How Maya is doing

                                                             

How we’re doing currently:

The painter arrived at 7:00a.m. yesterday to power-wash the outside of the house. He was here for about 45 minutes, running a compressor and shouting cheerfully with his buddy. Although I took Maya outside four times over the course of the day, she was so traumatized by it, she did not feel safe enough to relieve herself. Twelve hours later, at 7:00p.m., she finally peed.

I want to offer a brief explanation of what it’s like working with a feral dog. My friend Ann asked recently if giving Maya treats would help. I explained that yes, Maya does like treats, but she will not eat them until I’ve left the room. No matter how badly she wants them or how long I stand there. She will not eat or drink in my presence. Thomas was the same way seven years ago.

Here’s the thing: Domestic dogs are raised by domestic mama dogs. The behavior they see modeled for them is that humans are helpers who are (overall, we hope) kind and generous, offering good food and clean water, safety and security, love and affection. Feral dogs or dogs born in puppy mills or hoarding situations (as Thomas and Maya both were) are never socialized to trust humans. (I feel their pain, believe me; I have those trust issues myself.) In Thom’s case, he was left to fend for himself, running wild on four acres in the desert with over one hundred other dogs. In Maya’s case, the folks at the Really Terrible Rescue where I adopted her liked to boast that they ‘took her from a guy who had her for three years and didn’t do anything with her.’ They promptly took her to their rescue, put her in a narrow concrete dog run, and didn’t do anything with her for three years (except feed her and chase her out to run around with other dogs for ten minutes a day while they hosed out her kennel).

Here's how we were four months ago when I brought her home:

Petting her terrified her. She would simply cringe and tremble. Any restraint—collar, harness, slip lead, holding her—terrified her. She chewed through her harness on the trip home. She chewed through a leash in one bite that same evening. I couldn’t get near her unless she was confined in a small space, so taking her outside required leashing her, getting her to follow me (because a tug on the leash would compel her to bite it in half), getting her out the door where I would drop her leash and she would immediately hide under the patio table or chair or swing, tangling the trailing leash around chair legs, etc. Eventually, if she had to go bad enough, she would dart to the grass, relieve herself, and come back to the patio. When I approached her, she would trot away (she still does), but I could step on the end of her leash to catch her. Coming back in was easy after that. All I had to do was slide the door open and she would bolt for her safe spot. (Thank goodness I bought that anti-anxiety bed before I brought her home.)

As the weeks went by, I slowly shortened that nice new cotton leash, cutting off one foot at a time, so she wouldn't have so much slack whipping around behind her, which also frightened her. (I started with a thirty-foot leash. Good thing.) After she met Thomas and the two decided to tolerate each other (actually, she adores him to the point of annoying him, just as I did with my big brother—probably still the case), getting her in and out was easy. If Thomas is with me, she comes right along. If I take her out alone, I usually have to leash her. (Because if I go in the den and call her to come outside, she either doesn’t move a muscle or she sits up and gives me her best “What the hell are you going to do to me now, lady?” expression.)

After she’d been here two months, I started walking her around the house. Mind you, she is still so shut down that she spends 90% of her time lying on her side in her bed with her head under my desk.

Everything in this world is still new and strange and scary to her, just as it was for Thomas in the beginning. We had to start somewhere, though, so I began by walking her through the house every day, up and down the hallway (terrifying the cats, poor dears, who would hide under the bed the minute the crazy-eyed wolf dog appeared). We then graduated to walking through the garage, out to the driveway. Our initial attempt was disastrous, with Maya fighting desperately like a hooked fish at the end of the leash, biting it and spinning around in her terror. We lasted about 30 seconds out there. 60 seconds the next time. 90 seconds the next—but then a human walked by and she was beside herself with terror, pleading with her eyes for me to take her in. “Can’t you see we are in peril for our very lives?” she said. “No, baby girl, it’s just a person,” I told her. “He won’t hurt you.” But we went in.

Her first walk on the street was equally disastrous. We went west (at 6:00a.m. to assure no humans would be present)—until a neighbor stepped out to retrieve his newspaper and saw her.

“GOOD MORNING, KAY! IS THAT YOUR NEW DOG?” he shouted. Maya spun around and began dragging me back home. “SHE DOESN’T WALK VERY WELL ON THE LEASH, DOES SHE?” he called to our retreating backsides.

