Pavement Surfing

Lately, I've been absorbed in reading about the struggles Laurie's been having with Riley and his propensity for barking and lunging at random passersby. I especially found it amusing to think of how many arms are required to perfect the Victoria Stillwell method of dog training.

Our dogs are fairly well-trained, but it's nothing to do with me. If they've any manners at all, they've gotten them from Peter, our in-house dog disciplinarian. As a result of Peter being the Enforcer and Big Boss, I do sometimes run into trouble when I'm walking the dogs alone.

Mild-mannered Toby can turn into a slavering, barking menace of a horror film dog if he is confronted with a dog he does not like. He seems not to like unleashed, unneutered dogs, of which there are many in the Middle of Nowhere. He also takes offense to random small, fluffy dogs, which is always embarrassing, especially when said throw pillows are attached to little old ladies.

Callie loves people and dogs. She just wants to meet and befriend anyone, to the point of whining incessantly if she's not allowed to make go make nice.

I try my best to control the dogs when we're out in public. But I discovered a few weeks ago that if we were approached by a loose dog that Toby wanted to kill and Callie wanted to love, the best course of action was to drop Callie's leash. She would then run off as our emmisary in the doggy world, bearing good wishes. In actuality, I think she scared the collars off a lot of these macho country dogs, just through her sheer size and exuberance.

We commonly had problems with the landlord's sister's dog, a squat black lab called Harry. But when Callie met Harry, he decided that perhaps he didn't really want anything to do with us, ever. When we pass now, he skulks behind farm equipment or stays on his perch at the top of the hill, gazing at us with trepidation.

Allowing Callie to be our bouncer has worked out so well, I probably grew a little bit complacent. As long as we weren't on a main road, I thought I'd always have the drop-her-leash option available to me. I was wrong.

Yesterday afternoon, I took the dogs for a walk as the sun was setting. It was the first day we've had that made you believe that spring could be just around the corner, that our seasons really are going to change out of the dark, dismal, rainy winter. (We've had about 10 inches this month alone.) So there we were, out on a quiet country road enjoying the weather.

We'd just approached the postmaster's daughter's house. I know they've two dogs: a pedigreed hunting dog who lives in a kennel and a black lab who prowls the yard loose. The lab, whose name is Spree (or, this being the Gaeltacht, it could be Spraoi), is a cheerful dog who is exceedingly good about staying within the bounds of his property.

I spotted Spree hanging out on the front step of his house. Then I spotted an older lady walking a grey-muzzled black lab on the road. The woman waved me off, as if to say that her dog was not friendly. I had an inkling who this was and that the dog really hates all other dogs. I could see the dog straining and fighting at the end of the leash, pulling the woman along.

I gathered up my leashes and dragged Toby and Callie as far up the driveway as I could, but I didn't want to go too far because I didn't want to add Spree into this mix. The woman called out and asked me to push in further. I took my dogs right up to the last fence post of the outer yard, parked Toby's face in the corner, and hoped for the best. It was clear to me that there was no way I could drop Callie's leash in this situation as she'd probably scare the pants off the woman, if not end up in a fight with the leashed dog, who was giving Toby a run for his money in the horror movie dog competition.

As the woman approached, my dogs started to react to her riled up dog. Callie and Toby both turned and started lunging toward to woman's dog. I did the best I could to control them, but before I knew it, they were dragging me. I dug in my heels and dropped my body as low as possible. I was pavement surfing behind the dogs, suddenly and painfully aware that I was not only outnumbered, I was also outweighed.

They dragged me at least 30 feet before I was able to stop them. If we'd been in a cartoon, I'd have had piles of ripped up asphalt under my feet, so fiercely did I dig in my heels during my struggle. It ended alright, with no contact between the warring factions, although I was well and truly mortified.

Sighthound

Before Callie, all of our dogs were sniffers. While none of them were hounds, they were all primarily scent-focused. Walking with Kodiak could take ages because he had to thoroughly investigate every smell (and sometimes take immediate action).

Toby's eyes are not great. He can startle easily if he doesn't see you coming. He once ran full-tilt into the garbage can.

Having a sighthound is a completely different experience to having a scent-motivated dog. The downside of having a sighthound is that you can never really let them off the leash, unless you're sure they are in a secure area. A sighthound can take off after a rabbit or bird and can end up miles away, running the risk of going missing or getting hit by a car.

In the woods near Gougane, we cannot let Callie off the leash because there are sheep in the area. There's also the occasional rabbit, so we wouldn't want her getting lost in hot pursuit of a bunny. But the main concern are sheep, since sheep hunting can be a capital offense. (Plus, I so do not want to be the blow-in who has to knock on a farmhouse door and 'fess up that my hound is a bloodthirsty sheep-maimer.)

I took the dogs for a walk last week in Gougane. Toby has off-leash privileges, although I will leash him when I see sheep, just because I'm so paranoid. Toby would rarely ignore Peter's calls, but he just might ignore me if it involved sheep. I realised that Callie serves as a great early-warning detection system for sheep. We were deep along a forest trail, on the upslope of a hill.

Callie suddenly perked up and got interested in the distance, so I kept Toby close. Further into the forest, near the top of the hill, I spotted a single sheep keeping lookout on the rocky outcrop of an adjacent hill. I don't know how Callie managed to spot the sheep, although I reckon it had something to do with the combination of sight - maybe the movement of fluffy white fur - and the scent in the air. Toby never even saw the sheep. He had no idea it was so close (yet so far). It saddens me that Callie can't chase after Toby in the forest, but the safety of both dog and sheep must prevail.

Happily, our landlord has many acres of fenced-in pasture land, which he allows us to access. I doubt I'll go into the fields so cavalierly when there are cattle on them thar hills. But for now, the cattle are safely in the barn and I'm free to take the dogs on wonderful walks over rolling hills, up to the marshy edge of Loch Allua.

It's so much fun to watch them romp and race. I've mentioned before how much fun it is to watch Callie run. It's also great fun to watch her explore. She's the only dog I've ever had who will actually look up into the sky and lock onto birds. She seems to have a fair judgment of distances too.

Yesterday, she spotted a heron out far over the lake, and she tracked its progress with interest, but made no effort to chase. This morning, she watched a graceful V of swans swoop in over her head, gliding towards a near point on the lake. And she was off after them. She's not a water dog though, so the lake's edge caused her to pull up short. But she still watched those swans intently, as though they might change their minds. She even found a lookout point to spy on their every languid movement on the lake's surface.

Watching Callie reminds me that it's important to look up at the sky, to take in the whole of my little world. So I joined her on the lookout point and was rewarded with another heron sighting.

A Tale of Two Baths

After our joyous reunion with Toby and Callie, it was clear that a week in the kennels necessitated baths as a matter of urgency. Thus begins the Tale of Two Baths...

