Pretty isn't it? That's what the garage at the parental palace looked like last night. Yeah, the ice was there too. Note: When you hear a loud crack, do not blame it on the oven vent. And when you look outside and it appears to be raining even though it's 26 degrees, you have a problem. So several hundred gallons of water later, we finally located the water valve which was helpfully placed on the FAR east side of a 2 acre property. For once I was actually useful as a result of 6 years of working graveyards. I function much more efficiently in the cold, dark outdoors than I do in the glaring bright of daylight. Once we got the water turned off, the garage and driveway instantly turned into an ice rink. I would have made the dogs slide around with me except that I know one of them would have broken a leg and I would have forked out about $3000 for the emergency vet bill.

Luckily, a hapless visiting uncle had been imported from Arizona (because they're so experienced with frozen pipes down there) so he was at the house under the guise of having dinner when in fact he was really just there to be a peon in our clean up efforts. It was great to see you Uncle Joel. Hopefully they let you check in to the hotel with your soaking clothes and dirt stained knees.

It's been a real challenge trying to work with both the dogs given the polarity of their personalities. Hudson has now wracked up 6 broken Christmas tree ornaments. His exuberance is impossible to contain and I am constantly trying to tamp him down, keep him bottled up and under control. The big white one who now goes by Bogart, Bogie for short until I change my mind again, is still learning that in this new world, people harbor only goodwill and treats for him. I am constantly trying to draw him out and teach him to be a dog instead of a wind up guarding machine. The recent snows are the first time I have truly seen him unbridled. He raced around the yard, shovelled snow into his mouth to eat it, flung his bone around and play bowed to me through the slider trying to get me to come out and chase him around the yard. It was a joyous morning to see him so happy and so puppylike. Here he is trying to attack his bone:

He brings me so much happiness, it's hard to remember the days before he came. I can't wait to come home to him after work, or to take him to the park if he's come with me. Every day when I get up and "reappear" to him, he greets me ecstatically as though he were afraid I had left him. Of course I love Hudson too but our relationship is very different. I am Bogie's whole world and we are very sensitive to one another. Hudson barrels his way through life adoring everyone. If you happen to be the human in front of him, you're great. That's refreshing in it's own right, especially when I have begged and pleaded and lured Bogie to perform a simple behavior and he's too afraid and Hudson will do it without a second thought. But my relationship with Bogie is much deeper because it has to be. He is truly MY dog which was what I wanted when I decided to get another dog. I have fantasies of having a big New England farmhouse on some land and about 4 feet of snow outside and Bogie racing around the property in paroxysms of joy. The snow and a few acres is so obviously where he was meant to be.

Speaking of which, it's time to go walk the mutts in the snow now that I have some clean towels for all of us. And then we will retire to the sofa where Hudson will smother me on the left and Bogie will pin my legs from the right and hopefully Hudson will leave me with at least a few ornaments on the tree.

The Way We Were...

It's only been a month today which isn't the most impressive of anniversaries but I thought it worth revisting how much has changed since that fateful day I brought the big white one home. Back then, he would only lie in the car, afraid to stand up or look out, whining softly. At the time, I thanked the gods that he wasn't throwing up all the way home or pacing or screeching at the top of his doggie lungs. Now, he races to the car, hops in and sits up between the seats, watching with interest, that fascinating, less scary world passing us by. And god forbid I even think of leaving him at home. My driving notwithstanding, he takes everything in stride and there is nor more whining or melding into the floorboard.

Then there was the growling and barking at anyone who dared set foot in the house. Not just men. Oh no, any intruder from the "outside" was worthy of a wall of sound. Just a few days ago a friend came over to fix my computer (what did I tell you? I am hopelessly inept) and he uttered not a sound. In fact, when she was safely seated, he sidled up to her and licked her hand, no doubt hoping for another lure, ahem, positive reinforcer, for being so gregarious. We have actually PROGRESSED to him growling at people in the park now, showing an interest and approaching, even if he decides he'd rather not be petted thank you. It's a step above running blindly the other direction.

