Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, Nine Years In

I know. I can’t believe it, either. This fuzzy boy has been with me for one year shy of a decade. Amazing.

If you don’t know his background, clicking here will give you some perspective. And if you also read the post from January 4^th, 2014, you’ll have a more complete picture of how far this dog has progressed from the frightened feral creature he once was.

Now, when I post his picture on Twitter or Instagram, I get far more “likes” for his cute mug than I do for anything I post about myself, whether that is some bit of wisdom for writers or a photo of the hills where I hike. Thomas has the GQ good looks to get him noticed—even though he still hates having his picture taken.

At fifteen, my boy is an old guy now, with arthritis in his shoulder and hips and back. Last year I spent a thousand dollars on tests to try to discover, once and for all, what initiates the on-going issues with his sensitive gut. Turns out he has Irritable Bowel Syndrome due to his chronic anxiety. So now he has multiple meds for anxiety, IBS, and arthritis. Some days are tough, when his belly hurts. Some nights are even tougher, when we’re up four or five times—especially in winter—going out to the yard. Good thing I’m retired and I can nap during the day….

Last year around this time, I wrote about how Thomas has come to love our bedtime ritual, wherein we sit on the floor of my bedroom and he is petted, massaged, and/or brushed before it’s time to say goodnight. A year ago, it was Purrl getting in on the attention. Now, with Purrl gone, Jenny has stepped in, insisting that she, too, be the recipient of all this love and affection.

And Jenny has made up her own bedtime ritual for Thom. She loves to ambush him. When I tell them it’s time for bed, she runs ahead toward the bedroom, but ducks into the guest bathroom, hiding there in the dark until Thom comes trotting down the hall, at which point she jumps out at him, batting him with soft paws. He has no idea that this is a cat game, and that he is supposed to react by jumping in the air and chasing after her. So he just ignores her. Which he pretty much does all the time anyway. Even though she loves him and rubs on him.

Thomas was six when I adopted him. I told him then that I just wanted him to live six years, to have as many good years of safety and love as he had starvation and abandonment. I was surprised and happy when he reached that landmark. Now we’re three years past that. In some part of his brain, he still remembers the awful time; he still occasionally cries out in his sleep as if he’s being wounded. But as the years go on, those times are fewer and farther between.

May he never have another bad dream. 

Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, eight years in

 

I didn’t want to let January slip by without acknowledging that special “Gotcha Day” for Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. When I adopted him, my vet said he was “six-ish.” Oh my dogs, that was eight years ago….

My best boy is fourteen now. In the last four years, he’s been diagnosed with pemphigus, pancreatitis, irritable bowel syndrome, arthritis, and age-related bronchitis. He eats special food and has more medications stockpiled than I do. His eyes are getting foggier, and he is rapidly losing his hearing. (Turns out that last malady is a godsend; he never woke at all when the fireworks began on New Year’s Eve.) Although he can no longer hike with me, he still enjoys his daily ride in the truck, using a ramp to walk in and out of the extra cab.

With every passing month, his decline is more pronounced. Conversely, with every passing day, he becomes more and more in love with being loved.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same dog that hated being touched when I first brought him home. I had to leave his collar on all the time because getting close to him required herding him into a corner so that he had no way out. Once I had his collar, I could clip the leash on, and he would come along, but reluctantly. (It is exactly the same behavior Maya exhibits now, by the way, so I have every confidence that someday she will no longer panic when I approach her.)

He still hates going for walks, because he hates having the leash on. (“Something bad must be about to happen,” is what he thinks—the whole time. Always.) But he’s so happy now, that even though he still resists getting his collar on, he makes a game out of it. He does this every. single. day. Even if he’s not feeling well. You can see that crazy game if you click here. (I took the video for this post, so yeah, it’s him last week.)

I had him two years before Thom let me rub his belly. Funny how that happened. He only ever wanted to be outside, in a far corner of the yard, curled in a ball. (Again, this is Maya’s behavior now, only she’s in the den, not outside, and that’s where she stays all day, every day, except when we take potty breaks or go for a walk or hike.) At my vet’s suggestion, I made Thomas come inside for a while each day, and I gave him a soft bed to curl up in while he was there. I’d been watching some ridiculous daytime show that demonstrated dog massage, all of which I thought was a bunch of hooey, but while I was petting him, I just started doing it—massaging his head and the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he was so relaxed, he rolled over on his back. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to replicate the experience the next day, but he wasn’t having it. It was weeks before he did it again, and after that, only rarely.

But then I retired. When I did, our days hiking increased. Our time together increased. He began sleeping next to my bed at night (instead of outside or in the garage, as he had once preferred). If I wake in the night, I lean over the side and rub his back, just to hear him sigh that sweet doggie sigh of contentment.

Three years ago, I asked him one night if he ‘wanted brush,’ holding up his dog brush and setting it on the floor outside my bathroom as I finished brushing my teeth. He laid down on the floor and waited, and when I finished, I sat with him for twenty minutes, brushing out his fur and singing to him (and Purrl, because she’s always jealous and has to be in on everything, like all pushy cats). The next night, I stepped out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth, only to find him waiting in the same spot, looking up at me expectantly. “Seriously?” I said. “Okay.” I sat on the floor and brushed him again.

