Don't Dump The Dog

by Randy Grim

  But for once, I listened.

  And now I always listen. Just ask Dr. Gupta.

  Territory Marking

  Recently, I entertained a short-term guest in my home—a huge, old, un-neutered pit bull named Goober—who religiously marked all four corners of my bed each night before he jumped in.

  I first saw Goober when I traveled to New Orleans with Jeff Popowich from Best Friends Animal Society in Utah (www.bestfriends.org) and a film crew from National Geographic to rescue dogs abandoned after Hurricane Gustav. We were part of a group of first-wave responders, and authorities gave us a partial list of dogs they knew were chained inside homes or to fences and then left behind. We worked from 6:00 AM to midnight every day for a week.

  I found Goober lying on a sidewalk that led up to a house in which a woman stood and yelled for help. Turns out, Goober wasn’t her dog—he’d just picked her sidewalk to rest on—but he was arthritic and weak from hunger and thirst. He could barely stand up anymore, let alone walk away. He was a large pit bull, with ragged ears, fighting scars, and testicles the size of baseballs, and that convinced the woman inside that he was laying there waiting to eat her.

  Jeff and I managed to get the old guy inside our rescue van, and despite his pain and weakened state, his tail banged like a bongo on the van’s metal floor. He was that grateful. Needless to say, I decided Goober had probably lived a hardenough life already, so instead of transporting him to the local shelter, which was already overloaded with abandoned dogs, I brought him back with me to the evacuated vet clinic that served as our makeshift home during the rescue operation.

  The short walk from the van to the door of the abandoned clinic took us half an hour, because, in addition to limb-numbing sores and arthritis, Goober, like any un-neutered alpha male—canine, human, or otherwise—had to mark every blade of grass along the way, even after he was empty and nothing came out. It’s a territorial thing, like a Wise Guy leaving a calling card, and no matter how inconvenient it is, no matter how much it slows down business, one doesn’t yank Tony Soprano by the chain.

  Once we made it to our temporary bedroom (a floor and a sleeping bag), Goober peed all over the place: the crates, the operating-room table, the corner of my backpack on the floor. When I finally climbed into my sleeping bag and patted an invitation to him, Goober first hobbled from one corner to the other, making his mark, then, with painful slowness, he climbed up next to me and made himself comfortable.

  For dogs like Goober, marking isn’t just peeing—it’s an instinctual drive. Researchers argue about why they do it—to intimidate intruders, to maintain territorial borders, or to make a map for themselves so they don’t get lost—but no matter the reason, they still do it, and it still smells bad. At least to us. Dogs don’t think peeing is as gross as we do. In fact, if an alpha male lifts his leg over the mark of a subordinate female, he’s basically telling her he’ll protect her no matter what. It’s a compliment.

  Dogs are really nothing more than learning-disabled wolves, and scent marking in a wolf pack is one of the most important forms of communication. The alpha male in any wolf pack—the guy who leads the hunts, attacks intruders, and gets the females—does most of the scent marking, and does so most frequently at the edges of the pack’s territory, to keep neighboring packs in their own ’hoods. Lone wolves don’t even leave scent marks, because they don’t want to attract unwanted attention.

  So when you have an un-neutered male dog in your house, you basically have a dumb wolf who’s play-acting. GET HIM NEUTERED AND HE’LL STOP. If you’re one of those people who don’t want an “emasculated” dog, there are fake balls called Neuticles (I kid you not) that are testicular implants your veterinarian can install that “allow your pet to retain his natural look, self-esteem, and aid in trauma associated with neutering.” They come in various sizes and firmness—Original, Natural, and Ultra Plus—offered online at www.neuticles.com.

  While un-neutered males are, like, a million times more likely to scent-mark than neutered males, even fixed dogs need to make their presence known sometimes.

