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.
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