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Culture: Stories & Lit
Bringing Up Blondie
A troubled Greyhound finds her perfect match.

We weren’t going to keep her. That was understood at the outset. By me and by my partner Kathy. By the Greyhound adoption group. By the Greyhound advocacy group that had deemed her a candidate for rehabilitation. Possibly even by Blondie herself. And after we brought her into our home, we wondered if we should have taken her at all.

“Giddy’s Blondie” was one of the last two dogs at Dairyland Greyhound Park, a racetrack in Kenosha, Wisc., when it closed for good at the end of December 2009. Before the track closed, and by the time this exuberant and friendly former racer was three years old, she had been placed in two homes, had been returned to the track’s adoption center twice and had become a dangerously fear-aggressive dog. Probably unadoptable. But the track vet, Dr. Jenifer Barker, thought Blondie could be saved. So did the Greyhound Alliance, a group that facilitates Greyhound adoption through financial support of special-needs dogs, among other things. As a result, Greyhounds Only, Inc., the rescue group from which Kathy and I adopted our three previous retired racers, took Blondie into their program.

The hand of fate seems to have been working feverishly here. For years, Barbara Karant, president of our Greyhound group, had been after us to foster dogs, but Kathy, concerned about upsetting the balance we had with our other dogs, had always been reluctant. So when Barbara asked if we would foster Blondie, I was surprised when Kathy said we’d meet her and maybe, just maybe, foster her. The minute we walked in the door to the facility where Blondie was being held, the sleek dog ran to Kathy and glued herself to my partner’s leg. Kathy joked that Barbara had coached Blondie—who had been keeping her distance from everyone—to do this. We decided to foster. But, just to be clear, we weren’t going to keep her.

A few days into it, we were pretty sure we’d made a huge mistake in agreeing to take her into our home, even temporarily. We’d seen no signs of aggression, but the experience was unsettling nonetheless. Blondie would walk over to one of us and stand very close, clearly wanting attention. The moment we started to pet her, however, she’d yelp as though we’d kicked her, then run to hide in her crate for hours. Thinking she was perhaps in pain, we made what became a series of vet appointments. After countless hours in the offices of an animal behaviorist and a couple of specialty vets in the farthest-flung suburbs of Chicago, it was determined that mostly what she needed was time. And to continue taking Prozac. Steeling ourselves against her yelps, we continued to touch her; she needed to (re)learn that every touch did not mean pain.

As we began gathering bits and pieces of her recent past, we learned that in her first home, there was a teenage son with bipolar affective disorder. While we will never know for sure exactly what happened in that home, it would appear that the son punched, kicked or hit Blondie in the face with a blunt object. After a couple of months, the boy’s mother finally decided that Blondie’s quality of life was not good and returned her to the track’s adoption center. By this time, all the blood vessels in one of her eyes had been broken. Also, though no one was aware of it at the time, her spine had probably been knocked out of alignment, leaving her in near-constant pain.

This last factor became relevant in the second home in which she was placed, where she actually would have been fine with the older single woman who adopted her if not for the actions of her supposedly well-meaning adult son. When mother and son got Blondie to the woman’s home, Blondie hid in her crate. The man tried to force her out, pulling her by the collar. When Blondie bit him, he decided she was dangerous and needed to be returned. He dragged her, still in the metal crate, down a flight of stairs, possibly causing further physical injury. And that was how she came to be left at the track, a hurt, mistrustful creature.

Initially, we were told that had the Greyhound Alliance not interceded on her behalf, she might have been euthanized; one of the adoption groups approached to take her into their program thought she should be put down. Later, when I spoke with Dr. Barker, she said she suspected that Blondie’s trainers liked her well enough that they might have kept her as a “kennel dog”—a dog who no longer raced but continued to live in a crate except for eating and exercise/elimination breaks. She’d have been alive, but not living in any meaningful sense of the word. Once our adoption group took her on, a vet in Chicago, Dr. Kathi Berman, put Blondie on Prozac, and a chiropractor at the practice discovered her spine issues and got those straightened out (no pun intended).

In the meantime, we exercised as much patience as we could muster. I gently pushed Blondie’s limits, trying to show her that I wouldn’t hurt her no matter how much I touched her. Kathy nervously attempted to respect those limits so as not to shatter Blondie’s or our nerves when she had one of her inevitable anxiety attacks. Our little PTSD dog, we called her. Actually, Kathy preferred that name to the one she had, but I reminded her that if we weren’t going to keep her, we shouldn’t change her name. Blondie remained Blondie.

Gradually, Blondie’s panic attacks decreased in length and number—at least around Kathy and me. With friends and family, she still kept a wary distance, especially with Kathy’s dad and brother-in-law. Dr. Barker laughed when she found out that Kathy and I were lesbians: Blondie’s trainers were a lesbian couple, too, she told me. That we are women probably accounted for, in part, Blondie’s burgeoning trust in us —just as her experience with the callous sons in her two previous homes had disposed her to be guarded around men.

There was, for instance, a delusional homeless man who wandered the streets of our neighborhood the year Blondie came into our lives. During this time, there were three dogs in our house: Blondie; Iris (our other Greyhound); and Annie, Kathy’s dad’s Greyhound, who was there temporarily while he was in the process of moving. Walking the dogs, I would often cross paths with the homeless man. Annie loved the guy and couldn’t get enough of his abundant odors. Iris was indifferent to him; if he petted her, she accepted his attention with a bored nonchalance. Blondie— possibly influenced by her earlier experiences— would buck and rear at the end of her leash if he tried to come near her. The fact that he was male can’t have helped either.

But even relatively sane men like our relatives made her uneasy. The behaviorist had said to let Blondie come to them when she was ready, and everyone was careful around her in the beginning, not touching her unless she expressly showed an interest. Even then, she’d often panic and run off. Everybody in our circle knew her history. They were respectful of her limitations, sympathetic to her misfortunes and able to bide their time, waiting for her to come around—literally and figuratively— despite the fact that such standoffishness was not at all characteristic of the love-junkie Greyhounds we’d known up to then.

Sometimes now, when my arms are wrapped around her neck and my face is snuggled against her long snout, I marvel that this is the same dog—this dog who now leans up against friends and family, allows my young nephew to pet her on the head, does tricks for us when we ask, and puts her head in my or Kathy’s lap for many minutes at a time. Yes, as you’ve probably long since guessed, we adopted her.

Over the months when we were trying to get her comfortable in her own fur, we had come to love her. Not only does she have the sweetest face, her willingness to trust again after what she’d been through would have made it hard not to love her. Mostly, though, it was the thought of her having to endure getting used to a whole new family— the cruelty of unsettling her again— that made us decide to keep her.

