by Amy Newmark
~Sarah Wun
Promising Monroe
Fun fact: According to a recent APPA survey, six percent of dogs and twenty-seven percent of cats in the U.S. were adopted as strays.
Headstrong. Defiant. Smart. Quick. Mischievous. That’s what I thought when I first met Monroe, a little wiry Terrier mix I found abandoned in a cornfield. The first time I saw her, I was driving down a country road that divided two such fields, and she was trotting in and out of passing cars, dirty and scared.
I was immediately drawn to this little being. Despite the fear she clearly felt, she had an air of confidence and feistiness that fascinated me. She refused help. She would run, and she was fast. She would be gone in seconds at one false move.
“She could be a reflection of me,” I thought.
Having recently experienced a disastrous end to an engagement, I, too, had become quick to discount new and wonderful possibilities out of fear. Headstrong, I would not accept help from anyone, especially if they made a misstep. Monroe and I both had to learn to trust again after being abandoned.
It took me over a week to bring this quirky girl to safety. I tried trapping her, baiting her, chasing her, sitting quietly with her on the side of the road talking softly, and making myself small and nonthreatening. As I talked to her, I promised I would never harm her. I wanted to help her, and if she’d just trust me, I would never let her down. It was important to do this with little movement and breathing. She was always careful not to get too close.
She had made a makeshift home under a cluster of trees at the top of a hill. Wild kudzu cushioned the shaded floor under the branches, and every day that I rode out to check on her, she would be waiting majestically atop her throne of kudzu.
I would toss her bologna, her favorite food, piece by piece, trying to get her to inch closer to me. One day, I managed to get her within a foot of me with this wonderful, magical bologna, and with a swift movement of my left arm, I had her. She flipped and flailed like a fish out of water, yelping and growling. Worried that I was hurting her, I thought, “I can fix a broken leg, but I cannot let go. She’ll never come to me again.” I wrapped her in a towel and gently shoved her into the safety of a pet carrier. She never once bit me.
She got a little sick in the car, so we went immediately to the emergency veterinary clinic to have her checked out. She bit a vet tech and trembled in extreme fear. It was quickly observed that this little pup had very little socialization and was going to need a long time to recover from her months out in the cornfield scavenging for food and avoiding the coyotes. The vet told me to be prepared for her to become deeply bonded to me from that point forward.
Every little sound upset her; any movement frightened her. She lived in that pet carrier for a month before she felt comfortable enough to come out on her own. After that, we would curl up in bed and watch TV to help her acclimate to noises. We would walk through the neighborhood at midnight to avoid contact with others. She had extreme separation anxiety, and my doorframes, windowsills, furniture and even my walls became victim to her nervous chewing habit over many months.
We took it one day at a time. She gradually learned to go outside during daytime, warming up to other people little by little. She always loved a car ride, so we would ride around, giving her a little more freedom.
As she recovered, and I watched her grow into a more confident and trusting dog, I grew, too. We rehabilitated each other. If she could learn to trust people, so could I. Monroe and I became quite a pair, overcoming our fears and our distrust of the human race together.
Our daily conquests were documented online for friends and followers to see, complete with funny photos and descriptions of the progress Monroe was making. And as the two of us grew, so did our audience. Monroe was an inspiration and entertainment to many. While she wasn’t ready to meet everyone personally, her followers became engaged in her life and mine, cheering us on each day.
I knew there was something very special about this little Terrier full of potential from the first day I met her. And I upheld the promise I made to her sitting alongside the country road.
The inspiration she brought to me and others evolved into a small non-profit organization to help other animals like her. She even went on television to publicize the non-profit named in her honor. Recently, we opened up our home to a new rescue — a little male dog, Monty. Together, we live each day helping others, confident that we have each other. I will never regret promising Monroe my devotion and dedication. This little twelve-pound mess brought me back to life.