Bath One: Toby

We call Toby into the bathroom and encourage him to jump into the tub. He rolls his eyes and grits his teeth but complies because he knows there's a piece of cheese at the end of the bath tunnel.

Toby suffers through the bath in silence. He seems to enjoy the parts that involve soap and does not enjoy the parts that involve water. The only tricky part of the bath is turning him around to rinse his other side.

While we wash Toby, we leave the bathroom door open so Callie can see that this is not some big, scary, horrible production. See, Toby doesn't mind. Callie head-butts her way under our elbows and jams her giant face into the bathtub. She's curious about all the strange goings-on.

When the bathing part is over, Toby waits patiently while we towel dry him off as much as possible. He is eager for his cheese but waits until he gets the command to jump out of the tub. Once out of the tub, he gives himself a good shake and then runs off to the kitchen for his cheese reward.

Bath Two: Callie

We call Callie into the bathroom. She is immediately suspicious and edgy. We encourage her to jump into the tub. She looks at us like we're crazy. I stand in the tub in an effort to get her to join me. It's like a couch, only different. She doesn't buy it.

Peter puts his hand on her collar to drag her up into the tub. Callie collapses on the ground like a masked protester at a WTO meeting. Her body is transformed into 120-pounds of awkward dead weight. Peter crouches on the ground, trying to find a grip that will allow him to lift her the two-and-a-half vertical feet into the tub. I look at Peter's bent back and the slippery floor and see seven possible accidents, so I suggest dragging her into one of the shower stalls.

Peter agrees and first tries to lure her upstairs to the guest bathroom. While Toby dashes up and down the stairs, wondering where his cheese is, Callie cowers at the bottom of the stairs. Peter gives up and agrees the shower in our en-suite bathroom will work just as well and eliminate the need for stairs.

Callie follows us quite happily into our bedroom, and then collapses the minute Peter gets a hand on her collar. It takes both of us to drag her into the bathroom, Peter's pulling her front half and I'm pushing her back half. She makes a last ditch effort to splay out her back legs and brace them against the door jamb, but I disarm her. We perform a tricky move to get all three of us into the tiny bathroom and close the door to eliminate the chance of escape.

In the en-suite, Callie positions herself as far away from the shower as possible. It becomes clear that washing the dog without getting drenched is no longer an option. I turn on the water and climb into the shower. I take Callie's collar and pull her into the shower with me, while Peter lifts up her back end and shoves the rest of her in.

"You are the most recalcitrant, stubborn dog I have ever met," says Peter. I have to laugh and say "Yes, that's my girl." (When I later report this story to Middle Brother, he observes that Callie and I have been cut from the same cloth.)

We spend several minutes working on turning Callie around so she's more under the water stream. (I wish fervently the whole while that this shower would have the detachable head the way the bathtub does.) I'm part contortionist, part tightrope walker as I balance and twist my way around the giant huddle of dog at the bottom of the shower.

Finally, Callie is properly positioned and we're able to lather and then rinse. Slight adjustments to her position get everything rinsed except her underbelly. Peter suggests more turning. I tell him to get a bucket. I shut the shower doors and wait while he fetches a bucket. When he returns with a big, empty kitchen pot, I hold it high above my head until its full of water, then I carefully pass it over to him. He rinses Callie's belly, then hands me a towel.

After I've dried her, Callie is given the all-clear and she bolts from the shower. While I put on dry clothes and wipe up the water on the floor, Peter takes the dogs into the kitchen for the cheese reward. Callie gets hers first. As Peter is placing Toby's cheese into the dog's mouth, Callie muscles in to take it. Peter growls and both dogs back off, then Toby is finally properly rewarded for his bath.

Lessons Learned

According to Peter, we have learned two important lessons from this endeavour.

Lesson 1 - Next bath time, Callie's bath is going to be outside with the garden hose.

Lesson 2 - The next time we adopt a giant dog, it's going to be in puppy form.

Tactical Retreat

After all of the agnosing and calculating, we've made a decision to pull back from the raw diet for the time being. The immediate reason is that the dogs are at the kennel for a week and we couldn't really expect the kennel owner to refrigerate a week's worth of raw dog food.

The secondary reason is that December is going to be a madhouse and not having to shop for and calculate the dogs' food ration is an item that I'm happy to have fall off the edge of the To-Do list.

We found a dog food called Real Nature that is probably better than anything we'd ever be able to assemble for them. Its primary ingredients are Angus Beef from South America, Barbary Duck, and some kind of fancy herring. Best of all, no corn and no wheat. I'd give you a link to the food, but it doesn't seem to have its own web site. It's made by a pet store company in Germany.

I was a little concerned about the propensity of kibble to expand with water, so I did an experiment and soaked a piece in water for a long while. Because of whatever special way this food is processed, it doesn't puff out the way regular kibble does. It just disintegrated over time. So it should be both yummy and safe in Callie's tummy.

Both dogs have taken to the food well, so we might just continue with it past the end of December. The downside is that we have to travel 30+miles one way to get it, but making that trip once a month wouldn't be bad. (Two bags should cover a month.)

I took the dogs to the kennel on Monday. It killed me to do it, especially leaving Callie for the first time. I hated leaving her after only 10 days, but it had to be done. She seemed fine with it, much more fine than Toby. He still hates going into the run, but I've perfected my technique and can get out of there before he's clamped onto my leg like a recalcitrant toddler.

The kennel owner, T, put Callie in the run and she trotted in with no fuss. T saw a problem though that I didn't quite understand, until she pulled up the outside dog door. Callie's too tall to fit through the door to the outside part of the run. The top of the door didn't even reach as high as her back. Oops. T assured me that she could take Callie outside a few times a day for bathroom breaks.

Just like prison, the dogs get play time in a fenced yard right behind the kennels. T is going to put Toby and Callie out for exercise together. This will double the amount of time they get and will also increase their exercise and burn off their excess energy. No matter how hyper he is, when Toby's outside by himself, he tends to chase his tail a little and then collapse in a heap of boredom. (Before we got Callie, I'd have to walk around outside to get him to run around at all.)

As much as I like my quiet, responsibility-free mornings, I really miss those damn dogs. On the drive up to Dublin, Peter said that it would be interesting if the dogs were able to send us texts about their stay at the kennels. The idea intrigued and amused me. So far, my imagination has gotten two texts from Toby.

The first simply said Suxors.The second said you broke my life. Maybe so. I'm looking forward to fixing it next week.

Upsides and Downsides

After The Incident on Saturday afternoon that had Toby growling under the kitchen table most of Saturday night, I expected it would take weeks for canine relations at our house to improve. But the fragile peace of Sunday turned into the relaxed detente of Monday and Tuesday.