Thus began our ritual of “getting love” every night before we go to bed. I don’t always brush him. Sometimes I give him head rubbies or a back massage. But you know, I highly recommend the practice. It becomes like a meditation. Just fifteen minutes or so of quiet and deliberate relaxation and deep breathing before bed. With a dog, of course (or cat, I don’t discriminate—but if it’s a cat like Purrl, she’s going to climb up and claim your lap and then God help you when you try to get up). It still takes him several minutes of quiet brushing or back rubs to feel secure and relaxed enough to flop over on his side. When he does, he often dozes off now, sprawled on the floor, knowing that he is safe and loved, and that tomorrow when he wakes up there will be good food and treats (after his walk) and lots of soft blankies for napping.

It doesn’t take much to make a dog happy.

Come to think of it, we should all take heed of that.

Gotcha Day #7

 

I used to love going into Petco or Petsmart, reading labels, talking to dog and cat rescue volunteers on the weekends, browsing the cat toy aisle. Then the pandemic happened, and at my daughter’s suggestion, I began using Chewy.com. Besides saving me money and allowing me to stay home and stay safe, the folks at Chewy actually sent Sgt.Thomas Tibbs a birthday card. How cool is that?

I count his “Gotcha Day” as his birthday. Sort of. I have no idea how old he is, but he’s definitely a senior boy now. At his initial exam, I asked my vet his approximate age and he replied, “Maaaayyyybe six-ish…,” so that would make him at least thirteen. How those years have flown.

Seven years ago, I went to my local shelter looking for a 30-40 pound friendly female dog. I came home with a 60 pound feral problem child with severe fear and anxiety issues. The first time I actually touched him was the day after I adopted him, after he’d been neutered and I had to pick him up from the vet. In those first hours, I wondered if I’d lost my mind. He wanted nothing to do with me. I had to corral him in the garage in order to get a leash on him. He was afraid of everything—people, cars, motorcycles. (The sound of a motorcycle engine blocks away would send him into a panic.) Cell phones. The cats.

The first five days were challenging. Then he adjusted to the routine, allowing me to catch him and walk him (though he kept his tail tucked the entire time). For months, he spent his days curled in a tight ball in a corner of the back yard, and he spent his nights restless and pacing. We walked every day, and I sat with him at night before bedtime, petting him and brushing him, but he would flinch every time I touched him. So that he wouldn’t feel alone, I gave him a stuffed bunny my son had given me the previous Easter. She became his favorite companion, his emotional support friend. I lost track of the number of times he buried her in the back yard. She would sometimes remain underground for months. But like him, she is resilient, and while he no longer ‘hides’ her, he does get anxious when I wash his bedding and, once again, Bunny Tibbs disappears for a few hours, only to return smelling of that awful stinky laundry detergent.

He still flinches when I touch him. Every. single. time—except in the wee hours of the morning, when I lean over the side of the bed, reach my hand down and stroke his head if he’s having a bad dream. Then he sighs and settles, stretching his legs and drifting back to sleep.

About a year and a half ago, it occurred to Thomas that he actually liked being petted and having his back rubbed at night (something I’ve been doing just about every night since bringing him home). He realized that my bedtime ritual meant he was going to “get love,” and he started his new habit of plunking himself down on the bedroom floor just outside the bathroom, wagging his tail and watching me brush my teeth. When I finish, he moves his head excitedly from side to side, sort of pointing to his back with his nose, if that makes sense. When I sit on the floor beside him, he immediately flops over on his side. As I rub his back and scratch his ears, his entire body relaxes. Sometimes he falls asleep there on the floor. Sometimes Purrl gets jealous and bites his toes. Or the tips of his ears. Owww! She’s lucky he never retaliates, just sits up, looking crushed and startled, then lumbers to his feet and trots away.

Lately, we have been doing fewer walks out in the hills together. His joints are old and creaky, and he hates doing hills. (So do I, but they are necessary in order to maintain fitness. As a dog, he doesn’t care about all that.) I’ve started him on a new supplement, and I’m hopeful it will help him with that, but even still, he’s not enjoying the walks out there, so I’ve had to go by myself.

We still walk, though, every morning after he’s eaten his breakfast, usually around 5:30. Sometimes we leave the house late enough to see the first glimpse of the sunrise. We do a lap around the block, during which time he basically power-walks me so that he can get back home and get his Kong filled with peanut butter treats. In the evening, I take him ‘round again, just at sunset. He hates to walk when there are people still out and about, but he has learned that part of being a good boy is to tolerate what I ask of him, so he goes, but reluctantly.

After all these years, he never overtly shows me affection apart from wagging his tail when he’s happy, and he’s still learning to trust me. His medical issues—first pemphigus, then a bout with pancreatitis a year ago, then another day-long ordeal in the emergency room for stomach issues in December—have drawn us closer, however. He is always so relieved to finally return home and feel safe again that it strengthens his bond with me. He knows that when he hurts, I will help him.

Conversely, I know that when I hurt, he will help me. The past year, with its social unrest and political chaos, to say nothing of the pandemic, has been difficult at best and heartbreaking in the worst moments of it. In those times, though, I seek out my own emotional support friend, who lets me say as much as I need to, or cry if I need to. He never interrupts or cuts me off in mid-sentence to interject a point he feels is more important than what I have to say. He just listens. And sighs. And goes back to sleep. Even if his fur is dotted with my tears.

