Puppies vs Stupid people

Today, I learned a lot about some people. Mainly, that some people will make untold excuses for treatment of puppies and dogs, try to pass it off as similar to what some humans go through, but which, if you are really being honest, we all know that the one bears no resemblance to the other.


Case in point: This morning I read a post, that Crufts (the largest annual dog show in the world, held in Birmingham, England) had, by way of a veterinarian exam, disqualified some breeds of dogs due to the fact that they were not "representative of their breed" and "could not perform" as that breed should. In other words, they were found physically "unsound."


Now, this is a huge thing. I don't recall this ever happening. I used to show dogs, Akitas and German Shepherds. I have followed, for years, breeds and breed standards. I've attended numerous shows, and while I never felt a part of the "bonhomie" (have I mentioned I don't play well with others?) I understood the premise for dog shows. Yet I was never comfortable with the people who took credit for their dog's wins. The people who preened and strutted those wins, as if they had won, and not the dog. I detested dog shows for that reason, and for the fact that I spent so much money testing my own dogs with regard to health concerns, and very few others were doing so. Don't even get me started on Canine Good Citizenship or obedience trials.


But I digress.


This morning, the post re: Crufts, caught my interest. I thought, High time. But then, after reading the comments, the discussion veered into physical alteration, ie: docking tails and cropping ears. And how it wasn't inhumane. And so I thought to comment. Because in my opinion, docking tails and cropping ears is the epitome of inhumane, and I said so. Within 4 hours I'd garnered 30 likes. Within 8 hours, my comment had earned 57 likes.


My comment also earned scorn and derision. Some people likened docking puppy tails and cropping puppy ears to circumcising baby boys. They also likened it to piercing ears and inoculating young children. They were disgusted with my viewpoint, and said so in no uncertain terms. They also said that, "Once it's done, it's done, and what's the problem?"


As I type this now, there are "likes" to my comments coming in.


But there are people out there who think that what I stand by, what I stated, is absolute crap. I don't know what to think of those people.


They purport to love dogs. But they make excuses for things you would (hopefully) never do to a child, or themselves. And these things I am referring to are done to puppies regularly. And just because they are puppies, people seem to think it's okay to do what they do, because, well, "Once it's done, it's done, and they are too young to remember, so why discuss it?"


What I ended up stating, unequivocally, is that this is a moral and ethical thing. Not an aesthetic thing. Not something you can argue with regard to circumcision and boys, or ear piercing, or childhood inoculations. This is about surgically altering an animal based on your own pretentions and presumptions.


Over the course of the day, I have been barraged by comments from people who have basically attacked my stance, and tried to undermine it. People who think that puppies are less than people (they have no feelings, or if they do, it's not for long, and so we can do anything to them), and so what is done to them is okay, but oh, what about circumcising boys, what about that?


Some people have actually had the audacity to question "the world I live in." As if I am living in some fairy tale world where no harm comes to any of "God's" creatures.


First of all, I'm an atheist.


Second of all, I'm an atheist.


What offended me the most, the worst, was those supposed individuals who thought that docking tails and cropping was okay, since it was done at a such a young age (48 hours after birth) that the puppies never felt pain (they did, by the way) and therefore didn't suffer.


Suffering is not restricted to the here and now. And Phantom Limb Syndrome I am sure is not limited to human beings.


My point being: If you don't know what you are talking about, shut up. Just shut up. Because all you are saying is nothing at all. You are defending your own viewpoint, and your viewpoint is selfish and self-serving, and has nothing to do with the ones who are going through the experience.


Puppies feel pain. Dogs feels pain. Animals feels pain. And if surgically (I use the term loosely) removing what a dog was born with, for aesthetic reasons, to conform, is your idea of "doing what is right," then I question your morals and ethics.


No human can answer for any one else. They can only answer for themselves. Today I spent too much time trying to educate some very self-absorbed people about that. I was partially successful. But there are too many people out there who will not take a stand, who will back out when it comes to defending those who need defending...and I have no respect for those people.


Puppies feel pain. You may not be able to relate to that. But it is a fact.


Puppies feel pain.

Early morning wake up calls

We're back to the routine of 6:30 am phone calls before she goes off to work, late morning calls when I ask her how her morning is going, an afternoon call when I ask how her afternoon is, the six pm call when she gets home and is settled in, and the last call of the night when I "tuck her in." In between there could be another couple of calls just because we miss each other.