By Wednesday, Toby and Callie were chasing and romping, play-bowing and mock-growling. They mouthed at each other's necks as they pranced up and down our long, narrow hallway. And when they got tired, they adopted matching poses on the one bit of carpet we have in the sitting room.



The playful relationship that is blossoming between them has been a lot of fun to watch. But it does introduce two new elements of possible difficulty into our lives.

The first is the in-house rough-housing. Watching 200 pounds of hyper dog tumble and jump about a room with three laptop computers and a video projector is nerve-wracking. And once they hit a certain play critical mass, no amount of shouting or scolding can slow them down.

Another downside of this exuberant activity is when it occurs. This morning, Toby tried to initiate a play session right after breakfast. My trusty handbook on Irish Wolfhounds warns that it is important to keep the hound quiet for an hour before and two hours after meals. This is to reduce the risks of gastic torsion, a horrifying condition in which the stomach fills with air, seals on both ends, and then flops over. Because of their big barrel chests, wolfhounds and other large breeds like Great Danes, can develop this condition, which is nearly always fatal.

Peter thinks I worry too much, but here's the problem - I've totally fallen in love with this dog. (Peter also says I'm easy - that any giant dog with soulful eyes and a Kodiak-like personality would have run off with my heart.) If anything happened to her, I would be devastated. I worry about her getting the bloat, running out of the yard and getting hit by a car, or having a some other sort of random health crisis.

(It's times like this that I start to suspect I am not cut out for parenting human children. That the random vagaries of fate and the universe of outcomes outside my control would turn me into one of those half-crazed mothers who wrap their offspring in cotton wool and never lets them out of sight.)

The second potential area of difficulty is that I'm noticing the concept of monkey-see, monkey-do playing out in the canine world. Sometimes, it's a good thing. For example, Toby has an infuriating habit of saving up his urine like it's gold and he's living in a high-inflation gold standard economy. When he finally goes, the result is a urination session that would put Austin Powers to shame.

Callie is different. She will go every time you take her out, even if it hasn't been that long between outings and she doesn't have much to empty. I've noticed that Toby is peeing way more than he used to, and I can only attribute the change in behaviour to his observation of Callie.

But you have to take the rough with the smooth, and this copy-dog behaviour has some downsides. Callie loves to eat grass. The Wolfhound handbook says that as long as it's clean grass, this can be considered normal behaviour. But I still worry, especially since she seems to delight in eating grass on the run, like she's frolicking through a salad bar.

In the nearly two years that Toby was a single dog residing in our household, I could count the number of times Toby has eaten grass on my thumbs. But I've caught Toby eating grass four times today. I know that some dogs like grass and for some dogs, it has no emetic effect on them, but still, something about grass-eating weirds me out.

I suppose if a bit of roughhousing and grass-eating are my biggest complaints, I'm living a charmed life. The upside of two dogs far outweighs the downside. And sometimes, even the downsides can provide moments of entertainment.

The State of Irish Alsatian Relations

For the long car ride back to our house, we made the conscious decision to keep Toby and Callie separated. With Peter's Nissan Patrol, this was a simple matter of putting Callie in the way-back and Toby in the backseat. She often sat with her head hanging over the back seat, but Toby tolerated her well. I can only imagine that his little doggy brain was telling him that if he ignored her, maybe she would go away.

After we got home, our first order of business was to take them to the field next door for a romp. Toby tore around the field in giant circles, racing with wild and ecstatic abandon. Callie hung close to us, tentative and unsure. Her sister was gone, replaced by this smaller, furrier, faster stranger.

Back inside the house, the first several hours were chaos. Four house guests. One additional dinner guest. One slightly confused and put-out existing dog. One very confused and uncertain new dog. One exhausted and frazzled Ann. One exhausted Peter.

Toby and Callie were getting on okay. They'd sniff each other and would often bump into each other as they made their way around the house, jockeying for the attention of our many guests. I had some doubts about bringing a new dog into the house when we were entertaining guests, but I think it made it easier in many ways. We had a village to help us introduce Callie to the house rules and to make sure Toby didn't fall victim to the Shiny New Toy Syndrome.

Peter decided that the best way to deal with the introduction of Callie was to let the dogs work things out themselves. When I heard a growl or snarl, my inclination was to scold; but Peter thought it better to let things play themselves out.

After dinner, we retired to the sitting room. I was sitting on a desk chair with wheels, which was brought out because we had more people than seats. I put it on the only bit of carpet we have in the house, a throw-rug in front of the fireplace. Callie laid down on one side of me and Toby laid down on the other. When Callie stretched out and got comfortable, her head ended up on Toby's paw.

He looked at it quizzically and then looked a way. His paw was stretched out in front of him, so his head was a good foot away from her head. After about fifteen minutes, his curiosity about this new creature got the best of him. He leaned forward and began sniffing Callie's head, which was not a well-received move.

Callie showed her teeth first, then added a growl, then snapped, then jumped up and lunged at Toby. The resultant scuffle caused people to grab their wineglasses and try to safeguard the items on the coffee table. It was over in seconds and both dogs were fine, although Toby was rather rattled.

The problem with Toby is that we suspect he wasn't very well socialised with other dogs when he was a pup. As a result, he's pretty much a social retard when it comes to dealing with dogs. He doesn't know how to read their body language or predict what's going to happen. He doesn't know when to back off.

Toby spent the rest of the evening avoiding Callie. The morning was a new day and the dogs were back to tolerating each other. Two incidents in the late afternoon broke the fragile peace. There was a scuffle in the doorway, when both dogs tried to go through at the same time. The small row knocked over mops and brooms in the laundry room and even put a crack in our dustpan.

The second was worse, a full-fledged fight. Each dog was given an apple core. Toby gobbled his down and moved on to Callie's, because she was still sniffing it and deciding what to do. (She is the most deliberate, slow dog I've ever seen.) I didn't see exactly what happened to start the fight, but I gather that Callie took offense to Toby moving in on her food and went for him. It was a tumble of dog bodies. At one point, Callie seemed to rear up on her back legs, then take Toby down like a WWF wrestler. We intervened and got the fight broken up.

Toby was fine - no blood or injuries. He was seriously freaked out by Callie though, probably because she had him pinned to the floor in about two seconds. He spent most of the rest of the evening hiding under the kitchen table or behind the legs of a person and growling at her if she came close. I took him into the living room for some quiet time alone on the couch.

Sunday was a new day again, as was Monday and today. It seems that a detente has descended. The dogs tolerate each other. We're feeding them in separate rooms, so fighting over food has not been an issue. They can walk down the hall next to each other without growling or snarling.

