Crampons. Sounds like a menstrual issue. Or something someone puts on your style. But no, crampons enhance my style. Or rather they enhance my well-being.
Crampons are metal spikes attached to a web of rubber you stretch over the bottom of your boots. My husband used to wear them years ago when he climbed mountains and trekked across glaciers. He strapped on the heavy-duty ones with mini-spears. I only needed the light kind.
We've had a couple of snowfalls, then rain turning the ground to slush and then freezing. Our driveway is now an expanse of treacherous granite-like grooves. I am obliged to cross them everytime I take Maggie, our Great Dane, out. She is always anxious and she pulls. Scary!
Still more scary is the dog park: a lethal ice-field of peaks and hollows, like waves frozen on a lake. No skating there. Only walking like a Geisha, taking tiny steps where no foot leaves the ground. I daily endure the fear of slipping and tripping and crashing down as dogs slide and collide around me.
I've had two falls on the ice. Once, I tripped over the leashes of my two poodles when I was concentrating on the beauty of Lake Michigan. That time I broke my left middle finger. Painful and a nuisance. Another time my heels went flying out from under me on a patch of black sidewalk ice and I badly bruised my tailbone. Sitting and walking hurt for weeks.
My most surprising injury happened, not on ice, but at the bottom of our basement stairs. When I stepped off I was expecting a floor to be there. It wasn't. It had caved-in. (We lived on the side of a mountain...a long story.) So I stepped out onto nothing and collapsed in the hole where the former floor had been. I broke the outside bones of my right foot. (Why do I say I broke? The lack of a basement floor broke...)
I was in a cast on crutches for weeks. That's not only incapacitating, it's discombobulating. I still had kids at home. I couldn't walk. I couldn't drive. Since I was fearful on stairs with my crutches, I went up and down them on my butt. To bathe, I had to hang my foot over the edge of the tub. Most frustrating of all, I couldn't carry things, like a basketful of laundry, (well, we no longer had a basement to do laundry in, in any case). I couldn't move a pot from one side of the kitchen to the other. I couldn't take a book from room to room , let alone a cup of coffee. I sure developed an empathy for the physically-challenged.
Which is all to say, I did not want to fall on the ice and break a bone or crack my skull. Hence, the crampons. They have revolutionized my life. They are like a "New Age" artifact. They make me feel more positive, they give me stability and balance and confidence, (things of which I'm often in short supply). I can't exactly say they make my spirits soar, but they certainly make them less insecure, less fearful. Ice be damned! I have conquered you. You are no longer an enemy, a cruel force to be avoided. You no longer have the power to emprison me, to hobble me, to do me harm. I have the courage of my footfall.
With crampons, I can go forth with gusto.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Obnoxious Dogs: Mine
I thought I loved dogs. Since going to the dogpark, I realize I don't. I only love some dogs. The ones I don't love are the obnoxious ones.
What makes an obnoxious dog? Not the breed. He/she can be any breed that defies correction. An obnoxious dog barks incessantly, jumps up on me and leaps around me after the ball in the chuckit. Really obnoxious dogs grab the ball right out it. And really obnoxious dogs not only steal balls, they don't return them, running away when their owners try to catch them. (I supply several balls a week to other dogs.) One really obnoxious dog, Ozzie, the Doberman has to be literally choked to give up a stolen ball. (Many dogs "intercept" another dog's ball. That's OK. But on command they drop it. My Great Dane Maggie does this pretty well.)
Obnoxious dogs lunge and snarl, unprovoked. They gang up on submissive dogs. Obnoxious dogs play too roughly. Maggie had a dime-sized piece of flesh taken from her left thigh by Hopkins, a black Standard Poodle.
And obnoxious dogs whine.
As much as it kills me to say it, because I love him dearly, my silver-grey Toy Poodle, Hutchie is an obnoxious dog, a major brat.
I never intended to have him but I couldn't separate him from his white sister Gracie. They were two bouncing pom-poms. From the start, Gracie was a bit shy and always calm. Hutch lept up off the ground on his little back legs if they had springs, barking, barking, barking. That's his most dominant trait: he's vocal, (to be euphemistic). He goes beserk when he sees deer or a coyote in the wilderness preserve behind our house. He yaps like crazy when he sees our neighbour's cat. But mostly he seems to bark at pure air, as if he had microscopic vision and could see whatever invisible things exist. I've corrected him over and over, squeezing his furry muzzle with a forceful "no!". I've sprayed him with water tinged with vinegar. Everything works momentarily. He stops. But then he begins again.
The springing up on his hind legs means he does it on me and whoever happens to come to the door. "Off!" I command. And he does. For a few seconds. And then he's boing-boinging again against my knees, his tail moving as fast as a hummingbird.
And he whines. He whines when he wants me; he whines when he wants something. (I often have no idea.) He whines just because he hates silence.
He has been particularly nasty to Maggie, lungeing and snarling and biting her jowls since she arrived. He's horribly jealous and can't share me or toys without turning on her, even if they get a good game of "tug" going with the octopus. He's worst when she has a big marrow bone, which she loves to put on my lap, right where Hutchie lies. I hold him back and say "leave it!", but instinctively he growls and snaps and I have to put him down.
At the dogpark, he's quite hostile to some dogs, usually the ones romping all around him to play. He particularly doesn't like puppies. And if other dogs seem to be in an escalated skirmish, he charges at them, barking, as if he's policing them. We call him "Hutchie le Flic," (the French word for "cop".) (To give both him and Gracie their due, if a dog steals their ball, their only reaction is to follow the perpetrator around hoping he/she will release it.)
He is like one of those anklets they put around prisoners to keep track of them. I've learned to keep the bathroom door open as he will make a fuss outside if I don't. When I'm on the sofa, he's tight against me. The same when I'm in bed. Even though he only weighs 12 pounds, he's a lump that makes it difficult for me to move, because he doesn't.
When I arrive home from somewhere, he shrieks from behind the door as if he's being tortured. He makes the same piercing noise when we arrive at the dog park. Then he chews and pulls on Gracie's leash when we walk to the gate, tripping me. (I'm already trying to handle Maggie in her excitement and carry a large cooler of water.)
Why do I keep him? Why do I love him? Well, he's cozy and loyal and trusting. He has an inquisitive, alert, endearing face that gives the impression he'd return a conversation if he could. He has a lean, jaunty body, athletic for its size and he struts when he walks. He's fearless. One day he took after a coyote in our yard. I thought it was the end of him but he came back. He adores his sister. She has those runny red eyes that small white dogs often have, but in fact she doesn't, because he keeps them clean. Lately, he's even been cleaning Maggie's face.
When I throw the ball at the dogpark, if he gets to it before Gracie, he drops it at my feet. (Gracie usually takes it under a picnic table where she thinks she can protect it. A thieving dog can grab a ball with the speed of a striking rattlesnake.)
When you get a dog, you make a commitment to him/her: to love and care for them, treat them with firmness and accept their faults. Some faults in a dog are fixable and Hutchie's probably are. I keep thinking of getting an electronic training collar for him, (like the one that's worked so well for Maggie) but he's not a puppy. He's five. I wonder if his bad habits are embedded.
For now, I'll sigh and grit my teeth and breathe deeply and sternly reprimand him when he's obnoxious. And cuddle him when he's not.
What makes an obnoxious dog? Not the breed. He/she can be any breed that defies correction. An obnoxious dog barks incessantly, jumps up on me and leaps around me after the ball in the chuckit. Really obnoxious dogs grab the ball right out it. And really obnoxious dogs not only steal balls, they don't return them, running away when their owners try to catch them. (I supply several balls a week to other dogs.) One really obnoxious dog, Ozzie, the Doberman has to be literally choked to give up a stolen ball. (Many dogs "intercept" another dog's ball. That's OK. But on command they drop it. My Great Dane Maggie does this pretty well.)
Obnoxious dogs lunge and snarl, unprovoked. They gang up on submissive dogs. Obnoxious dogs play too roughly. Maggie had a dime-sized piece of flesh taken from her left thigh by Hopkins, a black Standard Poodle.
And obnoxious dogs whine.
As much as it kills me to say it, because I love him dearly, my silver-grey Toy Poodle, Hutchie is an obnoxious dog, a major brat.
I never intended to have him but I couldn't separate him from his white sister Gracie. They were two bouncing pom-poms. From the start, Gracie was a bit shy and always calm. Hutch lept up off the ground on his little back legs if they had springs, barking, barking, barking. That's his most dominant trait: he's vocal, (to be euphemistic). He goes beserk when he sees deer or a coyote in the wilderness preserve behind our house. He yaps like crazy when he sees our neighbour's cat. But mostly he seems to bark at pure air, as if he had microscopic vision and could see whatever invisible things exist. I've corrected him over and over, squeezing his furry muzzle with a forceful "no!". I've sprayed him with water tinged with vinegar. Everything works momentarily. He stops. But then he begins again.
The springing up on his hind legs means he does it on me and whoever happens to come to the door. "Off!" I command. And he does. For a few seconds. And then he's boing-boinging again against my knees, his tail moving as fast as a hummingbird.
And he whines. He whines when he wants me; he whines when he wants something. (I often have no idea.) He whines just because he hates silence.
He has been particularly nasty to Maggie, lungeing and snarling and biting her jowls since she arrived. He's horribly jealous and can't share me or toys without turning on her, even if they get a good game of "tug" going with the octopus. He's worst when she has a big marrow bone, which she loves to put on my lap, right where Hutchie lies. I hold him back and say "leave it!", but instinctively he growls and snaps and I have to put him down.
At the dogpark, he's quite hostile to some dogs, usually the ones romping all around him to play. He particularly doesn't like puppies. And if other dogs seem to be in an escalated skirmish, he charges at them, barking, as if he's policing them. We call him "Hutchie le Flic," (the French word for "cop".) (To give both him and Gracie their due, if a dog steals their ball, their only reaction is to follow the perpetrator around hoping he/she will release it.)
He is like one of those anklets they put around prisoners to keep track of them. I've learned to keep the bathroom door open as he will make a fuss outside if I don't. When I'm on the sofa, he's tight against me. The same when I'm in bed. Even though he only weighs 12 pounds, he's a lump that makes it difficult for me to move, because he doesn't.
When I arrive home from somewhere, he shrieks from behind the door as if he's being tortured. He makes the same piercing noise when we arrive at the dog park. Then he chews and pulls on Gracie's leash when we walk to the gate, tripping me. (I'm already trying to handle Maggie in her excitement and carry a large cooler of water.)
Why do I keep him? Why do I love him? Well, he's cozy and loyal and trusting. He has an inquisitive, alert, endearing face that gives the impression he'd return a conversation if he could. He has a lean, jaunty body, athletic for its size and he struts when he walks. He's fearless. One day he took after a coyote in our yard. I thought it was the end of him but he came back. He adores his sister. She has those runny red eyes that small white dogs often have, but in fact she doesn't, because he keeps them clean. Lately, he's even been cleaning Maggie's face.
When I throw the ball at the dogpark, if he gets to it before Gracie, he drops it at my feet. (Gracie usually takes it under a picnic table where she thinks she can protect it. A thieving dog can grab a ball with the speed of a striking rattlesnake.)
When you get a dog, you make a commitment to him/her: to love and care for them, treat them with firmness and accept their faults. Some faults in a dog are fixable and Hutchie's probably are. I keep thinking of getting an electronic training collar for him, (like the one that's worked so well for Maggie) but he's not a puppy. He's five. I wonder if his bad habits are embedded.
For now, I'll sigh and grit my teeth and breathe deeply and sternly reprimand him when he's obnoxious. And cuddle him when he's not.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Interspecies Relationships: Dogs and Cats
Don't you just love interspecies relationships? Not husbands and wives. I'm talking about cats and dogs. Why would a 16 pound cat allow a 125 pound dog to flip him over with her large muzzle and chew at his belly, all the while purring? Why doesn't the dog grab the cat by the neck and shake him, the way she does her stuffed animals? What kind of confidence in the dog, what kind of trust must the cat possess? And where do they come from?
When I say "chew", I mean that Maggie, our 11-month-old Great Dane takes Niger's skin between her front teeth and nibbles his whole body, leaving him a slobbery mess. When she stops, the cat butts her and licks her nose for more.
We think of cats and dogs as natural enemies. Cats are small, like rabbits and rats, a dog's prey. Even little Terriers catch badgers. Cats run when confronted, inviting chase. It's a rare, brave cat who stands his/her ground with a dog and spits and swats his face. Cats inhabit entirely different territory from dogs - in their heads and their habits. Cats prowl. Dogs lope and sniff. Cats can self-feed. Dogs gobble. Cats are self-contained, particular. Dogs are devoted and gregarious. A catpark would never work. Cats are loose and languorous. Dogs are taut. You can't drape a dog around your neck, though he/she would probably love it. If they weren't domesticated, cats' and dogs' paths likely wouldn't cross. But they do: in our kitchens, on our sofas, on our beds. And it's this accepting, often affectionate arrangement that intrigues me.
Niger, a black Siamese/Abyssinian cross, weighed about a pound when we got him. He was so fragile, he felt like a hairy mass of pipe cleaners. At the time, we had our first blue Great Dane, Lily. She was a rescue, six months old when we found her and for awhile she was aggressive, not with us, but with all other people. When Niger arrived, Lily was a year old and she weighed 120 pounds.
It astounds me now, but I never considered that Lily might be a danger to Niger. Lily loomed over him, curious but not menacing. Niger initially spit and spat but he didn't budge. Lily seemed to respect that and they became friends, not simply tolerant friends but close friends. That tiny kitten always curled into her where she slept, prodding her for comfort. They walked around outside together and Lily never chased him. It wasn't accord, it was attachment.
Niger was 9 when we got 3-month-old Maggie. Niger is massive. Maggie was not much larger, but she had puppy power. She was bold with the cat, putting her large paw on his back, practically crushing him. Occasionally Niger would run to escape and Maggie would give chase but soon that stopped and the crazy teeny bites began. Niger submitted with seeming pleasure as he does every day, until one of them gets bored, (usually Maggie).
We've had 2 Irish Wolfhounds, an Irish Setter/ Newfoundland cross and two Great Danes. We've even had a Bichon. And we've always had several cats with them. And everyone got along. Our Bichon actually had a cozy relationship with a Siamese, Yo-Yi. But never have I seen the kind of "intimacy" that Niger has had with both Lily and Maggie where their instinctive boundaries disappear and the animals exist on a plane removed from their normal species' behavior. It's as if each actually loses some specific, essential characteristics and he/she becomes "other". We can't figure it out and they don't need to. They just snuggle and lick with the tight assurance of litter-mates.
Niger is one of those cats who gets the ultimate feline compliment: "He thinks he's a dog." He comes when he's called, he listens and talks back, he gives kisses, he's obnoxiously friendly with guests. His affection is insatiable. He hugs. He gives as good as he gets.
Lily was a big dog. Maggie is bigger. Their breed is known for its docility. But Great Danes also hunted large game, so they have a pursuing instinct. They were also war dogs. Lily could have killed Niger and Maggie still could. In fact, I'm not sure that if the dogs were outdoors and saw a cat, they wouldn't chase it and likely kill it if they caught it. Inside, Maggie almost attacks the glass when our neighbour's cat walks by.
So why the love for Niger? Is it the individual animal or the household? Have the dogs and Niger somehow adapted their primal behavior because of us, because of our gentle, firm, consistent treatment of them? Is it super-love by example? No specific training was used. Acceptance was pretty much immediate. The love came later.
I say love because I don't know what else to call it. I'm not sure dogs and especially cats feel love as we know it. Do we fill them past brimming the way they do us? Is the connection deeper than simply food, petting and a comfortable place to sleep? What does a cat get from a dog and vice-versa?
They must give each other something for the loving to exist. Maggie nibbles Niger. Niger purrs. Something must be going on.
And they're always glad to see each other. Niger weaves in and out of Maggie's legs, stroking his body. She nudges him, tail thwapping. If they're glad to see each other, it must mean they've missed each other, wouldn't you think?
The only answer I have is what my eyes tell me.
When I say "chew", I mean that Maggie, our 11-month-old Great Dane takes Niger's skin between her front teeth and nibbles his whole body, leaving him a slobbery mess. When she stops, the cat butts her and licks her nose for more.
We think of cats and dogs as natural enemies. Cats are small, like rabbits and rats, a dog's prey. Even little Terriers catch badgers. Cats run when confronted, inviting chase. It's a rare, brave cat who stands his/her ground with a dog and spits and swats his face. Cats inhabit entirely different territory from dogs - in their heads and their habits. Cats prowl. Dogs lope and sniff. Cats can self-feed. Dogs gobble. Cats are self-contained, particular. Dogs are devoted and gregarious. A catpark would never work. Cats are loose and languorous. Dogs are taut. You can't drape a dog around your neck, though he/she would probably love it. If they weren't domesticated, cats' and dogs' paths likely wouldn't cross. But they do: in our kitchens, on our sofas, on our beds. And it's this accepting, often affectionate arrangement that intrigues me.
Niger, a black Siamese/Abyssinian cross, weighed about a pound when we got him. He was so fragile, he felt like a hairy mass of pipe cleaners. At the time, we had our first blue Great Dane, Lily. She was a rescue, six months old when we found her and for awhile she was aggressive, not with us, but with all other people. When Niger arrived, Lily was a year old and she weighed 120 pounds.
It astounds me now, but I never considered that Lily might be a danger to Niger. Lily loomed over him, curious but not menacing. Niger initially spit and spat but he didn't budge. Lily seemed to respect that and they became friends, not simply tolerant friends but close friends. That tiny kitten always curled into her where she slept, prodding her for comfort. They walked around outside together and Lily never chased him. It wasn't accord, it was attachment.
Niger was 9 when we got 3-month-old Maggie. Niger is massive. Maggie was not much larger, but she had puppy power. She was bold with the cat, putting her large paw on his back, practically crushing him. Occasionally Niger would run to escape and Maggie would give chase but soon that stopped and the crazy teeny bites began. Niger submitted with seeming pleasure as he does every day, until one of them gets bored, (usually Maggie).
