Watching Hardy's Posterior

If Trixie was bound to be living in some other home than mine, then Hardy was destined to be living with me. It was the classic girl and her dog scenario. I could remember having childhood dogs in my life, but nothing compared to the bond I felt with Hardy. For some reason, I could see past his flaws and recognize nothing but potential. I believe it was because he was so smart. Perhaps it was because I was so in need.

In any case, what I found when Hardy began to live with us, was it was getting easier for me to get up from bed everyday. I had found a sense of purpose, however small. In regard to Hardy, it was to care for and help him learn to behave because soon after he came to us, his bad habits emerged almost immediately and without hesitation. The biggest problem behavior was to get Hardy to stop escaping from our front door, gate, car, or any other opening that led to the great outdoors and out into neighborhood traffic! It was as if the game of watch me run away from you was his reason for being. If an opening was there he would take it, and unfortunately for me, that was often since there were two kids and myself coming and going. In secret, I thought a better name for Hardy would have been Dash.

Because our home was situated on the corner of a cul-de-sac, the danger of getting hit by a car in our neighborhood was always a threat. People in their cars came zipping around our street corner without restraint on a regular basis. This made getting Hardy to stop his practice of testing my sprinting ability a matter of life and death and my foremost goal. I had remembered in my conditioning and learning class that animals learned their responses to a certain stimuli based on repetition. So in an effort to re-create an appropriate response to the “open door” stimulus, I decided the opposite behavior would be a better response. In other words, I wanted Hardy to respond to seeing an open door by coming to me, not running from me.

At that time, one of my favorite shows on television was called, Good Dog U. I enjoyed watching the dog trainer on the show visit people’s homes and help them with their dog’s bad behaviors. His advice seemed to bring about successful results, and his techniques didn’t involve any type of punishment. One day, after viewing an episode, I was inspired to come up with a plan to try and retrain Hardy.

I decided to make the front door the place to begin training, since it was the largest most easily accessible problem area. I began training him when the kids were away at school and the house was quiet. Over and over again, like I had seen on the television show, I set up the problem scenario and rewarded the desired response. I started by opening the door; then I would call Hardy’s name. I shook a baggie of treats in my hand to entice him to come to me, and every time he would happily oblige, I would reward him. We practiced this day after day, until I felt it was time to introduce the idea to the kids.

We practiced these sorts of sessions for about a week or two, and I had even witnessed a couple of times when Hardy successfully resisted running out the front door when the opportunity presented itself. I was fairly confident that the bolting behavior had at least been modified. And then it happened.

Adoption Day

As my only challenger for the doggie walked away from the pen, I can remember wondering if the man was our little doggie’s past owner. There seemed to be something going on between them, and it looked as if he was saying good-bye for the last time. I’ll never know if that was what was happening, and moments later the woman who had asked me to wait for the paperwork was taking out the ID card on the cage, and bringing out my new little friend. She picked him up and handed him to me to carry to the front desk.

“Ready to go to your forever home?” she said to the dog.

Once we were back at the front desk, I couldn’t believe my luck. Adopting the dog wasn’t even a financial stretch. The total cost to me was less than thirty-five dollars, which I paid in cash. He had already had his shots, dewclaws had been removed, and he was already neutered. Obviously someone had once cared for this animal. I thought I was the luckiest woman on the planet that day. I hitched him up to a new collar and leash that I had picked up before adoption day, and off we went to conquer the world.

What should we name him? I wondered as I loaded him into the car for the first time. He was extremely excited, and he jumped around the car sniffing everything. I began driving home, keeping my window rolled down while holding him in my lap, but after awhile he seemed more interested in riding in the back seat with his paws outstretched on the center arm rest. As I drove the car, I felt his muzzle rest gently on my shoulder. I felt comforted as I maneuvered the car towards home, my new sidekick tagging along with me, having no idea that this behavior would become something that would happen on a regular basis throughout our days together.

It was a sunny, fall day outside, and the kids weren’t supposed to be home for a couple of hours, so I used this time to let him become acquainted with his new boundaries. I kept him on his leash so I could lead him around. After walking him up the front path, I ushered him through the house, and directly to our rather large backyard, beginning by walking him around the entire perimeter. I praised him every time he lifted his leg. By the time I was convinced that he was done marking his new territory, we went for the indoor tour. He walked and sniffed through all the rooms, and ended up in the kitchen, where I proceeded to begin working on grooming his matted, filthy fur.

He had a brusque, unkempt coat that had grown long around his face and eyes, but the hair on his back was very short. I surmised that it had been trimmed at the shelter, but in truth, I had no idea why or how it had been done. He still had long hair around his neck, chest, and tummy. After a warm bath in the sink, his silver gray coat shone brightly in the sun outside. I decided to trim some of the long wispy hair around his eyes so he could see. Once he was bathed and trimmed, I thought he looked magnificent. I hadn’t expected to fall in love with the little guy so quickly, but by now I was smitten. He was extremely well behaved in my company, and like the magazine article I had recently glanced at about Schnauzers, he seemed to enjoy being groomed and petted.

