Night Walks

Living next to the duck pond at UNM is wonderful. Dogs need to run. They absolutely have to do it. Running around a yard is nice, but it's too limiting. The canine was meant to be free. I would love to run with Jack everyday, but I don't always have the energy necessary to jog a mile around Albuquerque blocks. So, almost every night we go to the duck pond so my little buddy can blow off steam.


As soon as Central Ave is a bit away and we're on the bricks beyond the wooden gates, I do an attitude check. If he's being cooperative and obedient, I let him off the leash to run and play. If he's not, I do my best to instill the idea that he needs to listen. I won't let him free until I know that he'll come if I call him. He knows the drill and usually complies.


I bring a ball with me because he loves to fetch. He's seriously obsessed with balls, but after losing over a dozen racquetballs, we've started designating "no-ball zones".  It saves a lot of time searching around in the dark. He doesn't mind. He runs around at top speed, doing figure 8's, chasing smells and rabbits. He's usually really good about listening, although it took a while for him to figure out when I wasn't playing.

When we first met, the little guy was terrified of grates. You know, like sewer grates. He wouldn't go near them. He would fight to the death to avoid them. He would stop dead in his tracks if he knew there was one coming. On campus, there's a place called the Center of the Universe. There, in the middle of four tunnels, is a giant grate with a circle in the middle. Every night for weeks, I'd put a treat in the circle. At first, one wasn't enough to coax him over. It would take four or five treats in the center before he'd belly crawl over and eat them. I would pet him, praise him, tell him how brave he is. Now he hops around grates like they ain't a thing.



There's a fountain on campus, on our usual path. It used to be the Captain was very afraid of water. He wouldn't go near the fountain. Alas, often times we only need the proper motivation to overcome our fears. At first, it was the best I could do to get him on the grassy break between sidewalk and fountain. He would hop up, take the treat, and run away to eat it. Night after night, he became less fearful and more trusting. I moved closer and closer to the fountain every day. Now, I can hold my hand out over the water and he'll stretch out to get his reward and he'll eat it on the spot. I pet him and tell him how proud I am of my brave dog.

What a guy!

Buddy System

Captain Jack is the friendliest dog.  I know that's a bold claim and it's packed with exaggeration.  He is an extremely friendly dog, though.  Since we've overcome his food possession, he has not attacked any person or dog.  He tries to play with cats, though they'd rarely like to.  I'm not sure if he chases pigeons to eat them, or for fun.

He was jumping up on random people.  Now, with a whistle I can usually stop him before he gets to that point, but he'll still follow them when he's not on-leash.  He's very sociable.  He wants to meet everyone- except snowmen, he hates them.

There have been two people since I've met Jack that he didn't like.  One day, we were walking along Gold (the street near my apartment) and passed two people.  One of them tried to say hello and Jack went feral.  Fortunately, he was on a leash.  I just popped him on the butt to get his attention and we walked the other way.  I don't know what about that guy Jack didn't like.  I never will.

But, here we are a few months later.  Jack and I were going to the duck pond, as usual, so that he could run it off (whatever 'it' is).  We were waiting at a stop light when Jack began growling intently.  I looked up and saw a guy coming toward us.  He asked for bus fare and Jack went feral again, barking fiercely and pulling at the leash with all his might.  The guy stopped at the end of the leash, which I was thankful for and I reigned Jack in a little (but just a little) and told the guy that I didn't have any money.

At that point, the seemingly normal individual started twisting and contorting his body.  He wrapped his arms around himself and his head at awkward, double jointed angles and started stomping one of his feet.  He growled in a shrill voice, "Stop! Touching! Her!"  The light changed.  I brought Jack to the other side of me and crossed.

My little buddy has my trust.  When he wigs out, I pay attention.

 

Freedom!

I don't like thinking of myself as a dog owner.  I'm not his master.
Jack is not my child.  I didn't help to create him.  I'm not his daddy (or mommy).
I'm his buddy.  He's my inarticulate friend.

