Happy Birthday, Lilly and Ginko

So, happy birthday, Lilly and Ginko.

This year Ginko will be 7. Lilly will be 3.

After our very old Dalmatian dieWe don’t really know Lilly’s birthday, but the humane society guessed (based on her teeth) that she was about 5 months old when we adopted her in October 2004. Counting back, that means she probably was born sometime in May. Since we do know that our big boy Ginko was born May 13, we decided to make life easy. d in June 2004 from kidney failure, all of us needed some time to grieve. Plus, Ginko was still recovering from bi-lateral knee surgery (TPLO, for those who know the lingo), so we didn’t want him running around too much until we were sure the bone had fused and the muscle strength was rebuilt.

Yet, it was a lonely summer for Ginko.

Come fall, we started searching local dog rescues for a new buddy – for him and us.

Shelters, however, freaked Ginko out, and every time we took him to meet potential pups, he got a little snarky with them. I was very discouraged. It seems all the time here in the boonies, all the time with an old, crotchety Dal did not prepare Ginko for meeting lots of strange dogs. (I realize now that I did a bad job socializing him. Live and learn!)

But, we really wanted another dog. So, thanks to my friend Connie, who is the director of operations at the humane society, I got permission to bring Lilly home to meet Ginko.

(By the way, the shelter was calling her Daisy, but my mother-in-law’s sheltie Daisy had died recently. I wanted to stay in the flower family, but my husband would not go for Poppy Anne, which I thought was *very* cute. You see, he could not get that Seinfeld episode where Poppy pees on the sofa out of his head. I looked through a flower book and settled on Lilly Elizabeth.)

Anyway, the deal was that we’d introduce them here, and if it went well, we’d return the next day to do the paperwork. If not, we’d bring her right back. You can guess what happened. ;o)

He snarked at her just once, then when he realized she happily ran around and played with him, he was sold.

He’s been a very good big brother to Lilly, and she’s an enthusiastic partner in mouse and vole hunting, swimming in the pond, playing fetch and all manner of other crazy things –like eating and rolling in horse poop.

So, on Mother’s Day, we’ll also raise a glass to our best, best friends – Mr. Ginko Cornelius Hawn and Miss Lilly Elizabeth Hawn.

The things people say

Having a shy or fearful dog in public is a lot like walking around with a screaming 2-year-old. “Dog people” and even the general public make the same negative assumptions. Beyond the dirty looks come really mean comments disguised as helpful suggestions. Two, in particular, stand out because they are entirely untrue … and incredibly rude.

The first one is, “Your dog doesn’t trust you.” Ouch! I went home and cried the first time someone at a dog event said this to me. I was in the middle of coaxing Lilly to enter the building and sit quietly for a few moments as part of ongoing socialization work. (Now, I actually like the woman who said it. I think she and her dog are a hoot, but the comment still wounded me and shook my confidence.)

First of all, I spend all day every day with Lilly. And, that’s been the norm since I she came home in October 2004. I think I know my dog better than “you” do (and by “you,” I mean the snotty people who say mean things).

The relationship I have with Lilly is stronger than any I’ve ever had with any other dog. And, that’s saying something. We’ve come a long, long way from where we started, but people don’t see that. All they see is her behavior in the moment. And, baby, do they judge.

The second one, which I’ve heard from two PhD applied animal behaviorists is utterly false, is that comforting really fearful dogs rewards the fear and makes it worse.

In very early 2005, I took Lilly to an agility dog birthday party. She did OK at first, but she freaked out when another dog banged the teeter-totter unexpectedly, and I’ve been screwed ever since. (I now know this incident has scarred her, but at the time I had no idea how far reaching the effects would be. We’re still trying to unravel the damage nearly 18 months later.)

She fled. I coaxed. Several people scolded me. “Just ignore her, they told me.”

And, since I didn’t know better at the time, I tried that strategy, and in ways I’ll enumerate later it only made things worse, which made some think Lilly was “manipulating me.”

It’s true that you can inadvertently “reward” dogs for unwanted behaviors like playing rough, jumping up and such. Ending the game and turning away are good options in these cases.

However, with true fears, a little comfort goes a long way. When Lilly shuts down completely, in fact, the only way I can reach her is through touch.

Her eyes go blank, and it honestly looks like her soul has left her body. With the help of our big-picture, behaviorist-type trainer and the instruction of our holistic veterinarian, I’ve learned ways to soothe Lilly physically when she’s literally out of her mind and cannot be reached with logic or typical training.

My trainer watched her shut down once. Then, showed me how pale Lilly’s gums were. Seriously, they were almost white. All her blood was in her core, like she was in shock. That’s not manipulation. That’s sheer terror.