She fills me on the stresses of her day, or of how the puppies are behaving (or misbehaving), and it's all as it should be. Hank and Sam don't seem to be obviously missing me, and I'm happy with that. It means that the time I spent ensuring she spent enough time with them (Sam, specifically, since she was working basically every day and could not spend the time with Sam that I could and was), has been accomplished satisfactorily. I had to make sure that my method of working with Sam translated over effectively, and it seems it has. This is no small thing, and I am pleased. Yet I miss them, and the puppy, enormously.


This makes me think of something that happened back when Sam was just four months old.


By that age, she had just gotten tall enough and curious enough, to start checking out the table and counter tops. She would jump and place her paws on either surface, and we would tell her No, and Off! It was no big deal, and was to be expected, and we dealt with it as it happened.


One lovely Saturday morning, which is usually when I let my sweetie sleep in, because she worked all week and deserved to sleep in, I was up early as usual (6 am) with the puppies. I let them out for their bathroom duties and brought them back in, made coffee, fed them, played with them, then put Hank out into the run, and left Sam in the kitchen with the baby gate up. All as per usual. It was about 8 am by that time.


I went to check my email and facebook. I was gone maybe 15 minutes. When I returned to the kitchen, I immediately smelled gas (the stove is a natural gas stove). I froze momentarily, and then glanced over, to see that the stove dial had been bumped. Obviously Sam, who was at that moment hopping up and down happily to see me, had jumped to check out the stove top, and had knocked the dial so the stove was now emitting gas. The room was filled with the odour.


My heart immediately began pounding, and I very carefully stepped over the baby gate, tiptoed over to the stove, with Sam bouncing at my side, and turned the dial to off. I then tiptoed to the back door, ever so carefully opened the screen door, and took Sam to the dog pen. I then tiptoed back into the house, leaving the screen door open for ventilation, and went to the bedroom.


All this time I was very conscious of having to be careful to not create any kind of spark. I did not pick Sam up, because there may have been a spark from her fur against my sweater, static electricity. I made sure not to slam the screen door and inadvertantly create a spark. All this time I was shaking with fear.


When I got to the bedroom, I gently placed my hand on my sweetie's shoulder, and leaned down to whisper, "Wake up, honey, but don't move."


She was very good. She opened her eyes, didn't move, and asked, "What's wrong?"


I told her what the situation was, and whispered calmly, oh so calmly, "Just come out the front door with me." (She was sleeping in jammie pants, so don't think she wasn't prepared!)


She came carefully outside with me, and we left the door open for more ventilation, and then we went back around to the backyard...and just looked at each other.


"So...now what?" I asked (my heart was still pounding and I couldn't seem to breathe right).


"I'll be right back," she said. "Stay here."


And I stood there in the backyard frozen as she went back in through the back door, opened windows, started the fan going in the livingroom, and then came back out. I was, to be honest, horrified, that she had gone back in and done these things, but she was perfectly fine with it. Someone has to do it, she told me. And I supposed she was right, but that someone was not going to be me. I have a horrible, disabling fear about things like gas leaks.


We then stood outside for half an hour. Waiting for the gas to dissipate. It was a pleasantly cool morning. We joked about hobbling Sam so she couldn't do a repeat performance. And seriously discussed how she must never be left alone in the kitchen, so a repeat performance did not occur.


And then she went back in, pronounced all to be well, and we got on with our day.


But trust me, after that morning, Samantha was never left unsupervised in the kitchen. I still remember how scared I was, and how I moved so very, very carefully. And how the smell of gas overwhelmed my senses, and I almost felt as though I could see it and feel it. I still question my moves, not going to my sweetie right away, but removing the potential for sparks first. I think I did well, but I now understand how people can second guess themselves after a crisis has passed.


I don't mind waking up early. But I don't ever want that kind of early morning wake up call again.

Do something!

Last week we went out to dinner with a couple of women my sweetie knows, at their request. They knew I was heading back to Canada soon, and so the gesture was made to say good bye and extend good wishes. About  3/4 of the way through dinner, one of the women asked politely, "So, Rebecca, how have you occupied your time since you've been here?"


