Animals

My Very Best Friend

/ still a dreamer

DutchGrowing up in a house with a very anxious mother wasn’t easy. It affected everything and everybody. While I understand as an adult why things were the way they were, it was difficult as a child living with someone who needed to control just about everything. I didn’t consciously know it then, but I longed for someone in the house I could just `be’ with … without intrusion, always accepting, always comforting, and who’d never give up a secret. And my dog became that someone.

When I was 5, my brother 9, our parents decided we were old enough to have a dog, so at Christmas they gave us a beautiful Boxer puppy. I don’t think either of us quite `got’ the concept of having a dog at Christmas when there were still so many other exciting presents to open and play with. But Tinkerbell, as she was named, was not to stay with us very long. Within a few months she developed epilepsy. I don’t remember seeing the seizures my mother described Tink having on the kitchen floor, with blood and foam spewed all over the room, or perhaps I willed myself to forget. But as there were no cures for epilepsy back then, Tinkerbell’s only option was to be returned to spirit. I was so young, and hadn’t become very attached to her yet, I don’t think I really understood what had happened.

Dutch and Me -1Then our parents got another dog. She was sold to them as a Boxer, 6 months old, and I recall my mother being so happy she didn’t drool because her face wasn’t pushed in like other Boxers. There was a reason for that … she wasn’t really a Boxer. At best, she was a Boxer, pit bull terrier mix; my obedience trainer, when he looked at my childhood photos of her, told me that she was pure, and that was how they bred American Pit Bull Terriers back then. It didn’t matter … she quickly became the best friend and confidante I longed for. Her name was Dutchess. Dutchess Von Wiggles was how my mom had `officially’ named her because she had a butt that was constantly in happy motion.

DutchandMe -2Dutch couldn’t sleep with me as she wasn’t allowed on the second floor, so I slept with her downstairs. We watched TV together, me resting my head gently on her side; and we curled up in sleep on the living room floor. She learned all the tricks a dog learns, and loved to go for walks or play outside in the yard. I can honestly say, in a way that only a dog or animal lover would understand, she was everything to me … she was my best friend. I had a human best friend, of course – happily, I always had friends — and I had my big brother to play with and taunt, but Dutchess was different. She was just what I needed – another soul in the house that simply loved me straight out no matter what. And I adored her for that.

DutchandMe-3When I was little, my parents would cover her eyes and ears and I would hide. Then they’d let her go … “Find Jeanne!!” And Dutchess would search every nook and cranny downstairs to see where I was hiding, just bursting into wiggling, wagging joy when she found me. What child doesn’t live for those moments? She made me feel safe in a childhood where feeling emotionally safe wasn’t easy. Dutch was the heart, soul and embodiment of unconditional love. She was both my rock and my wings, my compass and stars; she was my comfort and confidante. She was one little girl’s very best friend.

Box in the Road

/ still a dreamer

What’s better than spending a weekend with your oldest friend in the world? Spending a weekend with your oldest friend in the world AND helping an animal survive!
The day was getting late, and our plan to head on over to the local farmstand looked like it might not happen. Then I remembered they had that wonderful little deal that you can actually still find in places like this – a secure lock box! A testimony to faith in human nature, a secured box for payment of roadside fruit and veggies so customers can come at odd hours to purchase them still amazes me. Customers are trusted to pay the right amount for the produce they choose and to not steal whatever cash is currently in the box, (or the box itself), until the farm owners come out and remove it. That’s one of the reasons why I like living in the country. But that’s not the box I’m writing about.

BoxInThe Road

We left for the farm – about a 3 or 4 mile drive, and about what it takes to get to any decent thing you want to get to out here. As we drove down the two-lane blacktop, I noticed something in the opposite lane. It looked like a large rock, but not really. When animals occupy such a large portion of one’s brain, red flags go up fairly often. `Did you see that?’ I asked, already wondering at its odd shape. Kathy, on the passenger side, hadn’t gotten any better look, so we agreed to check on the way back.
After getting a small stash of seasonal goodies, we turned back to go home and whoosh! we watched the car ahead of us whiz down the lane, straddling the not-so-likely rock. Shortly after, we did the same, and I wasn’t convinced a rock had gotten in exactly that spot. So finding a safe area, I turned the car around once again.