After the bath and the groom job, I snapped a couple of pictures. I wanted to have some before and after shots. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I made the comparison. By now, I thought he was ready to go around and explore the yard off leash. I let him go and he began to sniff around as I followed him. To this day I wonder if the first thing he tried to do was locate a weakness in the fencing, because he would turn out to be quite the escape artist. He ended up in the farthest corner of our property peering out at the ducks that were swimming by in the flood canal, his stubbed tail wagging non-stop.
Finally it was time to pick the kids up from school. By this time, I had bounced several names around in my head, but nothing seemed to quite fit him. I thought it might be nice if one of the kids named the dog, so when my son suggested the name, Hardy, I was delighted. Our new doggie now had a home and a name. It was time for the fun to begin.

Suggestions and Stipulations

Even if it was not going to work out, while the kids wandered around the shelter, I asked the man if we could take the little one someplace quiet so I could have some one-on-one time. I wasn’t sold on the pooch yet, and I wanted to see if I could get him to sit. I didn’t want any of us to get attached, but at the same time I didn’t want to take a dog home that didn’t want to let me to practice using my behaviorist skills.

The man allowed the indulgence and ushered the dog and me to a small, private “get acquainted” room. I knew I didn’t have much time before the kids would discover me with the dog, so once alone in that room, I got busy. Not only was I able to get the dog to sit, I was also able to get him to track the treat and follow me around the room off leash. I thought it was a great sign, and by the time the kids found me working with my new friend, he was sitting on the floor by my side. I felt like I had located a golden nugget, and I didn’t want anyone to discover that there was more gold in here until I had secured it all for myself. I gave some treats to the kids, told them to see if they could get the dog to sit, and took off to look for the volunteer who had been assisting me.

“What’s the story with that stray little doggie?” I had located the man in a room where he had grabbed the magazine earlier. I guessed it was like an office for the people who helped out at the shelter. When I looked around I saw sign in sheets, books about dogs and cats, a lot of magazines, and animal supplies everywhere. I felt a little like I was intruding, but he made me feel at ease, gesturing towards a whiteboard with notes written about the dogs that were available.“My boy seems to have bonded with him already. I know the dog is not available until next week. Is he off limits, or something?” I continued.

            “Kind of,” he replied. “We hold dogs for two weeks after they have been picked up to give the owner time to locate them here at the shelter… in case they are lost, and someone wants them back.” The man went on to inform me that he had seen this sort of thing happen quite often, and that it was unlikely anyone would come in to claim the dog by now. I felt encouraged as we walked back to the room where the kids were still playing with the little stray.

“Small dogs are very popular, and this one is a pure breed,” he continued. “If you want him as your pet, you are going to have to work for it.” He was addressing my son more than me.

In the end, his advice was simple. Keep the dog “busy” everyday; monopolize his time at the shelter in an effort to try and keep other people from becoming interested in adopting him. This way we would narrow down the odds of having to compete in a lottery drawing. We were additionally instructed to be here as the shelter opened its doors on the dog’s release day. For once, I felt like not having a job was a good thing.

            The volunteer left us alone again to play with the dog and mull things over, but we were already convinced that it was worth a try. We took over as caretakers for our little stray friend at that moment, and none of us wavered in our resolve to adopt him. We stayed at the shelter until it closed that day, and by the time we were home, we were planning our next visit. We spent the entire weekend at the animal shelter, and during the weekdays when the kids were out of school, I would pick them up and we’d drive off to the shelter to visit our dog “in jail.”

            The folks who worked at the shelter became accustomed to seeing our faces, and they eventually allowed us to walk the dog outside along a sidewalk, if we stayed close to the shelter. So by the time adoption day came, we were well acquainted with the dog, who had by now learned to sit on command. He was a terror on the leash, walking around the shelter, but we were all sure that we could get him under control over time. What we loved most about him was how affectionate he was. He loved to be held, and petted, and hugged, and he loved to sit and relax in our laps.

            On the Wednesday that our potential pet was “available.” I dropped off the kids at school, and listened to their explicit instructions not to be late to the shelter. I assured them that I would be on time, knowing full well that I didn’t plan on being late. So it wasn’t a surprise when I was parked outside the animal shelter exactly thirty minutes before the doors would open. My plan was to watch for the first sign of life, and then go in to announce my intentions before anyone else could stop me or compete with me for our dog.

            Finally, someone unlocked the doors. Mine was the only car in the lot, and it felt great knowing that our plan to monopolize the time of our chosen one had worked. I walked inside the shelter, greeted by the officers who I had come accustomed to seeing me everyday. “It’s adoption day!” I proclaimed with glee.

