Skunk!

On Sunday night, just as I was starting my bedtime routine and shutting down my computer, I heard a commotion outside.  I wasn't sure if Ollie, Marshall, and Gus were just wrestling outside in the dark, chasing fireflies, or perhaps excitedly sniffing heavy scents that concentrate at dusk.  When I heard Ollie begin to growl, I was certain this was not an innocent Backyard At Night exploration.  I ran to the back door just in time to hear what sounded like a very large man walking through a very large pile of dried leaves.

There was a yelp.

Then there was a smell.

I called the dogs to me, helpless as the freshest of fresh skunk cloud wafted toward the house.  My friend began closing windows as I grabbed Ollie by the collar and sniffed.  My immediate gag reflex told me he had indeed been skunked.  Gus ran half-circles in my periphery and Marshall darted past me and through the dog door into the house.

Into my house.

My friend caught Marshall by the collar at the top of the stairs and he flopped around like a wet noodle, not wanting to be dragged back outside.  He wanted to hide, safe and sound in his bed.  I didn't blame him.  I didn't want to be outside either and my bed was sounding pretty darn good just a few minutes ago.

Once all the dogs were in the yard and the dog door secured and locked, I began making the de-skunking formula in a metal mixing bowl.  My friend turned on all the bathroom fans and started lighting every scented candle we owned.   My husband hooked up the hose to a spigot in the garage and set up the industrial flood lights I normally use when painting a room.   Somehow, Gus had managed to avoid getting sprayed and whined from inside as his friends were stripped of their collars and hosed down.  Two hours and two very sad, lonely, wet, scared, dogs later, the immediate concern was taken care of.   It's been three days and I've gone through four air neutralizing candles and an entire spray can of Oust.   The house is...  tolerable.

When dogs get skunked, the hardest part to clean is their faces.  Unfortunately, this is the part that gets most of the spray.  Try as you can, it takes several days and several applications of baby wipes to get rid of the smell.    Every time Marshall or Ollie drink from their water bowls, the newly moistened odor molecules permeate the air.   The last thing in the world I want to do is nuzzle their muzzles or give little good night nose kisses.

This is a problem.  One of the bonding routines in our house is jokingly referred to as 'Forced Snuggling'.   There is a method to the snuggles, using touch as a bonding tool and as a preparatory set for vet checks, emergency situations,and toddler-proofing.  There is lots of petting and belly rubs with a good amount of touching the in and outside of ears, mild tugging on tails, slight pressure on the ribcage, muzzle rubs and fingers by eyes, sticking fingers and hands in the mouth and touching teeth as well as brushing their soft puppy lips.  There is paw touching and paw holding and a little bit of pressure in between toes.   There is close-face talking and nose-kisses and chin nuzzling.  I feel very bonded.  They feel very bonded.  We become a tangled pig-pile of fuzzy love on the living room floor.  

Although I am usually the one who instigates these sessions, Marshall and Ollie both have their own ways of saying they are ready for Forced Snuggling.  Marshall lays on the futon and lifts his front right paw as if he is opening up his little arms to give a hug.  Ollie comes to wherever I am sitting or standing and sits on my feet with his back to me and looks over his shoulder at me like a seal.  In the past few days, there have been lots of hug-offers and seal-smiles.  There has been a lot of attention-seeking behavior and Are-We-Still-Friends? looks.   "Of course we're still friends,"  I say in happy-happy voice.  "I just don't want to nuzzle your gross nose."

Instead of snuggle sessions, we've played a lot more ball and done some new games, played chase and hide-and-seek.   I've had to do a lot of thinking about how I show my affection to my dogs and reinforcing their want to bond and socialize in both human and dog ways like play.   And in the midst of all of this, I've been thinking about the ways I show my human friends how much I appreciate them when distance (thank goodness not smell!) makes hugs and body language obsolete.   I've noticed I have sent a lot more emails this week and left voicemails "just to say hi."   I've been glad to reconnect and catch up with a few folks I hadn't talked to in a very long time.

