Asses and Alligators

Author's note: this is a story from several years ago. I will preface this by saying that the Rottweilers herein represented are not what I would consider representative of a well-bred member of their breed. Rotties were originally working dogs, and well-bred, good-tempered and physically sound examples can certainly be found - but in my neck of the woods, there has in the past been, and to some degree still is, an unfortunate abundance of questionably-bred orthopedic disasters of foul and unstable temperament. These animals are NOT what the breed is intended to be, although fortunately their numbers are declining in favor of more judiciously-bred animals that are truer to the breed's intended characteristics.


So Friday morning I started the day out with the biggest ass of month. Always a good way to begin, I find... everyone else seems so reasonable by contrast.

First thing that morning, in comes a man who, I will faithfully report, is rather good-looking, in a media-pretty sort of way; he is, however, not nearly as good-looking as he appears to believe he is, based on his superior demeanor. But perhaps I'm being unfair; maybe he just wants the rest of us to admire how well-tanned he's managed to get the underside of his nose, and is demonstrating this by keeping it pointed up in the air at all times. At any rate, apart from his unnaturally-even tanning-bed tan, he is very buff, which he shows off by wearing sweatshirts with the sleeves torn off - which I will say makes him look like he's pretending to be a high school jock, in defiance of his actual age. This makes me think "pretty-boy", by which I mean a (thankfully uncommon) member of the male gender who believes he is God's gift to everything in the known Universe. Such people tend to walk as if they expect the air to part before them in deference to their magnificence. This is a class of men I tend to dislike, so I automatically try to compensate by being extra pleasant and cutting a big margin for some benefit of the doubt.

This client is dragging - quite literally - his puppy in on a leash. The dog is petrified; on entering the clinic he immediately sits down on his haunches, frozen in terror, and has locked all legs, absolutely rigid with panic. Rather than coax, encourage or support the dog in any way so that he can learn to move forward and cope with his fears, he guy just pulls on the leash and skids the dog along the floor. This in itself isn't the worst thing I can think of - but it does mean two things: One, that the puppy - a 40# Rottweiler mix - has not been taught to walk on a leash. And Two, that the owner has little concern for the dog's state of mind. This is a 16 week old pup, so he should both trust the owner and know how to walk on a leash by now... and if he doesn't, dragging him around by the leash is not the way to teach him either thing.

The guy hoiks him onto the table for his last set of puppy shots. The pup cowers on the table, head ducked and limbs trembling, clearly afraid of me but just as clearly uncertain of the owner, from whom he appears to be unsure of his welcome. I try to reassure the puppy, petting and talking nice, as I mention (quite mildly) to the man that he might consider puppy classes for this dog; he's clearly afraid, and puppy classes will increase his confidence and make the rest of his life much easier and less frightening for him.

"Nope," says the owner decisively. "This dog just stays home. I'm not doing any classes with him. I did that with my last dog and he died."

My eyebrows go up sharply. "He died in puppy class?" I ask in some astonishment. Having been through three puppy classes with two different instructors, I cannot imagine any scenario where a dog might die in puppy class. Puppies are generally not physically or psychologically capable of killing each other, even if an instructor or owner would allow it, and because of the nature of the class - i.e., it's likely to be full of PUPPIES - the rooms are, quite naturally, puppy-proofed.

"No, he didn't die in puppy class, but I put $1400 of training into him and then he was out tied in my yard and some kids came into the yard and shot him," he says.

"I'm awfully sorry to hear that," I say, "but that didn't have anything to do with the classes. I'm not suggesting training that extensive in this case - just a basic class to help his confidence and give him the basics."

"Thanks for you interest, but this dog is just going to stay home," the owner repeats, dismissively. I look at the puppy, who is now leaning toward me, not the owner, for comfort.

"This is a nice puppy, but he's scared," I try again, thinking that concern for the dog's well-being may sway the owner. "Because of his breed, he may be at risk for fear-biting. If he does that he could be destroyed. Puppy classes might help us avoid that."

"If he bites anyone, I'll kill him myself," the owner says. "We're not doing any training. People pay too much attention to their dogs anyway."

Say WHAT?

I feel my eyes go slitty and hard. I hesitate for a moment, ire surging - what the hell else do we HAVE dogs for, if not to either use them for work or have them as companions - or both? In either scenario, you have to PAY ATTENTION TO THEM. Completely apart from which - but possibly more importantly - dogs are social animals. They REQUIRE interaction, and in the absence of other dogs they must get this from their owners. How cruel is it to deliberately choose to get an animal that requires attention, and then refuse to give it? This dog could have had another home, where someone might love him and bother to teach him some basic skills - but this man bought him, thus eliminating all the other options for the puppy, and then refuses to provide him the care he deserves. I suddenly wonder if the dog's lack of confidence is more due to his treatment at home than his inborn temperament.