            I felt like it was the beginning of a turn for the better. This adoption seemed to be falling into place without contest. There was no one else clamoring for the door, and that meant no one to compete against me in a lottery drawing. It was the quiet, first part of the shelter day, and I alone wanted to adopt the little Schnauzer. I felt elated.

            The officer at the front desk asked me to wait a couple of moments as she got the paperwork together, and she suggested I take the walk to the back of the shelter where my little doggie awaited. I happily complied. As I waited back there, a quiet, well-dressed, young businessman walked up and initiated a chat with me.

            “Are you planning on adopting this dog?” he asked.

            “Yes. We’ve been excitedly waiting for this day,” I answered. “My son is particularly attached to him. He is going to be so happy to have a dog. He’s been wanting one for some time now.”

            The man looked at me curiously, “You have a son?”

            “Yes, and a daughter too. We’ve really been wanting a dog. This one seems perfect for us,” I answered.

            “Well. I won’t compete against you,” he looked at the Mini-Schnauzer and then back at me. “My wife will be disappointed, but she keeps saying she wants a Pug, so I won’t compete. You’ve got a boy.”

Introductions

After Trixie, and everything else that had gone awry in my life, I was questioning if I could tolerate yet another failure. At the same time, I knew that I needed some sense of purpose if I was going to conquer the uphill mental struggle I was taking on. The desire to pull out of my depressive fog was burning inside of me, and this new task helped me to see that I had not given up altogether. There was still hope. With all of the time I had on my hands, I had survived with ideas to move forward. They were nothing too radical, but I had completed all of that remarkable education, and I had resolved to put my focus there. I was willing to give a new dog a try, but this time I would do it differently. I planned to stack the deck in my favor.

Fortunately for me, the field of psychology has an aspect that I had not yet found useful, but it was indeed present in the back of my memory bank that day at the shelter. It was a pleasant surprise to begin to access my knowledge in the field of conditioning and learning, as well as behaviorist techniques for training animals. During my undergraduate work, I remembered taking a course that detailed much of the work of B.F. Skinner, and of course, Pavlov (the psychologist that performed a lot of research with dogs). So I was already familiar with Skinner’s techniques teaching mice and pigeons to perform certain tasks based on positive reinforcement. 

I decided to put my schema to use while doing the dog search. When I embarked with my children to the animal shelter to look for our new pet, we stopped along the way to pick up some tasty dog treats. I was planning on using the treats to do a sort of test to see if our doggie of choice was “trainable.” I didn't plan to leave with any animal that I couldn't get to sit by using the positive reinforcement techniques I had learned in college. I also knew I didn’t want a puppy. I thought that a puppy would be too much of a challenge.

I realized I wanted a companion animal, one that was small enough to be a lap pet, so I had already convinced the kids to keep an eye out for a small dog. We all agreed that the animal shouldn’t be more than about twenty pounds. We also knew that we didn’t want a dog from a “pack” breed, one from the hound family like Trixie had been. That was the list of search criteria when we entered the shelter looking for our new pet companion: no puppies or pack animals, small when full grown, and trainable.

As we got out of the car and began walking towards the shelter doors, a nice man greeted us, “What type of animal are you looking for?”

“We want a small dog,” my son answered.

“We have a few small dogs here today,” the man continued. “The smaller dogs are kept over on the East side of the building in the back.” He led us towards the correct location inside the shelter, and opened the door to a corridor that had several small dogs secured inside their pens. The air felt clammy and cold and smelled like a campground lavatory. The clamor of nonstop barking and howling filled our ears, and when we looked around, all we could see were little dogs with tired eyes staring back at us with what looked like despair.

“I like this one,” my son was gesturing towards a smaller, matted up, silver-gray wreck of a dog, who looked like a tangled mess of fur. The dog was yipping and leaping around at the gate with glee upon meeting my son for the first time.

“That one came in last week,” our volunteer guide stated. “He’s a Miniature Schnauzer, but he’s not available yet. He was picked up as a stray, along with another dog. His owners may contact the shelter and retrieve him until the deadline, which is next Wednesday.”

My son looked heartbroken, and as we continued to search for a dog, he kept coming back again and again to the silver-gray Mini-Schnauzer. My daughter and I went around to all of the other dogs that were available, and were unsuccessful in locating an appropriate pet. The man seemed to take this into account, and brought over a magazine that showed a Mini-Schnauzer with a proper groom. While it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, the dog in the magazine looked sleek and handsome. Most importantly, when it was full grown, it would be small. As I skimmed the magazine article, I became more interested in trying to see if the little doggie would be intelligent. The article noted that the breed was a great family pet, bred to keep the rodents away, a quick learner, and intuitively wanted to please. I was intrigued.

The Day I Met Hardy

Can you imagine how I felt after working towards a time consuming, all encompassing career goal only to learn that it didn't suit me? It was as if I was lost a dense forest, and I couldn't find my way out. Up until this point, I had maintained a positive, can-do attitude, but as my resolve to stick with counseling wavered, so did my mental state. Day after day I showed up at my internships only to realize I was marking time out of obligation. On the one hand, I was enjoying helping out the kids, but on the other I knew that I had made a grave mistake in career paths, and I needed to stop. As the academic year came to a close, I passed along the information to my superiors that I wouldn't be returning.

