There was a time when I walked for exercise without a dog. Sure, it was over 9 years ago, but there was a time. I had injured my back and walking was the only exercise I could do to get in my aerobics. I have walked two days in a row, and I have had two very sorry days. It’s a habit I need to break. I think I need to go back to cycling. I have fewer Hardy memories when it comes to biking, but I still have memories.
The day I bought the bike, I had established a way to cycle with Hardy. I bought a basket for the front of my bike so that I could tote my things to and from work easily, and it quickly became a way to bring Hardy along on bike rides. I could tell that he didn’t totally LOVE it, but he would tolerate it. He never jumped out of the basket, and people would comment about how cute he looked. It was adorable.
One week before the attack, Hardy got to go on a bike hike to San Ramon on the Iron Horse Trail. We rode all the way to a frozen yogurt place, and stopped for sustenance before turning back towards home. Hardy was my basket passenger, adding an extra fifteen pounds to my load. I didn’t even notice. We stopped at the dog park on the way home. It was a nice day.
There are several celebrities who’ve lost their dogs and grieved publicly over their loss. I’m trying to use them for inspiration. Through them, I can see that people move on afterwards. I just can’t figure out how. I remember when Oprah lost her beloved cocker, Sophie, and Mathew McConaughey, lost his dog, Ms. Hud, while he was touring the US, and Barbara Streisand lost her little Coton de Tulear, Sammie. All three of them got over their loss, and eventually got a new dog after recovering. All I can think about is how I just want my Hardy back.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
One Step Forward Two Steps Back
I went through a serious backslide yesterday. I had a couple of good days in a row, but yesterday made up for them. I seemed to experience double the pain and sorrow. I am a different person now. I hate the unknown, yet I am deviating from the routine; I am doing everything differently. I am acutely aware that nothing is guaranteed, and I know that everything is temporary. The only thing one can count on is that everything will change.
It began when I was in Santa Cruz and I went to my usual place to get a latte. I usually walk with Hardy to do that, but this time I drove, because he's gone. Anyway, when I got there the place was closed - as in no longer in business. There was a notice on the order window that said their last day would be June 13th. So that means Monday, June 14th was their first day to be gone. I don't know why, but it felt good to me that no one could go there anymore, not just Hardy and me. I am certain that other people are really missing that coffee place, and the owners are most likely lamenting over their loss. It helps when I don't feel alone.
I also notice that I seem more intrigued by sad events happening to other people. Misery loves company, I guess. I read in the news that a baby died in New York over the weekend. A mother and her six month old were positioned under a tree in Central Park while the baby’s father took a picture. Out of nowhere a tree branch fell on the mother and child. The baby was pronounced dead on arrival, but the mother was listed in stable condition. It served to reiterate an uncertain truth for me: nothing in this life is guaranteed. Nothing.
The backslide has to do with a camera - a cell phone camera, to be exact. I was wondering about what that picture looked like. Then I thought about the man who was shot and killed on New Year’s Day at a Bay Area BART station. A bystander filmed it. Then I remembered the dog attack and the woman who was standing behind me with her cell phone open, but not calling anyone. In fact, she didn’t dial 911 until I screamed it at her. I remember thinking at the time, why is she just standing there? Why isn’t she helping me? Then I knew. She was filming what was happening with her phone!
This caused me enormous distress. I freaked out and relived the battle again and again until I was so exhausted that I went to rest on my bed and fell asleep. When I woke up, the harsh reality came back, like it always does upon awakening, and I wept as if the attack had only happened a couple of hours ago. The hysteria I felt on the day of the attack was the same; only this time I saw the event from a new lens. One that I remembered in my subconscious of a woman holding her camera-phone up in front of her face as the bizarre event was unfolding before her.
At first I thought the recording might have been for sensational reasons, but now I’ve come to believe that she was doing it to help me. She was just as shocked as I was about the attack in our neighborhood, and she was helping me in the best way she knew: recording the incident. I know she was one of the witnesses who spoke to the police. I wonder now if she mentioned the recording to them in her statement. I wonder if she still has it on her phone. I wonder if anyone else has seen it.
It began when I was in Santa Cruz and I went to my usual place to get a latte. I usually walk with Hardy to do that, but this time I drove, because he's gone. Anyway, when I got there the place was closed - as in no longer in business. There was a notice on the order window that said their last day would be June 13th. So that means Monday, June 14th was their first day to be gone. I don't know why, but it felt good to me that no one could go there anymore, not just Hardy and me. I am certain that other people are really missing that coffee place, and the owners are most likely lamenting over their loss. It helps when I don't feel alone.
I also notice that I seem more intrigued by sad events happening to other people. Misery loves company, I guess. I read in the news that a baby died in New York over the weekend. A mother and her six month old were positioned under a tree in Central Park while the baby’s father took a picture. Out of nowhere a tree branch fell on the mother and child. The baby was pronounced dead on arrival, but the mother was listed in stable condition. It served to reiterate an uncertain truth for me: nothing in this life is guaranteed. Nothing.