This all flashes through my head in an instant. I give the owner a narrow look, but he is busy brushing imaginary lint off of his leather bomber jacket, now draped over his arm - although if this man is a pilot I'll eat my mouse pad. He's a narcissistic prettyboy, one of my least favorite kinds of people. I open my mouth to ask him why he even has this dog - and then I stop. There is no point. The man has no room in his world for anything but himself and his mirror, and any accoutrements that might up his image. I vaccinate the dog - all I can really do to help him is to prevent any miserable painful viral diseases from getting on board, and I am way too near to stabbing this jerk with a trochar (perhaps THAT would puncture his self-importance, but he might go flying around the room like a deflating balloon, and I really don't want to have to clean up after THAT). I try not to entertain any unflattering speculations about any - erm - personal deficiencies his preening might be compensating for, vaccinate the dog (with an apologetic head rub - I did try, little one) and get this GOMER out of my clinic.

Well, I admit I went back to the treatment area and vented a bit. I called him a gomer so many times that I finally had to explain to the bewildered nurses that it's a medical abbreviation of sorts - it stands for Get Out of My Emergency Room. They thought that was sort of funny, and it did restore my good humor to a degree. I had several good clients after that, including a favorite cat-owner, so about 10:00 I was in a pretty good mood. Which was when JB came back and told me there was someone outside wanting 4 vaccines, to be given in the car. There are two Rotts and two Rott mixes. And two of the four were "Caution" dogs, which means that at some time (perhaps many times) they have indicated a willingness to bite, and may or may not have been successful in this attempt.

Oh joy.

JB tells me the owner assures her that she will hold the dogs. Dr. P's eyebrows are practically airborne with skepticism. Fortunately the owner has brought her husband as well, so we have backup. Based on the jaundiced expression with which Dr. P greets this assertion, I gather he is not especially optimistic regarding the success of this plan.

While I am drawing up vaccine, Dr. P (who is prepping for a surgery and thus exempt from Caution Dog duty) says, "Tell them we have a sniper stationed on the roof of the clinic. If any of the dogs bite, the sniper will shoot... the owner."

I snerk a bit about that, gather my vaccines, and mentally gird up my loins for another round in the Vet-vs.-Vicious-Dog Smackdown Championships.

Outside I find that the owners have brought two vehicles with 2 dogs each in them. This is a dang good idea, since all four dogs are enormous. We start with the Rotts, both large, robust and seriously overweight bitches. They get the first one out, who begins growling at me the minute her feet hit the pavement. The two owners manage to twist and shove until I am presented with a large expanse of black hide as my target. I get the vaccine in, they wrestle the dog back into the car, and it's on to round two. The second bitch is wagging her tail happily as the owners squeeze her into position, but the minute I approach, needle drawn and at the ready, she gives a twist of astonishing agility (in view of her impressive girth) and lunges, snapping, at my face. I - no fool - have positioned myself so that a quick skip back is right in my repertoire, and I dodge neatly out of the way while the owners smack the dog and yell at her. She shows every evidence of contrition until I make my second pass, when she lunges upward in their restraining grip like a breaching whale, whipping her head from side to side and gnashing her teeth like a shark in a feeding frenzy. Spit is flying from her jaws and her formidable teeth are snicking shut with loud, sinister clicks.

"Maybe we should get a muzzle; you're going to get bitten," I tell the owners, backing off.

"No we won't; just do it," grunts the husband, corralling the dog again and hauling her head into his grip. His wife holds the collar in a death grip. I make a third pass and the bitch gives a mighty heave and twist, fast and lethal as a hunting alligator, and there is a sudden flurry and scuffle.

