Spring has sprung, and with it, gastrointestinal distress . . .

Each spring, I feed my dogs a tasty mixture on top of their meals based on foods that my vet recommends to keep parasites at bay. While it won't work for ticks (to the best of my knowledge--although doTerra does offer some great oils on that front), it does seem to keep my dogs' stomachs relatively calm:

1 quart yogurt (Dannon) or kefir
1/2 lemon squeezed
1/2 c. carrot juice or 2 grated carrots
1/4 c. sunflower or pumpkin seeds, roughly chopped (try a mortar and pestle)
1/2 c. C & H Brown or organic cane sugar

Optional:
1/2 c. blueberries/blueberry juice

Now, I've had complaints that this is a lot. True! But with the number of dogs I have coming and going, it is the perfect quantity for my house.  I simply scoop a tablespoon or two on top of their dog food and watch them enjoy. By the way, I eat it, too, but I do so sans dog food.

And, a confession, I don't measure, so all quantities are estimates!

Why adopt a geriatric dog?

Last night I found myself filling out the paperwork for a dog I’ve been fostering for a year and a half. It was time. Bear’s been in and out of my life for nearly 10 years now, and I realized why it’s taken me so long to find him the perfect forever home: I wasn’t ready to send him off into the unknown again, not this late in his life.

I was reminded, as I filled out the adoption paperwork, of another geriatric dog I adopted nearly a decade ago. Muffin was my first, an 11-year-old red Pom-schipperke cross that had been brought to a veterinarian to be euthanized after her person died. The vet, whose name I never learned, decided to place her in rescue and found Second Chance a month after she was confined to a cage at the clinic. Her eyes, when she first arrived at my house, were flat; her mottled coat suggested that she probably didn’t have much time left, either, but she bounced back quickly. I little bit of love and freedom, and the light returned to her eyes, followed by a feisty personality. After a month or two, I adopted her into a home that seemed to be a good fit for her, until the family called me to tell me that Muffin was biting the family members.

I was disappointed, but not surprised—although I hadn’t seen that behavior in my home. Eventually, a second home surfaced and then returned her after Muffin began nipping family members for confining her to a bathroom. I began to dawn on me that Muffin wanted to retire to my house. And, although I had no plans to adopt a dog at that point in my life, I did. I allowed my heart to open up to this little dog that wasn’t going to win any more beauty pageants.

Three weeks after I adopted her, I noticed a change in Muffin’s breathing. Visits to the vet. X-rays. Trips to the University of Minnesota. More tests. Ultrasounds. Ultimately, I learned the source of her stress. Muffin was suffering from collapsed trachea and bronchi, congestive heart failure, and chronic pneumonia. Tracheal flushes. Medication every day. Vet bills amounting to hundreds of dollars each month. I wondered what I was doing. And vet visit after vet visit, I asked the same question: “Is it time?” Regardless of the vet, the answer was consistently, “No.”

Muffin, you see, was a spitfire. She was happy in her retirement home; we were a great team, and she made me laugh and smile every day, despite vet visits and medications and the fact that her fur was beginning to resemble a muppet’s. She lived for more than a year longer, until one day the man I was dating gently pointed out that the medications were no longer controlling her breathing, that she was struggling to get air. It was time.

Muffin left this world with the same pluck she lived in it. She did not go gently into that good night, but that was part of our journey together, too. In our final moments together, I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without her even though I had only known her for two years. Muffin enriched my life daily, and I know I’m a better person for having known her.

Now I look at Bear, who has suffered a different set of experiences than Muffin, but no less challenging. I’ve known him since he was 4-years-old, when I first placed him in a “forever,” but for some reason I’ll never understand, that wasn’t our final meeting. And he’s not the same dog that he was in 2004. He doesn’t have the same energy, and his smells are a little stronger than they used to be. His body is more tired, too. Overall, he’s got less curb appeal than he did then, at least to the untrained eye.

But to me? I see wisdom in him and a quiet acceptance of his life. He can curl up in my arms for hours, or anyone’s for that matter. He’s content to rest his bones sleeping in a patch of sun on the floor, and he’s happy just to get a meal and a few strokes. He gladly accepts the affection I give him, but unlike the younger dogs in my house, doesn’t ask for it. Because Bear asks for so little, I become more aware of him, notice him following me from room to room or waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I run up them. I try to give him everything he could want. Often, I carry him up and down the stairs with me, place soft bedding on the floor for him to lie one, bring him on visits to people who will allow him to rest in their arms, and indulge his insistent barking as I prepare his meals, his only obsession.

