I probably shouldn’t have been allowed to watch Lassie, especially the movies. Lassie kept meeting new people, had amazing adventures, then had to move on. It was so sad. Why couldn’t they just all live near each other? Then Lassie could visit all of them each day. I cried every time.
Of course, life’s more complicated than that.
My first close friend was Michael, the kid who lived upstairs in the country home my parents rented when I was two. Seriously. I remember. He had a bottle collection, each carrying a fairy in the representation of a cartoon character. I couldn’t see them, but he could, and he told me. Sometimes he’d show me the flash of their sparks in the field. When my family moved away when I was ten, Michael and I continued writing and visiting each other through high school. I’ll never forget the crushing feeling when Michael’s mom, Shirley, was killed just a few days before Christmas, his twelfth birthday, on an icy road on her way to pick him up from school. The last time I visited him, we played basketball. I think he was lying about the fairies.
I had other good friends at my old house—Harold (the kid in the next house down the highway) and I were also friends for years after I moved, and although Robert (the next kid down the highway) and I weren’t as close, he always stood up for me when the school bus bullies got going.
Moving in the middle of fifth grade was not easy—back to square one friend-wise. Eventually, I became friends with Mike, whose mother edited the local paper (his dad seemed to just stay home). Mike introduced me to the game of Risk, which quickly became a passion for quite a few years. In junior high, I met Mark, a math wiz (frankly, I think cultivated by his parents to be so), and we had great fun playing logic based games, solving mathematical puzzles, and playing chess. I met Terry in Boy Scouts, and we planned a few long distance bicycle day trips (which, miraculously, our parents let us pursue independently). Terry also introduced me to sailing at scout camp, getting permission to take out the sailboat after politely but thoroughly embarrassing the boat keeper by demonstrating beyond any doubt that he knew far more about sailing than the adult supervisor.
By high school, all these friendships had fallen away (all new people again), and Les became my best friend. We met because he was the only other male flutist in the band. He was smart, and funny. We liked a lot of the same music. I had managed to join the elite Jazz Band as the guitarist when just a freshman, playing with my hero, a keyboardist with a local rock band and his excellent bass-player/girlfriend. They were seniors, though, and I taught Les to play bass (as a senior, he was the bassist for the state-wide Jazz Band). When I got too down on myself, Les would talk sense, something like, “Look, a lot of people have inferiority complexes, and they’re right, they ARE inferior, but you’re not…” and such. An AV volunteer, Les also had access to keys around the entire high school—and we made copies. We also learned how to break into locked rooms—just for the challenge of it, but when we were finally caught (my fault), administration was not amused. As high school faded away, so did the friendship.
In college, a state school, all I could afford, I met Gary, a gifted pianist who quickly became my best friend, accompanist (I was a bassoon major), tennis partner and roommate. One of those eerie connections—you know what each other is thinking, when the other calls before it happens, that sort of thing. Gary introduced me to a new, pop pianist I’d grow to appreciate, but when he brought this first album home, I asked, “Who the hell is Billy Joel?” [I introduced him to Emerson, Lake and Palmer.] We once had a long debate over Beethoven’s fifth, each wondering how the other could think such thoughts, until we eventually realized I was talking about the Fifth Symphony while Gary meant the fifth piano concerto. Entering music school, I was terrified I’d never be able to compete. Once there, I was appalled at the low quality. Finally, Gary pointed out that if all I was going to do was bitch, I owed it to myself to transfer. He was right. I auditioned, secured a performance scholarship from Ithaca College, and started my sophomore year once again a stranger.
I met Gordon in Art History class—as soon as the lights went out, so did Gordon—but he was also a music major, a trombonist, and we quickly became fast friends. Twice my weight and a foot taller, Gordon and I wrestled anyway, arm wrestled, went running, played baseball and football, quizzed each other on obscure music points (Gordon was a Stravinsky fanatic; I was a Classicist and Bartok enthusiast), and shared mutual acquaintances. We became housemates along with some other students and our friend Joe, a bass trombonist, in a complicated rental deal I put together to escape dorm life—a great year. I stayed summers at his family’s house in New Jersey, playing music festivals in the New York City area—and helping out when his father suffered a lesion in his brain.
When we graduated, Gordon hooked up with a former French horn classmate, and soon, Joe and I were invited to a wedding at her parent’s estate in Maine. The invitation included welcoming us to spend a week or two, before and after the ceremony, enjoying the land and the lake. Hey, why not?! When we got there, we found out why—we were cheap labor (which would have been OK, we were used to work), and not really particularly welcome to use the facilities, sailboats, etc. We stewed, but bit our lips for Gordon’s sake. The wedding finally came, followed by a few hours of reception before Gordon and Deb drove off on their honeymoon. Joe and I waved warmly until they were gone, looked at each other, were packed and on our way home inside of ten minutes.