Next time, we went east. We made it all the way to the corner—five houses down!—before our sweet neighbor, Linda, came out to get her paper. “Kay, is that Maya?” she asked quietly. “She’s so beautiful!” Whereupon Maya spun around and headed for home again as fast as her little legs would trot.

(Note to Cesar Milan, formerly known as the Dog Whisperer and still my hero: Yes, Cesar, I know that a dog that is pulling is in “a state of excitement,” but no, I can’t stop in the middle of the street and tell her to sit until she’s calm. She's terrified. And frankly, she’s nearly as afraid of me as she is of Linda. So yeah, I’m gonna let her drag me back to where she feels safe. I’m sorry if I let you down. Much respect, K.)

Where was I? Oh—note to self: Walk Maya even earlier than 6:00a.m.

Then I hit on the great idea of walking her with Thomas. Chaos ensued. But also: Dog joy. Pure, unadulterated dog joy.

Thomas, initially, was annoyed that he had to share his walk with his out-of-control little sister. Somehow, I got them both through the garage and out to the driveway. But Thomas—like any stubborn cattle dog mix—stopped dead when he got to the street (as Maya continued on, nearly pulling my arm off).

“No,” he said. “This is dog shit. First of all, we go out the kitchen door, not the garage. And I do my walk. Then treats. That’s all.” Thomas, by the way, does a killer side-eye.

“Thom,” I said, barely containing my laughter. “With me.” I tugged and he moved forward.

As soon as Maya saw that her brother was going to walk with us, she exploded in dog joy, hopping up and down on her front paws, her little ears flopping, and yes, wait for it—wagging her tail!! Tick tock, tick tock, back and forth it swung as she trotted proudly beside him. I was laughing and crying, watching her be not-terrified. Of course, the outing became a bit somber when we turned the corner. She’d never been around the block. But, although her tail stopped ticking tocking, she didn’t tuck it. She just kept trooping along beside him until we reached the driveway—at which point I made a giant mistake and unleashed Thomas, who kept right on going around to the front porch and kitchen door, where he usually goes in. Meanwhile, Miss Insistent dragged me through the garage to the back yard, so I had to abandon my boy out front until I had her secured in the house, then go back for him. (Good thing it was 5:00a.m. and no one was around to panic upon seeing an unleashed dog who slightly resembles a coyote trotting frantically up and down the street, from my porch to my driveway and back again.)

Whew.

Best walk ever (except for the dismount).

Full disclosure here (and probably TMI, sorry), I have seen Maya wag her tail before. Never at me, always at Thomas. Or after she poops. She gets ecstatically happy after she poops, then, within minutes, reverts to sullen, sad dog again.

But: She has now walked solo around the block a couple of times without incident. Oh—and she sits on command now. She’s incredibly smart, so every time she sat down, I would tell her, “Good sit, Maya, good girl.” She knows that the sooner she sits calmly, the sooner I take off the hated collar.

She also now tolerates getting petted, and she likes ear scratches (though she won’t admit it).

Her nails are still horrendously long, but she won’t let me touch her feet, much less hold a paw long enough to clip them. It’s going to take two people. Two very brave, very strong, very committed, very patient people. I won’t take her on any long walks until I can get those nails clipped, but it will happen, sooner or later. And then, oh, the places we’ll go! Because if I can walk her, I can fix her. We just need time and an open road.

Bonus content for those who are still reading (and if you are, thank you!): 

Maya’s DNA:

    29% Chihuahua

    23% Miniature American Shepherd

    15% Wolf

    10% Jack Russell Terrier

    7% Parson Russell Terrier

    7% Central Asian Ovcharka

    2% Dutch Shepherd Dog

    2% Puli

    2% McNab

    2% Rat Terrier

    1% Staffordshire Terrier 

Miss Maya on her first solo walk. Her tail is tucked because she doesn't understand why we aren't going back inside where it's safe.

        

  

Graveyards

These two beloved friends, Marc Houseman and Ginger Brickey, taught me to love and appreciate cemeteries, for the opportunity to honor the dead, but also for the sense of closure and affirmation of love, for the beauty and for the serenity.

