Thank you for your determination to follow me, to keep me in your sights, even though I walked away so many times. I know I have a prickly outer coating myself but you never give up on me. Sanding my edges hurts, Father, but I suppose it is the only way I will take on a heavenly polish.
Amen.
CHAPTER 12 Perseverance
We visit Sadie only a couple of times a month as the drive is too far to do on a regular basis with all the demands of homeschool, dog training, and the Destination Imagination team I coach. You may have noticed this is the umpteenth time I have mentioned this list of all I do. This is my way of making sure you know how special and important I am, but also to excuse our slow progress. I really want to do it all, but the constraints of time are dragging me down mightily.
The second visit progresses much as the first had, with Sadie seeming more interested in us, and letting us touch her nose a little longer. However, our third visit advances our taming exponentially. Malta and Will are not there, but are off at their "money making job" which is how the farm survives. Asherel and I are on our own, definitely reducing my performance anxiety. Malta never criticizes, but I am always more relaxed when no one is watching and wincing.
As we approach, Sadie's ears perk up and she trots over to us. This is indeed a good sign, though it is connected to the delicious treats we always ply her with. Like Honeybun, her heart seems to be directly linked to her stomach.
"Our plan of attack," I instruct my side-kick, "Is to put the halter on Bob and groom him in the ring. When Sadie comes near we will feed her, and then we will leave Bob in the ring and work with Sadie more closely."
This is necessary because we don't know what we are doing, and Bob is unpredictable. I have learned through the benefit of prior disasters that ineptitude and unpredictability when commingled can produce results that are often not ideal.
Also, Bob is not nice to the other horses, and when they come near to see what goodies we are offering, Bob flattens his ears (even further than they are habitually) and charges. The other horses swirl, and sometimes kick out, and I don't want me or Asherel caught in the ensuing maelstrom. As expected, Bob meets us at the fence, ears back, but still seems happy we are there. I deduce this from the fact that he is not biting us. I easily halter him this time, pulling his ears forward as I put the strap behind them.
"See?" I prod him, "This is happy horse expression. Ears forward to make friends and influence people."
As I release his ears, they snap back, the equine equivalent of a scowl. Sadie and Sequoia scatter as I lead Bob to the enclosed pen, and then follow at a safe distance. If Sequoia wanders near, Sadie flicks back her ears, swishes her tail, and lunges at her. Poor Sequoia rushes away, and watches from a distance. I hate that horses do that to each other. Whoever thinks that animal communities are any sweeter to each other than humans hasn't watched animals very long. The one thing they do have over human interaction is honesty. There is no doubt that Bob is a mean crank towards other horses and will kick them if they come too close. He never puts on a pious front.
Bob is happy in the enclosed pen, as he knows our pockets are bulging with treats. He also seems to like the attention, and I am sure in horse language is putting on an air of superiority to the horses standing outside the pen. Sadie comes to the pen fence and stretches her muzzle in. Leaving Asherel in charge of Bob, I move slowly to the fence and she allows me to stroke her long nose and soft muzzle. She puffs air out her nostrils, distending them in a high strung, nervous sort of way, but stands her ground as I pet her. She eagerly inhales the horse treats Malta has left for us. Bob consents to let us pick his hooves without much trouble, and brush out his coat, which is beginning to shed its winter lining. It is time now to work more directly with Sadie. Bob remains complacently in the pen, watching us, and closing his eyes in the warm, just beginning to beckon spring sunshine.
Asherel grooms Sequoia, leaving me free to charm Sadie. She surprisingly approaches me, and even lets me hold both hands on her nose. I have the little soft face brush in my hand. Sadie has not been groomed in years. Her long mane is knotted and matted, and her coat has dirt all over it. She looks healthy, just dirty. She thinks the face brush is food and tries to nibble it. I softly touch it to her face and manage a tentative swipe. She remains still, her skin quivering. I think she likes it. I don’t see smiles, like Asherel does, but she isn’t running away and that is an encouraging sign. I continue to brush her nose, and she remains poised to run, but stationary for now. Then as the brush moves to her neck, she skitters away, but when I call her, she returns.