~Jennifer R. Land
Right
Fun fact: “Sight hounds” have superior eyesight and speed, quickly spotting their prey and catching it. “Scent hounds” track animals better through their sense of smell.
“Hi, I’m Jessica, and I have an anxiety disorder.” I did all the right things for it. At least, I did all the right things eventually, when it all came crashing down and the panic attacks took over my life. It got so bad that it was all I could do to make it to the end of the day, when I’d hand the care of my kids over to my husband so I could go curl up in a ball on my bed, sure that going outside would kill me.
I did all the right things: I saw my doctor. I got medication. And I saw a therapist.
It’s complicated, of course. My therapist and I talked about my marriage, my hang-ups and, of course, my childhood.
But then came the question from my therapist: “Why don’t you get a dog?”
A dog. A calm, loyal, protective animal that would be there when I was scared. That would stay present and warm and near when the adrenalin coursed unwelcome through my veins. When the waves of fear made my heart pound and my stomach clench and sweat drip down my face. A dog.
“I can’t get a dog,” I said. “I live in an apartment.”
My therapist looked amused. “Do you think people in apartments never have dogs? What do you think they do in New York?”
She was right. I couldn’t pretend she wasn’t.
And I loved dogs. I always had. I’d grown up with them. There was Sofie, the shy rescue puppy we named after her love of curling up secure on the sofa. There was Charlie, the big, bounding Dalmatian–German Shepherd mix who could stand on his hind legs and put his front paws on my shoulders. There was Sarah, the sight hound who looked sleepy but could bound up and catch an opossum on the back fence faster than I could blink.
But I’d grown up in a house, and so for some reason, I had it in my head that people who lived in apartments — like the one I lived in now — couldn’t have dogs.
Nevertheless, I came home and, with a hint of hope in my voice, mentioned the idea to my husband: “What if we get a dog?”
He wasn’t hard to convince. He’d grown up with dogs, too. So, we brought home Callie, a fluffy, medium-sized black mutt. Gorgeous. Her fur was so long I could sink my fingers into it and so soft that it rivaled the fur of a cat. Callie was so affectionate that she’d wiggle herself under my hand for just one more scratch every time I stopped petting her.
And she made me feel safer.
“What do you think people in New York do?” my therapist had asked.
And now, as a person who had a dog — and who lived in an apartment — I had my answer: They take their dogs for walks.
They take their dogs for walks outside. Away from the safety of their homes.
It was the exact opposite of everything my anxiety disorder screamed at me to do. My anxiety disorder said: Stay inside, stay safe, and hide yourself away.
But the fluffy black mutt who looked at me with adoring eyes said: “I love you and I trust you’re going to walk me to some fresh green grass where I can pee.”
It sounds silly, but it was simple, really. Callie became both my reason for going outside and also my protection when I did.
With Callie on a leash, I began to fight my fears. I started going on walks again. Just around the block at first, but that counted. I was outside with my dog at my side; I was reclaim
ing my place in the world. My neighborhood streets became mine again.
Mine… and Callie’s.
My therapist was right.
~Jessica Snell
My Naughty but Nice Dog
Not-so-fun fact: Excessive barking is one of the most widespread behavioral problems in dogs.
The Busboy
Fun fact: Most experts say that “guilty look” our dogs give isn’t really guilt but rather the fear of being punished.
As my sister and I washed the dishes after our holiday meal, we heard a loud tinkling noise in the dining room. It sounded like glass, though not a breaking noise. I sent my sister in to check it out and bring in another stack of dishes to wash.
“Oh, my God!” I heard her gasp. I hurried into the room to find my sweet, one-year-old, seventy-five-pound Alaskan Malamute–German Shepherd mix standing in the middle of the dining table licking the meal’s remnants off my fine china. His tail curled up into the crystal chandelier, and as he licked with gusto, his tail automatically moved inside the chandelier, causing the tinkling noise.