  My dog Quentin, for example, accompanies me on book tours for Miracle Dog: How Quentin Survived the Gas Chamber to Speak for Animals on Death Row, and despite his good manners and neutered state, he still marks the legs of anyone who stands too close to me. If I’m standing there talking to someone with Quentin sitting at my side, at some point he’ll quietly step over to the person and pee on their leg as if telling them, “He [meaning me] is mine,” and then he’ll resume his position at my side as if nothing happened. The interesting part is that nine times out of ten, the person I’m talking to pretends it never happened either. (Note to Self: Ask Dr. Gupta why people who get peed on by Quentin feign obliviousness. Submissive? Starstruck? Stupid?)

  Anyway, when I brought Goober back to St. Louis, he stayed with me for a few days while waiting for a space in our shelter. I had him neutered immediately, but he still marked anything vertical that didn’t move, including furniture legs, floor-length curtains, grocery bags, plants—even blank walls and closed doors. Every night after he’d marked all four corners of the bed, and after I’d climbed out to wipe them off with vinegar, he climbed down too and marked them all over again. He marked the purses of donors, the tripods of photographers, and the boots of overnight guests who never came back. (I read somewhere that they mark vertical objects aboveground to ensure a large evaporative surface that in turn ensures a stronger odor.) Regardless, every time Goober drank at the water bowl, all I could think was, “He’s not thirsty; he’s just refilling.”

  It doesn’t matter how old a dog is when he’s neutered: The drop in testosterone will eventually change his instinctual drive to mark things, usually in a few weeks, from a need to a habit. In other words, if you have an un-neutered male dog who marks everything in your house and you don’t have him neutered, then he will, in all probability, still mark everything in your house. If, however, you do get him snipped, it’s simply a matter of breaking a bad habit.

  The only way to start breaking the habit is to catch him in the act, and you must be diligent about this, because no matter how inconvenient it seems at the time, it will save you, your dog, and your furniture in the end.

  If you are agoraphobic (afraid to leave your house) like me, it’s easy: Tether your dog to you for two whole days, and every time he circles or sniffs, screech “NO MARK!” and immediately shake a tin can filled with twenty pennies. If you live with someone named Mark, you must use a different word, but whatever—the idea is to make the dog associate marking in the house with an awful sound that startles him and hurts his ears. Of course, follow up with praise or a hallelujah.

  This is what I did with Goober. On the first night of training when he went to one of the bed corners and sniffed, I jumped up and bellowed “NO GO!” while shaking my can of pennies like Carmen Miranda in a high-speed salsa dance. Goober’s leg dropped immediately and he stared up at me with a cocked head. When he shuffled over to the next bed corner to try once more, I yelled “NO GO!” and shook the can of pennies again. Goober’s leg dropped, and this time he eyed me with suspicion. As I expected, Goober then tottered all the way around to the other side of the bed for a third attempt, and when I screeched “NO GO!” and shook the can of pennies, he looked at me like, “What is this guy’s problem?” And when he headed for the fourth corner, all I had to do was raise the can of pennies before he dropped his leg, sat down, and looked up at me with eyes that said, “We obviously need to talk.”

  The next morning, I gladly canceled all appointments and spent the entire day with Goober tethered to me. Every single time he sniffed, circled, or so much as looked at a vertical object, I shook and screamed, and within forty-eight hours, Goober associated marking in the house with me throwing tantrums or doing a bad mambo, and quit.

  If you can’t be right next to your dog for two days, confine him to a small area and watch him for the first few minutes, during which he will probably do most of his ma
rking. When he starts to lift his leg, shake the can of pennies and yell. Later, when you get home and let him out, watch him as closely as possible. Consistency is the most important factor here, and while it may take a few weeks to break the habit, he will eventually cave. Always follow up good behavior with some loving and praise.

  Submissive Urination

  There—I used the word.

  Had to, because this is a big one at Stray Rescue, where many of our volunteers and foster parents take on dogs who’ve been abused. We can’t say “submissive peepee” or “submissive number-one” any more than we can say “submissive see-a-man-about-a-horse” and sound like we know what we’re talking about.