We've had 2 Irish Wolfhounds, an Irish Setter/ Newfoundland cross and two Great Danes. We've even had a Bichon. And we've always had several cats with them. And everyone got along. Our Bichon actually had a cozy relationship with a Siamese, Yo-Yi. But never have I seen the kind of "intimacy" that Niger has had with both Lily and Maggie where their instinctive boundaries disappear and the animals exist on a plane removed from their normal species' behavior. It's as if each actually loses some specific, essential characteristics and he/she becomes "other". We can't figure it out and they don't need to. They just snuggle and lick with the tight assurance of litter-mates.
Niger is one of those cats who gets the ultimate feline compliment: "He thinks he's a dog." He comes when he's called, he listens and talks back, he gives kisses, he's obnoxiously friendly with guests. His affection is insatiable. He hugs. He gives as good as he gets.
Lily was a big dog. Maggie is bigger. Their breed is known for its docility. But Great Danes also hunted large game, so they have a pursuing instinct. They were also war dogs. Lily could have killed Niger and Maggie still could. In fact, I'm not sure that if the dogs were outdoors and saw a cat, they wouldn't chase it and likely kill it if they caught it. Inside, Maggie almost attacks the glass when our neighbour's cat walks by.
So why the love for Niger? Is it the individual animal or the household? Have the dogs and Niger somehow adapted their primal behavior because of us, because of our gentle, firm, consistent treatment of them? Is it super-love by example? No specific training was used. Acceptance was pretty much immediate. The love came later.
I say love because I don't know what else to call it. I'm not sure dogs and especially cats feel love as we know it. Do we fill them past brimming the way they do us? Is the connection deeper than simply food, petting and a comfortable place to sleep? What does a cat get from a dog and vice-versa?
They must give each other something for the loving to exist. Maggie nibbles Niger. Niger purrs. Something must be going on.
And they're always glad to see each other. Niger weaves in and out of Maggie's legs, stroking his body. She nudges him, tail thwapping. If they're glad to see each other, it must mean they've missed each other, wouldn't you think?
The only answer I have is what my eyes tell me.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Pit Bull Attack (3): Confrontation
3:00 pm, Tuesday December 9
So I'm alone at the dogpark in the storm. I haven't brought the two Poodles Gracie and Hutch because they can't find the tennis ball in the snow and chasing the ball is all they care about. Maggie, the Great Dane, is roaring around. Then a silver pickup pulls in and a tall man in L.L. Bean outdoor wear gets out with a caramel-coloured Pit Bull. I recognize the man as the owner of the dog who attacked Gracie several days ago. The Pit Bull, as on that day, is not leashed. My heart lurches. What if I had had the Poodles?
The dog races to the gate and Maggie runs up to greet her as she does with every arriving dog and the Pit Bull snarls and lunges at the fence.
"Roxy!" the man yells and lets Roxy in. Roxy snarls and lunges at Maggie again and Maggie goes into play stance. Roxy doesn't respond and trots off. I approach the owner in nice-as-apple-pie mode. He's as nice-as-apple-pie back.
"That's the dog who attacked my little Poodle on Monday, " I say.
"Really?" he answers.
"Yes. In the parking lot. Such a vicious dog should be on a leash."
"She's not vicious."
"What do you call what she did to my dog?" The man says nothing.
"She could have killed her. Pit Bull's jaws clamp shut." The man again says nothing.
Then, he offers, "You should have seen Roxy two years ago. She was a rescue and she'd never been socialized. I work with her everyday. Her former owner mistreated her."
"That's why she should be on a leash."
He asks, "Was your dog hurt?"
"A little. There was a mark but no blood."
"I'm very sorry."
"You should keep an eye on that dog," I reiterate, still pleasant, silently cursing my "proper" upbringing. Never create a disturbance. Migawd. The man's Pit Bull...his PIT BULL...had my little dog by the neck, pinned. She was screaming. I should be raging at him.
The man turns from me, calls "Roxy!" and they go off down the path. I let them get ahead and then I follow with Maggie. She's a dawdler sometimes. There are lots of new smells in the snow. Now I am enraged. "Will it take a mauling, a death?" I think. I hear barking back on the playground and I half-hope Roxy will attack again and I'll have some reinforcement.
By the time Maggie and I have gone around the loop there's no sign of the Pit Bull or the owner. His truck has gone. But I run into a woman with three small dogs who was in her car as he and Roxy were leaving. She tells me Roxy threw herself at her car.
If Roxy's owner returns I'm going to get his license and report him to the Forest Preserve. There's a $75. fine for an unleashed dog in the parking lot. He's done it twice now. And I'm going to say this Pit Bull is dangerous.
So I'm alone at the dogpark in the storm. I haven't brought the two Poodles Gracie and Hutch because they can't find the tennis ball in the snow and chasing the ball is all they care about. Maggie, the Great Dane, is roaring around. Then a silver pickup pulls in and a tall man in L.L. Bean outdoor wear gets out with a caramel-coloured Pit Bull. I recognize the man as the owner of the dog who attacked Gracie several days ago. The Pit Bull, as on that day, is not leashed. My heart lurches. What if I had had the Poodles?
The dog races to the gate and Maggie runs up to greet her as she does with every arriving dog and the Pit Bull snarls and lunges at the fence.
"Roxy!" the man yells and lets Roxy in. Roxy snarls and lunges at Maggie again and Maggie goes into play stance. Roxy doesn't respond and trots off. I approach the owner in nice-as-apple-pie mode. He's as nice-as-apple-pie back.
"That's the dog who attacked my little Poodle on Monday, " I say.
"Really?" he answers.
"Yes. In the parking lot. Such a vicious dog should be on a leash."
"She's not vicious."
"What do you call what she did to my dog?" The man says nothing.
"She could have killed her. Pit Bull's jaws clamp shut." The man again says nothing.
Then, he offers, "You should have seen Roxy two years ago. She was a rescue and she'd never been socialized. I work with her everyday. Her former owner mistreated her."
"That's why she should be on a leash."
He asks, "Was your dog hurt?"
"A little. There was a mark but no blood."
"I'm very sorry."
"You should keep an eye on that dog," I reiterate, still pleasant, silently cursing my "proper" upbringing. Never create a disturbance. Migawd. The man's Pit Bull...his PIT BULL...had my little dog by the neck, pinned. She was screaming. I should be raging at him.
The man turns from me, calls "Roxy!" and they go off down the path. I let them get ahead and then I follow with Maggie. She's a dawdler sometimes. There are lots of new smells in the snow. Now I am enraged. "Will it take a mauling, a death?" I think. I hear barking back on the playground and I half-hope Roxy will attack again and I'll have some reinforcement.
By the time Maggie and I have gone around the loop there's no sign of the Pit Bull or the owner. His truck has gone. But I run into a woman with three small dogs who was in her car as he and Roxy were leaving. She tells me Roxy threw herself at her car.
If Roxy's owner returns I'm going to get his license and report him to the Forest Preserve. There's a $75. fine for an unleashed dog in the parking lot. He's done it twice now. And I'm going to say this Pit Bull is dangerous.
Winter Storm: trapped with dogs
Snow is whipping across the landscape. But it's not dense, it's filmy. Not like cotton but chiffon. That's because it's mixed with rain.
It's not cold. Only 34 degrees F. But it's going to get colder. And the rain/snow will thicken, obliterating my view, a flailing white sheet dropped from the heavens. The ground, now sloppy, will harden. The clusters of brown oak leaves on the lawn will skitter across it. The walk, which hasn't been shovelled will have icy peaks and hollows.
This isn't one of those first, gentle snowfalls romaticized on calendars and Christmas cards. In a gentle snowfall, everything is softened. But as I look out, the day is harsh. The straight-up blackness of the trees pierces the metallic sky. The prevailing wind has packed the west-facing trunks and branches with white: a stark contrast. The rushes of the marshes and the dead wildflowers on the prairie stand up like weapons in the slush. Soon the weight of snow will beat them down and the horizon will be flat.
This is the most entrapping kind of storm. The visibility is tenuous. The roads will be slick, the walkways impassable. No children will be rolling big balls of snow for snowmen. It's a day when you want to light a fire and hunker down and watch old movies.
But not if you have dogs. You can't say to a restless dog, "It's too awful to go out there. We'll have to stay in. I'll read you stories. We'll play games."
My dogs have an internal clock set to "park-time". Somewhere between 2:30 and 3pm , Hutchie, the grey toy poodle jumps up and barks. Maggie, the Great Dane is more subtle but just as insistent. If I'm at my computer or studying Spanish, she wedges her head firmly under my arm and pushes. Or she rests her big slobbery muzzle on the desk. If I'm standing up, she leans into me. She follows me around, stepping on my feet. She gets a look that isn't the usual canine pleading. It's look of assertion. She's absolutely certain it's time and that we'll be going.
But the park is going to be hell, today. Any day it requires effort and time. Effort now to pile on winter gear. Effort to fill the water cooler, effort to get the three dogs into the car, effort to drive to the park, effort to contain their excitement when you get there.
And time, because I can't just go for five or ten minutes. I have to go for at least an hour. And today, I'm going to be lashed by the storm while the dogs get rid of their pent up energy. I'm going to throw the ball into the gauzy air only to have it disappear. I'm going to trudge around the perimeter, shoulders hunched while my dogs romp.
The best thing about the dogpark is that there are die-hards: people who have to get their dog out no matter the conditions. We're the usual few, now as familiar with each other as our dogs.
It's not that we know a lot about each other. We really only know about our commitment to our pets. That unites us. It's a sense of commonality that makes a storm...or any oppressive weather...bearable.
Yesterday, I was at the dogpark when the storm was just starting. The wind was wicked. It flung wet snow in my face. I felt as if I was on the Steppes of Russia.
But at least I wasn't alone.
It's not cold. Only 34 degrees F. But it's going to get colder. And the rain/snow will thicken, obliterating my view, a flailing white sheet dropped from the heavens. The ground, now sloppy, will harden. The clusters of brown oak leaves on the lawn will skitter across it. The walk, which hasn't been shovelled will have icy peaks and hollows.
This isn't one of those first, gentle snowfalls romaticized on calendars and Christmas cards. In a gentle snowfall, everything is softened. But as I look out, the day is harsh. The straight-up blackness of the trees pierces the metallic sky. The prevailing wind has packed the west-facing trunks and branches with white: a stark contrast. The rushes of the marshes and the dead wildflowers on the prairie stand up like weapons in the slush. Soon the weight of snow will beat them down and the horizon will be flat.
This is the most entrapping kind of storm. The visibility is tenuous. The roads will be slick, the walkways impassable. No children will be rolling big balls of snow for snowmen. It's a day when you want to light a fire and hunker down and watch old movies.
But not if you have dogs. You can't say to a restless dog, "It's too awful to go out there. We'll have to stay in. I'll read you stories. We'll play games."
My dogs have an internal clock set to "park-time". Somewhere between 2:30 and 3pm , Hutchie, the grey toy poodle jumps up and barks. Maggie, the Great Dane is more subtle but just as insistent. If I'm at my computer or studying Spanish, she wedges her head firmly under my arm and pushes. Or she rests her big slobbery muzzle on the desk. If I'm standing up, she leans into me. She follows me around, stepping on my feet. She gets a look that isn't the usual canine pleading. It's look of assertion. She's absolutely certain it's time and that we'll be going.
But the park is going to be hell, today. Any day it requires effort and time. Effort now to pile on winter gear. Effort to fill the water cooler, effort to get the three dogs into the car, effort to drive to the park, effort to contain their excitement when you get there.
And time, because I can't just go for five or ten minutes. I have to go for at least an hour. And today, I'm going to be lashed by the storm while the dogs get rid of their pent up energy. I'm going to throw the ball into the gauzy air only to have it disappear. I'm going to trudge around the perimeter, shoulders hunched while my dogs romp.
The best thing about the dogpark is that there are die-hards: people who have to get their dog out no matter the conditions. We're the usual few, now as familiar with each other as our dogs.
It's not that we know a lot about each other. We really only know about our commitment to our pets. That unites us. It's a sense of commonality that makes a storm...or any oppressive weather...bearable.
Yesterday, I was at the dogpark when the storm was just starting. The wind was wicked. It flung wet snow in my face. I felt as if I was on the Steppes of Russia.
But at least I wasn't alone.
Pit Bull Attack At The Dogpark (2)
Since my Toy Poodle was attacked by a Pit Bull a couple of days ago, I haven't been able to stop obsessing about it.
Maybe it's an urban myth, maybe it's true but I've heard Pit Bulls' jaws can lock during an attack. I've also heard if you try to interrupt the fight, the dog can turn on you.
She was shaken-up, but unhurt, fortunately. However, all I can see is the body of that little white dog lying bloodied in the snow. Or else my own face or hands covered with slashes. It's true I have a vivid imagination but the scenarios are real. Fighting is embedded in Pit Bulls' genes. They have the potential to be brutal and they do kill.
The majority of the attacks at the dogpark are by Pit Bulls.
And you know what? I'm f-ing tired of them. I'm tired of being wary: suspiciously, fearfully watching any Pit Bull play. Two of them, Missy and Tuxedo, apparently "nice" dogs I've known for several months have become aggressive and been forced to leave the park.
Yesterday I was walking around the perimeter and I saw a Pit Bull approaching. My heart skipped a beat and sure enough, the dog turned on my Great Dane Maggie, who is only eleven months. There was no provocation. Maggie yelped. The incident was short-lived and the owner reprimanded the offender. They always say, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Or, "WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?" as if the dog had never behaved viciously before. Sure they have. And the owners know it.
Are they hopelessly naive? Do they think each altercation is the last one? Or are they simply arrogant, filled with a perverse sense of entitlement that their dog, notwithstanding he/she isn't trustworthy, has a right to be at the park? Are they waiting for a mauling, a death, a lawsuit?
Ontario, the province in Canada where I am from has put into place legislation banning Pit Bulls. Because of a "reasoned apprehension of harm", the law prevents people from breeding the dog, or acquiring one. Current dogs must be neutered, muzzled and on a leash.
France, Britain and Germany have passed similar laws. And also in Canada, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Pit Bulls have been banned for 14 years. The last known Pit Bull died in 2004.
I don't know. Maybe that's a bit extreme. But I don't think people are breeding Pit Bulls for their docility. They mostly get bred randomly and irresponsibly and given away to just anyone, usually people who have no idea how to control dogs, let alone Pit Bulls. The shelters are full of abandoned ones.
There is something precipitately fierce about them. It's a kind of hard-wired savage insanity that can break out at any time. Even the best-natured of Pit Bulls has erupted. How often after an attack have you heard the owner say, "He/she was always so gentle and affectionate."
The four-year-old nephew of a woman at the park was shredded by two Pit Bulls he'd been playing happily with for two years. They got his jugular and several of his internal organs. Miraculously, the child lived, but no-one thought he would.
You just never know with a Pit Bull. It's true, you never really know with any dog but Pit Bulls are notoriously and continuously hazardous. They should be muzzled and on a leash, even the most loving of them. They're a gun with the safety release off. Actually, they're a gun that has been cocked.
I am so happy I didn't lose Gracie. I am so glad I didn't get injured myself. I still feel frightened when I think of the incident. All I can see is my dog's, my own helplessness.
But I also feel really, really angry because it never should have happened.
Maybe it's an urban myth, maybe it's true but I've heard Pit Bulls' jaws can lock during an attack. I've also heard if you try to interrupt the fight, the dog can turn on you.
She was shaken-up, but unhurt, fortunately. However, all I can see is the body of that little white dog lying bloodied in the snow. Or else my own face or hands covered with slashes. It's true I have a vivid imagination but the scenarios are real. Fighting is embedded in Pit Bulls' genes. They have the potential to be brutal and they do kill.
The majority of the attacks at the dogpark are by Pit Bulls.
And you know what? I'm f-ing tired of them. I'm tired of being wary: suspiciously, fearfully watching any Pit Bull play. Two of them, Missy and Tuxedo, apparently "nice" dogs I've known for several months have become aggressive and been forced to leave the park.
Yesterday I was walking around the perimeter and I saw a Pit Bull approaching. My heart skipped a beat and sure enough, the dog turned on my Great Dane Maggie, who is only eleven months. There was no provocation. Maggie yelped. The incident was short-lived and the owner reprimanded the offender. They always say, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Or, "WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?" as if the dog had never behaved viciously before. Sure they have. And the owners know it.
Are they hopelessly naive? Do they think each altercation is the last one? Or are they simply arrogant, filled with a perverse sense of entitlement that their dog, notwithstanding he/she isn't trustworthy, has a right to be at the park? Are they waiting for a mauling, a death, a lawsuit?
Ontario, the province in Canada where I am from has put into place legislation banning Pit Bulls. Because of a "reasoned apprehension of harm", the law prevents people from breeding the dog, or acquiring one. Current dogs must be neutered, muzzled and on a leash.
France, Britain and Germany have passed similar laws. And also in Canada, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Pit Bulls have been banned for 14 years. The last known Pit Bull died in 2004.
I don't know. Maybe that's a bit extreme. But I don't think people are breeding Pit Bulls for their docility. They mostly get bred randomly and irresponsibly and given away to just anyone, usually people who have no idea how to control dogs, let alone Pit Bulls. The shelters are full of abandoned ones.
There is something precipitately fierce about them. It's a kind of hard-wired savage insanity that can break out at any time. Even the best-natured of Pit Bulls has erupted. How often after an attack have you heard the owner say, "He/she was always so gentle and affectionate."
The four-year-old nephew of a woman at the park was shredded by two Pit Bulls he'd been playing happily with for two years. They got his jugular and several of his internal organs. Miraculously, the child lived, but no-one thought he would.
You just never know with a Pit Bull. It's true, you never really know with any dog but Pit Bulls are notoriously and continuously hazardous. They should be muzzled and on a leash, even the most loving of them. They're a gun with the safety release off. Actually, they're a gun that has been cocked.
