Practicing Peacekeeping

Despite a lifelong discomfort with loud voices and cursing, Rowdy has adopted an admirable response when he hears them.

No one celebrates the final play of the Super Bowl with greater gratitude than my gentle golden, who holds his breath, just a little, through the entirety of the NFL season. But swear words now invoke the superpower of his therapy dog spirit.

When he senses too-high tension in the tv room, Rowdy will launch a crusade for calmness, approaching the overly fervent fan with ears slightly dropped, tail slowly ticking back and forth as he gauges the proper proximity needed to successfully complete his mission.

A little scratching of that perfect spot behind a dog’s ears restores some semblance of reason to even the most passionate accusations of poor play and outrageous officiating.

Rowdy’s peacekeeping pursuits are not confined to the perimeter of Four Sticks, however.

We recently had a girl start her day with a major tantrum in the entry way of the school building. I’ve heard a few of these rants over the years, but this was top shelf vituperation, a full-on verbal assault of the perceived violation of her rights as a student, the injustices forced upon her at the school, including the totally intolerable situation of her having to be in the same room as another student she deemed despicable. It was a vitriolic tirade, born of incredible pain and sadness, punctuated with a remarkable number of F bombs.

As with many things in life, I believe there’s a time and a place for the F word, and I appreciate its judicious use. But 15 minutes of the tirade seemed plenty to satisfy a need to vent, so I left Rowdy in the office and walked into the hallway, not to counsel, just to offer a little moral support for the teacher who’d been monitoring the meltdown, and because sometimes the mere presence of a second, silent adult can nudge the emotional thermometer out of the red zone.

I said nothing, just stood quietly, and the student didn’t acknowledge me except to slip into her diatribe that she didn’t “need no fuckin’ dog.”

Message received.

Loud and clear.

But Rowdy begged to differ. The words had barely left her lips before he came around the corner, somehow knowing he was needed.

He walked past me, past the teacher, and very gently approached the student crouched in the corner. He touched her knee with his nose, and she reached for his head. He stepped a little closer, touched her just softly enough to make sure she knew he was there, and she started scratching his head, talking just a little quieter, just a little slower.

He stood with her, demanding nothing, only offering quiet connection.

After a minute or two Rowdy recognized that his work was done. He moved over to me, we returned to our office, where he accepted a well-earned treat and curled up on his bed to wait for his call to Study Hall.

He didn’t solve her problem. But within a few minutes she calmed enough to move out of the hallway and into a study space.

Unlike some of the other students, she doesn’t clamor for his attention when she sees him. But when he makes his rounds around the room at the start of Study Hall, sometimes she scratches his head, just a little, and talks to him, just a little, and smiles at him, just a little.

Just enough to keep her at peace.

Just enough to keep him in shape for Sundays in September, with their return of the purple jerseys.

Skol Vikes!

Dog Days of December

Postscript to “Relationship Rehabs”: about the time that post was published, Ruffian was annihilating the bed pictured in the middle photo at the end of the entry. That was number 3, so the Destroyer of Dog Beds has since been enrolled in the FSF Dog Bed Behavior Modification program.

I bought a replica of Rowdy’s orthopedic memory foam cushion, which is the only bed Ruff hasn’t tried to demolish, and three weeks in, under strict supervision, the only damage done is removal of the manufacturer’s tag, even under penalty of law. Scofflaw.

Thanks to our exceptionally mild weather, we’ve been able to enjoy some unusually easy winter walking, so have also been able to maintain our daily hiking routine, and Ruffian seems more at ease in the woods.

Sudden stops are minimal now, less about safety and surveillance, more about snuffling of scat. The trails are littered with the leavings of woodland creatures who’ve passed before us, and the irresistible intrigue of scratch-n-sniff secrets allows ample opportunity to practice our “Leave It”.

But enforcement of the instruction still requires a gentle tug of encouragement, resulting in 60 pounds of semi-cooperation sling-shotting from two feet behind me to three feet in front, requiring me to channel my inner yogi and “activate my core” to counterbalance, keep my shoulder in the socket and my feet on the forest floor.

Fortunately, Rowdy’s excrement explorations rarely require more than a 10 second verbal “wrap it up” warning, setting the stage for Ruff’s eventual acquiescence, as majority rules and the majority are movin’ on.

Speaking of stages, the Happy Hooligan recently made his theatrical debut, playing the part of Max in our little school production of “The Grinch”.

His character spent the entirety of the play in the cave on Mount Crumpit, constructed of two bookcases cleverly disguised with cardboard, so years of yoga came in handy as I spent 20 minutes in Hero Pose, crouched behind Rowdy and next to The Grinch, who, fortunately for all involved, weighs in at a pint-sized 90 pounds.

