Oh My Dog!

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My Dog-Training Mentor and Inspiration

When I saw the theme for this month’s positive reinforcement pet training hop–my training mentor or inspiration–my first thought went to trainers whose work I devour: Patricia McConnell, of course. Victoria Stilwell. Debbie Jacobs. Et cetera. 

But I wouldn’t know about any of those amazing women without their critical predecessor.

When I started to really think it through, it hit me that my one-and-only dog-training mentor and inspiration, the one who pushed me into the world of positive reinforcement and canine cognition and group training classes and desensitization and counter-conditioning… all of it… could only be Lucas.

It had to be him.

My dog training mentor | OhMyDogBlog.com

See, when we adopted Emmett in 2006, we thought we knew what we were doing. My bestie taught dog training classes, and we enrolled in her group class the day after we brought Emmett home from the shelter. He did great in class. He did great at home. He did great at the park and at parties and out shopping.

This is so easy, we thought. Let’s adopt another.

Enter Lucas.

All of a sudden–before we even left the parking lot of the animal shelter, actually, when we discovered that he was so afraid of cars that he would. not. get. in. to go home… and what the heck do you do in a busy parking lot with dogs everywhere and you have the dog who you’ve known for 30 minutes who has turned himself into a Tasmanian devil to keep from getting into the backseat of the car? what. do. you. do.–we understood that we knew nothing about dog behavior.

Sure, we could teach tricks and manners and such.

But nothing that resembled teaching behavior.

The agony of those first few months… he didn’t want to be patted. He didn’t wag his tail. He didn’t play with Emmett. He didn’t snuggle. What he did want? He did want to throttle every single dog he saw, and we saw a lot because we lived in a dog-friendly condo building next to a dog-filled park in DC. He did want to chew our chairs to toothpicks. He did want to have total melt-down panic-attacks daily.

Once we tried to list all the things he was scared of, but it was an impossible feat. Let’s just say he was scared of the TV being on and of plastic bags, along with everything else you can think of.

Oh, and we had this crazy accident in which giant Lucas got so scared on a walk he took off like a shot, but I had the leash gripped so tightly that he flung me into a No Parking sign and into the road. My face and arms were crazy bruised, and I had my 30-day review at my new job that week.

What scared him?

Our neighbor drove past and said, “Hi, guys!” out his car window.

There were tears. Lots of tears.

But there was also this gleam in his eye. Like, we could see him in there. And he and Emmett were slowly becoming the very best buds. Once they started to play, they never, ever stopped. They began to cuddle together on a dog bed. Then he began to cuddle with us and wag and play with us and with toys. He was in there.

Then we’d open our front door, and he’d retreat.

We met with several trainers who gave him a label: aggressive. Thank goodness we kept seeking other answers because we knew he was just flipping terrified.

That was our foundation.

We knew him. We knew he was in there. We knew just how fun-loving and playful he was. It was just hard for him to access that part of himself because the defenses he built were so thick and so high and so dense that it took monumental effort to dismantle them.

Those efforts kicked off the positive reinforcement journey.

And oh, how it changed all our lives. By the time we lost Lucas in 2015, he was himself. He was that fun-loving guy that was in there hidden by fear because the fear (well, most of it) was gone.

He LOVED doggy daycare! I mean, who knew?! That first year, that second year, if you had told either John or I that Lucas would be enrolling in cage-free daycare and boarding there, we would have split our sides laughing so hard.

But he did, and he loved it to pieces.

At a reactive dog group class Lucas and I took, one of the our classmates turned to me at one point and said, “Are you really sure he’s reactive?”

Highest praise I’ve ever received.

But the thing is, I was taking that class with him seven years after we had adopted him. He was never “fixed” or whatever. We learned his triggers and how to manage them, but we worked at it. Constantly. And had backslides.

He was so fun. Such a big, fluffy ball of love, filled with light and laughter. He loved hanging out with people and wrestling with dogs.

He still had his fears, and they’d crop up sometimes unexpectedly. But, at the end of the day, I learned so much from him, my training mentor and inspiration, about patience and about perseverance. I learned how resilient a dog can be and how the best things in life take the hardest work.

