I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  Amen.

  CHAPTER 14 Forgiveness, Humility

  Malta is enraged. She has received an email from a dog owner who is panicked as her dog, Molly, has developed such severe separation anxiety that the owner is no longer able to keep her. Molly has ripped apart a door sill, clawing off all the paint, and chewing it, and then ripping the screen in her frantic efforts to go find her owner, who has left the house. The owner tells Malta that after three years of this "wonderful" dog, this new behavior is impossible for her to live with, and though she "loves" Molly, she must now find a new home for her. Will Malta help?

  Malta's first email back assures the owner she is willing to help, but the "inn is full" and the owner will need to hang on to Molly for another three or four weeks. In the meantime, Malta will give her strategies to help.

  Molly's owner emails back that she has contacted all the no-kill rescues and shelters, and none will take Molly. She is forced to bring her to animal control, which will euthanize her in twenty-four hours. "Thanks a lot, Last Chance Rescue. It is your fault I had to bring her to Animal Control. If you have half a heart, you will go get her from Animal Control."

  Seething, Malta shoots back an email,

  Animal control will probably only keep Molly for 3 days max. Most owner turn- ins are euthanized on the spot. Rescue groups like ours have 50+ Mollys a day. List after list sent to us asking us to take dogs that will be euthanized in a matter of hours by animal control. There is no lashing out at you... just a bit of reality. You could have boarded her for a few weeks. And as for not knowing what you have gone through - we deal with dogs like this every day... we deal with the pain of not being able to help dogs like Molly because there is no room. Your email pegged rescue groups at fault for your choice. It is not our fault nor the fault of any group that you chose not to hold onto her until a rescue had room for her. And who would you have liked me to call at 10 pm? And where should we put Molly? No rescue group on the face of this earth is responsible for your decision to take her to Animal Control. We have jobs - we have homes that dogs chew window sills off of, and we repair them. We have dogs that have serious issues. I do know your story...... I do know what you go through.... we hear it, see it, live it 24/7 365 days a year. The world is brimming with Molly and Brenda stories. My response is because of your "guilt trip" email you sent. "Molly and I are more than just an email" - so are the other 100 Mollys and Brendas. And the dog starving in the ditch doesn't even have a Brenda - we see those on a daily basis and do our best to help them too. Go save your dog...... board her until there is room- you expect us to do it, yet you are not willing to do that yourself? That would be your part of responsibility in this matter. Live with your choice. But don't blame us or any other group for your choice. Don't blame animal control either for euthanizing her if that is what happens. This is your choice not theirs. And don't lay guilt trips on people that go the extra mile to help dogs like Molly. I hope you find some peace with this or maybe you will go get Molly and board her until there is room? Either way my heart goes out to Molly and all the Mollys out there.

  Malta then sends all the board of directors the updated intake policy for LCR. It clearly outlines some of the issues that Brenda and Molly have raised. I read it over, hearing the anger pouring out of Malta. I am angry too, knowing she has not had a vacation in years, and that she often goes without meals or sleep because she is dealing with yet another animal emergency. I know she has also not had new shoes in eons, because every spare dollar goes to the rescue farm. I read her policy, increasingly in awe of what her rescue farm deals with every day. How dare that tyrant Brenda speak to her in that way! But as I am reading, my own words to countless rescue agencies six months ago come back to me with alarming similarity to Brenda’s rants. Surely I am not the jerk Brenda is…. am I?

  I realize with shame that I had not been a whole lot different from Brenda in her perception of animal rescues when Honeybun first entered our lives. I had been dismayed and shocked that none of the animal rescues wanted to help me. I was broke, and wanted to help the dog, but had no resources, no knowledge, and was quite anxious to act compassionate, but shift the responsibility to someone else. It was Malta's first rude but direct email that kicked me in the derriere and told me in no uncertain terms that compassion is a big fat fraud unless you are willing to do what it takes to actually save the animal you claim to feel so much angst over. I wanted to give up and let Malta take the problem away... and then feel really good about myself because of how much I had "cared" by rescuing the dog and bringing her to Malta. I love Malta's line- "That is not rescue.... that is transportation." How could I condemn Brenda, much as my deflated ego longed to, when I was a Brenda six months ago? It was everyone else’s fault that I couldn’t find someone to help the dying dog. It is Honeybun teaching me sometimes the one who needs to help the most to save the world is standing right behind my nose. A red, sniffling nose, at this point.