“Sitka!” I hollered. He stopped licking and turned his head to look at me. I swear I saw him smirk, a look I had seen on his face every time I found him doing something he knew he shouldn’t. He was one of the sweetest dogs I’d ever known, but he was clearly still a teenager and often challenged behavior norms. I never knew what to expect from him. I’d already taken him to puppy training where I was pretty sure they had only passed him so that I wouldn’t bring him back.
“Get off the table!” I said in a loud, stern voice. Instead, he crouched into a play position. A doggie grin spread across his jokester face, and his huge tongue dangled out of his mouth. He began rapidly moving his giant paws from side to side — his game challenging me to play. I envisioned my fine china and crystal glasses flying and shattering into millions of pieces. I had to act quickly. I didn’t want to reward him for bad behavior, but I knew I had to do something to save the china and crystal. I changed my demeanor and tone.
“Sitka, sweetie, lie down nicely,” I cooed, taking slow, easy steps toward him. His big brown eyes softened as he watched me. When I reached him, I began to gently pet him and continued speaking in soft, soothing tones. “Oh, you’re helping me clean the dishes. What a thoughtful doggie.” He mellowed and began lowering his large white-and-black body onto the table, right on top of the dishes, eventually lying sideways and offering up his stomach for a tummy rub. As he spread out his legs, he began pushing the crystal and china to the table’s edge. I grabbed them before they fell and handed them to my sister. “Yes, that’s right, you lie down, yes, anywhere you like,” I cooed affectionately.
My sister stood in mild shock, her eyes asking me what to do. I whispered, “Very slowly, gather up the dishes. I’ll keep him preoccupied.” Jordana began removing dishes, first those behind him, but as soon as she reached for the dishes in front of him, he playfully laid his paw over her hand, preventing her from removing them. He began thumping his tail in a hard wag, attempting to play with her and causing the remaining china and crystal to rattle and jump in place. I reached over and laid my hand over his tail while still rubbing his stomach, gazing into those sweet chocolate eyes full of adolescent love and whimsy. It worked. Within a few minutes, Jordana was able to remove all the dishes, except those under his body.
“Now what?” she asked.
I rolled Sitka over to scratch and massage the sides of his stomach and chest. “Grab ’em quick!” I said, as the window of opportunity to remove the dishes was brief and fleeting. She grabbed them, and finally the only thing remaining on the table was my silly dog.
I stood back, hands on my hips. “Bad, bad dog!” I admonished him. “Get off the table! Now!” He stood up and looked at me with understandable confusion, turning his head from side to side. “I said now!” Sitka lowered his head, the silly grin gone, his tongue firmly inside of his mouth. He jumped off the table and started to slink away in shame and dejection. He didn’t get far before I grabbed him by the collar and led him out to the back yard where he stayed all evening.
I was prepared to leave him outside all night but my husband said he probably learned his lesson, as we hardly ever banished him to the yard. When I went outside to bring him back into the house, he got up slowly, hanging his head low. He wouldn’t look at me. Like a child who knew he had done something bad, he focused on the ground.
“You know you were a bad dog, right?” I asked him. No answer. He wouldn’t even look up. I kneeled down in front of him and gently took his face into my hands, massaging the sides with my fingers and forcing him to look up. He stared at me with all the sincerity of a child truly sorry for being caught with his hands in the proverbial cookie jar. “Are you going to be a good doggie now?” I asked in as sweet a voice as I could muster. He bumped his big black nose against mine, giving me a little lick, which I took for an apology.
I stood up. “Okay, you can come inside,” I said in a cheery tone. “No more standing on the dining table. Got it?” He cocked his head to the side. “All right, come inside,” I said, waving him toward the back door. “Time for bed!” He got it and raced me to the door — winning, of course.
~Jeffree Wyn Itrich
Power Struggle
Fun fact: A study by the Mayo Clinic Sleep Disorders Center revealed that fifty-three percent of pet owners in the study said their pet disturbed their nightly rest.