I am so happy I didn't lose Gracie. I am so glad I didn't get injured myself. I still feel frightened when I think of the incident. All I can see is my dog's, my own helplessness.
But I also feel really, really angry because it never should have happened.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Pit Bull Attack At Dog Park
Gracie, my white toy poodle was attacked by a Pit Bull yesterday. She was OK. Thank goodness. It happened in the parking lot at the dogpark. I was just getting out of my car with my three dogs, the other Toy Poodle, Hutchie and the Great Dane Maggie. A man who was leaving approached me and complimented me on the Great Dane. He had a dog with him I hadn't really noticed but then, in a flash, the dog, a caramel-coloured Pit Bull lunged at Gracie and pinned her on her back by the neck. She weights 12 pounds, the Pit probably 80.
The rest is a blur of fear and screams and snarling. I grabbed the Pit Bull, but it was wearing a coat and it slipped off. I grabbed it again by the scruff of the neck but couldn't remove him.. Somehow, I don't remember how, the owner got the Pit Bull off.
"Is there blood?" the man asked. Gracie wouldn't let us near but there appeared not to be. Still, a dog was injured in the park awhile ago with a wound that did not bleed but required several stitches. Seeing she seemed alright, the owner said "Sorry" and disappeared with the offending dog. I was so shaken up I didn't think to ask for his name or permit number to report him to the ranger.
When Gracie stopped shaking, I examined her neck: nothing but a thick mass of curls and her leather and crystal-studded collar. I think that's what protected her.
Maggie balked at the gate to the park. She was noticeably trembling and I had difficulty calming her. It took me awhile to stop trembling, myself.
From inside, no-one had seen the incident as it was behind the parked cars but I was told that the same Pit Bull had just attacked another dog and that's why he and the owner were leaving.
I have tried to be open and receptive to the Pit Bulls at the park because I confess to a prejudice against them. In fact, I am terrified of them. I know someone whose little dog was killed at his feet by a Pit Bull.
I have quite liked Missy, a good-natured year-old brown and white Pit who has been one of Maggie's favourite friends. I really like Missy's owner, though she seems not to be aware of her dog's inate tendencies. Missy has been aggressive and forced to leave the park. So has Tuxedo, another Pit Bull, seven or-eight months old when we first met him. Then, he was a fair - though rough - player and another friend of Maggie's. Lately, there have been some vicious incidents. Milo, a Viszla/Pit Bull mix always escalates play into something fierce.
Ironically, the night before in Chicago, a Pit Bull had attacked two children. I know only too well, the adage, "There are no bad dogs, only bad owners." But Pit Bulls seem always to be the breed at the centre of canine violence. Oh sure, other dogs at the park have been forceful and imposing, baring teeth and making lots of noise. There are two Huskies, Koda and Aspen of whom I'm a bit leery. Their owner is aware of their potential and says it concerns him. He keeps them in close watch. Nicky, the extroverted Border Collie was attacked by two Golden Retrievers whose owner said, "They've never done that before!" She wasn't even apologetic.
In fact, I suspect most dogs have it in them "snap". You know what? I don't really believe that. I can't imagine my docile 11-month-old Great Dane ever turning on another dog. But I have seen Beauregard, her cousin, almost lose it with the brindle Great Dane, Zyedeco who actually has pinned down Mason, the American barrel-of-a-dog-Bulldog. And, Hutchie, my cute and woolly male toy poodle has snarled and lept at Maggie and grabbed her jowls until she shrieked. I suppose a day might come when Maggie might retaliate, which would be terrifying.
After Gracie's attack, people were again saying Pit Bulls should be banned from the park, or at least muzzled and kept on a leash. They reiterated that Pit Bulls have been bred to fight and can't ever be trusted. That's when the owner of Claire, an English Bull Terrier said, "So has my dog." Claire is one of the jolliest dogs in the park.
I hate to say it, but I'd be glad if I never saw another Pit Bull there.
The rest is a blur of fear and screams and snarling. I grabbed the Pit Bull, but it was wearing a coat and it slipped off. I grabbed it again by the scruff of the neck but couldn't remove him.. Somehow, I don't remember how, the owner got the Pit Bull off.
"Is there blood?" the man asked. Gracie wouldn't let us near but there appeared not to be. Still, a dog was injured in the park awhile ago with a wound that did not bleed but required several stitches. Seeing she seemed alright, the owner said "Sorry" and disappeared with the offending dog. I was so shaken up I didn't think to ask for his name or permit number to report him to the ranger.
When Gracie stopped shaking, I examined her neck: nothing but a thick mass of curls and her leather and crystal-studded collar. I think that's what protected her.
Maggie balked at the gate to the park. She was noticeably trembling and I had difficulty calming her. It took me awhile to stop trembling, myself.
From inside, no-one had seen the incident as it was behind the parked cars but I was told that the same Pit Bull had just attacked another dog and that's why he and the owner were leaving.
I have tried to be open and receptive to the Pit Bulls at the park because I confess to a prejudice against them. In fact, I am terrified of them. I know someone whose little dog was killed at his feet by a Pit Bull.
I have quite liked Missy, a good-natured year-old brown and white Pit who has been one of Maggie's favourite friends. I really like Missy's owner, though she seems not to be aware of her dog's inate tendencies. Missy has been aggressive and forced to leave the park. So has Tuxedo, another Pit Bull, seven or-eight months old when we first met him. Then, he was a fair - though rough - player and another friend of Maggie's. Lately, there have been some vicious incidents. Milo, a Viszla/Pit Bull mix always escalates play into something fierce.
Ironically, the night before in Chicago, a Pit Bull had attacked two children. I know only too well, the adage, "There are no bad dogs, only bad owners." But Pit Bulls seem always to be the breed at the centre of canine violence. Oh sure, other dogs at the park have been forceful and imposing, baring teeth and making lots of noise. There are two Huskies, Koda and Aspen of whom I'm a bit leery. Their owner is aware of their potential and says it concerns him. He keeps them in close watch. Nicky, the extroverted Border Collie was attacked by two Golden Retrievers whose owner said, "They've never done that before!" She wasn't even apologetic.
In fact, I suspect most dogs have it in them "snap". You know what? I don't really believe that. I can't imagine my docile 11-month-old Great Dane ever turning on another dog. But I have seen Beauregard, her cousin, almost lose it with the brindle Great Dane, Zyedeco who actually has pinned down Mason, the American barrel-of-a-dog-Bulldog. And, Hutchie, my cute and woolly male toy poodle has snarled and lept at Maggie and grabbed her jowls until she shrieked. I suppose a day might come when Maggie might retaliate, which would be terrifying.
After Gracie's attack, people were again saying Pit Bulls should be banned from the park, or at least muzzled and kept on a leash. They reiterated that Pit Bulls have been bred to fight and can't ever be trusted. That's when the owner of Claire, an English Bull Terrier said, "So has my dog." Claire is one of the jolliest dogs in the park.
I hate to say it, but I'd be glad if I never saw another Pit Bull there.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Failed Teacher I
Maria is a 50-year-old Mexican who speaks no English. She has never been to school, not even in her own language. She has lived in the U.S. six years. Her children - there are seven - taught her to read and write some Spanish. She lives in an area that is primarily Hispanic and she can find all her services in Spanish: doctor, dentist, shopping for groceries, work done in her house.
I am a recently-trained ESL volunteer with a literacy association whose mission is to work one-on-one with housebound people and those who cannot afford English classes. Maria was my first student.
Her house is one of those ubiquitous split-levels with picture windows and fake shutters. It's in a modest suburb with large lots. Hers is gaily dotted with ornaments, a donkey and a cart, for example. It also has plastic and real flowers in the gardens. There is a statue of the Virgin Mary and a small ceramic Rottweiler by the back door.
Her bright kitchen - it has a skylight through which the sunlight makes Maria hot - is not small and it has decent wood cupboards and appliances. When I was there, usually some kind of cooking filled the room with good smells: big pots of peppers and tomatoes for canning, tamales, dulce de leche.
Maria and I sat at at a round colonial table covered in plastic. A vase of fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit always rested on top. And for almost a year, we would open our notebooks and begin what was supposed to be a two-hour session.
In order to communicate with her, I had spent a good part of the summer teaching myself Spanish. In the fall, I began classes at a local college and advanced to Level III. I am fluent in French and have a teaching degree in English, (and Art) and have taught grades 8 - 13. I was also a newpaper columnist for two major dailies in Canada for fourteen years and often gave workshops in creative writing, fiction and non-fiction. As well, I was an itinerant writing teacher for English kids around Quebec and for inner city ones in Montreal.
I thought I was totally prepared to help Maria learn English.
But she didn't learn. After months of meeting at that table, Maria could barely say English greetings or name members of a family. "My brother has two sons. They are my nephews." I would arrive and say "Hello, Maria. How are you?", hoping just once for an "I am fine, thank you. And you?" They were words she repeated from flash cards every week but always when I arrived, she'd smile and nod for me to sit without saying a word.
I had expected that each week we would review what we had covered the previous week and then learn something new. That's how you learn a language. By building on what you've been introduced to, what you know. And in order to know, you have to memorize and repeat, repeat, repeat, either the new word or a verb conjugation. That's what I tried to do with Maria: introduce, assure she understood and repeat, repeat, repeat.
Interestingly, after we went over the vocabulary, she would read quite well one of the little stories I'd written. But I began to realize she understood nothing. Nothing I was preparing for her was sinking in, even though we'd go over it week after week. This was all rudimentary stuff, simple, necessary verbs: to be, to have, to go, to come, to want. And basic word use: greetings, family members, numbers, days and months of the year, articles of clothing, food, drugstore items, parts of the body etc. As well as my trying to connect with her in Spanish, we used the Oxford Picture Dictionary. It's a wonderful book for entering a new language, with extensive illustrations of all life's objects and interactions. I also used a variety of other ESL books for guidance and I created a lot of my own picture boards, flash cards and stories.
I would arrive at Maria's at 2:00 pm on Thursdays and for about an hour, perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she concentrated quite well. But then she began to watch the clock. Sometime after 3:00 pm her grandson's bus stopped just past her house and she had to go and get him. As well, sweet, smart two-year-old Betsy was at our sessions and a lot of the time either Maria or I would have to distract her by drawing or showing her a book.
Once Chavita, a kindergartener, burst though the door, it was game over. He was a vivacious boy and loved it when I spoke to him in English. His response was immediate and enthusiastic. He would often help Maria if I tried to continue the lesson but he usually needed a snack or he was playful with Betsy and Maria was distracted. Then the children's mother, Maria's daughter Lope would arrive home and they would greet her gleefully. By then it was about 3:20 and the class ended with Maria and Lope chattering in Spanish and my saying, "Good-bye Maria. See you next week."
Three-quarters of an hour a week of second language instruction with a 50-year-old unschooled woman. Not only that, the lesson was her last real contact with English until the following week. I don't know how many people there were in her household - at least ten - and she was their caretaker. They all spoke Spanish. Her teenage daughter, Nayelli, did speak fluent English, but she was an ambitious student and had far too much of her own homework to help her mother. And I got the sense that even her children who could speak some English got impatient with her. So, from one short session to the next, Maria was involved in her keeping her home functioning and got no practice.
I was extremely discouraged. I would ask Maria, (in Spanish), "What am I not doing you want me to do?" "What are you not learning you want to learn?" "Are you bored?" "Are you tired?" "Is it too difficult?" "Is it too fast?" "Is it too slow?" There wasn't anything she wanted to learn that we weren't doing but she did find it too slow. But how could I go any faster when she wasn't absorbing what we'd already covered?
After much thought, I decided to keep on going as we had, trying to progress little by little, even if Maria really wasn't. I made sure she wrote out and repeated everything I gave her. I told myself even if she picked up only a few words, that was success.
And then I was advised by the supervisor that Maria had to be "assessed". After a certain number of hours of instruction, the association needs to know a student's progress for the benefit of its fund-raising. I was horribly aware, having tested Maria myself, that after months, she still knew very little.
I told Maria that another teacher wanted to visit with us to see how our lessons were going. She seemed unphased. But then, nothing phased Maria. She had an easy sense of humour and could laugh at her own or my (Spanish) mistakes.
And then an interesting thing happened. Maria began not to show up, even after I'd confirmed a few hours before. I'd ring her bell, knock on her door and there's be no response. It had occasionally happened before: a dental appointment, someone arriving to take her shopping. But this time it was four weeks in a row. And there was no explanation.
It seemed like my failure. I'd put enthusiasm and hours of research, planning and creativity into teaching Maria and I felt utterly let down. I was studying, (with pleasure) her language. Not only that, I'd grown fond of her and I was hurt. I thought we'd developed a kind of friendship. One of the principles of the literacy association is that it is an exchange of peers. There's no teacher-student hierarchy. Maria and I had fun together and I adored Betsy and Chavita.
In the end, after discussing it with the supervisor, I decided not to continue with her. It was too distressing, too discouraging not to see some results from all my commitment and, to be honest, treated with such a lack of consideration when I felt I had been so considerate. I felt there must be some determined student out there who could benefit from my efforts. Maybe my teaching methods were all wrong for Maria. Maybe my expectations were too high.
My Spanish was not good enough for me to explain all this to Maria on the phone and I didn't want to use Nayelli as my go-between so I wrote Maria a letter, in Spanish, (it took me ages) explaining that I'd been worried about her lack of progress and my ability to teach her. We might not be a good match. I said I hoped she'd get a new teacher who would be more successful than I and emphasized that to learn another language, you had to do spend lots of time and do lots of hard work to reinforce what you study in the lessons. I sent her much affection.
The point is this. If Maria had been a whole classroom, and my salary or my tenure was based on the class's success on standardized testing, I'd have been fired. This, notwithstanding my training, my experience, my hopes and my keenness and my prolonged, hard work. Were Maria or her circumstances responsible at all for her inability to learn or was I simply ineffective?
Now I have Ana, who is fifteen years younger and has a grade six education. She has been in the U.S. eleven years and speaks some English. Quite a bit, really. She practices a lot, she says. She wants to study with me more than two hours a week. If I can manage it, I'll try. But after one class with her, I'm going to have to really prepare to keep up with her. Perhaps, with time, my student will come to speak English well.
We'll see.
I am a recently-trained ESL volunteer with a literacy association whose mission is to work one-on-one with housebound people and those who cannot afford English classes. Maria was my first student.
Her house is one of those ubiquitous split-levels with picture windows and fake shutters. It's in a modest suburb with large lots. Hers is gaily dotted with ornaments, a donkey and a cart, for example. It also has plastic and real flowers in the gardens. There is a statue of the Virgin Mary and a small ceramic Rottweiler by the back door.
Her bright kitchen - it has a skylight through which the sunlight makes Maria hot - is not small and it has decent wood cupboards and appliances. When I was there, usually some kind of cooking filled the room with good smells: big pots of peppers and tomatoes for canning, tamales, dulce de leche.
Maria and I sat at at a round colonial table covered in plastic. A vase of fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit always rested on top. And for almost a year, we would open our notebooks and begin what was supposed to be a two-hour session.
In order to communicate with her, I had spent a good part of the summer teaching myself Spanish. In the fall, I began classes at a local college and advanced to Level III. I am fluent in French and have a teaching degree in English, (and Art) and have taught grades 8 - 13. I was also a newpaper columnist for two major dailies in Canada for fourteen years and often gave workshops in creative writing, fiction and non-fiction. As well, I was an itinerant writing teacher for English kids around Quebec and for inner city ones in Montreal.
I thought I was totally prepared to help Maria learn English.
But she didn't learn. After months of meeting at that table, Maria could barely say English greetings or name members of a family. "My brother has two sons. They are my nephews." I would arrive and say "Hello, Maria. How are you?", hoping just once for an "I am fine, thank you. And you?" They were words she repeated from flash cards every week but always when I arrived, she'd smile and nod for me to sit without saying a word.
I had expected that each week we would review what we had covered the previous week and then learn something new. That's how you learn a language. By building on what you've been introduced to, what you know. And in order to know, you have to memorize and repeat, repeat, repeat, either the new word or a verb conjugation. That's what I tried to do with Maria: introduce, assure she understood and repeat, repeat, repeat.
Interestingly, after we went over the vocabulary, she would read quite well one of the little stories I'd written. But I began to realize she understood nothing. Nothing I was preparing for her was sinking in, even though we'd go over it week after week. This was all rudimentary stuff, simple, necessary verbs: to be, to have, to go, to come, to want. And basic word use: greetings, family members, numbers, days and months of the year, articles of clothing, food, drugstore items, parts of the body etc. As well as my trying to connect with her in Spanish, we used the Oxford Picture Dictionary. It's a wonderful book for entering a new language, with extensive illustrations of all life's objects and interactions. I also used a variety of other ESL books for guidance and I created a lot of my own picture boards, flash cards and stories.
I would arrive at Maria's at 2:00 pm on Thursdays and for about an hour, perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she concentrated quite well. But then she began to watch the clock. Sometime after 3:00 pm her grandson's bus stopped just past her house and she had to go and get him. As well, sweet, smart two-year-old Betsy was at our sessions and a lot of the time either Maria or I would have to distract her by drawing or showing her a book.
Once Chavita, a kindergartener, burst though the door, it was game over. He was a vivacious boy and loved it when I spoke to him in English. His response was immediate and enthusiastic. He would often help Maria if I tried to continue the lesson but he usually needed a snack or he was playful with Betsy and Maria was distracted. Then the children's mother, Maria's daughter Lope would arrive home and they would greet her gleefully. By then it was about 3:20 and the class ended with Maria and Lope chattering in Spanish and my saying, "Good-bye Maria. See you next week."
Three-quarters of an hour a week of second language instruction with a 50-year-old unschooled woman. Not only that, the lesson was her last real contact with English until the following week. I don't know how many people there were in her household - at least ten - and she was their caretaker. They all spoke Spanish. Her teenage daughter, Nayelli, did speak fluent English, but she was an ambitious student and had far too much of her own homework to help her mother. And I got the sense that even her children who could speak some English got impatient with her. So, from one short session to the next, Maria was involved in her keeping her home functioning and got no practice.
