HA! Fooled Ya!

I have a confession to make; I lie to my dog to get him out of the car.

A lot of times, once Ray gets comfortable in the backseat of the car, he doesn't want to get out. And since, most of the time, Ray makes himself instantly comfortable in the backseat of the car, I have a problem when we arrive at our destination (unless we are going to the lake or the dogpark). So this is mainly an issue when we go to 'school' (daycare) or arrive home.

I think I've said before that Ray recognizes certain words: hungry, eat, dinner, treat, Moonie, walk, Murphy, Marva. But I don't think I've said that one word above all others gets Ray's interest, and that word is Izzy.

Izzy is Rachel's cat. When Rachel and Josh and Murphy and Turkish and Izzy all lived in Marva's basement, Ray and I were constant visitors. We would pick up or drop off Murphy from daycare or bring her over here to play, so we were there a lot. Ray and I would always stay and have a cozy chat with Marva while we stood on the landing of her split level. And while we were chatting, Izzy would always come through for a visit.

Izzy is totally unafraid of dogs. Rachel says it's because Izzy is stupid. I think it's because Izzy knows he can take out any dog stupid enough to get close to him. So while Marva and I would chat, Izzy would come trotting up from the basement and walk through Ray's legs and under his belly or even right under his nose, on the way upstairs. And every single time Ray would go berserk. When Izzy would reach the upstairs he would come over to me (we were, at this point, eye level) and I would talk to him and pet him. So Ray learned Izzy's name.

So now, when I want to get Ray out of the car, I say "Hi, Izzy!" or "Look Ray, it's Izzy!" and every time Ray falls for it. He gets right to his feet and jumps down out of the car all excited, looking around for his friend. I feel kind of bad fooling my dog like this and I know he'll catch on eventually. But for now, I'll use whatever trick it takes to get that lazy hound out of the backseat of my car.

A Matter of Trust

When I first brought Ray home, I remember telling my dad "I don't know how well Ray is going to be able to bond. He's been in a shelter for so long; I'm just hoping to get him to trust me. It's probably the best I can hope for."

As the weeks and months went by and it was obvious that Ray was not a demonstrative dog (at least not to me, he was always happy to see everyone else though), I took comfort in knowing that at least his trust in me was growing.

Last week as I was walking around the block, I passed by Ralph (of the "Promised Land") who was mowing his lawn. He turned off his mower as I approached. "Hey," he said, "Would you like to let Ray in the backyard to see if he'll play with Rambo?"

"Sure," I replied, glancing through the chain link at Rambo who was putting up a ruckus on the other side. I led Ray to the fence and looked into the backyard. It was one big booby trap for a blind dog but I had been impressed with the way Ray had handled Ken's backyard a few weeks previously. So I followed Ralph into the yard, removed Ray's leash, and turned him loose.

Rambo was still barking but nervously skittered out of Ray's way as he started to pick his way down the graveled path. Ralph went to fetch Comet, who he attached to a long tether. "Comet jumps the fence," explained Ralph. I looked admiringly at the tall dog, it was a tall fence and I found myself wanting to see Comet in action.

The dogs sniffed interestedly at each other for a moment, then Ray took off to explore. He is an intrepid explorer and loves to go into other peoples' houses and yards. Every time he approached an obstacle I would yell "step up" or "be careful," two phrases that I use consistently to warn Ray of impending problems.

"Does he not see so well?" asked Ralph. (Guess I forgot to tell him. Ooops. My bad.)

Ralph had a retaining wall to the left of the path along which Ray was gingerly picking his way, the house was to the right. The path ended at a chain link fence which enclosed a 'patio' (for Comet?). Ray came to the end of the path at the chain link fence, he turned to the retaining wall, it was chest-high to him. "Step up, Ray," I urged. The backyard sloped up from the retaining wall, first a small stand of ivy and trees, then grass and open yard.

Ray muscled up to the retaining wall, stood on his hind legs to get a feel for where the ground was then jumped up into the ivy (I was so proud). He walked through the ivy, using the chain link as a guide until he reached the end of the yard (another fence in front of him). He turned to come back, got about half way back, and stopped dead.

"Come on, Ray," I called, "Come on."

Ray didn't move. Just stood and looked at me.

"What's wrong buddy? Are you lost?" I asked.