The backslide has to do with a camera - a cell phone camera, to be exact. I was wondering about what that picture looked like. Then I thought about the man who was shot and killed on New Year’s Day at a Bay Area BART station. A bystander filmed it. Then I remembered the dog attack and the woman who was standing behind me with her cell phone open, but not calling anyone. In fact, she didn’t dial 911 until I screamed it at her. I remember thinking at the time, why is she just standing there? Why isn’t she helping me? Then I knew. She was filming what was happening with her phone!
This caused me enormous distress. I freaked out and relived the battle again and again until I was so exhausted that I went to rest on my bed and fell asleep. When I woke up, the harsh reality came back, like it always does upon awakening, and I wept as if the attack had only happened a couple of hours ago. The hysteria I felt on the day of the attack was the same; only this time I saw the event from a new lens. One that I remembered in my subconscious of a woman holding her camera-phone up in front of her face as the bizarre event was unfolding before her.
At first I thought the recording might have been for sensational reasons, but now I’ve come to believe that she was doing it to help me. She was just as shocked as I was about the attack in our neighborhood, and she was helping me in the best way she knew: recording the incident. I know she was one of the witnesses who spoke to the police. I wonder now if she mentioned the recording to them in her statement. I wonder if she still has it on her phone. I wonder if anyone else has seen it.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Two Weeks Later
I will probably always hate Mondays. At some time around 1:15, there will be some sort of memory that surfaces. Reliving this ordeal over and over is driving me freaking crazy. But I’m making it through the day without full out weeping. I get misty when I read something touching, but now I don’t cry. One thought continues to come into my brain: Hardy didn’t deserve to die that way. He was a kind and friendly dog, and I socialized him well. All he saw coming was another butt to smell.
The other thought that rambles through my mind, like a pestilence, is how angry I am at the owner of the attack dog. That owner practically let a predator loose in our peaceful neighborhood. The man actually left on a business trip to Japan for two weeks without locking his gate. I swear. Someone must have been taking care of that dog. Yet it was loose to wander around and attack. What a freaking fool. Knowing that the dog had done this before. Talk about negligence. I want him to hurt. He should have to feel the pain I feel everyday.
If that were the case, he wouldn’t be able to work, eat, or sleep effectively. He would lose weight, and he would have to visit a therapist to help him get over the shock. He would see bloody, violent images over and over at random intervals throughout the day. A doctor would prescribe anxiety medication to help him cope. Something that he values most in the world, the first thing he would save if his house was on fire, would be stolen from him in a cruel and brutal ordeal. He wouldn’t be able to walk in his neighborhood without fear, in fact, he wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere without being afraid of something unknown ruining everything.
That happened to me yesterday. My family and I were taking Chico for a stroll. Like the assault route, it was a place that I’ve been too many times to count – but nowhere near my home neighborhood. It was my FIRST walk since the dog attack. We were simply walking our dog and some woman with a German Shepard mix passed us on our left. Her dog growled at Chico. I stopped, dead in my tracks, and I started whimpering. I think the dog just wanted to say hello to Chico, but it freaked me out. I didn’t want to move, and the rest of the way back I was choking back tears, images went rolling through my consciousness, and I had trouble moving my feet to walk. I was the woman who stepped up to fight a freaking killer pit bull. I miss her. She was brave.
It took me one day shy of two weeks to get up the courage to walk. I wasn’t even in my home neighborhood. There is the most beautiful trail near my home. It has a little stream that meanders for about a mile and a half. It has old oak trees, and wildlife. I used to call it the jigsaw puzzle because it was so beautiful to me. I’ve seen deer, coyote, quail, pheasant, wild turkeys, and even a kit fox while walking Hardy on that trail. We bought our house because of that trail. I want to go there again, but I can’t. When I’m at home, I’m afraid to walk passed the mailbox. Now all I want to do is be someplace else. I want to move.
The other thought that rambles through my mind, like a pestilence, is how angry I am at the owner of the attack dog. That owner practically let a predator loose in our peaceful neighborhood. The man actually left on a business trip to Japan for two weeks without locking his gate. I swear. Someone must have been taking care of that dog. Yet it was loose to wander around and attack. What a freaking fool. Knowing that the dog had done this before. Talk about negligence. I want him to hurt. He should have to feel the pain I feel everyday.
If that were the case, he wouldn’t be able to work, eat, or sleep effectively. He would lose weight, and he would have to visit a therapist to help him get over the shock. He would see bloody, violent images over and over at random intervals throughout the day. A doctor would prescribe anxiety medication to help him cope. Something that he values most in the world, the first thing he would save if his house was on fire, would be stolen from him in a cruel and brutal ordeal. He wouldn’t be able to walk in his neighborhood without fear, in fact, he wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere without being afraid of something unknown ruining everything.
That happened to me yesterday. My family and I were taking Chico for a stroll. Like the assault route, it was a place that I’ve been too many times to count – but nowhere near my home neighborhood. It was my FIRST walk since the dog attack. We were simply walking our dog and some woman with a German Shepard mix passed us on our left. Her dog growled at Chico. I stopped, dead in my tracks, and I started whimpering. I think the dog just wanted to say hello to Chico, but it freaked me out. I didn’t want to move, and the rest of the way back I was choking back tears, images went rolling through my consciousness, and I had trouble moving my feet to walk. I was the woman who stepped up to fight a freaking killer pit bull. I miss her. She was brave.