I was extremely discouraged. I would ask Maria, (in Spanish), "What am I not doing you want me to do?" "What are you not learning you want to learn?" "Are you bored?" "Are you tired?" "Is it too difficult?" "Is it too fast?" "Is it too slow?" There wasn't anything she wanted to learn that we weren't doing but she did find it too slow. But how could I go any faster when she wasn't absorbing what we'd already covered?
After much thought, I decided to keep on going as we had, trying to progress little by little, even if Maria really wasn't. I made sure she wrote out and repeated everything I gave her. I told myself even if she picked up only a few words, that was success.
And then I was advised by the supervisor that Maria had to be "assessed". After a certain number of hours of instruction, the association needs to know a student's progress for the benefit of its fund-raising. I was horribly aware, having tested Maria myself, that after months, she still knew very little.
I told Maria that another teacher wanted to visit with us to see how our lessons were going. She seemed unphased. But then, nothing phased Maria. She had an easy sense of humour and could laugh at her own or my (Spanish) mistakes.
And then an interesting thing happened. Maria began not to show up, even after I'd confirmed a few hours before. I'd ring her bell, knock on her door and there's be no response. It had occasionally happened before: a dental appointment, someone arriving to take her shopping. But this time it was four weeks in a row. And there was no explanation.
It seemed like my failure. I'd put enthusiasm and hours of research, planning and creativity into teaching Maria and I felt utterly let down. I was studying, (with pleasure) her language. Not only that, I'd grown fond of her and I was hurt. I thought we'd developed a kind of friendship. One of the principles of the literacy association is that it is an exchange of peers. There's no teacher-student hierarchy. Maria and I had fun together and I adored Betsy and Chavita.
In the end, after discussing it with the supervisor, I decided not to continue with her. It was too distressing, too discouraging not to see some results from all my commitment and, to be honest, treated with such a lack of consideration when I felt I had been so considerate. I felt there must be some determined student out there who could benefit from my efforts. Maybe my teaching methods were all wrong for Maria. Maybe my expectations were too high.
My Spanish was not good enough for me to explain all this to Maria on the phone and I didn't want to use Nayelli as my go-between so I wrote Maria a letter, in Spanish, (it took me ages) explaining that I'd been worried about her lack of progress and my ability to teach her. We might not be a good match. I said I hoped she'd get a new teacher who would be more successful than I and emphasized that to learn another language, you had to do spend lots of time and do lots of hard work to reinforce what you study in the lessons. I sent her much affection.
The point is this. If Maria had been a whole classroom, and my salary or my tenure was based on the class's success on standardized testing, I'd have been fired. This, notwithstanding my training, my experience, my hopes and my keenness and my prolonged, hard work. Were Maria or her circumstances responsible at all for her inability to learn or was I simply ineffective?
Now I have Ana, who is fifteen years younger and has a grade six education. She has been in the U.S. eleven years and speaks some English. Quite a bit, really. She practices a lot, she says. She wants to study with me more than two hours a week. If I can manage it, I'll try. But after one class with her, I'm going to have to really prepare to keep up with her. Perhaps, with time, my student will come to speak English well.
We'll see.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Teacher Standards: Failed Teacher II
Once upon a time I was an art teacher. When I was studying teachers' ed, I was told never to accept a job at a school whose art budget was less than $10.00 a kid. For my first job, at age 22, I ended up teaching art at a school whose budget was $3.00 a kid. That bought HB pencils and sketching paper...maybe. As well, I was teaching grade eights, about forty to a class. And art was a joke to them. They arrived expecting nothing, ready to create havoc.
And they did. In art class, there is freedom. Freedom to interpret, yes. But you have to get up to get more paint or change your paint water, wash the clay off your hands, borrow scissors or refill your glue pot. It's too easy to be a "shit-disturber".
In my classes, that meant clay-tossing, paintbrush flicking, self-decoration, glue-smearing everywhere and paper-jet throwing. Or just generally sauntering around the classroom rough-housing, annoying the kids who were applying themselves.
I found the only way to keep students in their desks was to assign a sketching project, either still life or life drawing, (with one of them posing.) Even though it's a legitimate art lesson, it was my punishment for their getting out of control. They hated it. They found it too restrictive and demanding.
What's interesting about art class, (like any other class) is it is restrictive and demanding. A project demands your creative commitment and restricts within its paramenters. A "tone and texture" project is about those two elements, regardless of how you work with them. It is not about "balance and colour". Thus, even though an art student can do "what he or she wants", he/she has to be faithful to the requirements of the task.
Art is craft and discipline and I had a curriculum I had to cover. For those who took the subject because they were talented or simply loved it, craft and discipline got lost in the creative process. For those who were only taking art because it was "a bird course" or was the only option left, craft and discipline were simpy other impositions of school.
One of my worst grade eight classes was full of second and third repeaters...pubescent boys who were as tall as I am, (5'10"). They were rough and foul. The school was in a lower-middle-class area and the dropout rate was high. So were a lot of the kids: you name the drug.
I had no idea how to teach "art" to kids who weren't the least creative, who could have cared less about being there, let alone handing in a project.
But I tried. I tried to keep the challenges simple and understandable, even though I was doing a disservice to the keen, talented kids. Often I let them work independently.
The thing about it was, the untalented kids had the potential to at least enjoy themselves, even if they weren't strictly learning "craft". But I got really hung up on my "responsibility" to teach them and forgot about the self-expression part of art.
One afternoon, I had a wicked migraine: a railway spike in my right temple. I was expecting my worst class and I didn't know how I was going to cope. So I simply told the truth. "I'm not feeling well. Do whatever you want." "Anything?" "As long as you don't use up too much stuff."
I thought they'd do splattery abstracts on paper or each other. I thought they'd make grotesque horror masks with the clay. But they collected all the still life bottles and containers and filled them with varying levels of water and put them on the posing table with upside-down paint jars and muffin tins and water cups and used their paint brushes as drumsticks and created a kind of orchestra.
I watched the kids having fun. And all I could think was, "What if the principal drops in?"
I could just hear him. "Miss A__. What is this? What's going on? This isn't art class." But it WAS art class...well, maybe music class. It was a surge of pure creative energy. (And co-operation.)
That class was a breakthrough. After that we all had a new understanding of each other. I think they could appreciate, in some oblique way, what it meant to release yourself into a creative act. And I recognized that each of us, in his/her own way, is capable of that release.
But how to do that and still do my job? There were a set of objectives I was obliged to instuct, tests to gauge that and report cards to fill out. And I owed the interested kids something.
We couldn't have an orchestra everyday and suffice it to say, the disinterested students didn't really try to get involved in what I had to teach and ultimately I had to fail them. Quite literally, I FAILED them. That is I let them down. Or the course did.
I am an artist. I know drawing and painting and sculpting and printmaking require craft and discipline. But creative expression is a whole different matter. It is an instinct that comes from deep within and it and can be fostered.
If I had been teaching "Creative Expression" and not "Art", everyone would have passed with flying colours.
And they did. In art class, there is freedom. Freedom to interpret, yes. But you have to get up to get more paint or change your paint water, wash the clay off your hands, borrow scissors or refill your glue pot. It's too easy to be a "shit-disturber".
In my classes, that meant clay-tossing, paintbrush flicking, self-decoration, glue-smearing everywhere and paper-jet throwing. Or just generally sauntering around the classroom rough-housing, annoying the kids who were applying themselves.
I found the only way to keep students in their desks was to assign a sketching project, either still life or life drawing, (with one of them posing.) Even though it's a legitimate art lesson, it was my punishment for their getting out of control. They hated it. They found it too restrictive and demanding.
What's interesting about art class, (like any other class) is it is restrictive and demanding. A project demands your creative commitment and restricts within its paramenters. A "tone and texture" project is about those two elements, regardless of how you work with them. It is not about "balance and colour". Thus, even though an art student can do "what he or she wants", he/she has to be faithful to the requirements of the task.
Art is craft and discipline and I had a curriculum I had to cover. For those who took the subject because they were talented or simply loved it, craft and discipline got lost in the creative process. For those who were only taking art because it was "a bird course" or was the only option left, craft and discipline were simpy other impositions of school.
One of my worst grade eight classes was full of second and third repeaters...pubescent boys who were as tall as I am, (5'10"). They were rough and foul. The school was in a lower-middle-class area and the dropout rate was high. So were a lot of the kids: you name the drug.
I had no idea how to teach "art" to kids who weren't the least creative, who could have cared less about being there, let alone handing in a project.
But I tried. I tried to keep the challenges simple and understandable, even though I was doing a disservice to the keen, talented kids. Often I let them work independently.
The thing about it was, the untalented kids had the potential to at least enjoy themselves, even if they weren't strictly learning "craft". But I got really hung up on my "responsibility" to teach them and forgot about the self-expression part of art.
One afternoon, I had a wicked migraine: a railway spike in my right temple. I was expecting my worst class and I didn't know how I was going to cope. So I simply told the truth. "I'm not feeling well. Do whatever you want." "Anything?" "As long as you don't use up too much stuff."
I thought they'd do splattery abstracts on paper or each other. I thought they'd make grotesque horror masks with the clay. But they collected all the still life bottles and containers and filled them with varying levels of water and put them on the posing table with upside-down paint jars and muffin tins and water cups and used their paint brushes as drumsticks and created a kind of orchestra.
I watched the kids having fun. And all I could think was, "What if the principal drops in?"
I could just hear him. "Miss A__. What is this? What's going on? This isn't art class." But it WAS art class...well, maybe music class. It was a surge of pure creative energy. (And co-operation.)
That class was a breakthrough. After that we all had a new understanding of each other. I think they could appreciate, in some oblique way, what it meant to release yourself into a creative act. And I recognized that each of us, in his/her own way, is capable of that release.
But how to do that and still do my job? There were a set of objectives I was obliged to instuct, tests to gauge that and report cards to fill out. And I owed the interested kids something.
We couldn't have an orchestra everyday and suffice it to say, the disinterested students didn't really try to get involved in what I had to teach and ultimately I had to fail them. Quite literally, I FAILED them. That is I let them down. Or the course did.
I am an artist. I know drawing and painting and sculpting and printmaking require craft and discipline. But creative expression is a whole different matter. It is an instinct that comes from deep within and it and can be fostered.
If I had been teaching "Creative Expression" and not "Art", everyone would have passed with flying colours.
Friday, November 27, 2009
World Weariness and Privilege: The Prairie Path
"The world is too much with us," wrote British Poet William Wordsworth in 1807. "Little we see in Nature that is ours...we are out of tune...it moves us not..."
Not me. I have the prairie path. The prairie path dissipates world weariness. Our property overlooks several hundred acres of forest preserve and within those is a perfect three mile circle. It is partially visible from our house and from afar we watch the steady stream of walkers, cyclists, skiers, horseback riders. In summer, their bobbing heads are barely visible above the splay of reeds in the marsh. Now the reeds are a flattened brown tangle; the bullrushes have exploded and the people on their small journeys are whole again.
The prairie path is wide, more than eight feet. The grass alongside is kept cut, except in spring when the purple and white violets bloom. The surface is fine crushed clay, like kitty litter. When the sun is high, the clay gives the illlusion it is white and the path becomes magical, beckoning, a road in a dreamscape. Normally it's grey. When it's wet, the clay is squishy, when dry, dusty. Every so often the rangers scrape it smooth. In deep snow, it is groomed with tracks for skiers.
I make my way around it everyday, ignoring both heat and cold, with my three dogs. Often I see no-one, even if the sky is a boundless blue, the wind warm. The solitude invokes reveries. I am never all alone.
Nor is there silence. The distant rush of traffic reminds me how close to, yet how removed I am from my suburban space. In summer the incessant chirps of frogs and a loud chorale of birds take over. If I'm lucky I'll see a bluebird but there are always redwing blackbirds in the rushes and swallows dipping and hawks screeching on thermals. Sometimes a heron gives a harsh cry overhead. His path is as straight and purposeful as a jet. Otherwise there are usually several in the marshes and egrets as well, motionless, persevering as they wait for frogs.
The landscape is diverse and expansive, though the sky always imposes. And it's empty. Only at this time of year are rooftops exposed. Right now everything is dull. Autumn flared and died. What's left are textured levels of brown, tarnished gold. The meadows in the foreground are ragged stalks, disordered remnants of the earlier panorama of wildflowers: Black-eyed Susans, pink Milkweed, Queen Anne's Lace, fuschia coneflowers, towering sunflowers. Later, the purple asters co-mingled with the golden rod, which this year was profuse and glaring.
Now the goldenrod is dirty fuzz, the Queen Anne's Lace, stiff curls. Empty pods on the ends of the milkweed look like tiny birds. Beyond, the hillside grasses are biscuit-coloured, scruffy. In the spring and summer they are a sweep of green so vibrant, they seem artificial. In the other direction is the last gleam of lake before freeze-up. The streams flowing into it are full, gurgling even, from all the rain. They may keep a small current in the ice.
Above me and in the distance, the bared forest creates an endless tracery and I can't help but think longingly ahead to when the newborn canopy appears, a chartreuse mist softening the sky and then, in summer, a verdant barricade.
But I musn't wish the days away even though winter on the prairie path can be treacherous, the wind hostile. But there are days when, if I am bundled up and the sun seems kind, the sheen on the reaches of untouched snow, the diamond sparkle of icicles on the bushes, the long blue shadows against the silvery light in the woods convince me that my tingling toes and fingers, my drippy nose, my numb cheeks are a small price to pay for such a glorious vista.
The path can feel as if it's in the middle of nowhere, going nowhere. But it's a paradox. Often, it seems to extend far into somewhere, an unvisited place. I look at it wind and climb, appear and disappear ahead of me and it's as if it's leading to a destination that isn't the end at all but is simply more, simply further. It's a version of "The Yellow Brick Road". I follow it faithfully. It promises something: an uncomplicated promise. The promise of well-being.
There are few privileges in life. Financial security is a privilege. Health is a privilege. A loving, nurturing family is a privilege. So is a home. None of these is a given.
The prairie path is a privilege.
Not me. I have the prairie path. The prairie path dissipates world weariness. Our property overlooks several hundred acres of forest preserve and within those is a perfect three mile circle. It is partially visible from our house and from afar we watch the steady stream of walkers, cyclists, skiers, horseback riders. In summer, their bobbing heads are barely visible above the splay of reeds in the marsh. Now the reeds are a flattened brown tangle; the bullrushes have exploded and the people on their small journeys are whole again.
The prairie path is wide, more than eight feet. The grass alongside is kept cut, except in spring when the purple and white violets bloom. The surface is fine crushed clay, like kitty litter. When the sun is high, the clay gives the illlusion it is white and the path becomes magical, beckoning, a road in a dreamscape. Normally it's grey. When it's wet, the clay is squishy, when dry, dusty. Every so often the rangers scrape it smooth. In deep snow, it is groomed with tracks for skiers.
I make my way around it everyday, ignoring both heat and cold, with my three dogs. Often I see no-one, even if the sky is a boundless blue, the wind warm. The solitude invokes reveries. I am never all alone.
Nor is there silence. The distant rush of traffic reminds me how close to, yet how removed I am from my suburban space. In summer the incessant chirps of frogs and a loud chorale of birds take over. If I'm lucky I'll see a bluebird but there are always redwing blackbirds in the rushes and swallows dipping and hawks screeching on thermals. Sometimes a heron gives a harsh cry overhead. His path is as straight and purposeful as a jet. Otherwise there are usually several in the marshes and egrets as well, motionless, persevering as they wait for frogs.
The landscape is diverse and expansive, though the sky always imposes. And it's empty. Only at this time of year are rooftops exposed. Right now everything is dull. Autumn flared and died. What's left are textured levels of brown, tarnished gold. The meadows in the foreground are ragged stalks, disordered remnants of the earlier panorama of wildflowers: Black-eyed Susans, pink Milkweed, Queen Anne's Lace, fuschia coneflowers, towering sunflowers. Later, the purple asters co-mingled with the golden rod, which this year was profuse and glaring.
Now the goldenrod is dirty fuzz, the Queen Anne's Lace, stiff curls. Empty pods on the ends of the milkweed look like tiny birds. Beyond, the hillside grasses are biscuit-coloured, scruffy. In the spring and summer they are a sweep of green so vibrant, they seem artificial. In the other direction is the last gleam of lake before freeze-up. The streams flowing into it are full, gurgling even, from all the rain. They may keep a small current in the ice.
Above me and in the distance, the bared forest creates an endless tracery and I can't help but think longingly ahead to when the newborn canopy appears, a chartreuse mist softening the sky and then, in summer, a verdant barricade.
But I musn't wish the days away even though winter on the prairie path can be treacherous, the wind hostile. But there are days when, if I am bundled up and the sun seems kind, the sheen on the reaches of untouched snow, the diamond sparkle of icicles on the bushes, the long blue shadows against the silvery light in the woods convince me that my tingling toes and fingers, my drippy nose, my numb cheeks are a small price to pay for such a glorious vista.
The path can feel as if it's in the middle of nowhere, going nowhere. But it's a paradox. Often, it seems to extend far into somewhere, an unvisited place. I look at it wind and climb, appear and disappear ahead of me and it's as if it's leading to a destination that isn't the end at all but is simply more, simply further. It's a version of "The Yellow Brick Road". I follow it faithfully. It promises something: an uncomplicated promise. The promise of well-being.
There are few privileges in life. Financial security is a privilege. Health is a privilege. A loving, nurturing family is a privilege. So is a home. None of these is a given.
The prairie path is a privilege.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Dogpark: Canine Diplomacy
Humans barely exist at the dog park. When we arrive there, our dogs tear from us to the fun and the freedom. Some dogs check in every so often. Others appear removed but the instant their owner leaves to use the port-a-john or go to his/her car, the dog is glued to the gate or follows tightly along the fence. Once the owner returns, however, the dog is gone again.