Then there was the hallway issue. When he came home those early days, he was terrified of the deep dark hole that was my long claustrophobic even for me, hallway. I lured him down with a tasty piece of meatloaf and suddenly his fears floated away. This was significant because my old 1960's house is comprised of a small open living space and the entire rest of the house branches off the hallway so he had effectively cut himself off from almost 1000 sq feet of living space. Three days later, and a few random tasty reinforcers later, his fears were conquered. He is now asleep at my feet, under my desk in his favorite spot while I waste away the hours on this baffling computer.

And of course, there is My Father. This is worthy of capitalization because in the scared dog's world, My Father IS capitalized in a giant font kind of a way. He was the big question, the big hurdle, the hope being that he would not revert back to his behavior with R, M's husband. The first day we visited the parental palace, he was wary but quite relaxed, no doubt because those long hallways and tight spaces are missing in their significantly larger abode. The circular rooms with numerous doors (read escape routes) didn't hurt either. By the second or third visit, he would nonchalantly wander within vicinity of My Seated Father, and although somewhat put upon by the look on his face, would allow himself an ear rub or a butt scratch. Somewhat later, his response resembled something more like alacrity should another of the mutts have beat him to The Hand that is attached to My Father. Many positive reinforcers were doled out during this time with varying degrees of success.

The fateful day came when I had to have some minor surgery and he was left overnight with My Father while my mom and I were at the hospital. And what do you know? Turns out he actually didn't mind that hand that fed him, or walked him, or adored him. My Father still cannot stand or move his hands too quickly without getting a wayward look and slinking away. But we are up to voluntarily approaching and resting large, fluffy white head on lap and then pretending vaguely like it was a sheer twist of random fate that said head ended up on lap. I can leave him freely to be babysat by adoring grandparents now and know he will be just fine, almost a normal dog. Until of course, I come home, when the whole act is resurrected and I am suddenly the only safe person in the house. He doesn't have me fooled...I know when I am being played for sympathy.

In his absence, I sometimes breathe a sigh of relief. It isn't until I have only Hudson, the large black monster whose personality is diametrically opposite, that I realize how much stress I still carry over the big white boy. I'm not quite sure why as he is truly an easy dog with a few distinct issues but there is still a feeling of being stretched rather tautly. Yet, when I return to him, I find I have missed him so deeply and his quiet nature hides a depth and presence that so profound it leaves a rather gaping hole in its absence. What a leap we have made in a month. If only I could make a leap like that myself. On that note, I gazed back tonight and the photo above is what I saw. The best bedroom in the world. I'll sleep there again some day. In the meantime, I have one dog to restrain and one to push out into the world.

Idle Reading

So I have begun reading this book:


I idly ask myself as I make my way through the density of facts and chronology, why I wasn't born during this time period. I admit that everyone of a certain generation is likely to ask themselves this question, the past always viewed through the rosy film of romantic nostalgia whereas the present seems hard, metallic and not the least bit mysterious or romantic. But really. Why does it always seem like the world was still being formed in a manner of earth shaking change, discovery and forward motion back then and now we are on to the fine tuning with all the good stuff gone before?

This book makes me fantasize about selling my house, my car, (my job? I COULD probably sell it these days) and moving to the Middle East or Africa and living in utter simplicity as I have done for 3 short weeks these past two years in Namibia. I am lost in the endless cycle of life here. Endless laundry that must be washed again and again, grcoeries that must be purchased again and again, dogs that must be walked again and again and all to what end? Perhaps Lawrence saw himself walking among the Hittites again and again but it just doesn't have the ring of drudgery that my life in suburbia does. This isn't quite what I had in mind.

While I ponder my meaning and existence, those persistent responsibilities keep rearing their ugly heads and cannot be dropped quite as quickly as I would like. Thus it was off to the dog park today with the big white one. We had a growly free day at the park to my inifinite relief. Not that he won't pick it back up at a moment's notice. But I am languishing in the feeling that I should be doing some kind of constructive training with him and am not. Although an inordinate amount of reading and researching has been done and I am wallowing in information left and right, I am having a hard time separating chaff from grain and putting it into a coherent whole.