It’s a quiet, gentle relationship, one based on acceptance and trust, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. To know a geriatric rescue dog is to love him, as I love Bear. And whether we have 6 months together, or a year, it doesn’t matter.

The only thing that really matters is that he’s home—at last.

Pet Connections Podcast

I'm so incredibly lucky have such great friends and supporters, and a special thanks to Cathy Menard, owner of Urban Dog, who invited me to join her on her radio show this morning: Pet Connections. If you didn't have a chance to check it out, here's a recording.

And if you need an extraordinary local business to help you with your dog walking and boarding needs, please check out Urban Dog.

Thanks to everyone who listened!

About Giffy, pt. 3: Why holistic?

Kunda, 11 years old
courtesy of Barbara O'Brien

As I was learning about soft training methods, I was also dealing with dogs that had allergies and emotional challenges. By a stroke of luck, I was exposed to Contact Reflex Analysis (which uses muscle testing to find the health of the body’s underlying systems) and Emotional Freedom Technique (tapping) after my dog Kunda developed severe allergies, so severe that she was literally tearing off her nipples. I took her to veterinarians, explored options, put her on ridiculous doses of Benadryl (12 per day, actually), and she was still miserable. It took 6 weeks for her spay incision to heal. Her white blood cell count was low, and her clotting time was slow. My vet told me that she’d need blood transfusions for any major work. Because she was suffering so mercilessly, I began to consider euthanizing her. Don’t mistake me, I loved Kunda desperately, but watching her suffer every day made me question her quality of life. Before making such a drastic choice, I decided instead to try an alternative approach. That’s when I was exposed to CRA and EFT. It changed my life. And hers.  

After 3 visits to the new vet, Kunda was assigned a combination of supplements in 3 rounds, things like acidophilus, milk thistle, olive leaf extract, and Echinacea C. We weaned Kunda off all Benadryl, and after the third treatment, she was no longer symptomatic. I ran new blood work at a vet who did not support alternative modalities, and her numbers were normal.

Kunda lived a healthy-happy life for another glorious 7 years; in fact, she died of degenerative myelopathy at the ripe old age of 11! 

Reggie, closeup of skin

The only way I could stop Reggie from scratching

Reggie after treatment

I tried dog after dog with the same types of results. Whether emotional or physical (frankly, the two usually go hand-in-hand), it worked. Time and again. Sarah, who was 25 pounds under weight and couldn’t keep down food. Reggie, who was tearing off his skin, and whom I could only protect by putting him in toddler’s pajamas—with socks and a cone around his head. He looked ridiculous, but it prevented him from scratching himself raw. There were many more, but these two, coupled with Kunda, convinced me. Dogs, after all, didn’t understand the placebo effect. I decided to learn the practices myself.

I’ve been studying muscle testing and tapping since 2008, formed a study group in 2009, attend seminars and workshops, and supplemented that with intuitive and energy healing training. Today, I practice tapping with dogs

And even now, I find myself amazed at how useful the practice can be—for anything from anxiety and fear, emotions associated to muscle pain. It’s an incredibly useful tool.

About Giffy, pt. 2: Learning to value soft training methods

I really didn’t have formal training at the outset. I simply watched the dogs when they came into my house. In the early days, someone told me about the “alpha dog” mentality that was popular at the time along with rolling those that had acted up, showing the dogs who was boss. For a time, that was a factor in my work, but I have since discovered a much softer and more effective approach. (For a brilliant refutation of “rolling dogs,” a practice that was widely used when I began working in rescue around 2000, see Suzanne Clothier’s article, “He Just Wants to Say ‘Hi!” It’s one of the most important influences on my training.)

I never believed in physical punishment, but in the early days, I did a lot of yelling/”barking,” as I was trying to establish myself as the dominant member of my pack. That stopped that the day my 140-pound mastiff began to cower when I raised my voice. From that day forward I decided to train from a place of calm and started exploring different approaches.

That softer approach was reinforced as I welcomed increasingly shy-fearful dogs into my home. To be frank, most of them couldn’t handle yelling. They’d become catatonic, shut down. I had to try other approaches, so I tried to see the world from their vantage point. If they cowered when they went outside, I explored ways to make the space seem smaller, safer. And during this period of my evolution, I became a little too indulgent, allowing dogs to hide behind their fear. Case in point, Becca was in my home 2-3 years before I really pushed her to be on a leash.  (See the Fall 2006 Second Chance Newsletter piece entitled “The Shed Dogs” for more of Becca’s back story.)