I’m happy to report that I rarely see this ghostly version of Lilly these days. But, it’s been a long road, and I often feel like I too am earning a PhD in animal behavior to help Lilly conquer her fears and have a happy and successful life.

It’s hard work, and anyone who pretends otherwise is entirely full of beans – especially overly-hyped dog trainers on TV who use old-fashioned, dominance style methods. (People often recommend I use those methods too. Gee, no thanks.)

There’s one other thing people say that bugs me lately. Sometimes when we’re walking on a trail or training in public, clueless people let their dogs approach Lilly without permission. Or, they’re too busy doing whatever (eating, chatting, talking the phone) to pay attention to their unruly dog at the end of a fully extended flexi-leash.

These kinds of dogs scare Lilly. And, if I don’t control the situation, she feels the need to snark at the other dog to warn them off. That can be barking, lunging, and even snapping at times.

Again, through hours and hours and hours of training over many months, she does this less and less because I distract her and shield her if necessary from what she perceives as a marauding dog (even though most times these are just super friendly pooches).

Lilly has an “off trail” command that means step off the path, sit down, and face me. I then block for her as the other dog passes.

Now, my body language could not possibly say any clearer to “go away,” but some people still let their dogs approach Lilly.

So, I’ll say, “She’s afraid of other dogs. She might snap.”

And, they answer, “That’s OK.”

Uh, no it’s not.

The power of “NO!”

I stopped mid-sentence with my fingers poised above the keyboard when several things registered in my mind at once. Ginko was sprinting toward the upper pasture. The thing he wanted to chase was Lilly. She was outside the fence, sprinting low and hard toward the road. And … there were cars coming.

My emergency mode kicked in, and I screamed, “Lilly! No!” That got her attention and slowed her pace, so I followed with the most authoritative “COME!” I could muster, considering I felt like throwing up.

She stopped short of the road and began wiggling like a small hover craft toward our gate. (That’s her standard submissive posture. She does it any time she’s scared or thinks she’s in trouble.)
 
As I grabbed my cattle gate opener out of my car and ran up our football-field-long driveway, I saw the lure … our neighbor John and his new pup Charlie were outside. Charlie sometimes comes over to play. Lilly, it seems, decided to return the favor.

Out of breath, my heart racing from terror more than the run, I reached the gate to let her in.

I did not scold her. I just squeezed her tightly and cried. I was already having a stressful, deadline-soaked day. Utter terror did not help.

It’s a blessing that my husband got a new laptop today for his work. I happily took it outside to write. Had I been working inside in my south-facing office, I never would have known Lilly was loose to the east and running hard. She very well might have been hit by a car on the road.

After I finally stopped kissing her, I walked toward the back fence since that’s the last place I saw her before I settled on our front patio to write. She had been digging for voles. I thought maybe she’d accidentally made a hole under the fence.

Lilly followed, smiling, as I walked back to her hunting ground and asked over and over, “How did you get out? Show me.”

Seriously, the kid is an accomplished escape artist, but now that we have three of the four sides of our acreage stalwart with new fences, her wandering ways have stopped. (It helps that snow banks no longer top our fences.)

As I approached the 30-year-old back fence, I saw the problem. One whole section of wire was bent 90-degrees away from the corner post. A good 10-feet of boundary sat completely open, entirely unprotected. (… and what dog doesn’t see an opening like that and think, “Whoo-hoo!”) She likely poked around on the ranch behind us, until she saw Charlie.

It looked like someone used a can opener on the cattle fencing, but evidence pointed elsewhere.

Today our entire property is dotted big piles of elk scat. It seems members of the large elk herd that spends calving season near our home came visiting last night. And, they’ve been known to mangle fences during their spring-time stay.

If the tracks around the pond are any indication, they came to get a drink and to get some sleep.

I secured the section of fence the best I could, asked Lilly to please stay home from now on, and went back to work.

That was hours ago, and I still haven’t recovered from the scare.

Yet, I’m thankful for the laptop that got me outside at the right time. I’m thankful for Ginko, who is ever watchful over his baby sister. And, I’m thankful for the power of the well-placed (and rarely used) “NO!” which saved Lilly’s life.

Snowflakes falling on my head …

The snowflakes came in big and fast. Biscuit Eaters, the agility field where we often train in Boulder, looked like a Hollywood set, with oversized, impossibly fluffy flakes sweeping in. Other than our voices and the chug of panting dogs, the air rang with winter’s silence. I ran the sequence – jump, jump, tire … with a hard left before the tire. Except after I made the turn, I realized Lilly wasn’t with me. Instead, she crouched between jump #2 and the tire. The huge snowflakes stuck to her from head to tail. She looked forlorn, as if God was pelting her with rocks. Our trainer shook her head in dismay and said, “You have a working dog who’s afraid of snow.”