These days, some three years after she first entered our home, Blondie is, above all, exuberant. Ask her if she wants to go for a walk and she’ll bow, spin and wag her tail ecstatically. She likes to root around in her milk crate for just the right toy, toss it upward, pounce on it and, with her butt in the air and her tail circling like a helicopter rotor blade, manically bite the squeaker. When I let her in from the back yard where she’s been running full tilt, I always say, “Watch your knee caps.” When the door opens, she comes through it like it’s the starting gate at the track: she bolts up the stairs, through the kitchen and dining room, and slides to a stop as she crosses the living room like a canine Kramer from Seinfeld. But she’s not on the track, and she knows it, sidling over to where I’m sitting and positioning her great chest over my thighs so I can hold her.

Our friends in the adoption group joke that we “failed foster.” It’s the proudest I’ve even been about—and the most I’ve ever enjoyed—failing.

Culture: Stories & Lit
Pug in Assisted Living
An elderly Pug needs a little help with the day-to-day.

I recently put my dog, Jack, into assisted living. I knew it was time: he has escalating hygiene needs, he wanders, he is confused and he often puts himself in harm’s way.

The assisted living facility is lovely. It has wide windows, many of them facing south and east, which let in the warm, chunky beams of sunlight in which Jack loves to nap. There is a pleasant, fenced-in green lawn where he can amble about and pee on flowers. The food is delicious: grain-free kibble twice a day and healthy treats like bits of apple, chicken, carrots and peas. The caretakers are generous, loving people.

The best thing about the facility, though, is the cost. Some assisted-living facilities can be price-prohibitive, but the one we put Jack in is downright affordable. That’s because my husband and I are his caretakers and the assisted living facility is our home.

Jack is a Pug. A bug-eyed, brachycephalic, low-riding Pug. He’s always been a happy, bright, if somewhat confused little character. But at the age of 13, he began marking his territory, not only outdoors, but indoors as well—piano legs, sofa legs, chair legs. (If nothing else, the anthropomorphic use of the word “legs” for these furniture extensions tells us how wrong it is to pee on them.)

It’s not that Jack didn’t have the occasional accident when he was younger. It happened. One morning, my husband, rushing out of the house for work, left a note by the coffee machine that read, “Poop by bookcase.”

Of course, that note wasn’t a directive, an order for me to poop by the bookcase. No, no. It was a straightforward statement of fact, letting me know that there was a pile of poop in front of the bookcase.

I looked at that note and thought, This is just perfect, this is so us. Some spouses might leave a note that said, “Have a nice day,” or maybe, “Dinner out later?” But we have our communication down to the nitty-gritty essentials. (I saved that note, in case I ever begin to put on airs. If I start to think, Gosh, we’re cool people, I can always pull out the note, “Poop by bookcase” to bring myself back to reality.)

When Jack began marking his territory inside, it was clear he didn’t know what he was doing. I scolded him in the beginning, but realized it was mean and senseless to scold a senile dog. It was like scolding a baby, or a fish.

I tried to keep up with the messes. Armed with paper towels and a spray bottle of non-toxic cleaner, I sniffed around the house like a Bloodhound until I’d found and wiped up all the puddles. Though I sprayed the rooms with a “floral” air freshener, there remained a misty background odor of “fetid urine swamp.”

I got to the point where I didn’t want people to come to our home, and if they did, they absolutely had to be dog people. Eventually, I wouldn’t even let dog people in. It was that bad. My husband said a couple of times that our house smelled like a barn, which was so very helpful, Honey. Thank you.

In addition to urinating on his indoor trees, Jack is losing some of his hearing and his sight. Sadly, he sometimes lightly bumps into a table leg while he’s heading who-knows-where. He looks humbled and surprised when this happens, shaking his head like a flummoxed cartoon coyote. I can almost see little stars circling his head.

He’s also begun to growl viciously at coats and bags left on sofas and tabletops, then seems to wonder why these fiendish intruders pay him no heed.

Though he’s failing in some areas, I’m not about to take him to the vet to “put him down.” After all, he’s still Jack, my cherished friend. He runs happily to his food dish. He jumps onto sofas and chairs and deftly scales their backs like a little mountain goat. He wags his tail when we pet him or rub his belly.

I had to take some kind of action, though, to change our embarrassing situation. I needed the equivalent of assisted living for him. Since there are no such facilities for dogs (at least, not in our area), I had to create one.

The first thing I did was acquire a crate I could confine him in when we weren’t home. He’d had a crate as a puppy, but that was long gone. When I put him in the new one, he looked at me with his big bug eyes as though I were dunking him in hot oil instead of on top of a cushy pillow. As soon as he discovered he wasn’t going to fry, however, he quickly accommodated himself to it.

I’ve always heard that dogs feel secure in their crates, and sure enough, Jack now voluntarily goes in his to sleep even when we’re home. I assume it’s much less scary in there than it is in an increasingly strange world, where walls and furniture move around, where the scenery is foggy and there are faint, unknown sounds.

So the crate helped with the accidents. I’ve also begun to let Jack outside much more often than I had been. I let him out a lot, in fact. It’s like training a puppy. Many times, he looks at me like he’s got more on the ball than I think, as if he’s saying, “You just let me out five minutes ago, but if this is what floats your boat …”

The third thing I do in our assisted living plan is to shadow him like a private investigator. If he attempts to creep into another room, I follow him, finally speaking loudly, letting him know I’m right above him.

“I’m right here, Jack. Don’t you dare.” When I do this, he startles and looks up at me, impressed, as if I were some omnipotent god. This trailing is really working. I think he thinks I’m always behind him, even when I’m not.

All of this takes a lot of time, but it’s well worth it.

I hope to keep Jack in assisted living as long as possible. I hope he dies here in his sleep one warm evening. I don’t ever want to “take him in,” or “put him down.” I’ve had to do that with other dogs, and it’s one of life’s profound heartbreakers—to look into the eyes of an innocent animal as he or she is injected with a heart-stopping barbiturate.

What I really want is for Jack to live forever. Is that too much to ask? To have a soft, furry, breathing, creature by my side always? To feel the warm weight of this exact individual against my legs on cold winter evenings? To have a sure listener to help me bear my version of the world’s troubles and sadness?

I know it’s too much to ask. Yet, for however long he has left, I’ll keep him happy and safe in assisted living. Dinner at four, crafts at six, lights out at eight! 

Culture: DogPatch
Authors Speak: Alex Kava
Alex Kava talks with The Bark about her newest character, Ryder Creed, and his dogs.