As I brush her nose, her eyes half close, dreamily. Once again I slowly move to her neck, and this time get in a couple of quick brushes before she backs away. It is like a dance. She moves up to me, I brush her face, move to her neck, attempt two or three swipes, and she skitters away. Each time she returns, she is rewarded with a treat. I have no idea if this is what "humane horse trainers" do, but it seems to be working. She stands for longer and longer periods while I brush her neck. She won't let me near her mane, or her ears, but is happy to let me brush the dirt from her neck. After about a half hour, she skitters back and then canters away. She has had all the human touch she can tolerate that day, so we pack up our bags of brushes and halters. I am strangely peaceful. This must be what patience feels like. It is an alien feeling to me; this slowed heart rate, distant goals slowly approaching in the far distance, no boxes being checked on my ever-present list.
"Next time," I tell Asherel, "We will carry the halter on our arm, so she can get used to it being around while we brush her."
I will train her from the nose back. We have conquered the face, and most of the neck. Next time, we will move to the withers and chest, taming the wild mustang one body part at a time.
As we pass the deer pen, we notice Bonnie, the small female deer has two long lines of stitches across her shaved face, with wounds on her body too. When we arrive home I e-mail Malta, and tell her how much fun we had, how peaceful it is at Last Chance Rescue, and by the way, what happened to Bonnie?
Apparently, a stray dog had attacked the deer, trying to kill them. It broke Bonnie’s nose before Will, hearing the commotion, raced out, tackled the dog and saved the deer. The dog was humanely euthanized. The deer were stitched up, put on heavy meds, and were recovering.
"Peaceful here? LOL!” she writes.
Meanwhile, dog agility classes are proceeding better than expected. The classes are at night, and the usually mild NC winter is unusually frigid this winter. I shiver in my multiple layers of down and wool, nervously watching for any sign that Honeybun is about to attack during her periods off leash. I don't need to worry. She is fixated on the very good treats we have packed for her, and her attention rarely wavers to the other dogs there. Of course, our good fortune cannot continue forever. Next class, a rambunctious poodle slips his leash and races to Honeybun's reward dish. Honeybun has just completed the weaves and is collecting her treat. I am too far away to intervene, and watch in horror as the poodle sticks his nose in Honeybun’s food. I am already picturing the intestines uncoiling across the field, the sirens as Asherel and Honeybun are dragged away, the angry eviction notice pinned to our dog. But amazingly, she just finishes her mouthful, and her tail keeps wagging. Asherel grabs her then, but not a growl has erupted.
After that heart-pausing incident, she scampers over the A-frame; literally leaping across the apex like it is a jump on her quest to collect her treat.
"Bravo!" cries Bit, the instructor, “That was beautiful!"
I laugh. Honeybun's so-called "passion and enthusiasm" is all about getting to the food as fast as she can. She loves agility night, because it means lots of tender morsels that are withheld the rest of the week. On top of how delicious the agility snacks are, we reduce her dinner on training nights to ensure she will be motivated to keep her attention on Asherel.
One night, as we near the midpoint of the agility semester, Honeybun slips her collar. She
has just finished the dogwalk, but quickly assesses that more food waits over by the A-frame. I watch ineffectually as she looks piercingly at the dog still scrambling over the A-Frame, and determines that she can beat him to the reward. She gallops towards the food.
"She slipped her collar- she's loose Bit!" shrieks Vicci, the other instructor.
Bit is about to grab the dog from the A-frame, as I yell to Honeybun, "No!"
Honeybun stops in mid stride, screeching to a halt. Asherel grabs her.
"That was good!" exults Vicci.
I think that is what is referred to as "perfect recall” that dreaded skill we know our dog doesn't have. Yet somehow, out of the depths of her love for us (or at least the love of our treats) she has rummaged the ability to obey even in the face of such tantalizing prey.
