"Weave!" commands Asherel.
Honeybun races down the clear middle path, and leaps onto the pause table.
"Good girl! Now weave!" and off she darts for the new set.
The second set of poles are a little closer together on the channel, so she has to do a very slight weave pattern to stay on the path. Miraculously she does so. Asherel lavishly rewards her, and then kicks the channels closer in.
"Are you sure you want to do that so soon?" I ask.
The team ignores me and marches back to the pause table.
"Go weave!"
This time she clearly has to do a near skip between poles. She misses one. Asherel still gives her some pot roast.
"You want to reward that?" I ask.
Again, I am ignored. The impending darkness appears to have affected my girl's hearing.
Asherel kicks the poles in further. Now they are almost in a straight line. Never has Honeybun remotely weaved with them so close together.
Once more, Asherel directs her to go weave. Honeybun shoots through the weaves, and before our very eyes, she suddenly understands. I watch in amazement as she does flying lead changes, doesn’t miss a pole, and weaves like a dog from Animal Planet. Asherel gives her mounds of pot roast, and smiles at me. There may have been a touch of “I told you so, oh ye of little faith” in her look, but I forgive her smugness.
As darkness descends, she works on "front and rear crosses" until the light is too distant a memory to safely continue. As we leave class, thanking Laura, Asherel notifies me, "I think she gets it now."
Of all the things an agility dog must learn, the weaves seem to me the most tortuous. I honestly didn’t think she would ever figure out how to do them. Of course, I never thought I would like a pit bull, or be able to prevent Honeybun from killing Lucky. I think “improbable but not impossible” may be my new mantra.
Meanwhile, we have finished the homeschool year, and have a free afternoon to head out to Last Chance Rescue. I forewarn Malta we will be there for a few hours, so get her list ready.
Malta still wants us to spend the bulk of our time with Sadie, but has a few "easy" chores for us as well. First she wants us to give the monthly flea and tick meds to the "Ru's".
"The Ru's?" I ask.
"Rufus, and Ruru, the 3 legged dog,” she says, obviously incredulous that I still don’t know the names of the dogs with all the times I have been there.
"I can do that," I say, having given those medicines to my own dogs. At last, a task that I am qualified to perform! We head to the Ru pen. Ruru, the 3 legged dog has intense stranger anxiety. She cowers in her dog house, at the furthest back corner when anyone new approaches. Asherel and I climb over the fence, meds in hand. Rufus, a big dopey mixed -breed greets us joyfully. He slobbers all over me as he gobbles up his medicine. Easy. I am feeling confident. Ruru cowers, her dark eyes pinpoints of light in the furthest recesses of her doghouse. The flea vial is different from the kind I use at home, and it takes me five minutes to figure out how to puncture the seal. My confidence falters a bit. I hope Malta is not peering out at us in disgust. As I finally conquer this technological challenge, a little medicine spurts out all over my hand. I glance at the house. No Malta wondering what is taking so long. I squish out half of the meds on Rufus's neck, and now hold the tube upright so it won’t leak, calling Ruru. Ruru stares at me; head slightly averted, and trembles.
I sit on the ground nearby and make encouraging noises. Rufus is all over me, licking me, and climbing in my lap.
"Would you help me here?" I snap out to my accomplice.
Asherel tries to entice Rufus to her, but he is much more interested in dumping the medicine. I find a ball and toss it. Ruru, a retriever/border collie mix, cannot ignore a thrown object. She comes hopping out of her house and rockets on her three legs after the ball. She scoops it up joyfully and then turns, and screeches to a halt. The retriever in her is screaming to return the ball to me, while her stranger neurosis is crippling her far more than the loss of the leg. She scuttles away.
Asherel however has ingeniously placed herself in front of the dog house door. Ruru comes around the house from the back, and then slams to a stop. Oh no! A stranger, albeit a smaller one, is blocking her retreat. She looks at me, drops the ball, and runs around the back of the dog house, hiding. I pick up the ball, and toss it again. She races after it, and the same dilemma confronts her. Once more she drops the ball, and runs away. I grab the ball, and toss it.
Yet again, Ruru sprints after it. If I could not clearly see she’s missing a leg, I would never have known. She moves quickly and effortlessly. We play this game several times, until finally in the 85 degree heat, she brings the ball to a shady spot by the dog house and collapses, tongue lolling, sides heaving. We have been out there a good half hour now. Malta has to be wondering if we have given up and gone home. I creep up to the tired and hot dog.
"Good girl," I pant, reaching out.
She lowers her head, but she doesn't run, and I pet her. Finally, I squirt the medicine in between her shoulder blades, and scratch behind her ears. We are friends now.
We bring the tube back to Malta's house to throw it away.
"Success!" I trumpet. Malta does not seem impressed. It would've taken her one minute, but that was a minute the overextended Malta doesn’t have. Still, I keenly perceive that she may consider us dimwits. My pride has taken a major beating since acquiring Honeybun. I used to consider myself skilled with animals, and competent with new tasks. The list is growing of things I only succeed at because I outlast resistance.