I visited Gordon and Deb a few times at their home on the Hudson, but Deb and I had never been close, they had a new daughter, and Gordon was put off by my new focus on my management and writing interests for profit: “It’s like my friend is gone and replaced by this businessman.” We grew apart. Ironically, Gordon took his piano tuning college course and turned it into a piano technician business. Joe joined the Navy band and got so sick of playing that he became a CPA, got married, and moved to Oregon. He has two kids. His wife sends a Christmas card each year. I’m the only one of my classmates to fulfill our aspirations of performing professionally.
Since then, I’ve had a lot of wonderful acquaintances, housemates, colleagues, many of which I remember warmly, but no real close friends for years. Maybe I had just learned to stay aloof. [Notice that we’re just leaving girlfriends out of this discussion—another story entirely.] My career led to offers to teach music, then to teach writing, then to do so at better colleges, and those pursuits have largely been my focus.
Today, I have two people I’d count as close friends, both colleagues, both colorful characters.
Tim was an enigma from the start—a college custodian who also taught in the English department. Strange, but also well liked, easy going, with long experience, published, wonderfully clever sense of humor, Mensa member. We shared an affinity for puns, and traded several. We shared stories—Tim, the son of a Cornell scientist, had planned to become a large animal veterinarian, but severe arthritis ended those plans (Tim’s posture now resembles a question mark). We really got to know each other well when Tim broke his neck in a fall and had to spend six moths at home with a metal frame drilled into his head to hold it in place. Calm as he is, he was going stir-crazy, so since I had a regular church music job a few miles from his home, I spent each Sunday with Tim, hanging out, reading the paper, watching strange cable shows, solving the world’s problems. Since then we’re not as close—he took early retirement, and spends most of his time concerned with his grandchildren. “As it should be,” as Mary Poppins would say. We still talk from time to time, especially about gardening concerns.
Joe was an acquaintance, another affable colleague--until the day I had a long dispute with the woman then the department chair, one of these people who thinks that college means every student should be happy no matter what. “Well, here goes my career,” I only half jested, having finished the response I’d spent two weeks composing. “May I see it?” Joe asked. He read carefully, then looked up, and said quietly but firmly, “Do not send this letter. This is a bridge-burning document, and I’d hate to see that happen to you.” He spent the next three hours on a Friday afternoon helping me turn it into a still pointed but more balanced document. I deeply appreciated his help. He respected my sharing something so personal. We became friends.
Joe is also a musician, a self-trained banjo player active in the local music scene. He’s also no stranger to management—he started his own non-profit organization to bring world-quality folk music performers to the area. We’re fellow techies (along with Tim), and the first people to get asked such questions by our colleagues. Good thing we work together, though, or we’d never see each other. Joe was on the tennis team in school, and we talked about playing after classes, but we were just too busy. Ditto getting together just to visit. Then he met Kristen (I went to their wedding), and his time is mainly tied up there. And, of course, I’m certainly buried in my own work.
Writer
Showing posts with label veterinarian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label veterinarian. Show all posts
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
“I am a Lineman for the Kitty…”
My dog saw it first—a cat sitting on top of the utility pole just outside my home. The cat sat calmly atop the pole, while my dog jumped up periodically in enthusiasm, if to no avail. I called off said dog and tried to coax down the cat, a grey, short-haired cat I’d never seen before—also to no avail.
I can, at least, see WHY the cat climbed the pole. This was the traditional post of a red-winged blackbird, a clear and welcome target. Every morning I’d walk out to his incessant “Chit! Chit! Chit!” call. Over time, I realized that he was the look-out (and what better place?), warning that I was in the vicinity, even tracking me as I worked about the place. One day, as I got too close to a nest 100 feet away, this guy smoothly but swiftly glided down just two feet over the nest, let out a single, soft, musical note—and the female took off immediately. Beautiful teamwork. Once I realized that, I fretted for a nest another year when the male disappeared, fate unknown. Sure enough—a week later the nest had been overturned, no sign of its former contents.
Anyway, the feline pole sitter remained, and eventually I called my vet’s office for advice. They had no ideas other than the ones I’d already tried, and suggested a wildlife nuisance expert. I called. He listened patiently. “OK, look,” he started, in a very nice voice, “I don’t mean this harshly. I have four cats myself.” I listened. “You just don’t find cat skeletons in trees. We get calls like this all the time. Chances are, we’d climb one side of the pole, and the cat would run down the other. When it’s hungry, it will finally come down. It got up there; it can find it’s way down—probably when things quiet down.” Reluctantly, I had to agree. I’d just wait.