Six years in

 

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, please stop right now, just for a few seconds, and celebrate with us. We made it. Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, my quirky, wonderful, problematic, sweet dog and I made our goal of six years.

Six years ago I brought him home from Upland Animal Shelter. He'd been listed upon intake (by San Bernardino County Animal Control) as being five years old. When I told my vet his age, he smiled and said, "They were being kind."

"So... six?" I responded.
"Six... ish," he said.

So my deal with Thomas (of which I would remind him from time to time over the years, usually at night when I sat beside him, brushing or petting him to calm him before bed) was this: Give me at least six years, Pal. Six years to show you that humans really can be kind. You need at least as many years with kindness and comfort as you've had with starvation and deprivation and the stars only know what else you've endured.

As of January 4th, we've made it. Thomas has given me six years of daily walks, incredible hikes, contented dog sighs, floppy trotting ears, post-bath victory laps around the yard, and tail wags. (Oh, I am so grateful for all those tail wags, which took sooooo long to finally see in the beginning.)

He still loves Purrl, who was only four months old when I brought Thom home,

 and his stuffy friends

and riding in Cloud, my 2003 Ford Ranger,

an activity which is now a daily sojourn to pick up mail in the afternoon, but often it also means a mid-morning break to drive around the park and look for people out walking their dogs. Well, not the people--Thomas is only interested in spying on other dogs from the comfort of his man cave in the backseat of the truck. I think he is fascinated by how happy they all seem, trotting along in broad daylight with their people attached, seemingly without a care in the world. We still walk before the sun comes up, which is when he feels safest.

That is, unless we're going off into the hills to hike. If we head out where the coyotes sing, Thomas relaxes, trotting along the dirt trails and fire roads beside me, occasionally stopping to sniff--something that took years for him to feel comfortable doing.

And I gotta tell ya, this boy has hiked everywhere with me--up steep hills, over boulders, through fields so thick with wildflowers the trail was lost to us, across streams and past a very beautiful but amorous female coyote who thought Thomas was The One she'd been longing for.

We still walk every day, logging 350 out of 365 days for 2019. (Sciatica and a couple of short vacations out of state account for the 15 days we missed.)

With all that walking and the years gone by, has Thomas calmed down, grown out of his quirks? Absolutely not.

I still have to warn him when I'm about to print something, so he can trot out to the garage and jump into the truck, as the sound of the printer absolutely terrifies him. Not the sound of the vacuum cleaner or the garbage disposal or my blow dryer. The printer. And my cell phone, which is still always left on Do Not Disturb mode when I'm at home, as it sends him tearing through the house in a panic if it so much as quietly dings to notify me of a text message.

He still flinches when I touch him if I don't let him know in advance I'm going to do so.

Of course, he is showing signs of aging. We no longer walk miles when we hike together. He's good for a mile and a half, though. He will always have Pemphigas, the auto-immune disease, but it is currently well controlled, and only flares up when he is particularly stressed. Every few months, he has severe gastro-intestinal issues, so he's on a probiotic and gets tasty organic pumpkin added to his food.

Most days he is active and happy, and he has gone from barely tolerating my bedtime routine of petting and singing to him to eagerly anticipating it--so much so that, as soon as I begin my flossing and brushing routine, he camps out on the floor just outside the bathroom door, ears up and waiting for his ear scratch + back massage + belly rubs. Spoiled? Yes, absolutely. I can't begin to imagine the horror of his life before, having to scrounge for food and water in the desert, being literally eaten alive by mange--not for days or weeks or months, but years. Oh, my poor boy! But he's safe now. And hopefully, I have a few more years to spoil him.

 

Tardy

It has been well over a month since I told my cousin I would post something new to the blog, "probably today." I know you've been waiting, checking periodically. So has that one guy, who disagrees with most everything I say and believe but still reads the blog religiously. Go figure.

Anyway, I meant to write that day after we talked, dear Cousin-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless-At-His-Own-Request (just so you know that, yes, I mean you). But that day became busy. And then... a friend died suddenly, a friend I went to high school with who was younger than I am. I will write about Dennis in an upcoming post.

And then another friend died who was also someone who read my blog regularly--from the time I began writing it years ago. I will also write about Barb in an upcoming post. Everyone should know who Barb was in the world... and to me.

And Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, an introvert's best friend and hiking partner, has been sick. We negotiate this dark path periodically; he stops eating, becomes lethargic, and I enter a sort of fugue state, unable to fully engage with the world or my work until he finally perks up again, decides to get happy, eats all his food, wags his tail, and makes me cry with joy that he will be around "just a little longer," as I beg him to be. These episodes seem to be brought on by severe stress. For several consecutive days last week, the neighbors were having a patio cover ripped out and rebuilt. It was loud. It was scary. There were strange voices right outside our windows. Poor Thom. But he's baaaack as of last night! Eating his food, rolling over for belly rubs, rudely sniffing at Purrl's bottom (which she will tolerate but New Cat Jenny will not).

New Cat Jenny, as I write this, lies curled in a kitchen chair below the window through which the hummingbird feeder is visible. This is our routine: We wake early, everyone is fed (including the birds outside, for crying out loud), Thomas and I walk (if he's feeling up to it), I eat breakfast, then I park myself here at the kitchen table with the laptop. Jenny curls into 'her' chair, gives herself a thorough bathing, then goes to sleep for an hour or two while I write.