My mental state went into a tail spin as I bore witness to my life hurling downward. By the time the school year ended, it seemed like everything was off kilter. My marriage was over, my career was flawed, my friends and family were busy with their own lives, and I still didn't have a salary. In fact, I hadn't really moved forward financially at all. I was still completely dependent upon the court ordered spousal and family support. This was something I longed to rectify. My deepest desire was to be a strong, self sufficient, financially independent woman, and I wasn’t even close to the mark. 

I decided to take the summer to try and get back on track. My ex had been planning to take the kids on their annual weeklong adventure to visit his family in the Pacific Northwest. Realizing that I hadn't gone anywhere in years, I decided to take a road trip to an all inclusive, low priced vegetarian place in Mendocino. I surmised that the change of scenery would do me good. That week flew by, and when I returned home rested and refreshed, I found I felt guilty for even allowing myself to go away in the first place. I had spent money on myself, and having money to spend on something as frivolous as a vacation did not feel right.

I put all of my efforts into finding a job. Before I left, I had put a decent resume together and had been job-hunting a little, but nothing opened up for me in terms of employment. I was hoping there would be some hope upon my return, after all I did succeed in getting my name out there, but there was no new information waiting for me at home. I knew I had skills that could be used out in the work force, but I didn't know where or how to apply them. After receiving all of that education, I didn’t want to compromise one thing. I wanted to earn a salary. I was sick of earning an hourly wage. At the same time, I needed something that would fit into the busy schedule of being a parent. As I searched and searched, I kept coming up with nothing.

In addition to this, there were many items around the house that needed fixing, but either I wasn't strong enough, physically, or I didn't have the money. My social life was practically non-existent. I began to lose interest in just about everything, including the job hunt. I was defeated, and I knew it. It was slowly becoming more and more difficult to even get the motivation to get out of bed, let alone search for a job. By the time school was in session again, no longer working as an intern, I was having trouble getting the motivation to change out of my pajamas. I was fairly certain that I was clinically depressed, and I didn’t know where to turn.

It was my son, who came home after school one day and holding my hand in his stated simply, “Mom, you need to get up! Let’s go to the animal shelter and look for a dog.” I don’t know where he came up with the idea, and I didn’t think it would help, but I did it for him. I got myself out of bed, and we drove to the local shelter. That was the day I met Hardy.

Ready for the Tests

After receiving a graduate degree in counseling psychology, there was a final requirement to be met prior to taking the licensing exams. In order to register to take the tests, candidates must first provide evidence for three thousand face-to-face hours of counseling practice, which must also have been signed off under the supervision of a licensed therapist. After meeting that requirement, I would then be allowed to take two challenging examinations. One of them was written, multiple-choice, and electronic. The other was oral, given in a small group, panel type format, set in front of three licensing therapists. Thanks to my diligent efforts, and some excellent advising, I was set for success.

Throughout my academic study, and as a way to stay connected with my children as their mother, I had been volunteering my way through their elementary classrooms. Because I loved working with the students, and because it was also convenient, I received the needed face-to-face counseling hours as a paid counseling intern working within the school district. It fit perfectly into my life as a parent and an aspiring therapist. I loved that I could help out with my own children, while getting to know their classmates and friends, and I loved that I could remain involved in their lives. Meanwhile, I was fortunate to get paid a small hourly wage as a part time counselor at different schools, while I prepared to take the licensing examinations. It wasn't long before I had the counseling hours behind me. I felt ready to take the tests.

Unfortunately, as I began to prepare for the final licensing stage, something started to feel off. The condition that I remain emotionally objective towards my clients was causing an uneasy feeling to peek out from inside of me. What many people don't know about therapists is that it is against the law for them to have outside relationships with their clients. That meant I had to change a few aspects of my life. Under the law, I could no longer be social with some of my neighbors and other parents who might have been indirectly involved with a person I was counseling. It's called a "dual relationship," and it's illegal. I found myself withdrawing from or declining various events because of my vocation.

For this reason, it became difficult to maintain friendships with anyone who didn't practice counseling as a profession. I felt trapped inside a network of giving people who were providing an invaluable service to others. We were listening to problems day in and day out, and helping people overcome what were their seemingly insurmountable obstacles. At the same time we were not allowed to be friends with the people we were helping, and we were required to keep everything (including their triumphs) confidential. These were strong people who were struggling against the odds to improve their lives, and they were doing it. Suffice it to say that keeping them at arms length was not easy, and saying good-bye to them when they were at their best was emotionally draining.