Mind you, we live at 8,000 feet in the Rocky Mountains. Lilly knows snow, plays in it all the time, but something about working and thinking and running a short agility sequence loomed heavy. She simply couldn’t think straight with those big flakes popping her on the nose.

I just laughed.

This is my life with a “soft” dog. That’s dog training lingo for sensitive, shy, fearful dogs.

Yes, wild, out of control dogs make for great reading – a la “Marley & Me,” but having a soft dog generates its own brand of humor. The next weekend as I regaled my friends with the tale of Lilly’s reaction to snow, some said, “I heard.”

Word got around. We were somewhat the butt of jokes, but that’s OK with me. The laughter came with sympathy attached.

It’s not just snow that shuts Lilly down. Planes or geese flying overhead cause her to glaze over too. Dry leaves rustling in the wind, whining dogs on the sidelines, big trucks or buses rumbling set her on edge.

When we began learning the chute (a collapsed fabric tunnel the dog must push through), I learned quickly that the command “chute” caused her to slink off course.

It sounded like “shoot,” which Lilly knows as a cuss word. I didn’t realize how much I “shoot” my way through a typical day of writing until Lilly pointed out this flaw. Since she practically lives in the knee hole of my desk while I write, she’s learned “shoot” means something bad. (I realize it’s also tone of voice, but with her vocab, I’m pretty sure she recognizes the word too.)

So, for us, the chute is called “Push,” as in push-push-push your way through – not a simple task for a shy dog.

It’s not all bad, though. Some fears subside.

Lilly no longer cowers under the bed when I vacuum. She no longer flees in terror if I accidentally squeak the Styrofoam egg carton when I’m putting it back in the fridge. She’s stopped giving me stink eye, when I ride my mountain bike on the stationary trainer. At first, the zzz-zzz-zzz of my wheels made her crabby.

Yet, other things don’t faze her at all. We did early obedience proofing at the fire station up the road, and the noise fire trucks did not bother her. She thinks nothing of the motorcycle noise, when my husband rides in the pasture. In fact, they’ve devised a game, where he rides very slowly and lets her herd him.

Heck, neighbors saw Lilly jump on a coyote’s back and ride it out of the creek bed (with our big dog Ginko, chasing from behind). And, I once had a huge elk buck running straight for me, with Lilly hot on his tail.

A thousand-pound elk? No problem.

A stack of papers falling off my desk … holy terror.

My fetching monster

My rotator cuff hurts. Shooting pains when I work out. Razor-thin stabs when I sleep. I blamed a mistake during a workout, until the real cause crept to mind. My shoulder hurts because I play so much fetch with Lilly. And, here’s the thing … As a pup, Lilly hated fetch. So, it’s entirely my fault.

At first, she simply didn’t understand the game.

With the disdain only a smart dog can muster, Lilly looked at me like I was a complete idiot. I swear she thought, “I just brought that back. Why did you throw it again?”

When our first obedience trainer recommended fetch as the perfect way to burn off an active dog’s excess energy, he conceded that some of us quietly thought, “Great. My dog won’t play fetch.”

Add in a few expletives, and that’s pretty much defines my inner dialogue that day.

His solution? Play fetch with food. No, the dog doesn’t actually bring back the food. But throwing it sets up the pattern of running back and forth. Over time, you introduce the ball (or whatever) and trade it for food on the return.

The process, he reminded us, also introduced the chance to train several commands:
– Fetch 
– Come
– Drop it

It worked. So, if your dog won’t fetch, I highly recommend it.

Granted, the category of item Lilly deigns to fetch is limited to a very special foam-filled ball, certain stuffed toys, and (I kid you not) sticks, including kindling she steals from the wood pile.

My girl, who once turned her small black nose sneered at even the idea of fetch, now simply won’t stop. She’s relentless in ways beyond enumeration.

I’m lucky in one respect. While she waits me out, staring intently in hopes I might throw the toy, she is mostly silent. (Like right now, she’s quietly fixated on my every move.) My husband, however, isn’t so fortunate. She’s figured out how to bark until Daddy gives in. And, he always does.

He’s Captain Chaos to her General Disarray (full credit to “South Park” for those hilarious puns).

But, I too throw the ball. I throw, and throw, and throw.

Lilly drove me to applied math theory. Using fetch to tame Lilly’s bottomless energy requires intricate calculations:

12 tosses x hilly terrain = 1 hour of peace

25 tosses x flat pasture =  1, maybe 2, hours of quiet

50 tosses x any surface = an evening off

Now … if only I could teach her to throw the ball herself. (My shoulder needs a rest.) The person who invented flyball must have had the same thought.