  I did try once, though. A guy called about a dog he’d adopted from us who did the deed every time he came home from work. He was a carpenter, and when he asked, “Man, why the hell does she piss every time she sees me?” I heard the angry alpha male well up in his voice and knew right away what the problem was.

  “She’s taking a leak submissively, man,” I said, trying to use language I thought he’d identify with—trying, in other words, to sound like one of the guys.

  “Huh?”

  “You know, man, submissively whizzing, submissively hosing things down?”

  “Huh?”

  “Okay, let’s say there’s a group of guys in a bar and one guy says to another, ‘Your wife is so fat that when she walks past a window, we lose four days of sunlight,’ and everyone laughs except the guy with the fat wife, who doesn’t understand it’s a joke, and he’s so afraid he’s about to get beat up for having a fat wife, he squats down and pisses on the floor to show that he’s no threat.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “See, the man with the fat wife is showing submissiveness. He doesn’t stand up and piss on a bar stool; he squats down and pisses on the floor.”

  More silence.

  “He’s telling the other guy, ‘I’m just a nobody. I’m no threat to your status in this bar, so please don’t beat me up.’ ”

  Still more silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Man ... what in the hell are you talking about?”

  What I tried and apparently failed to communicate is that submissive urination is a problem much like territory marking in that it’s an instinctual issue for dogs—a way of saying something without using words.

  In a wolf pack, there are rules that members must follow in order to keep the pack intact and working. In a way, a wolf pack symbolizes a Hobbesian dictatorship, where all members of a group submit to the leader, no questions asked, because no matter how bad the leader is, someone has to lead, just like in politics. Wolves, like all pack animals, are afraid of being alone, because a solitary life is nasty, brutish, and very, very short, so a wolf—and its genetically challenged cousin, the dog—will do whatever it takes to remain a member of the group, including acting the fool, i.e., squatting and urinating in the leader’s presence, which makes the leader feel better about himself and less inclined to beat anyone up.

  So the carpenter’s dog who saw a man about a horse every time he walked in the door was simply telling him: I acknowledge that you are and always will be the leader. I am no threat. I want to remain part of this pack. Please.

  Dogs who are naturally timid or anxious and those who’ve been abused or yelled at a lot are the ones most likely to urinate in submission. If she squats and pees whenever someone approaches her, or walks in the door and greets her, or scolds her in any way—and if she then rolls over and exposes her belly or crouches low to the ground—she’s trying to communicate her passivity, her lack of ego, her total and unquestionable devotion to you, the leader of the pack.

  While you do want to be leader of the pack, you don’t need the pack’s sole citizen reminding you every time you walk in the door.

  Never ever scold or punish her when she urinates in submission. You’ll only confuse the hell out of her, because she won’t make the connection. Consequently, she’ll submissively urinate even more to make up for whatever it was that made you mad, even though she doesn’t know what that was.

  When you walk in the door, don’t make a big deal about greeting her. Pretend she’s not there. Don’t even look at her.

  A few minutes after you enter, greet her quietly by bending down and petting her on her side or under her chin. Don’t make direct eye contact and don’t pet her on top of the head. In fact, don’t do anything that in any way resembles a dominant wolf: Don’t rush toward her when you greet her (dominant wolves rush at submissive wolves before they attack); don’t stand over her (dominant wolves try to stand “over” submissive wolves); and, don’t pee on any vertical surface to mark territory.

  When I talked with the carpenter, I figured he might have a hard time acting non-dominant, so I suggested he have a treat ready every time he walked in the door. If you can condition your dog to expect a treat whenever you greet each other, she’ll quickly see you as a benevolent dictator instead of a jerk she has no choice but to live with.

  The trick is to build her confidence by deflating your own. (For more on this, see chapter 11.)

  Anxiety: When You Leave

  If your dog sees a man about a horse whenever you leave the house, she’s not doing it out of spite (probably not, anyway). This is an anxiety issue, which needs special attention (see chapter 10).

