What Do I Know?

Hey, Mister, Your Dog Is Not Being Friendly!

When Sparky wants another dog to ignore him, he turns his back and pretends to be looking into the trees. Most dogs get the message, but some are as clueless as their owners. 

I had to yell at some guy in The Camp today when a Dalmation wouldn't get out of Sparky's face. After yelling for the owner to call his dog, I walked over and told him to enroll in a recall workshop. He had no idea why he needed to, even though his dog was busy ignoring him when he yelled "Murphy!" Murphy had found a young cocker spaniel to play with, and the two of them kept trying to get Sparky (who we'd put on a lead) to join in. Sparky, of course, has no desire (or know-how) to play with other dogs, so when they got too close he barked at them in an effort to make them go away. Probably my attempts to move the dogs out of the way was riling him up even more, since he thought he needed to help me out.

Anyway, after arguing with the guy, and explaining to him that we try really hard to keep Sparky from reacting like that and his dog being in his face didn't help matters, he told me that it simply wasn't a problem if Sparky went after his dog. It would teach Murphy a lesson, he told me. 

The problem is, Murphy was just as likely—even more so, in my opinion—to "teach a lesson" to Sparky. Sparky's a 'fraidy cat. He's never escalated into bite mode; as soon as a dog looks at him funny he runs crying in the opposite direction. It wasn't likely that he was going to teach this bold Dalmation a lesson.

When I was trying to get Murphy's attention, I knew I was dealing with a dog who wasn't going to back down. He wanted a good sniff of Sparky, and he was determined to get it, regardless of the frantic barking he was hearing.

But the owner had no clue. He was convinced his dog was just being "friendly" and when I told him he needed to teach his dog some manners he probably wrote me off as a stupid American (insert slander here)—well, I've been called worse. 

So we kept Sparky on the leash (he was perfectly happy to be close to us) and went around the Camp until we found a space clear of ill-mannered dogs. 

The Camp has become as bad as a dog park in the States, all because so many owners think it's fine for their dogs to run up to other dogs, head on, and try to engage them in play. It's a shame that we can't enjoy our time there without having to be on guard, unlike in other places where dogs generally go on their way without running up to every dog they meet. There's something about a semi-enclosed space, even one that's several acres wide, that makes dogs and their owners think nothing of interrupting their ramble to have some one-on-one action with other dogs and their owners. They just get too bored there, walking around in giant circles. 

As we left, I decided I should print out Suzanne Clothier's excellent article "He just wants to say hi" and place it on the cars parked there. I've often wondered how I could get other people to realize that their "friendly" dogs aren't so friendly—to other dogs. What looks like friendliness to us is extreme rudeness to a dog, especially to a dog who's busy telling the other dog in no uncertain terms that he'd like them to stay away.

Sigh. I'll probably never do it, and besides, we have other issues to work on with Sparky. Like his behavior in the car. We've planned a trip to Devon, and we hope to take him with us, but only if we can keep him calm in the car. I firmly believe in the power of positive training to work miricles, but so far we haven't had any success; if anything, the problem is getting worse. So I'm calling the vet next week to talk about medication. 

I'll post an update, for those of you who tune in to read about Sparky's progress...I know this blog has gone from being an eclectic, niche-free blog to being The Life and Times of Sparky, but this is my world right now. Well, that and my latest book. I think my next book will feature a dog's point of view. 

Because I've got a great understanding of that, now that I've learned to hear what Sparky is trying so hard to say. 

Sparky the Irish Rescue Dog

Sparky, running to us during a recall at the Camp. 

Today is a special day for Sparky: it's St Patrick's Day, and unlike us, (and many Americans) he can legitimately claim to be Irish. 

I've written before about how he came to us from Ireland but if you haven't heard, head on over to my author blog and read his story. 

"Sparky needed a home and needed one fast—he’d had to spend his first night in England in a car."

Good thing we found each other. He's enjoying some corned beef right now. Well, it's actually a bone, but he doesn't know what corned beef is any more than I do. 

Also, I don't think actual Irish people eat that anyway.

Sparky's 12-12-12 Adventure with Theobromine

Sparky, still crazy.

Having had it on good authority that the end of the world was coming on or about 12-12-12, Sparky decided that, what the hell, eating a large quantity of high grade chocolate was a better way to go than fire and brimstone or whatever the Mayans anticipated. 

Unaware of his plans, I went out shopping. My husband came home, took him for a long walk, and when I returned, there was nothing to indicate the dog had found the Green & Black's I'd hidden for Santa's stocking stuffing. Neither of us went over to turn on the TV, or lounged on the sofa, where evidence of Sparky's crime was scattered in plain sight. Sarah Lund could have found this crime scene without her torch even, yet somehow we missed it. (We'd make lousy TV detectives.)

But that night, we should have known something was wrong. Normally Sparky settles down at bedtime, after a stuffed Kong to relax him. But on the night of the 12th, we were serenaded by a squeaky toy, while Sparky roamed the room, whining every time his toy fell under the bed. We muttered a lot about "that crazy dog", yet neither of us realized his behaviour indicated he'd ingested something odd, not even when he got up twice during the night to go pee.