It's a highly social world in one respect but primal in another. Their behaviours are instinctive but the dogs create their own hierarchy. They don't campaign or lobby; they don't vote. Except for some mean misfits, they're easily tolerant...partially due to a lot of exploratory sniffing. The "leaders" don't impose or oppress, they simply stand up and out. The followers roll over, run away or hang out in the background or on the picnic tables.
The Great Danes are the largest in the park: Beatrice and Beauregard, Zyedeco. Maggie, our Great Dane puppy will catch up. Lulubelle, a mantle Great Dane and Dallas, a harlequin are up there. Sam, the Rhodesian Ridgeback/Rottweiler definitely is. And there are the Newfoundlands and St. Bernards, and a Great Pyreneees, all enormous in their own gallumphing way.
There's no "most popular" breed there, that I can see. Sure, there are yellow Labradors, the madcap Maisie and several Marleys and a mass of others. And often there'll be a gathering of Golden Retrievers, the "blondes have more fun" dogs of the park. Keith, one of them, is an adept ball thief, keeping as many as three stolen tennis balls in his jaws.
The black Labrador is everywhere and everywhichway. Elvis and Sophie and Addie are just three. The black and the yellow Labs are proactive and reactive, in perpetual motion. As are plentiful mixes, the Lab/Collie, Lab/Shepherds like Alex and Jake, Riley and Sonny. And there are the Lab/Beagles and the baying Beagles, themselves. And Puggles, Beagles crossed with Pugs. Oscar, an independent little fellow, is one of those. And many pure Pugs...like the steadfast Cruise...waddle and snort their way through the crowd.
The Border Collies, like Nicky and Indy, two of Maggie's favourites are supposed to be the smartest of dogs. What they are is tireless - with no sheep to herd.
Cruise has a bouncy, sturdy younger "sister", Amah, a ten-month-old Bull Mastiff . There are many "bull" dogs at the park, the muscular fighting breeds. Well, there's only one Bull Terrier, Claire. She's very happy-go-lucky. And a number of English Bulldogs snuffle about, as well, Simon being the most amiable. Mason, massive of girth and taller than the former, is the American version. He's not snuffly. The Pit Bulls and their mixes are popular, if not a little suspect. Most are rescue dogs and they're imposing. They bring with them their reputation. Missy, a brown and white, and Tuxedo, black with a white chest and white paws, have both been aggressive. But Melanie, a caramel Pit is like her colour. Tuxedo's "sister" Calley, though, a Pit Bull/Viszla mix sometimes plays viciously. And another, a cross between a Pit and a Dalmation looks intimidating. Maybe it's the light blue eyes.
Two Huskies, Koda and Aspen, seem scary. They're outdoor dogs and their owner says, "They're Alphas." And how about the Dobermans? You might expect them to be threatening, but Ozzie, a black and tan one, is merely bratty and a thief of anything loose, mostly plastic bowls, which he shreds. He's a nuisance. Milo, Zydeco's younger "brother", still a baby Doberman, is a disturber and a biter.
Dalmations dot the park; Weimaraners more than do. "Hunters" are all over the place: German Short-Haired Pointers, and Viszlas. Nell, the speedy Springer Spaniel is a hunter. So is Betty Lou, a Britanny Spaniel. And Finn, another Britanny Spaniel obsessively hunts his orange plastic ball.
Standard Poodles aren't common, but there are some, most noticeably a handsome black and apricot pair and Hopkins, (after the poet G.M. Hopkins), also black, who can be combative.
Not combative, but definitely crazy are the "Doodles": the Labradoodles and Goldiedoodles. In exchange for their non-shedding these dogs are energy unbound. They zip and zoom. Tucker, who pesters some of the bigger dogs to overreact, is a shaggy Labradoodle. Charlie, a curly, pale Goldiedoodle is bonkers, a barker and another ball thief.
If "Doodles" are the Roadrunners, then the tail-less Australian Shepherds like Phoebe and Chloe are the rockets. And Heidi, a Sheltie/Australian Shepherd mix is also jet-propelled.
I've seen a couple of Bouviers, especially a rare blonde one. There are giant Schnauzers. And once there were two Neopolitan Mastiffs, enormous blobs of melting skin. An Irish Wolfhound, a Scottish Deerhound and a Skyehound used to come. And Sarah, who was meek but is now bold is the only pure bred German Shepherd I've seen.
The Bassett Hounds like Annabelle are robust and rotund. She spends half the time at the park on her back waiting for her stomach to be rubbed and howls when it is. Buford is much younger and very lithe, (for a Bassett) and way more active. In fact, he's fast. Mavis, part Basset, part Lab looks exactly how you'd imagine.
The other day two tiny black and tan long-haired Dachshunds arrived. Apparently they'd been in a puppy mill for six years but they were not the least timid. All the Dachshunds are forthcoming, fearless. In fact, most of the little dogs are: the Bichons, the "Poo"-crosses, the miniature Schnauzers, the Cocker Spaniels and Pekinese, the Lhasas and Shi-tzus and Maltese. A couple of Chihuahuas. The Winstons and Lewis' and Maceys and Flopsys and Pipsys. Not to forget the Jack-in-the-box-Russells. They all hold their own.
If you got this far, you're probably thinking what a long list of breeds and mutts and their personalities. That's the point. Of course I can't remember all of them and their names. There are dozens. And these are all dogs from my daily regular time...3:00 pm to 5:00 pm, (later in the summer). But the park is open from 6:00 am until an hour after sunset. Think of all the dogs I've missed.
What I wanted to show is that if dogs had ethnicity, (which in a way they do with their genetic predispositions), they're a non-judgemental lot. There's an enviable accord at the park, a kind of canine diplomacy.
No single dog is rich or poor, beautiful or ugly. None is either a rampant Republican or a deep Democrat. None is a Bears or Viking fan. None adheres to a religion. No one dog holds another's breed against him/her. No one dog is snobbish or excluding. No one dog is a despot.
Dogs are not subtle. They show anger, jealousy, empathy, protectionism and possessiveness but these don't create a dog park war. Yes, there are sometimes small outbreaks of ferocity but they are short-lived, rapidly corrected. If the offending dog persists, he/she is banished.
The dog park is not a peaceable kingdom. But there, dogs rule and they could care less.
It's a highly social world in one respect but primal in another. Their behaviours are instinctive but the dogs create their own hierarchy. They don't campaign or lobby; they don't vote. Except for some mean misfits, they're easily tolerant...partially due to a lot of exploratory sniffing. The "leaders" don't impose or oppress, they simply stand up and out. The followers roll over, run away or hang out in the background or on the picnic tables.
The Great Danes are the largest in the park: Beatrice and Beauregard, Zyedeco. Maggie, our Great Dane puppy will catch up. Lulubelle, a mantle Great Dane and Dallas, a harlequin are up there. Sam, the Rhodesian Ridgeback/Rottweiler definitely is. And there are the Newfoundlands and St. Bernards, and a Great Pyreneees, all enormous in their own gallumphing way.
There's no "most popular" breed there, that I can see. Sure, there are yellow Labradors, the madcap Maisie and several Marleys and a mass of others. And often there'll be a gathering of Golden Retrievers, the "blondes have more fun" dogs of the park. Keith, one of them, is an adept ball thief, keeping as many as three stolen tennis balls in his jaws.
The black Labrador is everywhere and everywhichway. Elvis and Sophie and Addie are just three. The black and the yellow Labs are proactive and reactive, in perpetual motion. As are plentiful mixes, the Lab/Collie, Lab/Shepherds like Alex and Jake, Riley and Sonny. And there are the Lab/Beagles and the baying Beagles, themselves. And Puggles, Beagles crossed with Pugs. Oscar, an independent little fellow, is one of those. And many pure Pugs...like the steadfast Cruise...waddle and snort their way through the crowd.
The Border Collies, like Nicky and Indy, two of Maggie's favourites are supposed to be the smartest of dogs. What they are is tireless - with no sheep to herd.
Cruise has a bouncy, sturdy younger "sister", Amah, a ten-month-old Bull Mastiff . There are many "bull" dogs at the park, the muscular fighting breeds. Well, there's only one Bull Terrier, Claire. She's very happy-go-lucky. And a number of English Bulldogs snuffle about, as well, Simon being the most amiable. Mason, massive of girth and taller than the former, is the American version. He's not snuffly. The Pit Bulls and their mixes are popular, if not a little suspect. Most are rescue dogs and they're imposing. They bring with them their reputation. Missy, a brown and white, and Tuxedo, black with a white chest and white paws, have both been aggressive. But Melanie, a caramel Pit is like her colour. Tuxedo's "sister" Calley, though, a Pit Bull/Viszla mix sometimes plays viciously. And another, a cross between a Pit and a Dalmation looks intimidating. Maybe it's the light blue eyes.
Two Huskies, Koda and Aspen, seem scary. They're outdoor dogs and their owner says, "They're Alphas." And how about the Dobermans? You might expect them to be threatening, but Ozzie, a black and tan one, is merely bratty and a thief of anything loose, mostly plastic bowls, which he shreds. He's a nuisance. Milo, Zydeco's younger "brother", still a baby Doberman, is a disturber and a biter.
Dalmations dot the park; Weimaraners more than do. "Hunters" are all over the place: German Short-Haired Pointers, and Viszlas. Nell, the speedy Springer Spaniel is a hunter. So is Betty Lou, a Britanny Spaniel. And Finn, another Britanny Spaniel obsessively hunts his orange plastic ball.
Standard Poodles aren't common, but there are some, most noticeably a handsome black and apricot pair and Hopkins, (after the poet G.M. Hopkins), also black, who can be combative.
Not combative, but definitely crazy are the "Doodles": the Labradoodles and Goldiedoodles. In exchange for their non-shedding these dogs are energy unbound. They zip and zoom. Tucker, who pesters some of the bigger dogs to overreact, is a shaggy Labradoodle. Charlie, a curly, pale Goldiedoodle is bonkers, a barker and another ball thief.
If "Doodles" are the Roadrunners, then the tail-less Australian Shepherds like Phoebe and Chloe are the rockets. And Heidi, a Sheltie/Australian Shepherd mix is also jet-propelled.
I've seen a couple of Bouviers, especially a rare blonde one. There are giant Schnauzers. And once there were two Neopolitan Mastiffs, enormous blobs of melting skin. An Irish Wolfhound, a Scottish Deerhound and a Skyehound used to come. And Sarah, who was meek but is now bold is the only pure bred German Shepherd I've seen.
The Bassett Hounds like Annabelle are robust and rotund. She spends half the time at the park on her back waiting for her stomach to be rubbed and howls when it is. Buford is much younger and very lithe, (for a Bassett) and way more active. In fact, he's fast. Mavis, part Basset, part Lab looks exactly how you'd imagine.
The other day two tiny black and tan long-haired Dachshunds arrived. Apparently they'd been in a puppy mill for six years but they were not the least timid. All the Dachshunds are forthcoming, fearless. In fact, most of the little dogs are: the Bichons, the "Poo"-crosses, the miniature Schnauzers, the Cocker Spaniels and Pekinese, the Lhasas and Shi-tzus and Maltese. A couple of Chihuahuas. The Winstons and Lewis' and Maceys and Flopsys and Pipsys. Not to forget the Jack-in-the-box-Russells. They all hold their own.
If you got this far, you're probably thinking what a long list of breeds and mutts and their personalities. That's the point. Of course I can't remember all of them and their names. There are dozens. And these are all dogs from my daily regular time...3:00 pm to 5:00 pm, (later in the summer). But the park is open from 6:00 am until an hour after sunset. Think of all the dogs I've missed.
What I wanted to show is that if dogs had ethnicity, (which in a way they do with their genetic predispositions), they're a non-judgemental lot. There's an enviable accord at the park, a kind of canine diplomacy.
No single dog is rich or poor, beautiful or ugly. None is either a rampant Republican or a deep Democrat. None is a Bears or Viking fan. None adheres to a religion. No one dog holds another's breed against him/her. No one dog is snobbish or excluding. No one dog is a despot.
Dogs are not subtle. They show anger, jealousy, empathy, protectionism and possessiveness but these don't create a dog park war. Yes, there are sometimes small outbreaks of ferocity but they are short-lived, rapidly corrected. If the offending dog persists, he/she is banished.
The dog park is not a peaceable kingdom. But there, dogs rule and they could care less.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Beauregard and Mason: The Challenge
She knows the minute they enter the parking lot.. She recognizes their silver SUV and when Beatrice and Beauregard, the stately blue Great Danes, arrive at the gate, Maggie, our ten-month-old blue is there to greet them. They nuzzle, like horses. In fact they are very equine, these three: sleek, full-chested, long of leg. Beatrice and Beauregard are 7 months older than Maggie and they are cousins. They come from different kennels but share a grandmother.
And they are the queen and king of the dogpark, noble and restrained, (except with each other). Beatrice is lean, almost petit, (for a Dane). She is like a fine fashion model. Beauregard is quite a bit taller and well-muscled and like all Great Danes, warrior-like. (Historically they pursued large game.)
Beatrice and Beauregard are the largest dogs in the park, except for Zyedeco, the brindle Great Dane, who is a rival king. His ears are cropped, (the others' ears aren't) and he has an arrogant strut, (though he is friendly and gentle). But Beauregard has an easy grace, so self-assured is he of his beauty, his power. He isn't overtly affectionate, like Maggie, except with his owners, but he will bestow on you a "lean". He and Beatrice are litter mates, practically co-joined.
Though they sometimes race around with other dogs, they only tussle with each other. That's something to watch as they rear up, over 6 ft. in the air, and growl. And seeing them streak through the field, with Maggie close behind, is magnficent. As I said, they are equine, like race horses.
Enter Mason. Mason is a 9-month-old brown and white American Bulldog, (Earlier, I mistakenly called him an American Bull Terrier, but that's Claire.) He's massive, pure muscle, broader in girth than an English Bulldog, without the pushed-up snout, the snorting and snuffling. And he's surprizingly nimble, a good runner on longer legs. Mason is one of the sweetest dogs in the park. He has a laughing face on his anvil of a head.
His owner, a quiet-ish, amiable young man, a veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, has trained him firmly. He responds readily to commands. Though he plays roughly, Mason plays fairly and there's not a hint of aggression in him, as there is in a couple of the other "Bully Breeds", Tuxedo and Missy, the Pit Bulls.
Mason has not been neutered. His owner is waiting until the dog is a year old and his size and strength have been established. But Mason has begun "humping". In particular, he's begun humping Beauregard. Not a good idea, Mason.
Even standing on his hind legs, Mason barely reaches Beauregard's butt. At first, Beauregard sort-of tolerated Mason, tried to ignore him. But Mason is consistent and persistent. Dogged. He's either in love with Beauregard, (in which case he's "gay", which I doubt) or he's asserting dominance.
Then Beauregard got angry and snarled. Several times. It didn't phase Mason. Mason's owner, after commanding him to stop, finally pulled him away and put him on the leash. That was last week.
Yesterday Mason started in again , only this time Beauregard became fierce. He turned around and warned Mason in a way that would make most dogs quiver. It made me quiver. But Mason is tenacious. He's a Bulldog. The more he kept at it, the more ferocious the Great Dane became.
But Mason didn't give up. Even when we all walked around the perimeter, hoping to distract the Bulldog, he still humped Beauregard.
Mason's owner was of course, exasperated. He's not used to having his dog disobey. Again, he had to put Mason on a leash. And Mason was frantic, to play, "to hump". Whatever.
"I'm afraid he won't quit unless we get him neutered," said the owner. And so far he hasn't. Punishment wouldn't work. And distraction has been useless. I see the owner's dilemma. Sacrificing Mason's full size and strength, (if he got him neutered) versus getting rid of his testosterone and preventing the humping. (If it would. Lots of neutered dogs hump.)
I wouldn't want to see Mason get hurt. Though he's huge, he's only a puppy and he seems to have a puppy's sense...ie reckless and stubborn. But Beauregard is also huge, an adult who has been objecting to a younger dog's annoying behavior. He's demonstrated his authority in the most canine way he can. Which means snarling and biting with big, sharp teeth and powerful jaws.
Actually, I'd be terrified to see a grown-up Great Dane and a grown-up American Bulldog get into a fight. I'm not sure the Great Dane wouldn't lose. They are enormous, (for a dog) pursuers but they are not fighters. Mostly, they are casual and unconcerned. They're not called "the gentle giants" for no reason. American Bulldogs are born fighters. They instinctively go for the jugular.
I have the sense Mason wouldn't retaliate if Beauregard really hurt him. But he might. He's clearly defiant. And he's demonstrated his resilience.
I know what I'd do if I were Mason's owner. I'd get Mason neutered. An inch and a few pounds, (if that were even the case) are not worth the escalating battle. And the dog park is too important a place to those of us who use it to see it disrupted in such a scary way. It's not fair either to Beauregard or Mason, who are both acting on instinct.
Besides, neutering a dog prevents prostate cancer.
And they are the queen and king of the dogpark, noble and restrained, (except with each other). Beatrice is lean, almost petit, (for a Dane). She is like a fine fashion model. Beauregard is quite a bit taller and well-muscled and like all Great Danes, warrior-like. (Historically they pursued large game.)
Beatrice and Beauregard are the largest dogs in the park, except for Zyedeco, the brindle Great Dane, who is a rival king. His ears are cropped, (the others' ears aren't) and he has an arrogant strut, (though he is friendly and gentle). But Beauregard has an easy grace, so self-assured is he of his beauty, his power. He isn't overtly affectionate, like Maggie, except with his owners, but he will bestow on you a "lean". He and Beatrice are litter mates, practically co-joined.
Though they sometimes race around with other dogs, they only tussle with each other. That's something to watch as they rear up, over 6 ft. in the air, and growl. And seeing them streak through the field, with Maggie close behind, is magnficent. As I said, they are equine, like race horses.