I guess every skunk cloud does have a silver lining.

Humble Pie for Breakfast

I was woken up by a certain very happy Silky Terrier.  For those of you who have never had the pleasure of owning a terrier, you may not be aware of how they share their happiness.  

Barking.  High pitched, two-toned, ear-piercing barking.

The behavior was a desirable trait in the past 600 years of terrier breeding.  Often used to hunt rats and other varmints living in grain silos, barns, factories, and farms, terriers were bred to have a loud bark.  Rodents move fast and the barking allowed for owners to locate the dog, even if it had followed it's prey into burrows or warrens underground.   This is one reason why Yorkies, Jack Russells, Silkies, Westies, and Schnauzers have earned the reputation of 'yippy dogs'.

Gus is no different.  

Gus has made great strides in his development since he came home in December.  He socializes well, meets new dog friends regularly,  is interested in play and people.  The first toy he played with was a tennis ball.  He would pick it up by the fuzz and toss it in the air, run, and pounce.  His aim was exacting.  Two years of being cooped in a puppy mill pen had not re-wired his prey drive.  

Over the next few weeks, Gus began to bring home more evidence of his ancestry.  The summer body count has risen to five chimpunks, eight field mice, two voles, and a cardinal.  (Though I suspect Orange Cat had some role in the bird catching itself...)  

I am rather accepting of predatory instincts, 'circle of life', animal nature stuff.  I'm not a fan of watching scenes on nature programs where animals get killed and eaten, but I understand how the animal kingdom works.  My dogs and cat, however, get fed twice a day.  They are not starving.  They are not even hungry.   They are merely acting on instinct, but that instinct could cause an infestation of parasites, fleas, and viruses.  It is not safe.

Each time I scooped up a teensy carcass, I wished peace to the little energy that once resided there.  I tried not to be angry at Gus for doing something natural for him.  I have learned the difference between 'cheerleading from the sidelines as Ollie and Marshall wrestle' barking from "YAY!  CHASE THE RODENT!  GET 'EM!" barking.  I finally broke down and got Orange Cat a quick-release collar with a bell and affixed a bell to Gus's collar as well.

I didn't realize how angry I was getting until this morning when I was jolted out of a fairly sound sleep by "Get 'em!  Get 'em!" barks.  I cussed loudly as I came down the stairs.  The thoughts that went through my head were, 

"He is so selfish!  He doesn't even eat the damn things."

"He is a serial killer.  He is cruel and unmerciful."

"The damn barking!  He's doing this on purpose!  Just to piss me off!"

I stomped through the kitchen and opened the sliding glass door with a little too much force as I yelled, "Gus, get your ass over here!"

And there he was, standing in the middle of the yard, looking at me quizzically.

In the moment that followed, I immediately felt ashamed.  I had just broken so many of my own rules.  I called a dog to come in anger.  I had given Gus human motivations and expectations.  I had let my grief over senseless death and secret expectations of rehabilitating generations of instinct overwhelm me.

Gus trotted over to me, tipped his head to the side, then sniffed my toe.  I bent down to pick him up and he playfully hopped backward and play bowed.   Then in a fantastic burst of energy, he began running circles in giant graceful leaps, barking his happiness for the world to hear.   The bark I had assumed was foreshadowing another rodent's demise was actually a celebration of life and body and movement.

Gus was dancing in the rain.

Walking Meditation 7/22

I am not walking today.

I am sitting. 

Sitting inside and looking at the gray.  

I am sitting and thinking about a very missed friend.  Winston, my bunny, passed on his energy last October.  He was seven and a half.  

I am sitting and thinking about how when he was about five months old, I bought a harness and Flexi-leash for him and we would go out outings.  I would stop at Jimmy John's and get myself a sandwich and soda.  Winston would get my alfalfa sprouts, sometimes a cucumber.

I am sitting and thinking how I am -- finally -- not sad.   I just miss.  I miss the garden and the snuggles and the playing-in-grass.  I miss little rememberings and chin nuzzles and happy-chuck-chuck noises.  I miss time.  