It took me one day shy of two weeks to get up the courage to walk. I wasn’t even in my home neighborhood. There is the most beautiful trail near my home. It has a little stream that meanders for about a mile and a half. It has old oak trees, and wildlife. I used to call it the jigsaw puzzle because it was so beautiful to me. I’ve seen deer, coyote, quail, pheasant, wild turkeys, and even a kit fox while walking Hardy on that trail. We bought our house because of that trail. I want to go there again, but I can’t. When I’m at home, I’m afraid to walk passed the mailbox. Now all I want to do is be someplace else. I want to move.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Like the Streets of Wenatchee
I woke up this morning thinking about how there is a vacant spot on our bed. I was remembering the time I was in Wenatchee, WA with my daughter and our dogs. We were on a road trip to my niece’s wedding in Pateros, Washington. We were looking for a place to eat that was dog friendly, but it was difficult to find one. We decided to leave our dogs in the car. I hate doing that, but sometimes the world makes you do things you don’t like. Right?
We opted for a quiet, but interesting looking, Mexican food restaurant. I wish I could remember the name of it. To this day I remember it being one of the best Mexican restaurants I’ve ever enjoyed. Why we chose this restaurant was because there weren’t very many cars in the parking lot. That made it convenient for us to keep an eye on the dogs from our table.
It was never easy to leave the dogs in the car. Hardy was the biggest baby when he was left behind. He would commence howling as soon as we walked away, and then Chico would chime in – if he was there. It was always loud and embarrassing, and people’s reactions to the howling were mixed. Some folks thought it was funny (obviously dog owners themselves), and some folks would remark about how hot it was, or ask us was the window cracked, or did they need some water, or something “responsible,” as if they knew better. I hated those people. The truth was our dogs LOVED being in the car. It was like our “den.” But they would howl, just the same.
That memory, of the dinner stop in Wenatchee, reminded me of how that place was NOT very dog friendly. The town wasn’t easy to navigate either. The roads were really confusing, with lots of one-way streets that didn’t make much sense. They gave the driver a sense of being lost – a feeling that has become all too common for me these days. Like the streets in Wenatchee, my days are difficult to navigate, nothing makes much sense, and I feel lost most of the time.
I’ve heard it said that dogs howl for an instinctual reason when their owner leaves. It’s an innate behavior that is linked to communication within a pack. In the dog’s mind, the owner is thought to be the pack leader, and a howling dog, or group of dogs, make their location easier to find upon the pack leader’s return. It’s a type of long-range communication, like the “twilight bark” in 101 Dalmatians.
The video below features kikikyami performing the voice of Perdita. I really like her vocal inflection here. Props kikikyami.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGGV0uI-24Y&NR=1
We opted for a quiet, but interesting looking, Mexican food restaurant. I wish I could remember the name of it. To this day I remember it being one of the best Mexican restaurants I’ve ever enjoyed. Why we chose this restaurant was because there weren’t very many cars in the parking lot. That made it convenient for us to keep an eye on the dogs from our table.
It was never easy to leave the dogs in the car. Hardy was the biggest baby when he was left behind. He would commence howling as soon as we walked away, and then Chico would chime in – if he was there. It was always loud and embarrassing, and people’s reactions to the howling were mixed. Some folks thought it was funny (obviously dog owners themselves), and some folks would remark about how hot it was, or ask us was the window cracked, or did they need some water, or something “responsible,” as if they knew better. I hated those people. The truth was our dogs LOVED being in the car. It was like our “den.” But they would howl, just the same.
That memory, of the dinner stop in Wenatchee, reminded me of how that place was NOT very dog friendly. The town wasn’t easy to navigate either. The roads were really confusing, with lots of one-way streets that didn’t make much sense. They gave the driver a sense of being lost – a feeling that has become all too common for me these days. Like the streets in Wenatchee, my days are difficult to navigate, nothing makes much sense, and I feel lost most of the time.
I’ve heard it said that dogs howl for an instinctual reason when their owner leaves. It’s an innate behavior that is linked to communication within a pack. In the dog’s mind, the owner is thought to be the pack leader, and a howling dog, or group of dogs, make their location easier to find upon the pack leader’s return. It’s a type of long-range communication, like the “twilight bark” in 101 Dalmatians.
The video below features kikikyami performing the voice of Perdita. I really like her vocal inflection here. Props kikikyami.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGGV0uI-24Y&NR=1
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Yo Quiero Taco Bell
I planned a trip to Europe before my last day at work. A trip for my family to go to London, Athenry, and New York next month. It’s going to be my first time to travel to Europe, and would have been one of the few times I would leave Hardy home to travel without him. I’ve taken Hardy to Santa Cruz, Wine Country, Lake Chelan, Seattle, the San Juan Islands, Ashland, Roseville, Mendocino, Sonora, Strawberry, San Francisco, too many beaches to mention, and lots of places that had dog events, mostly agility.
My dad and mom were going to watch Hardy at our place in Santa Cruz while we went to Europe. My parents like to be near the Coast during the hottest months of summer, so it was convenient for them to watch the dogs. The ocean breezes and the fog in the mornings make for a nice temperate climate. Now there will be only one dog for them to watch, my daughter’s dog, Chico.