My dog certainly wasn’t helping, spending the bulk of her time guarding the pole, intently watching the aerialist intruder (“and I want you more than need you…”). The cat certainly had things to do, other than occasionally changing from sitting to lying atop its perch. After all, my cats LOVE watching birds from their vantage point inside my windows, so just imagine from the top of the utility pole! And not just red-winged blackbirds—robins, sparrows, finches, and much more so frequent that vicinity that every morning at 5 a.m. brings a cacophony so raucous that sleeping in can, at best, mean rolling over and going back to sleep, even over the purr of the air conditioner and fan. A cat’s dream (“I hear you singing on the wires…”). Indoors, I’ve seen cats sit for several hours, calmly waiting out a mouse. Or perhaps the cat was just practicing Zen, but “Zen for Cats” is essentially meant to be funny, and I find cats don’t really get humor. Additionally, as one cartoon depicted with a cat sleeping on a poor reader’s open newspaper, “cats don’t read, and they don’t want you to read either.”
I called my dog, and she happily bounded in to dinner, her shift over, oblivious that we didn’t have a night shift. She curled up at my feet as I worked. I looked out the window. Cat. When I finally went to bed, late that night, I looked out—dark shape atop the utility pole. So it continued, me anxious, dog watching, cat unmoved (“I know I need a small vacation…”). At least it didn’t look like rain. I started to feel the strain.
On the morning of the third day, I looked out, and the cat was gone. I rushed outside for evidence of what happened, but found nothing. No sign of egress, descension, ascension, recinsion, or any other kind of cension. No tracks, no fur, no claw marks, no carcass, no skeleton, no nothing.
I guess you just need to know…
…which cats are linemen…
Dunno. But I’m still on the line. Another overload.
Writer
I can, at least, see WHY the cat climbed the pole. This was the traditional post of a red-winged blackbird, a clear and welcome target. Every morning I’d walk out to his incessant “Chit! Chit! Chit!” call. Over time, I realized that he was the look-out (and what better place?), warning that I was in the vicinity, even tracking me as I worked about the place. One day, as I got too close to a nest 100 feet away, this guy smoothly but swiftly glided down just two feet over the nest, let out a single, soft, musical note—and the female took off immediately. Beautiful teamwork. Once I realized that, I fretted for a nest another year when the male disappeared, fate unknown. Sure enough—a week later the nest had been overturned, no sign of its former contents.
Anyway, the feline pole sitter remained, and eventually I called my vet’s office for advice. They had no ideas other than the ones I’d already tried, and suggested a wildlife nuisance expert. I called. He listened patiently. “OK, look,” he started, in a very nice voice, “I don’t mean this harshly. I have four cats myself.” I listened. “You just don’t find cat skeletons in trees. We get calls like this all the time. Chances are, we’d climb one side of the pole, and the cat would run down the other. When it’s hungry, it will finally come down. It got up there; it can find it’s way down—probably when things quiet down.” Reluctantly, I had to agree. I’d just wait.
My dog certainly wasn’t helping, spending the bulk of her time guarding the pole, intently watching the aerialist intruder (“and I want you more than need you…”). The cat certainly had things to do, other than occasionally changing from sitting to lying atop its perch. After all, my cats LOVE watching birds from their vantage point inside my windows, so just imagine from the top of the utility pole! And not just red-winged blackbirds—robins, sparrows, finches, and much more so frequent that vicinity that every morning at 5 a.m. brings a cacophony so raucous that sleeping in can, at best, mean rolling over and going back to sleep, even over the purr of the air conditioner and fan. A cat’s dream (“I hear you singing on the wires…”). Indoors, I’ve seen cats sit for several hours, calmly waiting out a mouse. Or perhaps the cat was just practicing Zen, but “Zen for Cats” is essentially meant to be funny, and I find cats don’t really get humor. Additionally, as one cartoon depicted with a cat sleeping on a poor reader’s open newspaper, “cats don’t read, and they don’t want you to read either.”
I called my dog, and she happily bounded in to dinner, her shift over, oblivious that we didn’t have a night shift. She curled up at my feet as I worked. I looked out the window. Cat. When I finally went to bed, late that night, I looked out—dark shape atop the utility pole. So it continued, me anxious, dog watching, cat unmoved (“I know I need a small vacation…”). At least it didn’t look like rain. I started to feel the strain.
On the morning of the third day, I looked out, and the cat was gone. I rushed outside for evidence of what happened, but found nothing. No sign of egress, descension, ascension, recinsion, or any other kind of cension. No tracks, no fur, no claw marks, no carcass, no skeleton, no nothing.
I guess you just need to know…
…which cats are linemen…
Dunno. But I’m still on the line. Another overload.
Writer
Monday, June 11, 2007
How to Train a Husky
My shepherd mix died about five years ago just short of age 16—my constant companion, hiking buddy, best friend. Girl friends were jealous of this dog. I knew I’d get another dog, but I was in no hurry. Hiking alone wasn’t much fun, but I wanted to wait for just the right one.