And yes, surprisingly, I've been writing, trying to average a thousand words a day on the second book in my middle-grade urban fantasy series. In recent days, the writing has been tough--only because I've had to give a ten-year-old boy a concussion, send him to the hospital, and have his beloved dog seized and placed in quarantine by animal control. I know. It hurts just hearing the summary, doesn't it? And you haven't even met Nathan yet. But every story--even if it's for middle-school kids--has to have conflict. No worries; bad boys got us into these troubles. A good boy will get us out.

When I finish writing for the day, if I haven't already walked Thomas and the weather is nice but not too hot and he's feeling good about life and not to terribly frightened, we take a long hike out in the countryside, where I take deep breaths, smell the wildflowers, enjoy the sun on my face, and remember good friends.

Cheers to them! And to you, my dear reader, for caring enough to appreciate the words and pictures humbly offered here. Let's chat again soon!

Thomas, Five Years In

I’m happy to say that when I brought Sgt. Thomas Tibbs home in January of 2014, he did not look like the above photo. The shelter staff at Friends of Upland Animal Shelter had already been feeding him healthy food, treating him for mange and brushing him, so that by the time I brought him home, he had already undergone a metamorphosis into the incredibly beautiful dog that he is.

In fact, this is what his Merry Christmas photo looked like just before I adopted him:

If you’re a longtime blog follower of mine, you’ve read updates on how this once-feral dog has slowly been rehabilitated, learning to accept and trust humans (and cats). But I haven’t posted an update on Thom for a while, so I thought I’d let his fans know, he’s continuing to make progress—yes, even five years in.

Most notably, in the past year, he has finally given in and accepted Purrl as his buddy. She was a young cat, seven months old, when Thomas came to our home. Each night as I sat beside him, brushing him and singing to him, Purrl would creep to the doorway and glare at him. I’m not sure she’d ever seen a dog before. As time went on, she would belly crawl closer and closer to him. But if he so much as twitched an ear, she would shoot out of the room. At some point, though, she realized he posed no threat, so she set about to be his best friend. And boy, that girl kept working on it, rubbing up against him whenever he was captive on the leash, often trying to lie beside him in his bed, only to rebuffed again and again and again. Love is patient….

In May, when Sugar Plum died, Purrl was bereft. She has never been a talkative cat, but she cried daily at the door, wondering where Sug had gone and why she hadn’t returned. It was heartbreaking—for me and apparently for Thomas. If I left the house, I would often come home to find Purrl in Thom’s bed—and he had begun to stay and sleep beside her, whereas in the past he would have gotten up and trotted away to a different spot in the house. I am so proud of him for this, for taking on the role of the comforting big brother.

He even shares his favorite blanket with her.

Something else that has transpired in the past year is a game that Thom made up all by himself. When he first came home, he was difficult to catch. He had to be patiently cornered, and then he would drop his head and turn away from me while I tried to slip his collar and leash on. He still hates having his collar on. But finally, after all these years of daily walks, he almost sort of kind of a tiny bit looks forward to walking in the morning (most likely because he knows he gets a Kong toy full of treats afterward). So instead of getting anxious now when I get his leash, he has made a game out of it. He will trot away from me, but only a few feet. Then he looks back, wagging his tail, making sure I’m following.

“I’m gonna get you!” I tell him, and he’s off and galloping down the hall, sometimes spinning in a circle in the bedroom, dog bowing, his rump in the air like a mountain, flying the flag of his big beautiful tail. We play this game every day, but as he is still a bit camera shy, I’ve only been able to capture small bits of it. If you click on this link, you will find a very short video on YouTube of Thomas happily engaged in his game.

When he first came home, Thom was shut down, barely approachable, as sad as a dog could be. After some months, he had occasional moments in which he relaxed and wagged his tail, but he spent most days curled tightly in a ball, waiting for the “cloak of darkness,” as Shakespeare put it, to shield him from the world. He still prefers only to venture out at night, so taking him out midday is always a conversation that begins with, “If you want a cookie, you have to go outside and go potty….” But as long as he in the house (which he is all day every day), he is happy, for the most part.

And when he is anxious or fearful now, he comes to me. If he hears a car backfire or a firecracker—anything that sounds like a gunshot—he runs to me instead of trying to hide. When he does, I wrap my arms all the way around him and hold him, my face against his face, until he feels safe again. It works better than anything else I’ve found to calm him.

Does he still have issues? You’d better believe it. My cell phone is perpetually on “Do Not Disturb” mode as the tiniest “ting” of a text alert will send him flying out of his bed, trotting anxiously. Even the buzz of silent mode frightens him. If I have to print a document, I must first call down the hall, “Thomas, come here, buddy, I’m going to print,” at which point he sprints for the garage and stays there until several minutes after the printer has stopped making noise. Mind you, I can vacuum or run the garbage disposer or shred paper—none of those sounds bother him.

