Thanks to my friends at the ASD Rescue group & chat room for posting this. The author is unknown, but the story is dear to all of us who "rescued" animals. The picture above was taken at the shelter where Orion found us.
Her eyes met mine as she walked down the corridor peering apprehensively into the kennels. I felt her need instantly and knew I had to help her. I wagged my tail, not too exuberantly, so she wouldn't be afraid.
As she stopped at my kennel I blocked her view from a little accident I had in the back of my cage. I didn't want her to know that I hadn't been walked today. Sometimes the shelter keepers get too busy and I didn't want her to think poorly of them.
As she read my kennel card I hoped that she wouldn't feel sad about my past. I only have the future to look forward to and want to make a difference in someone's life.
She got down on her knees and made little kissy sounds at me. I shoved my shoulder and side of my head up against the bars to comfort her. Gentle fingertips caressed my neck; she was desperate for companionship.
A tear fell down her cheek and I raised my paw to assure her that all would be well. Soon my kennel door opened and her smile was so bright that I instantly jumped into her arms. I would promise to keep her safe. I would promise to always be by her side. I would promise to do everything I could to see that radiant smile and sparkle in her eyes. I was so fortunate that she came down my corridor. So many more are out there who haven't walked the corridors. So many more to be saved. At least I could save one.
I think Orion caught me looking at Bad Dog Rufus the other day, because today he took his usual separation anxiety antics to a new level. Rufus might be trouble, but at least his adventures have earned him (and his owners) a reality show gig, which probably helps put kibble on the table. Orion... let's just say he's a monetary black hole. The latest victim? His $200+ "gorilla tough" dog crate from Drs. Foster & Smith.
I grabbed my youngest (human) child and headed off to the gym at about 9:30 this morning. My DH was supposed to be home shortly thereafter since he has to work the midnight watch tonight. Even though Orion was only supposed to be home alone for a few minutes, I still dutifully crated him. Crating Orion involves one padlock and 6 metal carabiners that screw closed. He looks up at me mournfully and as I reinforce the two latches all around the crate door I remind him that we would have let him sleep on the leather couch, but no, he had to leave and take the cats with him. It's a calm but not pleasant or quick process. Anyway, a few minutes later, I left.
My daughter and I both enjoyed ourselves at the gym, and knowing that my DH was home now, I ran another errand. On the way home from my second stop, however, my DH called to tell me he was still stuck at work - it was now noon. Great. The %$%#! dog has now been unexpectedly home alone for almost 3 hours. Hoping for the best, I headed straight home.
I opened the front door, which is good, because I've found it wide open before. No dog. Good, because if he had gotten out he would be greeting me right now. I walked back to the bedroom and over to his crate. Wait. What's that on the floor? Why, they're the bars from his crate! Scattered over the floor in front of the crate were two of the metal bars, warped and twisted into little metal snakes. So much for "Durable welded steel construction" and "Closely spaced, heavy-duty 6- and 9-gauge wire, the sturdiest cage wire available." We'd already long since laughed off the "Dog-proof cam lock foils even the best escape artist, yet is easy to open for you". Here is a picture of what was left of the bars (with my keys for reference, and well, I'd just walked in the door):
Where the bars had been is now a wide gap, and crate door itself was so badly warped and chewed that the padlock was the only thing holding it on. Maybe we could recoup some of our losses if we enter him in a locksmithing contest or something? Here is a picture of his destroyed bed (big holes torn in it, covered in drool and pee, which is just lovely), the waffled crate door falling off its hinges, and, sadly, the bloody drool on the floor from his chewing efforts:
Orion is fine, lest you worry. In fact, I think it cleaned his teeth a little bit (good, less doggie dental costs!). But this latest event has us wondering just how strong is this dog? The damage to the crate reminded me of something I saw a few weeks ago at the amazing Tennessee Aquarium in Chattanooga: a shark cage, after a Great White gave it a test bite.
Orion isn't even a "chewer". In fact, when we thought he was mostly Lab, we gave him tons of chew toys and couldn't understand why he didn't like any of them. We tried to keep him entertained in our absence with Kong Toys and chew toys filled with treats, but he wouldn't touch them. Now he eats a hunk of metal. We may never know his breed, and I question his intelligence regularly (I suspect that's mutual), but we're finally catching on to how catastrophic those canines can be!