I really should have known better. 

It wasn't until the next morning, when I heard a noise in the living room, that I discovered the evidence of his chocolate binge. The remains of both Green & Black's packages were shredded, fortunately with the printed weight and ingredients still intact. Together they added up to 360 grams, a combination of 85% and 70% dark cocoa solids. 

Now, Sparky's eaten chocolate before, with no ill effects. But that was always milk chocolate, or semi-sweet chocolate buried in cookies. Not hardcore, high grade, luxury chocolate, and not 3/4 of a pound. 

I had to get my husband to do the ounces-to-kg calculations, using several websites on chocolate toxicity in dogs relative to their weight. There was a lot of math involved, figuring out how many milligrams of theobromine (the toxic ingredient in chocolate) he'd actually ingested. Most of the websites were US-based, rating the sorts of chocolate available in America. I know that dark chocolate in the US is usually 60%, but even then it was clear that the amount he'd had was above the level at which 50% of patients die.

Yet unless we'd missed it in the dark, he'd shown no signs of vomiting or diarrhea, the symptoms of chocolate toxicity. Only excessive playfulness, as well as excessive thirst. 

I rang the vet clinic and arranged to bring him in before they opened. His heart rate and temperature were normal, but since the half life of theobromine in dogs is 17.5 hours, the vet advised giving him activated charcoal to absorb any of the poison still in his intestines. He seemed surprised that Sparky had had no other ill effects from what could have been a deadly cocktail of theobromine and caffeine. Different dogs have different tolerances—no one should assume their dog is equally immune to the effects of dark chocolate.

Back at home, Sparky had a bad case of the zoomies—running around in big circles in the garden, a look of bliss on his face. Theobromine highs are pretty cool, as long as you don't know the danger of inhaling.

I started the day wondering if I'd be losing another dog in December, and ended the day grateful our crazy dog was still crazy, and alive. 

And the world didn't end after all.

Recall: Practice in Perfect Surroundings

Sparky returns to "check in".

Yesterday we took Sparky to Burnham Beeches, an ancient woodland not far from here. It was a nice change from Black Park, where we usually go for dog walks on the weekend, and not as busy, due to a footrace that had just ended. Most people were leaving as we arrived. 

As we do, we brought along some high value treats and our whistle, intending to do some recall training while Sparky ran off lead in the woods. While there are livestock pastured in the park, they're located behind a fence in a different area from where we were walking. 

The walk was lovely—the beeches are still mostly green, just starting to turn yellow, so it was easy to convince myself it was still summer. (That is, if I ignored the inches of mud that sucked at my hiking shoes, stirred up by the runners that morning.) 

After a few solid recalls, we were starting to feel confident that Sparky was attentive and listening for that whistle. Then he blew it, so to speak. My husband blew the whistle just as Sparky spied a squirrel. I saw his head turn left, and he took off, away from us, leaving us stamping our feet in frustration. (Okay, we weren't literally stamping our feet. We were actually cursing but this is a family blog.)

We continued to explore the footpaths, rewarding Sparky when he returned to us after his little sprints through the trees (we call this "checking in"). Then we whistled again, in a situation where we were sure he'd return, and he did. Back to, well, square two. Or three.

Running so fast he's a blur!

Training tip: It's important not to teach your dog that it's okay to ignore the whistle, so it's best not to blow it when you think he won't comply. You must incrementally increase the distraction level at which the dog will return..."incrementally" being the key, and most difficult to judge. 

Sparky's not 100% reliable with recall yet, but he's reliable in many situations. Which proved helpful later, as we were walking down one of the wide paved paths. We saw a family of adults coming toward us, and as they approached I heard the young man cry out as if distressed. A woman comforted him, and it was obvious that the young man was mentally handicapped. My husband and I both realized that he was likely expressing fear of the dog running around, so we quickly called Sparky, put him on the lead, and walked off the path, heading parallel through the woods so the distressed man couldn't see the dog.

We had judged the situation correctly: The woman called out "Thank you!" as we passed. Even though I knew Sparky would not have bothered the people—he gives strangers a wide birth—it was important to get him under control, and thankfully, our training paid off. He came right to us when we called him, even though I'd just seen a squirrel running up a tree. As soon as we passed we let him off lead again and practiced more recalls. 

We've been in situations where we wished other people had better control of their dogs—a strange dog is chasing Sparky, jumping at him, trying to engage him in play, while the owners call in vain. I want to yell at them to learn how to recall their dogs, but I've been there too. Until we had Sparky, I didn't know how important a good recall was. Our previous dogs were generally well behaved, and a so-so recall worked most of the time, and when it didn't, there was no harm done. 

Now we're acutely aware of how some dogs and some people—not to mention cows, sheep, and horses—would prefer not to have an uncontrolled dog nearby. While your dog may be perfectly safe, someone else is not feeling safe.

So we're going to keep at it, using stinky sardines or whatever gets the job done. 

Fortunately we have these beautiful, ancient woodlands to practice in. 

The ancient beeches of Burnham Beeches

What Kind of Parent Are You?

I saw this at the Roald Dahl Museum in Great Missenden. 