I don't like the idea of having to control another being.  All living things ought to be free to pursue their own destinies.  So, it really bothers me to make Jack do things on the premise that they're for his own good.  Who am I to decide what's good for him?  I make him wait in a cage for six hours a day while I'm in school.  When we go for walks, I don't let him off leash until we reach a "safe" play area and then I make him wear his leash again when we return.  I don't let him eat cat poop or those plastic bags he loves.







I'm like a Nazi.  I watch every move he makes and punish him for "unacceptable behavior."  So what if he wants to jump up on everyone he meets?  Who cares if he bites the hand that feeds?  Why should I care if it reflects on me?

My teenage self would punch me in the nose.  "You let that dog do what he wants!"  He would yell.  What does he know?

Sometimes, I picture myself as a kind of ape- like a gorilla.  Jack's the tiny buddy of a grouchy gorilla. This gorilla saved his furry butt from a cage full of chihuahuas or a house full of tail-pulling toddlers.  He lives with me and I feed him, so he's gotta live by monkey law.




Monkey Law:
No pooping or peeing in the monkey hut
No jumping on other monkeys unless they ask you to
No eating monkey food unless it's offered

That seems reasonable.  In exchange he gets food, shelter, and I keep him Not-Dead.  If I let him do what he wants, this little dork would eat a whole box of chocolates and run into oncoming traffic.  He follows me home and comes when I call, so I guess there's a tacit agreement that he enjoys my company and will obey monkey law.





Author note:  I wrote this sometime in 2014.  Before I sat down to edit it, I found out that my friend's dogs had been hit by cars that day.  Out of respect, I refrained from posting this.  As a result, I hit a kind of wall with this blog, but now I feel I can post this and open the floodgate.  To all you Jack Fans, sorry for the delay.  To my dear friend, I'm still sorry for your loss.

Some Days Are Shitty

     Constipation in dogs is potentially lethal, as I discovered today.  After a pretty good walk, Jack and I stopped so he could do his business.  He was having trouble, but I waited patiently as he struggled.  About five minutes into it, he started yelping and howling.  My first thought was that he was trying to pass a watermelon.  I had to think back seriously about all the things I'd caught him eating.  What could be causing so much distress?

      He gazed pitifully at me, his little brown eyes huge as he winced. His little back end pulsed with labor.  Poor puppy!  We've all been there.  He tried to reach back with his mouth to help things along, but couldn't reach. He whined and cried and walked around the yard.  I was worried about him.  I wondered if olive oil would help, or maybe something soaked in butter or grease.  I worried that I might have to reach up there.  Gross, right?  Well, let me tell you friends, that is nothing compared to what was to come.  

     I picked him up and carried him to the apartment.  I didn't want him to have to struggle up the stairs with such a heavy load.  I'm pretty broke at the moment, so I was terrified of a vet bill.  Would they be willing to bill me?  Take payments?  Would they work with me?  I googled the situation and found that most dog constipation is a very serious case and can be lethal within 48 hours.  There were tons of horror stories and very few suggestions other than "Take your dog to a vet."  

     Fortunately, as Jack was running around the house trying to bite his butt, I noticed that his hair was dark brown.  This fuzzy little bastard had blocked his way by being too hairy.  It reminded me of an old joke: A bear and a bunny are taking a dump in the woods.  The bear looks to the bunny and says, "Do you have problems with poop sticking to your fur?"  The bunny says no, so the bear wipes his butt with him.  

In desperation, I searched the house for rubber or plastic gloves and found none.  I locked Jack in the bathroom and, as I was pulling hair and poop, he head butted me trying to get away.  He got me right in the nose and made it bleed.  He was in the bathtub and it had water in it, so when he jumped out and shook off, dog-poop water went everywhere.

     So, there I was, soaked in nasty water, hands covered in poop and blood, digging dirty hair out of my dog's butt, and happy to be doing so.  At least he didn't have some disease or a battery lodged in his colon. We both took a shower afterward- two for me, thank you.  

Sometimes you have to laugh at yourself