Dog & God

It has occurred to me, months after Rocket’s arrival, that he was a gift from God. He was sent to transition me from my adolescent views about life (where I only dreamt of what would be) into an adult view in which I see the happiness in the now.

Today, I finished Marianne Willamson’s book A Return to Love. In her chapter about Heaven, she quotes another text, A Course in Miracles, stating: “Only infinite patience produces immediate results.”

This has never rang more true for me than with dog training. The moment my temper flared or impatience began oozing through my veins, all communication with Rocket dissipated. Clarity of hand signals, clarity of my intentions behind the hand signals (what was I trying to get him to do?), and clarity about our relationship would blur in my fits of furry. Why wasn’t this ‘working?’ Why won’t he listen? I’m doing it just the way the book said, why is he too stupid to do it? It’s been hours, days, months—why isn’t it easier? In hindsight, how could any of those thoughts have lead us into a better relationship or support clear communication? Even more elementary than that, how were those thoughts serving either of us in the moment? They were simply zapping all of our joy and wasting time for both of us.

But who could fault him for his incompliance? Rocket wouldn’t look at an angry, ill-communicating person--who could blame him? I mean, what human would want to give their attention to a self-serving, impatient person? I know I wouldn’t . How unfair of me to expect a dog to do something that I wouldn’t do. Rocket was sent for me to see the hypocrisy in my day to day thoughts and actions. I thought I brought him into my life to start working toward my dreams (which included a dog). It turns out that’s what he was, but for the first few months, I didn’t see him as that. I kept looking at him wondering when my dreams were going to begin. But Rocket was unflappable. He stayed beside me during the challenge of the transition. In fact, some moments he stayed so close he was either underfoot, behind me, in front of me, to my left, to my right, even above me at times—just like God is if we take a silent moment to see and feel and live this truth. I am now completely on board with the notion that it is no accident that “Dog” is simply “God” spelled backwards.

Unconditional love. Moment to moment happiness. Surrender and faith. All of these are elements of our relationship with God…and with our dogs. The love part has been the biggest eye opener for me. Marianne Williamson goes on to say in her book: “Love takes more than crystals and rainbows, it takes discipline and practice.” This kind of love—my love for a dog—has catapulted me from my ‘rainbows and sunshine and puppies’ idea about dreams into a new ‘day to day, moment to moment, true joy’ outlook on life and love. It’s a lot more work, but it includes a lot more gratitude and genuine love.

Thanks be to Rocket. Thanks be to God.

Easter 2011

For Easter, Rocket gave me a big goose egg...on my shin. He used his block head. He gets points for presentation. It is huge.

I got him a nice, soft, camel chew toy. There are different gift giving styles, I suppose.

Happy Easter from our house to yours!

Extreme Bedding

Bedding. It’s like an extreme sport for dogs and their guilt-ridden owners: I buy the beds, Rocket does what he wants with them—chew them, pee on them, tear, gnaw, and mutilate them. I buy more beds without correcting the chewing or the ‘dragging them around the house’ behaviors, he takes comfortable naps on his oversized chew toys anywhere he desires. This was our vicious cycle. I felt too exhausted to constantly correct him every single behavior. While it made for funny photos, it had to end.

I started by stopping. I stopped ignoring his chewing on the beds, and started correcting him gently. I stopped letting him nibble the corners (which he would try to sneak by hiding his face in the folds of the bed while gnawing at the zippers), and started giving him proper chew toys filled with food. Slowly, ever so slowly, one or two of the tattered beds remained in decent shape without further abuse. Those beds were going to have to be in dire straights before a fresh, new one appeared. My higher self and bank account said so.

A Dedication to Dedication

This post goes out to my friend in Michigan, whom I will refer to from this day forward as “Ten Dog Kerri.” This past week she called to let me know she was considering fostering a bulldog mix mama and her 9 three-week-old puppies that were scheduled to be euthanized at a high kill shelter near her home. Kerri felt so compelled to do something that she was willing to turn her no dog house into a foster home for at least a month just to provide the dogs with their last chance. 0 to 10 in a matter of moments is a big leap.