On the return trip, I pulled alongside and rolled down my window for a better look, and my suspicions were correct – the `rock’ was a box turtle. Probably had a big idea to cross the road, and with just enough cars, became petrified to go further. Luckily, there’s not a whole lot of traffic on that road and he was smack in the middle of the lane. I pulled over.
My partner in rescue jumped out and picked up the stranded box turtle, who peeked out at her briefly before slamming his shell and plastron shut. But she’d noted which way he was headed, and walked him into the brush a good 10 feet and far enough away from danger. Hopefully, that was his direction and he continued on into the woods to his home.

One of the best feelings there is … whether the beneficiary be animal or human … is saving a life. And we both smiled a good long time after our turtle rescue. Good luck, little guy!

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The Gift

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Not long ago I received a gift. No, it wasn’t John Beresford Tipton with a check for a million dollars and my future security. It was a gift for my heart … two gifts, actually.
DeuceThe first was an e-mail from someone who adopted a rescue dog from me many years ago. Larry wrote that he and his wife Jeannie had searched me out on the web to tell me that Deuce had passed away and to thank me for “the best dog they ever had”. In quiet tears, I responded … to thank them for letting me know, and indeed, what a wonderful dog Deuce had been. I was so grateful that Larry and his family had adopted him.
It wasn’t but three weeks later that the second gift arrived … another e-mail. Jon and Diane also searched me out on the web to let me know that Spike had just passed away at 13, also to thank me for “the best dog they ever had”. Again, I responded in kind.
For ten years I ran a rescue for, I believe, the most difficult dog to place – the American Pit Bull Terrier. I placed Deuce and Spike well over 12 years ago when they were just youngsters, and before e-mail. Although we kept in touch, it wasn’t easy when one’s lives were consumed with multiple jobs and, in my case, a demanding rescue on top of it. But the best thing about placing Deuce, Spike, and all the other `pits’ I placed, was I never had to look back. I knew, through my extensive screening, breed education and adoption requirements, that these pups were now set for life. (Ask any of my adopters – they were grilled!)
SpikeRescuing `pits’ presented tremendous challenges – they are truly misunderstood dogs. Their history, their true temperament, their genuine love of people – what the public needed to know was not what they heard. Instead, they were slammed with horrific, isolated incidents where unstable and undoubtedly abused pit bull terriers attacked humans. As if there were no other news going on in the world.
Pit bull terriers were … and are … horribly abused, tortured, made insane and killed — for not being good enough fighters. Imagine the worst … they suffered much more. Some, still alive, were simply wrapped up in plastic bags and dropped in the garbage. Just not good enough.
My heart was broken more times than I can tell in saving these dogs’ lives. So many were, and are, stable, loving and kind dogs, euthanized nonetheless for simply being born the wrong breed and being bred to excess.
Yet, as a rescue, I received so many gifts. I was truly blessed with people who came forward to help me save this wonderful dog no one wanted. Vets, trainers, foster homes, experienced rescue people to guide me in effectively screening … all appeared. The pit bull terriers I had the fortune to know and help were themselves gifts I will never forget. But perhaps the greatest gifts, for both the dogs and me, were the truly caring and devoted people who took them in.
These rescue dogs lived long, healthy lives, and then I received one more gift.
An e-mail to let me know.

Note: This article was published in the July 2007 issue of The Animal Companion. Although I have not actively operated my APBT rescue for over 7 years, these wonderful people contacting me inspired me to write about one of my many experiences in rescue and with the breed.

 

Try and Relax!