Add to this the fact that all of these relationships which began in therapy always began with a depressing edge. I sat and listened to people discuss things that were psychologically disturbing. While many of the problems, at least for the children, were generic or social, other problems were bigger and deeper than any child should ever have to experience, and hearing all of these for over two year's time, instilled within me a cynical attitude towards daily life that I didn't like at all. I started to see the dark side of humanity in everything, and ultimately, it was that aspect of the counseling profession that caused me to decide to stop pursuing a license to practice.

Ed Psych Group Therapy

If there is one thing I have learned during my life it is this: things always change. So it should come as no surprise that my quest for obtaining the MFCC license went directly in accordance with a full swing course of change.

The educational psychology program at the school I was attending was in flux. There was a never ending stream of professors coming and going, and the ones who were tenured were bickering with eachother like partisan polititians. The bound group to which I was a part, changed as I became closer with some of the students, and over time our large group of about forty, whittled down to a smaller group of eight - due to our required weekly supervision sessions. We shared together, cried together, studied together, practiced together, and even grieved together when we lost one of our participants unexpectedly due to a car crash. It was like being part of a giant therapy group for two solid years.

I had learned about marital problems, sexual orientation, racism, sexism, chemical dependence, co-dependence, counseling theory, psychological theory, theoretical approaches, and more. All of this learning took place in a classroom with our desks arranged in a large circle where, after reading chapters upon chapters of a given subject, we would discus our thoughts and impressions about it. There was always a time consuming major exam at the end. I surmised these were to help us with test anxiety, and to get us prepared for the licensing exams that loomed out there like the finishing tape of a marathon.

There was a large emphasis placed on ethics in the counseling program. There was not only an entire class about ethics, it was also discussed in each and every course. I believe that the emphasis on ethics changed my life more than anything else. After every counseling session, when evaluating courses, whenever I would make a decision, even when deciding how parent, or communicate with my ex, I would ask myself: What was the ethical path? It was drilled into me to always, always, always to make the ethical, and lawful, choice.

By the time I had completed the graduate requirements, I was a completely different person. I was an excellent listener and collaborator. I was emotionally stable, confident, and secure with who I was. The decisions I made were well thought out, and ethical almost by nature, not out of guilt or shame, but because it felt right. I felt grounded in a way that is difficult to put into words. I was starting to feel comfortable flowing with change instead of fighting against it. I was less afraid of most things.

Grad School

I felt a huge load of responsibility completely wiped away upon the last car door slam that contained my high maintenance pet in route to her new home. With this came a lot more time to reflect about my life in general. In some ways I felt like a little child who had begged her parents for a pet, only to discover that it was too much responsibility. I had performed a hand-off to another more responsible adult, and it made me feel like a quitter and a failure. In other ways, I felt great! I knew in my heart that she would be better off. To this day, I don't like thinking about how that dog, my first experience in allowing myself a type of indulgence, didn't work out for me. It didn't matter that it had worked out for her. That was't enough.

As a single parent, I was trying to be a good role model for my children. There was a load of guilt that I felt for breaking things off with their dad. Being the best parent I could be was my first and foremost goal. I had always thought it important to show them how to be a good person by example. After the divorce, I discovered that I was wearing my best poker face more and more. This was uncharted territory for me. I wanted to be a great mother, and at the same time be true to myself. Instinctively, I knew that I had to keep trying to succeed and the rest would follow. So I kept getting up day after day, sticking to my goals, hoping that things would get a little bit easier, and that I wouldn't continue to feel so isolated and alone.

I began to realize that my life was already a super busy place when the kids were home. Because I was sharing custody with my ex, I was still performing almost all of my original parental duties, driving them to and fro, helping them with homework, making sure they didn't go hungry, sharing quality time with them at bedtime. The kids lived with me in our original home most of the time. My ex took them to his place every other weekend. Those visits began after school on Thursday and I would get the kids back when I'd pick them up from school on Monday. I was fine when they were around, but when they were with him, I was miserable and lonely. I needed something, and I didn't know what.

While I was going through the divorce, somehow I had managed to graduate from college. I had heard so many times that college graduates make more money, but I didn't have a compass to navigate the re-employment territory. I didn't think it was going to be easy to enter the workforce, but I knew that it couldn't be impossible. Also, I was a little desperate to make money, and it was powerful motivator. I kept thinking to myself. I worked hard to get though college, and I didn't get paid. Now I want to see what it's like working and getting paid. So I bounced around from job to job, feeling too far behind the pack, and at the same time being grounded in one place by the responsibilities of single parenting. It was a frustrating time filled with crappy babysitters, new technology, stress, conference calls, meetings, travel, and never enough money for me to feel like I was financially stable or able to stand on my own two feet without the support of my ex.

One Sunday, during a conference call, I realized something. I felt like I was on treadmill, working really hard, and not getting anywhere. I also realized something else. It seemed more rewarding to be a student AND a parent than it did to have a job. I had become all too accustomed to financial struggle, so I felt I had nothing to lose. I decided to go further down the path of learning about psychology. I decided to take out some student loans, and get my graduate degree in counseling psychology. My ultimate goal was to become a Marriage, Family, Child Counselor or MFCC for short.

