It occurred to me while I was sitting on the porch, a short time after my dog's incessant barking drove my nephew off the porch, that
living with a difficult dog is like living with a difficult person.
After my nephew left, since we could barely talk what with the wind chimes jangling and the dog bark bark barking, I had to bring the dog inside the house and out to the porch so she could smell the trail my nephew took going through the house.
Fortunately or unfortunately however, you might weigh it, I have had plenty of experience with living with difficult people, rarely with a difficult dog.
The two dogs who might have been deemed difficult, were, to me perfectly understandable and righteous in their own scheme of things. One difficult dog was our boxer. I don't remember how he came to us; my folks would never have been the type to buy a pedigree dog from a breeder for so so many reasons. There are so many homeless dogs, for one. We always had dog but almost every time, they came to us rather than being sought or bought or rescued from a shelter.
The boxer was deemed 'difficult' because he went after my father once, when during a family quarrel my father was lunging towards one or more of us to give us a slap. Duke, like the true film star he was, bared his teeth and menaced my father in protecting us. My parents gave him away. I loved that dog but my father said he would NEVER have a dog in the house that threatened him!
The second 'difficult' dog was rescued somehow by my sister. Having been taunted one to many times by stick wielding little boys in the school yard, he lost his composure and went over the fence after them. Someone intervened and he knocked that person down. It all ended with two policemen coming to arrest him, but my sister stood her ground and said, "Do you have a warrant?"
They left to get a warrant and we called my father and said, this dog has got to go live with you; the cops are after him. So my father took him in and they were soul mates from that day.
He was called difficult because any time any moved too quickly near my father, or bent over him to whisper or something, he would 'nip' them on the buttocks - just a little warning gesture with his small, even, white front teeth - not the big sabers.
People took offense. My brothers tried to dominate him with brusk tones and imperial forces commands. He was not impressed. My father wanted him put down if father should die before the dog, now named "BLIZZARD" because he struck fast, silently, like a blizzard. I argued with my father, as was our habit, and said, "He has been a loyal friend to you, if you die first, he comes to live a good and peaceful life with me." My father didn't argue back and in fact, he may have been conning me into just that promise of care for his good buddy.
Anyhow, the day came, as it must, and my father left us. I told my brothers in clear, simple, no argument tones, that Blizzard was coming home with me. One brother tried to protest, "But dad said he wanted Blizzard put down and their ashes mixed." I just repeated the final decision; "Blizzard is coming home with me. I will be by in the morning from the motel to pick him up.
Next morning I went to pick him up and Blizzard was sitting in the driveway. I swear to you, if he had anything to pack, it would have been a little suitcase sitting beside him waiting for he driver to pull up. I opened the door to the car, and he hopped right in. He had two more years of nice long walks in the park, too long for him, sometimes, I think now that I am old too and I know how hard it is.
So my difficult dog, Uma, who was treated horribly before I adopted her from the shelter, has some problems. She doesn't like visitors, other dogs, thunder, baseball caps, sunglasses and so on. As long as she isn't confronted by these she is mostly all right. Except if she wants her walk, or I put on the television. She has phobia about the television. When she wants to go for a walk, she shouts at me and if I am on my feet, she tries to jump on me and paws at me with her great big grizzly bear claws. If her claws are extended, her paws are as big as my hands.
Of course I have tried all of the usual measures to break the jumping habit, but that seems like only preliminary steps in the negotiation. I have had two trainers and have used all their tips. She still jumps. The only cure, I think, is time. In time all of her bad habits have softened just a bit so she is endurable all the time and downright restful the majority of the time.
She has been great company during this pandemic. She has made me walk a mile every day and she has helped to persuade me to keep to at least a semblance of a daily routine, as I had drifted into staying up later and later and sleeping longer in the morning. She is very moderate about that and doesn't demand that I get up and let her out, until it becomes unreasonable to her, around 10. I have to agree; no doubt about it, I should be up by 10.
So my relationship with my dog begins to resemble so many other relationships I have made, with parents, siblings, boyfriends a husband, a daughter, friends from work or school, each side decides by trying them out where they can dry the line and where you will draw the line, and you learn to live in peace.
Happy trails and happy tails!
Jo Ann
wrightj45@yahoo.com
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