“Do it,” I told her. “The mom will take care of the puppies and you can take care of the mom. “

Please understand that this support was not offered lightly. When someone feels compelled to act out of love and compassion, and has the time, means, and desire to give their best to help another animal or person, I say, by all means, YES! My “but” in this situation is: try to be as prepared as possible. Before you bring (even one) dog home, or shortly after you bring them home (within a few days), seek out the supplies you’ll need to make the new situation as easy as possible on all involved. There will be a moment of panic with a change of that scale. There can also be enlightenment.

Here is my “grocery list” of new dog preparedness I wish had been given to me:

General Supplies
* Crate – big enough for them to stand up in and turn around, this is as important as food and water. Your dog will thank you. Your furniture and floors will thank you.
* Two leashes, two collars, two tags for each dog.
* Dog Bed – please note this will probably get chewed to some degree.
* Dog Blanket (to go over the bed so you can wash it instead of the dog bed). This is sort of an “extra," but I found it helpful and necessary for my stinky puppy. An old towel works, too.
* A Kong – or similar chew toy.
* A vet – at the very least, the name, number, and personal reference for a friendly, open-minded vet clinic.
* A Potty Zone – dedicate an outside area as the potty spot.
* A camera – you’re going to want to document the cute moments (so you can remember them during the challenging ones). Plus it is a good idea to have a photo to refer to in case the new dog takes off through the neighborhood & for a moment you think you might need to make a poster before they come running back. (Ahem, Rocket).
* A trainer – the name & contact information of a certified, positive-reinforcement trainer whom you can email, take classes from, or contact for answers. There is no shame in asking for help.

Food
* Food – wet, dry, or both, have some ready to go.
* One dish for food, one dish for water.
* Treats – may I humbly suggest freeze-dried liver?

Cleaning your dog
* Shampoo – next to the bathtub with a bag of treats, a towel, and a cup for rinsing. Baths happen without warning, it is better to have supplies ready and waiting for you when you have to throw a poopy, muddy puppy into the tub and pull a dripping wet one out.
* Old Towels – for baths, the back seat of your car, inside the crate, as a cover for the crate or a washable throw for over the dog bed.
* Baby Wipes -- for the small wipey baths your dog will surely need from time to time. Good for wiping paws.

Cleaning your house
* Paper Towels – more than you ever think you’ll use in a lifetime. No, seriously.
* Disinfecting wipes – of any brand, in bulk.
* Plastic bags – there will be poo, and soaked paper towels that will need odor-control.
* A Bissell compact carpet-cleaning machine for pets – this will save your sanity (in my case, up to 6 times per day) while saving your rugs.

For the record, I had little to none of these items when Rocket came home. I panicked before realizing there was no need to. I just needed a moment to think about what would make our everyday life easier (for Rocket, my roommate, and I).

Ten cheers for Ten Dog Kerri for her serious dedication to helping animals in need! The puppies and their mama ended up going to a rescue on the same day she was going to bring them home. Instead, Kerri is welcoming an 8-year-old chocolate lab into her home as a foster dog. It all worked out…probably for the best. There’s no question that it is easier to shift gears when you’re going from 0 to 1. Even then, one can be a lot.

(Me & Rocket, Day one).

Sisters

Rocket has three feline sisters—Charlie, Cataway, and Tiki.




Charlie is mine…a sassy young inside/outside I-do-what-I-want calico. Cataway (aka “Fataway”) is the big-boned grey & white cat; Tiki is the bob-tail calico. Cataway and Tiki “came with the house” and live happily outside--with the occasional inside pillow lounging visits. Rocket’s arrival was easier for them than Charlie on many levels; they didn’t have to defend the house from a hopping, smelly dragon of a dog that had invaded the princess’ castle. A dramatic war had begun for Charlie. In Rocket’s mind, he was simply trying to make a friend. His methods were novice and messy. He pounced on her like Tigger on Rabbit, he followed her under the bed, tunneling after her like a gopher, and pillaged her toys like a determined pirate.

The word torture comes to mind when I think about Rocket and Charlie. If I could be permitted to anthropomorphize for just a moment, the looks of disgust and betrayal on Charlie’s face were clear and constant. She swatted at him, screeched at Amanda and I to please do something about “that beast,” and started heading outside early and often just to avoid him. Rocket was desperate for acceptance. He was not aggressive toward her, though his interest was pressing and obvious. He didn’t want to harm her, he was just looking for fun. His play bows couldn’t get low enough to impress her and would quickly get him a slash across the nose for even trying. (He has a scar to prove it). Occasionally, upon receiving yet another rejection, Rocket would hang his head with what appeared to be sadness at the refusal, but as soon as Charlie showed herself again, he would perk right up and trot across the floor after her.