Trixie - The Beginning

Making the decision for the first time to get a dog was like a right of passage for me. I had recently gone through a divorce, and rather than support my decision to move into another direction, my parents had turned their backs on me, only to provide loving support to my ex. I was feeling completely cut off from everyone. All of my friends from the "happily married days" didn't seem to know how to treat me or what to say, and little by little they just kind of dropped out of the radar screen. All I knew back then was I needed a job, and I needed a loyal companion. I tried dating at first, but that didn't pan out very well.

I was extremely lonely and an emotional wreck back then. My divorce wasn't even final when I found myself involved with a talented guitarist in a country band, who was about eight years younger than myself. I think I might have known at the time that it would never work, but he was there for me in a way that my ex never was. He listened to what I said. He didn't expect things from me. Somehow he made me feel respected, and cherished, and intelligent when I was around him. In many ways, I think of this man as my first love, not because I hadn't been around the block, but because I was still so naive back then. I wasn't raised to grow up and have a career. I was raised to find a man, get married, and be a stay-at-home mom. And I did just that.

Both of my children were young and still in elementary school. My daughter was in the fifth grade, and my son was in third. I thought they were at the perfect age to love and care for a dog. I knew I was on the right track when my son came home one day after reading the book, Shiloh, announcing that he wanted a beagle. So off I went to find us a dog.

I had driven over an hour to a small town breeder to obtain the puppy I was bringing home to meet my family. I could not get that puppy to stop howling from inside the dog crate, but that howl sounded super cute to me that day. It reminded me of a little puppy howl I had heard in a Disney movie, arroo, roo, roo. When I finally arrived home, I went straight to the backyard and let her run around so she could sniff around and become accustomed to her new home. She finally stopped crying.

I could not wait until the kids got out of school to meet the newest member of our family. I passed the time waiting outside, alternating tending my garden and providing tasty treats whenever I got her to sit, which wasn't very often. I thought that was unfortunate. Everyone said I was a natural when it came to training dogs. I remembered having the magic touch with both of the dogs from my childhood, and now I was utilizing the behaviorist techniques I had learned from my undergraduate psychology classes. In these first hours, I was noticing something a little off about her. It seemed like she was panicking in this new home. I was having trouble getting her to calm down. Not wanting to overwhelm her, I chalked it up to the new environment and left it at that.

By the time the kids arrived home from school, I had decided to name her Trixie - because we were going to teach her lots of tricks. I reminded them that our foremost task was to work towards getting Trixie potty trained, and I proceeded to teach both daughter and son the procedure for doing this. I explained that we would use the crate as a type of bedroom for her, and that unless we wanted to play with her outside in the backyard, we would have to keep her in her crate. If she was in the house, we had to keep her in our sights at all times and pick her up if she started to "go."

After a couple of hours, I realized that the children were not observant enough to keep watch over Trixie without me there to supervise. Trixie didn't seem to have any sort of regularity. After months of trying, the kids had pretty much lost hope of ever catching her do the dirty deed. As soon as they turned their heads, she would get busy. They had even come up with a game they called, "Trap the Specimen." It was a game a little bit like, "London Bridge," except that they wouldn't sing a song. Instead they would get a snack or eat some type of food at the table, and they would trap the dog with their little legs. Then they could pick her up and take her outside.

As the days went by, and the kids came and went to visit their dad, who by then had a steady girlfriend he was practically living with, Trixie didn't seem to learn much of anything. Let alone go potty outside. She HATED her crate, as nice as we tried to make it for her, she would howl, and howl, and howl. Especially when the kids weren't home. It was awful, and I couldn't get anything done without Trixie crying until they came back. If they weren't in the mood to play with her, I was sunk. I was going to have to do something. The winter months were upon us, and the foul weather was making things difficult.

In my frustration, I took Trixie to a dog behaviorist, who declared that she had separation anxiety. It took me about six more months after that before I realized I was going to go crazy if I didn't find her a new home. Trixie was miserable. It seemed like she never wagged her tail. What she needed was a home with at least one more dog, or kids that were home all the time. Since I didn't want to risk getting another dog, the kids and I decided together that it would be better for all of us if we found her a different home. It wasn't painless, but it was easy.

With the permission of my children, I had the courage to do the job right. I got on my computer and located an online beagle rescue site. There was a huge database where I posted a photo of Trixie, and I explained in my little blurb about her that I thought she needed to be in a larger "pack." It didn't take but a few days to find a family that had two dogs and lived near a dog park. I had found her a better place to live. When they loaded Trixie into the car with their two other dogs, she looked jubilant. It was bittersweet. It was heartwarming to see her that way, but I still didn't have my cool dog.