Alex Kava has been crafting intense murder-and-mayhem-fueled novels for at least 15 years. Fortunately, her heroes—FBI profiler Maggie O’Dell and, most recently, former U.S. Marine and K9 handler Ryder Creed—are up to the task of bringing down the villains. Like many of the authors whose books catch our eye, she writes dogs into the plot, not as afterthoughts but as fully realized characters. Want proof? See her two new books, Breaking Creed and Silent Creed. Bark editor in chief Claudia Kawczynska gets the backstory.

Bark: What inspired your new dog-handler character, Ryder Creed?

Alex Kava: Creed came out of my lifelong fascination with dogs and their capabilities. I’ve loved dogs and followed them around since I was old enough to walk. I wanted to create someone who not only shared my passion but who would be comfortable living in the company of dogs.

B: I confess I was concerned that something bad was going to happen to the dogs, and was relieved that it didn’t. Did you make a conscious decision about this?

AK: I simply can’t read books or watch movies in which animals are hurt or killed, so that was an easy decision. Though Creed’s dogs face dangerous situations, including environmental threats (spiders, snakes, mudslides), the reader can be assured that they will always be okay. I can’t, however, make that promise about their human counterparts.

B: What kind of technical advice or assistance did you get when writing about the dogs’ training and the method Creed uses?

AK: I do a tremendous amount of research for all my novels. For the “Creed” series, it’s been a combination of articles, videos and books (The Cadaver Dog Handbook by Andrew Rebmann is my bible), along with talking to experts. Over the years, I’ve developed a long list of people I can call upon, from homicide detectives and CSI techs to K9 handlers. Their experiences breathe life into my novels. And my veterinarian has helped tremendously; she’s become my go-to source for anything and everything about dogs.

B: It’s refreshing to see an action character like Creed have such concern for his dogs, to the extent of sometimes sleeping with them in their kennel and preparing homemade food for them.

AK: Scout, my 16-year-old dog who sat beside me while I wrote every one of my novels, was dying from kidney disease as I worked on the first “Creed” book. It was a daily ritual to prepare his homemade meals and administer his subcutaneous fluids. For me, it was no different than taking care of a sick child. It’s that way for Creed, too. These dogs aren’t just part of his family—they are his family.

B: Why was it important that the dogs have rescue backgrounds? (Let’s hope that will inspire your readers to adopt shelter/rescue dogs!)

AK: Two reasons: First, I wanted it to be an ongoing theme—Creed rescues dogs, and in return, the dogs rescue Creed, both literally and figuratively. Second, I wanted to highlight that all dogs have amazing capabilities and value, even those who have been abandoned or discarded.

B: As a fan of terriers, I was pleased to see that a JRT, Grace, is one of the featured working-dog characters. What made you decide to use a smaller dog in this role?

AK: I have three West Highland White Terriers, so I love terriers, too. Most people don’t know that smaller dogs can and are trained as working dogs. There are situations where they can get in and out more easily than larger dogs, and in some contexts, they attract less attention. Terriers, in particular, have a lot of energy. Most of them have that all-important intense drive—what Ryder Creed describes as “ball crazy.”

B: Dog-loving readers will be treated to a “two-fer” in these books, since the other protagonist, Maggie O’Dell, who has her own series, is also a dog person. Has she always had dogs? And why did you think of adding dogs to your work?

AK: Maggie did not have dogs in the beginning of the series. As an FBI agent who tracks killers for a living, she deals with evil on a weekly basis, so I wanted to give her something good to bring balance to her life. She rescues a dog—a white Labrador named Harvey—in book number two (Split Second). Later in the series, in Hotwire, a stray German Shepherd, saves Maggie’s life and she ends up adopting him, too. I guess I was creating dogs as heroes even before I meant to. 

The third in the “Ryder Creed” series, Reckless Creed, is slated for release in spring 2016, and Before Evil, a new “Maggie O’Dell,” will be out in early 2016. 

Culture: Stories & Lit
Lessons Learned ... And Unlearned
Love and forgiveness. What else is there to know?

My Golden Retriever, Annie, died yesterday. So did my grandmother. God, I’m going to miss that dog.

I’ve been asked to write my grandmother’s eulogy, and as I try, I can’t help but think about these two lives and deaths converging, and the difference between the two paths on which they took me.

Annie and I walked along the nature trail together the morning of her death. I didn’t realize it would be the last time we would walk, although by the quiet knowing that shined in her eyes, I suspect now that she did. She walked along beside me as she had so many times before, without noise, never judging, her stride perfectly in line with mine. She looked at up at me with her deep-brown eyes, and I nodded down in her direction. After all our years together, even though I had never loved her quite like I should, I had begun to understand what her friendship had done. She had been here to walk me.

I took off her leash and let her run ahead, knowing she wouldn’t go far. Time had changed her puppy bounding into a slow, unsteady, gait. The sunshine sparkled through the tree leaves, and she looked like a golden friend.

In my head, I constructed the eulogy for my grandmother as Annie lumbered down the trail, her face white with age.

Dear ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming. There was never a time that I was with my grandmother that I didn’t feel small.

Wait, that won’t work. Hang on.

“Annie, what do you think?” I patted her as I caught up to her.

Friends and family. Thank you for coming. There was never a time when I was with my grandmother that I wasn’t intimidated and afraid. I mean, people need to live in a land where they can spill!

No, that was rude. A eulogy needs to be kind, to focus on the best in a person.

For all you people who actually bought the lies, behind closed doors, with her family, where it really, really mattered, she was mean as a snake. Cold cuts served in the lobby. Peace out.

Okay. Clearly, it needed work.

“Annie!” I called out. She stopped and looked up at me as though wondering who I might be.

“Hey, girl, are you having a senior moment? You know me, silly.” I patted her on the head and leashed her, and we turned the same corner down the same path that we had taken a thousand times before.

I was raised by two of the most neurotic women who ever walked the face of this planet. I’m serious. Outside of Queen Elizabeth, like, you have never met bigger divas. My grandmother was the wife of a strict minister, but he made millions in real estate. We lived in a home where dinner was an “event,” with the finest crystal and best china; a home with white, velvet couches and plush linens and satin sheets. We spent our time learning Latin and practicing the piano and were taught that dogs would bite us, that we were “allergic” to them, that they were filthy, full of germs, that they would ruin our homes, our investments. Simply put, that only trashy, stupid and feeble-minded folks believed that dogs and cats “had feelings” or that they “could love,” or even felt the need to have them around at all. I once saw my mother kick a stray dog and say, “It’s not like it has feelings, darling.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I mean, who did she think she was? Gritting her teeth at us that way and hiring nannies to spend time with us? Would it have killed her to hug her grandchildren?

When I grew up and had my own children, I was determined to break that cycle of neuroticism, or to at least see what all the fuss was about. So determined was I that I also became a nurse. I mean, what could be more real and raw than that? I was determined to get my hands dirty in any way possible, because all the preaching and baptisms and baths just hadn’t made my soul feel clean. What would, I wondered?

