Romy's Story (Part III — Naming Puppies)

A quick recap:

In Sept 2012, a small female dog was rescued from a garbage dump on the west end of the island and we offered to foster her. She was about a year old, of the nicest temperament... even though life had thrown her its worst. Not only had she been dumped (thrown out like garbage... Really, who does that???) and had suffered hunger, but she also had tick fever (ehrlichiosis), a host of intestinal parasites, and she was heartworm-positive. A month later, we found out she was also pregnant—and, in spite of the high-risk birth due to the medication she'd been on, it was a higher risk to terminate the pregnancy. Romy—that's her name—gave birth to seven big, healthy puppies on the night of Nov. 4-5, 2012. All of them survived.
And now the challenge was to raise them properly—socialized, well-behaved, loving—so they could find excellent homes.

(You can check out the full story at Parts I and II.)

Nov 5th, 2:52 AM. Six newborn puppies.
(Unbeknownst to me, there was a seventh still to come.)

With a litter of seven pretty uniformly colored — and uniformly sized — puppies, it was hard to tell them apart.

Now, Romy's wasn't my first birth. I've seen my share. And usually, even with uniform coloring, you can keep track by how dry their fur is, or at the very least by size.

But this time, as soon as Puppy #2 came out, I was clueless. In the end, we had four black ones, three dark-brown, and among them the only ones I could identify were The Girl (only one female in the litter), and a black male who was born with a short tail. (I'd never seen that happen, by the way. I didn't even think it was possible.)

Nov. 11th, 2012
Romy handling motherhood like a boss.

Nap time!
(See the puppy with her head hanging out of the basket?
Yep. That's The Girl.)

Both of these, though — The Girl and Short-Tail — were black. Two other black ones, and all three brown ones, remained interchangeable for at least the first week. Maybe even the full ten days until they opened their eyes. They grew at the same rate, they seemed to have the same amount of energy, and exhibited the same apparent dominance in fighting for a teat or for the 'top of the pile' sleeping spot.

Except for The Girl; from the first, she was the Alpha of the litter, undisputed.

But going on a week later, it got easier to tell some of these babies apart. Mr. Short-Tail also had a white streak on his nose, and a thunderbolt down his chest. The Girl grew brown eyebrows and socks, kind of Rottweiler-ish. Of the brown batch, previously unidentifiable, one developed a white spot on a hind paw. Just the tip of the toes, like his foot had been dipped ever so daintily in white paint.

Remember this. It will change lives.

Sixteen days after they were born, we caught said white-paint-toe-dipped puppy on camera, exploring the world...

Not long after, the den had become too small for them. I started bringing them out to the patio for an hour or two at a time.

The first patio incursion, Dec 2, 2012.
The puppies were 3 days short of a month old.

And, because they were so big—and growing bigger by the day, almost by the hour—and because Momma Romy was so small and so skinny, we started giving them puppy formula to 1) supplement their nourishment and 2) begin the weaning process.

Dec. 4, 2012
"What's this? Milk not in a boob?"

You can see how quickly they took to the formula. And you can tell they were no longer unidentifiable. Our once-interchangeable puppies were becoming little individuals... And it was time to give them names.

The first one, perhaps the easiest one, was The Girl. From very early on, I started calling her Nena, which is "baby girl" in Spanish. (So sue me for lack of creativity.)

Meet Nena (aka The Girl). Looks like a little Rottweiler, doesn't she?
Dec 12, 2012

Another easy one was Bunny—Mr. Short-Tail with the white streaks on nose and chest.

Bunny, Dec 12, 2012

The others took a bit more thinking, but eventually I came up with names:

Sam
(Dec 12, 2012)

Zorro
(Dec 11, 2012)

Two of the brown puppies were getting lighter, and seemed to have shorter, less furry hair than the others. And, dammit, they looked like twins. I named them, but for another month or so, I wouldn't be able able to tell them apart unless I had them both in front of me. Look at them:

The twins, Benny and Dennis, Dec 12, 2012

There was another pair of quasi-twins, but I never had any trouble telling those two apart. You see, one of them was that wandering puppy, the one with the white-paint-dipped toe (although, by then, a few others had developed white toes). And I was smitten.

Duncan
(Dec 12, 2012)

Duncan and Sam were very, very close in coloring. In the photos above, the one on the upper right has Duncan sleeping in the foreground and Sam behind him. You can see the similarities... But Duncan was lighter than Sam. And, besides the white-tipped right hind toe (you can see it in the bottom right photo, if you look closely), Duncan also had that white star on his chest. And a white-tipped chin. And... I don't know, we had a bond. From the day he could see me and interact with me, something passed between us. He was my dog, and I was his human. Period.