He was my teacher and carried a little piece of my soul with him. I’m grateful for all the lessons he taught me, and I sure wish he were still around to guide me.

I could sure use some help with Cooper. 🙂

It’s been one year

A year ago today, we lost our Lucas.

Lucas

I couldn’t write about it then–except to let you, our kind friends, know he was gone. I didn’t think I could write about it now either. See, the thing is, I felt like we failed him. We lost him too soon, so it had to be our fault.

I know this is irrational. I’m very, logically, rationally aware that these are irrational feelings, but here’s how it went: Emmett was given a 6-month prognosis. He’s surpassed that so profoundly that he’s routinely declared a miracle. So, of course, when they told us that Lukey’s protocol–amputation plus four chemo treatments–would statistically likely give him another one to two years–a normal lifespan, really, for a shepherd at that point–the six month decline felt like we did something wrong. Or, more accurately, it’s the overarching sense of guilt about all of it.

Again, I realize all that’s irrational. I do. It’s just been a long, intense grief process. And it’s been hard to write. Oh-so-hard. And I’m forever grateful to those of you who reached out, who noticed.

Here’s the thing that I haven’t yet overcome:

I’m a storyteller. I want to be open and authentic and transparent. But I found myself unable to tell Lukey’s story, at least his final story, and so I found myself unable to tell ANY story. So, I stopped writing. Mostly, anyway.

And that felt like a failure. Writers are supposed to write. The good ones write through blocks. But, I just couldn’t do it.

And, so, here is a bit of that untold story, the one that has clogged my heart and my hands… and it’s simple, really.

We knew it was coming. We knew, but we kept hoping.

Then, the oncologist showed us his lung X-rays. “I’m sorry,” he said.

But, still, we hoped.

Then we noticed a bit of swelling in his back legs. And he coughed a smidge. Cady stayed with us for the weekend, and the two stayed in the garden, side-by-side. Waiting. Then Cady went home and his legs were swollen more and his coughing was getting more pronounced, so we took him to our local vet, just to see if there was anything, anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

She wrote her cell phone number on a slip of paper. She told us to call her, day or night, even on her days off, and she’d come over. We cried. She cried.

We took him home. We slept on the living room floor. We ordered him pizza and a Jimmy John’s Gargantuan sub. We rubbed his ears and massaged his swollen legs. We told him we loved him over and over.

Some of his favorite people came by. They said “to visit,” which we appreciated so very much, but everyone knew. He was saying his goodbyes. And even though he couldn’t, he kept trying to jump up, to greet his friends with howls and wags and those big amber-brown eyes. They still shined with happiness those last few days, those final few hours. He had such a happy life.

Then the day came. He couldn’t get up. No, that’s not even it. He didn’t want to get up. We knew it was coming, but it was such a shock. Today’s the day. How can that be? How can any of this be?

Our lovely vet did come over. She brought a sweet tech from the animal hospital. We sat with him. We hugged him and told him how much we loved him. We let him go.

After he was gone, Cooper curled up against his stomach and just nestled. It shattered us all, the tenderness of that gesture, the knowing.

They left, and we were left with that emptiness, that space Lucas filled… physically in his giant, bouncy, perma-puppy body, and emotionally, too, the years of worrying about him and for him.

That emptiness is still there, but it feels different now. It’s not about the habits or the routines or the daily Lucas-less-ness of our days. Instead, it’s an ache for a presence that is somehow there but not there. A ghost heart.

Not a day goes by that we don’t put him in the context of what’s going on now. “Lucas would have LOVED this,” or “OMG, can you imagine if we had Lucas in this scenario?” We pretend him into being regularly. We joke that he haunts Newt.

And a year? This milestone? It is both forever and a blink.

His loss left a hole. That hole is still there. It’s just changed shape a bit, the sides and edges are a little softer, a little lighter. Oh, but what I wouldn’t give to bury my face his his thick, fuzzy neck and breathe him in.

I remember in the first few days after he died doing things… normal things, like stand in line at the grocery checkout or put gas in my car. I remember looking around at all the people swirling around me and thinking how amazing it was. Here I was, looking like a totally normal person doing person things, swiping my card, getting my reusable shopping bags out of my purse, and all those people around me had absolutely no idea that my world had crumbled only days ago.