When I got home from work yesterday, Peter was out with our guests, so I was alone with the dogs. I hadn't yet tried walking both of them on leashes by myself, but I really wanted to get them into the field for a romp before it got dark. I feared there might be some aggro, since walking on leads would require them to be in very close proximity to each other. They got on fine, though. The trickiest part of the whole endeavour was getting the field's gate opened with two excited dogs in hand.

Watching them in the field is quite interesting, but perhaps that's a post for another day as this one is already way too long.

The Kid Pauses to Think

The quest for a name for RND continues. We've gotten loads of great suggestions - names that look great but then a funny thing happens between the brain and the mouth. The word just feels funny. Milly, Molly, Maddie....all lovely names, but it feels funny and sounds wrong. (Which is exactly what happened with Sarah, even before the whole unfortunate Palin business started.)

As luck would have it, yesterday was the weekly phone call with my family and it's The Kid's weekend with Middle Brother. The Kid has given such great advice in the past, that I thought he would be ideally qualified to help out with our latest dilemma.

Me: Hey, The Kid, I was hoping you could help me out with something really important.

The Kid: Sure I can!

Me: OK, well, do you know about my new dog?

The Kid: Yes. I saw a picture on the Internet.

Me: We need a name for the new dog. Can you help us think of one?

I waited for more than a minute. The Kid was thinking really hard, but it was unusual for it to take so much time for him to come up with an answer. Is it possible I finally found a way to stump The Kid?

The Kid: I got it! You could name her The Kid!

Me: But that's your name.

The Kid: So? It would still work for the dog. It's a VERY good name. In fact, I think it's a great name.

Me: I agree, it's definitely a great name, but wouldn't you feel weird knowing that a dog had your name.

The Kid: No.

I wish I was there, I can picture how he'd shrug his shoulders and open his eyes wide when he said that.

Me: OK, well, I'll put that on the list to tell Uncle Peter.

The Kid: Oh, I've got the perfect name for a girl...Butterfly.

Me: Butterfly's a pretty name, but she's pretty big to be called butterfly. She's nearly as big as me.

The Kid: Really? Then how about Big Heart?

Me: I kind of like that, but maybe we'd translate it into Irish. I could ask Uncle Peter what that would be in Irish.

The Kid: How about Molly?

Me: Molly keeps coming up alright.

The Kid: I gotta go.

Me: OK, have your dad email me if you think up any more names. Thanks for your help.

Now I understand the enormity and difficulty of this task, since not even The Kid could magic up the perfect name without thinking about it.

Tightrope Walking Without a Net

When we first adopted Toby, the vet talked to us about his nutritional needs. He ended up recommended a sort of mid-priced food, since it would have quality protein without breaking the bank. Since Toby was young, healthy, and the right weight, he didn't need any overly fancy or supplemented food.

That system worked great until the vet stopped carrying the food. So we upgraded top the next cheapest brand, a more nutritionally fancy food that was three times the cost. Plus, Toby hated the stuff. He ate it reluctantly for awhile and then he just refused to eat it altogether. A healthy dog will eat what it's given eventually, so we'd put down the food and then take it away after 10 or 15 minutes. We did this for a couple of days and although Toby still was in no danger of starving, the exercise was starting to feel a bit cruel.

So we headed to the grocery stores in Macroom and started reading the labels on the dog food. We managed to find one - Baker's Meaty Meals - that had 'animal protein and derivatives' as the first ingredient. Toby loved the stuff and so everything was good. Except that the cost of the food kept creeping up and we could only buy it in 3-kilo bags.

Peter came back from a trip to California last month and was telling me about a visit to one of his sister's friends, who have a very sweet Newfoundland. (How could you not ove a Newfie - they're gigantic furry teddy bears?) Peter said that he remarked to the woman about how nice and shiny the Newfie's coat was and she told him that it was because they fed the dog a raw diet.

This got us talking a bit about the merits and drawbacks of a raw diet. I asked the Internet to tell me all about it. I also emailed Laurie, who wrote up a great series on her blog about her foray into raw feeding. There's a lot of advice and opinions out there and it seems like the whole exercise can be as expensive and complicated or cheap and simple as you make it. But the basic premise boils down to feeding your dog the sorts of food he would eat if he was a wild wolf or coyote: raw, meaty bones; organ meat; and mashed up vegetables. (The idea behind the veggies is that they'd be in the stomachs of prey animals and dogs can't break down cellulose, hence the mashing.)

So yesterday, we started feeding Toby a raw diet. I bought some inexpensive chicken thighs from the Lidl and managed to score a 2-kilo chicken for 7 euro from our butcher, who was also nice enough to give me a couple of chicken carcasses. Because Toby's gnawed on cow femurs and great big joint bones before (obtained from the same butcher - it's not like he was doing this out in a farmer's field on an unwilling subject), we knew that his teeth could handle the bones and the he knew what to do with them. (Laurie's dog Bosco was a bit puzzled by whole chicken wings.)

At home, I divided up the chicken into a week's worth of meals, put each meal into a zip-lock freezer bag, and labeled it with the day and meal time (AM or PM). Then I bundled everything into the fridge, wiped down the work area, and washed my knife and cutting board (even pouring boiling water over them to be sure to be sure - MB got salmonella once and it's not an experience I want to have).

The whole thing took about 20 minutes. Cost wise, it worked out to be about twice as much as kibble, but I think my using more scraps, we can reduce that. (Plus, I think I overshot on portion size this time around. We're going to have to get a weight on him so I can do better calculations.)

The fun part of raw feeding is watching your dog be a dog. It's sort of awesome to watch him crunch bones and devour a whole chicken carcass. (In fact, if you do a search on YouTube for 'raw diet dogs', you will find loads of videos of people's dogs eating things like whole rabbits, whole chickens, and whole fish.) It's also fun to watch your dog handle something new. We gave Toby an egg, just to see what he'd make of it. He licked it for ages and then tried biting it, but it would roll out of his mouth. It took him a good long while to figure out how to brace the egg to get his teeth into it.

But there's also an unsettling part of feeding raw. I feel like I'm tightrope walking without a net. The bag of kibble is so much easier and requires no thought. You just scoop out the right portion and you're done.

Of course, anyone who's researched dog food at all knows that the number one ingredient in most mass-produced dog food is grains, which dogs aren't evolutionarily designed for at all. But there's some sort of security in packaging - like the thinking and tinkering has already been done and you can trust that the food provides the right nutritional balance.

All of the raw food web sites stress that the important thing is to achieve balance over time. When you think about it, it's how we eat. Does each one of your meals have exactly the right proportion of grains, dairy, protein, and veggies/fruit? Of course not, unless you're on some strictly regimented diet like Jenny Craig or something.

So, balance over time, while I'm tightrope walking without a net....that's the goal. (That and a shiny coat.)