We still begin our daily walk before dawn, while it’s dark enough for him to feel comfortable, but even then things can get dicey if we see another human out walking. There are certain places here in the park he doesn’t like to go, because perhaps once—and it only takes once—he saw a human come out of a house or start a motorcycle or shout hello while gardening. If he doesn’t want to go, he sits down, and it takes a great deal of persuasion (and some perspiration) to get him to continue. Walking out in the hills, however, is another experience altogether. Since I’ve lived here, he has actually begun acting like a real dog if we’re on the trail—stopping to sniff and sometimes (Good boy, Thom!) peeing on a bush if it smells like coyote or another dog. He will walk miles with me out in the hills or in the mountains, even if that means crossing streams, and I am so grateful for this. I love having him with me when I hike.

As I write this, something is making Thomas anxious, but I have no idea what it is. For the past 30 minutes, he has been trotting down the hall, out to the kitchen, around the island, and back down the hall—non-stop, except when he comes to me for a few brief moments and lets me pet him to try to calm him. Maybe he heard a neighbor taking his trash cans to the curb. Or maybe my computer ‘pinged’ and I wasn’t even aware. Or perhaps he was sleeping and had a bad dream. (He still has nightmares on occasion, but nothing like what he had in his first year with me, when he would startle awake crying out or whimpering. Mostly now he emits soft sighs in his sleep, and I love hearing him if I wake in the night.) Guess I’d better go give him a hug.

Life

Oh, gosh, hello!

I see I've been absent from the blog for a month! Wow, time really does seem to travel at the speed of the Parker Solar Probe.

A number of exciting and wonderful and touching things have happened in my life, and I want to share all of them with you so that you can share in the fun and good times, but it will take a few blog posts to do them justice, so look for me to be a bit more regular in posting once a week—at least for a while. I have quite a few writing projects to work on, and sometimes they get in the way of the blog—and since those projects earn dog food money and this one does not, you know where my time needs to be spent. But I'll try to squeeze it all in.

Speaking of buying dog food....

This girl came into our lives this week. Her name is June. Isn't she lovely? I will tell her story soon. Right now she is learning to live with a cat. ("Mom lady! Mom lady! What is that creature?!? What is that creature??")

And I bought a car. Finally. Good ol' Cloud (my 2003 Ford Ranger) is still with us, even with 181,000 miles on her. My insurance rep from Hartford asked, "Will you be keeping the Ranger on your policy?"

"Yes," I said, "as long as my dog still needs it."

After researching vehicles for months, I bought a Subaru Crosstrek. "Sky" has already been to San Diego, Utah, and the Central Coast. Love this car.

I made the trip to Utah to visit Best Friends AnimalSanctuary. Blog post to follow.

The second biggest change in my life (after June's arrival), would be The Granddaughter moving out. The college girl is now safely installed in her dorm at Cal Poly, Pomona, and has already been attending classes. I am so, so proud of this girl, and equally proud of Ellie, The Oldest Granddaughter, who is back at University of Alaska for another year, now a pre-med major.

And what is The Grandson up to, you ask? He had his first real job this summer, working on the lake in Lake Arrowhead. He was quickly promoted (as I knew he would be) and absolutely loved being outside to work with boats, boaters and lake-goers. He may or may not have saved some money. He does have a girlfriend, though, so....

On this beautiful Sunday morning, I took my two good dogs into the hills south of town and watched as June galloped up and down the trail, thrilled to be out in the fresh air. Sgt. Thomas Tibbs trotted faithfully along at my side. He is a sedate old man now, and more precious to me as each day goes by.

Thanks for reading this far! Catch me here again next Sunday! I promise!

Sgt. Thomas Tibbs on steroids

So, here's the good news about Sgt. Thomas Tibbs:

After three and a half years with me, he is still making slow progress toward becoming, as I like to characterize it, "a real dog." He has settled in nicely to life in Calimesa. We both loved the fact that over the Fourth of July holiday it was relatively quiet around here, except for the occasional bottle rocket shot off by some miscreants on the nearby golf course, and of course, a half hour or so of muted booms from the fireworks display at the local high school (which we toughed out nicely by sitting in the truck in the garage, me reading, Thom panting).

Dog lovers know that living with a dog is like living with a secret agent; you're constantly followed by someone who seems to take notes of everything you do, everywhere you go. I never thought Thomas would ever get to this level of companionship, but since I've been retired, he's been very intent on scrutinizing my routine. He knows if I put on a certain pair of sneakers, we're going for a walk, and he will follow me down the hall without being called. On the now rare occasion that I put on slacks or a skirt, he stays on his bed—with very sad eyes. In that case, he knows I'm leaving without him and will be gone for a long time.

And he absolutely loves riding in the truck. Every afternoon at 4:00 (he reminds me if I'm caught up in writing something and forget the time), we go for a drive to get the mail and just get out of the house for awhile. Thomas is happy to sit in the back seat for as long as I want to chauffeur him around. Yes, this is the same dog whose anxiety would make him puke if he had to ride more than a mile or so. Now that's progress.

He's also gotten extremely good at playing 'possum. I'm still getting up pretty early, usually around 5:00. All the dogs I've ever companioned with (except for Osa, when she was very, very old) have begun their potty dance as soon as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Thom remains where he is, absolutely still, until I come to his bed and rub his belly. When he first started this, I thought he wasn't feeling well. He'd lay in his bed, unmoving, until I came to sit by him and pet him. Slowly, he'd begin to "wake up." It took me awhile (humans are notoriously slow to catch on, as dogs know), but I finally realized he was staying in bed so I would come scratch his back and behind his ears. When he's felt sufficient love and adoration, he simply jumps up, shakes all over, wags his tail and trots for the back door. He's such a goofy, funny dog now compared to the depressed, traumatized and shut down dog he was three years ago.