Rocket didn’t give up, and eventually Charlie began to tolerate his presence. She will never admit this, but I’ve seen them rub faces when they think no one is looking.



Charlie has her own way of making friends...it is easy to see where Rocket could have learned the "pounce & run" technique.

Things That Go Squish in the Night

Rocket spent his first few weeks sleeping in a crate outside the front door. It was a high quality crate with a cover, bedding, and toys. From one person’s perspective, he had everything he needed…and wasn’t it better than being on the street? From another point of view, someone easily could have thought he needed to be inside the house (in the crate). From yet another outsider, perhaps he should have been in the house, not in a crate. At the end of the night, he was safe, that was the bottom line. He was also constantly covered in poo. Crate training—designed to housetrain a dog, provide him with a comfortable den, and keep the dog safe—was not working for a puppy so heavily medicated that he could not control his bowels. Rocket whined. All. Night. Long.

It wasn’t long before Rocket came inside to sleep. The crate stayed out. I was tired of not knowing why he was whining. Was he lonely? Was it separation anxiety? Did he really need to go that much? Had I spent the week conditioning him to whine all night by letting him out each time? Ironically, I was trying to avoid a mess in the morning by letting him out over and over. But all of the up/down/up/down with no poops only left me exhausted to the point I would sleep through his real “I have to go now” whine, and still wake up to a white dog turned brown from extreme amounts of feces. “Where is this shit coming from?” came out of my mouth every day. I wonder if Rocket thought that was a command.

So I bought him a bed. Then two, then three. And piled them up on the floor next to my bed. (The beds weren’t for him, they were for me. I was trying to purchase away the guilt I felt for having left him outside in the crate for two long weeks. Rocket chewed them up and spit them out. I found this very symbolic. And expensive).

There was no guarantee that this poo-fest would end until Rocket was off of his medicine. Lucky human I am, if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, all I had to do is stand up (without whining) and walk to the toilet. Puppies don’t have that luxury. Soon after moving inside for the night, Rocket followed my example of going to the bathroom without whining. He just started going. All. Over the Place. And when I got up to use the bathroom, I had to step in that same “all over the place” area to get there. I started whining. And taking mini-showers twice a night. Yes, the whining had transferred to me, and there was no guarantee I would stop whining until Rocket was off his medication.

I should have re-written the old “prayer” about things that go bump in the night, perhaps then I would have taken fewer foot showers at midnight…

“From ghoulies and ghosties, and four-legged beasties, and things that go squish in the night, good Lord deliver us. Amen.”

I also should have consulted a trainer. And started wearing slippers. Rocket no longer goes poo in the night; but I use a nightlight, just in case.

Dog or Descriptor?

A 10-year-old told me yesterday (as he was describing the personality of a different dog), that: "Rocket is amazing."

"Thank you," I replied, happy to receive any compliment about my No No Bad Dog. "What made you say that?"

"Because he's an adjective," he said. "That's amazing!"

I burst out laughing. "No, I'm serious," he continued. "I was trying to think of a way to describe that other dog and I kept thinking about Rocket and if she was like Rocket or not. Then it hit me--Rocket is an adjective. Not every dog or person can be an adjective."

"I always thought maybe he was more of a verb," I smiled.

"No, everyone already knows about the verb form," he replied straight-faced. "The adjective form didn't exist before your dog. He's one of a kind, but other dogs can be like him, which makes them a little bit or a lot Rocket."

Happy Valentine's Day, Maui 2011

Happy Valentine's Day! Love, Rocket

Special aloha to everyone in Rocket's dog training class
who support him and his efforts to party, I mean, behave.

Vet Visit #1

The first vet trip of many happened the Monday morning after I returned from Australia. The long flight had my body orbiting itself while I was sleeping, awake, trying to stand, sit, or simply think. Nothing made sense physically or mentally. My emotions didn’t stand a chance. I woke up and almost forgot there was a sick puppy in a crate right outside the door, except I’d been up all night taking him out when he cried because his bowels were still so sensitive and his urges frequent.