I did not write today's post. When it was brought to my attention as a post on Facebook, I asked permission of the author to re-post it here. These are not my words, but these are definitely my sentiments exactly. Thank you, Clare Brewer Oldham, for so eloquently stating my feelings about graveyards, and for so graciously allowing me to re-post your words here.
  

What Clare said:

Should it be up for interpretation, graves are not for the dead. They are for the living.

In Los Angeles, a person comes across many "descansos." Small crosses, sometimes with flowers, toys, photographs, at roadsides and intersections. When you see them, you know someone died there.

They are illegal, but that doesn't mean much when someone has died and a person loved them. I assume the cops choose not to do anything about them for that reason. Because you see them everywhere. They are not removed.

My dad never wanted to talk about death in any real way. He would allude to his possible demise, mention what doctors had predicted, but he didn't want to talk about burial versus cremation, or where, or how.

Being me, and intent on making things work the best way they could, trying to plan ahead, I eventually cornered him years ago, demanded that he tell me if he wanted to be buried or cremated. He admitted he wanted to be buried.

I was happy when I heard him say that, not because there is a difference either way after you are dead, but because there is a difference for those left behind. A small plaque on a wall may be just what some families desire. Ashes spread over a beloved ground may be what others desire. For me, I have always loved gravestones.

I have visited cemeteries in South Dakota, California, Oklahoma, Virginia, Colorado, and Paris. Three in Paris. Plus the Catacombs. I am a lover of the dead, in that I love to see their names, to contemplate their lives, even though I do not know them. Since I was young I learned how to do "grave rubbings" with paper and pencil or charcoal. The writing on a gravestone would come out of such a rubbing. It always felt like an homage to a stranger who had become my friend.

I have loved so many people I wish I had known. Small babies, small children, teenage soldiers, poets, singers, philosophers, scientists, wives desolate at the loss of their husbands, husbands eviscerated at the death of their wives. Your heart could nearly burst from seeing such people, stones sticking out of the earth so they are not forgotten.

When I moved to California, I was surprised to see that the majority of graves are not gravestones, the type that says something and sticks out of the earth, but rather "headstones," small plaques implanted in the ground of the deceased. When you see a cemetery here, it looks like a rolling green hill from afar. Even from up close. Again I beat the drum of whatever a family desires for their lost loved one, they should get. I hold no judgement of any way in which a family chooses to honor their loved ones.

But I will say, it is not for me. I have always needed a stone jutting out of the earth. I have always needed to see the name there, worn away perhaps, but visible and tangible. I do not want a cemetery to tell me that it is more appealing (and cheaper) to have a headstone versus a gravestone. See the rolling green hills from the freeway? Don't worry, you will not die. That's what it seems to be telling me. But I love the stark, curved, moss-covered, jutting gravestones--the ones that demand you look at them. Remember them. Take a moment to pause on their names, to see their lifespans, to read their small commentaries. See them rising from the earth as you drive by. Feel, for a moment, your own mortality.

My dad is now buried in a military cemetery. Every stone is the same--not exactly what I had wished or imagined, but good all the same. I desperately need a place where I can come back to him, though he could not come back to me. The military seems to know what I know--you put up a stone, rising from the ground, to show living people the reality of death. Here lie soldiers and heroes, the stones say. They line up, row after row, on the plain. Do not look away. This is what they meant to the world. See them shining at you? Do not look away.

It should be thus, in my opinion, for all people--our lives and deaths are reminders to those that follow. A place to visit and remember. And sometimes your child just wants to feel close to you, again, for a moment--just wants to rest her head on your gravestone, touch the engraving of your name in the marble, know that your body is right beneath her, the body that made her, that held her, that loved her, that left her.

Remember.  That's all I want to do.  Always remember. To be able to sit and talk to him, though I know he is changed. To see my own death, not so far away. For what is time, truly? And to be able to sit and lean against the stone as if it were my father's arms. Because it is the closest I will ever get again to my father's arms.

Me...beside the tombstone of my great-great-grandfather, who is buried in the churchyard of the church he helped build with his own hands in Mitchell Township, Wisconsin.

My dad's stone, here in Southern California. He rests in the shade of a large jacaranda tree that was a tiny baby tree in 1963 when he was buried.