The story of how we got Chico is really cute and merits noting. He came to us as a “foster” dog. We were told that he was aggressive towards the mailman (something I never witnessed even once, which makes me believe that it was something someone encouraged him to do to be a good watchdog, but that’s another story entirely). My job was to care for him and eventually find him a new home. But my kids, who were twelve and fourteen at the time, had other plans.
It was during the Taco Bell ad campaign when that cute little Chihuahua delivered the line, “Yo quiero Taco Bell.” The kids were begging me to keep Chico, especially my daughter, when I remarked something about how we would keep the dog if he was able to say the famous line. So one day, the kids staged a set-up. They put Chico in a rocking chair and fed him a little peanut butter. My son hid behind the chair, and my daughter ran to come and get me. When I walked into the room, Chico was moving his jaws, like he was talking. Meanwhile, my son was reciting the line for Chico from behind the chair. And that was how we acquired our second dog.
But now Chico is solo, and my dad and mom will only have one dog to watch while we are away. My mom commented to me that she was really looking forward to watching both dogs. Like me, she cries almost everyday about our loss. Chico fills most of the empty space though. I wonder if he feels pressure to do so. Last week I could tell he was working hard to help us cope, but now I see a different Chico. At first he seemed sad, and kind of mopey. Now he seems like he is enjoying being king of the castle.
My dad and mom were going to watch Hardy at our place in Santa Cruz while we went to Europe. My parents like to be near the Coast during the hottest months of summer, so it was convenient for them to watch the dogs. The ocean breezes and the fog in the mornings make for a nice temperate climate. Now there will be only one dog for them to watch, my daughter’s dog, Chico.
The story of how we got Chico is really cute and merits noting. He came to us as a “foster” dog. We were told that he was aggressive towards the mailman (something I never witnessed even once, which makes me believe that it was something someone encouraged him to do to be a good watchdog, but that’s another story entirely). My job was to care for him and eventually find him a new home. But my kids, who were twelve and fourteen at the time, had other plans.
It was during the Taco Bell ad campaign when that cute little Chihuahua delivered the line, “Yo quiero Taco Bell.” The kids were begging me to keep Chico, especially my daughter, when I remarked something about how we would keep the dog if he was able to say the famous line. So one day, the kids staged a set-up. They put Chico in a rocking chair and fed him a little peanut butter. My son hid behind the chair, and my daughter ran to come and get me. When I walked into the room, Chico was moving his jaws, like he was talking. Meanwhile, my son was reciting the line for Chico from behind the chair. And that was how we acquired our second dog.
But now Chico is solo, and my dad and mom will only have one dog to watch while we are away. My mom commented to me that she was really looking forward to watching both dogs. Like me, she cries almost everyday about our loss. Chico fills most of the empty space though. I wonder if he feels pressure to do so. Last week I could tell he was working hard to help us cope, but now I see a different Chico. At first he seemed sad, and kind of mopey. Now he seems like he is enjoying being king of the castle.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Adopted Hardy
I found these pictures the old fashioned way. The year was 2001. I didn't even own a digital camera. They were taken with my Nikon! The funniest thing about this is we all thought Hardy was adorable in the photo on the left. I still hadn't mastered the Schnauzer groom in the photo on the right. That photo was taken after a bath and a little haircut.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time
Today is the last day of life for the attack dog. The monster will be put to sleep tomorrow. The owner of the dog will be coming home from Japan, and he needs to sign paperwork before the dog gets put down. I learned this from a typed message that was placed on my front porch. The message said that the owner of the dog was remorseful, and he had made the agonizing decision to put his dog down. Agonizing decision? I’ve since learned that his dog has done this to someone else before. This is the second time – not the first time.
I know the owner was trying to make amends with me, but the message tucked under our welcome mat only served to make me feel worse. Unanswered questions circle around through my consciousness. Questions like… If a dog has attacked someone before, how can this decision be agonizing? How do people coexist with dogs that are dangerous to others? Was this dog kind to humans and not small dogs? What was the other attack like? If people do keep dogs like this, shouldn’t they put locks on their gates? Why didn’t the owner lock his gate?
It’s the lock aspect of this that really gets me fuming. There was a lock on my gate because I loved my dog! I was afraid he would accidentally get out and inadvertently get hurt. I also thought my dog was so cool that someone might try and steal him from me. When Hardy was left home alone, he was left inside the house. When I came home, he almost always got to go for a walk. If we didn’t go for a walk, he would tag along on errands with me. That’s the way it was for us.
I guess I’m trying to answer the question, why? As in, why did this have to happen to me? I feel like I had done everything in my power to keep Hardy safe from harm’s way. But I already know the answer. It’s as simple as this. I walked my dog a lot. I was the most likely candidate to be attacked because of the frequency of my walks with Hardy. I lost my little guy because I was too busy being a good owner to him. I was literally at the wrong place at the wrong time.