When you grow up and have children of your own do please remember something important

A stodgy parent is no fun at all

What a child wants and deserves

Is a parent who is 

Sparky

I'm sure I've always tried to be a sparky parent. And also a good parent to Sparky. 

For more about the Museum, check out my other blog, where I've posted more images of Roald Dahl's comments on writing. It's a great place for a writer, of any age. 

Friday Cow Blogging

Sparky gets a cow lick.

I remember when I was excited about seeing cows on our walks in the countryside—that was when I had no worries that my dog would run barking after them. (A tactic known as "worrying livestock" here in the Countryside Code.) These days, I keep an eye peeled for any signs of livestock or horses, knowing my dog will, if he's off lead, run after them. (Even though I'd never had any real evidence that he'd react like this—we've been careful to only walk where there's no livestock—I knew in my gut that Sparky would react to other animals the way he used to to dogs.)

We went last week to a livestock chase prevention workshop (we were the only ones there) held at Company of Animals. He didn't show too much interest (he was on lead the whole time) and was offered treats whenever he looked away from the sheep. He actually got nose to nose with some small horses there. We were encouraged, yet I still had no illusions that he'd not give chase if let off lead. 

So when we came upon these cows at Queen Anne's Ride in Windsor Great Park, I was glad to have an opportunity to practice our new "look away" skills. Although, frankly, I was busy taking photos, and I forgot to reward Sparky when he looked away. We did reward him with the "life reward" of creating distance between him and the object he was afraid of—the cows.

In hindsight, we probably let him get a little too close for comfort, and we probably let the lesson go on a bit too long. Because after he spent a few minutes meeting the cows close up, as in this photo, he decided to bark at them when one of them moved suddenly. (You don't think cows can move suddenly? Yes, they can. And they weigh around a thousand pounds each, so the idea of suddenly moving cows should worry you. Especially if you're a 50 pound dog.) 

So we walked away from the cows, and then we saw three horses, turning in front of us to walk ahead with their riders. They were walking slowly, so they didn't get move of sight, and then my husband had the not-too-brilliant idea of letting the dog off lead, since they were 200 yards or so in front. Sparky hadn't even seemed aware of the horses, so I didn't object. Big mistake. Sparky took off after them, not responding to our whistle or calls. 

The horses were turning down a lane, heading toward a stable, and we heard a bark in the distance. Then Sparky came running back toward us at full speed. We don't know what happened, but we didn't see the horses bolt, thank god. And he apparently only wanted to warn them off, but still--it could have easily ended in disaster. 

People ask me why I'm working so hard on Sparky's recall (which is actually very good), as well as on his general training. This is one reason. There are few places here where there are no horses, and no livestock. And we really enjoy taking him on walks, but not when he has to stay on lead the whole time. It's not nearly as much fun for us, or for him. But we can't risk another horse chasing incident, or risk him slipping inside a pen with sheep or cows. 

So we're taking it slower. No more off lead countryside walks until his recall is 100% and he's had more experience with the "look away" behaviour that gets rewards. 

Now, I didn't mean to turn Friday's Cow Blogging into another dog training story, so I'll leave you with more photos of these lovely gentlemen. 

I'm pretty sure these were steers, even though I didn't investigate their parts. 

They were a beautiful dark brown color, and were blinged out with gold earrings.

This one seemed the bravest of the lot. He really wanted to investigate Sparky, and Sparky wanted to get information about the cows as well:

Smells like grass!

Birthday Dog!

Sparky watches while I grate carrots for his birthday cake.

We celebrated Sparky's third birthday on Friday. When we got him a year and a half ago he didn't have a birthday. Since I didn't need mine anymore, I gave my April birthday to him. But last year I was traveling in The Netherlands on that day, so he didn't have much of a birthday. We made up for it this year. 

I was going to make a cake, using the recipe I baked often for my last dog. But the cake turned into cupcakes, which kids like more than cakes, I hear. 

Blow out the candles, Sparky!

I let him lick the spoon. But he still didn't have any idea what a "birthday cake" was. (After a few birthday celebrations, my last dog knew full well what a birthday cake was. Which is why she once snatched the St Patrick's Day cupcakes we'd made the day before, for a completely different occasion. She heard "birthday" and decided to save us the trouble of making another batch for her.)

The recipe isn't vegan, as written (my dogs have never been vegan). But you could easily leave out the egg. And substitute maple syrup for the honey, unless you choose to leave out the sweetener altogether. 

I'd recommend brushing your dog's teeth after a cupcake or too. Cake-like substances are the worst for sticking to teeth and gums, and it's important to establish oral health early. 

Right.

Sparky waits patiently...for about three seconds...until he hears "Take it!".

But I firmly believe in a birthday cake every year for our dogs. They only live once, and that life is sometimes all too short—I realized this when I saw that the original post of this birthday cake recipe was for my dog's fourth birthday. By then, she'd already celebrated half her birthdays. 

Here's the recipe again, with a few clarifications, and instructions for cupcakes (which are really more like muffins. And completely human-grade, so enjoy them yourself if you wish). 

Dog Birthday Cake

1/4 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup cooking oil
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup shredded carrot
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup honey (optional)
1 egg

Preheat oven to 350F. 