I only learned of the shortcomings in the indulgent approach when Sarah entered my home. Like Becca, she was seriously undersocialized when she arrived at my house, the result of years in a breeding facility. But, unlike Becca, I pushed Sarah, not hard, but I brought her out into the world more quickly. I’ll never forget the first class I took with Janey Shaddrick, from Rogues & Rascals. Sarah was terrified. In fact, for the entire 8-week class, she stood there.

Doing. Nothing.

I was mortified, as if her failure to engage somehow reflected poorly on me (an attitude I have encountered many, many times since I’ve begun working with people and dogs). I forced myself to check my ego at the door in order to encourage Sarah to blossom a bit. It worked. Although Sarah didn’t really learn many commands in that class, she did learn how to be in a group of other people and dogs. She learned that going out into the world didn’t have to be overwhelming.

I learned at least as much. From Janey, I was reinforced that training softly and patiently was a great way to inspire a dog to work for me. I didn’t have to be heavy-handed. I didn’t even need to use treats, but I did need to observe Sarah, see what she liked. I needed to think creatively in order to help Sarah along, and I needed to appreciate our small, innumerable successes rather than focus on the many challenges that still lay ahead. In that class, Sarah grew to like my touch; she walked by my side calmly, and a couple of times, she even sat on command!

It was progress, and I needed to recognize that.

 

About Giffy, Pt. 1: How I started working with dogs

To be honest, I really was a cat person all my life. It wasn’t until I found myself adopting a 5-month-old Pomeranian puppy that I started to explore the world of dogs. That was nearly 20 years ago. And, sadly, Mandy lived a short life for a Pomeranian. She fell down the stairs when she was 8, suffering some “major neurological episode,” and died. I was devastated.

Distraught by the emptiness of my home, I couldn’t stop feeling Mandy’s absence, and then it occurred to me that I needed to do something. Because I decided I wasn’t ready to love another dog just yet, I decided to try fostering, to give another dog a chance in Mandy’s honor; I checked into local rescue groups, and after several people recommended Second Chance Animal Rescue, I contacted them. I think the year was 2000.

At first, my foster dogs were highly-adoptable puppies and small dogs, wriggling bundles of energy and fur. Some of them literally lasted hours before they were adopted, but over time, I developed a reputation as a person who could work with more challenging dogs, and more challenging dogs I got.

It began, innocently enough, with a call from the dog coordinator asking me if I could try working with a dog that had some challenging behaviors. She probably prefaced her comments, “I’m not sure this dog can be saved,” a line that has led many a rescue dog to front door. To be honest, I’m not even sure which dog it was—perhaps the Lhasa Apso whose person had committed suicide or the stray 14-year-old Pekinese with a spinal condition and dry eye or the Pekinese cross that had proptosed its eye squabbling with another, larger dog in its previous foster home. Maybe it was Wally, who lived with his siblings in the walls of a house, completely unsocialized. Or Maude, the Neapolitan mastiff that had been fed carcasses and had to have 18 inch tumor removed from her kidney. I no longer remember which dog started my journey, but I am so grateful for it.

So, I became the difficult dog foster, the person who could handle aggression, shy-fearful behaviors, submissive wetting, separation anxiety. The list became longer over time, and then when I began working with a holistic vet, Dr. Pomeroy, I began to work with allergies, too.

Since 2000, I’ve fostered approximately 170 dogs!

A Miracle Lands in My Lap

On December 3^rd, Charles, a 7-pound, 8-month-old, Chihuahua-Pomeranian cross awaiting adoption through Second Chance Animal Rescue escaped from a fenced yard in Hugo, Minnesota. To make matters worse, he was wearing a leash, which would certainly complicate his journey and could cause him to ensnare or strangle himself. During the next 10 days, with temperatures dipping near zero at times and wind chills much lower, nearly a foot of snow fell and created deep drifts in the rural community where he had escaped; his survival was by no means certain.

With the dedicated work of volunteers who trudged through the snow and posted flyers and community members who watched for him or placed food and live traps on their property, especially Applecrest Orchards, we were certain that Charles was still alive, at least through Monday, December 10^th, the last time he was spotted by a community member--running in an open field near Hwy 14 and 35E, still dragging the leash. With an already low body weight, predators, snow, temperatures, traffic, and a leash, the deck was stacked against this young dog. Every day was critical, but weather didn't cooperate.