Sam (left) and Duncan (right), playing in the patio.
Dec 12, 2012

Except, of course, we already had more dogs than we ever expected, or could handle. Aside from our own canines (Panchita, Rusty, Sasha, and Winter), in Dec 2012 we were fostering another dog, Blondie, who wouldn't get adopted any time soon (she'll get her own post soon and I'll explain)... And five dogs were already way, way far beyond the limit of 3 we'd agreed on as a family.

So I said nothing about Duncan. I kept this thing between us to myself. I thought, life will sort it out. Maybe when we got adoption applications, the perfect family would come up. Maybe this attachment I felt was just puppy love (literally), and I'd grow out of it. Maybe... Or maybe not.

To Be Continued

Speaking about averages...

Black & White Sunday: Benny

Benny's first sortie at the Kabouterbos (Dwarf Forest, in Dutch). He was surprisingly calm. Made me proud.

Happy Mother's Day!

Especially to the awesome mothers of kids with paws ;)

Us & Them (#atozchallenge)

I've had to stop taking all the dogs to the beach together, and I miss it. It was such a joy to watch them chase each other, splash into the water together, hunt in unison. Beautiful.

But unsafe.

Not when it was just the three of them--Panchita, Rusty, and Winter. If we ran into other dogs, they'd sniff a bit, Winter might get a bit snappy (she's short; Napoleon complex), but it never escalated. Same thing with people. None of my dogs like kids (they do say dogs resemble their owners...), but they behaved as long as the child didn't harass them. (And I made damn sure they didn't.)

Even when the puppies came. Puppies--they're 17 months now, but I guess they'll always be The Puppies to us. All seven of us (six of them, one of me) would walk the beaches like one big, friendly family.

And then they grew up.

Sometime around their 10-month birthday there was an incident. A couple of teenagers in a kayak got attacked. Sure, I told them to stop lunging with the oars at the dogs and they didn't listen, but in this world a dog is guilty until--no, no defense possible. A dog is guilty and stays guilty. Fortunately it wasn't even a scratch; no blood, no doctors.

But it taught me a powerful lesson.

In a pack, my dogs--my lovely, sweet, and wonderful dogs--become dangerous.

In a pack, accepting strangers--people or dogs--becomes impossible.

In a pack, all their little quirks of behavior that seem so manageable--or even harmless--at home become exacerbated, magnified, replicated like a mirror in a mirror.

They become a threat.*

Just like humans.

I'm not talking just about mobs (or soccer fans)--those are the ultimate extreme. Families, homeroom groups at school, neighborhoods, cities, countries, even continents: all of these give us a sense of identity. But in that very identity lies the problem. We define ourselves by differentiating from others.

There can be no Us without Them.

This behavior, the pack mentality, is so ingrained it probably resides in our lizard brain. Every animal has it; maybe even plants do. It's a matter of protecting resources, of survival; one can't just allow any dog to waltz in and take over our food, our human, our safety. Spontaneous generosity towards a stranger can be dangerous.

I get it. I do. We all need, in lesser or greater measure, a place to call home, a group to call our pack.

Strength lies in numbers, after all.

But I wonder. Can't we use it, this strength, for something other than division lines? 

Now I go to the beach with one, maybe two dogs. It's still Us, but I'm working on turning around that Us vs. Them into Us and Them.


It's a start.






* Note: Pack behavior that becomes a threat to others happens because of faulty leadership. Meaning me. My mistake, not theirs. I'm working on that, too.

~ * ~

Thanks for the visit, so sorry about the late post, and happy A-to-Z-ing!

(P.S. -- I will catch up on visits. There's so many great blogs I've discovered this April that I think I'll be busy until October reading everyone's A-to-Z posts.)

Prejudice (#atozchallenge)

Sam, at three months.
Thank you, Claudia Sanches, for the lovely photos!

I hate to think this Lessons In Life From Dogs series might've given you the impression dogs are perfect, angelical beings, incapable of malice or dishonesty or other characteristically human nastiness. They are better than us, so much more in touch with themselves and their nature, so much more sincere and straightforward in their needs and desires. They have much to teach.

But they're far from perfect.