Mix the peanut butter and cooking oil. Add the flour and baking soda, stirring until smooth. Add the remaining ingredients and mix quickly. Add a little water if needed to make a smooth batter.

Spoon batter into muffin tins (this makes six generous muffins). Bake for 15 minutes. Insert toothpick to test for doneness, although your dog won't mind if it's a little mushy. If necessary, bake for another few minutes.

If you'd prefer to make a cake, spoon batter into a greased 9-inch round cake pan and bake for 30 minutes.

Frost with soy cream cheese, or yoghurt, or cottage cheese, or go all out and put Cool Whip on top. They only live once.

A Proper Walk at Queen Anne's Ride in Windsor

An overcast day, but perfect for a walk with a sore toe.

Today we needed a grassy place to walk the dog, one with easy access to the grass that didn't involve walking across a lot of pavement. And of course it needed to be livestock-free, and no surrounding wooded areas to entice Sparky to chase squirrels, thus re-injuring his paw and allowing him to become more focused on squirrels than on our recall efforts. 

A week ago he injured his paw pad while chasing squirrels in Black Park, one of our favorite walking spots. My husband, who stayed with him while I was away, noticed he had an easier time walking on the grass after that, so he kept him home and exercised him in the back garden. A few days later, he took him to the Camp, where he could easily access the grass, but Sparky ran off after squirrels in the trees that surround the Iron-Age hillfort, and re-injured his poor toe. Back to the back yard, for several more days.

But this is a dog who really needs his exercise, and by today we couldn't see any redness on his toe. So we cast about for safe places to go. We thought of the Long Walk, which is a great spot in Windsor Great Park for walking and horseriding, but there's a paved lane down the middle. After poking around on the web, I found the parallel Queen Anne's Ride in Windsor Great Park, which doesn't have any paved areas and with a single line of trees at the sides of the "lane", it seemed like a perfect place, at least from Google maps. There even appeared to be off-road parking right next to the area, right off the A332. 

So we loaded up the dog, our whistles, our super-duper recall treats (this time it was roasted chicken) and we headed to Windsor. I had heard that the Queen sometimes walks her corgis on Queen Anne's Ride, but when we got there there were very few walkers on the long grassy stretch, and none of them seemed the least bit royal.

It was perfect—fenced, for the most part, on either side, with about 50 or 60 yards between the fences, and an endless stretch before us. This served to keep Sparky relatively close to us, though he really wanted to cross into the open fields on either side of the fences. And worryingly, there were two horses and riders, in the deer park on the other side of the fence. Sparky looked interested, but he came right away when we called him over to us, and he never barked at the huge beasts, even when they took off at a trot. 

Checking out a dead tree, the enticing deer park on the other side of the fence. 

The few dogs we came across, he simply ignored, and they gave up on engaging him pretty quickly. Our only problem came when we saw what looked to be sheep off to the side when the fence on the right ended. 

Sheep would be a disaster for our part-Border Collie. So we leashed him up, and approached the area carefully, both of us peering through our thick eyeglass lenses to see what those prone spots were in the grass. 

Boy were we embarrassed when we realized the "sheep" were actually tufts of daffodils. 

(In our defense, daffodills here are REALLY big and fluffy!)

We let Sparks off lead again, and he happily ran through the field, ignoring the threatening daffs. 

Daffodils? Or fluffy sheep?

At the top of the rise, we looked back, and there was Windsor Castle, in the distance. I suppose the Queen is busy with Easter duties this weekend, though she spends most weekends in Windsor, with the corgis, as many tourists who've seen the Royal helicopter land during a tour of the castle can attest. 

Looking back toward Windsor Castle

Though the weather was miserable for Easter weekend—in the 40s, and overcast, we were glad to get out and have a proper walk. Once again, we realized how lucky we are to live in southern England, where the only threatening lifeform is a clump of prone daffodils.

A Very Smelly Recall

Recall in the snow

We're really working hard on improving Sparky's recall, with the help of a workshop we've taken at Company of Animals. They've given us some great tips for improving recall. It turns out I was on the right track, but I just needed to do more of what I was already doing: better treats, more exciting recalls, and generally making myself even more of a beloved (and benevolent) human. If I am the source of all good things, he'll want to be sure to be near me, despite the lure of squirrels. (Here's a video by Company of Animals on "canine currency" that explains how to improve rewards.)

Although I thought I was offering high-value treats to Sparky whenever I whistled for him to come, it turns out there are even better treats than roast turkey. 

Now, being vegan, I'm not exactly thrilled at putting any kind of meat in my hands, and I drew the line at sardines. Except that's the thing that Sparky loves most. His recall has improved even more since we rewarded him with a sardine each time he raced up to us. 

Fortunately there is such a thing as rubber gloves. 

The video above was taken at the Camp, a local Iron Age hillfort where we frequently walk Sparky. It's surrounded by trees and brush, and beyond that, fenced gardens. So it's a safe place to work on recall skills. 

Sunday is our last session of the workshop. The last time we went, Sparky was fascinated by the llamas that came up to the fence. They proved to be the perfect distraction, which we needed to get Sparky's recall to the next level, where he would return to us despite a high level distraction. (In the wild, sheep, horses, and of course squirrels are real-life distractions he'll have to learn to ignore when we call him.)

