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Shutdown, trust and Brandy- Part Two

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Brandy laying close to Teddy

I stood, leash in hand, watching Brandy eat her kibble. She kept one eye on me and her body was ready to spring away the instant I moved toward her.  But keeping me in her sights was an improvement.  The first night I brought her home with me, she tried to hide in an upstairs bedroom at dinnertime.  I’d closed all the doors, however, and she was stuck in the dead end hall.  Quivering.

I told her, “You are eating with the pack, little girl.”  I fed Teddy and Josie first, then put down her bowl.  She watched them for a moment, then slowly began to eat.  Josie, as usual, scarfed her food at a breakneck pace and watched Brandy carefully to make sure she didn’t leave anything.  That didn’t bother Brandy. It was having me nearby made her worried.

Just as I’d hoped, she loved my two dogs. Teddy, who adored routine and was pretty unflappable, patiently showed her the ropes and lay next to her when she was scared.  Josie tossed toys at her and then stole them back.  Brandy’s whole body relaxed when she was with them.

I realized quickly that she lived in a state of nonstop vigilance and fear.  Any new noise made her startle and freeze.  When Teddy looked out the window and barked at the mailman, she raced to the other side of the room.  When my son came over, she watched him from the other side of a doorway.  But outdoors with only the dogs, she was happy to chase a squirrel or watch the birds.  It was people who gave her pause.

Josie and Brandy watching the world

I also got in touch with her former foster through the Lucky Lab Rescue facebook page for fosters.  It had been two years but she remembered Brandy well. She posted that Brandy had a hard time trusting humans and would run if she saw a towel or even a toy swinging in the air.  She wondered if she had been beaten or abused.  She ended by saying, “I don’t know what makes some dogs bounce back after abuse while others don’t.  Sadly, the physical wounds are always easier to heal than the wounds to one’s soul.”

I had raised a child with intense anxiety and this was familiar territory.  I felt for Brandy.  It was exhausting to anticipate the worst.  I knew routine was my friend.  I realized small steps were going to do the trick.  Most of all, my secret weapon was the power of the pack.

“Come here, pretty girl,” I would call her while holding a leash.  Brandy liked leashes – they meant happy things.  I would tie her leash to one of my dogs, usually Teddy, so that she couldn’t hide and was never alone.  They lay side by side where the sun hit the carpet or walked together to the water bowl.  They got treats together and praise together. We were making progress.

Shutdown, trust and Brandy – Part One

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When I pulled up in front of the large, gray house, I had no idea what to expect.  Lucky Lab Rescue had asked to me go get Brandy because her owners didn’t want to keep her. They said she was still terrified of them and hid from them most of the time.  She was still afraid to eat when they were in the same room.  This was fearfulness to the moon and back.

And they’d had her for two freaking years. 

Brandy before I fostered her

In rescue, there is the 3-3-3 rule.  Three days to de-stress, three weeks to settle in and three months to build trust.  Something had gone seriously wrong here.  I had no idea what.

I knocked on their blue front door and went in to meet Brandy and her owners, a married couple who had never had a dog before they adopted her, and their college aged son.  Brandy was nowhere to be seen.  I was told she was hiding in the son’s bedroom upstairs, not because of me, but because it was what she did every day.  My own dogs would have run to greet a new person, I thought, maybe given a perfunctory bark or two.  There would be lots of sniffing, tail wagging and curiosity to see who had walked into their home.  But here, nothing. No sign of a dog at all.

I asked a few polite questions and then just listened.  Brandy was beautiful, they told me.  But “she acts a like scared, hurt, insane creature 99% of the time.”  She shakes coming down the stairs to go for a walk and sometimes pees out of fear, they added.  She hides in our son’s bedroom (who was home on a break) most of the time.  We put out her food at night before we go to bed and she comes down to eat while we are asleep. 

She acts like we are always just about to harm her, they told me. “At the two-year mark,” the woman said, “we don’t have much hope for change.”