But... here's the bad news about Sgt. Thomas Tibbs:

He was recently diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. It's called Pemphigus. When his nose began to look like this

I Googled "Why does my dog have spots on his nose?" and ended up on PetMD.com, reading about how dogs can get lupus. I picked up the phone and called the vet's office.

Our new vet, Dr. Thompson at Adobe Veterinary Clinic, was really great with Thom, understanding and empathizing with his fear of humans. (And Dr. Thompson appreciates the work of Temple Grandin, so that makes him even more wonderful.) Plus he has horses. And a sense of humor.

He explained that no, we don't know what causes Pemphigus, but yes, it usually does respond well to a certain steroid, and he is confident that Thom's quality of life will remain good. "He has a strong heart," he commented as he applied his stethoscope to Thom's ribcage. We left with medicine which Thomas is swallowing down with his treats (never suspecting). I think he'll be fine in a few weeks. I've already told him I need him around for a few more years. We've got a lot of walking—and driving—to do.

Rescuing Dogs: Part One

Once upon a time, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs looked like this.

So this happened:

Not long after I moved in August—to this place with cleaner air, bluer skies, fluffier clouds and a thousand dog walking trails—I started exploring my neighborhood and looking for dog rescues and shelters with a mind to eventually (after I finish my current book project and I finally unpack that last box) doing volunteer work.

One nearby shelter I found has a website that gives basic information about events and donations but redirects to Petango.com to list dogs that are available for adoption. I scrolled through the profiles and stopped when I saw an Irish Wolfhound mix. The Grandson has been wanting an Irish Wolfhound since he was... I don't know, ten? Now he's twenty-two and finally living in a house with a yard, ready for his first very own dog. Huh, I thought. Maybe it's serendipity.... (It wasn't, as you'll see.)

So on a very cold (low 40's) December day with wind gusts dropping the temperature even more, I stopped in at the shelter to see what it was like and also take a look at the Wolfhound. I met a nice volunteer who spent some time answering my questions about who manages the shelter and how they get funding (entirely from donations, without help from municipalities, which may explain why adoption fees there range from $200-$400). Then I asked about seeing the dogs. She told me that they were "probably all inside" as it was so cold, and that I might want to come back another day. I made a small donation then left, somewhat confused.

A week later, when I returned, I understood what she meant. The dogs are kept in kennels that have dual access, inside and out, which is great for them. But it's difficult for potential adopters because we can only see them from the outside. And direct access to the kennel is prohibited. Visitors have to view the dogs from behind a low chain link fence that sits five feet or so away from the kennel. I asked a young woman who was volunteering to "show me the Irish Wolfhound," so she walked to his kennel (with me on the far side of the low fence, herself on the inside) and pointed into his cage. The dog remained sitting toward the back of his kennel, watching us. He wasn't timid or wary; he just wasn't very interested in either of us.

Then it was just... awkward. She didn't offer to bring the dog out, nor did she come to the fence where I was standing, but I had questions, so we engaged in a conversation that had to be shouted above the barking of the dogs in other kennels.

I mentioned I'd seen the Wolfhound online and that it seemed he'd been with them a long time. She shrugged, said, "Not really," and explained that he'd been adopted and was gone for awhile but had just been returned. I had to ask why he'd been returned, and she allowed as how he "went after" the smaller dog in the family. To my question regarding whether he'd actually harmed the other dog or just growled, she shrugged again and said, "I don't know. He gets along well with other big dogs here. Maybe he just doesn't like little dogs." She gazed off into the distance.

Pulling out my phone, I asked if she would bring him out long enough for me to take his picture. She leaned against the door to the kennel—next to the leash that was hanging there—and told me there was a picture of him on their website. (That's the one I'd seen—a glamour shot of him in a bow tie, taken from a distance, which didn't offer a close-up of his face or any perspective on how tall he was.)

I offered to post a photo on my Facebook page that might help him find a forever home, since I have a lot of dog-loving friends.

She replied defensively that he was "well taken care of" there at the shelter, that he received "good food" and got to "run in the yard" every day.

Then she said I wouldn't be allowed to photograph him unless I spoke to someone in the main office and signed a "media release" form. She excused herself to go help someone else "for a minute" and never returned, leaving me standing there, trying to get a sense of the big dog who still sat quietly ten feet away.

I considered going to the main office, asking if another volunteer could help me, but by then all the sense of fun and adventure had gone out of the experience, and I just wanted to go home and hug Sgt. ThomasTibbs. So I did.

If you're wondering, it does appear at this time as if the Irish Wolfhound has been adopted. Best wishes to him and his new family.

*****UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE*****

Not long after I posted this, a story appeared in the local newspaper about this very dog (now named Sherlock). And I quote: "Sherlock is now the newest member of the San Bernardino Police Department's community affairs team. Sherlock has quickly stepped up in his new role and served as a source of comfort to North Park Elementary students after a recent on-campus shooting." Lt. Vicki Cervantes had gone to the shelter in search of a dog and met the (alleged) Irish Wolfhound/Lab mix. When she took Sherlock to her office, he was so well-mannered and such a gentleman that he became a member of her team. She said they never expected to use him so quickly after adopting him, but the need arose with the shooting, so she took him to comfort the kids, later telling a reporter, "His demeanor was just so amazing with these kids during this tragic event. They all just fell in love with him and he put smiles on all their faces."