Now, I'm a contentious person, but not argumentative. I'm thoughtful, and while easily roused, I can think before I speak. My sweetie, as I found out later, was much more annoyed than I was. Either the question or the attitude, or both, struck us both as less innocuous than it might first appear. I, however, paused, then said:


Well, first of all, I've raised a puppy:

And during that time, I helped build a fence:

This fence was built from scratch, including digging the post holes and cutting, measuring, and nailing all the pickets individually. It covered 175 feet in total.

I also helped renovate the ensuite bathroom:

Basically, this bathroom was a wood floor with a tub enclosure. Nothing of what you see in this photo was present prior to the renovation. None of it.

In addition to raising a border collie puppy, I was deeply involved in socializing and training Hank, to be a more settled and socially acceptable dog:

Throughout December, I worked on the final edit of my soon-to-be-released first novel, Everything Pales in Comparison.  And throughout October to now, I've done exhaustive research for my second novel, Falling.

And if all that wasn't enough, throughout all of that, I've nurtured a budding relationship with a woman who is the most wonderful person I've ever met, to the point where we consider ourselves in a serious relationship. Worthy of marriage. Which the state of North Carolina, and the United States of America, so far, will not grant us.

So, when asked, "How have you occupied your time while you've been here?" I can at least honestly respond that I have not just been biding my time, doing nothing, waiting for...something. I have been doing something. Many somethings. Because that is who I am. That is what I do. 

Something.

If I were to ask her how she has spent the last 5 months, I'm not so sure she could say she has accomplished so much. But I have. And I told her so.

Because this is what I do.

Something. 

As opposed to nothing.

Get to know me before you judge me.

People say such stupid and asinine things when they don't know you. Like, "I hope you find peace and happiness, Rebecca." This was said to me recently in response to a comment to a blog post (not mine) that really shouldn't have happened. By someone who doesn't know me at all, but thought they had something wise to contribute. 


In 1998 the amazing Akita dog I raised, from the time he was five and a half weeks, died. He was not quite 12 years old. Truthfully, he was euthanized. I made that decision. He was riddled with cancer. He was with me in Vancouver, BC at the time. He collapsed one day, after a lifetime of perfect health. I received a phone call at work from my then girlfriend's roommate. I rushed home, reassured him, took care of him. I called my vet in Winnipeg that evening for a referral. When I took him to the new vet, a very caring and thoughtful man, x-rays revealed numerous tumours. Nothing could be done. Two weeks later, on a sunny Saturday morning, I asked Cutter if he would like to go for a car ride. He said, "Yes, please." He'd always loved car rides.


I fell apart when Cutter died. Completely. I'd never experienced that kind of loss. I cried for days, months, years. I still have his ashes in an urn, and I still do not know what to do with them. It's not that I'm holding onto them, him. It's that I still haven't found the perfect place. The perfect place still seems to be with me.


As an adult, I missed a lot of things with my dad. As he aged, I often wasn't there. I moved around a lot. A LOT. I was rarely in Manitoba, and when I was, I was rarely with him. The latter part of that statement had everything to do with his wife. Who supposedly was my mother, but of course I don't call her that anymore, nor view her as such, having disowned her many years ago (for anyone who is reading this and doesn't know, I was adopted, and that's a whole other story).


The thing was, I came to understand that the choice was not wholly mine, to be apart. When I did choose to visit him, it was understood I was only visiting him. I was cordial to her, but I really was only there for him. That was understood, by all parties. But his choice not to visit me, when he surely could have, I came to understand as well. We all make choices. And if you love someone (and I'm sure he loved her), you choose to be with who you love. He chose her, to be with her, and not with me, and as an adult, I came to accept that. And over the years, I've analyzed this, and come to understand that this did not hurt as much as some might think. But for many years I did not look at it analytically. I just accepted it. 


Just before he died last year, I visited him in the hospital. One of those weird, uncomfortable family gatherings (and we have a big family, and it was a small hospital room), which I'd never thought to be a part of. I detested it. He could barely speak, but he was cognizant. He smiled so very brightly at my appearance, he was so happy to see me. I hadn't seen him in a year. But he was still my dad. Still the man I'd always respected, perhaps not known as well as I'd wished to, but someone I'd gotten to know very well in the relatively short time I'd had with him. The next morning he asked, as well as he was able, to go home. The doctor present referred to my dad as, "Dad." I despised the doctor for this, was hugely offended and told that doctor off. As I recall, that didn't go over so well. 