/ still a dreamer

ClaudeHave you ever noticed the positions your animals get into? They make it look as if they invented the word `relax’. They stretch out, especially in the heat, so every potential draft will ease slowly over their languid bodies. They make it look so damn easy.
Now you might think that this is a comment on my own inability to relax, which is far from the truth. In fact, it brings to mind an experience of many moons ago when my then-husband came home to find me lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling or into space. He asked what was I doing?
I said “nothing.”
With an incredulous look on his face, he said, “What do you mean, nothing?”
“I mean nothing. I’m doing nothing. As in, nothing.” Seemed pretty clear to me.
“How could you just be doing nothing,” he asked. “You have to be doing something!”
Now THIS was a man who had a hard time relaxing!
I tried to search for what it was I was doing, and all I came up with was … in trying to satisfy the question … “I guess I’m daydreaming .. or just thinking.”
And then, with the same confused face, he asked, “How can you just lie there and do nothing?”
Well, I thought I had just come up with an answer as to what I was doing, but I let that go, and said, “Here, just lie down, and kind of stare into space and let your mind relax. You know, just drift around a bit.”
He lay down and for all intents and purposes, assumed the position one would take if they were to relax. He looked up at the ceiling.
Then he looked at me.
“I don’t know how you can just do nothing. I can’t do nothing.”
I don’t really remember what happened after that, except that he wasn’t next to me anymore. Probably feeling guilty for now having the audacity to have actually spent a few moments of my life doing nothing, I’m sure I joined him and made it my business to start doing something.
But I think the animals still have the right idea. They have learned the fine art of doing nothing, of just being in the moment. They stretch out … close their eyes … take a deep breath and they’re off into dreamland or wherever animals go when they close their eyes. We have such a lot to learn from them … and this is one of their best lessons.
It’s the weekend – try and relax!

Does A Cricket Matter?

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

On a recent Wednesday night I came home rather late, but being as I wasn’t tired yet, decided to watch a Will and Grace rerun. Settled in to the TV room, I was aware of the usual summer evening sounds – tree frogs, katydids, crickets. One cricket in particular seemed quite loud, possibly on the porch roof right outside one of the windows. I went over to listen; it really was quite loud. Then I realized the sound was, in fact, coming from inside the room. The cricket had somehow managed to get up to the second floor and in the corner behind the kitty litter box. It was too dark for me to see him, so on and on he sang, while I wondered how I was going to get him back outside.
Trapping and releasing insects is not new for me, but I do like to have the advantage of seeing them first and ideally, not having them jump or crawl on me. Daylight would work better and I figured tomorrow would be soon enough to figure this out. I went to bed, listening to the cricket in the next room singing … singing for a mate despite the odds of finding her in the room of a house, singing for help, singing his last song … I couldn’t tell.
In the morning I moved things around and got a quick view of him – a good-sized black field cricket. But he jumped further back and was lost to me again. I didn’t want him to be mangled by the cats, nor to die without even some grass beneath him, but there didn’t seem any easy way to get him.
That evening, back in the room, it was totally quiet … had he died? Then I heard a quiet little chirp. I did whatever a human can do in reaching out to an insect … just opening myself to let him know I’d get him back to his home if he’d let me help him. Amazingly, not too much later, he appeared on the carpet in front of the TV … no big jumps, probably tired and dehydrated. Or maybe he knew his window of opportunity to get home had opened. I checked the cats and they weren’t noticing, so got a box lid and quickly covered him. Slid the piece of cardboard under him and ran downstairs – front porch lights on, and laid the makeshift rescue trap on the walk’s edge next to the grass.
I lifted the lid, but there he sat. I tapped the cardboard and yet he sat.
`C’mon, little guy – it’s your grass … go!’ and I tapped the cardboard again. This time he did a cricket sized leap into the dark, wet lawn. He made it.
Does a cricket’s life matter? It did to that one. And I’d say, by the quiet little grin that stuck itself on my face for the rest of the night, that little life mattered to me, too.

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