I took my kids to the shelter and we waited as the workers brought out Annie. She was skinny, her ear had been cut, and her fur was dull. They said she had just had puppies, but the puppies had not been found; they thought maybe they had been thrown over a bridge. I told my kids to sit on the ground, because someone had said you can tell a dominant dog right away like that. I held my breath, and my heart pounded hard as I waited to see what this monster would do. She gently walked up to my four-year-old son, sat in front of him and bowed her head. She raised her thin paw for him to shake, so he did. Then he looked up at me and said, “This one?” because children know beauty when they see it.

I said, “You know what? I bet we could find a sweeter dog than this.”

My children looked at me quizzically. “We can, Mommy?”

And I winked and said, “But I think we’d spend a long time looking. Let’s get her!” They jumped up and down, hysterically happy, and well, 11 years later, here Annie and I were, on another walk together.

As I look back on the years, here are the things I learned from my grandmother and from Annie:

From my grandmother, I learned that environments were supposed to be sterile, that germs and smudges and dirt would make me sick. But that was only because she was trying her best to keep me safe.

From Annie, I learned that into every life, a little fluff must fall. Sweeping up after a Golden Retriever taught me that not only is life not perfect, but neither am I, and neither is anyone else. And we shouldn’t expect ourselves to be. A little dirt is good for the environment and leaves room for spontaneity.

From my grandmother, I learned that I was small and incapable and that authority should be feared. But that was only because she was doing her best to teach me what she understood to be manners.

From Annie, I learned that I was just as I should be, not too big and not too small. Whether I was at my most beautiful in a ball gown, running a marathon in perfect health, or out on my back porch crying and enjoying the occasional cigarette, Annie didn’t care. She didn’t judge or yell at me. She just sat beside me. Like a friend. Like a best friend.

From my grandmother, I learned there was one truth, and that if I questioned it, there would be no fellowship with God. But that was only because she was doing her best to guide me to be strong in my beliefs and to stand for something.

From Annie, I learned that God isn’t to be feared, and that He gives good gifts. Dogs are certainly one of them. And maybe, just maybe, the true mysteries of the universe are pretty darn simple, no preaching needed at all, because Annie seemed to get it. Love and forgiveness. What else is there to know?

From my grandmother, I learned to watch the clock, and that time was a measure of life. But that was only because she was doing her best to make me a lady.

From Annie, I learned that time passes not only in minutes, but in years, in scenes, and that we look back on them and we wonder, how did we treat one another? Did we love enough? Did we forgive? Did we accept flaws in ourselves and others? Did we allow love to conquer all? Or did it have to be perfect?

Annie trained me. Over 11 years, she trained me. She met me right where I was: not ready to love her like I should, because I just didn’t know how, no one had taught me, but ready to love her as best that I could, and it was enough for her. I did my best and I fell short, but it was enough for her, because she looked at my heart.

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. We are here today to honor a beautiful, whole woman who loved and had faith. She was a once-in-an-eternity soul who was not perfect, but she was perfect for me. My grandmother. Will you join me as we fondly remember her together, this perfect hostess, this amazing teacher and friend?

When I am finished crying … after Annie and my strict grandmother have both been gone awhile … I’m going to get another dog, because I still have areas of my character that need to be refined. I still have training that can only continue be undone by a little fur on the floor and a few tipped-over water bowls. Geez, I hope there’s time.

Thank you, God, for dogs. And thank you for my grandmother. 

Culture: Stories & Lit
When Did I Fall In Love With You?
Poems: Valentine, Last Call and Leaving Alice

Last Call

It's ten p.m.
and my dog is telling me what to do.
You can't go to bed, she says,
until Davey has his pills
and I can't
until you have your cocoa,
so Sit!  Stay!
till I tell you it's okay.
That's better.
Good girl.
I know everything
that's done in this house
and the mouse
that lives under the tv
is my friend.

Valentine

When did I fall in love with you?
Was it when I saw you bundled
nose to bottom with your brothers
or the moment you decided to detach,
explore, and I admired your intellect,
aplomb?  Or was it when at last
you discovered – not me, exactly,
but my toes – and waddled over
for a nibble, spaniel mine?
You found I had two feet,
finished one, then started on the other.
Licking my toes became your sacrament,
sandals that led me into the barn
that hot June morning, my salvation.

Leaving Alice

A cry of anguish as I leave the house …
Alice, my dog of thirteen years,
is ninety-one in human terms and nearly
blind --  her world, the vet says, seen
through dark glasses.  I used to celebrate
her independence, but now she clings
as if each separation means forever.

I always say a careful goodbye before
going down our path to get the mail,
tell her we’ll meet outside as I go
out the front and she through her own
back door – but still she cries until
I’m in her view and she in mine.
We hold our hearts together, she and I.

Dog's Life: Work of Dogs
Letting Go
A therapy dog overcomes her own fear and helps young patients gain invaluable insights.

Holly looked down into the swimming pool, paws extended over the edge, intently watching as her ball on a rope floated away. Head and shoulders thrust forward, she wanted desperately to retrieve it, but not at the risk of leaping into the air with an uncertain landing. The adolescents of 2 South called, “Holly, get it!” She had a strong prey drive, and would chase anything moving: a leaf, a ball, a bird, a squirrel (her favorite) or my slipper tossed across the room. She rocked precariously on the ledge as if she was about to let go and take the plunge. But then she backed up, and looked at me with that helpless stare.

It was summer now; the days were warm, and the outdoor swimming pool of the psychiatric hospital was open. Gail, the recreational therapist, invited me to conduct animal-assisted therapy sessions at the pool instead of in the hospital, and I accepted these invitations gladly. After all, Holly was more than just a therapy dog. She was a Retriever, bred to leap into ice-cold streams or lakes; mouth the bird shot out of the sky without injuring a single feather; swim to the shore and carry it to her companion, the hunter, presenting an unscathed bird. I had a water dog.

With a swimsuit underneath my slacks and a blue UCLA jacket, I came fully prepared to get wet along with Holly. Gail—whistle on a lanyard around her neck—looked like a lifeguard when she met us on the pool deck. The kids were already splashing around, some playing volleyball with a freedom of movement they didn’t show inside the walls of the hospital. The water seemed to calm and soothe them.

When I unhooked Holly’s collar with its jangling tags and untied her blue-and-gold UCLA scarf, her behavior also changed. She was no longer the calm therapy dog who worked in adolescent psychiatry. Excited, she ran joyous “victory laps” around the pool. Removing her “uniform” signaled that she was off duty, no longer a working dog. The sight and sounds of water added to her frenzy, and I had to hold onto her with both hands.