I jumped up in the ivy and went to lead him out. A long, whiplike stem of forsythia that was arching across the route that Ray had traveled, had caught the back of his collar and was holding him immobile. Ray didn't struggle, just waited for me to rescue him.

I thought of what I had told my dad almost two years (!) ago and realized that we were there, Ray and I. For someone who's never owned a dog before, it's been a rocky road full of pitfalls. But somehow I have gained the absolute trust of a blind dog.

More Progress

Ray and I had spent the morning at the dogpark. He'd played hard with two different yellow labs and spent a bit of time hounding a black and grey lab mix named Semi the Big Truck Dog (named by a four year old). So Ray was tired. But he was whiny. He was following me from room to room, his head down, whining.

"What's wrong Ray?" I asked him as I rubbed his ears. I went into the kitchen to make a few phone calls and watched Ray stand in the middle of the kitchen, nose practically touching the floor, whining. I finished the calls and started to fix myself some lunch. It was still early but I was tired from the park and wanted to eat lunch and lay down to watch some TV. I glanced over at the dish drainer; Ray's dish was there. That's funny, I thought, I don't remember washing that.

I did a mental forehead slap. I'd forgotten to feed the hound before going to the park this morning. He'd been sleeping on Gregg's chair up until the moment we left. I rectified that immediately then fixed myself some lunch and went to sit on the couch.

After a short while, Moonie came down to join us. Lately she's been coming down in the afternoons when Ray is snoozing in the sun or napping on the couch. She jumped up next to me, opposite the side where Ray was sleeping. I picked her up, turned her so that her backside was toward the dog, and put her on my lap. Moonie's tail gently settled across Ray's snout.

Ray's eyes opened and his eyebrows started doing the eyebrow dance on his forehead. His nose twitched but he didn't move. His tail gently started to wag, lightly thumping one of the pillows he was laying on. Moonie, obliviously sat on my lap and purred.

Ray raised his head, and "looked" at Moonie. She nervously moved to the opposite side of me where she could keep a wary eye on the hound, but she didn't run away. Ray put his head back on his other pillow, slightly more alert than before, but not in a manner that Moonie found threatening. She stayed for a while longer, then headed back to cat Siberia.

I felt good about the progress we were making. It's unbelievably slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

The Magic of Yogurt

I used to use canned pumpkin to treat Ray's, uh... digestive issues. About a tablespoon mixed in with his food would take care of any temporary problems.

But Ray is not vegetable-minded. In a word, he HATES anything vegetal. So once he caught on that there was some vegetable matter lurking in his food bowl, he stopped eating it. I was left with the problem of how to treat sporadic outbreaks of, uh... digestive upsets.

On the recommendation of Rachel, Murphy's mom, I tried plain yogurt to treat Ray's uh... digestive problems. The first time he needed it, I didn't happen to have any regular yogurt in the house but did have a container of Greek yogurt. So every morning, I mixed a tablespoon of Greek yogurt into Ray's food. Worked a treat.

I found that the yogurt has a side benefit. Ray's gaseous emissions (which are copious and eye-watering) have disappeared almost entirely. So Ray gets yogurt in his food every day. The only problem now is Ray is so used to the Greek yogurt, he won't eat the regular cheap stuff. Our dog is a gourmhound.

Ray Revisits the Teachings of Gandhi

Ray was feeling neglected. We had walked almost all the way around the block and he hadn't met a single friend of his or a person to rub his belly. We were coming up on Ken's house and the Promised Land; Ray started to pull a bit on his leash. I pulled back. Ray was well up on Ken's lawn but still had forward momentum going when all of a sudden he pulled a Gandhi. A total flop out. I tried sweet-talk. I tried stern talk. I tried the old trick of pulling on his leash from behind. Nothing.

I got down on my knees, wedged my hands under his shoulders, and pried him up (I'm not supposed to lift anything for another week - Doctor's orders). Ray stood and started walking again. Rambo, one of the foster dogs living next door to Ken's, started barking. Ray was pulling, he wanted to visit his old friend. We had made it past Rambo's house (the Promised Land), Rambo still was going crazy in the back yard, when Ray pulled another Gandhi. I was standing trying to talk him out of it, when an old man came out of the front door, gave us a glance, and started to unroll his hose from the reel on the front of his house. My urgings to Ray became slightly more urgent. I wasn't sure if we were going to have a hose turned on us and I preferred to get the heck out of range before I found out.