Less than two weeks later my dad died.


I didn't fall apart at my dad's death. I had decided after the death of my dog, whom I had raised from a wee pup, that since I had a choice, I would choose to distance myself from my father's death. Because I had the choice. And because I didn't want to fall apart. Because I was quite certain that my father's death would undo me. I did not want to become undone. So I worked it out. To not spend as much time with him as I maybe could have (and a lot of that had to do with his wife, whom I could not abide). It was deliberate. It took years.


I made a choice. 


If you ask anyone who (really) knows me, you will know that I chose wisely. 


Do I regret it? Honestly, no. 


I miss him. So very much. He was a very wonderful man, a restless man (which may account for why I was so restless for so very long), not a big man, but you never noticed that because he came across as so large. And the time that I spent with him mattered. We often had the most amazing conversations. I miss those conversations. We had things in common. We both wrote. And thought. And those things matter more, than that I didn't spend as much time with him as I could have (I refuse to say should have).


So to have someone say something superficial and asinine like, "I hope you find peace and happiness, Rebecca," because I actually chose to address their comments, in their blog, makes me realize that some people like to toss off such phrases because they simply like to talk, to get in the last word, to simply hear or see (in this internet age) themselves speak. In my world, if you have something worthy of saying, you say it. Like my dad did. If you have nothing worth saying, don't say anything at all. You're much better off that way.


Everyone is much better off that way.

Be careful what you wish for

She's a shocking puppy. She always has been.


At four and a half months of age, she is just now settling down enough that her promise shines through more clearly. But from the time she was 6 1/2 weeks old, when we brought her home, until now, she has been, at times, quite wild, very willful, dominant, challenging, foolishly playful, yet so attentive it's startling. She's unlike any puppy I have ever raised.


I've raised German Shepherds and Akitas. I've adopted a Border Collie/Sheltie cross from the Winnipeg Humane Society. All of my dogs have been intelligent, singular, single-minded, but basically biddable (yes, I know, an Akita, biddable? But mine were, trust me).


I read extensively when I decided to raise a puppy back in 1985, and discounted most. I've based my training methods largely on published works I've read by Rutherford and Neil (How To Raise A Puppy You Can Live With), Dr. Ian Dunbar (I once attended a workshop of his), and the Monks of New Skete (The Art of Raising a Puppy, How to be your dogs best friend). A few years ago I thought Cesar Milan had worth, but have since revised my opinion. I've read L. David Mech's books on wolf behaviour, and based a lot of my training methods on wolf behaviour, as a result of his research. There were (and are) many books published by so-called trainers and behaviourists that I perused and discounted over the years. It takes a lot to convince me, in all things, but most certainly when it comes to dogs.


She does this thing, when she's listening and learning: she cocks her head at a certain angle, and her ears, which have yet to decide if they will actually stand up or always be at half-mast, are most expressive. I will say, "Sam? Be ready. Pay attention now." And she does. She cocks her head, usually to the right, and her ears will lift, yet pull back, her body tenses...but it's her eyes...


She has the most beautiful eyes. Because she's a red, her eyes are almost golden. And she has the most intense gaze. When she wants something, or she's learning, her eyes burn into mine intently, as if she is trying to focus her want, or discern my meaning, my words, my next move.


When she was 8 to 12 weeks old, she was very impatient, and her impatience came through most often when we would ask something of her she did not want to do...like sit, or down, or don't bite, or...whatever she was doing that was unacceptable. She would look at me and stamp her right paw. Hard. I'd never seen a puppy do that before. She would stamp her paw and then "woof"...and I would be hard-pressed not to laugh, because I was so astonished, and I would say, "No, Sam, enough," and then ask again whatever it was I'd been in the process of asking (my training is always in the form of a request, not a command).


She still "woofs". She has a wide range of vocalizations, most of which are very soft. Most of which, since she is usually not far from us, she makes sure she comes close to deliver. With her intent golden gaze.


I've never raised a Border Collie. I've always thought of them, always thought I could, or would, or might. I read a book this past Christmas by Donald McCaig, "Eminent Dogs, Dangerous Men," and there was a quote about tails: Foolish tail, foolish dog. Sam has a foolish tail. This made me laugh and laugh. I sometimes think Sam is a very foolish dog.