Boxer with a Death Wish

One of the most unnerving things that I've had to adjust to when driving in rural Ireland are the crazed farm dogs who apparently think it's great sport to try to herd cars. Usually, these are bored border collies and they tend to have an unsettling way of running straight at your front wheel. Every once in a while, I meet a Jack Russell terrier with delusions of grandeur, but they're the exception to the border collie rule.

I've been told by more than one person that the best thing to do is to stay the course, ignore the dog, and hope for the best. It's the dog's responsibility to keep itself alive and the dog apparently has certain expectations regarding the traveling trajectory of your car. You're more likely to hit the dog (or someone or something else) if you swerve than if you just stay the course.

There's a pair of these demonic dogs on a road I travel with some regularity. They're border collies and I call them the The Twins, even though they probably don't look anything alike. The look like twins when I'm driving and I can see them lining themselves up on the other side of this stone gateway. Their butts wiggle and they hunker down like Olympic sprinters waiting for the starter's gun.

Whenever my car passes the magical line, they both lunge out into the road. Even though I can see them in advance and I know what they're going to do, it still freaks me out every time.

Last Saturday, I was finishing up my last graveyard trips for RAOGK. I was up near Rathcormac in north County Cork and was headed home. The quickest way would have been to hop on the M8, drive down around Cork City like the early spacecrafts sling-shotting themselves around the moon, and then head up northwest to my little corner of the Middle of Nowhere. But I'm sure you can agree, the quickest way is rarely the most run way and I instead set out to bumble along little squiggles of tertiary roads and rutted farm tracks.

With the help of my trusty GPS, I was quite happily rolling up and down hills past acre after acre of farmland. Toby was in the backseat, hanging his head out the window. My car doesn't have electric windows in the back, so I always roll down the window behind the driver's side for him. That way, in a pinch, I can reach back and roll it up if necessary. Plus, it allows me to see him in my side mirror. With his hair flying and his contented yet focused expression, he looks like an early aviator in an open-cockpit airplane.

At one point in this journey, we were on a potholed, single-lane track with grass growing up the middle. I came around a corner and started up a hill, only to find a boxer standing nearly in the middle of the narrow lane. I edged over as far as I could, but was still directly on course to hit her if she didn't move. I gave the horn a little beep, but she stayed her ground.

I slowed down, hoping that she would move. When I was close enough to see every fold in her muzzle, I knew she wasn't going to move. I crept over even more into the edge of the road, so that brambles were scraping the side of my car, and bought myself enough space to pass her. I could see her house on a small rise to my left and a chubby yellow lab was lumbering down the driveway to join the fun.

The boxer ran along side my car, barking and leaping. The lab joined and took a position behind the car. Toby was going nuts in the backseat, lunging to the side window to check out the boxer, then swinging around to look at the lab. The boxer then ran along in front of my car, tossing the occasional bark over her shoulder.

I didn't like that move at all. I slowed down and beeped the horn, hoping perhaps someone would come out of the house and call off the dogs. No such luck and I knew I'd have to keep driving and trust the boxer to stay out of my way. I accelerated slowly and the boxer drifted off to the right side of my car. I used her change of lane to reclaim more of the center of the road and sped up a bit more, figuring my best bet at this point was to outrun them.

I saw the lab fall back soon after. I couldn't see the boxer in my right wing mirror or in my review, but I could still hear her barking. My foot pressed down on the accelerator and I watched my speed climb to 20 mph. The boxer breezed in front of the car again like I wasn't even moving. She almost looked like she was skateboarding in front of my car, effortlessly moving forward while looking back at me and barking.

I slowed down and she again drifted off to the right side of the car. I saw her drop back in my wing mirror and then take up on my rear bumper. At least I think she was on my rear bumper. Toby had leapt up onto the back window ledge of my little hatchback. His entire body, hackles up, filled my rear-view mirror.

I took the chance to accelerate again, pushing the car close to 25 mph. And again that crazy boxer came up along the left-hand side of my car and crossed over in front of me. I was hoping this would play out the way the previous front-of-car encounters had. I slowed a bit, allowed her to drop off on my right side and waited until I knew she was on my rear bumper. Then I gunned the car, pushing it up over 30 mph. I kept my eyes glued on the road in front of me, which was straight, offered a lot of open space, and was blessedly clear of other cars and dogs.

When Toby collapsed onto the back seat, I was pretty sure we'd lost our boxer friend. Sure enough, when I checked my mirror a final time, she was standing in the middle of the road. I didn't know boxers had that much stamina and speed, to be able to hang in there for that distance at that pace.

I thought bored border collies were scary and dangerous, but I'd take an encounter with The Twins over the boxer with a death wish any day.

Travels with Toby

"Hey Toby, do you want to go on a holiday? Who wants to go on a holiday?"

Toby's ears perked up but his face belied the confusion of a dog with a limited English vocabulary. He knew enough to know that 'do you want to go...' and 'who wants to...' usually result in the best things in life, namely food, walks, and car rides. But he also knew that sometimes these seemingly great things had bad side effects, like the car ride that ends at the kennels or the cheese that is only given after a bath.

Toby didn't know it when we asked him, but 'holiday' was going to get filed under the best things in life. The plan was to rent a cottage near Killarney so Peter could spend a week beefing up his photography portfolio. I'd go with him for the weekend and also take a few days off at the end of the week.

I asked Peter to look for a cottage that allowed dogs so that Toby could have his first holiday. Even though a photography field trip is not a holiday, Toby's a dog, so any day he's outside his usual element is a spectacular adventure. The place Peter found was perfect - an old farm cottage with a cosy stone fireplace. It was up in the hills, at the end of a narrow, pot-holed farm track of a road. (If anyone's looking for a cottage to rent in the Killarney area, send me an email and I'll give you these people's contact information.)

When I let Toby out of the car, he went nuts examining all of the interesting new smells. The stone outbuilding held a surprise, a sweet little farm dog called Rosie. She and Toby didn't quite know what to make of each other and seemed to eventually settled into a sort of doggie detente.

When we could, Toby and I accompanied Peter on his searches for good photo-taking locations. Toby took great joy in hanging his head out the window. He was especially mystified by the jaunting cars and would whip his head back to check out the horses. When we got to a location, Peter would scout it out and Toby and I would dutifully tag along.

Sometimes, Toby hit the jackpot and would get to romp and frolic off-leash. We especially enjoyed Rossbeigh Beach, a fantastic stretch of beach that includes an area of moderately high sand dunes, which give way to waist-high grasslands. Toby and I found a piece of driftwood and played fetch for ages. I'd toss the stick way up into the dunes and Toby would scramble after it.

Then I decided to scramble up after him and chuck the stick into the tall grass. Toby went bounding off after it, excited, but couldn't quite locate it. It took both of us stumbling around in the tall grass to find it.

