a farm getting a dog, the owner was about to shoot Bob because he was so mean. So I took him too. He almost killed me in the horse trailer when I tried to tie him in. I understand why the owner wanted to shoot him, but......He is much better now."

  I can't imagine what he was like then when he first arrived.

  The first thing Malta teaches us is to always have an escape route. This of course does not fill me with warm and fuzzy feelings. I suspect we are not embarking on the most carefully thought out adventure we have ever attempted if plotting escape routes is the first goal. She instructs Asherel to scan her surroundings and decide where she would flee if the horses start to go crazy. I am wondering if we should perform a preemptive flee now. Next, she teaches her how to get the 1000 pound animal to follow the 100 pound girl's directions.

  "You won't be able to overpower her, right?" says Malta as Asherel pulls fruitlessly on the lead, and Sequoia plants her feet, "So you have to outthink her."

  As Malta enlightens us on various ways to be smarter than a horse, Sadie is growing interested in what is happening in the ring, and she approaches the fence right behind me. I grab a snack from my pocket and offer it to her. She stretches her neck full length towards me, slowly, then reaches out with her muzzle, knocking it to the ground. I offer another. This time she takes a step closer and nibbles it directly from my hand.

  "What is the story with Sadie?" I ask.

  "She is a Mustang. For three years she was left in a pasture. Never touched, groomed, or bothered with. Then when someone finally got a halter on her and tied her, she got stung by a wasp and went crazy. No one could get near her again. The owner just came one day, and left her at our farm."

  "She's never been ridden?"

  "No, she is basically wild. For three years, she has lived as a feral horse."

  So Malta does want us to tame a wild Mustang. Won’t Arvo be excited! I have about as much experience doing that as I’d had before Honeybun in taming a wild, vicious dog.

  I reach out to pet her muzzle, but she skitters away again.

  With basic training in Horse Groundwork 101 completed, Malta announces we can now groom Sequoia and practice what she has shown us for as long as we can stand the cold. When we are done, just pop back in the house to drop off the halter. Be sure to close all the fences behind us. She trudges away, her multiple broken bones gathered over the years aching in the bitter cold. Someday I will ask how she broke the bones, wondering if that is the work of Bob.

  Bob, innocent of my misgivings about him, stands outside the pen watching us the whole time. I offer him a treat through the fence. He perks his ears forward and takes it as I stroke his nose. His ears are still back, with a grumpy look on his face, but he seems to like the attention. Petting him, I realize that I am meeting up with many examples lately of crusty exteriors hiding soft, needy spirits within. I am even beginning to feel a budding tolerance and sympathy. Maybe some of the human pitbulls and Bob’s of the world deserve a closer look. I promise myself I will practice loving the unlovable on the next telemarketer that calls, instead of telling him that I am unable to talk right now due to a brain transplant that has severely affected my hearing.

  We practice not being killed by a horse with Sequoia for another hour and then decide to head back. I still have over an hour drive home, and my very sore throat is definitely getting worse.

  But first, to leave the circular pen, we have to get by Bob. Sequoia does not seem anxious to walk out the gate back to the field where Bob waits. We shoo Bob away, and he moves back a few feet. Sequoia looks at us and doesn’t budge. She obviously knows something about Bob, and is taking no chances. I consider calling for help, but recoil from the display of weakness if one little pony so befuddles us. I swat the lead rope at Bob again, and he grudgingly moves away, far enough to entice Sequoia that she can safely leave the pen. As we head to the paddock fence gate, glancing repeatedly at Bob, all three horses follow us with Sadie in the rear.

  After popping through the gate and locking it, all three horses stand near looking at us. I reach in my pocket and offer Sadie another treat. She comes closer and nibbles it gingerly from my hand
, her muzzle stretched as far as she can reach in her timidity. Muzzles are amazingly elastic, like a snake uncoiling. Asherel reaches out her hand, palm flat with a treat, and Sadie pecks it quickly from her hand. We both remain several minutes, feeding the three horses, and crooning to them till we are out of treats. Then I reach out to pet Sadie's nose. She stands still and I stroke it twice before she backs away. Asherel continues talking gently to her, and also pets her. We caress her soft muzzle for a few minutes, though she is nervous and only lets us touch her a few seconds each time before pulling away.

  When we drop the halter back at Malta's house and inform her that Sadie let us pet her, she is surprised.

  "That's more than she has ever let me do with her," smiles Malta, "Sadie is yours to work with. Have at her!"

  We drive home, blasting the car heater. It is funny how simple some of the pleasures of life can be. Something as inconsequential as petting the nose of a horse that has not endured human touch in three years, a few seconds of soft hair against one's palm, and the first tentative touch of friendship between species has just made my day.

  Dear Lord,

  I am determined to look beyond the externals and see what is inside the creatures you have placed in my midst. Thank you that you have given me such an assortment of crochety, untamed, skittish, and withdrawn characters to learn to see depth and soul. Oh Father, as often as I have been misunderstood and my motives misinterpreted…. I must have done to others as well! I know my fellow humans should be more comprehensible than wild dogs or psychotic horses, but how often do I misjudge and hurt relationships that I should be nurturing? I struggle to relate well to my own son!

  I am a person of deep emotions, of words. How hard it is for me to comprehend silence, or reticence to share feelings! It was wise of you to let me practice on a dog first. I might be ready now to move on to a human. I think perhaps you had to send Jesus as a man. How else could we hope to relate or begin to comprehend God? It is so hard to step outside of our own skin. Of course, a man who walks on water is a little outside my experience too, but easier to wrap my brain around than eternal and infinite.