Cool, huh? Three cheers for dogs with jobs! Especially this sweet guy!

Treasures

In our quest to lose weight (well, my quest; Thomas is pretty darn fit for a nine-year-old dog), Thom and I have been taking long walks out in the country. Truth be known, we could hang around here at our senior community; there is plenty of level walking space and the views are spectacular:

But we like to get out and walk a lonely road where Thomas can sniff some wild animals and I can lose myself in further plot points for the book project I'm working on. Last weekend we walked three miles down a dirt road that took us past meadows and tall old oak trees. I stopped to take this photo after we saw a large animal—a coyote or bobcat—make for the trees when it heard us coming:

Today we went exploring, finding a new trail that begins in the hills above my little town. I'd taken Thomas up there on a drive, just looking for fireroads and other places to walk. What we saw was an old jeep trail that eventually became a single track, it appeared, so we came back today to walk down it and find out.

Usually what I discover when I find a spot where I can park the truck near a trailhead is that other folks have been happy to find such a place as well—so they can dump their old mattresses, furniture, TV sets and whatnot without having to go to the landfill and pay a fee. Sigh. So I always put mental blinders on for the first hundred yards or so, just chatting with Thom and overlooking the fact that some folks are just bound to pollute where they live.

I think of Robert Frost nearly every time we venture out this way. There's always more than one way to go, and I'm always struck by the lines "Oh, I kept the first for another day!/Yet knowing how way leads on to way/I doubted if I should ever come back." I find myself telling Thomas aloud, "We'll come back here. We'll come back here so we can go that way next time." That's the cool thing about living here and being retired; it's going to take me quite a long time to discover all the possible hiking trails.

So today the first trail we followed led us only up a hill—the steepest hill I've been up in a long, long time, so steep that we had to descend with great care and caution. And I was ever so grateful for how far Sgt. Thomas Tibbs has come in his training and adjustment to life as a writer's dog. "Walk slow, Thom," I told him, a command I began teaching him from the time I brought him home. Most of the time, we both want to walk briskly down the trail, to see how much we can discover and how many calories we can burn. But sometimes we need to go at a snail's pace, and I wanted him to understand that. So he led me slowly and carefully back down the dead-end hill, and just as we neared the bottom, I discovered the biggest piece of malachite I've ever found.

Malachite is a green stone found around the world and in the Southwest United States, especially in Arizona. I've found small pieces on my hikes before, but this one was much bigger. And there it was right smack dab in the middle of the road, glistening in the new morning sun as the frost from the previous night began to evaporate. I whisked it into my pocket. Here it is on a green plate (for comparison):

I keep saying I'm going to get a rock polisher so I can pretty up my stones. They look pretty fabulous when they're gussied up. If you click here, you can see some Google images of them.

For the quad workout and the discovery of the malachite, I felt our walk had been productive after we'd only been out a half hour. But on the way back to the truck, we discovered another road, one that looked... less traveled by. We walked down it about a hundred yards, just far enough for me to snap the photo below. Then we headed back. We'll keep that one for another day.

Walking toward the light

As I write this, I am sipping caramel hot cocoa (Swiss Miss--you can shake some sea salt on the top to make salted caramel and oh my Buddha, is it decadent). Sugar Plum, The Dowager Queen (as we refer to her here in the castle) is curled on her own office chair beside me--on her own soft pillow, as all queens should be accommodated. Purrl is... I don't know, but my bet would be that I'll find her wherever I find Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Tommy is curled in a ball somewhere, sleeping, as he is worn out after our hike. Let me begin again....

A week ago, Thomas had to be seen by a vet because of an ear infection. At the old house, I would simply call my Home Vet, Dr. David Lebovic, and he would stop by in the afternoon, administering shots or whatever we needed. Now that we're out here, it's time Thom got past his terror of all things new and actually visited a vet's office. He did, and he was a champ through it all. When we got home, I reached down to remove his collar and, wonder of wonder, he stretched his face up to mine and touched noses with me. This is a dog who turns his face away if I get too close. This is a dog who holds a grudge for two or three days or a week if he's been hurt or frightened. This is a dog who never learned how to give affection. But when he kissed my nose, I knew he was saying thank you. That ear must've hurt really bad. He knew we went through all that with the doc so he could feel better. Dogs... are so great....

And I've been recovering, too--from my injured foot, from John's death (see previous post), from the insanity in the world. (Well, I don't guess I'll ever recover from that until I leave this place.) Today was a fine day, though, with both of us feeling better. So we headed off to Bogart Park, a ten-minute drive away, and started down this road at about 4:15.

By 4:25, the sun's light was a glow rather than a shine, and some of our trail was in shadow already.

A few moments and a steep hill later, we turned to see this view to the south. 

The photo doesn't capture all the color, all that the eye can see--the deepening shadows in the woods contrasting with the rosy hue of the sky. And if only I could include the scent of the wild sage and aging oak duff here! We stood for a moment and listened to the woodpeckers talking companionably as they settled in for the night. Then we turned and walked back to the truck in the dying light.