“Will she come with me?” I asked. “I have two dogs at home who are calm and love other dogs. That might be what she needs right now.”  They looked at each other and nodded.  I told them a couple of stories about Teddy and Josie and how they loved the dogs we had fostered.  How they tag teamed, with Teddy being calm and showing other dogs the ropes, while Josie played and pushed them to get into trouble with her.

They asked if I could train Brandy and then return her.  “No,” I explained. “You said you were returning her, letting her go.  She will come stay with me for a while and then go to another home. Is that what you still want?”  They nodded, tearful, but seemed to accept it.

Someone went to get Brandy’s paperwork and food, while the son went upstairs with her leash. 

As she came down the stairs I stood quietly, not looking at her.  When a dog is scared, they often tuck their tail under, but Brandy’s tail was docked.  She stood docilely, trembling slightly.  She didn’t seem ready to bolt, but resigned, a little defeated.

We all walked outside and I was handed her leash.  I opened my car door, expecting to have to wait a bit or maybe coax her to get in.  But she surprised me and jumped right into the back seat, where she sniffed the dog smells my two dogs had left.  She didn’t look at me.  She didn’t look at her owners.  I ran the seat belt through the loop in her leash and shut the door.

When we got to my house, Brandy immediately tried to find a place to hide.  But only from me, not my dogs.  She started playing with them within 20 minutes.  Small steps, I told myself. Let’s see if the 3-3-3 rule will work this time.

Super-friendliness, intention and Gwen

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After I’d fostered just a couple of dogs, my own dogs thought that I was fostering for their benefit and happiness. Every dog so far was interesting, showed how much she or he liked the two of them and fit themselves into their pack as fast as possible. When they heard my car pull into the driveway one July afternoon with Gwen in the back seat, Teddy and Josie immediately thought she would make life better.  They turned out to be right.

I followed a set of steps to make sure first introductions went well.  First, the new dog, in this case Gwen, walked on a leash around my front yard.  Then I brought her into my fenced back yard, letting go of the leash so it trailed behind her.  She explored the yard for a few minutes on her own, sniffing the ground and air.  Stretching her legs from the car ride. Listening to my own two dogs, Teddy and Josie, whine and yip in impatience to come out and meet her.

When I opened the back sliding door, they rushed out.  Gwen did something unexpected.  She half jumped in the air, then made a perfect play bow.  She had not one hesitating moment.  There was no slow-warming up period.  She greeted both of them as immediate friends.  I thought, ‘Her bio said she was dog friendly.  That’s sure an understatement!” 

Gwen had a kind of magical attitude.  She expected other dogs to like her and she expected to like them.  It worked like the charm – her charm – that it was. In her doggy way, Gwen set intentions.  Many dogs are friendly or enjoy what comes their way.  But they can be alert for little red flags. 

Not Gwen when it came to friendships with other dogs.  She’d approach with something more than confidence, more than openness.  She simply knew the other dog would like her and she was never wrong.  Not that first day, not at the dog park or meeting other dogs on walks.

She was simply terrible on a leash.  She never pulled but couldn’t seem to get the hang of walking in a straight line.  She’d weave to my left side then zoom to my right.  I’d coax her to my left side, giving her  a treat when she stayed in the dog-space.  She’d look at me and I’d be sure she was making progress.  Then something – often I would have no idea what – would interest her on my right and she’d sashay in that direction.  She never pulled hard.  She simply couldn’t get the hang of walking in a straight line.

When we’d walk by another dog on a walk, her meandering seemed to have a purpose.  Gwen would drift over in their direction, grinning her sweetest smile.  Most dogs would beam their smiles back.  For the occasional dog who had a tepid response, Gwen would turn up her friendliness wattage and win them over.  They’d grin back after a second or two.  Worked every time. 

It was Gwen’s world, the one where she loved other dogs and they loved her back. Her magic, her intentions, ruled without fail.