But Sam, as I've said, is like no other puppy I have ever raised. Out of a litter of three, we chose her because she was brave. Her sister, another red, was very shy and retiring, and was not so flashily marked. Her brother was black and white, and we did not want a male. Sam was very bold and very friendly, and very flashy, and even though it was over 100 degrees F, she kept bunny-hopping up to us. And so, of course, we chose her.


She likes to rampage through the house, when we decide to free her from the kitchen where she was confined until she had gotten the hang of house-training (this took longer than expected, but she's fool-proof now). She likes to think she can jump and run like a big dog, but she lacks the co-ordination and doesn't care. She loves people. Other dogs scare her, big or small, and she barks at them. She now knows what she should do, but will look at us, with that head cock, and do the opposite of what we ask her to. We tend to laugh and bluster. 


She is growing into a very beautiful young dog. I look at her, and I look at the woman I love, and I say, "I always wanted a border collie. A red border collie."


And she says, "Well, now you have one."


And I say, "I know. Thank you."


Sam was her Christmas present. Not mine. But she may as well have been.

Puppies will always be my safe place.

I spend time between time.


It's odd. How I'm present, yet project forward.


I've lived most of my life elsewhere, but feel more grounded here.


If you know me, you know I am not well known. Difficult to know. Next to impossible. Really.


Puppies makes sense to me. Except the current puppy. Who makes the most amazing sense.


I once thought of running away from home...but didn't know where to go, since I didn't know if I could escape what I was running from (I was 12).


I am capable of violence, but not the violence that frightens others (although it does). The violence that frightens me.


People like me. But I'm sure I don't quite know why.


Sometimes I like people. Just because.


You should never assume anything about me. Ever.


I like cats. Just that. I like them.


I like snow. I don't like cold.


If I could choose, I would choose blindness over deafness. 


Children are priceless. But I seem to prefer those under 3. (Have I mentioned I don't play well with others?)


I'm not happy about getting old. It hurts.


I don't like it when some people decide that you are no longer an important part of their life. And just leave. Without explanation. After 20 years.


I do not like complainers. Don't complain. Fix what you are not happy with. Or shut up.


If you want my honest opinion, be prepared to hear the truth. Or stick something in your ears so you can't hear me. Or...don't ask.


Puppies will always be my safe place. Always.

Don't tell me what I can or cannot do

Today I was reading Independent, a local publication in Chapel Hill NC, just browsing through it, while I ate my breakfast in the 501 Diner. I came across the Letters To The Editor section...and for some reason, one particular letter snagged my attention. I read it, and was very affected emotionally by it. Let me share it with you:


Re: DOMA


On May 8, 2012, the citizens of North Carolina will vote on an amendment to the state constitution titled the Defense of Marriage Act, providing that "marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be recognized in the state." The board of Community Church of Chapel Hill, Unitarian Universalist, goes on record in the strongest possible opposition to this amendment. 


Amending the defining document of the state is a serious matter. What is proposed is denial of a right of citizenship--and a human right--to thousands of our citizens. Implications of such laws have been well documented. They can include denial of such rights as that to be with one's life partner at a time of serious illness as well as a great many other restrictions. In 1964, with the Civil Rights Act, our nation's law rose above a history of discrimination on the basis of race. We must not now enshrine discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation in our state constitution.


We stand with other churches committed to human rights and with all those concerned with justice. We urge all who share such concerns to vote against this amendment.


Board of Directors
Community Church of Chapel Hill,
Unitarian Universalist


Reading this letter out of the blue caused me to get very choked up. I am not familiar with this denomination, but the words are those that should be spoken aloud to everyone who is in support of DOMA. Why doesn't everyone think this way? It is reprehensible to me that anyone could support something like DOMA, let alone those in the position to "put it up for a vote". Put what up for a vote? Something that all those heterosexuals with entitlement issues take for granted? How about we take away your basic rights and privileges, and treat you like a second class citizen, and see how you like it? 


It's beyond me how a crowd of discriminatory assholes can take away from a huge section of the populace that which they themselves are granted without question. To them I say, "Fuck you." To the writers of this letter, I say, "Thank you." And to all who think and feel as they do.


Which should be everyone.