We head out to visit Sadie. She trots over instantly, and quickly drops her muzzle into the halter to smack up the treat. However, she won’t allow the halter any further up her nose than last time, and seems less willing to let us anywhere near her neck or ears.
"Sing to her!" suggests Asherel.
We start with "Sadie Sadie, give me your answer, do. I 'm half crazy all for the love of you...." to the tune of Bicycle Built for Two, since we know she likes that one, having attempted this unorthodox method of humane horse training last time. She lets us stroke her forehead, and her nose dips deeper into the halter.
"Try another," Asherel chirps.
I start an off key rendition of the hymn “Just as I Am”. Sadie puts her ears back.
"She doesn't like that one,” Asherel observes, “How about He Leadeth Me?"
I can never remember the words, even of beloved songs, so I make up words when my memory lapses. Sadie pricks her ears forward, and her nose sinks so deeply into the halter that I get it over one ear. With a slight rear, she jerks back and throws it off, but it is a success of sorts. She circles back as I continue singing, and she paws at the ground. She wants the treats, and she likes the song, but she is less thrilled with this halter business. The next few times we get the halter nearly to her ears, and she remains calm. Best to end there, particularly since we are out of food.
"She likes your singing," notes Asherel, "Do a new one."
My favorite song is The Sound of Music, and having learned that as a child singing with my dad at the top of our lungs on our weekly Sunday drives, I do remember all those words. Sadie stands still, as I sing. She seems transfixed as we rub her cheek, then her neck. She watches me but doesn't move as I press my hand all over her neck. She has never let us do that before. And then as my hand moves to her withers, her skin twitches, but she doesn’t run. Asherel, hot and tired, sits at the base of the tree, while I sing and pet the wild Mustang. Music is soothing the savage beast.
We pop back in to ask Malta if she has a last half hour task for us. She does. We scoop dog poop while a pack of twenty lonely, attention- starved dogs romp around us, nibbling at my clothes as I shovel the poop.
As we labor in the hot sun, I ask Asherel if she still wants to own a farm.
"Of course," she answers.
We have been there four hours, and have barely touched the to- do list Malta and Will tackle every day. When we say
goodbye, Malta barely glances up. When she finishes her paperwork, it will be time to start the nighttime feeding of the hundred animals. If I am helping her out with hopes of effusive gratitude, I will need to find another facility. The work is overwhelming and never-ending. Malta is too worn out to expend much energy to prop our egos.
It is ok, however. I feel a great sense of satisfaction, an oozing peace, applause from another source. Or maybe it is just sore muscles. We moved a lot of poop that day.
As we pull away in our car, the twenty dogs line up at the fence and watch us go, tails wagging in unison. Malta's head is still bent over her paperwork. The farm is bathed in a hot golden sun. The music is swirling in my head of hills alive in song while animals cock an ear to listen.
After our work at LCR, I write to Malta and tell her how Asherel still wants to own a farm even after the less desirable poop scooping detail. Malta's response is typical:
Perhaps Asherel should have been here this morning to wake up to the smell of 2 explosive butt dogs........ Smelled so bad it woke me up out of a dead sleep. On the walls and all over the living room....... who knew dogs could aim? Makes me want to live in a beach front condo with a pet hermit crab..... a stuffed one.
Meanwhile, the agility handling class is going remarkably well. Honeybun is off leash for extended periods of time, and continues to ignore the other dogs, and gleefully jumps, weaves, tunnels, and climbs as directed to grab her gustatory salary. Sometimes when Asherel pauses to listen to Laura's instructions for a length of time, Honeybun gazes at her hopefully, and wags her tail to indicate the need to be slipped a goody. If food is still not forthcoming, she pops over a few nearby jumps on her own, and then returns with expectant outreached paws.
Despite countless times of my conceit getting the best of me, I begin to feel boastful. At this stage in my life, I should have known better. Like a dog returns to its vomit, so go my prideful tendencies. This is such an ingrained character defect that I am actually feeling proud about how I am not prideful with all we have done. The problem with puffing up is it often leads to bursting.
I like to recite my list of accomplishments to myself, or to anyone who might like to commend me. This dog, rescued like Eliza Doolittle from the depths of poverty and despair, we have taught to behave like a high class citizen. She now comports herself like all the other AKC champions. She has a full wardrobe of beautiful clothes, courtesy of Asherel. She goes to bed every night lying like a queen on the soft bed next to Asherel, covered with silken sheets. She has three different collars for various events, and a beautiful leather leash Asherel won at one of the Agility raffles. She obeys better than some of the veterans, dogs that have actually entered and qualified in agility trials. She never barks, or lunges after the other dogs in the class.
After class one evening, we thank Laura who is giving some final critiques to another handler and her dog. The rambunctious dog lunges at Honeybun, anxious to play and sniff, but all of us tense and shout, knowing this is always a potential fight trigger. Everyone has been warned long ago that Honeybun has a large personal space, which is a nice way of saying she might rip the nose off of any dog who comes too close. Surprisingly, Honeybun just stands there, wagging her tail. Not a single growl.
"I am so proud of her," I boast, though of course I am not bragging, but simply stating facts.
"She has done really well," agrees Laura.
"I know," I continue modestly, shining my ego on my sleeve, “That is just the sort of situation that we were so afraid she would not be able to handle."