Names, coming home and Teddy

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I first saw Teddy online.  He was featured in a photo outdoors, his black coat contrasting with bright green summer grass.  He was handsome, I thought, and gave off an aura of acceptance. He had been found wandering with another dog in a Midwest state, eating out of dumpsters and trash cans, just focused on surviving.  When he was approached by someone intent on rescuing him, he proved to be gentle and allowing. 

Teddy was my first rescue dog.  I saw his picture and felt that tug of connection right away.  I had recently moved into my house, knowing it wouldn’t feel like a real home unless there was a dog in it.  I saw him in my mind’s eye, a medium size dog, maybe a Labrador retriever, with a happy go lucky personality.  It’s hard to tell some things from a small picture on a web page.

On his gotcha day, I drove to a neighboring state alone in my small Toyota Corolla.  The transport van was late, having hit traffic and other delays. One puppy after another was brought out from the van and put in the arms of very happy adopters.  When Teddy came out, I saw this tall, very large and lanky, rough-coated black dog who greeted me with a polite aloofness.  I was told how well behaved he was and how patient he was.  Most of the van had been filled with un-housebroken puppies, who fussed, slept and had many accidents all along the way. 

He politely waited for me to hand over the paperwork, accept his things and then he tugged me away.  After a short walk to stretch his legs, he jumped right in my car nearly filling the back seat.  Somehow he knew he was putting that part of his life behind him.

We arrived at my home well after dark, toured the house and back yard and waited for my son to come home after his shift ended at 11 pm. My son arrived while Teddy was exploring the house, sniffing, listening and checking every corner.  We took him out to the deck and the three of us sat there in the summer dark for a while.  Teddy went to explore the back yard his black coat disappearing in the night. He didn’t reappear.  “I think I left the gate open,” my son exclaimed and we both raced to find our new dog.  My heart pounding, I thought how a black dog can easily disappear into the night and not know how to find his way home. Then I heard my son say, “Come here, Mom.  You have to see this.”

And there in the driveway, was Teddy.  He was sitting patiently next to my small car, waiting to get in again.  After only a few hours and one car ride, he had decided this was his car and his family.  He wasn’t leaving.

He came from the rescue with the name Saint, which he never thought was his.  I think his Midwest foster thought it described his personality and in many ways it did.  He was gentle, patient and loving.  He was willing to try what we asked him, whether it was a simple thing like sitting or a new thing like “leave it.”  He listened intently to everything, learning our voices and absorbing our intentions. He was fierce in his concentration.

When I introduced him to people or talked about him to coworkers, they asked, “Why, is he called Saint?  Is he a Saint Bernard?”   I would explain that someone thought it described his personality, but it sounded lame, even to me. 

My son and I each came up with a short list of names we liked and thought would fit him.  I looked online for popular boy names while he pulled from names he liked in movies and favorite books.  We took him outside, sat him on the deck and tried out a succession of names.  I called him over saying, “Riley” but he just looked at me.  I even made smacking noises but he ignored those.  My son tried a different name, then another. Our black dog sat there politely, wagging just the end of his tail, waiting to see what we would do next.  Then I tried my favorite name, which I’d saved until last.  “Teddy!” I called.  He pricked his ears, and came over looking at me steadily.  “That’s the one, “I half shouted.  My son tried it too.  “Teddy!” he called and the dog padded over to him.  We’d picked a name, or rather, Teddy had picked his own name.  

We tried it a few more times, just to be sure.  Or rather, for us to be sure, because he had made his own decision and didn’t waver a bit. This was his home, that was his name and all was well.

Boundless energy, routine and Maude

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Maude came off the transport and never stopped moving.  At least that’s what I heard.  Another foster parent picked her up and kept her for a few hours until I could retrieve her.  When I went to get her, there were four dogs in the yard, her own two and two more waiting to be fostered.  I looked them over carefully, trying to see who matched Maude’s online picture.  “Which one is she?” I asked.  Once I was told, “She’s the one in nonstop motion,” it was a no-brainer to pick her out of the melee, er, pack.