  We spend the day helping at our club Agility Trial. Our jobs, replacing dropped bars on the jumps when the dogs knock them, afford us front row views of owners and dogs as they enter and leave the ring. What happens in between is not nearly so revealing of the character of the owner, than how she enters and how she leaves. I study this carefully, realizing quickly what kind of person I am in comparison, and which I want to be.

  When the handler enters the ring, she removes the dog's leash and then tosses it nearby. A leash runner takes it and deposits it on the exit end of the ring. Most owners just toss the leash. A very few take the time to look the leash runner in the eye, say "Thank you" and hand them the leash. (over the course of a class or two, you'd be amazed how sore one gets bending over time and time again to pick up the leash). Those owners already receive points from me, though it is hardly an expected courtesy, and most handlers are far too focused or nervous to be considerate of the leash runner.

  Next the owners go through their dog set up time and it is as varied as the handlers. Most are very no-nonsense, with stern commands to the dog to wait as the handler marches a few jumps away. A very few kiss the dog's snout, muss his fur, and laugh, telling the dog how wonderful he is and what an adventure they are about to have. They are often, but not always the handlers that hand the leash runner the leash instead of tossing it on the ground. Again, those are the owners I now award more points to.

  Then the dog runs the course. I am planted in between the entrance and exit, and help with setting jumps and leash running. While seeing portions of the dog's run, my focus is on the start and end. However, I do notice which dogs clear everything (no jumps for me to reset) and the dogs that blow everything, going off course, not listening, dumping bars....

  Now the handler and dog exit, having completed their run. Of course every owner whose dog did fantastically well scoops the dog up and jumps for joy and runs to get him goodies galore. That is expected and easy. However, the most interesting scenarios involve the handler of the dog that let her down. That saga begins in the last few seconds of the run. Some handlers, obviously disgusted send the dog over the last jump, which he may or may not jump since he is clearly not doing his best that day, and then the handler snaps the leash on gruffly, and marches out without speaking to the dog. The dog invariably is looking hopefully at his master, his ears lowered because he knows he has not met expectations.

  And then there is the other type of handler. As the dog has crashed into every jump, done the course in reverse, and lost hundreds of points, in the last few seconds of the run, the handler finds a jump or obstacle he knows the dog will succeed at. He sends the dog victoriously over that one jump, and as they cross the finish, he falls to his knees, kisses the dog and tells him he is the most wonderful creature on earth, and what a fantastic job he did! The dog is leaping for joy and all is right with the world, though he has just garnered the worst score in the history of Agility Trials. Dog and owner race off to get goodies with a bubble of love and joy casting iridescent rainbows around them. Those are the handlers
that get the most points from me. They may have lost the agility trial, but they won a prize much, much more valuable.

  I think of my children, especially of the one who is most distant and hardest to reach emotionally. Have I always discerned something to shout “Good job!” about, even when he fails? Have I found the full side of the glass? Have I looked beyond my own needs with compassion and understanding for others? Introspection can be a troubling activity. Upon arriving home from the trial, I write him a note, letting him know how wonderful and beloved he is.

  Finally, it is time to board Lucky and Honeybun with Malta while I bring my Destination Imagination team to the "Global Final" in Knoxville. They placed first in the state earlier in the year, a feat that was no less wonderful for the grudgingly admitted fact that they were the only team in the state in their division. I am exhausted from four days of herding children to the various events they have to attend, and getting little sleep. My team does better than expected, placing thirteenth in the world. We are assured this is phenomenal for a first year manager, first year team. The team dances and does cartwheels later at the party, chanting, "Thirteenth in the world!!!"