We drove thirty minutes to the other side of the island to the same clinic as Charlie. For a moment I was thrilled to have a dog in the car with me. It is what I always dreamed of having…a furry co-pilot who doesn’t offer out direction corrections or demands, but rather just sits there, high on life, happy to be going for a drive with their human best friend. Only Rocket and I didn’t know each other. And we were going to the v-e-t…who knew how sick he still was, how he’d behave, or how much it was going to cost.

We got there. We checked in. We went into the room. A militant looking veterinarian came in and started asking questions about Rocket. “I don’t know. “ was my every response. “It’s hard to say not knowing.” So he began telling me about my dog. Here are what his medical charts say from when he first came in. These are the medicines he needs to be on. Skin scrapes. Anti-yeast baths. Diet. Training. All the while Rocket just waltzed around the room, sniffing, paying no mind to the people having a one-way conversation. “Training,” he kept saying, “training is important.” And just like that, jet lag took over. I felt like I’d been drugged heavily and suddenly. If I could have passed out right then and there from exhaustion, I would have. Somewhere deep down I knew better. The vet’s mouth was still moving. I needed something to grasp on to, something to focus on to keep me from just giving in to the thickening pool of fatigue. I rolled my eyes around the room, letting them fall onto Rocket’s open chart. Animal Clinic. Rocket. Canine. Male. Pit Bull.

“Pit Bull?” I shouted, fully alert, eyes popping. “Why did you write ‘pit bull’ on his chart?”

“Because that’s what he is,” came the simple response.

“But, why? Why did you write it down like that? Why did you write that?”

“Because that’s what he is.”

He had my full attention now. And Rocket’s attention, too. The puppy was sitting up, looking right at each of us with his big cow eyes. He looked like he had something he wanted to add to the disjointed banter.

My thoughts began to race and then swirl with the exhaustion just as rapidly. I looked down at the white puppy, my jaw open. I had adopted a pit bull? What on Earth does that mean? He doesn’t even look like a pit bull to me. He’s just cute. What was I thinking? What will I think of next? All of the media-saturated false information about “pit bulls” flooded my increasingly numbing brain. How did I get here? What have I done…

An ear splitting bark filled the room. I jumped out of my skin. I went from confused to scared in two seconds flat. I’d never heard him bark like that. It was loud and powerful and piercing.

“Why did he do that?” I gaped at the veterinarian.

“He’s training you,” the vet said flatly.

“BARK!”

He did it again while staring right at me, unflinching. I jumped again, clutching my purse to my chest, staring at this dog that was becoming more of a stranger to me by the second.

“What does he want?” I asked.

“He’s testing you. This is what I’ve been saying. Training is very important. You need to train him before he trains you.”

“BARK!”

This time, I burst into tears. The sheer volume of his yelp and the magnitude of the “new arrangement” mixed with the weariness cracked me. I broke down in public in front of the non-emotional, matter of fact vet. The vet and the dog just stared at me. I can’t do it, I thought to myself. I just need to go home and go to sleep and then wake up and deal with this later. I don’t even want to do this.

“I’m just so tired,” I managed to squeak out. “I just got off a plane and this is just a lot.”

The vet ended our visit with written down instructions (bless him), seven medications, and directions to get some rest and think about training.

I grabbed the bag of medications, the jaw-dropping receipt, the medical instructions, and the pit bull and climbed into the car. I cried the whole way home while Rocket slept in the back seat. I don’t remember anything else about that day—“pit bull” was enough.

Christmas Memories

Here are some pictures from last year's Christmas card photo shoot. Rocket was so interested in playing with the santa hat that I couldn't get him to sit still for a decent picture. As I was explaining this to my trainer, she said "Next year, hold liver over the camera."

Oh.

I guess I could have done that. Or anything other than expect a super-hyper energetic puppy to sit still while I pseudo-torture him with holiday apparel. Point taken.

The Smell

Mange stinks. I’d get used to the stench and then walk outside to take out the trash and walk back inside only to realize that the garbage smelled better than the house. On some deep, deep level, it was comforting to know that the disconcerting odor was temporary.

Change is Instant

Charlie's eyes nearly popped out of her head when Rocket came through the door. She raced under the couch. I know how she felt. My eyes were bugging, too. This was Rocket’s new home. I felt like I should be giving him the grand tour, but instead, I was shell-shocked. Our “family” had increased from 3 to 4 in a matter of seconds. I felt the sudden urge to do damage control rather than throw a welcome party.