I still hurt.

I am sitting and holding my hurt.  I look at it.  It is silver and gauzy.  It fits in my hands like a six pound medicine ball.  It is a weight I forget is there because it is not cold.

I am sitting and imagining our energies intertwined deep into our roots.  When I too go into the ground, our energies will be a fall breeze that brings the scent of leaves and change and apples.  

I notice small movements in my hands and think about small creatures and small breaths.   We have to be gentle with these creatures.  Secure, confident, and gentle.  A steady holding.  Be willing to make ourselves appear to be smaller to gain their confidence.  Prove through  consistency in our actions that we are to be trusted.   Learn that exploring does not have to happen quickly and with profound movement, but slowly with smell, soft whisker touch, little lips and tongues and toes.

Be gentle with all creatures.  Secure, confident, and gentle.  

A steady holding.

I am sitting inside, looking at the gray.

What is a name?

One of my favorite dog scenes from a movie is a scene in Steve Martin's "The Jerk".   Martin plays the role of simpleton Navin Johnson.  While staying at a motel, a dog starts barking at him frantically, urgently, as if trying to convey a message.  Navin is convinced the dog is trying to warn him of a fire  and runs out of his room in a bathrobe and bangs on every door to wake up the guests and evacuate the motel.  While waiting as the fire department clears the building, Navin proclaims that he is going to name the dog "Lifesaver".   When the firefighters determine there is no fire and it was a false alarm, one of the motel guests turns and informs Navin that he should call the dog Shithead... and Navin takes his advice.  As it turns out, the dog is kind of a shithead.  He isn't loyal.  He ruins stuff.  But he's cute and scruffy and knows that there is food for him in tagging along.   

I think it is interesting how much we think about names, what they mean, how they will be used.  We develop nick-names for each other to show a special bond.  A name says quite a bit about your heritage, perhaps even where you are from.  A name can make you stand out or blend in.  A change in name can change the way we view ourselves and how others view us.  Anyone who has ever changed last names or has left behind a childhood nickname for the more adult version can relate to the power and identity behind a name.

When it comes to choosing a name for a dog, cat, or other animal,  everyone has their own technique.  I think every family who had animals has had their share of names from physical characteristics.  In my family's past, Mittens, Blackie, Sandy, Rusty, Whiskers, and Boots are all fondly remembered.   

Some animals are named according to a theme. I tend to name my animals after literary characters or authors. Ollie, my ridgeback, is properly 'Oliver' the orphan from Oliver Twist.  My cats from my high school years were named Dante after writer and father of the Italian language Dante Alighieri, and Murphy after Edward Murphy the supposed originator of Murphy's Law. Some animal's names are family names or people names.   I've known animals named after favorite composers, musicians, actors--even products.  Marshall is named after the company that makes electric guitar amplifiers.  

These names are often badges of honor that rarely have to do with the attitude of the animal itself and say more about us and our interests as namers than the namees.  Where I think we run into trouble in the naming process is when some animals get their name from a predominant personality trait. 

When we name an animal after a personality trait (or a name we associate with that trait), we are doing two things that get in the way of our connection with out animals.   The first is we are highlighting a trait that may limit our understanding of our furry friend. The second risk we take in naming an animal after a personality trait is the danger in reinforcing bad behavior without realizing it. 

Take Angel for example.  As a emaciated stray, she peacefully slept and eagerly ate for almost a week in her new home.   Her docile behavior earned her the name 'angel'. Once she regained her energy (and a little body mass),  her personality became that of the energetic adolescent hound she was.   What one would normally associate with exuberance and some behaviors that need managing and training, her actions weren't exactly 'angelic'. Calling the dog 'Angel' constantly brought back to mind and expectation of the peaceful (sickly and malnourished) pup that showed up on the back stoop weeks before.   This dog needed a set of rules and consistency from her owners early on and didn't get it for months, simply because they were waiting for their 'little angel' to return. 