  Cleaning Up

  I’ve tried just about every commercially available odor destroyer on the market, and while many of them work well, they get expensive if you have a leaky dog, or, as in my case, many leaky dogs.

  Back when I house-trained Bonnie’s thirteen puppies, for instance (remember now, this is before Stray Rescue existed and before I turned into Dr. Doolittle and got to appear on national TV and attend cool Hollywood benefits because I knew what I was doing), I panicked and all but gave my bank account and social security numbers to the pet-store employees in exchange for something, anything to get rid of the smell. I bought magic formulas, miracle formulas, and formulas with guaranteed talismanic abilities, including an alchemistic solution, a seven-step solution, and a solution that “exorcised” evil spirits and smells. I bought pet perfume, odor-eating candles, and Air Wick by the case.

  As I neared bankruptcy, my mom suggested vinegar, to which I rolled my eyes the way one does when one’s mother suggests a remedy from the eighteenth century.

  “It’s cheap,” she said.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “It works on windows too.”

  I never would have tried vinegar had I not rushed home one day to make dinner for incoming guests and found the thirteen teenybopper beasties, who had escaped from the basement, seeing men about horses throughout my house. Since I was out of my Oxi-Magic Pee Be Gone and didn’t have time to go to the store, I grabbed a bottle of balsamic/raspberry vinegar and doused everything.

  And ... it worked. Once it dried, the vinegar smell disappeared and took the smell of beastie pee along with it. Amazed and happy, I also used it on my garden salad that night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dogs Who Lick Baby Snot

  Help, Randy!

  We adopted a dog from you about eight years ago when she was four. She’s been great for the most part, but we had a baby about six months ago and it’s been chaos ever since. Buffy knocks over the Diaper Genie and pulls out dirty diapers. Another problem is her licking. After feeding the baby, or when the baby is sitting in her pumpkin seat, Buffy will not leave her alone. She wants to lick her constantly. I find it disgusting and unsanitary. She is not aggressive, but we can no longer control her, and I’m at my wits’ end. I feel like I have to constantly watch her, and she’s feeling like more work than our baby.

  Thanks,

  Frazzled

  Dear Frazzled,

  Dare I say, “Buffy’s mouth is probably more sanitary than anything you wipe your baby’s face with” and get away with it?

  All the best,

  Randy

  “Diaper Genie” and “
pumpkin seat” are extremely foreign words to me, and when I called one of my volunteers for definitions—a woman named Sandy with small kids who screech in the background like wild animals in trees—she told me, between several threats to the heirs, that, “Duh—a Diaper Genie is a little man who lives in a bottle whose sole purpose in life is soil management.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, and a pumpkin seat is ... hang on a minute ... Be QUIET while Mommy’s on the phone ... a pumpkin seat is a giant magic squash that you put kids in when they won’t be quiet, which flies away to a magic planet. Hang on a minute ... I SAID, be QUIET ... and doesn’t come back until you get off the phone.”

  I guess I should have gotten the hint and called her back in eighteen years, but instead I asked if I could come by and talk to her about how she coped with three rescued dogs and two kids in one house.

  “Sure,” she said, and then cupped her hand over the receiver so that all I heard was a few muffled, unprintable threats, “but come armed.”

  I grabbed my can of pennies and headed for the door.

  Have I pointed out that I do not have human children? The last time the subject came up was when my partner at the time, Jean Claude the Annoying, suggested we adopt a baby from China or Costa Rica. He made a big production of it: rosemary martinis before dinner; pinot noir with watercressstuffed chicken for dinner; and warmed Grand Marnier with coffee and lemon wedges after dinner. I was thoroughly enjoying a cigarette and second snifter of Grand Marnier when he popped the question, and after clarifying that he meant a bipedal hominid as opposed to a puppy, I downed the rest of the Grand Marnier and lit another cigarette from the burning stub of the first.