Take prejudice. I told you the story of Sam and the cow. (I'm sorry to bring it up again, but it's such a great example. And I'm in love with Sam.) He's terrified of this inanimate object, a fraction of his size, and which has never been party to any horrible or even mildly discomfiting experience. Sam's terror of this cow is not based on fact, on evidence of any kind.

It's prejudice.

I wish I spoke Dog so he could tell me on what grounds he discriminates against this cow. Is it racial? Color-based? I know she's somewhat gaudy, but--really? Or is it religion? (Cows are, after all, vegetarians.) Is it because the cow came from Holland? I know Sam is somewhat (haha--"somewhat," she says) xenophobic, but--again, really?

Maybe it's the cow's lowered head. Dogs--and wolves--do that just before sprinting after prey. It may be obvious to you and me that this cow is merely reaching down to graze, but Sam--because his experience is limited to dogs--doesn't see it that way.

Can't see it that way. Because of prejudice.

Is this ringing any bells? Because it sure is for me. I'm fervently anti-religion, and when I find out that someone is religious, there's an audible clunk as I slide them into the Disappointment slot in my mental archive. If someone likes Pink Floyd, on the other hand, they have an automatic pass into my Wow People slot. Accountants are boring, graphic designers are fun. Argentinian wine is excellent, Californian not so much. And rosé is for wannabes who can't handle their alcohol.

Do I have grounds for this continuous, if (until now) under-the-surface, distinctions? Of course I do--the same way Sam has clear and real reasons to fear that cow. And if there's no factual evidence to support my claim, no actual experience, I can always fall back on it's instinct.

But instinct isn't prejudice. Instinct relies--demands, even--an opening of the senses in order to gauge everything: sight, smell, feel, sound. What does it remind me of? Where have I seen something similar before? And is this new situation similar enough to warrant fear (or aggression or--gasp--rejection)?

Prejudice is judgment before the facts. Instinct is judgment through the facts.

In dogs, training gets rid of prejudice. The reason we train is precisely to get rid of a dog's prejudices: barking at the mailman, chasing cars. Counter-conditioning the response. I wonder if it would work for humans. Traveling, exposure to different cultures, different mindsets, different people. Is it really that simple?

And if it is, then why does prejudice still exist?

~ * ~

Thanks for the visit, and happy (Easter) A-to-Z-ing!

Keeping It Real (#atozchallenge)

At the beginning of the week I argued that frustration is the root of all evil, but I think I've changed my mind. It's expectations.

Think about it. What causes disappointment? Unmet expectations. What ruins relationships? Unaligned expectations.

Unrealistic expectations.

Unexpected joy.
Nothing like it.

I can remember dozens of moments of unexpected happenings that gave me incredible joy. But I can't think of a single instance where having expectations--not ambition, mind you, or dreams, or goals; expectations--has ever resulted in me feeling good. Expectations beget sulking.

It's my birthday. Why didn't you bring me breakfast in bed?

And if the guy/gal did, then it's Why didn't you bring a long-stemmed rose with the tray? That's what I bought that miniature vase for, you dimwit.

And if the rose was brought, then But it has thorns. Didn't you learn that you never ever give a rose with thorns? Don't you know that it means (whatever the language of flowers say it means)?

Expectations, by their very nature, create dissatisfaction.

This is Romy & her mom.
Her story makes Cinderella's look mundane.

And who wants to live unsatisfied?

Look at your dog. No expectations. Hope, yes. They live in hope; eternal, undying hope. But s/he is happy--satisfied--with whatever you give. Sure s/he wants you to come home, but when you do, even if it's three AM, the joy at seeing you is never marred by a sulk. If you forget to feed him/her, s/he won't hold it against you for the remainder of his/her life. S/he's doesn't expect you to produce food, and every time you do, s/he's amazingly happy--and grateful--that you did. And if you don't, no hard feelings.

(Which makes you feel, of course, all the more guilty and horrible for being six minutes late with dinner.)

Expectations are the enemy of gratitude. And forgiveness. And those... Well, they're the key to bliss.

Thanks for the visit. Your comments make my day :)

Happy A-to-Z-ing!

I do, I do (love my reactive dogs) #atozchallenge + #WOOF

It's a busy Thursday! Besides the A to Z challenge, today I'm joining the 3rd WOOF Support hop:
What I Love About My Reactive Dog(s). 

I'm also up at Street Dog Story talking about dog rescuing--would love to see you there, too.

I love my reactive dogs. Maybe I love them more because they're reactive (which may be a somewhat significant part of the problem, but that's a discussion for another post).