Pogo, a Jack Russell terrier, was named for hopping about with excitement when greeting family and strangers alike.  Smiles and petting constantly rewarded his jumping for years before the novelty wore off.  Once the family and friends weren't entertained with Pogo's behavior, the dog looked for other antics to elicit petting and attention.   Destructive chewing and incessant barking got attention at first, but then was written off along with the jumping.  The irritating combination of jumping, barking, and chewing earned the Jack Russell hours of confinement when guests were in the house.  His owners just assumed his behavior went along with the jumping and nothing could be done.

An adult black and orange cat earned the name 'Damien' after the evil child in the horror classic 'The Omen'.   The way his eyes glowed from under the bed where he hid the first three days he was home was rather evil-looking.  Cats are normally loathe to soil their sleeping space, but the cat repeatedly chose his new owner's bed to relieve himself during those first weeks.  Misunderstanding this as bad (rather than a cat's attempt to mingle scents and bond) the owner's doubt about naming the cat Damien was erased.  Although affectionate with his owner, the cat hissed, bit, and hid or raced up the curtains when strangers entered the house.  The real issue was the cat's actions signaled stress and uncertainty. The name directly resulted in the owner accepting some pretty bad behavior with the assumption that the destruction was simply a part of the cat's nature.    After years of escalating destruction, Damien's stress responses went unaswered and eventually the cat had developed neurotic and violent behavior that made him unfit to be around children or anyone other than his owner.

I'd like you to think about the names of the animals in your life.  These stories are extreme cases to highlight what can happen if we don't think about the ways our human need to 'name' interferes with inter-species communication.  Are they symbolic of a behavior or a person that you admire for a shared personality trait?  Can you think of ways that the name might be holding back your understanding and responding to animal communication?

Walking Meditation 7/16

It is another partly cloudy day.  The last one I expect to see this week.  I could base my prediction on the local weatherman's forecast of lower than normal temperatures and thunderstorms.  Instead, I look at the trees for conformation.  The breeze grows stronger throughout the day and the silver undersides of the leaves are exposed.  The silver maple sparkles for a moment.  This is how I know tomorrow will bring rain.

We are walking, Marshall and I.  He is a good walker.  His toenails tap the pavement as he bounces next to me.  I call his happy walk "tip-tip-tip".  His head is up, his whippy tail reminds me of the Wacky-Waving-Inflatable-Flailing-Arm-Tube-Man outside the local Chevy dealership.

Marshall is a happy puppy.  I'm realizing as I write this that he only has a few short months until he is no longer a puppy.  He will be two in November.      People always think he is much younger and mistake him for a sixteen-week old Rottweiler.  The truth is we don't know what he is, a Heinz 57 mutt that most closely resembles a German Pinscher, the dogs that are the ancestors of Doberman Pinschers, Schnauzers, and Affenpinschers.

His prance has been passed down from three hundred years of working dogs.  Marshall walks with pride.  He has a job and he does it well.  I am currently working with him to be a service dog.  My service dog.

I am one of the thousands of people with an invisible disability.  People with Epilepsy, Autism, Diabetes, Alzheimer's, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and other serious psychiatric disorders fall into this category. Marshall is being trained in medical alert and response, certain tasks to help me in my daily life, as well as all of his public access standards.  

He is off-duty right now and enjoying the scents coming to him in the pre-rain breeze.  We stand for a moment in the shade of an oak tree, close our eyes and smell.   Someone is burning leaves and yard waste and from far away someone is grilling.  The scent of sun-ripened blackberries down the path beckons me.  I start to walk ahead, but Marshall is not moving.  He has firmly planted himself next to the tree.  

When I move closer, he nudges my knee.  It is one of his gentle alerts.  I take my pulse and realize I do, in fact, need to sit down and continue the deep breathing we were doing before.   The tightness in my chest builds then subsides and I breathe through it.  A few minutes later, I feel a tug on the leash.  Marshall is standing on the path with his happy wagging tail.  He tap-dances at me to tell me it's time to get going and I'm ok again.  It is time to finish our walk, side-by-side.