All told, it was a thirty-minute interlude of exercise, fresh air, some pretty scenes and a whole lot of endorphins. Thomas and I will both sleep well tonight.

The DNA is in! (Part 2)

If you haven't read my previous post (The DNA is in Part 1), you can scroll down if you'd like to read that one before you read this one. To recap: When I adopted Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, my quirky but much beloved pound puppy, I was told by the folks at Upland Animal Services that he was German Shepherd and Golden Retriever. You can see that Golden Retriever influence in his fluffy red coat, right? Wrong! He has no Golden in him whatsoever! What?!?

In a casual conversation with a friend one day, she mentioned that her dog-that-looks-exactly-like-a-black-lab was not a lab at all. He was, in fact, pit bull, bulldog and terrier. How did she know? She got him from a man who had done a DNA test on him. That conversation got me thinking. I know what we all assumed Thomas was, but maybe he wasn't those two breeds at all. Sometimes, because of his tendency to be extremely stubborn with a high anxiety level, I have wondered if he didn't have perhaps a bit of Border Collie in his ancestry. So I researched the cost and accuracy of the DNA test kits for dogs. Turns out the Mars Wisdom Panel for mixed breed dogs is around $80 (the same amount I paid to have my own DNA tested), and you can order it through Amazon with the 1-Click feature. Done!

An interesting note here: Thomas hates to be messed with. Just clipping the tangles out of his hair is an ordeal. (I have to do yoga first and meditate and channel Cesar Millan just to make sure I am completely calm while working with him.) But when I took a swab to the inside of his cheek and started twirling it around? Yeah, he was super chill. It was just before bedtime; he was happy and relaxed and sprawled in his bed, and I'd just been giving him head rubbies and ear scratches, so he was really in a great mood. So... Done!

The kit was easy to use and mail back. Waiting three weeks to get the result was the only hard part. And then, two weeks and five days after I mailed it, an email appeared in my inbox. "The DNA results for Thomas are in!" Yes!

Any last guesses before we learn the truth?
Golden Retriever? No, not a bit.
Border Collie? No, not a bit.
Irish setter? No.
Irish Wolfhound? Well....

Half of Thom's DNA is categorized as "mixed." In other words, there is such a hodge-podge of breeds there, it's impossible to isolate one specific breed. However, his mixture does seem to be made up of the "sighthound" breeds, which includes Afghans, Greyhounds and yes, the Irish Wolfhound. This will make my grandson Ben very happy. He is a devoted fan both of Irish Wolfhounds and Sgt. Thomas Tibbs.

But the other half?

Yes, definitely German Shepherd. I mean, look at his face. In fact, he is 25% GS.

And what else?

As soon as you read Australian Cattle Dog, I think (if you're a dog lover and know the breed) a little bell will go off in your brain. Here's a picture of one:

(This is Sugar-N-Spice's Turbo Diesel, also known as "Cummins." The photo was taken for the breeder, Rochelle Gribler, by Steve Ball.)

Check out that red color. That's Thomas alright. He is 12.5% ACD. Now I understand why he's always trying to herd me away from his perception of danger. I also understand his suspicious nature; he is wary of any new human who enters our environment, and he becomes unsettled when things are out of place (furniture moved, the truck missing from the garage, new potted plants appearing on the patio). The accompanying literature from the Mars panel explains traits of each breed, and "suspicion" is listed. Rochelle (the owner/breeder of Cummins above) also confirmed this trait as we chatted about the characteristics of Australian Cattle Dogs. ("Ohhh, no wonder!" I kept thinking as she was listing them off.)

And what comprises the final 12.5% of Thom's DNA? American Bulldog. Oh good grief!! No wonder this dog is so stubborn! Here's an example: Although Thomas loves to ride in the extra cab of the truck, he balks if I try to take him out in a place he's never been before. (See the explanation for that trait in the previous paragraph.) With the recent move, I have begun picking up my mail at the common mail delivery area, and Thom always rides down with me to get it in the evening. The other night I decided to get him out of the truck down there so we could take a nice stroll up to the lake and watch the snowy egret catch frogs. But we hadn't done before, and as soon as I opened the truck door and clipped on Thom's leash, he gave me "the look." (Someday, with time and patience and maybe an extra hand, I'll capture that look in a photo.) When he's wary, his ears go down, his eyes narrow, and he turns his head to the side--much like a human would do when suspicious of what another human might be up to. And then he dug his heels in. When he doesn't want to come forward, he will sit down on his bottom like a stubborn jackass--or, I know now, like an American Bulldog. (I did finally get him out of the truck that night, with much patience and after assuring another resident that everything was fine with us, we were just having a disagreement.)

So that's my boy in a nutshell, and that really explains so much about why he is the way he is. No, there is no sweet Golden Retriever personality in there that will emerge one day when Thom fully recovers from his previous life. But now I know how he survived through neglect and abandonment. Australian Cattle Dogs are descended from Dingoes, the wild dogs of that continent. I believe the traits of his ancestors--his wariness and fierce independence--are what made him strong enough to live through an ordeal that took the lives of other dogs around him. And now that I know what I'm up against, I can not only appreciate his strengths but also focus his training more acutely to manage those characteristics that negatively affect his behavior.

I'm so glad I spent the $80 to have the test done! For the insight it has given me, it was worth every penny.