From the WOOF Support page:

Reactive is a term used to describe dogs that overreact to certain stimuli like other dogs, bicycles, people, kids, motorcycles, etc. Sometimes the reactivity is a tendency of a specific breed and other times it could be due to lack of socialization or a traumatic experience. The dog's over-reaction is usually in the form of barking, lunging, pulling and/or even snarling which tends to scare people and other dogs.

So yeah. Hi. My name is Guilie and I have several reactive dogs.

Duncan

One thing they don't tell you about reactivity (because they shouldn't need to, it's that obvious) is that it's contagious. Like the bubonic plague. One dog freaks out, they all freak out. 

Which makes for a rather interesting life.

Benny

I love them for a million reasons. The way Duncan looks at me, how he trots with his front legs a little too wide apart. I love how Sam kicks up his back legs when he runs, and his lamb-to-the-slaughter look, and how unstoppable he is. And Benny's Shar-Pei face, and the way he smiles, and how he loves to jump up at me--but always waits for permission. I love how Panchita sits under the tamarind trees for hours, waiting for an iguana to fall from the sky. I love the way Rusty struggles to contain her boundless energy when I ask her to Sit and Down. I love Sasha's wiggly dance (I have to get it on video). I love Winter's overbearing need for attention; she can never have enough. 

Sam
(practicing for monkhood)

I love them, all of them, and I'm eternally grateful all seven of them are in my life. Why? Because they've taught me so damn much. Not just about training, vet medicine, creative treats, leashes and harnesses--above all they've taught me about human nature.

My dogs are, quite simply and without exaggeration, my best spiritual teachers. They're like a retreat in a remote Tibetan monastery--shaved heads and orange tunics and eat only what you've grown with your own hands. 

;)

Thanks for the visit! I hope you enjoyed the post. Visit the other A-to-Z-ers and,

if you're a dog lover, you might want to browse the WOOF bloggers. Great bunch of people.

Thanks to Oz the Terrier, Wag n' Woof Pets, and Roxy the Traveling Dog for hosting the WOOF hop!

Beggin' You Please (#atozchallenge)

Ah, Benny. It's so hard to say No to that face.

Dog training is based on a simple concept: reinforce the behavior you want.

Dog sits, dog gets treat. Behavior reinforced.

Simple.

(I can hear all you dog owners laughing already.)

Here's my scenario every morning at the patio doors: seven furry babes ("babes" that on average weigh 20kg) clamor to get in. Against the glass doors.

Instinct takes over. I run to get the door open before someone breaks that glass.

Next morning, same thing. The one after that? Mm-hmm. And it doesn't take Cesar Millan to help me figure out why.

I'm reinforcing the behavior. I'm telling my dogs that the key to getting inside as fast as possible is to jump against the (glass, dammit) doors. Oh, see the human run! It works, guys! One more time, everybody together!

Training doesn't only happen from human to dog; this here's a great example of dog-to-human. You don't like me banging against this transparent thing? Well, then: HURRY UP. That's it, good human. I'll stop the banging now.

Kids--newborn babies, teenagers--do this to their parents all the time. Adults do it to each other. It's conditioning, a kind of Pavlov response; that's how all us animals learn about controlling our universe.

And we keep on doing it. Consciously or otherwise.

Which is why it's a good idea to take a look at the conflicts in our lives and ask ourselves if maybe, just maybe, there's a bit of conditioning at work here. What behaviors do we reinforce in others--and in ourselves? What behaviors do others reinforce in us? What do we reward? How do we reward it? Are we absolutely sure that we're reinforcing the behavior we want?

Or are we racing to open those glass doors?

Black & White Sunday: The Chase

Just another day at the beach...

Believe it or not, no dogs were harmed in the making of these photographs.

Thanks to Nola Dachshund and Sugar: The Golden Retriever for hosting the Black & White Sunday hop. Take a stroll through the other posts; some amazing photos, and all-around great bloggers. That's just how we animal lovers roll ;)

Black & White Sunday -- Right- or Left-Pawed?

Panchita. Right-pawed.

Duncan. Also right-pawed.
(Ours is a love story of epic scale.)

Rusty. Also right-pawed.

Benny. The leftie!

Doggie ice cream: good-quality canned dog food mixed with a bit of water, and spooned into Kongs. Let freeze for at least three hours. Hand out. Sit back (with a camera) and enjoy.

Black & White Sunday hosted by Nola Dachshund and Sugar: The Golden Retriever