I know the owner was trying to make amends with me, but the message tucked under our welcome mat only served to make me feel worse. Unanswered questions circle around through my consciousness. Questions like… If a dog has attacked someone before, how can this decision be agonizing? How do people coexist with dogs that are dangerous to others? Was this dog kind to humans and not small dogs? What was the other attack like? If people do keep dogs like this, shouldn’t they put locks on their gates? Why didn’t the owner lock his gate?
It’s the lock aspect of this that really gets me fuming. There was a lock on my gate because I loved my dog! I was afraid he would accidentally get out and inadvertently get hurt. I also thought my dog was so cool that someone might try and steal him from me. When Hardy was left home alone, he was left inside the house. When I came home, he almost always got to go for a walk. If we didn’t go for a walk, he would tag along on errands with me. That’s the way it was for us.
I guess I’m trying to answer the question, why? As in, why did this have to happen to me? I feel like I had done everything in my power to keep Hardy safe from harm’s way. But I already know the answer. It’s as simple as this. I walked my dog a lot. I was the most likely candidate to be attacked because of the frequency of my walks with Hardy. I lost my little guy because I was too busy being a good owner to him. I was literally at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Person I’ve Become
What’s the best thing about being a teacher? Summer break. Except not this year. This year summer break is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I don’t have to take time off to grieve. But on the other hand, the time I looked forward to sharing with Hardy – it has been taken away from me. It seems like nothing is the same here. I love spending time in Santa Cruz, but everything I experience now is without my dog, and that aspect of this visit really is not the same.
I am definitely not functioning the same as I was pre-attack. Take yesterday for example; I went to get some lunch with my son at an outside café. People in Santa Cruz bring their dogs everywhere with them, and it seems to me like everyone here just has to have a big, scary looking dog. Someone at the café had tied their dog to a fence post on the outside of the seating area, and at some point during our lunch, a skateboarder rode by the dog. Obviously it startled the dog because its response was to bark loudly at the passerby. That sound, of the dog barking, caused me to jump out of my skin in fear. Even my son noticed my reaction. It made us both feel sad and uncomfortable because both of us know I have never been afraid of dogs.
At one time in my life, I was the one people called when they needed help with dog aggression. A few of months after I got Hardy, I began doing some volunteer work with a tri-valley nonprofit rescue group. I was so happy with the adoption process, I wanted to share my love of dogs with others in an effort show them how wonderful adopting a dog could be. So I decided to foster small dogs in my home, mostly dogs that hadn’t been socialized with other dogs, or dogs from puppy mills that were afraid of humans. It was to help them rehabilitate so they might turn out to be beloved pets, like Hardy had become for me.
Soon after, I had developed a reputation for helping people out with dog aggression. I’m not exactly sure how, but I think someone from the rescue agency was passing my name around. I think it was because, unbeknownst to me, I was rehabilitating some fairly aggressive dogs. As it turned out, I was doing nothing short of working miracles with them. I believe that Hardy had something to do with it. We worked as a team, Hardy and I. Even though it was heartbreaking work sometimes. I remember having to make the decision to put a food aggressive dog down because he was unsafe for humans. Still I was never afraid of dogs, despite the several dog bite scars I earned at the time.
I think it’s the scar from the way I lost Hardy that bothers me the most these days. I see that attack dog everywhere. I have nightmares about him. Now when I look at big dogs, I see them differently. First I see that they are big, and then I assess their personality. It sucks because I don’t think I am seeing their personality accurately anymore. I have become one of those people that trigger a barking dog, because they sense my fear. A dog with aggressive tendencies will behave strangely amidst the feeling of fear. They react negatively to it, and sometimes they attack. I hate that I know this. It makes me feel more vulnerable than I am already. I am afraid of big dogs. I’ve become the person that, in the past, I’ve tried to help.
I am definitely not functioning the same as I was pre-attack. Take yesterday for example; I went to get some lunch with my son at an outside café. People in Santa Cruz bring their dogs everywhere with them, and it seems to me like everyone here just has to have a big, scary looking dog. Someone at the café had tied their dog to a fence post on the outside of the seating area, and at some point during our lunch, a skateboarder rode by the dog. Obviously it startled the dog because its response was to bark loudly at the passerby. That sound, of the dog barking, caused me to jump out of my skin in fear. Even my son noticed my reaction. It made us both feel sad and uncomfortable because both of us know I have never been afraid of dogs.
At one time in my life, I was the one people called when they needed help with dog aggression. A few of months after I got Hardy, I began doing some volunteer work with a tri-valley nonprofit rescue group. I was so happy with the adoption process, I wanted to share my love of dogs with others in an effort show them how wonderful adopting a dog could be. So I decided to foster small dogs in my home, mostly dogs that hadn’t been socialized with other dogs, or dogs from puppy mills that were afraid of humans. It was to help them rehabilitate so they might turn out to be beloved pets, like Hardy had become for me.
Soon after, I had developed a reputation for helping people out with dog aggression. I’m not exactly sure how, but I think someone from the rescue agency was passing my name around. I think it was because, unbeknownst to me, I was rehabilitating some fairly aggressive dogs. As it turned out, I was doing nothing short of working miracles with them. I believe that Hardy had something to do with it. We worked as a team, Hardy and I. Even though it was heartbreaking work sometimes. I remember having to make the decision to put a food aggressive dog down because he was unsafe for humans. Still I was never afraid of dogs, despite the several dog bite scars I earned at the time.
