Leftovers

 

There are two stuffies that belonged to Sgt. Thomas Tibbs within easy reach under my bed (Blue Bunny and Fuzzy Dog). I see them every day, and every day I tell myself, “I’ll pull those out and do something with them… tomorrow.”

Thom’s collar and leash still hang on the hook (which I installed seven years ago for that very purpose) just inside the door to the laundry room.

There are three carrots in a plastic bag in the crisper of my refrigerator that have been there for a month now. I need to get those out, too. Maybe take them to my sister’s horse. Because what’s the point of peeling and chopping up a carrot if your best boy isn’t there to share it with you?

That’s why there’s a half of a bag of popcorn sitting on top of the fridge. I’m sure it’s stale by now. I’d open a bag and sit down to watch TV, and before long Thomas would come trotting out to the living room, those impossibly soft ears up, the tip of his right ear flopping over. “Is there popcorn?” He could only have a few pieces, so I’d try to eat as much as I could before he appeared, so I could toss him a couple then make a big show of putting it away. “All gone, buddy. All gone. Sorry.”

There are two plastic containers of very special dog treats—the ones Thomas could eat that didn’t upset his very sensitive digestive system—sitting on the counter by the pet food cupboard. Maya doesn’t care for them (because we are both fortunate in that she can eat whatever she wants). How long will they sit there before I can bring myself to do something with them?

A week ago, while cleaning the kitchen, I moved all of Thom’s meds from the kitchen counter and put them on the highest shelf in the pet food cupboard. Why? I don’t know. By the time Maya needs any of them, they’ll be expired. But… you never know.

My profile pictures on Google, Twitter, and Instagram are pictures of Thomas. My profile picture on Amazon is a photo of me hugging Thom’s neck. When… how… do I change those?

My little Ford Ranger--good old "Cloud"--is filled with Thom's floofy hairs. Everywhere. Between the seats, under the seats. There are even some behind the clear plastic dash cover. How the heck they crept in there, I'll never know. I've been saying for years that I would sell the truck when Thomas didn't need it anymore. But... sigh.... With it will go a thousand memories--mostly good, driving him around in it while he stared out the back window, curious about the world that he was too frightened to view walking in daylight. Some bad ones involving vet visits for a bad ear or his bad belly or his bad shoulder. Or shots. No more shots, Thom. No more terror heading into the vet's office.

At least for the foreseeable future, every day that I make a piece of peanut butter toast for breakfast will be a sad one. Because that’s how I finally got Tommy to take a treat from me. Every morning before work I would open the back slider and try to coax him inside with pieces of toast. At first, I’d lay a small piece of crust on the floor. But he was too wary to step over the threshold to get it. He’d crane his neck as far as he could, snatch it up, then run off to the yard to gulp it down. Finally one day, he put a foot in. Over time, I moved the pieces closer to me in the kitchen. He would look at me, look at the toast, and look back again, wondering if he could trust me. I ignored him and drank my tea. Someone suggested adding peanut butter to the toast. Total game changer. One day I looked up, and he was all the way in the house, waiting by the kitchen counter for another bite of deliciousness.

Seeing him learn to trust was everything. Having him be comfortable living in the house took another year or so. But peanut butter toast started the process. And it became a special time of sharing for us.

In recent years, I would put a piece of bread in the toaster, and before long I would hear his limping, old guy gait as he trotted slowly to the kitchen, those goofy ears asking the question: “Is there toast? And can it please have peanut butter? Please?”

That’s what I had for breakfast this morning. Peanut butter toast. Cheers, Tommy. Someday all of this will get… not easier, but perhaps a bit less challenging. And you, my sweet good boy—and all of your good successes—will never be forgotten.

 

Prey Drive

 

She's definitely still watching for dangerous, snarling dogs.

First, before I palaver on about prey drive in dogs, I want to express how grateful I am for the many friends who reached out to me last week when I had Stevie the Willful Dog here. It was an impossible situation, and extremely stressful. Beyond that, Maya, Jenny the Cat, and I were still grieving the loss of our big anchor, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Then the emergency situation with Stevie arose, and we were thrown into chaos for a number of days. If you called, sent a text, messaged me on Facebook, or simply commented with kind words when I posted about having to rehome her, thank you. I appreciate your caring and support more than I can say.

Next: Please don’t worry about that cute (and sassy) little lass. Stevie has moved on to a home with stellar humans who have great pack leadership skills (and no kitties, now or in the future) where she will be loved for the duration of her life. Happy ending!

As for my pack: Stevie wouldn’t work because she has a very high prey drive. A number of people have asked me what that is, so here is a brief explanation:

Puppies, kittens, coyotes, bobcats, lions, tigers, and other predatory animals are born with the instinctive drive to chase smaller moving animals that scurry or fly. Thus, you can attach just about anything (including a paper wad) to a long string, drag it across the floor in front of a tiny kitten, and be entertained endlessly by the little fluff ball’s stalking, jumping, and attacking.

In the same way, if you roll a ball in front of a puppy, chances are the puppy will at least follow it, though dogs have been domesticated to the extent that some puppies will just sit and watch the ball roll, not really engaged beyond curiosity. Other puppies, however, will somehow know that balls are for chasing, and a few puppies will be convinced from a very young age that balls are for chasing and killing.

When a dog is young, this behavior can be encouraged (“Get it! Get it! Good boy!”) or discouraged (“Good job getting the ball. Now drop it.”) Dogs, like children, learn during play. If you give a toy to a dog with strong prey drive, then cheer the dog on while it growls and shakes its head from side to side, you are encouraging the same behavior that coyotes and wolves use to kill their prey. That rapid head shake snaps the neck of the rabbit or squirrel—or small dog. Or cat.

When I went to meet Stevie at the shelter, I was able to see her interact with several other dogs, big and small, and she was good (although a bit overbearing, due to her lack of manners) with all of them. But that particular shelter does not “cat test” (which means taking the dog into an enclosure with cats to see if there is “interest” of a predatory nature), so I knew I would have to be cautious when introducing Stevie to Jenny the Cat.

Good thing I kept her on a leash. Her response was to lunge forward, stand on her hind legs, snarling and barking, trying to reach Jenny where she sat on my dresser. Yikes. I closed off the hallway with a gate so Stevie couldn’t get to Jenny, and the next day, after Stevie had some time to adjust to the house, we tried again. Same result. And later? Same result.

Yes, over time and with training, I could have extinguished the behavior in Stevie. But until that time, I would not have been able to trust her in the house alone with the cat. Which would have meant that Jenny—who claims the house, the yard, the patio, and the front porch as her domain—would have to be locked away in the bedroom for the weeks or months this correction would have taken.

That was not acceptable for either one of us.

In addition to all that, the entire point of bringing in a new dog is so that Maya will have another anchor, another big sibling to help her feel safer and more confident in the scary, peoply world. Maya found Stevie, with her need to jump and play, and her lack of good manners, as irritating as an annoying little sister.

My goal in getting Stevie out of the shelter was to right a wrong that had been done to her. In the end, that goal was met when Stevie was embraced by the folks who will now take over her training and care. Win-win. And when dogs win, my world is a happier place.