UCLA People-Animal Connection director, K.C., always concerned about safety issues, warned that the kids couldn’t be in the water at the same time as the dog. She recalled nearly drowning when a swimming dog accidentally placed a paw on her shoulder, pulling her underwater. When I made the disappointing announcement, the kids groaned and booed. “I want to swim with Holly,” yelled Jason, a 10-year-old with attention-deficit disorder and hyperactivity, as he circled the pool in loud protest. I had to be as creative as possible to make the session work.

I asked the teenagers to wait on the steps of the pool, where each would have a turn to throw a ball attached to a rope as far as they could into the water. Holly was to swim out and retrieve it, hold it in her mouth, then swim back and return it to the thrower. Eddie tossed the first ball; the wiry 11-year-old was so nervous about being first that he dropped the rope behind him twice before he finally figured out how to swing it in the air and hurl it forward. The ball landed at the deep end of the pool. Good throw!

Holly never took her eyes off it. I released her and gave the signal, “Holly, get it!” She raced down the steps, pushed off the last one and, treading smoothly through the pool’s blue water, reached the floating ball. She mouthed the rope attached to it, and with the ball dangling, turned back toward Eddie, holding onto her prey without so much as a splash.

“Look at her feet—she swims like a duck,” he called, watching her glide through the water. Reaching the steps, she dropped the ball into his waiting hand. Everyone applauded. Eddie smiled proudly at his accomplishment. Most of the kids had never seen a Retriever’s webbed feet gliding through the water with the ease and grace of an amphibian. “She was born to swim,” I said. But not in a pool!

At the beach, Holly would race from the sand into the surf chasing her yellow tennis ball, and when her feet could no longer touch bottom, she would propel those athletic legs through the water like paddles. Undaunted by turbulent tides, she would disappear under a crashing wave and surface again, never losing track of her prize. She would reach for it with her mouth, turn and swim back to me, drop it into my hand, and then stand in the shallow water, poised for the next throw.

When she started pool retrievals, she had to learn to use the concrete steps to get out. Initially, she would swim in circles, growing tired as she searched for the non-existent shoreline. The kids would sit on the steps calling, “Holly, here,” and she soon discovered which way was out.

But the one activity that still eluded her was jumping off the ledge of the pool, a drop of several feet, into the water. Now, she stood there staring as the ball drifted away, while we all yelled in chorus, “Holly, jump!” She turned to look at me, her eyes asking for help with this dilemma.

Holly looked to me for everything she wanted. I was the keeper of her ball, toys, food and water, her walks, her comfort or discomfort, her freedom or confinement. I was responsible for her survival. If she hurt her paw, she would hold it up and look at me pathetically. It was not surprising that as the bobbing ball moved farther away from her, she stared hard at me. But this time, I did not help her. She would have to jump into the pool and retrieve it for herself. She had to face her fears just like the rest of us.

In adolescent psychiatry, fear was a powerful motivator. Angry and defiant, 12-year-old Patty usually sauntered into group sessions ready for battle, fists clenched and poised to kick anyone in her way. She would be removed within minutes of her tirade, fighting and swearing at the staff as she was taken back to her room. She was never present long enough to interact with Holly Go Lightly, the canine therapist. Typically, Patty hid away, avoiding all social contact.

But in the swimming pool, Patty took on a different demeanor. Floating on her back, isolated from the group, she appeared peaceful, without “oppositional defiance,” as her behaviors were described in clinical reports: standing when told to sit and throwing her books on the floor when asked to open one. The water was therapeutic for her. There was freedom here. She didn’t show the aggression that had landed her in a psychiatric residential setting.

Patty had been expelled from public school and labeled as having a “conduct disorder” because she fought with everyone and incited brawls on the school playground. In class and in therapy, she refused to follow rules and procedures, walking out and spewing obscenities at her teachers and therapists alike.

While Holly stood at the edge of the pool testing her confidence, I seized the opportunity to talk with the group about being afraid. They knew about fear—Patty especially. I learned that she had suffered physical abuse from the man her mother lived with. Patty’s mother, who was unable to control her behavior, described her simply as a “bad kid.” Child Protective Services finally removed her from the home and, since she was out of control, referred her for psychiatric evaluation and treatment. With nowhere to go, and little change in her behavior, she was still in residence at the hospital.

I didn’t ask them to talk about what made them afraid. My technique was always to use Holly as the facilitator, keeping the focus on the child’s relationship with the dog.

“How can we help Holly overcome her fear of jumping into the pool?” I asked. Several children spoke up. Fifteen-year-old Alan said, “Throw her in … she’ll get over it.” An older girl, Barbara, about l7, said, “No, just pet her and be kind to her, and she’ll act brave.” Unknowingly, they were talking about how they dealt with their own demons. Alan showed bravado, suppressing any doubts or anxieties he might feel; it was difficult to relate to him, so protective was his cover. Barbara was withdrawn. She needed special attention before she would engage in most activities. She did little on her own without someone to encourage her.

Patty spoke for herself.

“Well, we need to show her that it’s safe.” This was an answer made in heaven, and coming from this child, it was profound. I jumped at the chance to use it.

“How can we show her it’s safe?” I asked.

“She can watch me,” she said, and in that instant, the young girl stood next to Holly at the edge of the pool and leaped into the air as if from a diving board, coming down feet first, straight into the water, splashing everyone around her. Now she began paddling about, watching the dog’s reaction. Holly just stared.

One at a time, the other kids followed Patty’s lead, showing Holly how it was done, until the entire group of nine children had landed in the pool and were splashing and thrashing around in the water. Some of them swam back and forth in front of Holly, calling her name. The Retriever inched forward, paws hanging over the edge. Still, she hesitated.

They began calling in unison: “Holly, jump! Holly, jump!” Patty grabbed the roped ball, threw it across the pool and swam after it, modeling for Holly what she was supposed to do, while the kids continued chanting. Holly leaned over and stared straight down as if she was measuring the distance of the drop into the water. She was almost in, and they continued to coax her.

It had become a group project, and it was thrilling to see these children, usually isolated and depressed, now smiling and calling and encouraging this hesitant and fearful dog to take the risk —to let go. They were working together as a group. The therapist was speechless. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Not only was Patty part of the group effort, she was leading it. Socialization was the primary goal for these teenagers, and they were achieving it.

Finally, Holly could wait no longer. She let go of the safety of her concrete perch and, like a bird leaving the nest, dove into the air and hit the water with a resounding splash. She sailed after her ball as if it were alive. The kids cheered. The staff cheered. Even the pool manager cheered.

Holly captured the prey, the object of her courage, scooped it up with her mouth, and headed toward the steps of the pool, where Patty now sat waiting for her. She released the ball into Patty’s hand, following the protocol of retrieving to the thrower. In those few moments, this child had become the leader of the pack. Holly flashed her famous Golden grin as if she knew she had fulfilled her legacy. She had conquered her fear of leaping from a high ground into a body of water, a skill that all working Retrievers must have. I underlined this occasion.