"What the fuck is WRONG with you?!?" the owner yells, clouting the dog across the head (now I know he's mad - he's just said "fuck" in front of a doctor). Suddenly there is human blood on the scene, and guess what? It isn't mine. Well, I did warn them, and they refused the muzzle, so my liability is covered. It only took 2 seconds, but the bitch's razoring teeth have nicked both owners. Now the man is mad. He sits on the SUV's tailgate, hauls the dog's front end into his lap, and gets a headlock on her. The wife grabs the rolls of fat in what is normally the scruff, and I make a quick squat-and-stab move, getting the vaccine on board and popping up like a Jack-in-the-box to get out of the way as the dog makes another nearly-successful gator-lunge at me - this time avoiding further bloodshed, fortunately. Ironically, this dog does NOT have a caution on her chart. And this is the very worst kind of Rottweiler, the kind that wags happily and smiles at you, but will lunge at you in deadly earnest at the slightest provocation - without even the warning of a lifted lip or a growl, and will keep at it over and over, despite the owner's correction. There's something creepily reptilian about this, despite the fact that the dog physically resembles a small, fat and extremely ill-tempered black bear.

After that the other two dogs - one of which was another caution dog - are sweetness and light. Both are males, both are trim, both are mixes, and both are vaccinated in a matter of seconds.

I go inside with A Look on my face.

"Uh oh... what happened?" asks JB.

"Well, two people got bitten, but neither of them was me," I tell her. "You might want to put a caution on Maggie's chart," I add. "She's the one who did the biting."

I stroll on back to Treatment to dispose of my syringes. "How'd it go?" asks Dr. P (now scrubbed in and about to enter surgery).

"Could've used that sniper," I reply. Dr. P (who has himself been bitten without provocation by at least one Rottie) bursts out laughing. But since I am not covered in blood, he goes off chuckling into surgery.

Y'know, when I went to vet school, they didn't say anything about wanting us to have skills that would make us eligible for guest spots on "The Crocodile Hunter". But maybe they should have.

Carolina Cold

So, after NAVC it was time to head north to NC where JP, her farm, and Raven awaited me. Unfortunately for poor JP, I arrived in my most unappealing possible state: Jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, virus-laden and somewhat the worse for wear after several months of combined winter- and injury-induced inactivity and stress- and Holiday-related chocolate consumption. Whilst JP was driving us around, I was actually hallucinating; I'd fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, entering a weird fugue-state in which I was simultaneously listening to the conversation, sleeping, aware I was sleeping, experiencing auditory hallucinations, and aware I was having auditory hallucinations. Such events lacked all sense of time: they might have gone on for a microsecond, or a half hour. Someone in the hallucination state was telling me aaaall about what Diane had to say. I have no idea who Diane is. I know some truly delightful women of that name (or a variation thereof), but I have no idea if it was to one (or all) of them that the hallucination referred. But I digress.

Raven appeared pretty confused to see me at first. It is a measure of JP's dog competence (and her absolute trustworthiness as one in whom to place your animal's well-being) that Raven looked to her for explanation, even while she was re-acquainting herself with my scent and voice. That made me feel good, to know that Raven trusted her so well; JP has had her care for nine months now, and I feel less as though I had abandoned Raven, knowing that she landed in so safe and worthy a spot. Intellectually, I knew it would be so, or I would not have done it in the first place, but it brought me a little extra measure of peace to know that on another level; to see it with my own eyes. It's one thing to know it will be all right. It's another thing entirely to Know it.

What with one thing and another I was entirely useless til the next day. JP and I went out in the early afternoon to see what Raven could do. It was amazing, and overwhelming, to see how far she has come in JP's skilled hands. Out into the pasture went my little black and white dog, much as I have known her all along. And then JP sent her, and all of a sudden it wasn't just my little dog. It was all the dogs that came before her, their genetics gathered and sorted and combined and re-combined into the particular array of what Raven is; bits and pieces of all the stock dogs of her line, her own unique combination of their genetics contained in that one small body, and summoned by the skill of a shepherd.

Damn, I thought. I'm way over my head here. There's no way I'm even one percent as good as the dog is.

Oh, well. I always knew that between us, I would be the weak link.

I practiced at first with another of JPs dogs, a made stock dog who will, she says, work for anyone. An honest dog, and one who forgave my idiocy readily, bless her lovely heart. I practiced with Raven, who was less sure of me and her job, and inclined (most likely out of stress and uncertainty) to dive in for a little ye-hah moments, feeling the pressure of my unfamiliarity to her as a handler, unsure of my leadership. I was dizzy as it was from sleep deprivation and the head cold, but I quickly got dizzier still trying to stay in front of Raven's speed in the round pen.

After a bit - needing to regain my equilibrium both literally and figuratively, I paused for instruction. JP pointed out that my voice was too kind, a concept that gave me a wry grin; I have spent so much of my professional life cultivating that voice, the one that coaxes the terrified dogs and cats from the backs of their cages to creep, trembling, but trusting through their fear that my tone speaks the truth of my intent, to my hand. So I must reach further back, to my days as a racehorse groom, when I had cultivated a voice that with a certain well-pitched "Ahhht!" could convey to a randy colt the laid-back ears and pinched nostrils and bared and snapping teeth he would have gotten had I been his lead mare.