I think it’s the scar from the way I lost Hardy that bothers me the most these days. I see that attack dog everywhere. I have nightmares about him. Now when I look at big dogs, I see them differently. First I see that they are big, and then I assess their personality. It sucks because I don’t think I am seeing their personality accurately anymore. I have become one of those people that trigger a barking dog, because they sense my fear. A dog with aggressive tendencies will behave strangely amidst the feeling of fear. They react negatively to it, and sometimes they attack. I hate that I know this. It makes me feel more vulnerable than I am already. I am afraid of big dogs. I’ve become the person that, in the past, I’ve tried to help.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Memorial Table
I woke up hearing strange sounds. I thought it was a dogfight, but it was likely a car’s breaks making a high pitched whimpering sound. I came to Santa Cruz yesterday after picking up Hardy’s ashes from the vet. The place where I am staying is close to a busy street. I got up to check out the noise, but there was nothing to see. Just the misty damp ocean air amidst some tall trees on the side of a busy road.
I left Hardy’s ashes in my home. The man who handed them to me was one of the compassionate ones. I spoke with him on phone the day after the attack. The animal control officer at the scene had asked us what we wanted to do with Hardy’s body. She said there were two options: either she would dispose of his body, or we could have his body cremated. We chose the latter, and she responded by telling us about a place, a veterinary practice in a nearby town. She also offered to transport Hardy there for us. It was after Hardy was delivered to the vet’s office when I spoke with Don (not his real name) for the first time.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. I’ve heard those words a lot lately, but somehow when I heard Don say it, I was comforted a little more than usual. There was sincerity in his voice, and his gentle, quiet demeanor was soothing. I found myself recounting what happened for him, but it seemed important for me to tell him not to look at Hardy’s body. I recounted how everyone at the scene didn’t want me to see his body, and I took their word for it. I think Don did too, but he said one other thing that I doubt I’ll be able to forget. It was about the other dog. He said, “Go through with the prosecution,” and he handed me a disk with photos of my dog before the cremation. Then he said, “This is for the D.A.” I tucked the disk in my purse knowing that I would never access those photos.
I was able to drive to the vet, but it was my daughter who drove us home. The wooden box that held Hardy’s ashes was heavier than I thought it would be. I held it on my lap reverently, thinking about how much I loved my dog. The last time I held him in my lap alive was when we were driving home from my daughter’s graduation at the UC. I remember feeling guilty because I couldn’t bring him to the grad ceremony, and I held noodle boy during the drive all the way home. So when we arrived with Hardy’s ashes on this day, I was feeling strong knowing what I would do with the box. I walked directly to the table with all of the cards and flowers and memorabilia. I had subconsciously created a memorial area for Hardy already.
I asked my daughter if she thought the memorial table was bothering her in any way. Her reply surprised me. She said that she thought the family needed the memorial area to help with the grieving process. I had hoped that was how everyone felt, but sometimes I was skeptical. However, after placing that box on the table, it felt proper. A small part of Hardy was now there in my home in a special place that I’d created just for him. One that would be there waiting for us when we return.
I left Hardy’s ashes in my home. The man who handed them to me was one of the compassionate ones. I spoke with him on phone the day after the attack. The animal control officer at the scene had asked us what we wanted to do with Hardy’s body. She said there were two options: either she would dispose of his body, or we could have his body cremated. We chose the latter, and she responded by telling us about a place, a veterinary practice in a nearby town. She also offered to transport Hardy there for us. It was after Hardy was delivered to the vet’s office when I spoke with Don (not his real name) for the first time.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. I’ve heard those words a lot lately, but somehow when I heard Don say it, I was comforted a little more than usual. There was sincerity in his voice, and his gentle, quiet demeanor was soothing. I found myself recounting what happened for him, but it seemed important for me to tell him not to look at Hardy’s body. I recounted how everyone at the scene didn’t want me to see his body, and I took their word for it. I think Don did too, but he said one other thing that I doubt I’ll be able to forget. It was about the other dog. He said, “Go through with the prosecution,” and he handed me a disk with photos of my dog before the cremation. Then he said, “This is for the D.A.” I tucked the disk in my purse knowing that I would never access those photos.
I was able to drive to the vet, but it was my daughter who drove us home. The wooden box that held Hardy’s ashes was heavier than I thought it would be. I held it on my lap reverently, thinking about how much I loved my dog. The last time I held him in my lap alive was when we were driving home from my daughter’s graduation at the UC. I remember feeling guilty because I couldn’t bring him to the grad ceremony, and I held noodle boy during the drive all the way home. So when we arrived with Hardy’s ashes on this day, I was feeling strong knowing what I would do with the box. I walked directly to the table with all of the cards and flowers and memorabilia. I had subconsciously created a memorial area for Hardy already.