A Vivid Memory - Quick Write 1

Stop!
My brother was chasing me across the street and I had my team's treasure map in my pocket. I was NOT going to stop running from him. He was going to take it from me and I needed to protect it. After all, for a eight year old, on that day, it was the most important thing to protect. Caught up in the moment and the excitement, I kept on running.
Whack.
The next thing I knew I was being carried back towards my home like a little baby in my grandfather's arms. It was he who had seen the entire thing, and he who had picked me up off the street after being knocked unconscious. I had run directly into the side of a car!
My grandpa was probably my favorite relative. For some reason, we seemed to be connected. He's been gone now for over 40 years, but I still feel connected to him. I still miss him. If I could have chosen, he would have been my pick as my knight in shining armor. So I felt comforted on that day, when he was the one to carry me inside and gently deposit me onto the "chesterfield." That's what my grandparents used to call the couch.
In some ways, the next few hours were uncomfortable, and at the same time, as an eight year old, those hours were a little bit fun. I was the center of attention for several hours in a row. A stream of visitors came over to chat. My brother, my sister, my mother, my father, my grandma, they all took turns staying by my side. I don't remember much about any one conversation, but I do remember that I felt loved. I felt like my life was important.
Many people referred to this day as the day I got hit by a car. I don't. I call it the day I ran into a car. It was a day I will never forget, and perhaps one of my luckiest. I came away injury free, except for a few bumps and bruises. I guess it's true what they say about children being resilient.

What Would Bentley Say?

I woke up thinking about my little Bentley this morning. Our "pack" was somewhat put out the other night when I discovered our newest member had marked his territory directly where we sleep. Imagine our surprise discovering the small circle of moisture just to the side of where I rest my head. It was a sad moment.

Mind you. This was just before retiring and we had stayed up later than usual because we had company over for dinner. We were quite tired, as we teamed up and stripped the bed, realizing that we now had to flip the mattress around. It took too much effort at this hour dealing with the bed, and we had to grovel finding the sheets and blanket that would be enough to keep us warm on these bitter cold nights. Suffice it to say that we were both very angry and cranky, as we put our newest adoptee inside his pet carrier for the night and zipping it closed. I can remember as I finally felt comfortably tucked in, I am going to have to crate-train this dog. It served as yet another reminder that he came to me "wounded."

I say wounded because all adopted animals have some sort of issue (or more likely many issues) that land them in the shelter in the first place. After they are home for awhile, whatever it is usually comes out. Over time and with good care, these issues (or bad behaviors) fade out, but since dogs are conditioned to behave based on routine, most of the bad behaviors have to be extinguished. That means he will likely do it again, unless I condition him to behave differently under the circumstances that motivated him to do it in the first place.

Because it is rare for a dog to mark where they sleep, my challenge is to discover what triggered his behavior to mark there in the first place. No small feat, because I don't speak dog. I wonder, if he could talk, what he would tell me about that night that made him think marking our bed was a behavior that I would think was ok? Especially when he is potty trained really well, and if he does have an accident, he usually goes very close to the door, and it was my mistake for not opening the door for him. The answer is that he wasn't thinking. He was behaving in such a way that he had been inadvertently conditioned back in the day when his first owner had him. It's one of his issues.

But this morning I wasn't thinking about the marking. The problem with Bentley is his biting! He bites when he is playing. People who don't realize he is playing, don't like him because of the play biting. Except that he is young, and spunky, and he likes to play a lot. So when people try to play with him, he bites them, and it is starting to happen all the time. Now, I am not as confident to be able to extinguish this play bite behavior. I have to condition him to know that play does not mean bite! This is no small feat. I mean, think about what happened to Hardy. So today I write as a mini-lecture to those who don't realize the error in rough housing and teaching (conditioning) their dogs to play bite.

It is a mistake to teach a dog to bite a human for any reason. Dogs should never bite their master when they are playing, if ever. Remember your Psychology 101 class learning about Pavlov's dogs? He rung a bell before he fed them every time, and soon after they would salivate upon hearing any bell. To the dogs, the sound of the bell meant food was coming. So it follows, that if dogs are play biting with humans, they've been conditioned to associate biting a human is ok. In the shelter, if a dog is busted for biting a human, they will be put down. I believe they knew this about Bentley, but he snuck through because he was cute and little. So I have another job. Teach Bentley to stop biting. Wish me luck!

Dish

I have never been a fan of those ugly satellite dish receivers, but after researching the options, it simply became impossible not to have one installed. Making the change saved us about $100 a month. Now that we are up and running, I’m considerably pleased with my decision. We not only saved money, but the HD picture is crisper and clearer than I can ever remember. Once I figured out how to navigate the new on-screen environment, I can honestly say I believe it’s the better product. I don’t even mind the dish. In fact, it’s quite discrete. 