I am reminded at this point of a quote by Thich Nhat Hanh's "Faith as a Living Thing".  

Faith is nourished by understanding.  The practice of looking deeply helps you understand better.  As you understand better, your faith grows.  

My faith has been fed today.   And I think Marshall's has, too.

Oooh. Scary.

Next week I'm working with a client whose dog has some fear/angry/scary issues.  The owner isn't quite sure what happened or why it started.  She left for a week and returned to her house-sitter telling her that her dog was a monster and nearly attacked another dog while they walked through the park.

Before she called me, she was told to use a choke chain (ew!), prong collar (ew! ew!), not to take the dog for a walk until the "problem was fixed"  (what?), and she may have no choice but to put the dog down (omg!)

We'll meet next week to assess what is really going on, but from all accounts, I'm expecting this to be a case of fear-aggression, so I have been thinking about fear from a dog's point of view.

Most dog trainers constantly reiterate that it is important not to ascribe human ways of understanding fear to dogs.  They don't develop fear and learned responses the same way we do.  Their body language that shows fear to their own species is often causes fear in humans.   And when it comes to uncovering what is wrong, we can't ask probing questions and get insightful responses in the way we are accustomed to doing with our friends.  Dogs don't get to sit around and talk and decompress with their friends by shopping.  Or over a couple of beers and a game of pool.  Or coffee.  Or shopping.  (Did I say that already?)

 

According to most dog behavioralist texts, there are three reasons a dog responds out of fear.

-- Improper socialization as a pup.  Mainly that the pup did not get enough experience with different types of people, dogs, sounds, touch, and movement in its formative 5-14 week stage and so did not learn self-soothing techniques or how to react.

-- Trauma.  Sudden, abrupt, scary-as-all-get-out event that challenged the dogs way of understanding his world.

-- Genetic tendencies bred into the dog for a purpose or by shoddy and irresponsible breeders.  

 

Fear can come from one or more of these categories, plus another factor that can compound the fear:  progressive de-socialization.

 

Progressive de-socialization (or a similar term) is mentioned in a lot of dog training books as a cause of fear in dogs.  An example is usually giving with an aggressive dog escalating behavior until his family decides no one can come over anymore or if they do the dog has to be locked in a kennel.  Another anecdote is usually given with a dog that is displaying dog-aggressive behaviors on walks.  Eventually, the owners stop the walks and the dog is confined to the yard, never to socialize with others of his kind.

Whenever de-socialization is listed as a cause of fear in an article or book, I usually have an internal debate that sounds like this:

Research-Reading Me:  No.  It is not a cause.  It aids in conditioning a fear-full response.  Less experiences means less opportunity to learn the right response.  It is imposed by owners.   Separation is the trauma.  De-socialization should be a sub-category of trauma.   

 

Holistic-Spiritual-We-Are-One Me:  Without any trauma, adult dogs that were separated from social situations develop antisocial behaviors and fear-response aggression.  Without regular access to new stimuli and energies, dogs develop patterns to cope with stress that may not be socially appropriate in our world or theirs.  They have no release for their energy and no new way to channel their anxiety about a situation.  Yes!  Of course de-socialization is a cause of fear.

 

So, of course that debate got in the way of me writing this post last night because while I debated with myself, the afternoon sped away and it was time to meet a friend for dinner.

It was about ten o'clock when I came back to my house to see Ollie, Gus, and Marshall wrestling in the living room.  My two severely developmentally challenged dogs and my "normal" pup were all enjoying each other's company and interacting.  A dog that had improper socialization as a puppy (Gus), a dog with abuse trauma (Ollie), and a dog whose ancestors were all bred to protect and guard (Marshall).

 

That's when I decided it was too easy to intellectualize and cite references rather than see the answer that was right before me.