I am not actually sure that there is anything concrete I want to teach him at this time in terms of commands. M, his foster mom, did a great job with the basics. He is polite, well mannered and easy to live with. Rather, our challenges are on a day to day, rather inchoate scale of exposing him to the world, people, noises consistently enough to desensitize him. It is difficult to do more because of the very reason I was chosen to adopt him - I lead a quiet life at home and it's just me. (Alas) So the advice from the well meaning talksters on the yahoo talk group to teach targeting, work on his thresholds etc. is taken with a grain of salt. Part of me rejects some of all this constructed psychology and believes that simply living will teach him much of what he needs to know. I am blessed in that his natural curiosity is an underground geyser. Not always visible but constantly at work and bubbling up if it is thwarted. My only goal at this point is not to screw up the good work M put into him and not to make the same mistakes I did with Hudson, my black lab/great Dane rescue who has had to learn late in life, who is in charge in the big scheme of things. I wish I knew who was in charge sometimes!

Between T.E. Lawrence and Zeno, I have the big concepts and the daily grind covered. Will ever the twain meet? And where is my latest copy of The Economist anyway? I am losing IQ points by the day...

The Quixotic Quest for Fearlessness. Or just plain hope.

Sometimes, when dealing with my large white dog, whose name this week is Zeno for the stoic philosopher, I wonder what exactly I was thinking when I tried to find the most problem ridden dog listed on petfinder. Notice how close wonder and wander are. They frequently occur together i.e. after you have been wandering for awhile, you wonder what hell you were thinking when you came up with what seemed like a grand plan at the time.

So I acquired this beautiful white boy who is old beyond his years. He does things M, his foster mom warned me about, like sitting down abruptly and with no absolutely no ambivalence and refusing to move one step further which he did today, in front of the pet store door. What dog refuses to enter a large edifice filled with the makings of doggie dreams? Mine of course. As I stood on the sidewalk foolishly bargaining and pleading with him to "Just try it", "Check it out", all my cute phrases he does not understand. He sat down in the manner of a great punctuation point as he does, meaning this particular sentence is going no further. So back we went to the car. Why force it? I have quickly learned to let go of pride and the notion of giving in to him as some kind of defeat. Really, if I wanted a being that could speak my language and I could argue with, debate, persuade and encourage with my infallible logic as to why the pet store is a fabulous place to enter, I should have adopted a child, not a dog. So I am left with letting it go and spending no more time agonizing over it than he did.

All parents should have to raise a dog like this before they raise children. In the space of three short weeks, I have learned to control my emotions or at least disguise them from the emotion making machine that Zeno is. I have come to realize, reluctantly, that this is all about him and how far he is capable of progressing, not how far I want him to go. I realize that sometimes I will have to make excuses for my dog instead of being proud of him as in me trotting after him at the dog park today like a manic machine, repeating mindlessly, "Sorry, he's scared of strangers", "Oh yes, just ignore the growling, he won't bite", "Please don't touch my dog, he doesn't like hands".

And yet who can argue with his beauty, his noble bearing and most of all his ability to forgive? Would I have forgiven the human race if what had been done to him was done to me? I think not. As with children, the more difficult it becomes, the more attached and invested one becomes and while the rest of the world nods sympathetically secretly thinking, "Thank god that's not me", I take him home and wonder (there's that word again) if their dog could possibly show the affection and love mine does to the only person in the world he trusts completely. I suspect the people on this website www.fearfuldogs.com know what I mean. And yes, some days I dream of taking him back to the north country from whence he came and returning to my sane, calm, predictable life I had only a month ago. But he and I both know you don't take your children back and how could you, really?

The Garden of Google

Ah the inaugural blog post! The miracle is that I ever got this new computer launched, the drivers installed, the files transferred and my sanity still somewhat intact. When embarking on a new venture, it's always tempting to overstep one's bounds and take on even more since you're at it. I am hardly technologically savvy as was evident when I required assistance simply setting up the email on this wretched thing. But for some time now, I have intended to start a (b)log if for no other reason than my own retrospection, to realize just how much is accomplished in the small every day activities that amount to so much more in the end. The acquisition of the new, big, white dog, a product of endless sick days at home obsessively surfing petfinder, has been the final tipping point. He requires, actually demands, the daily charting of our uncertain course as he recovers from his terrible beginnings and learns fearlessness and hopefully wanderlust. This will (should? ought to?) document for me, and any others in search of inspiration and hope, the progress of a fearful, wary dog into a calm, confident explorer. And you might get a little of me thrown in along the way!