Rocket was interested in Charlie. He eagerly staggered through the house sniffing for her. She tucked her body down tighter under the sofa. There were barks and hisses. We held Rocket back and peeled Charlie out from her hiding spot, threw her into the bedroom and closed the door. We all needed a moment to think about what was happening. What was the best thing to do? What if Rocket didn’t like cats? Why hadn't I thought of this before? Charlie was my baby first. They would have to get along. Have to. Everyone would need to be happy with the arrangement for this to work, or maybe we just needed ground rules. So it was decided:

Rule #1: “No eating one another.”

New Dog Bliss

There was a brief moment of new dog bliss. The actual “meeting” of Rocket took place in the side yard at my house. I had simply gone through the motion of driving to pick him up; but as I sat there in the grass in my comfy clothes, delirious with jet lag, I couldn’t comprehend if he was really there in front of me—really mine—or if I was just imagining him. His tail wagged constantly, as he clumsily walked in circles around me, alternately sniffing the ground and flopping down, smiling and looking disinterested, kissing me and not meeting my eye. I’m not sure I said much, but rather watched, half asleep, what felt like a beautiful dream. I am grateful Amanda took pictures of the event otherwise I wouldn’t have much memory of it at all. Looking back, I had no idea how varied Rocket's expressions were. These "looks" held much insight into his dynamic personality, (I was just too tired to pay attention at the time). I couldn't tell if he was okay with being where he was, I just knew he looked happy. I looked happy, too. We were happy in that moment, settling into our new dream.

Baby Brother

No one asked Charlie the cat if she wanted a “sibling.” No one even warned her. We had left her home alone, with cat sitters popping in and out, for two weeks. Her sweet face and giant eyes were clearly visible in the window as we pulled into the drive—we could hear her wailing through the glass. Amanda and I stumbled through the front door with our heavy load of suitcases, carry-ons, bags of dog food, dog toys, a dog bed, and large metal crate that we had hurriedly purchased on the way back from the airport. Charlie was practically screaming. We scooped her up to shower her with affection and apologies, but she quickly jumped down to smell the new ‘things’ in the house, crying the whole time.

The goal was to set everything up and then I would go get the puppy. We rushed around as much as our tired bodies would allow. The sun was setting quickly—the night of severe jet lag and anxiety was already upon us. Charlie was a never-ending siren in the background. Her meows were filled with complaining and relief. There was desperate rubbing and petting as she zig-zagged between our legs. She had a lot to tell us, she stayed too near. (‘Underfoot’ doesn’t come close to describing her actions that night. What’s a word more severe than ‘underfoot’?)

We scurried around, puppy proofing in record time, then I was out the door again. If a cat’s jaw can drop open with shock, hers did. We’d just arrived and I was abandoning her again. Oh, if she only knew then the true depth of my betrayal. I didn’t turn around to get one last look at my life the way it was. I was sure I had already messed it up beyond recognition anyway.

“If only I had a little more time,,” I told Amanda. “I should have read more books about how to bring a puppy home the right way.”

“Too late,” she quipped and closed the door with a ceremonial “thud.”

In Training

So the real reason I haven’t posted anything in a while is this: all of my fantastical ideas about wanting a dog turned out to be completely different than actually having a dog. The idea of Rocket captivated my thoughts—the vision of him in my life somehow made my dreams feel closer to coming true. I wasn’t ready for all the complex emotions and massive amounts of patience it would require to keep, care for, and train a sick puppy. “I don’t know this dog,” kept running through my head, and yet he was supposed to be ‘the one’ for me. And I apparently didn’t know myself, either. In the following blog posts, I’m going to be candid about the fact that I was not a perfect dog rescuer/owner. I was a blundering, impressionable idiot at times—I still have my moments. A true member of the “I may be a grown up, but grown ups have no idea what they are doing” club. (I believe it is healthy to admit this). I was not proud of all of my choices. I was not always happy about having the burden of an animal. But, [whew] the lessons I did learn were big, and on some level I deeply loved Rocket. Still do. I was smitten with the hairless wonder of a dog that still lives with me today. Hopefully you can tell from the pictures that will accompany the posts that, while there were an abundance of rough patches, it wasn’t always unpleasant. Most importantly, we were learning. We’re still ‘in training,’ if only because we’re living life.