As we discovered, when it was turkey vs llamas, the llamas won. But when sardines entered the picture, we suddenly had a dog totally focused on us. 

A very smelly victory, but still, a victory.

Dogs Behaving Appropriately

 

Smitty, acting just like kids everywhere on Saturday morning

If you're tired of Fenton's misbehavior and prefer videos of dogs behaving appropriately, here's Smitty, watching Marmaduke on TV.

Okay, I know, he's got his feet on the table. But I'm still training my husband not to do that, so I can't fault Smitty.

Cows, Meet Dog

As long as I'm posting videos in the "cute livestock/dog interaction" genre, I might as well include this one someone pointed me to on Facebook: A boxer greets a herd of cows. 

Now, I've seen plenty of cows in my lifetime (well, the last few years, since I moved to this cow-ridden country) and I've seen many, many dogs, and I've even seen cows and dogs together. But I've never seen anything quite like the cow/dog interaction in this video. 

It will blow your mind, melt your heart, and have you thinking of a few more clichés. 

Go ahead, watch it if you haven't already. (In which case your heart is already melted and you are probably seeking medical attention right now.)

And get me that dog. I have some cows that want to meet him.

Where Are The Cows?

You may have noticed a lack of cows on this site, the home of the original Friday Cow Blogging. Not even any sheep, horses, or other barnyard animals have found themselves near my camera lens these past few months. 

As always, it's harder to find cows and sheep during the winter—ours go to another pasture to spend the cold months, when the grass in our pasture (not really ours, of course, we just live next door) isn't very tasty. 

But there's another reason. I used to hike several miles each week with my hiking group, which I was once the leader of, along with my dog Bailey. In fact, she knew the footpaths and routes of our circular walks better than I did—if she veered to the left at a Y I followed her, knowing she knew which way we'd walked before.

I never had any problem with her on our walks. Walking through woods, pastures, along rivers, through crops—I could always trust her to never wander too far, and more importantly, she never bothered any livestock. 

That's a serious issue here. Most dogs are allowed off lead routinely, unlike in the US where dogs are rarely off-lead. Yet there is a Countryside Code that must be obeyed: you always leash your dog when there are livestock about. Even well-behaved dogs must be leashed. I obeyed that rule, even though I had no doubt that Bailey wasn't about to worry sheep—she did want to eat their droppings, however. (Yes, dogs are gross. We love them anyway.) Technically, a farmer has the right to shoot a dog that's worrying his livestock, and I had no wish to argue with a farmer over the meaning of "worrying". I kept her on lead, except when there were no sheep about. 

But she had plenty of fun at other times, since most of our walks passed through all types of countryside. She enjoyed plowing through the Thames, plopping down in puddles, and plunging into fields of bright rape, unhindered by a leash except when we crossed busy roads. Her recall wasn't close to perfect, but it didn't matter: I had absolutely no worries that she'd get into trouble. (Mud, yes, and smelly fox poop, yes, but trouble, as defined by the Countryside Code, no.)

Flash forward to now: Sparky isn't to be trusted around livestock. Not that he's really ever been given the chance; I know him too well. He did once slip away (I dropped the lead going over a stile) and he quickly found a nearby paddock with two horses. He raced up and down the fence barking, and then slid underneath the barbed wire. He didn't come when we called, and after eventually rounding him up, I swore I'd never let him off lead again. 

His recall is better now, but I have no doubt he would never come if there were exciting sheep nearby. And since he's blazing fast off lead, he covers ground too fast for me to be comfortable with him off lead in the countryside, at least not in an area that's likely to have livestock over the next hill. 

So we've been making do with walks in the park and the Common, and weekly forays to the almost enclosed hillfort nearby. We let him off leash only when there's no traffic nearby and no livestock. Since he's dog-reactive, we once kept him on-lead around other dogs, but we no longer worry about that. He's learned very well how to tell other dogs he's not interested, and only the occasional pushy dog gets a bark in the face. 

Hence, no livestock photos for me. I could walk without him, but then I'd just have to come home and walk again, with him. I may do that more in the spring, but meanwhile, I've signed us up for a recall workshop, held on a farm with livestock. I'm hoping we can introduce Sparky to some sheep under controlled conditions, and at the same time improve his recall. Right now it's close to perfect—in low and medium distraction situations. When he's chasing squirrels, forget it. I have no doubt he wouldn't respond to our whistle if he was barking at sheep. 

In the meantime, here's a video of Sparky, showing off his recall in a medium-distraction situation (helpfully provided by the neighbor's gardener and his little dog). It'll have to do until I can get to the countryside with a free hand for a camera. 

Sparky Finds His Sweet Spot

Found the sweet spot!

Last night my husband came down the stairs and saw Sparky in his usual pose, lying in a tight circle on the rug in the middle of the entrance hall. But this time he'd managed to find the sweet spot, exactly in the center of the round rug.