I asked my daughter if she thought the memorial table was bothering her in any way. Her reply surprised me. She said that she thought the family needed the memorial area to help with the grieving process. I had hoped that was how everyone felt, but sometimes I was skeptical. However, after placing that box on the table, it felt proper. A small part of Hardy was now there in my home in a special place that I’d created just for him. One that would be there waiting for us when we return.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Nights Are The Worst
Last night, I thought I was doing great. I had just sat down after coming home from a visit with my dad and mom, a two-hour drive both ways. I was streaming a show to eat up the time while waiting for my son to call and tell me he completed the drive back to Santa Cruz where he lives. My daughter was in her room, talking on the telephone with her best friend, and Paul was babysitting me as we watched the show. Everyone knows I can’t be alone any more. I don’t even have to ask. Someone in my immediate family simply stays with me until I go to bed. Everyday. My daughter is particularly sweet. When Paul isn’t there, she will stay with me and wait until I fall asleep before going to bed. Finally the phone rang, and it was my son telling me that he had arrived home in one piece. Once I got the reassurance that he was all right, it was time for going to bed.
I used to LOVE being alone. I work as a teacher and before summer break; one of my favorite times of the day would be after the bell rang and I would tidy my classroom and prepare for the next day’s instruction. I was usually home by 4 PM, and the only one waiting for me at home was Hardy. It was almost a ritual. I would come home at four, change my clothes, and take Hardy for a walk. Before the dog attack, I was struggling to lose the four to five pounds I put on over the course of the school year. So I walked Hardy nearly everyday. I used to say he was my “gym.” Now I don’t have a dog to walk, not that it matters, I’ve already lost all of those troublesome pounds. In one week, I’ve lost the pounds it takes me to lose all summer.
But now it was time for bed, and it started to get dark inside again. I was not one of those dog owners who have a separate place for their dog to sleep. Hardy was allowed… no encouraged, to sleep on the king size bed with Paul and me. The bedtime routine began with Hardy and I going upstairs to lie down, and then Paul would come up a little later. I need a lot of sleep to keep the patience necessary to be a good educator, so it was natural for me to retire earlier than almost anyone in the house. Hardy would usually want to go to bed even earlier. We used to call him “noodle boy” before he went to bed. His body was so relaxed he looked like a noodle when he was tired, and noodle boy got tired around eight o’clock.
So after my son called, we went upstairs to retire, and the attack flashbacks began again. It’s the replay of what happened during the attack, and it kept on running, and running, and running. My therapist says the flashbacks will keep happening, but as time goes on, the space between their occurrences will get longer and longer. I look forward to that day because they suck. I never win, and Hardy is always left there on the pavement. I hate those images. I wonder if they will ever go away.
I used to LOVE being alone. I work as a teacher and before summer break; one of my favorite times of the day would be after the bell rang and I would tidy my classroom and prepare for the next day’s instruction. I was usually home by 4 PM, and the only one waiting for me at home was Hardy. It was almost a ritual. I would come home at four, change my clothes, and take Hardy for a walk. Before the dog attack, I was struggling to lose the four to five pounds I put on over the course of the school year. So I walked Hardy nearly everyday. I used to say he was my “gym.” Now I don’t have a dog to walk, not that it matters, I’ve already lost all of those troublesome pounds. In one week, I’ve lost the pounds it takes me to lose all summer.
But now it was time for bed, and it started to get dark inside again. I was not one of those dog owners who have a separate place for their dog to sleep. Hardy was allowed… no encouraged, to sleep on the king size bed with Paul and me. The bedtime routine began with Hardy and I going upstairs to lie down, and then Paul would come up a little later. I need a lot of sleep to keep the patience necessary to be a good educator, so it was natural for me to retire earlier than almost anyone in the house. Hardy would usually want to go to bed even earlier. We used to call him “noodle boy” before he went to bed. His body was so relaxed he looked like a noodle when he was tired, and noodle boy got tired around eight o’clock.
So after my son called, we went upstairs to retire, and the attack flashbacks began again. It’s the replay of what happened during the attack, and it kept on running, and running, and running. My therapist says the flashbacks will keep happening, but as time goes on, the space between their occurrences will get longer and longer. I look forward to that day because they suck. I never win, and Hardy is always left there on the pavement. I hate those images. I wonder if they will ever go away.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Father's Day
Have you ever seen a grown man cry? I remember waiting for my husband to come home on Hardy's last day. I was lying on the porch, and one of the kindest men in the neighborhood was stroking my hair repeating over and over, "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault." I had found my way outside after washing the stench off my body; the clothes I had been wearing were strewn in a heap inside the shower, and I left them there in a soaked mass. I was inconsolable though - I felt like I had just lost the battle of my life. I don't remember how long I lay on the porch when I finally saw my husband walking up the driveway. He had been contacted at work, and he didn't really know exactly what happened, only that Hardy was gone. As soon as my eyes met his, he began crying.I ran to him and he held me tightly in his arms, weeping mournfully. I remember thinking, if he was only there with me, this wouldn't have happened. There was some relief upon his arrival because I knew he would be feeling the pain over the loss of our little doggie as much as me. He asked me to tell him what happened, and I did. I kept repeating, "I couldn't save him. I couldn't save him," and "If you were there, this wouldn't have happened. You're so strong." As I pressed my face to his chest, I felt that there was finally someone with me who shared my pain. He loved Hardy too. He shared his life with him too. He was the father of my children, even Hardy. It was his idea on our weekend trip to Wine Country last April to bring Hardy along. The people we met on our tour of the Castello di Amorosa likely remember our sweet little companion dog.