My vet knew this, and when another client had a litter of husky mixes (husky and lab), she hooked us up. I thought for a few weeks. I went to see the only pup left—the smallest of the lot, a ball of short but thick white fur. “What do you know about huskies?” I asked the vet tech. “The only thing about huskies,” she replied, “When they see a squirrel or something, they just take after it.” Understatement of the century. “About how big will she get?” I asked the vet. “Oh, probably around 48 lbs.” Nice call—today she’s 48.2 lbs.
This was a small dog for me, and I wasn’t sure—but the owners eventually talked me into it. I named her Shanti, which means “peace,” and comes from a Hindu sutra:
Lead us from the unreal to the real
From darkness into light
From death to immortality
Shanti shanti
Banshee would have been a more accurate choice. She’s a V12 engine in a Chevette—incredibly fast, and far stronger than the shepherd mix twice her size. Well, I’ve always been a good trainer, I thought. No problem.
I set up a puppy area in the kitchen, a safe place for her when I was at work, by blocking the hallway with a 4’ high piece of plywood. She took one look and effortlessly sailed over the counter through the open area into the living room. OK. I puppy-proofed as much as possible, and left her the run of the place, ignoring her yips as I left for work. When I came home, she was lying outside—she had managed to break an outside door. I fixed it as much as possible, placing a 4x8 sheet of plywood in front. When I returned, she was inside—and the place looked like a cyclone had hit it. The day after that, she was outside again—went through a window. When the weekend hit, I decided to try short trips to calm her separation anxiety—15 or 20 minute trips to the store. On one, she toppled a wooden bookcase and reduced it to toothpicks. I’m not exaggerating. On another—she went through another window.
OK. Outdoor dog, at least when I’m not home. Since she was such a good jumper—and digger—I knew my fence would never hold her. I built a lean-to/doghouse, bought some hay, plenty of waterproof toys, and got her a 20’ lead of vinyl covered aerial cable--just long enough to give her some room and some shade without getting tangled around the trees. That is, until she tore the lower branches off the trees. I also learned to regularly inspect the cables—she broke a few and went on a neighborhood spree for hours.
Now comes the husky game—ask any husky owner. You get just so close—and at the last moment the dog dodges. Huskies can do this for hours, and they’re very good at it. You literally can never catch them. And they love it. Kind of a challenge for training.
“OK,” I figured. “I’ll lure her with food.” Not so fast. Huskies don’t overeat, the vet tells me, and food isn’t much of a motivator for them. Even when it sort of is…back to that “ever so close” game before that husky dodge. She knows this means the end of the romp. The only hope is to get someone else to call and grab her (huskies are very friendly)—until she figured that one out too.
Once you’ve got the dog by the collar—new problem. Immediately she’s on her hind legs, paws around your arm. I remembered my dad describing this behavior in sled dogs after his trip to Alaska. OK, fine—on your hind legs then. Not so fast. She’d just flip over on her back.
I was always the person people turned to for training advice. I’d never even owned a leash before. My last dog had been calmly heeling beside me at six months. But I was out of my league. I needed help. I asked the vet to recommend a trainer.
Training involved mostly me learning how people train a dog with leash and choke collar, and Shanti wanting to run over and play with the other dogs. I did manage to accomplish a few things—pulling up on the leash to get her to sit, for example—but to a husky, once you’ve done something like “sit,” it’s done, and now it’s time to get on with life, not just sit there. I learned to snap the leash to get her to stop pulling—OK, to lessen the problem of her pulling--but mostly I managed to teach her only that I wanted her to do these things, to recognize them…not necessarily do them.
I expressed my frustration to the trainer, pointing out the virtues of my last dog’s training, that we had been a team. “Look,” he said. “You had an exceptional dog. Now you have a normal dog.” “She listens to you,” pointed out the vet. “She’s half husky,” added her colleague. “She’s that much closer to wild. You’re doing fine.”
At six months, she was due for spaying. This meant she would have to stay inside afterwards for a few days until the incision healed; lying outside was out of the question. I was also supposed to keep her quiet. “How am I going to do that?” I asked the vet. “Well…relatively quiet.” OK. I bought a large metal dog crate and set it up in the kitchen. I picked her up from the vet as late as I could—she was yelping and yelping in the kennel when I got there, and had been all day. She was calm when I was home, but she definitely didn’t like the crate idea when I left for work in the morning.
When I came home, she was outside the crate. She had banged and banged against the door until the latch lifted enough to let her out. Then she trashed the place again. The next morning, I secured the latch. She was outside the crate when I got home—she had banged and banged against the collapsible crate until one wall caved. And she trashed the place. I secured every joint of the crate with wire. She ripped the bars from the welding and bent them back to make a hole and escape. Yes, I’m serious. I decided to risk the chance of infection outdoors.