 

The root of the fear may not be as important as what we do with the fear itself.   It makes sense to recharge and maybe remove ourselves from the environment or fear-inducing situation for a moment, but not permanently.  When our fear impacts our ability to interact with others,  hiding away and watch the outside world go by from behind our windows and fences isn't really all that acceptable.  We stop learning.  We stop growing.  We stop being able to contribute.  And our bond to each other, our ability to be caring and present is slowly eroded until we are so unsure of ourselves that everything is... scary.

Instead of removing ourselves or our dogs from fearful situations permanently, we need to focus on gradually learning how to confront our fears in controlled situations.  This works best when supported by friends and family (and sometimes professionals).  It works best with opportunities to practice, and do-overs, and consistency.  Developing the appropriate response to address our fear makes for happy learning and productive engagement with everything that makes us whole.

 

And makes for happy dogs of all sizes and backgrounds wrestling on my futon.

Walking Meditation

Walking is a pretty spiritual thing for me.  It is a time to be aware of my body and my surroundings.  I am fortunate to live in an area where there are boardwalks and bike paths that go around lakes and into wooded areas.  The air is sweet and cool on days like today and the lake is fairly still.  Swans and ducks and the occasional egret or heron enjoy the marsh by the boardwalk.  Bullfrogs and turtles and leopard frogs rest on fallen branches.  It truly is a beautiful place to live when I take the time to notice it.

I very rarely bring my iPod along when I walk by myself or with the dogs.  I feel it breaks the connection down the leash as well as the time to listen to my body.  I use walking as a meditation frequently since I don't seem to be doing well lately with sitting still and feeling present.  When we walk, the dogs and I get a chance to see and smell small changes around us and within.

This week, I walked with Gus.  He is a Silky Terrier who stays with us most of the time.  His owner is a friend who is staying at our house for a while.  She works long hours and spends most of her days off helping her family.  We get the benefit of having him when he is not with her.

Gus was a former puppy mill puppy.  Through his puppyhood and early adolescence he was kept in an 8'x8' pen with four to five other litters.  Surrounded by so many dogs, he never learned how to develop the social skills or bonding needed for mental and physical development.  His only human interaction was being kicked out of the way when someone cleaned his cage or decided to change the water and food.

When the ASPCA had enough evidence to close the mill, he was taken to a rescue in Southern Michigan.  I found him onPetFinder.com.  My friend was looking for a Yorkshire or Silky terrier but also wanted to adopt rather than go through a breeder.  We drove out to meet Gus at his foster home in late December.

I knew immediately he would be a difficult rehabilitation.  While all the other foster dogs ran to meet us at the door, Gus only peeked out from around the corner.  It took almost an hour for him to let me pet him without shaking.  My friend had decided it was love at first site.  "He's going to need a lot of work.  I can help, but it's going to be a long road. It's not too late to change your mind," I told her as we walked back to the car.  She nodded sincerely but could hardly contain her smile as she said, "I know."

His vet records said he was about eight months old.  Our vet immediately showed us he was over a year old, perhaps older.  As I've watched him over the next few weeks, I became fairly certain he was closer to two years old.

Two years.  No human contact.  No positive play or dog interaction.

 

Sheesh.

He was certain every sudden movement was to be feared.  He had no understanding of how to relate to my dogs.  He hoarded toys and socks and guarded his food.  He cowered and lowered his head every time someone tried to pick him up or pet him.  We would joke that he 'hated how much he loved' belly rubs because he would be so happy being pet, but the minute you loosened your grip or moved he would run away.  And when it came time to put on a leash he fought ferociously and would nip and yelp.

It's been six months since he first came home and hours of classical and operative conditioning.  Now he enjoys snuggling and will fall asleep in my arms.  In May he learned how to entertain himself and play by himself.  He is becoming more consistent with 'come', 'wait', and 'sit' but that's about it.  We've had quite a few rough days.  A lot of days he feels like a chore and some days I threaten to give him to a traveling circus.  We have so much more work to do together and so much more training ahead of us.

