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Read more of Karen Fishler's dog diary columns |
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 February 12, 1998 |a sad choice
When last I wrote, we had gotten through the first week of life with our nine-week-old Entlebucher Sennenhund, an adorable, smart little Swiss mountain dog. As first-time dog owners, we had been appalled by all the normal things puppies do, like peeing and nipping and crying. But we had worked hard to get the situation to the point where it was manageable. By the time puppy class began, on January 9, we had had Bucky for two weeks, he knew "Sit" and was taking little walks on a leash, and we couldn't imagine life without him. It was a day or two after that, as the third week began, that things began to change. Puppy nipping, which had only occasionally erupted into biting before then, gave way to harder, faster snaps. Any stray cuff or pant leg became fair game for grabbing, holding, and occasionally tearing. We tried the "Off" command. We tried the "Ouch!" technique, which lets the puppy know he is hurting you. We tried the Settle Down technique, along with time-outs. As the week progressed, we became more concerned. Both of us were bleeding daily. It was as if he just didn't hear us when we gave him correction or tried to distract him. On Friday, Gail, our trainer, came and spent an hour at the house, teaching both Barry (I was out with a client) and Bucky better behavior. But the next day, during puppy class, Bucky's behavior toward us, and fresh marks on our hands and forearms, led Gail to sit down with us afterward and ask us a question neither of us had ever thought we would consider: whether Bucky was really the right dog for us, giving what was now obviously an alpha personality combined with our own lack of experience. As we talked, I remembered our holistic vet remarking, during Bucky's physical in his first week with us, that it would take a couple of weeks for us to see the full range of his personality. Here we were, during the third week, amazed at what we were seeing. And the degree to which Bucky wasn't the right dog can be measured by how quickly we began considering the question of whether we should keep him — how relieved we were at the thought of not being bitten all the time. The idea wouldn't have had a receptive audience had Bucky not just bitten my thumb during class, drawing blood in two places. But he had, and there was a big, curving bruise on my forearm, and Barry's hands and forearms were covered with bite marks. And so we sent Bucky back, courtesy of an understanding breeder who immediately, to our joy, found what is probably the perfect place for him: a home with a woman who lives in the mountains of the West — snow country — and who not only has years and years of experience with dogs, not only has other dogs to help keep Bucky in line, but wants to train him for search and rescue work. We can't think of anything better. Here is what happens when you have the wrong dog and you have to send him back: You try not to cry at the air cargo terminal where he is being put on the plane, but aren't completely successful. Once you have said goodbye, you go back to the car and have a good sob. You go home and get all the dog stuff together in a pile so you won't stumble over it constantly. You consolidate all the little dishes of training treats, which you had placed in strategic locations so you could reach for a treat when you needed one. You take down the pet gates that had blocked off the kitchen. You fold up the playpen. The next day, you hear a noise and go into your husband's office to find him crying in front of his computer. You don't do much crying yourself, after the first day. But you have an abandoned feeling, as if you are the one who has been sent away, and not the other way around. You go into the laundry room occasionally, where the towel that had been at the bottom of Bucky's crate lies crumpled on the dryer, and smell it: the rich, ripe puppy smell. The two of you talk occasionally about another dog, but you can't figure out what to do. Finally you realize you need some time. Time to get over being attached to someone you weren't meant to stay with, and time to think about what's next. One thing that did become clear during the time that Bucky was here was that we liked having a dog, liked that fifth life force being in the house. I slept really well while he was here, partly from exhaustion but partly, I think, just because there was finally a dog with us. Since he's been gone, I haven't slept well at all. And dogs have invaded my dreams. They follow me, or startle me, or comfort me, or even talk to me. I'd wonder what the dreams mean, except that it seems pretty obvious. So I am once more a dogless woman, once more wondering if I'm fated to remain so. Hopefully not. Hopefully, too, this column will continue. pomegranates, alas, is not going to be updated after this, so if this diary resumes, it will resume at my own site, which doesn't yet exist, or at another Web publication. Try www.fishler.com in a month or two, or try looking for "Karen Fishler's Dog Diary" with your favorite search engine. If it works, you'll know, and if it doesn't, you'll know something else — that I'm not ready yet… or that I'm still looking for a dog. 
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