“You taught her not to be afraid,” I called out to the group. Every child smiled with pride.

And then I looked at Patty, sitting on the steps, hair soaked and face glowing. Her arms were wrapped tightly around the wet dog’s neck, and she nuzzled against Holly’s head.

I said directly to her, “And you showed her how to do it—to just let go and trust the water.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “I showed her it was safe.” Patty turned and kissed the top of Holly’s head, right on what I always called her “smart bump.” The kids splashed their way over to the pair and proceeded to pet and hug the dog, telling her how brave she had been. There was lots of chatter and laughter and celebration. We would all remember this day.

The kids from 2 South had become empowered by the simple act of bravery by an animal, paired with the cooperative effort of the group. The water was a metaphor for facing their fears. In helping Holly let go and jump, perhaps they would find their own courage.

After that day, the therapy dog was willing to jump into the pool without all of the hullabaloo. Just the throw of her beloved tennis ball and the words, “Holly, jump!” and she would leap into the water with confidence.

Patty left her room to come to all of our therapy sessions in the hospital or at the pool, to check on Holly. She needed to make sure that Holly was no longer nervous or afraid. 

Culture: Stories & Lit
George, The Dog Who Saved My Life

By the time George had come into my life, I had more than three hundred convictions to my name and had been in prison over thirty times.

You might be thinking that I couldn’t have been much of a thief to get caught so many times over the years, but the truth is I found it so hard to cope with life on the outside that I had started to effectively check myself in to prison for the winter. It got to the point where I wouldn’t even bother to cover my tracks while I was out burgling. I’d deliberately not wear gloves so I’d leave fingerprints, or I wouldn’t clean up after myself if I grazed my arm and started bleeding.

I knew what I was letting myself in for in jail, but at least inside I didn’t have to worry about having a roof over my head and feeding myself, which was sometimes too difficult to deal with on the streets.

It’s exhausting being homeless, shifting between day centres and hostels or missions, or sleeping in cars and bin sheds as I had to do after losing my flat in President House. Sometimes I was so desperate I felt like chucking a brick through a police station window and holding out my hands for the cuffs, just so I could get a bed for the night.

I was stuck in one such cycle the day George came into my life. He turned up after I’d been out of prison for about seven or eight months, and the cold winter of 2009 was really setting in. Under normal circumstances, I’d have been thinking about getting sloppy on the next job, so as to get myself a short stay inside that would tide me over until the weather warmed up.

As it was, George had his feet well and truly under the table by the time I got round to thinking about that, and that threw a bloody big spanner in the works. If I went to prison, I would lose George. It was as simple as that. We’d come too far for me to even consider that an option. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I had someone other than myself to care for, and it had filled my life with meaning.

Over the years, I had met a few girls and I’d had a few relationships here and there, but nothing that had lasted more than a couple of months at most. I’d seen how my brothers and sister were with their children and how much love they had for them; I was beginning to feel that way about George.

My feelings for him became crystal clear to me one day when we were sitting outside Fenchurch Street station and a well-to-do woman came up to us and started raving about George.

‘What a lovely dog!’ she said, scratching him on his head and generally making a big fuss of him. ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous! I’ve never see such a cute Staffie. I don’t suppose you would let me buy him off you?’

I was completely stunned and totally speechless. Who was she to ask that?

‘He’s absolutely fantastic,’ she continued. ‘I’d give you a really good price …’ She started to say she could pay £2,000 cash, but I stopped her in her tracks.

‘Look, no offence, miss, but have you got kids?’ I asked her.

‘Yes, but I know Staffies and I’m sure he’s good around children …’

‘No, forget that. What I’m saying is, how would you feel if I asked you if I could buy one of your kids?’

She looked at me in confusion.

‘You see the thing is, George is like my son. I love him like he’s my own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t sell him for two grand. I wouldn’t even sell him for a hundred grand. He’s too important to me.’

She was very gracious about having her offer turned down flat. There were no hard feelings and even George had a twinkle in his eye when the lady walked away.

Anyhow, that conversation had cemented what I already knew to be true; I was sticking with George come hell or high water. I just wasn’t sure how I was going to do it, not in those early months. George meant a hell of a lot more to me than anything else in the world. I loved him, and losing him was unthinkable.

When we sat together on the floor of my bedsit, I was remembering that woman and the crazy amount of money she’d offered for George. Two thousand pounds would have been mighty nice right then.

‘I should have sold you to that lady, George. Could have got myself a nice gold watch for that.’

George let out a sigh, lay down and put his head between his front paws. He looked quite sad, to tell the truth, and I felt bad.

‘Oi, listen, I was only joking. It ain’t your fault,’ I said. His ears pricked up.

‘Well I suppose it is, you daft git,’ I laughed, ‘but that’s a good thing, mate. Don’t you worry.’

I thought back over the time I’d had George. I had barely let him out of my sight since the day I took him on. I wouldn’t even leave him tied up outside Tesco if I needed a tin of dog food; I’d always ask a mate I trusted to keep an eye on him for a minute, and I’d dash in as quickly as I could.

To begin with I was terrified of the mad Scot showing up, and then after that lady tried to buy him, I was scared stiff of him being stolen.

Leaving George alone to go out thieving was completely out of the question. My gammy leg already made that difficult, because I wasn’t as nimble as I used to be. What if I got caught and was put in the cells overnight? Who would feed the dog and take him out? I knew full well I would lose George for good if I got locked up, because there was nobody I knew who would be able to look after him for me for any length of time.

‘That ain’t happening,’ I said out loud, thinking about being banged up again. ‘I need to get a job.’

George was sitting up attentively now and had one of those looks on his face that said ‘Silly bastard, how you gonna do that?’ but I wanted him to know what was on my mind. I suppose I was a silly bastard to think he might have understood, but he seemed to be listening to me.

I know I was also a very stupid bastard for being nearly forty and having no job prospects whatsoever. Who would take me on with a criminal record as long as mine? It read like a telephone directory. And, even if some poor bugger was mad enough to take a chance on me, how would I manage to hold down a job with George by my side? It was beyond me.

There was only one thing for it. I didn’t want to have to rely on begging forever, but I knew I had to carry on doing it in the short term at least, or the pair of us would starve. It was that simple.

‘Come on, George,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and take a little stroll down Shoreditch High Street.’

From George the Dog, John the Artist by John Dolan. Copyright © 2014 by John Dolan. Published in 2015 by The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers Inc. www.overlookpress.com. All rights reserved.