In the open pasture JP showed me what Raven's mother, Twist, is made of. Here is a dog that needs no instruction beyond knowing what the job is that she is asked to do. She is an agile, tough, lovely little dog, so quick to read her stock and adjust accordingly in order to accomplish the task that, before your mind can process the conscious thought of what needs to come next, she is already at least two moves past it. If you have ever seen a good competition reining horse or working cow pony working a steer, weaving back and forth (while the rider sits quiet, staying out of the way of the pony's instinct), heading the steer off almost before the steer has had the thought to bolt, you have an idea of Twist on a sheep. She knows what to do, and she does it, correcting herself and judging her stock so fast that is is like magic, like a dance, like she and the sheep have rehearsed this all before and know what comes next. She's kind to her sheep, and a joy to behold. It's difficult to understand just how good she is while you are watching it, so fast does this dance move; it is only later, when you replay it slowly in your head, that you really start to get it.

In one of the pens JP had several ewes, one with a lamb at side. Ewes with lambs are inclined to fight the dog, rather than giving in to it. Moreover, there was one ewe - the crazy red ewe - who was inclined to cause problems in general. We took Raven in there, JP meaning to show me some of the other dynamics that Raven should be able to handle for me on the farm. It was a useful lesson. The stock split, the ewe with the lamb going one way and the rest, with the crazy red ewe in the lead, going the other. Raven placed herself where I thought she was wrong, off balance to the handler, and looking away from us at the small bunch of ewes headed by the crazy red one. But JP waited, and I watched. The ewe with the lamb faced Raven, stomping her foot, challenging her. Raven spared her an occasional glance, but kept her body facing toward the other ewes, where most of her attention was focused. In inter-dog or dog-people dynamics, this would indicate that she was either submitting to some degree (declining to engage directly, turning her shoulder), or stressed enough that she had to look away. But JP's narrations brought it into another light for me.

"See? She's using her physical presence to hold the ewe with the lamb, and using her eye to hold the crazy red ewe," JP told me. Suddenly the awkward triangle had symmetry and balance, and I thought: Trust the dog. She knows things about what is in the minds of these sheep that I will never be able to see. A moment later, two moments, and JP and Raven were proven right. The mama ewe, given a few moments to think while Raven held her with just enough pressure to keep her from bolting, turned her back, giving way. Raven came to her feet. The mama ewe eased over to the other ewes, bunched up behind the red ewe. Raven came to the balance point, heading the whole group and balanced to the handler. The ewes turned and filed into the stall that was our intended goal. And I felt completely humbled by this little dog, created by JP's good judgement and by a hundred and more years of Raven's forbears, honed by the work that they do and by the judgement of generations of hill shepherds.

The next day we drove to RF's farm for some different work on different sheep. There I worked Raven in a larger pen, and it went better; we started to get a feel for each other. She started listening more to me, getting a sense of my leadership, which steadied a bit with more practice and less spinning in dizzying circles. I corrected a flank and Raven stopped, listened, went the way I asked her to go. I called her off and she came, still eager for her sheep, but waiting to be sent.

I watched others work their dogs in bigger areas, with greater obstacles and more challenges. I watched some work their dogs in the round pen, or in a packed pen jammed with sheep and handler and dog so tight there was little space to move. I could not tell you what things I was learning from that, but I find that my eye now seeks different information when I look at an animal; perhaps my brain is weaving together the subtle and elusive tapestry of information that comprises stock sense. A rudimentary form of it just yet, to be sure, but the beginnings of it.

So it was a productive visit, although in some ways a muddled one, thanks to the head cold. Like Florida, it had been unseasonably cold in NC, so there were two kinds of cold to deal with - although compared to the deep sub-zero we'd endured for weeks in AK, it was quite pleasant for me. But I must say that there was a deal of warmth, as well... I was blessed to meet a number of people who I had known only from the Border Collie Boards, or other Internet contact, and I was charmed and delighted by these Southern women, so lively and warm and kind and mannerly, but also so full of fire and spice and wicked humor. There's something about the combination of hospitable good manners and cut-to-the-chase directness and pragmatism that is deeply engaging. I think I like the South... the food is as good and plentiful as all the stereotypes would lead you to believe, but the people are better than you would be able to imagine from any description.

I highly recommend it.