How Hardy loved men! I remember how he was with my own father. There was a special bond between them. My dad used to rough house with Hardy a little, and when I went away with my family on a trip, it was my dad and mom who took over the care taking of Hardy. My dad usually had stories to tell me upon my return. Most of the stories were of their walks. It was my father who called me after he got the news from my sister; it's usually mom who calls. To this day, I don't think I've ever seen my father cry. My dad is from the generation that fought in the Korean War. Men from his generation don't cry - at least not outwardly. But on this day over the telephone, I could tell that my father was really heartbroken about our loss. I held the telephone to my ear, as he expressed his condolences, puzzled over what I was hearing. My dad was sincerely shedding tears over the loss of Hardy. “I’m really broken up by this,” he sobbed.
When I think about the men who were with me on that day, I feel a vast source of strength and power. I don’t feel alone in my pain and grief. Those men were extraordinary: from the neighborhood men who fought by my side and held me up during the walk to my home, to the man who stroked my hair on my porch, to my husband and father who share my grief, to the police officer who wrote the report. Somehow my loss seems more significant because they cried. Because it takes a lot to make a grown man cry.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
In Case You Wonder How it Happened
I was walking my dog, Hardy, on the sidewalk in my neighborhood, when a pit bull crept around the corner of a nearby house. I noticed that it wore a collar, and therefore must be someone’s pet, but I could see that there was going to be trouble because the dog had made piercing eye contact with Hardy, as it picked up it’s pace towards us. I stepped in front of the attacking dog in an attempt to break the visual connection. The next thing I knew the pit bull was charging towards Hardy. He latched onto Hardy’s neck.
I had stopped dogfights before, and I thought this time was no different. I yelled, “NO,” to persuade the pit bull to stop, while reaching for its collar and pulling with all my might, trying to make it let go. It didn’t work. I could tell from the strength of the dog’s clenched jaw that this dog meant serious business, and I looked down at Hardy who was struggling to free himself. I cleared my mind to think about what I could try next. I remembered what I had learned some time ago in a dog-training class: get a firm hold on both of the attacking dog’s hind legs and pull. I bent down and grabbed the hind legs and pulled upwards with all of my might. The dog was too strong.
I began to realize that my dog’s life was in danger. I pulled harder and higher, my bladder released a steady stream of urine, and I fell backwards from the force of the pull. Hardy looked at me, still alive, and I silently vowed to save him. As I hit the pavement, I noticed Hardy’s bowels purge. There was precious little time left. The pit bull’s body was on top of me and Hardy was still trapped inside its jaws. I screamed as loud as I could for help, until a boy, around age 11, came to my aid. He began punching the dog, but the dog shook Hardy back and forth in it’s jaws even more. I noticed a car had stopped next to the sidewalk. The boy gave up, and the car drove away.
All of a sudden, more help arrived. My neighbor from across the street arrived to assist. I learned later that the boy ran to his friend’s house to find someone stronger, and then to his own home to get his father. As my neighbor and I wrestled with the pit bull, the boy’s father came cautiously towards us with a large stick, and my neighbor wrenched on the pit bull’s collar. At some point, my neighbor began urging me away from the brawl. I remember him telling me that my dog was gone, and I should be aware that the pit bull might turn on me. He coerced me to let go, and guided me inside an observer’s home. They closed the door, as I hysterically wailed enormous sobs of despair.
I had stopped dogfights before, and I thought this time was no different. I yelled, “NO,” to persuade the pit bull to stop, while reaching for its collar and pulling with all my might, trying to make it let go. It didn’t work. I could tell from the strength of the dog’s clenched jaw that this dog meant serious business, and I looked down at Hardy who was struggling to free himself. I cleared my mind to think about what I could try next. I remembered what I had learned some time ago in a dog-training class: get a firm hold on both of the attacking dog’s hind legs and pull. I bent down and grabbed the hind legs and pulled upwards with all of my might. The dog was too strong.
I began to realize that my dog’s life was in danger. I pulled harder and higher, my bladder released a steady stream of urine, and I fell backwards from the force of the pull. Hardy looked at me, still alive, and I silently vowed to save him. As I hit the pavement, I noticed Hardy’s bowels purge. There was precious little time left. The pit bull’s body was on top of me and Hardy was still trapped inside its jaws. I screamed as loud as I could for help, until a boy, around age 11, came to my aid. He began punching the dog, but the dog shook Hardy back and forth in it’s jaws even more. I noticed a car had stopped next to the sidewalk. The boy gave up, and the car drove away.
All of a sudden, more help arrived. My neighbor from across the street arrived to assist. I learned later that the boy ran to his friend’s house to find someone stronger, and then to his own home to get his father. As my neighbor and I wrestled with the pit bull, the boy’s father came cautiously towards us with a large stick, and my neighbor wrenched on the pit bull’s collar. At some point, my neighbor began urging me away from the brawl. I remember him telling me that my dog was gone, and I should be aware that the pit bull might turn on me. He coerced me to let go, and guided me inside an observer’s home. They closed the door, as I hysterically wailed enormous sobs of despair.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
All About Hardy
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