Upon learning that he's a Shepherd, not a Lab, Orion got smarter. Much smarter. Like, 40 IQ points or something.
We've been leaving him home alone a few times a week for a few hours at a time. The blinds must be open, so he can see out in all directions. He must be sent to his bed and given Newman's Own treats before I walk out the door. He must have a full water bowl, of course. Often I leave the tv on for company, too. And of course he's still on Clomicalm. So far, so good - until he discovered he's a Shepherd.
A few weeks ago we were gone for several hours while running errands and picking my sister up at the airport. It wasn't much longer than usual, but it turned out that time wasn't the issue. As we pulled up to the house, Orion greeted us. From the front lawn. Our front door was wide open.
Now, security issues aside, we have two old indoor cats, so the open front door scared the hell out of me. Omen, our Maine Coon cat was sitting just inside the door, apparently displeased with the Floridian humidity. I sent the kids looking for our other cat, Callie. No Callie. As a thunderstorm opened up directly overhead, my sister crawled around the outside of our home calling the cat. A few more bolts of lightening and both the cat and my sister beat feet to the front door to get back in a.s.a.p. So thanks to the storm, we had everyone inside safely within a few minutes.
Once the initial pet-panic was over, however, we had a chance to consider what exactly the dog had done to escape. He had unlocked the deadbolt, turned the doorknob, and pulled the door open. That's impressive. I know humans who can't handle "pull" doors. To make matters worse, a very, VERY kind neighbor stopped by that evening to tell us she had seen him out, returned him, and relocked our door 3 times that morning, apparently before the last time when we came home. So it wasn't a fluke; he learned how to open the door.
We considered child-proof covers, but he's stronger than they are. We considered more locks or chains, but he's already destroyed the trim they would be anchored to, so they wouldn't hold either. We were stumped.
Finally, the time came when I had to leave him again. I gave him Benydryl (at our vet's recommended dose) and locked him in his crate. I used a padlock on the latch, and 6 other metal latches to reinforce the door (he's broken out of it before). I called my husband and told him to come home as soon as he could, then I left, hoping for the best.
We've had to leave him several times since then, and next week, it's going to be almost daily. He tears up all his bedding, pants, and probably cries, but he hasn't hurt himself or gotten free - yet. Hopefully in time he'll get used to it and just take a nap. Hopefully. If he can learn to open doors, maybe he can learn that we're coming home, too.
Orion has been ours for about a year and a half, and all through that time, we've been answering the oft-repeated question of "What kind of dog IS that, anyway?" with "mostly lab". Hey, he looks like a great big ol' yellow lab. Sort of. Close enough, right? Well, over the holiday weekend he was on vacation with us. We were at a Fourth of July party with about 100 people and lo & behold, one family identified him. Not only did they recognize his breed, but they sent a link to his breed being shown at the Westminster Dog Show, i.e., the poster-dogs for his breed. I thought I knew a lot about dogs and dog breeds, but I'd never heard of this one. So here, for your review and amusement, is a comparison. Orion...
And ...
An Anatolian Shepherd! What do you think? Pretty close match, eh? Neither is a great "show-quality" photo, of course, but I tried to match the poses as much as possible. Other than the dark muzzle, they could be littermates! The thick, bushy tail, the long thin legs, the size... Yup, that sure looks like Orion!
He made it! Orion stayed home alone for 25 minutes this morning! This is the first time he's ever stayed home alone successfully since we adopted him in March of 2009. He wasn't happy about it, but I haven't found any damages to either the house or him, and he seemed to relax quite soon after we returned home. He's been on Clomicalm for 3 weeks so far, so that may be helping. I left him free reign of the house, and left the TV on. I put him to bed in the living room and gave him a few treats on the way out, then calmly left. I sent my daughter out to the car first, since she's too little for "calm" anything, and I didn't want their energies to feed off one another. We raced to the store and back in 25 minutes flat, from the moment I shut the door to the moment I opened it again. When we returned, I calmly petted him for just a moment, praised him softly, and gave him another treat. I tried to avoid anything that could be perceived as excitement rather than calm praise. The I unloaded the groceries, did a few chores, and generally went about my usual business. By the time I put my daughter down for her nap, he had passed out in his bed next to us, where he remains, sound asleep.