He's always slept tightly curled up, as if conserving body heat. We suspect that before we got him, he'd been left outside on cold nights with no shelter. He also had a massive coat, despite the fact it was September. In fact, we thought at first he was much bigger, but after we brushed him a few times we discovered he was quite thin, weighing around 20 kilos. 

He's put on weight now, despite stomach issues, and this house is never cold, but he still curls up to sleep like a little cold mouse. 

This is his second Christmas with us. And I believe it's a much merrier Christmas than we'd have without him. (The squirrels may have a different opinion, as do the cats across the street who used to hunt in our garden. And the mailman, who is greeted with vociferous barking if he dares approach the door.)

I hope this holiday season finds all dogs and kitties well fed, warm, and snoozing contentedly on someone's rug. If you can, open your home to a foster dog or cat; you'll never regret it.

Good Things Come Unexpectedly: Sparky's First Year

Sparky's first day here, checking out Ireland on the map of the British Isles.

One year ago, I was trolling online for puppy porn when the phone rang. I had taken to looking at Golden Retriever websites, both in the UK and in the States, hoping to one day fill that big hole in my heart left by the loss of my golden girl Bailey. 

It was Saturday night, so I was surprised to hear the foster coordinator from Irish Retriever Rescue, who I'd signed up with a couple of weeks earlier (about the time we realized we wouldn't be moving to the States right away).

They had an emergency. Sparky had just come over from Ireland, arriving in Anglesey on the 5 a.m. ferry. He'd been transported to Bath, where IRR was having their annual reunion, and was introduced to his foster family—and their three dogs. 

The meeting didn't go well. Sparky chased the other dogs, barking at them and tackling them, and generally let it be known he wasn't happy being near other dogs. He spent his first night in a car, for the safety of the other dogs at the event.

When I got the call, I was literally online looking at pups. I knew we might be moving within the next six months, so getting a dog—especially a puppy—was a bad idea, but a girl can dream. I also would have preferred a full grown rescue dog, perhaps even an "oldie Goldie", but I knew moving a dog back to the States would be difficult, and an old dog might not be medically cleared for the journey. 

My online friend Nancy Freedman-Smith had inspired me to foster. I came across her Gooddogz training blog, and read the stories she posted of her fosters. Through Twitter I found other fosterers, and the love and commitment they showed to their foster dogs made me determined to do the same.

So when I got that call I said yes, immediately. Of course I'd take this dog who attacked other dogs! He probably just needed a lot of love. And maybe some healthy food, some firm training, and, I don't know, some cuddles?

Yes, I was pretty clueless. Even though I've owned dogs most of my life, I'd never had one with issues more serious than piddling. I was going to learn a lot over the next year. 

The next day, I collected Sparky at a motorway services outside of Oxford. The man who transported him from Bath handed me a leash and enough food for a few days, and Sparky hopped in my car. That was the last time Sparky was ever perfectly quiet in a car: He didn't make a sound, just looked at me, a question in his huge tawny eyes. I've often wondered what he must have thought during that 35 minute drive home. 

Sparky arrived needing a lot more than cuddles. He was dirty, matted, and smelled like he'd been on a months-long sea voyage. Newly neutered, he seemed physically healthy, bright, alert and eager—very eager—to earn treats. He stared intently at me when I spoke to him, in a language that sounded like nothing he'd heard before. I knew dogs don't understand accents, so it didn't surprise me that he didn't understand even a simple "sit" that I uttered in my American voice. 

Over the next few weeks, we got him cleaned up, found food that didn't go right through him, and discovered a great—and scrawny—dog underneath the heavy coat he'd grown while sleeping outside. With a terminally ill owner, Sparky had apparently been left to his own devices in the garden. This is why, I suspect, he sleeps curled up in a tight ball, as if he's learned to conserve body heat. 

We didn't plan to keep Sparky. When I first saw him bark and lunge at other dogs, I was embarrassed and frustrated. He wasn't the kind of dog I needed, one who could go on long walks across the English countryside without bothering other dogs or livestock, who could be trusted to come back when I called. And I was enamored with the idea of fostering—even though I knew I'd miss him when his forever family came for him, I steeled my heart, knowing he would never be mine. 

But no one called to enquire about the dog who didn't like other dogs. And we grew to love him, despite our steely hearts and his "dog-reactive" ways. 

Along the way, I found help where I always do: online. My friend Nancy was always a Tweet away (she keeps odd hours) and on Facebook to answer my questions, and I found other online resources too—the dog community is remarkably generous with advice, I've discovered. While I'd always been interested in dog-related websites and books, I'd never paid much attention to training, other than knowing instinctively that Cesar's Way was not the right way. 

Within a few weeks, I'd learned how classical conditioning works, a fancy term we translated into simply "dogs=cheese". Sparky was quickly learning that the sight of other dogs meant I pulled out a stick of string cheese, offering bits as we passed other dogs from a safe distance. The barking and lunging was replaced by his rapt attention on me. Eventually, I was able to work with a trainer and her dogs. The first time I saw Sparky walking side by side with another dog, I almost cried. 