While we still have four classes left, it is time to sign the dogs up for the next class. Honeybun has already leaped ahead, bypassing all the obedience classes, and all the "foundation" classes for agility. Reading over the choices, I see we can do the second level Foundation class, or the Handling Class, which requires all those prerequisites we don't have, or instructor approval. Handling class is for the dog that has a solid understanding and skill on all the equipment, and now is ready to prepare for competition with training in intricate handling techniques. It sounds unwise for us to even consider. I write to Vicci and Bit, asking what class they recommend Honey tackle next.
They both recommend the Handling Class. I sit back and gaze at the email, feeling like crying. Part of that is of course due to the $125 class fee, but the other part is the vote of confidence moves me deeply. It is sometimes such a little thing that hope teeters on.
At church, I sit in the far back, my usual spot, unless someone steals my seat. I am there quite early, and hide behind the program, rereading the same paragraph hoping I will not have to talk to a stranger. Noticing a woman alone in the pew in front of me, I see her wipe a tear away. The church is still nearly empty with ten minutes before the sermon will start. I know the woman very slightly. I think of Sadie, hurt by wasps and letting that one event color her world “danger”, remembering the weeks spent just to touch her neck. Visions of Honeybun snarling at anyone approaching rather than risk being hurt….
I stand and tap the lady on her shoulder.
“Hi,” I say smiling, “Is everything ok?”
No, it is not. Her daughter has not spoken to her in two years. She will not speak to her sister or her father either. She blames her mother for awful things, all untrue. The lady quietly wipes her eyes. She will never forgive her daughter for what she has done, the hurt is too great.
Sympathizing, I tell her will pray for her, though that sounds insignificant even to my ears. But I tell her, remembering Honeybun, remembering Sadie, remembering Jesus, sometimes when we reach out in love to those who don’t deserve it, or even want it, miracles happen. The choir starts singing and I return to my seat with a deep sigh, thinking of silent ones, hurts unvoiced, and words of love unspoken.
After completion of two classes with the kennel club, we are now eligible to apply for membership. Our membership is contingent on the board’s approval, and if admitted, our classes are then half price. I have no idea what criteria they use to admit or deny membership. Applicants must have superior sense of smell? I didn’t realize dog clubs are picky. I wonder if a non AKC non-breed dog like ours will be admitted to the oldest kennel club in Charlotte, an AKC bastion of beautiful champions.
Bit grabs me as we are starting class the fifth week and says, "Oh, by the way, as soon as you fill out a membership form, you are a member. We all voted you in last night."
I laugh, and smile at my new friends, our American Dingo, and my brave little girl. We haven't even applied yet. What a wonderful group of people we have landed in the midst of. So many kind souls rooting for us, taking risks for us, and extending so much grace and mercy to us.
"She's a great little dog," Bit adds, noting my incredulity.
With three classes left in our Contact class, Bit asks if we have registered Honeybun with an agility group.
"You mean like UKC?” I ask. I know her breed is accepted by UKC, though not AKC. I thought Bit just wants us to be able to brag that our dog is a recognized breed by a recognized club.
"No, I mean like USDAA for agility competition."
Asherel darts a sideways look at me, and I can tell she is simmering with excitement.
"I would register her now," says Bit.
The very next day, I search online for local or nearby USDAA agility trials. There are surprisingly quite a few within two or three hours from us. I read over the description of “starters” classes, and realize that Honeybun might indeed be ready for the novice contests. With mounting excitement, I call the USDAA representative, and register Honeybun. We are now an official US Dog Agility Association (USDAA) member with a number, poised to compete. We begin perusing the trial schedule to determine which we should enter and when.