"And it was my dog's fault for getting in her face- he would've deserved a snarl," says the other handler humbly.
"But she has to get used to that, because dogs do that," I say, full of my wisdom, the resident dog training miracle lady. If I had been a balloon, I would've been floating.
We drive home and I am giddy with my expertise and skill. I have transformed this dog, and I must be sure to tell as many people as I can, for their edification and good.
A few days later, we finish lunch, and the ultimate dog tidbit is left - bacon. Honeybun loves bacon maybe best of all the delicacies that are now frequent parts of her charmed life. I grab two pieces to do our "sit-stay-come" training which we practice often, and command both dogs to sit and stay in the kitchen. When I call out “come” from the living room, both dogs barrel around the corner, and Lucky crashes into a little wire table with a tall lamp and various knick knacks on it. Asherel is following on the dogs’ heels and in a miracle of dexterity catches the lamp. The table and knick knacks crash over with a tumultuous bang. Lucky skids into Honeybun.
In a whirl, Honeybun turns on him and in a horrible rehash of those early days, begins ripping at his neck and back, pulling out mouthfuls of hair. Lucky is on his side, having gone down with the table, and can’t get back up, while Honeybun is relentlessly attacking. She stabs at his belly with her teeth again and again. Then she lunges at his throat. Lucky is unsure the bacon is worth this…..
I scream and smack at Honeybun's flank. She does not stop immediately but pauses long enough for Lucky to get up, at which point I grab her and throw her over in the “Dreaded Roll”- a move we have not had to do in months. I claw my fingers on her throat, and scream at her, holding her down. For a brief second, I believe it is possible she is thinking of biting me, but then she goes limp, and lays her head down.
"Don't choke her," scolds Matt, who has come running out of his room in the ruckus.
"She has to feel like she is going to die," I explain. I don’t admit I want to kill her. She has exposed me for the boastful arrogant fool I am, and I am almost angrier over that than the fact that she wanted to eat Lucky’s kidney raw. I hold her down for another minute, and then throw her in the back bedroom and slam the door.
I remember Malta told me not to be discouraged if Honeybun has moments of reverting to her old behavior. She told me it is certain to happen again. I realize with crushing dismay that I thought I was so talented, that I had squelched all unwanted behavior forever. I don’t like the image of myself I am remembering from the class that week. Humble Pie is not tasty.
If there is any good from any of this, Lucky has not been hurt, though there are scattered tufts of hair floating in the room. I don’t think Honeybun will be trying that again anytime soon, as she had been pretty scared by my fury and unexpectedly successful wolf roll. My sense of certainty has been shaken, however. Maybe this will heal her (again) and me (again) of my always too near the surface arrogance. I hate these lessons with a passion. I also understand that they are necessary. Grrrrrr.
I remember Laura’s lessons with the apathetic dog, and wonder why Honeybun reacted so strongly. I understand there is always a reason for dog behavior, convoluted as it may be. She must have felt threatened. She didn’t know Lucky wasn’t attacking when he slammed into her. She may have felt justified in protecting herself. I know most of the struggles in our family interactions stem from not understanding each other. From misperceiving motives. “A gentle word turneth away wrath” is sage advice. It is another lesson that both Honeybun and me are slow to absorb.
We give Lucky a bone, and after an hour, open the bedroom door.
"Don't welcome her back into the pack," I command the troops, "Just continue to ignore her."
Honeybun comes out contritely, subdued. Lucky immediately approaches her, tail wagging. He touches his nose to hers. He doesn’t care what I say; he is welcoming her back into the pack. After all, he did get a bone out of the whole ordeal. I hope she is as impressed as I am by his forgiving heart. How much these dogs have to teach, and all the while I’m thinking we are the trainers.
Dear Lord,
Just when I think I have everything figured out and am ready to move on, we are back to square one. I guess we really are never done arriving until we arrive. Don’t worry. I am not too discouraged, at least not totally. Maybe the issues never totally go away, but there is change. At least she broke the leg off the chair to l
ick a kid, not bite her.
I know it is a little thing, but I really am grateful that I was nice to the telemarketer today. It would be better, I know, if my thoughts were “held captive” too, and I had more charitable feelings while holding my tongue…. But Honeybun is teaching me to focus on how far I have come… not how far I still have to go.
I guess we are both learning “weaves” in a sense. It is not a natural movement for a dog and has to be practiced every day, or that skill disappears faster than Honeybun’s dinner. And it is not natural for me to curb my impatience at interruptions in my schedule, or be kind when all I really feel is annoyed. I have to practice it every day…. And learn to ask you for strength to overcome a little more regularly.
Even that nutty dog Lucky is teaching me something I am not always so good at …. forgiving. He stood there at the door ready to forgive Honeybun long before she was sorry. That is not easy… but you did that for me. The moment Jesus died on the cross I was forgiven. Not only had I not said I was sorry, but I hadn’t even recognized I helped put Him there.
And even through that, you loved me.
I know I have nothing to offer you, but my love in return. And my gratitude. Thank you Lord. I am wagging my tail!
I'm Listening With a Broken Ear Page 24