Other times, Toby had to wait patiently in the car or on the leash for Peter to get his work done. Toby took these downtimes in stride, although his copious sighs and little whinges always let us know what his preference would be.

The best time we had was on our last day when we hiked into the Hag's Glen, near the base of Carrantuohill, Ireland's highest mountain. The hike had just about everything a dog could want - bogland to squish through, rocks to scamper over, sheep to watch, and rivers to cross. You may remember that we used to have trouble with Toby and sheep. I had grave reservations about using the shock collar to train him to stay away from sheep, so Peter took care of it.

The training didn't take very long at all. A few shocks and Toby quickly figured out that as fun as they looked, sheep were not worth it. He's now quite reliable around sheep. He knows exactly where they are. He knows exactly how much he wants to chase them. But he knows exactly how wrong that would be and that Bad Things would happen. I don't know if I'd trust him 100% if he were by himself, or even if it were just me and him, but when Peter is around, Toby knows where his place is regarding sheep.

About the only thing that the hike to Hag's Glen did not have was a supply of sticks. Toby searched for one, but since there are no trees, it was pretty difficult to find a stick. He did find a nice specimen of bog oak, but that was fairly big and well-rooted. When we got to the flat plains just before the two lakes in the glen, Toby found some burned up firewood that he thought would do nicely as fetching sticks. In actuality, well, not so much. The sticks just disintegrated and left black cinders everywhere.

In the evenings, Peter would build a fire and we would relax after a long day of work (for Peter) or scampering around being silly (for Toby and me). Toby enjoyed the warmth of the fire, but was quite suspicious of the sounds it made, especially the periodic crackles and snaps. And he really didn't like when the wood would give way and collapse.

This wasn't just Toby's first holiday. It was also our first outing with a dog. Sure, we'd take Kodiak and Caper to visit my family in Ohio, but that's not quite the same thing as a holiday or photography field trip. Having him around increased the fun of the outing exponentially. You couldn't help but feel happy when you saw the absolute joy he had running unfettered and exploring new smells and sights. I cannot wait until the next time we can take Toby on holiday.

Toby's New Friends

Too Smart By Half

In the evenings, we feed Toby after we have our dinner. Toby is well aware of this routine and spends his evenings watching us, waiting for us to make a move toward the laundry room, where his food is stored.

Toby has excellent mealtime manners. He knows that he needs to sit and wait until he's told 'Go eat'. He's learned the difference between 'go eat' and 'gopher'. He's even able to sit and wait while we leave the room. (And sometimes, on rare occasions, Peter has forgotten Toby was waiting and the dog has sat there for minutes, which has to feel like lifetimes to a hungry dog.) In fact, Toby has so associated being well-behaved with eating, his go-to begging move is to sit down.

Yesterday, we went into the kitchen after dinner and Toby was alternating between prancing frantically and sitting, as if to say 'I'm hungry and I'm ready'. When that didn't work, he ran up to Peter and sat down, looking up with an urgent expression. Then Toby ran into the laundry room, ran out toward his food dish, then ran back to Peter, sat down and looked up at him with that same urgent expression. The message was as clear as if the dog had suddenly learned to speak English.

Peter looked at him with amazement and amusement. "Did you see that? Toby, that was great." Then Peter's voice took on a tinge of regret. "But you know, this means I'm going to have to wait a little bit longer, because I can't let you think you can tell me what to do."

All Hail the Opposable Thumbs

Peter and I have slightly differing levels of comfort when it comes to the topic of disciplining our dog. If this was actual child parenting we were talking about, he'd be more of a spanker and I'd be more of a time-out giver. In terms of dealing with dogs, this means Peter's more likely to go with physical corrections while I'm more likely to put the dog out of the room.

It's just a different style, but that style combined with innate personality led to a little problem in pack order with Toby. Without a doubt, Toby saw Peter as The Boss. But Toby definitely saw himself as the Assistant Regional Manager. No matter how hard I tried to explain to him that he was an assistant to the regional manager, he didn't quite get it.

With some dogs, this might not have been a problem. With Toby's sensitive disposition, it was a problem. Toby felt that if it were just me and him, then he was the boss. He made poor decisions when he thought he was the boss (like trying to protect me from old ladies and puppies.) He also didn't want to be the boss.

Being the boss gave Toby anxieties, which he funneled into chasing his tail and making high-pitched whining noises at me. It was not a pleasant experience for either of us. Peter kept telling me that I had to convince Toby that I was in charge, that I was more forceful than he was, but I wasn't willing or able to make the dog think I could hurt him.

There had to be a language that dogs speak, other than force. Turns out, there is.
Two weeks ago, I was listening to the Good Dog Podcast, which had an interview with Penny Locke, who calls herself a dog listener. Her specialty is acting as a sort of interpreter between dogs and their humans, to train the humans to understand how to communicate in a way that dogs will understand.

My big take-away lesson from the podcast was that dogs understand the idea of resources. Whoever controls the resources is in charge. We'd already implemented one concept of resource management purely as part of good canine manners. Toby only eats when he is told to eat. He only takes a treat from the hand when he's told to take the treat. I once dropped an entire glass pan of lasagna on the floor and sat there, drooling and sniffing the air, but he never budged.

Penny pointed out that another resource in a dog's life is the open door. She suggested standing in front of the door, with your hand on the door handle and just wait for your dog to sit. When the dog sits, start to open the door, but stop immediately if the dog even so much as leans forward. Don't say anything. Let the dog figure this out for himself.

I decided to start doing this with Toby. And not just with the door to the outside. I've been quite consistent in doing this with every closed door in Toby's life. Sometimes (like when I wake up in the morning) I nearly forget, but I've been concentrating hard on getting it right.

This small modification in my behaviour has caused a tremendous change in Toby's behaviour. He is so much more relaxed and calm. Peter was out of town one night last week and that was always a recipe for tail-chasing disaster. Not so, this time. Even though Toby spent most of the day by himself, he was still calm and manageable. He didn't whine for attention or chase his tail or pace around hyperventilating.

I'm so pleased that I've been able to find a way to tell Toby that it's okay, he doesn't need to make any decisions. I'm here and I'm well capable of looking after both of us.

Biting Off More Than He Can Chew

Toby loves sticks. When we take him the forest park, he will chase a stick just about anywhere. He'll leap into water without much thought about how deep it might be. His focus is entirely on the stick.

I like throwing a stick into a pile of other sticks. Toby always comes back with the original stick. He will accept no substitutes. "Close enough for government work" is not part of Toby's vocabulary.

When Toby retrieves a stick, he's the King of the World. He prances with joy and pride. He's accomplished his mission and he knows it.