I am certain that competition for providing television and Internet services is brutal, yet it doesn’t stop the exorbitant price hike that happens once the promotion period ends. This was my main motivation for changing service in the first place. I knew that canceling my recent service would not be enjoyable, but I had no idea to what extent. The whole process took over three days. It began with a lengthy wait on hold and an equally lengthy phone conversation, which was recorded and monitored for customer service reasons. In the end, I was instructed to package up all of my old equipment (4 television receivers, all the power supplies, and remotes), and provide my account number to the local UPS store where they had a “house” account. I was also informed that if anything was damaged when it arrived, I could be charged up to $150 per unit. This aspect motivated me to do an excellent job packing up the items for shipping.

When I arrived at the UPS store with my fairly large and securely packaged stuff, I was prepared with notes in hand. The man behind the counter knew exactly why I was there when I told him what I was shipping. He encouraged me to set the box on the counter. He assured me that he had experience in this matter, and he grabbed my notes for shipping the items from my hand. As I had suspected, he was not able to decipher my notes. He handed them back to me, asking for the shipping confirmation number, which I recited obediently. He wrote the number down on a shipping form and told me to write out my name, address, and so on.

Once my form was completed, he took a razor blade knife to my package (the one that took me about 30 minutes to pack), and took everything out of the box. He said that I didn’t need to package it at all, and that I would have to dispose of all of the waste. I’m certain my jaw dropped, but I managed to calmly request the shipping receipt, and vowing to never return, I walked out, disgusted. As I drove away, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was treated this way, and why I felt violated over something so trivial. 

Several hours later, I realized there were two ideas that were at the core of my dismay. First, I believe that UPS man must have been the owner, and I had been witness to the ugly face of greed. Second, I had made a conscious effort to minimize waste by reusing packaging materials, and in the end, I had actually made more waste than intended. How disappointing! I guess it’s true when people say that breaking up is hard to do.

Share the Road

It was a foggy, cold morning here in my little city. I can see why people say, when they can’t think straight, they are in a fog. It’s gloomy. It pushes warmth far out of reach. It’s difficult to see very far. When the fog finally lifts and the sun breaks through, it seems to brighten every living thing. At least that is the way it is for me. So this morning, when the fog lifted, my mind started to open up to new possibilities, and I decided to take out the old bicycle and ride it down to the library.

It began on what I call the jigsaw puzzle - a beautiful trail near my home that meanders along a lovely creek. Wildlife abounds on this trail. It is home to ducks, egrets, herons, king fishers, hawks, and more. I have seen burrowing owls, a lone coyote, a deer family, skunks, and I once saw a kit fox, although that was many, many years ago. Further down the trail and closer to the library, I have seen river otters, and a school of very large rainbow trout. Today, most noteworthy, I saw a turtle.

Once I completed my errand at the local library, I ventured out to the village following the bike path on the street towards my bank. This was an unfortunate decision on my part, which served to bump up my frustration level quite a bit. I am not sure the reason, but drivers are particularly rude to cyclists in our little city. There is a good reason our city council voted to put in a pedestrian crosswalk near my neighborhood that illuminates on the road and flashes on a sign when a button is pressed. Does it help? I don’t think so.

After my library stop, I took a route that is quite similar to our St. Patrick’s Day parade route (except I went the opposite direction). During that short jaunt, three separate cars stopped so close, I had to swerve just to get around them. If I had continued traveling in my path, I would have hit them. Make no mistake, I am fit, but I am not one of those speed racer type bikers, like the ones that wear those fancy, colorful outfits. No. In fact, I probably look rather silly in my velour sweat pants and long black jacket. It’s likely I look even sillier wearing my neon yellow bike helmet, which I wear unquestioningly.

Despite my outrageous attire, and by the time I reached my final left turn, two separate pedestrians used that aforementioned light up crosswalk with the correlating signage, so I felt fairly confident when I made my approach today. I have nothing to fear this time, I thought as I put out my left arm to signal my turn, no small feat for a novice like me. At this point I saw no one, as I balanced and turned to make for the safe sidewalk on the other side of the divide.

My head was NOT in a fog when I noticed this woman driving a mini-van coming towards me, refusing to stop. I had to squeeze my right hand brake to slow my momentum on the way down the hill before the turn to let her pass in front of me. As I rounded the turn after her, I breathed a polluted sigh of relief. Collision averted. It was a victory of sorts. I felt a little like a pilot after a crash landing, at least I was able to walk away, or in this case, ride away. Yes, I was a little off balance, but I made it to the safety zone.

Once back inside the boundaries of my little neighborhood, I thought to myself. I wish people knew how challenging it was to ride a bike on the streets. Even when there are bike routes, most drivers don’t really share the road (unless they are a cyclist). Cyclists KNOW how difficult it is to slow their momentum for a car, or a red light, or a stop sign, and most definitely for a left turn in traffic. When a cyclist stops, they must put their foot down on the ground to balance both the bike and the rider. That means lifting up off the seat and standing still to hold up the bike. After that, we must get the contraption going again, lickety-split. All the driver has to do is press the brake pedal. Seriously. Does anyone want to go home and tell their loved ones that they hit someone on a bike today? I doubt it.