At Christmas, my daughters came home, and Sparky slept with Daughter Number Two her first night home. By the time she left a month later, I knew Sparky would be our forever dog. It took a few months, though, to fully commit. I felt like I was playing whack-a-mole with him—as soon as we'd almost solved one problem, another would pop up. Like resource guarding, another term I'd never heard of. This time, I turned to Grisha Stewart's article on her website, and within weeks we had that issue, too, under control. 

Now, having attended two training seminars on dog behaviour, I've learned that Sparky's issues were mild compared to some dogs. We probably caught the problem fairly soon after it started, likely when he was living on his own in his back garden. The sight of other dogs passing his fence every day could have inspired his case of dog reactivity. I don't think Sparky was ever treated badly, not intentionally, anyway. He simply had bad luck, and then he had some good luck. 

But I'm really the lucky one. Sparky came along just when I needed him, when I needed a "project", as my daughter told me. I've learned more about dog behaviour in the year I've had Sparky than in all the years previously. And I'm more proud of what I've accomplished with him than I am of any other achievement.  

The other day, I brought Sparky along on a 4.5 mile pre-hike with the new hike leader. We went to Burnham Beeches, walked past horses and cows (on lead) and I let him run off lead through the 540-acre wood. He came back to me whenever I called, racing ahead of me on the footpath, then racing right back to check in. We handled the herd of barky Labs that greeted us near the carpark with aplomb. (I led him off the path while they passed—he seemed relieved that I'd learned a few tricks at the BAT seminar I attended.) 

We've still got a ways to go—Sparky will never be an "easy" dog. But with the help of my online community of "dog advisers" and a new positive, rewards-based trainer I've found nearby—and with a dog who's exceptionally eager to please—I've got no doubt we'll get there. 

Sparky's first year here has been brought to you by my friend Nancy at Gooddogz, and all the others, online and off, who inspired and advised and consoled me. We both owe them a debt of gratitude.

One year later, Sparky knows he has found his forever home.

Blackberry Face

On our walk today Sparky stopped at the blackberry vines next to the pond and nibbled at blackberries while I kept an eye on the Jack Russell fetching a ball in the pond. 

When we left his face was smudged with blackberry juice. 

That's my boy.

Rite of Passage

It felt like a rite of passage. 

Every August my dog Bailey would spend hours outside eating the blackberries that grow along the fence. She'd carefully nibble the ripe ones, somehow knowing which were perfectly sweet despite the color, which can be deceptive. She also knew the best spots on our walk to stop and enjoy the blackberries, and sometimes we'd wait while she ate her fill. 

The other day Sparky discovered the blackberries. We were out taking photos of the cows when he figured out those fat berries were worth the trouble it took to nibble them carefully off the prickly vines. He sniffed, then gently pulled the juicy morsels into his mouth.

Oh, the joys of summer. The tail end of summer, anyway.

Sparky Sits, Tweets

"I have a lot to say!"

Sparky now has a Twitter account. He's been tweeting to his doggie friends, and even a cat or two. He also follows a Meercat and the Bronx zoo's cobra, Mia. 

You may follow him here. 

He fancies himself as something of a security expert. Tweets constantly about invasions in the back garden and night prowlers. 

I think he's a bit paranoid. Must be the Border Collie in him.

Sparky Settles In

Sparky settles. 

My husband taught Sparky a new trick, Settle. Now he does it all the time, just in case there might be a treat in it for him. 

I've been doing some spring cleaning, and Sparky got spring cleaned too. He's nice and fresh now, smelling of oatmeal shampoo. 

See what a handsome lad he is! 

Pretty boy! 

Also, in case you're wondering we've officially adopted Sparky. How could we not?

Dog Training the Tiger Mom Way?

Sparky susses out his dog puzzle.

I was never one of those parents who pushed their kids. Tiger Mom? More like a flounder mom, with a strictly hands off approach. I provided all the resources my girls needed to pursue their various interests, then stayed in the kitchen and ignored them when they didn't practice the piano/guitar/lesson du jour. 

With my dog, I was the same way. I taught her the basics, talked to her a lot, and relied on her own judgement to learn the rest. Since she had pretty good judgment, she stayed out of trouble most of the time—although I can't say she stayed out of mud puddles. That was her choice, though, and while I hated the dirt, I loved that she loved it. 

Sparky is proving to be a bit different. He has horrible judgment: he barks at dogs, strangers, noises, pheasants, and cows. He'd likely chase sheep if given the chance, and I'm pretty sure he wants a piece of the cats next door. 

So my non-interventionist parenting skills aren't working with him. He needs guidance, i.e. training, and lots of it. From day one I've tried to shape his behavior, and teach him some coping skills like "leave it" and "stay" and "quiet". I.e., the Tiger Mom equivalent of dog training, which goes against my Flounder Mom nature. 

Fortunately, he's a brilliant dog. He learns very quickly, but there's a difference between teaching him cute tricks and teaching him good behavior. He's a master of cute tricks. In fact, he's learned that when he sits on his haunches next to my desk, I'll stop work and reward his "cute trick". He does this without prompting—cleverly, he's figured out how easy I am to train, too. 

I taught him to "touch" my hand, and other objects, like Blue Bone and Rope Toy. He also can "get" toys, distinguishing between toys with different names or generic toys (i.e., toys we haven't bothered to name). Last night, I made sure he knew the difference between "touch" and "get" (i.e., pick up and bring to me) a specific toy—a skill that will need reinforcing, but was pretty easy to teach him. 