On Thursday I'll be out of the house for several hours, and I'm still not prepared to leave him alone that long. Back to daycare he goes. But this little success today was momentous, and encouraging. My youngest child, in particular, has sacrificed a lot of chances to explore the world while we waited for Orion to trust us to come home. Hopefully those days are behind us. Hopefully, this is the start of more playdates and outings, more spontaneity and less worry. I'm so proud of my big lug for taking this first step today, and I'm glad to finally see that our love and patience is starting to heal the wrongs of his past. Good boy, RiRi, good boy!
Well, it's been over a year since we adopted Orion, and he still can't be left alone, ever. So we've decided to try "puppy Prozac", in his case, Clomicalm. Clomicalm is the only prescription approved for veterinary use for separation anxiety, although there are other human-approved medications that are used by many vets. We really struggled with this choice. We didn't want to alter his strong, playful personality, or make him dependent on drugs for the rest of his life, or risk the side effects of the medication. When I lamented the choice on Facebook, a good friend replied that in hindsight, she felt her beloved dog would have been happier if they had medicated her. That really hit home. Yes, we're concerned with the risks, but really, is Orion happier, if a little loopy, with Clomicalm? Or panicking that the rest of the pack left without him? When we really thought about it from his perspective, given that we can never explain to him that we'll be back, that he'll never outgrow this, the choice became clear.
Orion has been on Clomicalm for about 10 days. So far, so good. There haven't been any dramatic changes, although he does seem to sleep more soundly. I wonder if that's because he's not worried about missing something while he's sleeping. I don't mean to project human emotions on him, but to see things from his puppy perspective. Dogs are always listening, aware of what the rest of the pack is doing, what's going on around them. Orion is still sharp, but not as concerned, if that makes any sense.
On the other hand, he still hasn't been left alone. In a few weeks, we're going on a family camping trip and they won't let us bring him, so off to the kennel he goes. It's the same place he has daycare, so hopefully he'll be ok after dark. They're making extra arrangements to help keep him safe even if he does panic, like removing his collar so he can't get caught on anything, and putting up a baby gate so he can't jump out of his room. Yes, his room. No crates or cages here. He'll have a 6' by 9' room and all the comforts of home. Hopefully, he'll be ok for the weekend. And hopefully, someday soon, he'll be confident and comfortable in letting us come and go.
Well, we did it. We broke down and bought a FURminator - from a site we saw advertised on the blog after I posted my W.T.FURminator? article last summer. Instead of $60, we spent about $13. It took a couple of weeks to get here, but I can be patient for almost $50 in savings. We've been using it for several months, but this is really the first time I've been able to give it a test on the ol' winter undercoat. Orion's is so dense, he's actually a different color in the summer than the winter. When we adopted him about a year ago, he was almost white. As his winter coat fell out (all over my house, kids, clothes, etc...), we turned white and he turned sort of wheat-colored. Of course, since then his winter undercoat has come back and is now on it's way out again. Orion's an indoor dog. I can't imagine how thick it would be if he was kept outside! In any case, we gave him a good combing a couple of days ago, and I'm happy to report that my $13 was well spent. He loves being FURminated, and it really does get that dense, downy undercoat out. I even have one of those pictures everyone posts of their dog in a pile of fur that the FURminator has dislodged. (Note: Orion is not being throttled in the picture - his collar is high on his neck so my DH can comb his ruff, and Orion is basking in the sunlight. Really. Does it look like a dog that size would just be sitting there if he weren't happy?) Now, Orion is back in his summer coat of khaki, just in time to hide his passion for mud puddles and dusty dog parks. Sigh. Perhaps my next review will be for dog shampoos!