Ray was showing signs of life. I got on my knees and did the wedged hands again. Ray got to his feet just as the old guy turned on the hose. He wasn't paying any attention to the nozzle which was waving wildly (I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt); a stream of water missed us by inches. We headed out of range just as the guy turned and looked in our direction then turned his hose on the plants along the fence where Rambo was still furiously barking (we've had an awful LOT of rain lately - must be really thirsty plants). Ray and I beat feet down the street and headed to the safety of home.

Convalescence

Last Monday, I had surgery on my nose (a deviated septum that has been giving me lots of problems). On the day previous, in a show of solidarity to my upcoming week of misery, Ray ran nose-first into a tree (Murphy was visiting and Ray was a bit excited). Gregg said that Ray hit the tree so hard it knocked him (Ray) off of his feet. It is only the second time since we got him that I've ever heard Ray yipe in pain (the first time was when I stepped on his foot). He didn't even make a sound when he broadsided the rock at the dog park. I checked his teeth to make sure that he didn't break anything but somehow managed to overlook the big scrape on top of his nose.

"You know, he has a big scrape on the top of his nose," said Gregg, "I'll get something and clean it up."

So Dr. Gregg tended to the hound. Josh, Rachel, and I chatted while I tried to ignore my impending doom.

Monday, Ray went to daycare while we went to the hospital. The procedure and recovery took much longer than expected so Ray didn't get home until almost 7:00. I was already ensconced in a recliner, which is where I was going to be sleeping for the next five days and from which I wouldn't be moving for about as long.

Ray came over to sniff interestedly at the piece of bloody gauze suspended under my nose (I looked like an elderly Groucho Marx after a bar fight). His nose got closer and closer. I retreated into the depths of the recliner, I knew a lick was going to be next. Ray, knowing his boundaries, drew back. Everyday, a couple times a day, Ray would come over to check on the progress of my nose. Sniff, sniff, sniff, closer, closer, closer; then satisfied that all was as it should be, retreat.

The week of misery was long. My lovely husband took the week off to tend to me and keep Ray out of my nose. He ran him, took him to daycare on the one rainy day, and took him to the dogpark on the other days. Ray was good the entire week.

But on Thursday night, something outside was upsetting Ray. At about ten, Ray struggled up out of his bed, growled and started to yell. I was dozing in the recliner but was brought sharply awake.

"What's up Ray?" I asked as Ray headed to the back door, growling, snorting, and yelling.

He paced and yelled in the kitchen, wanting to get out back to take care of whatever was out there disturbing him. Gregg was smart enough not to let him.

"It's alright, Ray," I soothed, over and over.

Ray went back to bed briefly then started his pacing and yelling. I went back to soothing. Gregg put Ray on a leash and took him out back to see what was up. Nothing.

For the next hour or so, the scenario repeated itself a couple of times. Gregg went to bed. I was downstairs alone with my worried dog. He came over to check on the status of my nose one last time, then instead of going back to bed, he curled up on the couch within arms reach of me. He settled down with a bit of a grumble, then growled.

"It's OK Ray," I said.

Ray growled and grumbled, snorted and sighed.

"It's OK Ray," I repeated.

Ray growled and grumbled, snorted, sighed, groaned, yipped, growled.

"It's OK Ray," I said again.

Another series of Ray noises.

Another platitude from me.

The conversation repeated over and over for about 10 minutes. I sat in my recliner and thought briefly of retrieving my video camera to record the whole thing. The sounds coming out of the dog were so human. Like a crotchety old man that no one takes seriously. I could easily translate the whole thing.

"It's OK! Can't she hear anything! There's a pack of wolves outside the door and she tells me everything is OK! No one listens to a thing I say! I try to warn them and all I get is "it's OK." Idiots!"

Ray finally settled down and we both went to sleep. Although I didn't feel particularly well, I felt very well-protected by my grumbly hound.

On Saturday, my Groucho Marx mustache was downgraded to a Charlie Chaplin version. I'm well on my way to recovery.

TA DA

Julie Hart, artiste extraordinaire, has finished Ray's painting. It's amazing.