Enter Mason. Mason is a 9-month-old brown and white American Bulldog, (Earlier, I mistakenly called him an American Bull Terrier, but that's Claire.) He's massive, pure muscle, broader in girth than an English Bulldog, without the pushed-up snout, the snorting and snuffling. And he's surprizingly nimble, a good runner on longer legs. Mason is one of the sweetest dogs in the park. He has a laughing face on his anvil of a head.
His owner, a quiet-ish, amiable young man, a veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, has trained him firmly. He responds readily to commands. Though he plays roughly, Mason plays fairly and there's not a hint of aggression in him, as there is in a couple of the other "Bully Breeds", Tuxedo and Missy, the Pit Bulls.
Mason has not been neutered. His owner is waiting until the dog is a year old and his size and strength have been established. But Mason has begun "humping". In particular, he's begun humping Beauregard. Not a good idea, Mason.
Even standing on his hind legs, Mason barely reaches Beauregard's butt. At first, Beauregard sort-of tolerated Mason, tried to ignore him. But Mason is consistent and persistent. Dogged. He's either in love with Beauregard, (in which case he's "gay", which I doubt) or he's asserting dominance.
Then Beauregard got angry and snarled. Several times. It didn't phase Mason. Mason's owner, after commanding him to stop, finally pulled him away and put him on the leash. That was last week.
Yesterday Mason started in again , only this time Beauregard became fierce. He turned around and warned Mason in a way that would make most dogs quiver. It made me quiver. But Mason is tenacious. He's a Bulldog. The more he kept at it, the more ferocious the Great Dane became.
But Mason didn't give up. Even when we all walked around the perimeter, hoping to distract the Bulldog, he still humped Beauregard.
Mason's owner was of course, exasperated. He's not used to having his dog disobey. Again, he had to put Mason on a leash. And Mason was frantic, to play, "to hump". Whatever.
"I'm afraid he won't quit unless we get him neutered," said the owner. And so far he hasn't. Punishment wouldn't work. And distraction has been useless. I see the owner's dilemma. Sacrificing Mason's full size and strength, (if he got him neutered) versus getting rid of his testosterone and preventing the humping. (If it would. Lots of neutered dogs hump.)
I wouldn't want to see Mason get hurt. Though he's huge, he's only a puppy and he seems to have a puppy's sense...ie reckless and stubborn. But Beauregard is also huge, an adult who has been objecting to a younger dog's annoying behavior. He's demonstrated his authority in the most canine way he can. Which means snarling and biting with big, sharp teeth and powerful jaws.
Actually, I'd be terrified to see a grown-up Great Dane and a grown-up American Bulldog get into a fight. I'm not sure the Great Dane wouldn't lose. They are enormous, (for a dog) pursuers but they are not fighters. Mostly, they are casual and unconcerned. They're not called "the gentle giants" for no reason. American Bulldogs are born fighters. They instinctively go for the jugular.
I have the sense Mason wouldn't retaliate if Beauregard really hurt him. But he might. He's clearly defiant. And he's demonstrated his resilience.
I know what I'd do if I were Mason's owner. I'd get Mason neutered. An inch and a few pounds, (if that were even the case) are not worth the escalating battle. And the dog park is too important a place to those of us who use it to see it disrupted in such a scary way. It's not fair either to Beauregard or Mason, who are both acting on instinct.
Besides, neutering a dog prevents prostate cancer.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Sad death: Bobby Regan
Bobby Regan left us early. He died last Tuesday night, November 17. He was only 38.
I don't know how he died. Heart attack? Aneurysm? Embolism? Car accident? Suicide? The funeral mass is today. I considered going, but I would be an intruder, a voyeur.
We did not know him well. In fact, our association with him was mostly difficult. We found Bobby in the Yellow Pages. His business? The Deck Protectors. In the last promise of warmth in September we decided to have our 1100 sq. ft. of decks power-washed and stained. We chose Bobby from several quotes. His estimate seemed fair and for an extra sum, he'd stain the house as well. He would also repair any loose boards or siding.
On a steamy Friday a young man showed up and power-washed all the decks leaving the exposed wood looking new and a mess of residue on all the glass doors. His machine ran out of gas in the middle of the job. Bobby came round with some. He said he'd be back on Monday to do the staining.
But he didn't show up that Monday, nor the next day. We called. He said he'd been in hospital with diverticulitis but that he'd be there. But he wasn't. He simply didn't show up. We'd paid him for the power-washing and given a substantial deposit to the next stage of the work, the cheque made out to him personally, at his request. At the time my husband said, "You didn't give him a personal cheque! That was so stupid." I hadn't even thought.
We suspected drugs or gambling or booze. We believed he always intended to do the work: that he just couldn't keep it together.
Still. We sure did feel ripped off, duped, conned. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened to us. There was that roofer...also from the Yellow Pages.
Bobby didn't answer his phone and his message service was full. Finally, we reported him to The Better Business Bureau, with which he was registered. They did a follow up but had no response.
In the meantime, we decided to stain the decks ourselves and got halfway through, realizing during the whole tedious job that we'd chosen the wrong colour. The grey was too light and glared as if there were snow on it. So we sat and stared at it through all our glass, fixed to our armchairs, furious.
We went on a glorious trip to France and came back and the deck still glared at us. It was cold and wet out. Too late to do anything. Or so we convinced ourselves.
And then, one morning, early, a couple of weeks ago, the doorbell rang. My husband answered it and came back and said, "You'll never believe who it is." Bobby Regan. Two and a half months later. He hadn't shown up because he'd been sick and it had been raining. But he was ready to stain the house and the decks. Trouble was, he had a cash flow problem, a big deal gone bad. Could we buy the stain?
"Absolutely not!" I said to my husband, livid. "I want to get this job done," he answered. He went out and bought 12 cans of stain. Bobby argued for more money and my husband gave him a couple of hundred extra bucks. "You know I'm a recovering alcoholic," Bobby said.
My husband and I were barely speaking. But Bobby showed up the next day with a crew of about half-a-dozen. And by the way, he'd just moved and all his business records were packed. Could we give him a copy of our contract?
The crew spent the day taping brown paper on all our windows, emprisoning us in yellowish light. "They won't be back," I said.
But they did come back and did a splendid job of staining the house. They cleaned up meticulously and took off all the brown paper. But a large chimney and the decks still weren't done. "We've seen the last of him," I asserted.
Sadly, it was the truth but for a reason we could never have imagined.
Bobby came by last Monday, no crew, to say his truck had been carjacked in Cicero and he'd lost everything: wallet, cellphone, business records. It had been horrible. He gave me a temporary cellphone number.
He didn't come on Tuesday but my husband talked to him Tuesday night, around six or seven. Bobby was going to start on the decks the next day. Could we buy more stain? "No!" I said again but my husband went out and bought it.
It was cold and rainy on Wednesday. No Bobby. Mid-morning, three young Hispanics, part of Bobby's crew came to my door. Did I know where Bobby was? Had I talked to him? He owed them money for weeks of work.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "I know how you feel. We paid him for work he didn't do."
"We phoned him," they replied. "A woman said he died."
"That isn't possible," I said. "My husband just talked to him. He tells stories. But if you finish the job, we'll pay you what we were going to give to Bobby."
They finished the decks in a day. That was last Friday. I had been in the city and when I returned there was a picture of Bobby with some copy on my computer. It looked like a resume.
"Did Bobby drop this off?" I scoffed. "No," answered my husband. "I got it from the obits in The Daily Herald."
Oh my. Omigod. Bobby. How terrible. How sad. How terribly sad.
When Bobby was good, he was very good. He was amiable, purposeful, thorough. He had a creative eye, good colour sense. The grey he suggested for the house and decks looks dark and weathered, perfectly suiting the barn-like character.
I believe he must have endured an inner chaos that catapulted him and his family and friends into agony, his clients into anger and aggravation. In the obit, his family said they "loved him very much and would miss him dearly."
I'm so sorry, Robert Paul Regan. May you rest in peace.
I don't know how he died. Heart attack? Aneurysm? Embolism? Car accident? Suicide? The funeral mass is today. I considered going, but I would be an intruder, a voyeur.
We did not know him well. In fact, our association with him was mostly difficult. We found Bobby in the Yellow Pages. His business? The Deck Protectors. In the last promise of warmth in September we decided to have our 1100 sq. ft. of decks power-washed and stained. We chose Bobby from several quotes. His estimate seemed fair and for an extra sum, he'd stain the house as well. He would also repair any loose boards or siding.
On a steamy Friday a young man showed up and power-washed all the decks leaving the exposed wood looking new and a mess of residue on all the glass doors. His machine ran out of gas in the middle of the job. Bobby came round with some. He said he'd be back on Monday to do the staining.
But he didn't show up that Monday, nor the next day. We called. He said he'd been in hospital with diverticulitis but that he'd be there. But he wasn't. He simply didn't show up. We'd paid him for the power-washing and given a substantial deposit to the next stage of the work, the cheque made out to him personally, at his request. At the time my husband said, "You didn't give him a personal cheque! That was so stupid." I hadn't even thought.
We suspected drugs or gambling or booze. We believed he always intended to do the work: that he just couldn't keep it together.
Still. We sure did feel ripped off, duped, conned. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened to us. There was that roofer...also from the Yellow Pages.
Bobby didn't answer his phone and his message service was full. Finally, we reported him to The Better Business Bureau, with which he was registered. They did a follow up but had no response.
In the meantime, we decided to stain the decks ourselves and got halfway through, realizing during the whole tedious job that we'd chosen the wrong colour. The grey was too light and glared as if there were snow on it. So we sat and stared at it through all our glass, fixed to our armchairs, furious.
We went on a glorious trip to France and came back and the deck still glared at us. It was cold and wet out. Too late to do anything. Or so we convinced ourselves.
And then, one morning, early, a couple of weeks ago, the doorbell rang. My husband answered it and came back and said, "You'll never believe who it is." Bobby Regan. Two and a half months later. He hadn't shown up because he'd been sick and it had been raining. But he was ready to stain the house and the decks. Trouble was, he had a cash flow problem, a big deal gone bad. Could we buy the stain?
"Absolutely not!" I said to my husband, livid. "I want to get this job done," he answered. He went out and bought 12 cans of stain. Bobby argued for more money and my husband gave him a couple of hundred extra bucks. "You know I'm a recovering alcoholic," Bobby said.
My husband and I were barely speaking. But Bobby showed up the next day with a crew of about half-a-dozen. And by the way, he'd just moved and all his business records were packed. Could we give him a copy of our contract?
The crew spent the day taping brown paper on all our windows, emprisoning us in yellowish light. "They won't be back," I said.
But they did come back and did a splendid job of staining the house. They cleaned up meticulously and took off all the brown paper. But a large chimney and the decks still weren't done. "We've seen the last of him," I asserted.
Sadly, it was the truth but for a reason we could never have imagined.
Bobby came by last Monday, no crew, to say his truck had been carjacked in Cicero and he'd lost everything: wallet, cellphone, business records. It had been horrible. He gave me a temporary cellphone number.
He didn't come on Tuesday but my husband talked to him Tuesday night, around six or seven. Bobby was going to start on the decks the next day. Could we buy more stain? "No!" I said again but my husband went out and bought it.
It was cold and rainy on Wednesday. No Bobby. Mid-morning, three young Hispanics, part of Bobby's crew came to my door. Did I know where Bobby was? Had I talked to him? He owed them money for weeks of work.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "I know how you feel. We paid him for work he didn't do."
"We phoned him," they replied. "A woman said he died."
"That isn't possible," I said. "My husband just talked to him. He tells stories. But if you finish the job, we'll pay you what we were going to give to Bobby."
They finished the decks in a day. That was last Friday. I had been in the city and when I returned there was a picture of Bobby with some copy on my computer. It looked like a resume.
"Did Bobby drop this off?" I scoffed. "No," answered my husband. "I got it from the obits in The Daily Herald."
Oh my. Omigod. Bobby. How terrible. How sad. How terribly sad.
When Bobby was good, he was very good. He was amiable, purposeful, thorough. He had a creative eye, good colour sense. The grey he suggested for the house and decks looks dark and weathered, perfectly suiting the barn-like character.
I believe he must have endured an inner chaos that catapulted him and his family and friends into agony, his clients into anger and aggravation. In the obit, his family said they "loved him very much and would miss him dearly."
I'm so sorry, Robert Paul Regan. May you rest in peace.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Dogs: shallow or profound?
It feels shallow, given the human condition, to write about dogs. I'm talking about war, terrorism, poverty, famine, Healthcare, the collapsting environment, the global child sex trade, the oppression of women in developing countries, (see "Half The Sky" by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn).
Apparently, one in two children in the U.S. goes hungry everyday.
Dogs feel as if they're a luxury. Mine fill me with guilt. Everytime I go into a pet store and see the array of toys and clothes and food and beds for dogs, I think of a hungry child. Everytime I go to the vet for one of my three dogs and pay what seems always to be an enormous bill, I think of someone without health insurance. Can we really afford dogs given the suffering all around us? Shouldn't our money go to help humans?
But then I think of human need, the homeless people begging with their dogs. Sure, a dog is a "draw" for more coins. But I also think a dog provides some refuge in an otherwise empty existence. A dog is home.
Dogs aren't only for rich people.
The human spirit craves love; has a limitless capacity to love. A dog helps fill that craving but requires something in return. That's part of their virtue. It's in loving a dog that your spirit is enhanced. Because you can't just love a dog; you have to contribute to his/her life. You have to keep him/her comfortable and vital. A dog takes you out of our self-preoccupation. For a short time, anyway, a dog banishes world weariness by beckoning you to pay attention. Not in the way children do. Children are "of you." Dogs are separate but actually, almost as needy. In fact, a dog can drive you crazy with demands. So much so that you can think, "I don't love you." You don't dare think that about your child.
But even if you feel as if you don't love your dog, your dog loves you. "A dog would never say, "I hate you, mummy!" A dog loves you no matter how you treat him/her. He/she keeps on trusting. That's what's so painful about abused dogs. Even if they're fierce dogs, dogs who have wounded, you can see that look of love and longing in their eyes. "I'll give to you. Please give to me."
Dogs are not numinous in the way that whales or elephants or tigers are. Dogs are grounded, like humans, in essential dailiness, in the productivity of survival. Dogs are capitalists. They produce energy, well-being, loyalty, compassion, playfulness. Some are scientists, some detectives, others are agriculturalists, therapists. They use aspects of their world to gain, like the entrepreneurs they are. And if this is recognized, they are rewarded well. That's how they engender wealth.
Not that you think about all this when your dog licks your face at 6:30 am on a November day lashing with rain. Not that you think about this when he/she eats your Blackberry, chews your bra. Not that you think about it when the vet bill is $300. for unknown-cause diarrhoea and you've got to pay another $45. for prescription food. Or when he/she slobbers on your white couch.
You don't think about it at the dog park where your dog gets to rough-house and run and you get to meet interesting people. You don't think about it when he/she leaps into the air and catches the frisbee, (or ball or kong or stuffed squirrel.) Or when he/she makes you laugh. Or when he/she jerks heavily against you in sleep. Or even when you get the look, the one where the head tilts, the eyebrows twitch and the eyes invade and make your heart burst.
Why does your heart burst? Because the head says this is a creature who can entertain, help, heal, hug, earn. This is a creature who is, when you get right down to it, out for him/herself, the way you have to be, but who does so with a return so powerful, it undoes for a time, all life's terrible realities.
If entities acquire profundity with time and dogs have been companions and workers for millenia, then dogs are profound.
Dogs aren't numinous like whales or elephants or tigers. Dogs are grounded lthe same way we are in essential dailiness, the productivity of survival.
Apparently, one in two children in the U.S. goes hungry everyday.
Dogs feel as if they're a luxury. Mine fill me with guilt. Everytime I go into a pet store and see the array of toys and clothes and food and beds for dogs, I think of a hungry child. Everytime I go to the vet for one of my three dogs and pay what seems always to be an enormous bill, I think of someone without health insurance. Can we really afford dogs given the suffering all around us? Shouldn't our money go to help humans?
But then I think of human need, the homeless people begging with their dogs. Sure, a dog is a "draw" for more coins. But I also think a dog provides some refuge in an otherwise empty existence. A dog is home.
Dogs aren't only for rich people.
The human spirit craves love; has a limitless capacity to love. A dog helps fill that craving but requires something in return. That's part of their virtue. It's in loving a dog that your spirit is enhanced. Because you can't just love a dog; you have to contribute to his/her life. You have to keep him/her comfortable and vital. A dog takes you out of our self-preoccupation. For a short time, anyway, a dog banishes world weariness by beckoning you to pay attention. Not in the way children do. Children are "of you." Dogs are separate but actually, almost as needy. In fact, a dog can drive you crazy with demands. So much so that you can think, "I don't love you." You don't dare think that about your child.
But even if you feel as if you don't love your dog, your dog loves you. "A dog would never say, "I hate you, mummy!" A dog loves you no matter how you treat him/her. He/she keeps on trusting. That's what's so painful about abused dogs. Even if they're fierce dogs, dogs who have wounded, you can see that look of love and longing in their eyes. "I'll give to you. Please give to me."
Dogs are not numinous in the way that whales or elephants or tigers are. Dogs are grounded, like humans, in essential dailiness, in the productivity of survival. Dogs are capitalists. They produce energy, well-being, loyalty, compassion, playfulness. Some are scientists, some detectives, others are agriculturalists, therapists. They use aspects of their world to gain, like the entrepreneurs they are. And if this is recognized, they are rewarded well. That's how they engender wealth.
Not that you think about all this when your dog licks your face at 6:30 am on a November day lashing with rain. Not that you think about this when he/she eats your Blackberry, chews your bra. Not that you think about it when the vet bill is $300. for unknown-cause diarrhoea and you've got to pay another $45. for prescription food. Or when he/she slobbers on your white couch.
You don't think about it at the dog park where your dog gets to rough-house and run and you get to meet interesting people. You don't think about it when he/she leaps into the air and catches the frisbee, (or ball or kong or stuffed squirrel.) Or when he/she makes you laugh. Or when he/she jerks heavily against you in sleep. Or even when you get the look, the one where the head tilts, the eyebrows twitch and the eyes invade and make your heart burst.