On the walk to my car, everything was exciting to Maude.  She yanked the leash toward a butterfly, froze to listen to a car engine nearby and zigzagged so much she covered three times the distance we would have if she’d walked in a straight line. She sniffed out every cranny in my car, even finding a dried up dog treat.  She bounded from window to window, never staying next to one for long.

Inside my house, Maude zoomed from one spot to the next.  She put shoes, pillows, throws, paper bags, the corner of the dog bed and toilet paper in her mouth.  When she was told “no,” she would let me take the item but immediately zoomed off to try out something else.  She found the dog toy box and emptied the toys all over the house, splashed the dog water around before drinking it and then play-barked at my dogs a few times.  Anything that came into her mind to do, she tried it out. 

I pulled out the description I had received of Maude.  Medium energy, uh no.  Loves other dogs, yes, when she stops long enough, she does.  Needs a little help to get to her forever home? Yep, Maude needed to slow down long enough to learn the basics.  It also said she was easy to love and that one was very, very true.

My own two dogs, Teddy and Josie, simply love routine and basic rules.  In the morning, breakfast always comes after a trip outdoors.  Dinner time is pretty close to 6 pm and there’s a dog biscuit just before bedtime.  They wait patiently while the kibble plinks into the bowl and sit quietly before their treats.  It’s okay to bark (a little) at the postal carrier but not the children walking by.  Dog toys can be tossed around and shredded but never shoes.

Maude was new to routine and rules but watched closely the first few days.  She was smart and wanted to master the routine, not be led along by it.  Within a week, she was the first to tell me it was dinner time or time to get ready for bed.  “You are such a smarty tail,” I would tell her.  She would beam and wag her tail happily.  She quickly learned to leave shoes, slippers and pillows alone.  She began to love hearing “good girl” and shoved in front of the other dogs to be sure I saw her sit for treats.

Most dogs understand – far better than people do – that life keeps happening even when we’d like it to slow down or stop for a while.  We have a few choices: we can try to control everything, accept what comes to us or move ourselves to a place where we are in the flow.  Maude chose none of these.  She plunged headlong into every new moment, bringing her boundless energy with her.  But she learned to find pleasure in the structure of a routine that shapes the day and that following rules can bring praise, ear scratching and treats.

Someone else fell in love with that online picture of Maude.  I brought her to the young couple’s house to meet them.  She zoomed around in her trademark fashion, but sat when asked and wagged happily at hearing “good girl.”  While I talked about her smarts and her good manners, Maude lay down and waited patiently.  “Balance is everything,” I thought to myself. “And Maude knows it.”

Letting go, play and Blake

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Blake was a cat killer.  An accidental cat killer, it’s true, but he lost his home because of it. 

Blake leaving his cat killing days behind

Blake had been adopted by a loving, nurturing woman, who also fostered cats for a cat rescue.  She had neglected to ask whether Blake had a benign attitude toward cats or not.  She noticed he was thrilled when he caught a glimpse of a cat or kitten.  He would try to chase them or leap toward them, the same way he had always played with other dogs. 

Blake’s new owner kept the cats on the second floor of her house and Blake on the ground floor, thinking this would be an ideal solution.  It worked for a while for a handful of months, but Blake was always aware that the cats were just out of his reach.  He knew they were there since he could hear their meows and smell their enticing feline smells. One day, Blake saw his opportunity.  His owner wasn’t quick enough and Blake raced up the stairs intent on finding the cats.  Before she could grab him, Blake had found a cat and grabbed it to play and wrestle together.  The cat didn’t survive.

I met Blake’s owner in a mall parking lot on a Sunday morning.  She was weeping but determined to return him, her granddaughter weeping beside her.  Blake stood there, tentatively wagging his tail, knowing something was amiss.  After goodbye hugs, he jumped into my car and watched through the windows as we sped away. He whined for a while, then accepted that life was changing for him.  He lay in the back seat for a while, head on his paws and sighing.  In an hour, halfway to my house, I felt a cold nose nudge the back of my neck and hot breath on my skin.  There was Blake, reflected in the rear view mirror, grinning a tentative grin.