In preparation for the role, Rowdy learned to speak and bow on cue, neither of which he actually executed during the performance, but the students still adore him, and having seen the skills during rehearsal, they continue to bombard him with requests for the behaviors during Study Hall, so he’s barking and bowing on a regular basis between the hours of 9:45 and 11:15.

Despite some industrial strength vigilance, Ruffian breeched security and helped himself to a snack of fabric wrapping ribbon, which his intestines did not find festive. He’s purged (fingers crossed) most of it in the dog yard, and puked some putrid puddles on the hardwood floors, the scent of which now permeates the house. Nothin’ says Home for the Holidays like a dog in digestive distress, and there are not enough pine boughs or gingerbread houses to clear this air.

He appears to be on the road to recovery so I’m cautiously optimistic that he’ll follow the same path to survival as the steel-stomached retrievers of my past, especially after a trip to meet his new best friends at the vet clinic, where we spent a lot of money for a little information, a few x-rays, a bunch of barium and a passel of peace of mind.

But even with the dismantled dog beds, substandard stage performances, and gummed up gastrointestinal tracts, like the Who’s down in Whoville we’re enjoying the spirit of the holidays – the colored lights, the Christmas cocktails, the chocolate-dipped ginger snaps, the extra efforts to connect with favorite people and share food, laughter, memories and plans.

It is still a beautiful world.

Back to School

Back to School
On the first Tuesday of the month, new blue backpack loaded with the required supplies – water bowl, lint rollers, slobber towels, canine breath freshener and a bag of Newman’s Own Peanut Butter Dog Biscuits, the Happy Hooligan hopped into the silver SUV that serves as his school bus and headed off on a new adventure.

I work at a school in an adolescent residential care & treatment facility and am delighted to have a new officemate this year. Two weeks of perfect attendance in the books and Rowdy’s earned passing grades for his work as Start of the Morning Greeter and Study Hall Monitor, providing a cheerful calming presence that helps students navigate some of the rough spots.

After happy hellos for all his friends, he relaxes in my office until Periods 3 and 5, when he wanders around the library during Study Hall, accepting ear scratches, belly rubs, back massages, and whispered words of affection in return for tail wags and pooch smooches, with a new-found fancy for the flavor of hands steeped in Fruit Loops with a smattering of #2 pencil. He seems to sense when someone needs a little extra canine composure and settles in while they settle down.

A few of the students consistently engage in a ceaseless stream of adolescent chatter, to which Rowdy remains oblivious. He hangs with them for a while, then heads off to sit by someone else. Nothing personal, no judgement, just doing his job. From his example I am learning to take things in stride, stay neutral, and tolerate the constant, low-volume clamor that translates to white noise in teenage brains. In some cases, it seems the mumbled recitation of rap song lyrics actually motivates completion of a couple math worksheets. It’s no Barry Manilow, but the times they have a-changed.

After our short drive home, my golden guru generally clocks back in for a bit, to school the rambunctious rogue that is his roommate. Ruffian, the golden-hearted galoot, embodiment of enthusiastic charm covered in a creamy white coat, spooks at random, real-life objects, so in tandem with encouraging words from me, Rowdy works him past the trepidation. To date we’ve conquered a doorstop, the tv remote, and a water bucket disguised as a plastic ice cream pail, but the Swiffer® sweeper remains securely posted on the Silent but Scary list.

Neither has made peace with the vacuum cleaner, fundamentally frightening to all my goldens, so on that front they’ve bonded as allies in apprehension.

Ruff retains the title of Class Clown, with recess as his favorite subject but Rowdy endures the juvenile hijinks with remarkable patience. He’ll occasionally take Ruffian to task with a series of snarly barks, to which Ruff responds with an ebullient play-bow, followed by a series of leaps, spins and airs above the ground that would make a dressage horse proud and leave me with supple-spine envy.

Their relationship has passed the point of potential bloodshed or broken bones, so I’ve resigned my position as everlasting referee and learned to let them negotiate their own conflict resolutions unless lamps or limbs are threatened.

Elsewhere on the education front, about the time this post is published, Ruffian and I will be lining up, the behemoth in the back row of the class picture, as we begin our foray into formal training. Though older than the customary Obedience 1 enrollee, we’re starting with the basics to build a solid base and since he’s a quick study, I expect Ruff will sail through and soon be sitting, staying, and heeling on an acceptably loose leash.

Bonus points if he masters enough manners to dismiss from his playful puppy mind the delusions that climbing onto guests’ laps or ever-so-gently holding a human forearm in his mouth are included in the Solid Citizen Canine curriculum.

So, we’re back to, or better yet, still in school. Tolerating and teaching, leaping and learning, growling and growing, finding our way beyond the ABCs to peaceful co-existence.

With a little luck and plenty of perseverance, maybe even floor-cleaning tool toleration.