Then I noticed something—she stood and waited at the open front door. She always does, until I say “OK.” This I could work with. Mainly I wanted to be sure I could control her as a full grown dog, so I invented a game. “Play!” I shout, and she goes nuts, jumping and slashing at my gloves (she plays very, very rough). Then “Enough,” and she sits, watching and waiting for the next “Play!” “Enough.” “Play!” “Enough.” She’s very good about it.
Hiking is another matter. I’d love if she could just run and run, but she’s so fast that she’s gone in a flash. Usually, I just count on a dog to stay nearby to train it for hiking. Trouble is, together with her speed, she has an excellent nose. When I tried to trick her by walking off the trail (to get her to stick closer next time), I just found she could follow my trail at a dead run—including right angle turns. What do you do when her position is “I AM right with you. You’re five miles that way—I can smell you.”? Add to this that she loves people and especially other dogs and will follow them for miles until she finally decides she’s done and comes back (and in the meantime I’ve no idea where she is). I turned to the Internet and the book store. What do professional husky owners do? I soon found my answer, absolutely consistent from source to source: never let a husky loose.
Getting her to leave game alone also proved impossible. Once she sees it, she’s completely and immediately focused on nothing else, and takes off as if fired from a gun—even on her leash. I use the heavy duty 26’ retractable leashes rated for large dogs. She breaks one every few months. Miraculously, she comes right back when I call her. Most puppies will look crestfallen when scolded, but she always just looked at me, sometimes yipping some version of “What? Come on—what’s the problem? That was the third squirrel, damn it. We HAD it man, we HAD it! What’s wrong with you?” I settled for minimizing pulling—but I still have to continually repeat this, and I get a nasty jolt to wrist, shoulder, elbow, ankle, knee, and so forth regularly. Sometimes I have her walk behind me, but since she walks RIGHT behind me, no clearance at all, I usually give up (heeling doesn’t work well on narrow trails).
In the car, she’s always in the way when I get in, but jumps to the back the moment I start the engine. She now comes when I call her for our morning run, instead of standing, stretching her back legs, stretching her front legs—and lying down again. And not in a circle anymore, then only to do the husky dodge. In a straight line. Right to me. I swear (one friend and lifelong husky owner can’t quite believe it). When cars go by while we’re walking down a stretch of road to the trails, she automatically heels, watching me for the “OK.” Truly. And today she comfortably roams the yard on a 60’ lead (which still needs regular inspection for impending breaks)--without terrorizing the trees.
The most unique training was the cross-country skiing. I always had to wait for my shepherd mix to catch up, but Shanti feels only “About time you moved your ass. Best you can do?” Good, but how to keep her on a leash while my hands are occupied with ski poles? I finally hit upon wrapping a short, metal chain leash around my waist, outside my coat, threaded through the handle of the retractable leash. This also allows the leash handle to travel around me when Shanti runs back and forth, instead of wrapping the cord around me. (I used to use my belt, but she kept breaking them and ripping open my coat when she abruptly took off after game.) This works reasonably well—until we come across another dog.
The other problem is pulling—sounds like fun, but it’s often dangerous, depending on the terrain (I ski in the forest) and the conditions (like when hikers or snowshoers have packed the ski trail into a flat field of ice instead of walking in a separate, parallel trail). If another dog is ahead, she knows it, and suddenly we take off. If you see snowplow marks on a flat ski trail and wonder how that happened—that’s me. So the most important command for skiing is “Back!” You do NOT want to go skiing down a curving, forested hill with a husky pulling you faster in random directions while you’re fighting for control—or trying to slow down. Again, she follows IMMEDIATELY behind, but I’ll take it.
So how DO you train a husky? Lots of time, lots of patience, a healthy supply of Icy Hot, Mineral Ice or Tiger Balm, and plenty of ibuprofen.
Writer
My vet knew this, and when another client had a litter of husky mixes (husky and lab), she hooked us up. I thought for a few weeks. I went to see the only pup left—the smallest of the lot, a ball of short but thick white fur. “What do you know about huskies?” I asked the vet tech. “The only thing about huskies,” she replied, “When they see a squirrel or something, they just take after it.” Understatement of the century. “About how big will she get?” I asked the vet. “Oh, probably around 48 lbs.” Nice call—today she’s 48.2 lbs.
This was a small dog for me, and I wasn’t sure—but the owners eventually talked me into it. I named her Shanti, which means “peace,” and comes from a Hindu sutra:
Lead us from the unreal to the real
From darkness into light
From death to immortality
Shanti shanti
Banshee would have been a more accurate choice. She’s a V12 engine in a Chevette—incredibly fast, and far stronger than the shepherd mix twice her size. Well, I’ve always been a good trainer, I thought. No problem.