Again, fortunately, he's highly motivated by food. As soon as he figures out what I want him to do, he does it, eagerly and happily, knowing he's getting a nice nibble of something, anything—it doesn't have to be a particularly high value treat for him to "twirl" or "rollover". Unlike Tiger Mom, I don't even have to threaten to take away his Barbie house.

He's even learned how to find treats hidden in his dog puzzle, which I won in a Facebook giveaway from D for Dogs. It keeps him occupied, especially these winter days when weather forces us indoors. (It's better than listening to him practice the piano for hours on end.)

Cute tricks and puzzle solving may be worth their weight in dog treats, but when you come upon a pasture full of lambs, having your dog perform a perfect twirl won't cut it. And while Sparky's recall is great—in the back garden—I know better than to let him run off lead anywhere there are more than a few birds as distraction. 

If I were a Tiger Mom, I'm sure Sparky could learn as much as Chaser, the wonder dog who knows over 1000 objects as well as verbs. That would be easy, if time consuming. In the end, I'd have a dog who could pick up children's toys, help with the laundry, and retrieve the remote control. Handy, but I want a dog who can hike along trails without launching an attack on a passing poodle.

I don't know how to teach a dog good judgment. Maybe it just takes time, and dog years. We've been working with a behaviorist, but I've learned when it comes to behavior training, I'm the one who needs to learn the most. It's not as easy as driving your kids to piano lessons, or teaching your dog to "twirl" while you hold a treat in front of his nose.

Tiger Mom I'm not, but then, my girls turned out okay. I expect Sparky will too. Although I don't know if he'll ever be welcome at Carnegie Hall—unless they need a really good twirler.

A Date, a Dog, and a Dream

A favorite footpath

It's December 9, a date that for a year now has lived in infamy, in my heart at least. For months I've dealt with the Seven Stages of Grief, or is it Twelve? I've added a few more, including Anger—a hot potent rage that scares me sometimes. And Guilt. I wake up at night still, stifling sobs, as I think of that day, 12 months ago, when I dropped my dog off at the vet and never said goodbye. 

That's the one that gets me. Not that she would have understood what it meant, but when she woke up, hours later, in pain and alone, wondering where her soulmate was—and yes, I was her soulmate just as she was mine—that's what makes me feel like the most worthless human that ever walked on the other end of a leash.

Our leash was mostly invisible. It was a bond that kept her coming back to me, when the open woods called, when a pasture of sheep lay ahead. It was there when I left her, her purple leash handed over to the receptionist, while I ducked away so no one would see the tears in my eyes. Tears that taste more bitter as guilt than they did as grief. 

Unexpected loss is perhaps the hardest to deal with. Include a big dose of guilt, and you've got a year's worth of unresolved grief. 

I know this sounds like wallowing. And I hate wallowing. So what have I done in this last year to resolve the grief of losing a pet, the guilt from losing one so badly? 

I found an online support group. That, admittedly, didn't do much good. My friends were much better at supporting me through this, especially friends with pets. It's a unique kind of loss, for those whose presence is so constant in our lives, and whose need for us grows greater as they age.

I read the book The Loss of a Pet by Wallace Sife, PhD. It says in black and white exactly what I was feeling, and told me it was normal. What a relief to hear that. 

I've made donations to pet organizations, including one that was today recommended by my friend Christie Keith in her column for the San Francisco Chronicle. Helping pets does help to get through these horrible holidays, to paraphrase her title.  

The number one way to overcome the loss of a pet is to get another one, everyone says, but in our case that has been complicated by an imminent move—or what we thought, during the summer, was an imminent move. So I went with option B, fostering a rescue dog, instead. As I told someone the other day, he fills the hole in my life labeled "Dog". He doesn't fill the hole in my heart labeled "Bailey." 

But then nothing ever will. And that's okay. It's not meant to be filled. I've got similar spots reserved for Fifi, and for Bonnie. 

I'll share a dream I had several weeks ago. I tend to put a lot of stock in dreams, and the meaning of this one was clear. 

I was in a living room, and I felt the presence of a dog nearby. She wouldn't leave my side. I looked down and it was Bonnie, who died several years ago at age 16. I knew it was her, because she was always a Velcro dog, never far from me. I picked her up and helped her onto the sofa, where I noticed another dog, a white poodle. Could it be Fifi? She turned to me, letting me see the skin lesion on her side, so I'd know it was her—she suffered from skin cysts.

At this point, I turned to my dream husband, to ask him if he saw these dogs, and recognized them as well. He ignored me, as husbands do in dreams, and I wondered, Where's Bailey? I looked out the window of my dream house, and there she was, walking down the street. Walking, of course, because that's how I'd know her. My beautiful girl, prancing along without a leash, our invisible bond as strong as ever. 

My three dogs were all eager for me to recognize them, to know they were still with me. In my heart, where they'll always be. 

Enough wallowing. Today the sun is shining, unlike that date a year ago, and I've got a dog who needs me to take him for a walk.