If dogs formed a band.
The little guy in back is the drummer.
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From left: Karsen & Kel (houseguests), Jager, Yaxley and Micron
Author Archives: Donna Black-Sword
Wordless Wednesday: Fur Fur Baby
Why we do the things we do
Do you hear that? I ask my Favorite Kid. I turn down the car radio and look into the side mirror. It sounds like someone’s yelling, doesn’t it?
We’re sitting on I-70, a normal highway on any other day. Today however, we’re all in supporting roles as this freeway of life impersonates a mall parking lot at Christmas. We’re tooling along, kind of, but walking would indeed be faster. But not safer. This snowstorm now upon us was quick, intense and completely unexpected.
It’s the people a couple cars back. Derek says as he turns to look behind us. A lady is shouting out the passenger window at another car.
Are they ok?, I ask.
Yeah, he says. She’s telling that one guy to let them over in his lane.
Huh, I say. Now I feel so old school. Nothing shows your age like the use of turn signals.
And since I don’t have anything better to do at this moment, I watch the car behind, passenger still hollering from her open window, shift awkwardly across three lanes of stop-and-go traffic. They run out of asphalt road on the far right, then proceed in haste along the emergency lane.
What is it that motivates people to do what they do?
Look, I kinda get it. There’s something about being stuck in traffic along a long stretch of nothin’ to bring up feelings of regret about that last refill of iced tea.
Hey, Derek, I say. I just remembered I need to go the bathroom. Roll down your window and help me get over a couple of lanes, willya?
He looks at me, blinks, and puts his ear buds back in.
Fine, I say, turning the radio back up. Just … fine.
With Miss Euka sleeping soundly in the back seat, we’re driving back home from the Canine Companions for Independence February graduation. Always a grounding experience for this puppy raiser, it’s a trip that I mark on my calendar each quarter. Since getting involved with CCI in 2008, I’ve only missed a slim few of the graduations.
Because, my friends, it’s these celebrations that are a reminder of why we puppy raisers are motivated to do what we do.
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| This little guy is waiting for his perfect match. |
You see, sometimes seeing the bond of the new dog and handler teams brings a tear to one’s eye. It’s so perfect, we sigh. And then you have last Friday’s event, where we were all pretty much using our shirt collars, or even jacket sleeves, to mop up the mess.
The graduation ceremonies mark the end of training for the pups that we put so much love into. At two years old, the dog is fully socialized, thanks to the noble efforts of their volunteer puppy raiser, as well as highly trained in the skills of being a service dog after six months with the professional trainers at CCI.
Not all the dogs will complete Advanced Training, though. Actually, less than half will make it this far. CCI has high standards for these dogs and, honestly, would we want it any other way? It’s the best of the best that are out there, y’all.
The elite few dogs that have chosen a career as an assistance dog will next be matched to a person to help mitigate a disability. Or perhaps teamed with a handler as a Facility Dog for such jobs as goal oriented physical therapy. Did you know … CCI provides four types of assistance dogs? (You can learn more directly from their website by clicking here.)
At the end of the six month Advanced Training program, the next step is Team Training with their new partner. CCI matches the dog’s abilities to the needs of an individual, adding and customizing commands over two intensive weeks.
And finally, the graduation ceremony. The ceremonial “handing over the leash” from the puppy raiser to the graduate happens here. Last Friday, we watched as ten children received their Skilled Companion Dog. Another eight adults accepted the leash with their Service Dog.
Oh, but something different this time. Before the ceremony, each graduate was asked to say a few words on what their new partner means to them. These thoughts were recorded and shared at each introduction.
This is the best day of my life, says one young lady.
A mom speaks for her son and, with her own voice breaking, tells us that in the last two weeks her son is now more accepting of human touch.
Another boy, in his own words tells us that his dog keeps him calmer during the times he feels like acting out.
My dog will be with me all the time, says another. I won’t feel lonely. She’s my best friend.
And we see … we see this, people … the dog walking up to the front of the room with their puppy raiser. That moment when they realize their partner is waiting there. Their step is lighter, the tail goes from happy wag to oh-my-dog it’s my person wag. The bond is there and it is strong. It won’t be broken. It can’t be.
That one moment suspended in time. And yet, it’s just the beginning. A social bridge for a child with a disability. An opportunity to reach a goal that was out of reach just a few days before. A new independence. A release of the fear of vulnerability.
So why do volunteer puppy raisers do what we do? What is our motivation?
That some day we can be the one handing that leash over to someone. To know the blessing of having a small part in this miracle of life.
It’s a simple as that.
This is what grounds me, especially as I realize this is the last CCI graduation ceremony we will attend as merely spectators, Euka and I.
Miss Euka will be matriculating into the Advanced Training program in May. Three months from now. We’re almost there, almost ready.
This dog of mine, who isn’t my dog, will be heading off to dog college. Our journey together will come to an end as we take separate paths.
We gave her wings to fly high. To go do great things.
And this is why we did the things we did.
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Wordless Wednesday: Euka vs The Snowball
Snowballs, says Euka. Are kinda weird to catch.
I mean, she continues, you think you’ve got the thing. Then afterwards, you’re all … was that it? Is that all there is?
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Trump ya with a Jack
Today we share the story of a good dog with a heart of gold. An otherwise great fellow who just made some very poor choices in life.
One after another. After another.
And so on.
Fuzzy memories of our time with Jack the Wonder Dog came back to me after a conversation with a friend about her own pup’s insistence of his right to nosh upon non-edibles. Now, I don’t want to think of myself as the kind of girl who has to top someone’s story with one of my own that-ain’t-nuthin’ adventures. I don’t want to be that person.