I felt my husband, Loren, flip back the covers and climb out of bed. A dim light from the hallway disappeared when the bathroom door clicked shut.
Seconds later, I felt the mattress beside me sink down. I snuggled closer and draped my arm over his quilt-covered body, then drifted deeper into sleep. My eyes fluttered open moments later when I heard the elevated pitch of Loren’s voice.
“What are you doing? Get down.”
The reluctant lump beside me rolled over and plopped to the floor with a thump. The nails of my four-legged companion, Charlie, clicked across the linoleum as he left the bedroom.
Our eighteen-month-old Basset-Lab mix was engaged in a bit of a power struggle with Loren. Charlie considered no territory off-limits.
The next morning at breakfast, Loren said, “I don’t know what made him think he could sleep in our bed, and on my side. You notice he didn’t get in on your side?” I drew a deep breath while I considered my response.
Loren spread jam on his toast. “I just don’t get it. We’ve had him over a year, and he’s never done that before.”
“It’s not really his fault,” I confessed. “When you went to Oregon for your fire-department training, he slept in bed with me all week.”
Charlie stood next to the table between us, his ears perked. With a scowl, my husband stared into those brown Basset eyes. “Hmm…” Charlie wagged his tail. He looked at Loren and then at me while he waited to hear his fate.
Loren shook his head. “Well, no more, or he’ll have to stay outside. No more getting on the bed, no begging for dinner scraps at the table, and I don’t want him on the couch either.”
Charlie gave Loren a defiant glare. He lifted his nose in the air as he lumbered into the living room and leaped onto the couch.
Before he could plop down in his usual corner and rest his head on the arm, Loren waved his hand in the air. “Oh, no, you don’t. You get down. You’re spoiled, that’s what you are.”
Charlie lowered his head, skulked across the room, and flopped down on the rug in front of the fireplace.
Loren grabbed his lunchbox off the kitchen counter. “Sometimes, I think we work just so he can lounge around here all day enjoying the comforts we provide.”
I laughed, giving him a kiss on his way out the door to work. “Don’t be so put out. You love him, too, and you know it.”
Loren shrugged. “Well, let’s try to keep him off the furniture.”
By that evening, Loren had relented and let Charlie reclaim his spot on the sofa. “I guess I was a little harsh this morning, but I
don’t want him on the bed.”
Over the next few years, the two developed a silent understanding between them, acknowledged only by a certain lingering eye-to-eye contact. As long as Charlie stayed off the bed, he continued to edge his way further into Loren’s heart. My husband may have protested his spoiled ways, but one evening I noticed him sharing his dish of ice cream. Charlie wiggled and wagged his tail while he licked the last few bites from Loren’s spoon. Still, my husband insisted it was a bad habit to allow dogs to beg at the table. However, as Charlie gained ground, even that restriction became obsolete. Toward the end of our dinners, Loren would hand leftover morsels from his plate under the table where an eager unseen someone waited for the tasty scraps.
The longer we had him, the more Charlie advanced from pet status to family member. Still standing firm, Loren maintained that our bed was a Charlie-free zone. On occasion, our beloved and persistent hound would sneak into our room for a quick snooze. But as soon as Loren discovered him, he escorted Charlie from the room with a gentle scolding. And so the back-and-forth battle continued.
That is, until I underwent unexpected major surgery and had to stay in bed for several weeks. Loren did everything he could to make me comfortable. One afternoon, with a sheepish grin on his face, he brought Charlie into the bedroom and hoisted him up next to me on the blankets. “I guess there’s no reason he can’t be on the bed during the day. But he’s not going to sleep with us at night.”
Of course, that final restriction didn’t last a month. From then on, Charlie jumped up on the bed anytime he wanted, rested his head on the pillows, and sprawled out in king-sized comfort. Finally, he declared victory in the battle for the bed.
~Kathleen Kohler
Reprinted by permission of Bruce Robinson