The evening of the orientation meeting for the Agility Handling class arrives. We are instructed to bring our dogs if we want to. The socialization time will be valuable for Honeybun. Grabbing a bag of ham to keep her focused on us, and not the other dogs, we go with wagging tails. The instructor, Laura explains that this class is for dogs that have advanced beyond basics, and are “elite athletes". The class members gather around her. Only one other member has brought her dog, a little white fluffy thing. Laura explains what we should expect in the class, and we are smug, being as we have now survived two agility classes and not put ourselves to shame. Honeybun has not killed any living creature thus far. She will do anything for food, is highly motivated by the premium ham treats we bring to class, and has been a model of obedience thus far. The other class member who brought her dog to orientation begins an extensive discussion of how her dog refused to eat in her first agility class, and thus training is so hard as she is not food motivated at all.
I glance at Honeybun, whose attention is riveted on Asherel and the baggie of ham in her hand. Laura is conducting a pointed discussion about how elite athletes are thin, so they can handle the rigors of agility training, and how all elite athletes can easily feel their ribs. She keeps looking right at us, and at Honeybun who is drooling watching every move the ham in Asherel's hand makes. I wish she wouldn’t be in a collected sit position because it rounds out her belly in a way that I suspect an elite athlete would not be proud of.
The instructor continues, “You don't need to press to feel their ribs, or they will need to lose some weight. Do not be insulted if I tell you in class that your dog needs to shed a few pounds. It would be wise to feel their ribs and maybe in the next few weeks, work on getting their weight to a healthy level for agility."
Why is she harping on this rib thing? I smile as she looks right at us, and glance again at Honeybun. How inconvenient that she chooses that moment to be leaping on Asherel pawing at the ham.
Ok, she used to have ribs.... I know they are there. But they are definitely not as prominent as I remember.
"Any questions?" asks the instructor.
There are none. We start to move away, when the instructor asks, "Would anyone like me to feel their dog's ribs?"
Being as there are only two dogs there- the recovering anorexic, and our dog.... I wonder who she is talking to. We continue to move towards the exit, and the instructor calls to us, “Your dog will need to lose a little weight."
Good grief. The dog we have rescued from the brink of starvation is too pudgy now.
Our little elite athlete is still jumping up on Asherel trying to retrieve the premium ham piece.
"She's a rescue dog," I explain lamely, “She was nearly dead from starvation when we found her."
The class looks at our pudgy dog. It is clear they are all thinking she has not missed many meals since then.
We start both dogs on lean cuisine, “healthy weight dog food”, and I try to up their exercise level. Honeybun in particular is no
t pleased. Lucky, ever the resourceful one just supplements his diet with goose poop. Honeybun, on the other hand sits despondently at the door of the laundry room where we store the dog food. She looks at the door, and then pointedly at us. We ignore her, and she wanders to her empty dog bowl, licks it, and then looks accusingly at us. Seeing this brings no additional dinner, she decides it is time to learn to speak English. She comes to me as I work at the computer and mournfully says, “woooood!” I glance at her. “Arrrrooffoood!” she moans. Asherel pokes her head around the corner.
“Our dog just spoke,” I explain, “She asked me for food.”
We crack, and give her a small extra scoop of the low calorie kibble.
“Mom,” Asherel reproaches, “She’s frowning.”
I look at her. She looks hopefully at me again.
“Do you want an elite athlete or a chow hound? Remember, next week, Laura will be looking for her ribs.”
I slip her a little extra food later. I cannot shake the image of the starving dog who never knew where her next meal would come from.
Agility training in the backyard continues, and we have one more week of Bit’s class before she moves on to the handling class where we know Laura will be poking around for ribs. Honeybun is now off leash doing entire sequences on the agility equipment in class. She never shows any aggression or really even any interest in anything but what the treat de jour is. She is gaining skill on all the agility pieces, particularly the jumps and A-frame and dog walk. She is learning the teeter, and nonplussed by the tunnel. However, she is slow and seemingly clueless about the Weave poles. I do not see how Honeybun is ever going to master them but Bit assures us she eventually will. Fortunately, we can enter novice jumper classes and avoid the weaves at least for a while in agility trials. We are contemplating an end of summer competition in Virginia.
I'm Listening With a Broken Ear Page 21