Imagine, of course, how many people around us all the time have only just had their worlds crumbled, too.

Great loss is a great reminder to be kind.

So, that is where I am one year later. I miss him like crazy. I feel the space he used to take up. But I’m astonished at my luck that I got to take care of him in the first place. That he was my special little guy for eight wonderful, difficult, funny, frustrating years. He struggled and overcame so much, while staying true to himself. My life is richer forever because I got to bear witness to his evolution.

It’s been one year since we lost Lucas, but he’s left me with a lifetime of a deeper love and patience and gratitude and kindness. He was so special and fought so hard. He taught me so much about bravery and about joy, and his life–and, it turns out, his death–serve as a reminder to be kind. You never know what someone else, person or dog, is going through, so just be kind.

And, I think, that’s his legacy. And it fits him so well. I’ll miss him forever, but I carry him with me. So, it’ll be OK.

Thanks for your patience during this unpredictable past year. I’m so grateful for you and for everyone who shares your pets with this community. Give them all some extra hugs and scritches this weekend. Lots of love! 

The shape of our days

How does time slip past us so quickly? Where does it go?

Tomorrow, Lucas will have been gone for three weeks. How can that be? When he left us, our hearts were shattered. We wondered how we would ever put the pieces back together.

Finally, I realized: They will never be put back together, at least not in the same shape. We can reassemble all the little shattered pieces from the loss of that big, yellow dog, but the shape of our lives, the shape of our days will be forever different.

See, Lucas dictated most aspects of our day-to-day.

I know over the years many of you arrived here, became a part of this community, because you love a reactive dog. The comments, the discussion, and even the keywords that bring people here (“my dog bit someone” or “leash lunging” or “how to get my dog to like other dogs”) unite those of us who love a dog who reacts.

For close to nine years, we accommodated Lucas. We walked him at certain times of day to minimize the risk of encountering a loose dog. We walked him on certain routes to minimize corners and blindspots so that we wouldn’t be startled by another dog walker. We drove with the windows down because he got car sick. That includes numerous winter weather drives where it would snow into the car because if we put the windows up he’d start to pant and pace and get sick. We took him to controlled dog training classes and hiked spots with little traffic at off hours. He twice tried to bite a stranger in the park, so he never got to go off-leash or even on a long leash unless we had complete control over the situation–which, of course, you never really do.

And that’s what’s weird. That’s what’s reshaping our days. Last week, at prime school-lets-out time, when moms and kids and dogs and bikes and strollers and UPS trucks and mailmen were out in full force, we took Cooper and Emmett for a walk.

Yesterday, when it was frigid and pouring, I drove Cooper to doggy daycare with the windows up and no one barfed.

We took Emmett and Cooper for a hike, together, rather than worrying about shifts and who’s stuck at home and who’s getting shorted a turn and can we skip Emmett today because it took so long to get around the neighborhood with Lucas because we kept having to avoid dogs?

It makes me feel guilty and awful to say that part of this change, part of the adjustment to Lucas being gone is that many things have become… well… easier. And in a weird way, it’s the hardest part to get used to, to letting go of that constant vigilance.

Please don’t misinterpret. I would trade any of it, actually all of it, to have him back. I’d adjust my walk times and walk routes and install the gates in the new house so when the HVAC repair guy/UPS man/next door neighbor comes by I’d have a place to safely send Lucas. I’d walk him in the rain and on winding, stuttered routes to avoid other dogs. I’d do any of it. I’d do all of it to have him here and healthy and happy, bopping around on three legs.

But that can’t happen. And while I’m not used to the gap he’s left in our lives yet, part of it is because I can let my guard down. At least a little. And it feels weird. And I still miss him, and I bawled my eyes out when I got an email about his doggy daycare reservation this morning, but these are things I never could’ve predicted. I could never have imagined just how much the shape of our days would change and just how sad it makes me when the doorbell rings and no one goes ballistic.

He’s gone.

He’s gone, and we are shattered.

Lucas

He went too soon. It’s always too soon.

Lucas joined our family on March 28, 2007, and he left us on October 28, 2015. But he is forever and ever part of our soul.

I miss my friend. So much.

It will take time to pick up these pieces.