Culture: Stories & Lit
A Dog with A Purpose

Teddy is very large, and very white. People ask how much he weighs – around 100 pounds - and how much he eats - not that much.

Teddy is a Great Pyrenees, a guardian dog breed used for centuries to protect livestock from wolves and other predators in northern Spain and Southern France. Before that, the breed came from Asia Minor, perhaps as long as ten thousand years ago. In the late 1600’s, Great Pyrenees were royal court dogs in France.

Teddy came to live with my wife Linda and me a few years ago. We adopted him from Texas Great Pyrenees rescue a statewide group that does tremendous work trying to help this special breed. Teddy was a rescue, and we learned that his earlier life had not been a good one, often kept in a crate for most of every day. In fact, his bottom front teeth were broken off while he struggled to get out of that crate. 

Living with Teddy has been an education. An extremely faithful friend, we learned how Pyrs also have a work ethic. Many Pyrs in Texas work on ranches where they protect sheep, goats and even geese. 

Linda and I do not have sheep or goats, or geese for that matter. So we decided to train him as a therapy dog. The good people at Bellaire United Methodist Church sponsor a dog therapy group, Faithful Paws as one of their ministries. We and Teddy enrolled in the therapy class, and it wasn’t long before Teddy graduated.

With his gentle nature, Teddy makes a great therapy dog, visiting hospitals, nursing homes and schools. Maybe this is his true calling. I don't think he misses not having sheep and goats, and the occasional geese, to protect. He hasn’t complained yet.

His soft brown eyes look right into your own. I think he is an old soul who has seen much. He must have a very large heart. How else to explain his kindness when visiting so many people - children in hospitals, hospice patients, those afflicted with Alzheimer’s, or schools where he provides stress relief for those taking exams.

A few months after Teddy began his work as a therapy dog, I realized something. This large white dog, once a rescue, had found his true purpose, to bring a bit of light into the often dark corners of lives. I also realized something else. Teddy was taking us along on his journey, to places we would have never gone without him.

Culture: Stories & Lit
The Gift of a Great Dog
Recognizing the “one” but taking on a new dog.

If Rex could have talked, we would have finished each other’s sentences. We got another dog right away.

That wasn’t the plan. But back in March, less than two weeks after Rex died and when I still had faint bruises from digging my fingers into my forehead amid uncontrollable sobs, I signed us up to “foster” a Saint Bernard mix that had been rescued from a crack den.

It was a classic rebound move, but the unbearable silence of the dogless house was too much to take. You don’t realize how much a dog’s presence defines the contours of your home until, in its absence, the walls seem to relocate themselves. You don’t realize how many of your unconscious gestures—a glance into a certain backyard corner, a moment of extra care on the stair landing—are calibrated to your dog’s internal GPS.

And then one day there is no dog in the yard or on the stair landing. The night is no longer punctuated by the clicking of his nails on the floor, the body jerks and muted little barks of his dream life. And because this is intolerable, you get another dog.

There are an estimated 164 million pet dogs and cats in the United States. That means many hundreds of thousands of them die every year, leaving their owners (or human companions, if you prefer) awash in grief. Just about every major city in America offers pet bereavement groups, and if you just type something like “losing dog worse than losing dad” into a search engine, you’ll see how the pain of losing a pet can sometimes exceed that of losing a friend or family member. Experts say it’s nothing to be ashamed of because animals provide constant companionship and unconditional love in a way that no person ever could or should.

With that in mind, I’ve tried to tell myself that getting another dog so soon after Rex’s death isn’t the same as splitting up with someone, then hitting an IKEA kitchen sale with the next warm body you meet. It’s more like seeking oxygen because suddenly your air supply has been taken away.

I’d tell you about the new dog, but so far there’s not a whole lot to say. She was 83 pounds when we got her and she’s 93 pounds now, but she lives in a shadow so long she might as well be a tiny a flower we picked and brought inside in an attempt to brighten up the room. That shadow is cast by 13 years with Rex, who was my baby, my companion, my muse, my partner.

Don’t think for a second I don’t know how sad that sounds. There’s a particular kind of single woman whose relationship with her dog has a level of intensity and affection that may be both the cause and the result of her singleness. For a long time I was that woman.

Rex lived with me in 12 different houses and apartments in two different states. He usually slept outside or on the cool tile floor, but in the winter he shared my bed, colonizing not just the foot of it but sometimes the space next to me, where he’d lay his head on the pillow. In my life so far, I have never felt more in tune with another living thing. If Rex could have talked, we’d have finished each other’s sentences.

Then I met my husband, and he loved Rex too. And though I stopped being that particular kind of single woman, we became a particular kind of couple: the kind for whom their dog is their child, the kind that talks about their dog in such a way that people who have actual children make fun of them in the car on the way home. But we didn’t care. Rex was our Zen master, our couple’s-therapy dog. Even when we weren’t sure how we felt about each other, there was never any doubt that we were going to love him down to the nub.

They say if you’re lucky you’ll get one really great dog in your life. Other dogs may do their jobs in their own unique and perfectly wonderful ways, but there will always be that dog that no dog will replace, the dog that will make you cry even when it’s been gone for more years than it could ever have lived. I have now had that dog. That is at once the most beautiful and most awful thought in the world.

Culture: Stories & Lit
Training Maxine, Rescue Dog
Learning that life can be good

She and I are alone. When I say the B-word, she rushes to my side and goes into a sit, the first thing she learned, and so far the only one: sit comes before treat the way head comes before tail. It’s not open for discussion.

“Bagel! Maxine! Bagel!”

She’s so wiggly, she can barely hold her bum to the floor. The eyes that were sad and dull in her adoption photo are now bright. Her long tail goes back and forth at the rate of maybe a hundred swishes per second. Come to think of it, since she came to live with us a month ago, she’s also learned something else: incredibly, there is such a thing in life as feeling alive.

Maybe she remembers that a frozen blueberry bagel was what I gave her to chew on after I brought her home for the first time, after she had torn apart every toy in her crate— toys that were supposed to be (ha-ha) indestructible. Last week, she got hold of her adopted brother’s yellow rubber duck, which now has no head. Yesterday, she attacked the only toy her other new brother loves, a small purple bear he’s had for seven years, since his puppy days. She pulled it from under his chin while he was sleeping. Now, it looks like someone put it through a miniature leaf-shredder, after pulling out the stuffing.

She’s close to a year old: a chocolate Lab/Wirehaired Terrier mix, bearded, scruffy, skinny, long-legged. On our walks, strangers who stop to ask about her haven’t always been kind. It’s been pointed out to me that she looks like an Irish Wolfhound crossed with a monkey, a Labradoodle with ancestors who were porcupines, a Schnauzer crossed with a Whippet. I’m never bothered by these observations. I happen to know my new girl dog is one of the most beautiful creatures on earth.