Just a Dog

Amanda agreed, after hours and hours of conversation, that Rocket could stay at our house. In true best friend form, she said she wanted me to be happy and that's what mattered, (plus she knew that I would help the puppy, whatever that meant). Landlords approved. Lists of needs were made. Rocket would be picked up on the day we returned home, and he would live with us. We'd need a crate, food, collar, leash--nothing too fancy to start off, just the basics. He was growing so quickly. This last photo before our return shocked all of us. He'd turned into a giant overnight.

I was getting what I wanted, but my mind was crowded with expectations. It was just a dog. Just a decision. One that's made and unmade every day by hundreds of people. One that I'd wanted to make for so long. Australia was captivating, but as our trip began to wind down, all I wanted to do was get home to what felt like the possibility of a brand new way of life.

Anticipation

Rocket kept growing, getting more comfortable in his new surroundings while we were away. There was so much to look forward to, yet so much I feared. How old is he? How big is he going to get? What if Amanda says “no” to another four-legged roommate? What if the apartment really is too small? Where did he come from? What if he came from an abuse situation? Wait, what if he already has a home? Is anyone looking for him?

[insert screeching of brakes]

To clear the record, quite a few people spent time investigating the sudden appearance of Rocket. It was determined that he did not belong to anyone, he was a genuine stray in every sense of the word. But even as questions got answered, more sprung up in their place. What if we’re not a good match? What if I’m not ready for a dog? What if he doesn’t get better? Can I afford him? What if I move? What if he doesn’t like cats? What if he doesn’t like other dogs? What have I done?

Who's to Decide?

According to Amanda, I forwarded the photo of Rocket wrapped in the orange towel to her work the morning he showed up. I was on the phone with her cooing about him, saying that we don’t know who he belonged to yet, but he needed help and a home. When I hung up, she turned to her co-worker and groaned, “Oh my God, we’re getting a dog.” (For the record, she just told me this information this morning, ten months after the fact).

A week before Rocket stumbled into the road, Amanda and I were driving along that same highway (I should point out here that there is only one “highway” that leads to and from our house…Honoapiilani Highway. That’s island life for you…), towards Lahaina town when we saw a striking white and grey pit bull riding in the back of a white truck. Both of us “oohed.” “Now that is a looker! I would have a gorgeous dog like that,” I said. “You know,” Amanda remarked, (and I quote), “if I had to have a dog, I’d consider a pit bull.” (She later denied this vehemently as it worked against her argument of why she didn’t want a dog, but I wanted a dog so badly, I vividly recall this passing comment as an opportunity to plead my case as to why it would be a great idea to get two Dalmatian puppies, which I’d been begging for for months). I gasped. She quickly turned to me and corrected herself, “Don’t come home with a pit bull. That didn’t mean anything. We’re not getting a dog.”

Before Rocket, I’d spend hours online looking up rescue dogs and Dalmatian puppies. (I had a beautiful Dalmatian years ago, Jaxum, who passed away at a young age from organ failure. He lived with my Mom and Dad, but I wanted my own chance to do right by another Dalmatian. I missed the feel of his fur, his sweet disposition, his high energy, his unbroken spirit. I believe some breed specific qualities can speak to person. I wanted my buddy back. I wanted it to be better this time. I knew it was delusional to think that just by getting the same type of dog, that I would have the same experience, but I entertained the thought anyway). In my searching, I kept thinking about what I would name a new dog or two. I kept coming back to one name: Rocket. This meant I’d have a boy dog, and only one. It was the only name that felt like a “sure” thing. Rocket, Rocket, Rocket kept going through my head. Does this mean a “Rocket” is coming into my life?, I journaled weeks before he arrived.

(My journal also says: My next dog is going to be Banjo, when the time is right. This entry, of course, is post-Rocket. “When the time is right” is underlined for emphasis).

Is your name Rocket?

This video showed up in my inbox shortly after the name "Rocket" was decided upon. Do you think it suits him?

The Dog with 1,000 Faces

Huh? When these photos arrived in my inbox, I began to wonder if this was even the same puppy. His shape shifting was making it difficult to choose a name...not that anyone was talking about names.