I set up a puppy area in the kitchen, a safe place for her when I was at work, by blocking the hallway with a 4’ high piece of plywood. She took one look and effortlessly sailed over the counter through the open area into the living room. OK. I puppy-proofed as much as possible, and left her the run of the place, ignoring her yips as I left for work. When I came home, she was lying outside—she had managed to break an outside door. I fixed it as much as possible, placing a 4x8 sheet of plywood in front. When I returned, she was inside—and the place looked like a cyclone had hit it. The day after that, she was outside again—went through a window. When the weekend hit, I decided to try short trips to calm her separation anxiety—15 or 20 minute trips to the store. On one, she toppled a wooden bookcase and reduced it to toothpicks. I’m not exaggerating. On another—she went through another window.
OK. Outdoor dog, at least when I’m not home. Since she was such a good jumper—and digger—I knew my fence would never hold her. I built a lean-to/doghouse, bought some hay, plenty of waterproof toys, and got her a 20’ lead of vinyl covered aerial cable--just long enough to give her some room and some shade without getting tangled around the trees. That is, until she tore the lower branches off the trees. I also learned to regularly inspect the cables—she broke a few and went on a neighborhood spree for hours.
Now comes the husky game—ask any husky owner. You get just so close—and at the last moment the dog dodges. Huskies can do this for hours, and they’re very good at it. You literally can never catch them. And they love it. Kind of a challenge for training.
“OK,” I figured. “I’ll lure her with food.” Not so fast. Huskies don’t overeat, the vet tells me, and food isn’t much of a motivator for them. Even when it sort of is…back to that “ever so close” game before that husky dodge. She knows this means the end of the romp. The only hope is to get someone else to call and grab her (huskies are very friendly)—until she figured that one out too.
Once you’ve got the dog by the collar—new problem. Immediately she’s on her hind legs, paws around your arm. I remembered my dad describing this behavior in sled dogs after his trip to Alaska. OK, fine—on your hind legs then. Not so fast. She’d just flip over on her back.
I was always the person people turned to for training advice. I’d never even owned a leash before. My last dog had been calmly heeling beside me at six months. But I was out of my league. I needed help. I asked the vet to recommend a trainer.
Training involved mostly me learning how people train a dog with leash and choke collar, and Shanti wanting to run over and play with the other dogs. I did manage to accomplish a few things—pulling up on the leash to get her to sit, for example—but to a husky, once you’ve done something like “sit,” it’s done, and now it’s time to get on with life, not just sit there. I learned to snap the leash to get her to stop pulling—OK, to lessen the problem of her pulling--but mostly I managed to teach her only that I wanted her to do these things, to recognize them…not necessarily do them.
I expressed my frustration to the trainer, pointing out the virtues of my last dog’s training, that we had been a team. “Look,” he said. “You had an exceptional dog. Now you have a normal dog.” “She listens to you,” pointed out the vet. “She’s half husky,” added her colleague. “She’s that much closer to wild. You’re doing fine.”
At six months, she was due for spaying. This meant she would have to stay inside afterwards for a few days until the incision healed; lying outside was out of the question. I was also supposed to keep her quiet. “How am I going to do that?” I asked the vet. “Well…relatively quiet.” OK. I bought a large metal dog crate and set it up in the kitchen. I picked her up from the vet as late as I could—she was yelping and yelping in the kennel when I got there, and had been all day. She was calm when I was home, but she definitely didn’t like the crate idea when I left for work in the morning.
When I came home, she was outside the crate. She had banged and banged against the door until the latch lifted enough to let her out. Then she trashed the place again. The next morning, I secured the latch. She was outside the crate when I got home—she had banged and banged against the collapsible crate until one wall caved. And she trashed the place. I secured every joint of the crate with wire. She ripped the bars from the welding and bent them back to make a hole and escape. Yes, I’m serious. I decided to risk the chance of infection outdoors.
Then I noticed something—she stood and waited at the open front door. She always does, until I say “OK.” This I could work with. Mainly I wanted to be sure I could control her as a full grown dog, so I invented a game. “Play!” I shout, and she goes nuts, jumping and slashing at my gloves (she plays very, very rough). Then “Enough,” and she sits, watching and waiting for the next “Play!” “Enough.” “Play!” “Enough.” She’s very good about it.
Hiking is another matter. I’d love if she could just run and run, but she’s so fast that she’s gone in a flash. Usually, I just count on a dog to stay nearby to train it for hiking. Trouble is, together with her speed, she has an excellent nose. When I tried to trick her by walking off the trail (to get her to stick closer next time), I just found she could follow my trail at a dead run—including right angle turns. What do you do when her position is “I AM right with you. You’re five miles that way—I can smell you.”? Add to this that she loves people and especially other dogs and will follow them for miles until she finally decides she’s done and comes back (and in the meantime I’ve no idea where she is). I turned to the Internet and the book store. What do professional husky owners do? I soon found my answer, absolutely consistent from source to source: never let a husky loose.