But in the case of Jack, I believe I just might have her trumped. With some to spare.
I admit we made some mistakes with Jack. It’s not all on him, the sweet boy. It’s the mid-1980’s, a time of shoulder pads and big hair perms. Bad enough, but that’s not the poor decisions I’m talking about. Married just about five years, the two of us decided it was time to get the party started by bringing in a new family member. By the two of us, I do mean it was pretty much just me. I wanted a family dog. It would be practice, I said, while we’re waiting for the right time for a baby.
Made sense to me. Totally. And still, that’s not the mistake of reference.
Here it is.
So we went to check on a litter of lab crosses we heard about from a friend of a friend. As I look about the hillbilly haven yardscape, I see the weary mom is a permanent outside dog, her thirteen pups are gamboling about in a filthy pen, and flies seem to be enjoying the communal food bowl the most of anyone. I decide there’s no more checking this place out. We’re gonna save one of these puppies.
They are six weeks old.
Right. Bad idea, that. The hard-earned truth is that taking a puppy before eight weeks means the tiny critter misses out on some prime-time learning from their nuclear family. Rather important life skills like bite inhibition and boundaries during play. And even, perhaps, appropriate table manners.
A little Buddha belly puppy waddles over and plops to his side to chew on the Husband’s sneaker shoelaces. What we think is the calmest of the litter is instead just suffering a low level version of a food coma. I lift the goober pup to look into his soft brown eyes and declare our new family member as good enuf.
And so we begin the next thirteen years of finger swiping unmentionable items from his ever inquisitive maw. And running like crazy people into a room every time we heard the sounds of retching as we needed to immediately retrieve the offending item before it was re-consumed for another round of tummy rumblies. Oh yeah, and don’t forget the daily task of lining the kitchen floor with newspapers for the green apple two-step attacks while we’re away at work.
The dog held no prejudices to what went down the gullet. He was greeted so many times with an Oh-Sh**-Jack, that he would wag his tail at the nickname. Not exactly a problem-solver kinda guy, he could impress us with his remarkable feats of gymnastics in his counter surfing.
Your dog just licked the turkey, said my sister-in-law.
No, he didn’t, I replied, wiping it off.
We didn’t always walk in on a disaster of overturned trash cans and empty Esther Price chocolate boxes; it may have been simply a twelve-pack of hamburger buns and a full bowl of water to have him digesting a lump like a boa constrictor with a goat. But then he’d make up for the lack of drama by downing a pork chop bone as sharp as a pointed stick.
A pair of eyeglasses. Cat litter, with or without the kitty snickers. Dishtowels. Carpet. Which is not covered by home insurance. I checked. And mud went down like he was enjoying a good bowl of kibble.
There’s the evening walk when he grabbed a decomposing bird from the sidewalk, crunched once and swallowed the thing. I’m forcing back a gag reflex when the dog himself start to do the telltale stomach heaves. And I’m all, no way dude. You ate it, you keep it. And so he did, saving us both from the sights of Rotting Robin, the Sequel.
Some things, however, went clean through. So to speak. Backyard clean-up duty was like coming across a pirate’s booty. Oh, we would say, that’s where that [fill in the blank] went.
Or hey, how about the time when he was recovering from his neuter when he pulled my birth control pills from the counter. And ate the whole shebang – prescription bag, plastic case and all. C’mon, who does this?
A riddle for you … what do you get when a freshly de-testosteroned puppy consumes a month’s worth of estrogen? Anyone? I’ll tell you what you get. A chance to amuse the staff at the vet’s office.
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| That hair. Oh my, the makeup job. The fashion trends of the 1980’s were a cruel joke. I remember thinking back then that I was rocking the pregnant look. By the way, y’all, that’s actually a selfie (see the remote cable in my left hand). I was a nerd before her time. |
And not long after, our family grew by one more. Despite the rumors by friends and family, there was no connection to the lost contraceptives and welcoming home our Favorite Kid. I did have the presence of mind to get the prescription refilled, you know.
It was really weird timing, though.
Anyway, along with the baby came new and wonderful things to fill that empty space inside Jack the Wonder Dog. Used diapers were a rare delicacy when left unattended for a split second, as well as food splattered bibs. Socks and toddler underwear went down whole and came back up the same way. Then went back down again.
What was going on in that dog noggin to bring about this need to go all Pica: Level Extreme? This same dog that we were told by no less than three obedience schools to “just take him home and enjoy him.” True story. Jack defied any and all training efforts. So was this just part of what made him charming? Did he simply suffer from a couple of misfiring neurons? And do we take on some of the blame by adopting him too young?
Even more intriguing is how the fella never had an intestinal blockage and made it to a full thirteen years old, just about in line with the average lifespan of a dog of his ilk. We would joke about donating his body to science because there must be something preternatural in his gut flora, but well … when the time came we didn’t think it was funny anymore.
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| We found Mr. ScrubBubble later in the backyard. Well, pieces of him. I think you know what I mean. |
But you know what? For every Oh-Sh**-Jack moment, we had tenfold more in yellow dog inspired smiles. Jack never met a stranger; he greeted everyone the same. Hi!, he would say. I’m Sh**Jack and everybody loves me. You will too. He was a warm companion for us for years and My Favorite Kid enjoyed his early childhood with a sweet dog, a loyal fellow who showed a never ending tolerance for a toddler’s horseplay.
I guess we could have wished for a smarter dog, one who wasn’t so motivated to help pay the veterinarian’s mortgage. But I don’t remember feeling like we were missing out on anything.
A dog with a heart of gold doesn’t leave much left to be desired.
Go. Do. Be Dog. 