Blake had come from a southern state where someone had named him Spade.  His new, cat-owning mom had never changed it, perhaps not knowing she could.  Before I drove to get him, I asked Cindy, the rescue’s adoption coordinator, “Can I change his name?”  “Go for it,” she encouraged me. It seemed to me that he already had enough baggage what with the cat killing and all.  He didn’t need to keep that particular name.  On the drive home, I tried out names that sounded similar to the one he had.  “Jake,” I said to him.  He looked back.  “Chase,” I tried out.  He looked at me politely.  “Blake,” I said.  His ears pricked up and he gave a small wag.  “You got a new name, pup,” I told him.  He grinned.

Blake was a smart, happy, curious, one-year old dog. He bounded into my house and was thrilled to meet my two dogs.  Very shortly, he was play bowing, leaping and inviting them to wrestle.  His past misdeeds and sadness at leaving his home vanished quickly.  He looked for things that made him happy – toys, treats, praise, new smells, new experiences – and threw himself into each and every one.

He barked excitedly and often.  My dogs didn’t mind that at all.  They stood there listening and never ran away hissing.  They would smile at him, eyes lighting up at his joy in life. Blake always grinned back.  He was also a relentless slipper stealer.  When I kicked my slippers off, he would dart in, grab one slipper and race away.  In the mornings, I would often have to hunt for slippers I had left in their usual spot overnight.  Seldom were they where I had left them.

After a few weeks, a new adopter fell in love with Blake’s picture online.  We agreed to meet at a dog park where Blake could run and wrestle with other dogs and she could see him at his happiest.  She brought a handsome new collar for Blake and was pretty sure she would take him home that day.  I explained that although his paperwork had his old name, he knew his new name, Blake.  “I love the name Blake,” she said.  Best of all, she told me she was allergic to cats and would never be able to live with one.  Blake had landed in the perfect home. “There is someone for every dog,” Cindy told me afterward.  She was right.

Fear, tennis balls and Dakota

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Dakota watching from the sofa

When I took Dakota’s leash to walk her to my car, she dropped nearly to her belly.  She slunk, half-crouched, for the two dozen steps across the parking lot.  When I opened the car door, she jumped in and immediately slumped to lay on the back seat, face pressed to the cushions, eyes mostly closed.  She remained that way for the short drive to my house.

Dakota was what is called a “return” among rescue organizations.  She had been adopted by a family with small children, one of whom had special needs. It wasn’t a good match.  Her adoptive mom told me she had her hands full and the children more or less swarmed over Dakota, sometimes shrieking in her ears.  She had gone from being a happy but shy dog to the one I met, fearing what might happen next.  At the end of one particularly chaotic day, Dakota snapped at the air.  Then it happened again. Her family decided to return her.  I met her adoptive mom in a parking lot and when I took that leash, became Dakota’s foster mom.

I talked to Dakota and sang to her on the ride home, but she still wouldn’t lift her head.  Her trembling stopped and her breathing slowed a bit.  I took those as good signs.  Hopeful signs.

For the next several days, Dakota was ruled by fear.  She was afraid of sounds – the traffic outside, household appliances, my cell phone ringing.  She was terrified of sudden movements – my hand moving close to her head, one of my dogs unexpectedly coming around a corner, even television images.  She viewed new things with trepidation instead of curiosity. She sat on the sofa with her head pressed against the pillows whenever she felt overwhelmed. 

Dogs, like people, can let fear run their lives.  The energy of fear infuses their reactions and expectations.  Dakota adapted by shutting down and withdrawing as much as she could. Her natural curiosity, joy and friendliness were blunted. In her adoptive family, she’d needed a quiet space to withdraw to and she was overwhelmed by the constant, noisy attention of small children.

I gave her time to adjust to the predictable routine that my two dogs thrived on.  I gave her breathing room to view her new world from a distance.  My dogs would greet her when she came to the kitchen for meals, give her space when they all went outdoors and try to entice her to play.  She relaxed and walked upright, no longer slinking.  I wondered what would be the one thing that might push her out of her self-imposed withdrawal.