Toby especially loves large sticks. I'm talking about tree trunks, fence posts, and two-by-fours. He has a little routine that he goes through to get a handle on a large stick.

By lucky coincidence, I found small tree trunks from the landlord's hedge trimming project on the same day I learned how to use the video feature on my phone. So I dragged one out of the thicket behind the garage and put it on the grass. Then I let Toby outside and watched the magic happen.

(Just a warning, I need to work on my video skills. I'm trying to figure out how to rotate the clip so you won't have to turn your computer sideways to watch, but I haven't cracked it yet.)

First, he sizes up the task:


Then, he has a few 'words':


At last, success:

The Pack that Howls Together

When we were kids, we often hung out with the kids who lived across the street. It was more a matter of proximity than shared interests, which pretty much boiled down to snowball fights in the winter and leaving bicycle skid marks up and down the block in the summer. Another favourite activity was to go behind Across-the-Street's garage and make the dog in the next yard howl.

The dog was a beagle, so this wasn't very difficult. "Howl, dog, howl, howl, howl, howl!" we'd yell and the dog would happily oblige. We called him Howl-Dog and he was always good for a few minutes of entertainment. I don't know if we were teasing the dog, I'd like to think that we weren't, that we were just encouraging him to sing.

I didn't think much about howling again until we had Kodiak and Caper, and I discovered that by howling, we could get the dogs to join in. I loved doing this. There was something primitive and wolf-ish about it, something deliciously and inexplicably feral. For those minutes that we were howling, we were a pack. It reminded me of the time we went to Brookfield Zoo's Mexican Wolf exhibit.

One wolf sat atop a pile of heated rocks. As the sun began to set, the wolf started to howl, a plaintive directive that was slowly matched by similar cries coming from different directions. The sounds converged as the pack assembled on the rocks. It was magical.

Toby is not a howler. We've tried a few times, but he looks at us like we're crazy. Once, when he and I were alone, I tried to see how long I would have to howl before he would get the idea. My throat gave out before a single sound had issued from him.

Shortly after I arrived in Cleveland last week, Middle Brother told me he had a picture that he'd wanted to send me, but didn't know if it would upset me. I asked why and he said because Kodiak was in it. I love seeing pictures of Kodiak, especially if I'm in them. The memories are enjoyable now, a comfort, a reminder of a good friend.

Middle Brother tappity-tapped-tapped on his laptop and produced a picture of Kodiak, the Kid, and I. We're all bunched up together on Kodiak's dog bed and the camera has captured all of us mid-howl. I remember doing it, remember how amused The Kid was that we could all sing together like that.

It's not as weird being here without Kodiak as I thought it would be, probably because I lived in this house for many years before he did, so he's not a central force to all my Cleveland memories. (It would probably be much weirder and difficult to go back to Wheaton.) But there are still little reminders of his absence - the fact that you can open the side door without trigging a volley of deep-throated guard dog barking or the fact that you can leave food unattended. Saddest of all, to me at least, is the fact that if I start howling, no one will join me.

All About Kodiak

Earlier this week, I was listening to my favourite dog-related podcast, which was about cloning dogs. BioArts International has developed a rather interesting project called Best Friends Again. In July, the company will auction off their dog-cloning services and the five highest bidders will purchase the right to clone one dog. Since the bidding is starting at $100,000, this is out of the range of all but the super-rich. In addition to the auction, the company is also running a contest in which one lucky winner will get to have a dog cloned.

A few years ago, when the initiative to try to clone a dog was announced, I was skeptical and more than a little creeped out. I understood scientifically why someone would want to try cloning a dog (apparently, they're quite the little scientific puzzle.) But emotionally, I couldn't understand why you'd want to clone a pet. Sure, the duplicate would look like your original beloved dog, but it would never really be the same thing. It seems like people were hoping for resurrection and accepting cloning as a passable substitute.

But then Kodiak died and now I understand all too well. The ache to have him back, even in some bizarre genetic duplication, was overwhelming. I miss that dog so much and it still baffles me, seeing as how I lived 3,500 miles away from him the last two and a half years of his life.

By chance, my learning about this contest neatly coincides with Kodiak's birthday. Six years ago, on the 20th of June, we adopted Kodiak, who was then five years old. We were his third home, he was my first dog. I'd found him in a newspaper ad: "Free to good home, 4 year old Great Dane-lab mix." I had a special affinity for the mix, since my aunt had had one when I was a kid.

We'd been looking for a dog for weeks. Kodiak's owner had been looking for a home for him for weeks. We'd met an ancient German Shepherd and a Chow mix with the proclivity for biting children. Kodiak had a trial period with a family and had a few unsavory types out to see him. We'd both kissed a lot of frogs and were able to recognise our prince.

When his owner brought him over, Peter was still at work. I was reluctant to agree to adopt a dog without his approval, but he assured me that this was my dog and he knew I'd make the right decision. The owner understood the situation and promised that if it didn't work out, she would find him another home somehow. She clearly had such a deep sense of responsibility and love for this dog, it was inspiring and also a little intimidating. Would I be able to live up to it? Would he adjust to us? Would he understand what was going on?

I spent several hours in our family room, sitting on the floor with Kodiak. He was huge, a big fat sausage of a dog who weighed more than I did. He just stared at me with big wolfy eyes, probably confused about why he was sitting in the home of a perfect stranger. I just stared back at him, wondering who this big, semi-scary looking dog was and worrying that he'd never like me.

It didn't take very long to learn who Kodiak was. Kodiak was a lap dog in the body of a giant. He had no idea how big he was. His tail could clear the coffee table in a single swipe. His paws were as big as my palms. When he climbed into my lap, I couldn't move until he got up.

Kodiak was a teddy bear in a grizzly bear package. Sometimes, people crossed the street to avoid walking past him. He scared more than one mailman with his ferocious bark. Little did these people know that just a kind word from them (and a quick sniff by him) would have him wagging his tail and begging for pets.

Kodiak was a big scaredy cat in ferocious watchdog form. He was terrified of thunderstorms, to the point where he would need to be with Peter, the Big Dog. I couldn't protect him or set his mind at ease during a storm, but Peter could. He was also afraid of loud noises. When Peter put the new skirting board into the family room, he used a nail gun. The sound caused Kodiak to push open the wonkily latched screen door and run away to the safe haven of a neighbour's backyard party.

Kodiak was a therapist and a best friend who just happened to be a dog. He saw me through a major depression, a job lay-off, and the death of my grandmother. He couldn't talk, but he could listen and in his own way, he could understand.

My worries about him not accepting us were soon put to rest. He and I were soon best buddies, bonded together by a love of walks and ear scratches. Kodiak followed me from room to room. He liked to lean against me. When I'd been gone for awhile and came home, his tail would swing in giant 360 degree circles and he'd weaved between my legs, his enthusiasm and size nearly enough to knock me over, but not quite.