Getting her to leave game alone also proved impossible. Once she sees it, she’s completely and immediately focused on nothing else, and takes off as if fired from a gun—even on her leash. I use the heavy duty 26’ retractable leashes rated for large dogs. She breaks one every few months. Miraculously, she comes right back when I call her. Most puppies will look crestfallen when scolded, but she always just looked at me, sometimes yipping some version of “What? Come on—what’s the problem? That was the third squirrel, damn it. We HAD it man, we HAD it! What’s wrong with you?” I settled for minimizing pulling—but I still have to continually repeat this, and I get a nasty jolt to wrist, shoulder, elbow, ankle, knee, and so forth regularly. Sometimes I have her walk behind me, but since she walks RIGHT behind me, no clearance at all, I usually give up (heeling doesn’t work well on narrow trails).
In the car, she’s always in the way when I get in, but jumps to the back the moment I start the engine. She now comes when I call her for our morning run, instead of standing, stretching her back legs, stretching her front legs—and lying down again. And not in a circle anymore, then only to do the husky dodge. In a straight line. Right to me. I swear (one friend and lifelong husky owner can’t quite believe it). When cars go by while we’re walking down a stretch of road to the trails, she automatically heels, watching me for the “OK.” Truly. And today she comfortably roams the yard on a 60’ lead (which still needs regular inspection for impending breaks)--without terrorizing the trees.
The most unique training was the cross-country skiing. I always had to wait for my shepherd mix to catch up, but Shanti feels only “About time you moved your ass. Best you can do?” Good, but how to keep her on a leash while my hands are occupied with ski poles? I finally hit upon wrapping a short, metal chain leash around my waist, outside my coat, threaded through the handle of the retractable leash. This also allows the leash handle to travel around me when Shanti runs back and forth, instead of wrapping the cord around me. (I used to use my belt, but she kept breaking them and ripping open my coat when she abruptly took off after game.) This works reasonably well—until we come across another dog.
The other problem is pulling—sounds like fun, but it’s often dangerous, depending on the terrain (I ski in the forest) and the conditions (like when hikers or snowshoers have packed the ski trail into a flat field of ice instead of walking in a separate, parallel trail). If another dog is ahead, she knows it, and suddenly we take off. If you see snowplow marks on a flat ski trail and wonder how that happened—that’s me. So the most important command for skiing is “Back!” You do NOT want to go skiing down a curving, forested hill with a husky pulling you faster in random directions while you’re fighting for control—or trying to slow down. Again, she follows IMMEDIATELY behind, but I’ll take it.
So how DO you train a husky? Lots of time, lots of patience, a healthy supply of Icy Hot, Mineral Ice or Tiger Balm, and plenty of ibuprofen.
Writer
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Cat's Eye
When my neighbors gave me one of their orange tiger kittens, I could only think of Cat, the poor feline temporarily abandoned by Audrey Hepburn in Blake Edward’s adaptation of Truman Capote’s “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” (until George Peppard comes to the rescue). Thinking also of Mickey Rooney’s role as Holly Golightly’s Japanese upstairs neighbor, I named my new addition “Neko,” Japanese for “cat.”
Neko was a wonderful cat (he died a few years ago), but he was prone to eye infections. Further, although he was generally sweet, he hated being treated, hated going to the vet, hated riding in the car on the way to the vet, and was large enough and strong enough to make his feelings clear.
The vet can’t simply prescribe eye ointment, since first the eye must be stained to rule out a scratch (in which case steroid ointments are contraindicated). So, the routine starts with stuffing said cat into a carrier, driving the 15 minutes to the vet with the cat yowling, probably vomiting, certainly drooling enough to rival any dog. An hour later, the vet hands over the medication, with helpful instructions.
“First, wrap the cat in a towel” to keep it still and preserve your flesh. Uh-huh. See, vets have a practical joker side. They’re in the office, laughing right now at all those poor souls striving to wrap a cat in a towel. Cats have no collarbone, allowing them to move in ways unthinkable to you and me. Further, they’re quick and stressed under the circumstances. You can’t call in a vet tech to help you. Towel indeed.
So, move on to more direct means. I like to sit cross-legged, wrapped carefully around the cat, trying to control it with one hand while manipulating the medication with the other. Does this method work well? No. But it’s all I have.
Once the cat is secured and calm—well, OK, relatively secured and calm—proceed with the directions on the ointment tube: hold open the cat’s eyelids with one hand and squeeze out a small line of ointment, dropping it into the cat’s eye. No, really. They’re apparently serious.
What they don’t say is “repeat multiple times.” First, “calmness” in a trapped cat lasts a few seconds at best. Yeah yeah yeah, calmly talk to your cat in a soothing voice, but your cat still knows it’s trapped, and doesn’t like it. Imagine.