It was a tennis ball.

Like many people with dogs, my house has a dog toy box.  There are rope toys to play tug-of-war, there are stuffed toys with squeakers and an assortment of things to chew on.  Way down at the bottom were a couple of old tennis balls.  One day, after pulling out all the toys on top, my chocolate lab, Josie, pulled out a tennis ball. Not a fan herself, she dropped it and it rolled in Dakota’s direction.  Her head lifted and her eyes lit up.

She carefully hopped off the sofa and went over to the tennis ball.  She sniffed and prodded it and looked up with a grin.  I grinned back.  Her eyes never leaving my face, she brought the ball to me.  I threw it, she retrieved it and dropped it at my feet.  Her tail wagged.  We did it again. We played ball for a long while.

Dakota loved every ball she encountered – tennis balls, squeaky balls, rubber balls and kong balls.  They made her happy and she knew it, grinning when she spotted one.  She simply couldn’t feel terror while looking at a tennis ball.  The tennis ball was magic.  Because she loved it so, she was ready to let go of the fear of things that might happen and focus on the wonder of the tennis ball in the here and now.

For Dakota, courage wasn’t the antidote to fear. Love was.

Bossiness, harmony and Chelsea

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 “You’re not the boss, the dog trainer said to me.  “You think you’re the boss but you’re not.  Chelsea is.”  I looked at Sue, our new dog trainer, in disbelief.  “But she did everything I asked – perfectly!”  I protested.  Chelsea, my yellow lab mix, just grinned.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had arrived at Sue’s house with my two dogs, Teddy and Chelsea.  She had me bring them into her side yard along with her German Shepherd, Oscar, to see how they all interacted. Sue instructed me to call them over, have them sit and lie down.  I thought it was going great.  Teddy had watched me, listened and done what I asked.  Chelsea had also followed my commands.  So, what could be wrong?

“Chelsea didn’t look at you once,” Sue said.  A dog who knows that you are in charge will look right at you to see what you want next.  “Not Chelsea,” she went on. “She knows she’s the boss.”  I looked at Chelsea.  Now that I didn’t need her to, she met my gaze and held it.  Again, she grinned and grinned.

We went home with only one training exercise.  Every time that Chelsea and Teddy wanted to go in the back yard, they had to look at me before I opened the door.  Every time I fed them or gave them a treat, they had to meet my gaze first.  Chelsea fought this every step of the way. She made me wait until she was ready to look at me or she would sit docilely for her food, looking at a spot somewhere over my head.  It took three long days until she decided — and she made it clear that she was the one deciding—to do the training exercise.  She looked at me, she stared and I swear one time she winked.  She owned it and made it hers.

We had met Sue by accident.  I was walking Teddy and Chelsea (or they were walking me) on the day we passed Sue, with her dog Oscar and two smaller dogs.  She told all three of her own dogs to sit and wait and they were like polite statues, frozen in place while we walked by.  Chelsea yanked us over to say hi, while Teddy tried to sniff a tree in the opposite direction.  I asked, “How did you get your dogs to do that?” Sue looked at me with sympathy and said, “I’m a dog trainer.  Would you like my card?”  I grabbed it and that’s how we ended up at her house, where I was told I was not the boss.

I had seen Chelsea’s online picture and read that she had been pulled from a high-kill shelter in the nick of time.  She was scheduled to be sold the next day to a research facility that used dogs for cosmetic and medical product trials.  The rescue said she was just too nice a dog to have a fate like that. I agreed and clicked the “apply for adoption” button.  There was no mention of bossiness in her online profile.

It became clear that while Chelsea became happy to follow my lead and listen politely to what I asked of her, she never quite believed that anyone was the boss of her.  She was smart, exuberant and a heart-winner.  She lived in harmony with life, expanding her love for everyone and everything in her world each day.  She would look into my eyes, giving me her joyous grin, saying “Life’s better when we’re a team and nobody is the big boss.”