The woman who rescued and fostered her told me during a phone conversation that she was guessing Maxine would turn out to be Retriever-ish, but maybe she said that to make me feel I’d have some experience to draw from (my other two dogs are Retrievers). I thought it would be nice to live with a dog who has two different but equal sides, like kids on a seesaw who weigh the same. That was a fantasy. I know a lot about Terriers now. I know the Terrier part of any dog has no interest in being equal. Terriers feel they should be allowed to do whatever they want, all the time, and if you don’t agree with that, something must be wrong with you.

“Maxine, this is a lesson! School time! School and bagel!” I home-school my dogs, making things up as we go along in a trial-and-error sort of way. I’m a dog-training amateur, and sometimes, their behavior drives me crazy, especially when other people are around. Anyone who comes to my home, stranger to the dogs or not, has to hurry to a chair (as in, “sit down and hang on!”) because the dogs get carried away greeting and checking out humans and vying for attention. If I shut them in another part of the house when someone’s visiting, I break their hearts. They act like eager students who do not understand why their teacher won’t give them a lesson in something they’re dying to learn.

I don’t have dog-education credentials, but I taught creative writing to humans for a long time. Also, I’m a mom. I love teaching and it’s always come naturally to me, and I do think my students and my son fared okay with me pushing them to try things they never thought they could do, and then pushing them a little harder to do those things as well as they possibly could. But they’d probably, every one of them, welcome any chance to say I was tough, or I was demanding, or I was “Terrier-like.”

“Yes! It’s blueberry!”

Maxine watches me take the bagel out of the freezer and drop it into an empty cereal box. Her tail stops moving, like an excited voice going suddenly silent. She’s confused. Why don’t I hand her this favorite thing? Is something wrong? Did I stop loving her after only one month, when I had sworn to love her forever, when love was the first word I taught her, even before sit and bagel? I set the cereal box upright on the floor. She is baffled. She takes a step toward it, then two steps back, tail drooping, head low.

When I do this with Andy, my giant, high-strung Golden, he gets whatever big carton I have. It takes him just minutes to jump the box and jaw it, paw it, crush it and rip it. When he finishes the treat, he commences to see how much cardboard he can eat before I take it away. Skip, my undersized Nova Scotia Duck Toller, gets a shoe or boot box, the lid secured with duct tape to thwart him. He is the MIT student of my household. He takes forever to paw-push and nose-nudge the box around, tipping it, studying it, until he figures out exactly where the treat is. When he creates an opening, it’s the right size for him to reach in with his snoot or a paw, and there you go. It would never occur to either of them not to liberate the treat.

Maxine went into a high-kill shelter when she was a tiny pup. There is no information about her past except that her mother is a chocolate Lab owned by a “backyard breeder.” Somehow, the Lab had mated with an anonymous bearded Terrier—definitely not one she was supposed to step out with.

The woman who saved Maxine is connected with the adoption group I had applied to. This is how she described the rescue to me: “I ran to the shelter when I found out they put her name on their euthanasia schedule for that day. Her time had run out and no one wanted her. I don’t suppose anyone going there to adopt had looked at her twice, her being so unusual. She’s the only one of that litter—they were all surrendered— who didn’t get homed. I opened her cage and grabbed her and tucked her under my arm. I wish you could’ve seen how she looked at me. She was real quiet, but she knew what was what. They always know.”

Maxine looks at the box. She lies down. Her eyes are the eyes of one who feels defeated about trying something before the trying has even begun. In her head, she is still in her cage. Everything she wants is outside it.

They say that dogs don’t cry like humans. But anyone who has lived with a dog knows they do. They just don’t get wet about it.

I whisper to her, “Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

I’ve been afraid that all those months in a cage damaged her in ways that cannot be undone. She has space issues; she’s always banging into things. Her vision checks out perfectly, but she has trouble seeing anything that isn’t straight ahead and up close. If she hears a noise behind her, she still doesn’t know she can learn what it is by simply tuning around. When you throw her a tennis ball, she leaps to catch it, but by the time she jumps, the ball is no longer in the air; then she freaks out a little, not knowing how to look for it. And she was terribly ill when she arrived: parasites, malnutrition, poor digestion. Then came a scary infection that put her into emergency care and hospitalization. This is a dog who, in her first year of life, has twice been at the brink of death.

What am I doing? Why am I forcing her to confront a task she clearly can’t handle? Why didn’t I know right away that expecting her to try for the bagel is the same as asking her to grow wings and fly around the room like a bird?

For a second, I comfort myself with the thought that maybe I rushed this. It’s only been a month. Surely, when I try again at some point in the future, all will be well, and she’ll make a tiny effort to at least put one paw on her box. But the signs aren’t good.

The top flaps of the cereal box are open and folded back. In the moment before I reach for the box to tip it and let the bagel fall out so she can at least retrieve it, I smile at her and try to tell her with a look that what I’m about to do is completely right, and what I’d meant to do all along. I didn’t really want her to do to the box what she had done to her crate toys, Andy’s bear, Skip’s rubber duck and all the other things she’s destroyed. It’s fine that she doesn’t do what Terriers have done historically to small animals, such as rats. I want her to be happy and safe and okay with herself exactly as she is. I want her to …

There’s no such thing as ES P, right? There’s no such thing as thoughts in a human mind transporting, somehow, to the mind of a dog, right?

This happened. I was thinking something along the lines of Get this box and kill it, Maxine. I was thinking, I want …

She jumps up from what was nearly a stupor so fast that I almost don’t see it. She pounces. She sinks her teeth into the side of the box, then tips her head and hoists it, and shakes it and shakes it and shakes it. Her head is going side to side almost as fast as her tail. She doesn’t know the bagel flew out until she takes a break from the shaking to catch her breath.

She spots where the bagel landed. Oh! How did that happen?

She is awestruck. She grabs it and jumps to the couch, which is covered with an old cotton blanket. As soon as she’s up there, she licks the bagel like it needs to be cleaned. I see the way she settles into the blanket. Her cage had a floor of cement.

I go to the treat container to get a biscuit. Andy and Skip are out in the dog pen and they’ll soon be inside. I know what will happen if they smell blueberry bagel and not a ordinary treat on their sister’s breath. I’ll never hear the end of it, but they’re both on a diet.

I send Maxine this thought: no way am I leaving the box lid open the next time, no way. She doesn’t tune in. She’s too busy chewing.

Crumbs are stuck in her beard. She’s holding the bagel between her slim, strong paws. She seems too fixated to know she’s about to get a biscuit, too, but of course she knows. Her tail starts thumping the couch, up, down, drumstick-like, sounding out a beat I want to listen to forever. A heartbeat.

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