I tried meditating on it; usually, my dog Sarah helps with that, but I couldn’t connect to her. Instead, I felt the presence of two of my dogs who had died, Kunda and Muffin. In my meditation, I asked them to find Charles, wherever he was, to comfort him and guide him toward shelter. The second time I meditated, I saw Charles seeking shelter in an outbuilding, perhaps a barn, with hay scattered on the floor. I doubted myself. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted instead of what was real.

So, yesterday, with no sightings of Charles in several days, I drove to the location where he was last seen with my friend Carol to meet fellow volunteers, Mary and Carl, so we could continue to search. Despite our assignment, it wasn’t an entirely bleak prospect. After all, I was able to spend time with Carol, a lovely person, the kind you want to spend time with; everybody does. On the way, we spoke of miracles and asked one difficult question: At what point should we give up the search?

Ultimately we decided that, as long as Charles was still being spotted, we should continue to look.

When Carol and I met Mary and Carl at the site, we checked the live trap and spoke with the owner of the orchard, who directed us to a nearby abandoned farmhouse. Together we trudged through knee-high snow, and despite our heavy charge, I found myself grateful to be outside on such a beautiful day getting exercise, spending time with warm people, slowing down a bit, seeing nature. In the pristine snow, we noticed mouse tracks first, followed by rabbit tracks, and then a strange disturbance in the snow that Carl suggested had been caused by a raptor; there were no tracks leading to or away from it.

As we made our way across the field, Carol suggested I scout the abandoned farm off to our left. I veered away from the group and cut a second trail through the knee-deep snow. As soon as I entered the yard, I knew Charles had been there--although the tracks clustered around a tree were no longer fresh. The snow had been walked on multiple times by an animal about the size of a small dog, and there was urine in the snow. I was certain that this had been home base.

To my right, a small outbuilding with a couple of walls missing seemed a logical hiding spot as the tracks were clustered very near there. I rounded the corner and looked inside.

And there, staring back at me, was Charles, his leash wrapped around a board and very much alive!

I called out to the others in the group once, twice, three times, “He’s here!” I knew he couldn’t bolt, but he looked so scared. I thought he might die any second, of fear, of cold, I don’t know. He was just so close and still not safe. I needed backup and couldn’t move until it arrived.

After what seemed an eternity, Carol and Mary reached me. They held up a blanket to give Charles the illusion that the building wasn’t wide open, in case he broke free before we reached him. Then Carl rounded the other side of the building, and I was ready to go in. My heart was pounding, as a wrong move on my part could be fatal for Charles. I tried to clear my head, inhaling deeply, and stepped over the boards with nails covering the floor of the shed. He stood near the middle of the building, where he might have found protection in the dusting of hay under the boards if he hadn't been tethered to a board. I called for the others to throw me treats, which I tossed into Charles. He didn’t seem to notice.

He looked weak.

A few moments later, he cautiously stepped toward me, and Carol handed me some pepperoni that she had the forethought to bring along. It worked. In moments, he ate 5-6 slices of it. Someone handed me my mittens, and I grabbed Charles, tucking him close to my body and wrapping his leash around my arm and securing it to my wrist. From there, we began the trek back across the fields to the car.  Carol ran ahead to drive it closer, and Carl and Mary flanked me as I cradled Charles in my arms, his frail body collapsed against me as I tried to provide some small protection from the December air.

Immediately after returning to the car, we rushed Charles to the Life Care Animal Hospital to make sure he didn't have any other major problems. Turns out, although Charles had lost more than 20% of his body weight, some 1 3/4 pounds, he was able to eat and hold down food and water; he had no cuts or frostbite. Painfully thin, his ribs and hips protruding, he was still okay.

In the waiting room we took more pictures, and then Mary, while snapping one of Charles in my lap curled around a Snuggle Puppie that provided him heat, commented that somehow a blur had appeared across the screen although the rest of the pictures were perfectly clear.

Was it a strand of hair, perhaps?

I don't know, but I'd like to think it was some being that had been sent to protect him. One of my dogs, perhaps, providing comfort while Charles warmed himself on my lap? Perhaps it acted as a guardian until he was safe.  

Who knows, but I definitely think it was a day filled with miracles.

Thanks to everyone who helped bring Charles home.