Me. Definitely, it's me. Orion has been living with us for almost a year now, and still has made no progress at all regarding his separation anxiety. With the quality and reliability of our doggie daycare in question (a whole other story), it's really becoming a problem again. It's not all his fault. After all, some stupid human did this to him in the first place. And in the past year, my husband's work schedule has changed dramatically over and over again, sending the whole household into a constant state of uncertainty. However, I can't so much as take my son to the bus stop without the dog destroying the blinds, and our daughter has missed out on playdates and the magical little outings that all toddlers should enjoy. That's a HUGE sacrifice in my book, and one I'm not willing to prolong.
Tomorrow Orion has a check up. It's time to consider anxiety medications, a DAP collar, anything to get this dog to chill out. Everyone says, "Just crate him and leave. He'll get over it." but guess what? I did that and he panicked and within 7 minutes flat his nose and paws were raw and bleeding. I've had "trainers" (they called themselves) tell me that they could take him for 3 days and teach him to respect me. Uh-huh, right. Exactly how is beating him for 3 days going to make him less scared and panicky? I've even had people tell me to get another dog to keep him comfortable. While that may work, seriously, Orion's almost 100 lbs. He should count as 2 dogs on his own, and we can barely afford to sustain his cushy lifestyle.
So now, the dog and the toddler are napping, and here I am typing my frustrations away. Hopefully something will give soon. Everyone loves him - but I'm the only one trapped by him. It occurred to me this morning that many people of my generation face the same issue as their parents age, trying to give them the best possible care 24/7, only to burn out or compromise their own health. Perhaps it's good that I'm learning to set boundaries with Orion, in the event that I have to make choices with my parents later in life. Finding care I truly trust and making time for myself are lessons that are gradually sinking in with me. With my kids, I didn't have to make the first choice, and I'm still learning the latter. So I guess Orion's just a giant guinea pig, care-wise. I think they call guinea pigs Orion's size "capybaras". Time to take the capybara for a walk.
Just this side of heaven is a place called RainbowBridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to RainbowBridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross RainbowBridge together....
Yeah, me too. It’s hard for me, even in the best of times, to read that piece without getting a lump in my throat. This is not the best of times. See, I’ve recently lost a true friend.
Like many people, I’ll wager that I have more than one former furred companion waiting for me by that bridge. This, however, isn’t about them; it’s about one who has no one to wait for, as no one’s coming for him. That might be sad enough, but there’s more.
Hell, it’s always sad and wrenching to lose a pet or beloved animal, but when that loss is directly due to senseless, wanton human cruelty and ignorant rottenness, it is particularly grueling. Often, I wonder if our species still deserves the unfettered, pure loyalty and love that the species Canis Familiaris favors us with. In the worst cases, they still will do anything up to and including dying for us. This is one such case.
Among the vermin known as dogfighters, there exists the concept of a “bait dog”…an animal which is insufficiently aggressive, fast, or strong to be a good pit fighter. It could be an older, sick dog, or a pup; or it could just be one that the owner got mad at in a meth-fueled rage. What’s important is, the dog is used as a “sparring partner” for the real fighters; a living, breathing chew toy. They face short, horrifying lives of violence, pain, neglect, and abuse.
Nietzsche was one such. At about one year old, he was found bleeding and severely injured in a parking lot in Pensacola. There is no way to know how he came to be there; whether he was abandoned by his former owners, or escaped from them by some Herculean courage, will never be known. His injuries, however, indicated that he had been mauled, and by more than one dog. He was also malnourished and neglected.
He was cared for by good veterinarians and caring people, and eventually nursed back to health and strength, although his mangled face bore the scars and damage of his trauma. His ears were torn to stumps, and his tongue was frayed and perforated. His ripped mouth was contorted into an artificial scowl. Still, he was otherwise an outstanding example of the Pit-bull breed, with a strong, solid body and a massive, powerful head. Although dotted with scars, his coat was a lovely fawn color with splashes of white. When he was well enough, he went to live at the Humane Society of Pensacola, the wonderful, no-kill shelter I volunteer at. http://www.humanesocietyofpensacola.org/
I met “Neets” when I began working there. He had just turned two years old, by our reckoning. I found that, once one got past his fearsome appearance, he was a gentle, loving, and people-friendly dog. He loved long walks in the sun, followed by a rest under a shady tree. He relished romps in empty fields, and naps in warm blankets. He jumped for a bit of roughhousing play with various toys.