Walking with Gus this past week strangers would comment, "What a cute dog!" and "What a happy puppy!" as they passed.  I looked down at Gus prancing beside me, bright eyed with a 'smile' on his face.  I realized I am seeing what other people see: a happy terrier enjoying his daily walk along the lake.

My walking message for mindfulness:

Take the time to realize small achievements toward your goals. Reward small progresses and use this awareness to see that others are working on their stuff too.

Ten Things I Learn From Ollie

My Ollie is a Rhodesian Ridgeback--81 pounds of pure muscle. Picture a carmel colored greyhound with a broader chest that could stand on his hind legs, put his paws on my shoulders and look me in the eye. (Thank goodness he's never jumped up in his life.)  Ollie is by far the most highly expressive and empathetic dog I've ever worked with.  He has an amazing vocabulary (over 50 phrases and names) and is able to figure out what is needed from him in a lot of varied situations.  He has dog friends of all sizes ranging from a four-pound teacup Pomeranian to a 90-pound husky.  Once he gets to know you, he is affable and goofy, and delights in showing off tricks he knows.

His neuroses and phobias, however, make him difficult to bring in public.  He has a history of abuse as a young puppy and is scared of men in baseball hats.  He is horrible at generalizing and I am never quite sure how he will react.  His fears include (but are not limited to): topiaries, fire hydrants, newspaper vending machines, rectangle street signs, red plastic cups--not blue, yellow, or clear, clear plastic forks, duffle bags, newspapers--but not wrapping paper, garbage bags, garbage cans, cardboard boxes, tight spaces, and anything out of its normal order or place.  When he is frightened, he does not bite or bark, but simply freezes and won't move except to look frantically from me to the offending object and whine.

He is the dog version of Dustin Hoffman's character in the movie Rainman.

 

Ollie teaches me so many things about living in a scary world.  And when I need time to recharge and evaluate my decisions, he is a great role model.

====================== 

1. It takes a lot of courage to 'come see' something that is scary. Even when someone you love and trust is telling you it's okay to come check it out.  Even if it is something you've seen a million times and weren't scared before.  You should always do a happy dance when you've done something brave.

2. It's frustrating when you know how to do something and someone else is still learning. You can either stay beside them and model the correct behavior or walk away. It's ok to do either, but not ok to interrupt the learning.  Don't show off.

3. It's good to let the little ones win. It's okay if a four-pound teacup Pomeranian thinks he can beat you in tug of war. He gets self confidence. You get to play. It's a win-win.

4. Diversity in friends is good.  You learn the best things about yourself when you have friends around you who think differently than you do.  It stretches your mind as you figure out how to play with them. Some are threatened by you when you move fast.  It's best to get on their level and move slowly. Some like to take care of you but don't really like it for you to take care of them. Be flexible and they will keep playing with you.

5. Help older friends.  Visit them regularly. Wait for them to catch up without being impatient. Let them eat first. Just because they can't get up doesn't mean they don't want to play. Bring them the toys and they will play from their bed.

6. If someone you love won't get out of bed, bring them a ball. Wag your tail. Look happy. If they don't get out of bed, sometimes the best thing you can do is be quiet, lay down next to them, and let them cry on you. Then, try the ball again. Don't whine.

7. When friends are sick, sometimes they just need you to be there or spend the night by their side.  It is comforting to have a friend close.  Sometimes friends are too sick to let anyone know.  If that is the case, whine until someone with more medical expertise listens. 

8. When someone is breaking a big rule, try to tell them yourself to stop. If they don't listen, it's okay to let someone with more authority know. Especially if your friend might hurt themselves. 

9. It's ok not to like something, but you have to try it first. And if you're creative, you can find a way to kind of like it. Swimming pools are a good example.  If you don't like swimming, find a friend  who does.  He can go swimming and gets the ball to fetch. You take the ball from him at the edge of the pool and bring it to whoever is throwing.