When we got Caper, we enrolled with both dogs in an obedience class. Kodiak knew all the basics already, but it never hurts to brush up. The place we went to was very strict and didn't believe in treat training.

A few weeks into the class, the instructor selected three people to bring their dogs in the middle of the room. You were to have your dog sit and stay, then walk away from him. The dog was supposed to stay where you put him until you called him to you. I was one of the (un)lucky subjects. I put Kodiak in the stay, walked away and knew within four steps that he was following me. I went back, gave him a correction, and walked away again. Same result.

The third time, the instructor came over to help me out. He explained that the corrections I was giving were too wimpy and I really needed to put some arm into it. I yanked up on the leash in a sharp motion, as instructed, and Kodiak yelped. Then I turned and walked away. I don't think I even got four steps away that time. He immediately followed me.

I went back and gave him another yelp-inducing correction. Before I'd even taken half a step, he was on his feet, grabbing my leg in his front paws like a child who doesn't want to be left at day care. I imagine if he could have talked, he would have begged me not to leave him. The class burst out laughing, as did the instructor. I was mortified that my dog wouldn't listen to me, but the instructor took this as a sign of our deep bond.

Despite all our practise, we failed the obedience test on the big day. Guess what we failed on. Yes, of course, on the two-minute down-stay. I was so angry and disappointed. (He had two tries. One was a disaster and one he came within 10 seconds of passing.) At the end of the test, they presented awards to the dogs that had scored the most points. Then the instructor gave out the award for most improved. Peter and I thought this was going to go to a golden retriever named Elvis, who had started class as an uncontrollable bouncing ball of fur and had ended class as a reasonably disciplined dog.

The instructor gave a little speech about how it was so interesting to him to watch the relationship between a dog and handler develop and about how during the course of the class, he'd watched a relationship develop that involved real love and partnership. I was floored when Kodiak and I were presented with the Most Improved award. (Peter says it should have been renamed the Cutest Couple award.) I was proud, but also a bit ashamed, since I'd been so upset with our failure. Kodiak didn't care, he was just happy to spend time with me. His love was unconditional and unwavering.

So, happy birthday to Kodiak in dog heaven. I wish more than anything that I could bring you back. It was nearly dark last night when I started crying at the kitchen table, after realising that 20 June was nearly upon us and what that meant to me. Then I saw a heron fly over the backyard, sort of low, just above the treeline. I don't think that was a coincidence.

Ask the Internet

I struck on the idea a few weeks ago of looking for dog training podcasts. In my travels, I discovered a few interesting podcasts, mostly call-in radio shows where people asked questions about how to manage their pets. I did discover a dedicated training podcast done by a guy whom I've nicknamed The Dog Facist (TDF).

Given TDF's ideas about how to keep a dog, it makes me wonder why he would advocate having a pup when all of his methods seems to suck the joys right out of dog ownership. One of his podcasts is even entitled "Who Can Pet My Puppy?" The answer? Pretty much nobody. Keep your dog kenneled all the time when you first get him. Control every aspect of his life. When he earns the right to be out of the kennel in the house, keep him on a short leash. Using his methods, it might take years before your dog ever earns the right to actually be loose in the house.

I did listen with great interest to his podcast on adding a dog to a house that already has dogs. When we got Caper after having Kodiak for about 8 months, we let them meet on neutral territory, then just took them both home. There were a few scuffles and the first evening, Caper peed in his kennel (he wasn't quite housebroken), so Kodiak peed near the kennel, just to prove that it really was HIS house. (This happened when we weren't home, but I like to picture it in my head that Kodiak caught a whiff of Caper's accident and said "I don't think so, buddy!" before lifting his leg and peeing on a box of Corona.) Caper was laid back enough not to care that Kodiak HAD to be the boss and after a period of adjustment, they got on well together.

TDF is against the "let them sort it out" school of thought on dog introduction. He is also militantly anti-dog park because of the risk of dog fights. He's seen some nasty dog fights in his day and warns against putting your pet in the situation where it could be traumatised for life. His dog introduction program is lengthy and careful and involves kenneling and seperate walks, and meeting through a fence briefly after ages, with possibly the dogs earning the right to be out together. I'm all for a measured and careful introduction, on neutral territory, but so long as you have a dog who tolerates other dogs and you find a suitable new pack member, sometimes I think you just have to let the dogs be dogs.

I was a little concerned about what he said about dog fights and how they can scar the dog for life and how, as Pack Leader, you have a responsibility to protect your dog. Toby doesn't seem to have been socialised with other dogs and he was only neutered recently. I've been keeping him away from other dogs until we can find a socialisation class where introductions can be done in a controlled environment and we can figure out if he's actually dog aggressive or just the canine version of socially retarded.

He seems to bark somewhat aggressively at other dogs, especially little dogs. Little and cute is not good in Toby's books. He doesn't bark at the dogs behind fences who bark at us. He did get interested in having a few words with the crazy chained watchdog at one particular house, but a few corrections got him over that interest. (I feel bad for crazed watch dog, who was sporting a muzzle last week and seems to be the not-so-proud owner of an electric shock anti-barking collar this week.)

Then, there's the retriever-y thing (whom I will call RT for the purposes of this story) who has become the bane of my existence. This dog, a lanky golden retriever mix (I'm guessing), hates Toby. It started with RT barking when we passed. Then it escalated to RT coming out his yard and stalking us. I'd yell at him to go away and he would. Then a few weeks ago, it culminated with RT stalking us then attacking Toby, leaping on him from behind. There was a little bit of a dog
fight that happened quickly but thankfully didn't involve any blood or real harm. I managed to pull Toby out of it and RT slunk off back to his yard.

I've cut a run short because I saw RT loose in the middle of the village and we've had a couple of barking/stalking incidents since then, but there hasn't been a reoccurance of the attack. Two days ago, we had a barking/stalking incident with a cocker spaniel at the other end of the village. I'd seen this guy before once (he growled but didn't move from where he was) and I'm not even quite sure where he lives. I am concerned though that he might decide to start a fight some day.

I don't think Toby is scarred for life. He seems to be a fairly dominant dog and can fight his corner just fine. But I don't like the fights and I never know what to do. This is the country - most dogs are unneutered and a lot of dogs are just loose in their unsecured yards. The chances of this reoccuring are high and I'm trying to figure out how to handle it. None of the radio show podcasts I have listened to thus far have discussed this issue. TDF would probably tell me to find a different way to run, but running into the village is really my only option. The road in the other direction is narrow and twisty. I ran it once and felt that I was continually one blind curve away from death.

So, when all else fails, ask the Internet. :) How would you handle this situation?