He and I got to be great friends. After a while, he jumped up when I arrived for my weekly volunteer work, eager to go out and play with his buddy. We’d go running for long distances along the railroad tracks, glorying in the sunshine and fresh air. We’d kick the dust up all over the play area as he’d tear the toys to shreds in those mighty jaws, and then relax under the shady trees, with him curling up in my lap like an 80-pound puppy, big head resting in my hand. He was a dog that loved to be loved.
Neets, sadly, wasn’t perfect. He had many demons, nightmares let loose in his brain from his horrible upbringing. He couldn’t ever be left alone with another dog. His mind would sometimes “snap”, flashing back to those old terrifying times like a war vet with PTSD, and in that state, he would attack any dog he was near. He had more than enough power and speed to do severe damage. Many times, after careful work, the staff at HSOP would introduce him to another dog to play with, and be overjoyed as Neets seemed to have a great time with a new friend; only to have hope dashed as he eventually “slipped”. After he’d “come back”, he’d slink off to his kennel and hide, seemingly ashamed of himself. It must be said now that never, not once, was a human the target of any of his outbursts, and to my knowledge, he never inflicted any injury on any person.
Still, his dog-aggressiveness left him pretty much unable to be adopted. Lucky for him that HSOP is a no-kill shelter, so he could live out his days there. I longed to adopt him myself; to give him a home, but his tendency to “snap” made that impossible. My family consisted of two small children and two cats, and some things simply cannot be risked. So, I relished caring for him and making his life a bit better for over a year. Still, the staff and I held out hope. In the meantime, he wriggled his way into all our hearts, becoming sort of a “mascot” for the shelter, with his picture prominently displayed on its newsletter. He was popular with everyone. I even, under the strictest care imaginable, introduced him to my six-year-old son, whom he charmed and won over instantly.
The demons, however, never went away, and never gave up. Finally, they won. On a recent weekend, someone left a gate unlocked in the play areas. Sweet, loving, loyal Nietzsche attacked TooBee, an old, blind, diabetic terrier, and by the time he was pulled off, he had inflicted injuries we still are unsure if she’ll survive. It was decided that he’d be put down.
The staff and I were devastated. Okay, we knew, sort of, that this could happen, that it was always a strong possibility. He wasn’t going to be adopted, regardless of how many people loved him; and he wasn’t going to get better. At best, he’d have only been able to live out his days in peace if he were to never again attack another animal. That didn’t make it any easier, nor did the knowledge that, had he not been used in such a foul and evil manner as a young dog, he’d still be alive and happy.
I let my 42-year-old, tough old Sailor’s eyes cry when I heard. Later, when my son found out (he always asked me how Neets was doing when I went to the shelter), those eyes poured out sorrow again, joining with his precious sobs. My mind swung between grief for my buddy and hatred for his abusers. I told my boy about the RainbowBridge.
After all the tears were shed, and the sobs ended, I sat with my wife. I recalled the RainbowBridge, and mentioned to her how sad it was that Neets would make it there, but never have anyone come for him, as he was never adopted. She took my hand, and with tears misting in her own eyes, said, “Someone will. He’s waiting for you, Honey.” Tears came again.
I will not watch NFL football anymore. I cannot bear to support any organization that so eagerly took one of the sub-animal parasites that force animals to fight back into its gold-plated club. Michael Vick fought dogs, tortured them, and abused them just like the backwoods trailer-trash that caused Neets, and so many other dogs just like him, so much horror. While the intense grief subsides, the anger and rage do not. It is long past time that this evil, senseless terror stops, and past time that any decent people cease tolerating those who engage in, or support this rotten practice. Those who do engage in dogfighting are unfit to be accepted into normal society, and are unfit to ever be lauded and placed in positions in which they will become role models to young people. They should be sent to prison for long terms, and when released, shunned by all decent, right-thinking people as the perverted psychopaths they are.
Goodbye, Nietzsche. Goodbye, my friend. Wait patiently at the RainbowBridge…find all my other pets that have gotten there first. Find Sniffles, Minx, Nasha, Blue, and any others who arrive. Be with them, with your demons finally gone forever. I’ll be seeing you someday.