  I am happy, and they are ecstatic. It is a nice kudos after a difficult year, with the advent of Honeybun coinciding with my first year coaching a team. Early the next morning after the exhilarating awards ceremony, I travel directly from Knoxville with Asherel to our family vacation in Hilton Head. Arvo and Matt have arrived a day earlier while we finish up in Knoxville. Once a year, unlike Malta, we do get a family vacation, and we cherish that week at the beach.

  I email Malta upon arriving in Hilton Head, asking how the dogs are doing.

  Lucky has peed on her wall, and Honeybun is covered in mud from playing with the other dogs. They are both loose with her core pack, and she describes Honeybun as happy and good, but Lucky as "puffy" and with an "attitude". "No wonder Honeybun felt she had to fight him," Malta writes.

  I feel a little bad for Lucky, not believing he is as bad as Malta seems to feel he is. He is just socially inept. I can relate, actually. He has never peed indoors before. He is likely just marking territory in that den of twenty-five dogs. I cannot believe it is "passive aggressive", as Malta describes it. I doubt dogs know how to be passive aggressive. But both dogs seem to be doing fine, once Lucky gets over his "attitude".....and I am very excited to read that Honeybun is joyously playing with other dogs. Hard to fathom that happy, beloved dog had been a hair breadth away from being another Molly story.

  While resting in Hilton Head, I receive a second email exchange from Malta with Brenda, and learn that Molly has been euthanized.... and Brenda blames Malta. Malta, who has never laid eyes on Brenda's pet of three years.....is responsible for Molly's death.

  The second morning in Hilton Head, I awaken with the sun, and pedal away on an early bike ride. Noticing a teeny little creature struggling across the beach towards the surf, I stop to see it is a little baby sea turtle courageously traveling across the sand to the siren call of the ocean. He ignores me, stretching his neck forward, and his legs scampering as fast as they can go. His shell is beautiful with a design made by heaven. A Hilton Head resident stops and tells me she has lived here her whole life and never seen a sea turtle. We watch the baby, and finally he reaches the water. He races forward, and then the incoming tide sweeps him up, and deposits him way back on the beach, near where we had first seen him. Since the tide is coming in, every time he makes it to the water edge, a new wave carries him back further than he started, but doggedly, he keeps racing forward. Finally, I can stand his struggle no more, and pick him up, pitching him past the surf. I hope my helping him along doesn’t disrupt some great cosmic plan.

  I have felt like that little sea turtle- life circumstances sometimes carrying me back further than I have advanced. It gives me great joy to watch that little baby, no bigger than the first digit of my thumb, so determined to reach the ocean against all odds. Some must make it even without my help, or there would be no sea turtles. They get past hungry gulls on the beach, hungry fish in the surf, hungry sharks in the ocean depths, and some grow to be magnificent creatures. I think only about one in ten make it to adulthood, maybe less. I hope my little turtle makes it... maybe the thirteenth in the world to find the ocean that day.

  On our fourth day in Hilton Head, I receive another email from Malta. She tells me her guest, Stickybun, (as she calls Honeybun) has renovated her crate, adding an east facing window in the three hours they were out. She includes a photo. It shows Honeybun, one ear up, one ear down, alertly looking directly at the camera; with her head fully out of a hole she has chewed in the side of the crate. It looks like she is stuck, unable to go further out or back in. Her head is like a living trophy, mounted on the side of the crate.

  "Too funny!" writes Malta.

  It is funny, but that is a $50 crate my dog has just ruined, that now needs to be replaced for the never demanding, but always financially strapped rescue farm. Like a sea turtle's march to the sea go our finances, one step forward, and two steps back.

  This morning, I traipse off on my morning bike ride beneath a threatening sky and sprinkles. Thunderclouds blossom just off the beach, and it looks likely I am going to get drenched at some point on this ride. Turning onto the hard sand of low tide, I glance back and spy a rainbow, arcing over the dark blue cloud-scape. Another symbol of hope, glad tidings! First the sea turtle, and now a rainbow. What lovely omens of light in a stormy and troubled world! I am feeling very blessed by the symbols of hope God seems to be tossing my way, singled out, special, loved.