Why does your heart burst? Because the head says this is a creature who can entertain, help, heal, hug, earn. This is a creature who is, when you get right down to it, out for him/herself, the way you have to be, but who does so with a return so powerful, it undoes for a time, all life's terrible realities.
If entities acquire profundity with time and dogs have been companions and workers for millenia, then dogs are profound.
Dogs aren't numinous like whales or elephants or tigers. Dogs are grounded lthe same way we are in essential dailiness, the productivity of survival.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
What is sexy?
I wrote that Sarah Palin is sexy. I said Obama and Nancy Pelosi are, too. On a long windy walk on the prairie path, I re-thought this. "What is sexy after all," I asked myself. It's a word we toss around easily...so and so is sexy, this food is sexy, that piece of furniture is sexy. But do we ever really realize what we're saying? If we did, I don't think we'd use "sexy" so frequently.
My Oxford English Dictionary defines "sexy" as "sexually attractive or stimulating". It defines "sexual" as "relating to sex...and relations between [the sexes]" So sexy actually means "looks good for sex", doesn't it? Does that imply we're thinking sex with that person, (object) would be good or just that, generally sex with him/her would probably be good? These are deeply personal, intimate thoughts. When we pronounce "George Clooney" "hot", (read "sexy") are we openly admitting we'd like to have sex with him? Or are we simply speculating that he may be good in bed? Still, it's pretty titillating and I think, and essentially private thinking; imagining another person in the sex act.
When Sarah Palin graces the cover of a major newsmagazine with legs bared, in a pinup-pose, has she even imagined the implications of the thoughts she'd be arousing?
Granted, "sexy" is highly subjective and we've become such a "sex-numb" society, it could be that most people looking at the photograph only see a vivacious, grinning woman in running gear. Maybe it takes lewd nudity, the clinical exposure of a Playboy centerfold to suggest sex. After all, adolescent girls are wearing bustiers to school, so how can exposed legs mean anything?
Once when I took a "Philosophy of Sex" class at NYU, (or maybe it was The New School), the professor asked the class if they thought masturbation was sex. It was a large group. Only three hands went up, mine included. When he asked if they thought oral sex was sex, same response. No-one thought it was. Nor did they think kissing was sex. Big laugh there.
Teenagers don't think "hooking up" is really sex.
So it's OK for an aspiring presidential candidate to reveal her legs? Would Obama do it? Would George Bush have done it? Would Clinton, the sex-scandal president have?
How about breasts? Remember the criticism of Hillary Clinton's cleavage? Or are breasts different from legs? Racier, more evocative. Not in the 1920's when women shockingly raised their hemlines and bound their breasts.
In the end, it's all relative. Maybe Sarah Palin never considered for a moment that displaying bared legs to millions of people was provocative. Maybe she thinks there's no connection between shiny, postured legs and sex. Maybe legs simply aren't sexy to her. Maybe they're just something that holds us up, that we walk and run on.
So why do it?
My Oxford English Dictionary defines "sexy" as "sexually attractive or stimulating". It defines "sexual" as "relating to sex...and relations between [the sexes]" So sexy actually means "looks good for sex", doesn't it? Does that imply we're thinking sex with that person, (object) would be good or just that, generally sex with him/her would probably be good? These are deeply personal, intimate thoughts. When we pronounce "George Clooney" "hot", (read "sexy") are we openly admitting we'd like to have sex with him? Or are we simply speculating that he may be good in bed? Still, it's pretty titillating and I think, and essentially private thinking; imagining another person in the sex act.
When Sarah Palin graces the cover of a major newsmagazine with legs bared, in a pinup-pose, has she even imagined the implications of the thoughts she'd be arousing?
Granted, "sexy" is highly subjective and we've become such a "sex-numb" society, it could be that most people looking at the photograph only see a vivacious, grinning woman in running gear. Maybe it takes lewd nudity, the clinical exposure of a Playboy centerfold to suggest sex. After all, adolescent girls are wearing bustiers to school, so how can exposed legs mean anything?
Once when I took a "Philosophy of Sex" class at NYU, (or maybe it was The New School), the professor asked the class if they thought masturbation was sex. It was a large group. Only three hands went up, mine included. When he asked if they thought oral sex was sex, same response. No-one thought it was. Nor did they think kissing was sex. Big laugh there.
Teenagers don't think "hooking up" is really sex.
So it's OK for an aspiring presidential candidate to reveal her legs? Would Obama do it? Would George Bush have done it? Would Clinton, the sex-scandal president have?
How about breasts? Remember the criticism of Hillary Clinton's cleavage? Or are breasts different from legs? Racier, more evocative. Not in the 1920's when women shockingly raised their hemlines and bound their breasts.
In the end, it's all relative. Maybe Sarah Palin never considered for a moment that displaying bared legs to millions of people was provocative. Maybe she thinks there's no connection between shiny, postured legs and sex. Maybe legs simply aren't sexy to her. Maybe they're just something that holds us up, that we walk and run on.
So why do it?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sarah Palin Bared
So Sarah Palin has heavy-ish legs, well-waxed and polished. A photo taken for Runner's World in June '09 on this week's cover of Newsweek exposes most of them. At least to just above mid-thigh, where they're covered in modest black shorts. In fact, the whole outfit is "pure modesty panel". It's the pose that's provocative in a retro way: 1950's cheerleader cheesecake. Her left leg is demurely raised in classic beauty-queen form, (to partially cover her crotch.) Her right arm sits assertively on her hip. Her head is coyly cocked. It's not the least bit sexy, at least as we've come to know sexy in the 21st century. But it's suggestive enough to let us know she's prepared to bare an aspect of her sexuality in public, (even though it's astutely disguised by athletics.) Revealed legs have always connoted sex...in the 19th C it was a mere ankle.
Can you imagine Obama in such an outfit, in such a pose? Or Nancy Pelosi? Or any president or presidential candidate?
We are all sexual beings. Some of us wear that more overtly than most: it shines through. Movie stars do; politicians usually don't, although Obama is sexy and so is Nancy Pelosi. And so is Sarah Palin, in a girlish, gregarious way. It's not invitational so much as high-spirited. "I'm so much fun!"
But why is a woman aiming for the leadership of the lead nation on earth peeling off a crucial layer of decorum? How does that contribute to solving the egregious issues facing this country? How does it show she has the wisdom, judgement, depth, knowledge, perspective for the job?
We know she has sex. She has children for god's sake. She may even have great sex. But cheesecake photos, even one as understated and ambiguous as the one on Newsweek's cover imply compliance, availability or at the very least are an overture for fantasy. Even the Blackberry she's proffering with her right hand says, "Call me."
Aspiring presidents don't say "C'mere."
Can you imagine Obama in such an outfit, in such a pose? Or Nancy Pelosi? Or any president or presidential candidate?
We are all sexual beings. Some of us wear that more overtly than most: it shines through. Movie stars do; politicians usually don't, although Obama is sexy and so is Nancy Pelosi. And so is Sarah Palin, in a girlish, gregarious way. It's not invitational so much as high-spirited. "I'm so much fun!"
But why is a woman aiming for the leadership of the lead nation on earth peeling off a crucial layer of decorum? How does that contribute to solving the egregious issues facing this country? How does it show she has the wisdom, judgement, depth, knowledge, perspective for the job?
We know she has sex. She has children for god's sake. She may even have great sex. But cheesecake photos, even one as understated and ambiguous as the one on Newsweek's cover imply compliance, availability or at the very least are an overture for fantasy. Even the Blackberry she's proffering with her right hand says, "Call me."
Aspiring presidents don't say "C'mere."
Monday, November 16, 2009
A Tale of Two Toy Poodles
I'm always embarassed to say I have two Toy Poodles. They connote the words precious, pampered, yappy. And mine are. They even have leather collars studded with Swarovski crystals. Hutchie, the male's are white. Gracie, the female's are rose, (OK, pink) and white.
Why does it bother me to have two adorable, woolly dogs? Well, I guess we are big people and used to big dogs. We've had two Irish Wolfhounds, Rufus and Fionnulla, a Newfoundland/Irish Setter mix called Finnegan and we are on our second Great Dane, Maggie. The first, Lily, died of bloat when she was eight, a number of years ago.
Interestingly, we lost a Bichon Frise called Jake to a brain tumour shortly before Lily died. He'd been a jolly, forthright dog who lived to be fifteen but he'd originally been our youngest , our fourth daughter's dog. She did the research. Jake was her decision and since he was to be her companion instead of a babysitter, (she was eleven), we consented. He was special, but he would never have been our choice.
I look for nobility, stature, grace and power in a dog and Toy Poodles, (or Bichon Frises) just don't cut it. In fact, the image of a lap dog, bred to be coddled and carried, is slightly off-putting to me, in the way that "cute" can be construed as corny. I grew up with lbig Highland Collies so I'm used to some magnificence, some usefulness in a dog, (not that our Collies herded sheep or anything but they did have the freedom of a farm.) For coziness and weight on my lap, I've always had responsive cats who have had the elegance and retro-wildness you only occasionally see in dogs.
So why do I have two little dogs, "Rasta" dogs because I rarely groom them, who are cute as can be: all cuddle and curls, practically grafted to me?
When Lily died we were devastated and we mourned for months. I built a sort-of shrine with her blown-up photograph and a Chinese vase full of her ashes. But I felt a huge hole, a dog-hole, that can only be filled with the kind of companionship a dog gives: constant, devoted, humorous, accomodating, attached. But what kind of dog? I wasn't ready for another Great Dane and we now prefer the breed to Irish Wolfhounds. Though Jake was jovial and bold, in fifteen years he had never really been housebroken. We have the stained carpets to prove it. (Other Bichon owners told us they had the same problem.)
Why does it bother me to have two adorable, woolly dogs? Well, I guess we are big people and used to big dogs. We've had two Irish Wolfhounds, Rufus and Fionnulla, a Newfoundland/Irish Setter mix called Finnegan and we are on our second Great Dane, Maggie. The first, Lily, died of bloat when she was eight, a number of years ago.
Interestingly, we lost a Bichon Frise called Jake to a brain tumour shortly before Lily died. He'd been a jolly, forthright dog who lived to be fifteen but he'd originally been our youngest , our fourth daughter's dog. She did the research. Jake was her decision and since he was to be her companion instead of a babysitter, (she was eleven), we consented. He was special, but he would never have been our choice.
I look for nobility, stature, grace and power in a dog and Toy Poodles, (or Bichon Frises) just don't cut it. In fact, the image of a lap dog, bred to be coddled and carried, is slightly off-putting to me, in the way that "cute" can be construed as corny. I grew up with lbig Highland Collies so I'm used to some magnificence, some usefulness in a dog, (not that our Collies herded sheep or anything but they did have the freedom of a farm.) For coziness and weight on my lap, I've always had responsive cats who have had the elegance and retro-wildness you only occasionally see in dogs.
So why do I have two little dogs, "Rasta" dogs because I rarely groom them, who are cute as can be: all cuddle and curls, practically grafted to me?
When Lily died we were devastated and we mourned for months. I built a sort-of shrine with her blown-up photograph and a Chinese vase full of her ashes. But I felt a huge hole, a dog-hole, that can only be filled with the kind of companionship a dog gives: constant, devoted, humorous, accomodating, attached. But what kind of dog? I wasn't ready for another Great Dane and we now prefer the breed to Irish Wolfhounds. Though Jake was jovial and bold, in fifteen years he had never really been housebroken. We have the stained carpets to prove it. (Other Bichon owners told us they had the same problem.)
I wanted something small and easy. At the time we had houses in Canada and the U.S. and I was doing a lot of commuting. It was a ten hour drive. I needed a transportable dog. Plus I was alone a lot, as my husband was usually in the U.S. I longed for a doting, connected canine.
In Canada, I had a friend with an appealing Lhasa-Poo, (or Shi-Poo?) called Gucci and I thought something like him would be perfect. But when we went to the breeder she only had Cockapoos and two Toy Poodles. The Cockapoos were sweet, all caramel and chocolate but they were larger than I wanted. So I eyeballed the Poodles, feeling quite resistant. In any case, I only wanted one. A female.
Picture these wiggly wee creatures, not with the supple delicacy of a kitten but with a furry vulnerability that begged me to cradle and nuzzle them. Which I did and they nuzzled right back. Since there were only two, I didn't see how I could separate them, leave the little silver male on his own, so I took them both. And I kept this secret from my husband since I knew he'd protest. (This was November. I finally told him near Christmas.) And he did protest but he succumbed, as I had.
I spent that winter alone in the big Canadian house with the two puppies, painting it from top to bottom to get ready to sell in the spring. The puppies bounced and they tussled, they slept and they ate. They lept gamely in the deep snow. And they never left my side.
Yes, they are a cliche, especially when they're drastically groomed. They don't have the dedication of guide dogs, the reliability of therapy dogs, the industriousness of explosive-detectors. They are vocal. They are actually serious dogs; they don't have a Bichon's sense of humour, the breed's circus-like extroversion.
But mine are alert and smart. Gracie is as gracious as her name, placid and patient. Hutchie is hyper, neurotic, needy, (that's for another time). But his loyalty is tenacious. They never beg for food. They trot loosely on the leash, keeping pace for three miles. At the dog park, the two of them chase and return the ball with the speed of a whippet. They have no off-button. And at night, they are two lumps of warmth tight against me.
They're faithful lambs with corkscrew curls, shaggy "muppet" paws, powderpuff ears, fuzzy muzzles, eyes like black marbles, licorice noses and little smiley-curves of lip beneath their beards. They're irresistible.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
children: dogparks
Bringing children to the dog park is insane. I'm mean little children, four-year-olds and tottering toddlers. Our dog park is a rough playing field filled with single-minded canines with nothing else on their minds but freedom and space. Dogs who, though they may be affectionate and loyal and gentle under other circumstances, are "in it for the game" and "ain't gonna stop for nobody, nowhow".
What's a teeny, tiny child doing in the middle of all that chaos?
Yesterday, an older couple, (I'm assuming grandparents) came with two petit, fragile-looking girls, one still with baby teeth, the other barely walking...let's say four and two. The couple, well-turned out and seemingly intelligent, also had with them their own black lab on a leash. They were encouraging the little girls to be adventuresome with the dogs, to try to get to know them. They cautioned the girls to be "gentle" and not "run at the dogs", which is exactly what they did. They chased after my two toy poodles, who are cute and woolly but wary of children and they are ball-obsessed. They were focused on the tennis ball in my "chuck-it" and ran from the kids, the grey male, Hutchie, barking nervously.
"Don't chase them," I said to the kids. "They're very shy. They're afraid of you." But the kids persisted. In the meantime, there were dogs and balls and frisbees whipping by.
The owner of Maisie, the four-month-old yellow Lab, bent down and obligingly put the wiggling puppy in a "sit" and let the girls pat her. (She is a bright, committed elementary school teacher.) Maggie, my ten-month-old Great Dane, who towered over them, sniffed them and gave slimy slurps, but I could see she was a little cautious, as well. A few other dogs congregated.
I completely concur with the need to socialize children and dogs at an early age. I could see how the couple with the Lab were giving their little ones a lesson in dog treatment and dog behavior. Children exposed to dogs learn compassion, confidence. Children unexposed to dogs tend to be timid, withdrawn, persnickety. Dogs force a persepective beyond themselves.
But in this precarious situation, the little ones' response was unrestrained. They were all over the place, squealing.
And then the...well, the entirely possible happened. Tuxedo, a black-and-white Pit Bull ran in and attacked the lab on the leash. The dog retaliated. The owner of the Lab pulled him away and Tux's owner raced in and hauled Tux off, shouting "Tux, no! Nice!" But Tux lunged in again. And again: each time provoking a fight. And each time the Lab's owner used the leash to save his dog. Other owners rushed in to get their dogs away from the confrontation before it became a pack situation.
The little girls were right close to all of this. It makes me sick to think of what might have happened had the Lab not been on a leash.
Tuxedo is about ten-months-old and has been a "good player" but lately has shown some aggression. In fact, his owner told me he usually runs Tux and his "sister" Calley, a Pit Bull/Viszla for five miles with his bike. That apparently calms them and keeps them from getting into trouble at the park. But not this time. Tux moved in fast and viciously.
I don't think it was necessarily a "Pit Bull thing". I've seen two Golden Retrievers go after each other with scary fierceness. And there are a couple of Huskies who have been mean. Also the unlikely Mavis, a rotund Basset Hound/Labrador. Most any dog can get into a fight. My toy poodle, Gracie, once forcefully defended her ball from a Welsh Terrier. "He'll never start a fight," said his owner. "But he'll finish it."
In the end, Tux's owner flipped Tux on his back and invited the Lab to come over and sniff him...while he was in a submissive position. The Lab did and Tux remained passive. I don't know if either of them learned a lesson. I don't know if the couple with the small children learned a lesson. They left right after.
But that's what the dog park is: unpredictable and potentially dangerous. I mean, it's purpose is canine-beneficent and almost everyone there is a good dog citizen with a (sort-of) good dog. We don't know what we'd do without it. BUT IT'S FOR DOGS. Unless you keep a kid on the sidelines, well out of the fray, on top of a picnic table, say, it's not a safe or ideal place to educate him/her on the pleasures and characteristics of dogs. And yet I see so many wee kids in the middle of the action, fearless kids who have their own big dog at home. If they get knocked down, the parents say, "Oh, she's used to it," and say to the kid, "You're fine."
In the park, a dog, no matter how friendly or trustworthy, only wants to get in there with the other dogs. Little children are vulnerable obstacles and parents who put them in the way are irresponsible.
In the end, Tux's owner flipped the dog on his back
What's a teeny, tiny child doing in the middle of all that chaos?