10. When you think your patience is exhausted or the environment is too scary, take a deep breath then leave the room or go outside by yourself for a minute. Run around. Entertain yourself. Or take a nap. Then you will be able to interact with others and play again.

What life lessons do you learn from you furry friends?

A good place to start

I've been quiet for a while, writing instead in my striped bound journal next to my bed.  I've been trying to find my center, what makes me happy and whole and feel connected.  Feeling pen on paper always adds a bit of connection and I desperately needed some.

 

I realized that I have been doing what I love for months, working with my dogs and donating my time to friends and family to help them with training issues with their pooches.  Not only am I doing what I love, but I find myself feeling a certain closeness to my spiritual nature and being more mindful.  When I actually pause and take the time to reflect, I am learning more through these interactions and learning how to apply spiritual teachings in a more integrated way.

When talking about animals and spirituality, I mean it in whatever way works the best for you.  My spiritual background is a hodgepodge of religions and belief systems.  I typically categorize myself as a Dirt-Worshipping Quasi-Buddhist who doesn't mind reading the Bible now and again.  This is less about me and more about interactions, so I'm going to skip the multi-post length novel and go straight to the Cliff Notes version.

Whatever your background or belief system, please know that when I say 'Energy' or 'Universe' or 'Spirit', I am doing my best to include everyone while being true to my own belief system.  I have a hard time conceptualizing a being up in the sky watching over our every move.  It doesn't help my paranoia or agoraphobia in the least bit.  I grew up in a Lutheran home though, and find myself saying things like "God forbid", "heaven", "hell", "angel", "saint", or "pure evil".  I don't believe in evil, although I think ignorance, cruelty, and misguided intentions abound in our world. 

 I may also differ from a lot of folks because I tend to see the key people whose writings are included in most major religions as just dudes.  REALLY SMART and AWARE and SPIRITUAL dudes who have a lot of good works, good teachings, and great writings.  Dudes that are all worth listening to at least once.  The best thing about this is that I'm also not bound to one way of viewing and love to hear other people's interpretations of words like 'spirit' and 'angel' and 'G/god' and 'faith'.  I try very consciously to remain open to all ways of thought and always encourage compassionate dialogue.   Even when I don't want to.

I believe in kindness and being self-aware so as not to hurt anyone intentionally.  And I believe we are all here to help and make a difference in each other's lives. It is in this way that I think our animals give us such an insight into how to be more compassionate, wholly realize ourselves, and integrated with our sense of spirituality.   Together, through sharing our stories and observations, we can walk together and learn from each other. 

 

In that respect, I am going to focus my writing here for the next two months on the lessons we learn from our furry friends.   This blog will discuss how understanding our animal's perceptions can strengthen our bond with each other in both the human and animal realm of existence and how to better communicate with them so our spiritual bond can deepen. 

I might even stick in a poem or two.  Maybe.

 

I'm partial, of course, to the animals that are sharing my daily life:

 

Orange Cat:  My orange domestic short-hair cat has been part of my life since 2002.  He was a field cat who moved in under our porch in Ohio and eventually weaseled into our hearts and onto our couch.  He is not my first cat, however.  MacBeth, Mittens, and Murphy were all large long-haired kitties, each one lovingly brought home after someone's barn cat had kittens.

 

Ollie B. Superbiscuit: A Rhodesian Ridgeback.  He is our first dog, adopted in 2006.  My father always had dogs and I grew up spending summers playing with his dogs Captain and Bess, and later Brandy.  

 

Marshall T. Wunderstrudel: Is our German-Something-or-Other, an 18-month old pup in training to be a therapy dog as well as my own service dog.  I plan to devote Thursday posts to working dogs and questions that readers have about the dogs, training programs, or how to get involved in their community with their animals.

 

I also have a soft spot for rabbits.  Winston F. Bunny passed last October after almost 8 years together, I learned an immense amount about how to be friends with a prey animal.   It is a totally different type of relationship and I hope that some of my insights will be enriched by those of you who also have little herbivores that are low on the food chain.  

So tell me:

What animals are a part of your life?