  The next morning dawns lovely and sunny, without a cloud in the azure sky. I am awake, as usual, long before the rest of my family. I watch the sun come up with my coffee steam drifting its blessed aroma through the still air, and then hurry off on my bike to the beach.

  It is low tide again, and very few people are out yet. The air is still. A Blue Heron poses near the surf line, poking his saber beak at some unlucky fish. Another glorious symbol! Blue Herons are so shy and elusive, rarely seen. Whenever one appears, I stop to watch considering him a gift from God.

  With glowing optimism for the good all these small miracles portend, I bike on.

  Picturing Honeybun with her head stuck in the hole she has chewed out of the crate, happy chuckles bubble out of me.

  Hilton Head Island is shaped like a foot. We are staying in a condo near the instep. The toe is about a forty minute bike ride when going into the wind, and that is where I head. Reaching the toe, I see a Beach Patrol truck pull over near the dunes, next to a large mound in the sand. I hurry over to discover it is a huge sea turtle.... what is left of it. The shell is intact, but the turtle has been partially eaten. The head and flippers are gone. I take a picture, knowing this might be the closest I will ever get to an adult sea turtle.

  "What do you think got it?" I ask the Beach patrolman, who is snapping pictures of the shell.

  "Something ate it," he answers, "Maybe a while ago. It just washed up overnight."

  "That's sad," I say, watching him take the photos.

  He dons some gloves.

  "I'm going to bring it back to the museum so they can keep the shell."

  I nod, watching him, then tell him, “I saw a baby sea turtle 2 days ago."

  "No you didn't."

  My eyes bulge wider at his audacity, and I insist, "Yes I did. On his way to the ocean. I walked him to the surf." (I didn’t tell him about pitching it in the ocean, as that might be illegal.)

  "How big?"

  I spread my thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart.

  "That wasn't a sea turtle," he says smiling, "They are just nesting now. It takes fifty to sixty days for the eggs to hatch."

  "But couldn't he have been an early bird?"

  "No.... it was probably a fresh water turtle. They won't survive in salt water."

  My face falls in horror. Not only have I not seen a sea turtle, my symbol of hope and survival against impossible odds,
but instead have killed the turtle I did see. He notices my distress, because he comments, “It might have been a diamond terrapin- they live in sea water."

  "I have a photo of it on my camera."

  "Oh, let me see."

  "I don't know if I want to know if it is not a sea turtle," I concede sadly, but pull out my camera.

  While I scroll through my pictures looking for the faux sea turtle photo, he heaves the dead sea turtle into a plastic bag, and with a grunt, lifts it into his truck bed. Tossing the gloves in a garbage bag, he peers at the photo I show him.

  "That's a Terrapin," he concludes, "It lives in sea water. I have one as a pet. I found one today with an eye pecked out, and brought it to the vet. It will be my other pet. See these claws? Sea Turtles have flippers...maybe one claw. But they don't have clawed toes like this."

  Of course.... how did I miss that? I so wanted it to be sea turtle.

  "But you didn't kill it," he adds kindly, “They like the sea water."

  Discouraged, I hop on my bike and head back. So what kind of symbolism does this distressing turn of events evoke? Delusion? False hope? Rescue that isn't rescue at all? I so hate it when reality gets in the way of what my world should be.

  But to cheer me up, I get an email from Malta later that makes me spit my cracker all over the computer from laughing. She tells me she has been dealing all week with "a monkey woman".

  Sad sad sad. And she is destroying a dog. The dog will bite the kids..... She doesn't want to hear that. Children flopping all over the sofa, crying, can't even have a conversation...... no control over the kids, no control over the dog..... Accident waiting to happen...... and she refuses to acknowledge it even though the dog has already nipped at the kids many times, chases cars, rolls and pins the cat, won't come when called......... I yelled at the little heathens.... Sit down and be quiet...in dog voice... my house is not Chucky Cheese. Total disrespect by her and her kids. She told me, "Being tough is not my strong point." Oh really.......... didn't notice (eye roll). It easier to give in to that little brat child, isn't it? Being tough takes energy and is not always pleasant. Rules and boundaries take energy to enforce. Throwing a lollipop is much easier.