Yesterday, an older couple, (I'm assuming grandparents) came with two petit, fragile-looking girls, one still with baby teeth, the other barely walking...let's say four and two. The couple, well-turned out and seemingly intelligent, also had with them their own black lab on a leash. They were encouraging the little girls to be adventuresome with the dogs, to try to get to know them. They cautioned the girls to be "gentle" and not "run at the dogs", which is exactly what they did. They chased after my two toy poodles, who are cute and woolly but wary of children and they are ball-obsessed. They were focused on the tennis ball in my "chuck-it" and ran from the kids, the grey male, Hutchie, barking nervously.
"Don't chase them," I said to the kids. "They're very shy. They're afraid of you." But the kids persisted. In the meantime, there were dogs and balls and frisbees whipping by.
The owner of Maisie, the four-month-old yellow Lab, bent down and obligingly put the wiggling puppy in a "sit" and let the girls pat her. (She is a bright, committed elementary school teacher.) Maggie, my ten-month-old Great Dane, who towered over them, sniffed them and gave slimy slurps, but I could see she was a little cautious, as well. A few other dogs congregated.
I completely concur with the need to socialize children and dogs at an early age. I could see how the couple with the Lab were giving their little ones a lesson in dog treatment and dog behavior. Children exposed to dogs learn compassion, confidence. Children unexposed to dogs tend to be timid, withdrawn, persnickety. Dogs force a persepective beyond themselves.
But in this precarious situation, the little ones' response was unrestrained. They were all over the place, squealing.
And then the...well, the entirely possible happened. Tuxedo, a black-and-white Pit Bull ran in and attacked the lab on the leash. The dog retaliated. The owner of the Lab pulled him away and Tux's owner raced in and hauled Tux off, shouting "Tux, no! Nice!" But Tux lunged in again. And again: each time provoking a fight. And each time the Lab's owner used the leash to save his dog. Other owners rushed in to get their dogs away from the confrontation before it became a pack situation.
The little girls were right close to all of this. It makes me sick to think of what might have happened had the Lab not been on a leash.
Tuxedo is about ten-months-old and has been a "good player" but lately has shown some aggression. In fact, his owner told me he usually runs Tux and his "sister" Calley, a Pit Bull/Viszla for five miles with his bike. That apparently calms them and keeps them from getting into trouble at the park. But not this time. Tux moved in fast and viciously.
I don't think it was necessarily a "Pit Bull thing". I've seen two Golden Retrievers go after each other with scary fierceness. And there are a couple of Huskies who have been mean. Also the unlikely Mavis, a rotund Basset Hound/Labrador. Most any dog can get into a fight. My toy poodle, Gracie, once forcefully defended her ball from a Welsh Terrier. "He'll never start a fight," said his owner. "But he'll finish it."
In the end, Tux's owner flipped Tux on his back and invited the Lab to come over and sniff him...while he was in a submissive position. The Lab did and Tux remained passive. I don't know if either of them learned a lesson. I don't know if the couple with the small children learned a lesson. They left right after.
But that's what the dog park is: unpredictable and potentially dangerous. I mean, it's purpose is canine-beneficent and almost everyone there is a good dog citizen with a (sort-of) good dog. We don't know what we'd do without it. BUT IT'S FOR DOGS. Unless you keep a kid on the sidelines, well out of the fray, on top of a picnic table, say, it's not a safe or ideal place to educate him/her on the pleasures and characteristics of dogs. And yet I see so many wee kids in the middle of the action, fearless kids who have their own big dog at home. If they get knocked down, the parents say, "Oh, she's used to it," and say to the kid, "You're fine."
In the park, a dog, no matter how friendly or trustworthy, only wants to get in there with the other dogs. Little children are vulnerable obstacles and parents who put them in the way are irresponsible.
In the end, Tux's owner flipped the dog on his back
Thursday, November 12, 2009
electronic collar #2
"What a beautifully-behaved dog!" they said. Three of them, two women and a teenage-boy were trying to hold back a lungeing Labrador. Maggie, my ten-month-old Great Dane was in a placid dowstay at the side of the prairie path.
"Uh, folks..." I started to say. "It's this zapper I'm holding and the receiver on the dog's neck." But I withheld my fervour about electronic collars even though they could barely control their dog.
In fact, I have doubts about the collar. Not doubts that it works. IT WORKS! No, what I have doubts about is that Maggie's now near-perfect obedience has nothing to do with me and everything to do with a device. In otherwords, without the collar she'd be the recalcitrant dog she was before. She is not well-trained, as I'd like to believe, she is merely well-conditioned to avoid an unpleasant zap.
I should give her some credit since she is still a puppy, (at 115 lbs.) In the house she responds to "sit", "stay", "down" and "come to me" without the collar. When we feed her, she has to sit before her bowl and wait until we say "OK" before she can eat. She waits beautifully, drooling all the while. She also knows not to bark uncontrollably if she sees a coyote, deer or the neighbour's cat out the window.
But in a larger environment, the dog park for instance or the prairie path, where she walks well on the leash but will charge off if something catches her eye, (and pull me over or dislocate my arm), she is uncontrollable. By that I mean she's powerful and if she's out of range and distracted, her response to "come" is either mischievous or "whatever". And she's fast and limber and stays just enough beyond me so that I can't catch her.
This is what I was having trouble with and the pinch-collar only worked if she was attached to me. Even then, it took all my strength. I developed tendonitis in my left elbow.
How to get her to respond if she was a couple of yards away or 400 yards, (the range of the electronic collar.)?
Quite simply, I couldn't. Some dogs at the dog park come when they're called. Most don't. For the most part it is the last command they obey. An out-of-range dog has all the power. Even if you're an Alpha. A treat helps but not always, not if there's a Viszla your dog wants to chase.
I agonized over getting an electronic collar. I was concerned that it was inhumane to give an animal an electric shock. But I was feeling frustrated and angry and losing confidence that I could ever handle my dog. And I didn't want a dog I couldn't control. I see too many out-of-control dogs at the dog park and I hate it. Out-of-control dogs are obnoxious. I'm going to write another day about obnoxious dogs.
Some people say a shock collar is lazy training. You're shifting your responsibility. Believe me, I think about this.
And is an electronic collar really inhumane? I've felt the "zap" on my hand and I don't think so. Repeatedly, it would be annoying and puzzling but not painful. Not the way a pinch-collar must be. And the dog has a choice. It can stop the "feeling" by obeying the command. Just as a dog has the choice to jump an electronic fence, but chooses not to to avoid a "zap".
That still doesn't answer the question of who is in control, the device or me? What would happen if the battery went dead or if, as happened one time, I forgot to wear the remote? I'd be powerless as ever over my dog, right? Not quite. What is happening is that I have to zap less and less. Maggie responds sometimes to a command without my pressing the button. She still has to be zapped for digging but not for jumping up. And she'll "drop it" without a "zap" when she takes another dog's ball. And miracle of miracles, she's starting to come when she's called. "Maggie, come!" I shout firmly and 'lo and behold, she trots up to me or follows behind if I'm going to walk around the dog park. She's stopped pulling on the leash as we approach the gate and she sits before I let her enter.
There is only one other dog at the park, (among what must be over a hundred), who wears an electronic collar: Remy, the miniature Schnauzer. He's feisty but responsive to his owner's commands. But there are dozens of dogs who aren't. I wish more people used the device.
"Uh, folks..." I started to say. "It's this zapper I'm holding and the receiver on the dog's neck." But I withheld my fervour about electronic collars even though they could barely control their dog.
In fact, I have doubts about the collar. Not doubts that it works. IT WORKS! No, what I have doubts about is that Maggie's now near-perfect obedience has nothing to do with me and everything to do with a device. In otherwords, without the collar she'd be the recalcitrant dog she was before. She is not well-trained, as I'd like to believe, she is merely well-conditioned to avoid an unpleasant zap.
I should give her some credit since she is still a puppy, (at 115 lbs.) In the house she responds to "sit", "stay", "down" and "come to me" without the collar. When we feed her, she has to sit before her bowl and wait until we say "OK" before she can eat. She waits beautifully, drooling all the while. She also knows not to bark uncontrollably if she sees a coyote, deer or the neighbour's cat out the window.
But in a larger environment, the dog park for instance or the prairie path, where she walks well on the leash but will charge off if something catches her eye, (and pull me over or dislocate my arm), she is uncontrollable. By that I mean she's powerful and if she's out of range and distracted, her response to "come" is either mischievous or "whatever". And she's fast and limber and stays just enough beyond me so that I can't catch her.
This is what I was having trouble with and the pinch-collar only worked if she was attached to me. Even then, it took all my strength. I developed tendonitis in my left elbow.
How to get her to respond if she was a couple of yards away or 400 yards, (the range of the electronic collar.)?
Quite simply, I couldn't. Some dogs at the dog park come when they're called. Most don't. For the most part it is the last command they obey. An out-of-range dog has all the power. Even if you're an Alpha. A treat helps but not always, not if there's a Viszla your dog wants to chase.
I agonized over getting an electronic collar. I was concerned that it was inhumane to give an animal an electric shock. But I was feeling frustrated and angry and losing confidence that I could ever handle my dog. And I didn't want a dog I couldn't control. I see too many out-of-control dogs at the dog park and I hate it. Out-of-control dogs are obnoxious. I'm going to write another day about obnoxious dogs.
Some people say a shock collar is lazy training. You're shifting your responsibility. Believe me, I think about this.
And is an electronic collar really inhumane? I've felt the "zap" on my hand and I don't think so. Repeatedly, it would be annoying and puzzling but not painful. Not the way a pinch-collar must be. And the dog has a choice. It can stop the "feeling" by obeying the command. Just as a dog has the choice to jump an electronic fence, but chooses not to to avoid a "zap".
That still doesn't answer the question of who is in control, the device or me? What would happen if the battery went dead or if, as happened one time, I forgot to wear the remote? I'd be powerless as ever over my dog, right? Not quite. What is happening is that I have to zap less and less. Maggie responds sometimes to a command without my pressing the button. She still has to be zapped for digging but not for jumping up. And she'll "drop it" without a "zap" when she takes another dog's ball. And miracle of miracles, she's starting to come when she's called. "Maggie, come!" I shout firmly and 'lo and behold, she trots up to me or follows behind if I'm going to walk around the dog park. She's stopped pulling on the leash as we approach the gate and she sits before I let her enter.
There is only one other dog at the park, (among what must be over a hundred), who wears an electronic collar: Remy, the miniature Schnauzer. He's feisty but responsive to his owner's commands. But there are dozens of dogs who aren't. I wish more people used the device.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
canine electronic collars
Our dog park is a melee. Dozens of dogs, pure and mongrel, enormous and tiny, tear around and tussle. It would be so easy to get rammed. But if I stay on the sidelines I can't discipline our dog. Our blue Great Dane, Maggie, has been going to the park since she was three months old, about 30 lbs., the size of a Cocker Spaniel with huge paws. She was floppy and awkward. Now, at 10 months, she is a tall, sleek and muscular 115 lbs. and the size of her paws fits. When she first went to the park, she was apprehensive and mostly stayed under one of the picnic tables where owners with their water coolers and the dogs gather. Now she's fully integrated.
The fenced dog park, on the edge of a river and a wilderness preserve is about three acres with a woodsy path around the perimeter and an open meadow of grasses and wildflowers in the middle. Right at the entrance is an expansive mulch-covered playground where most of the dog activity happens. Balls from "Chuck-its" and the dogs after them whip by. There are chase-trains: four or five dogs racing after a speedy leader. And there are the scuffles, the rough play.
Maggie got involved in them early on. There's a crowd of rowdy players. There's the good-natured Pit Bull, Missy, who is her favourite. And there are others: Nell, the Springer Spaniel who grabs Maggie's loose jowls and Nicky and Indy, boisterous Border Collies. There's another Pit Bull called Tuxedo and his sister Callie. And there's Sam, a massive Rottweiler/Rhodesian Ridgeback. And Amah, the bouncy Bull Mastiff. Plus there's the Labrador-cross, Alex, a purposeful dog, (like all Labs) with whom Maggie was in "puppy class". Even in that carefully-monitored group, the play seemed fierce although the trainer allowed no growling or barking or baring of teeth. She made sure "mouthing" didn't become "biting".
But at the dog park, "mouthing" does become "biting". And there is snarling and the baring of teeth. "That's how dogs play", say some. Others want their dogs to become tough, to be able to stand up for themselves. But I find it distressing.
Missy and Maggie's tussles are extremely rough. They pull at each other's skin; grab each other's necks; lunge and leap. A trainer at the park told us they play too hard, that there is too much biting although I've never heard a yelp. But the owner of Mason, an American Bull Terrier says his 9-month-old dog always gets scratched up when he plays with Missy.
Missy and Maggie and Tucker, a rambunctious Labradoodle, as well as Alex, "gang up" on shy dogs, pursuing and overpowering them into submissive position. No-one gets hurt but I think it's unacceptable, bullying behavior.
Maggie is an inherently gentle dog. She nibbles and nuzzles our cat. She plays nicely with Maisie, a 3-month-old Yellow Labrador and Noelle, a feisty West Highland Terrier puppy. But in a pack, she joins in. That's why I got an electronic collar, (or remote collar as they're euphemistically called). I couldn't control her when she was in the scrums. Usually an owner reaches in and grabs his/her dog's collar and pulls the dog out of the mess. That's not only dangerous, but Maggie is too big and strong for me to do that. And she gets so excited by what's going on, she ignores me or dodges and ducks, like a quarterback with the ball dodges and ducks an opponent, staying just out of reach.
At the specialty pet store, the owner put the two prongs of the collar against my palm and slowly turned up the sizzle with the remote. It was not like an electric shock - not like putting your hand in the socket of a lightbulb - but more like a mosquito bite. Anyway, I bought the collar and a training video.
And it works, the principle being when you "zap" and command, the dog feels a "tingle" and soon learns if it obeys the command, the "tingle" stops. I can keep the level quite low in our yard but at the dog park where there is so much distraction, I need to turn it up to 60. The collar goes from 0 to 100. I don't need it in the house.
If Maggie gets into one of her unrestrained scuffles, I simply zap her and command "Enough!" She immediately backs off. It happened just the other day with 41/2-month-old Lola, a Bull Mastiff who was terrified of Maggie's playful overtures. In fact, the collar works with digging, coming when called and leash-pulling or getting over-exuberant when we meet another dog on a walk.
I feel bad that I'm not one of those gifted trainers like Cesar Milan who appear - with a quiet "tsschch" - to be able to control a dog's behavior. But I had worked diligently with Maggie and I'm convinced that for such a headstrong and powerful dog, the "zapping" collar has helped me help her to be obedient.
The fenced dog park, on the edge of a river and a wilderness preserve is about three acres with a woodsy path around the perimeter and an open meadow of grasses and wildflowers in the middle. Right at the entrance is an expansive mulch-covered playground where most of the dog activity happens. Balls from "Chuck-its" and the dogs after them whip by. There are chase-trains: four or five dogs racing after a speedy leader. And there are the scuffles, the rough play.
Maggie got involved in them early on. There's a crowd of rowdy players. There's the good-natured Pit Bull, Missy, who is her favourite. And there are others: Nell, the Springer Spaniel who grabs Maggie's loose jowls and Nicky and Indy, boisterous Border Collies. There's another Pit Bull called Tuxedo and his sister Callie. And there's Sam, a massive Rottweiler/Rhodesian Ridgeback. And Amah, the bouncy Bull Mastiff. Plus there's the Labrador-cross, Alex, a purposeful dog, (like all Labs) with whom Maggie was in "puppy class". Even in that carefully-monitored group, the play seemed fierce although the trainer allowed no growling or barking or baring of teeth. She made sure "mouthing" didn't become "biting".
But at the dog park, "mouthing" does become "biting". And there is snarling and the baring of teeth. "That's how dogs play", say some. Others want their dogs to become tough, to be able to stand up for themselves. But I find it distressing.
Missy and Maggie's tussles are extremely rough. They pull at each other's skin; grab each other's necks; lunge and leap. A trainer at the park told us they play too hard, that there is too much biting although I've never heard a yelp. But the owner of Mason, an American Bull Terrier says his 9-month-old dog always gets scratched up when he plays with Missy.
Missy and Maggie and Tucker, a rambunctious Labradoodle, as well as Alex, "gang up" on shy dogs, pursuing and overpowering them into submissive position. No-one gets hurt but I think it's unacceptable, bullying behavior.
Maggie is an inherently gentle dog. She nibbles and nuzzles our cat. She plays nicely with Maisie, a 3-month-old Yellow Labrador and Noelle, a feisty West Highland Terrier puppy. But in a pack, she joins in. That's why I got an electronic collar, (or remote collar as they're euphemistically called). I couldn't control her when she was in the scrums. Usually an owner reaches in and grabs his/her dog's collar and pulls the dog out of the mess. That's not only dangerous, but Maggie is too big and strong for me to do that. And she gets so excited by what's going on, she ignores me or dodges and ducks, like a quarterback with the ball dodges and ducks an opponent, staying just out of reach.
At the specialty pet store, the owner put the two prongs of the collar against my palm and slowly turned up the sizzle with the remote. It was not like an electric shock - not like putting your hand in the socket of a lightbulb - but more like a mosquito bite. Anyway, I bought the collar and a training video.
And it works, the principle being when you "zap" and command, the dog feels a "tingle" and soon learns if it obeys the command, the "tingle" stops. I can keep the level quite low in our yard but at the dog park where there is so much distraction, I need to turn it up to 60. The collar goes from 0 to 100. I don't need it in the house.
If Maggie gets into one of her unrestrained scuffles, I simply zap her and command "Enough!" She immediately backs off. It happened just the other day with 41/2-month-old Lola, a Bull Mastiff who was terrified of Maggie's playful overtures. In fact, the collar works with digging, coming when called and leash-pulling or getting over-exuberant when we meet another dog on a walk.
I feel bad that I'm not one of those gifted trainers like Cesar Milan who appear - with a quiet "tsschch" - to be able to control a dog's behavior. But I had worked diligently with Maggie and I'm convinced that for such a headstrong and powerful dog, the "zapping" collar has helped me help her to be obedient.
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