Well, still, this IS your cat, and like me, probably, after repeated tries, you’ll successfully squeeze out a line of ointment as it slowly stretches from the tube to the surface of the eye.
Then, just as the ointment is about to touch the eye, the cat jerks away (at the last possible second).
Go back and repeat these steps multiple times. Monitor your blood pressure. [Incidentally, if small children are about, remove them from the scene, since you’re bound to spout profanity sooner or later, given the growing number of deep scratches from your cat’s claws.]
Eventually, just when you think the exercise pointless, a small amount of ointment will reach your cat’s eye. Yes, the cat will still jerk away, but at this point, you’ll think, “Close enough, damn it!” and proceed to massage the ointment over the eye by closing the eyelids. Continue this until your cat escapes again and you exclaim, “Fine. Go then.” Use the remaining ointment (which contains antibiotics) to treat your many wounds.
Repeat the next day. Sound like fun?
Seriously, I shared the idea for this post with one of my vets, Dr. Kolb, who, aside from a wonderful sense of humor (and asking me to send it), suggested I include the following. I think you’ll appreciate it, as did I.
While visiting a client with an equine patient, this eye ointment issue came up. “When I approach the horse with a tube,” Dr. Kolb’s client explained, “he freaks out and jumps away. So I just put some ointment on my finger and treat him that way—he’s used to me.” This set off a light bulb for Dr. Kolb, and he approved. I tried it with Neko. Success!
By the way, Dr. Kolb was wonderful during the last few difficult months of Neko’s life. Thank you Doctor.
Writer
Neko was a wonderful cat (he died a few years ago), but he was prone to eye infections. Further, although he was generally sweet, he hated being treated, hated going to the vet, hated riding in the car on the way to the vet, and was large enough and strong enough to make his feelings clear.
The vet can’t simply prescribe eye ointment, since first the eye must be stained to rule out a scratch (in which case steroid ointments are contraindicated). So, the routine starts with stuffing said cat into a carrier, driving the 15 minutes to the vet with the cat yowling, probably vomiting, certainly drooling enough to rival any dog. An hour later, the vet hands over the medication, with helpful instructions.
“First, wrap the cat in a towel” to keep it still and preserve your flesh. Uh-huh. See, vets have a practical joker side. They’re in the office, laughing right now at all those poor souls striving to wrap a cat in a towel. Cats have no collarbone, allowing them to move in ways unthinkable to you and me. Further, they’re quick and stressed under the circumstances. You can’t call in a vet tech to help you. Towel indeed.
So, move on to more direct means. I like to sit cross-legged, wrapped carefully around the cat, trying to control it with one hand while manipulating the medication with the other. Does this method work well? No. But it’s all I have.
Once the cat is secured and calm—well, OK, relatively secured and calm—proceed with the directions on the ointment tube: hold open the cat’s eyelids with one hand and squeeze out a small line of ointment, dropping it into the cat’s eye. No, really. They’re apparently serious.
What they don’t say is “repeat multiple times.” First, “calmness” in a trapped cat lasts a few seconds at best. Yeah yeah yeah, calmly talk to your cat in a soothing voice, but your cat still knows it’s trapped, and doesn’t like it. Imagine.
Well, still, this IS your cat, and like me, probably, after repeated tries, you’ll successfully squeeze out a line of ointment as it slowly stretches from the tube to the surface of the eye.
Then, just as the ointment is about to touch the eye, the cat jerks away (at the last possible second).
Go back and repeat these steps multiple times. Monitor your blood pressure. [Incidentally, if small children are about, remove them from the scene, since you’re bound to spout profanity sooner or later, given the growing number of deep scratches from your cat’s claws.]
Eventually, just when you think the exercise pointless, a small amount of ointment will reach your cat’s eye. Yes, the cat will still jerk away, but at this point, you’ll think, “Close enough, damn it!” and proceed to massage the ointment over the eye by closing the eyelids. Continue this until your cat escapes again and you exclaim, “Fine. Go then.” Use the remaining ointment (which contains antibiotics) to treat your many wounds.
Repeat the next day. Sound like fun?
Seriously, I shared the idea for this post with one of my vets, Dr. Kolb, who, aside from a wonderful sense of humor (and asking me to send it), suggested I include the following. I think you’ll appreciate it, as did I.
While visiting a client with an equine patient, this eye ointment issue came up. “When I approach the horse with a tube,” Dr. Kolb’s client explained, “he freaks out and jumps away. So I just put some ointment on my finger and treat him that way—he’s used to me.” This set off a light bulb for Dr. Kolb, and he approved. I tried it with Neko. Success!
By the way, Dr. Kolb was wonderful during the last few difficult months of Neko’s life. Thank you Doctor.
Writer
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