Dog Named Leaf (6 page)

O
UR HOME LIFE HAD CHANGED FROM PEACEFUL ROUTINE TO BEDLAM UPON
Leaf’s four-pawed entry into it. Only seven months after our troubled dog’s arrival, my future had now become uncertain. Simultaneously, we were boxers dodging flailing fists that threatened to knock us both down for the count.

One of the few routine pleasures Linda and I continued was to take occasional breaks and visit our favorite coffee shop. Before Leaf (BL) we often went there to write, plan, and reflect on our projects. A little caffeine made us feel as if we could accomplish any goal. While sipping lattés and watching local residents walk their dogs past the shop, we relaxed by discussing books we were reading, movies we wanted to see, and other creative endeavors.

Our discussion topics dramatically changed after Leaf (AL). These conversations usually went something like this, with comments neither of us could believe we were making in public:

Linda: “Did he poop?”

Me: “Uh?”

Linda: “Did he poop? We have to get him house-trained.”

Me: “ Yes, yes, he did go.”

Linda: “Both ways?”

Me: “Pooped and peed. He is empty.”

Linda: “Was it firm?”

Me: “Uh-hum.”

Linda: “How firm?”

Me: “Real hard!”

Our concerns over Leaf’s bowel movements dominated our conversations during those days. Leaf’s initial constipation had turned into bouts of diarrhea. We’d have to take him to the veterinarian if we couldn’t figure out how to make him regular, and another vet visit was not something I wanted to put Leaf or us through. The first time we took him to the Westgate Pet Clinic office, only a few days after adopting him, we were worried to see kindly Dr. Bennett Porter muzzle him and write “aggressive” in our new dog’s medical record. At the end of the exam, Leaf wagged his tail and took treats from Dr. Porter’s hand. He said, “That’s a good sign. He’s not a mean dog.” I felt relieved.

Leaf had been terrified when Dr. Porter administered shots and patted him up and down his body. He seemed to believe he was alone and had to fend for himself again. Even though we were with him in the room, where he could see us, we hadn’t proven to him yet that we were trustworthy protectors.

Leaf’s multitude of issues also changed the way we did media interviews. As featured guests on radio shows for our new book, we had to convey deep feelings around the heartfelt topic of animal rescue. The true stories we told often moved hosts, listeners, and guests alike.

The media interviews were successful and painless if we were prepared, focused, and ready to field unexpected questions. We usually did what is called a “phoner”—an interview that isn’t at a studio or in person with a journalist but happens over the telephone. During phoners it’s important that the environment be free of distractions and noise. Linda and I would sit at separate tables and signal to each other about who should answer the host’s or reporter’s questions. At least, that’s how phoners worked BL. AL it was a different story.

“I don’t know if Leaf will stay quiet,” I said while I set up the two phones for one interview.

“He’ll sleep,” Linda said hopefully.

“There are five more interviews in the next week. We have to figure out how to do them with Leaf here.”

If we isolated Leaf where he couldn’t see us in the house, his howls would unnerve us and wreck the interview. The radio host and station engineers, plus listeners, would hear our poor suffering dog yelling for help. From experience, we knew that once Leaf’s crying started, it didn’t stop until he assured himself that he wasn’t alone. Sometimes it took a few minutes for him to calm down. On air that amount of time would seem like an eternity.

“OK,” I said, “we’ll keep him in the room with us. We’ll give him a toy and a bone to chew.” Secretly I was remembering how Taylor quietly
slept under the table while we did phoners. She didn’t even snore, as Leaf did with his doggy sleep apnea.

We settled Leaf with a toy just as the phone rang. I answered, and Linda picked up the extension. The host introduced us to her audience. We were on the air live. This was Leaf’s cue to transform into a whirlwind of activity.

Like a toddler whose parents have averted their attention and given him free reign to open kitchen cabinets or empty wastebaskets, Leaf seized his opportunity. I answered questions with one hand while trying to hold him in place. My voice rose from normal to high pitch and then to a level only dogs could hear. Leaf slipped out of my grasp.

When it was Linda’s turn to answer a serious question about how many animals had been rescued after Hurricane Katrina, Leaf jumped on the couch. He ran across the end table and unsettled a large lamp. I put my phone down as quietly as possible and managed to catch the lamp before it crashed to the floor.

As I precariously held the lamp with my left hand and grabbed for the phone receiver with my right hand to hear the host’s next question, Leaf sprinted over to Linda. Then he loped back around to me. My phone cord wasn’t long enough for me to place the lamp back on the end table.

Attempting to do a serious interview about the state of animal rescue in our country with a rescued cocker spaniel destroying our living room struck me as funny. I stifled a laugh.

At this point the host asked me a specific question. My heart rate increased. I found myself out of breath. I blurted out an answer, which needed more detail. My voice sounded like it came from our cockatiel Sunshine. Linda watched, unfazed by the pandemonium. She remained professional while we were on the verge of ruin.

Leaf’s reactions to being thrust into a home with people and animals who were all strangers to him caused his anxieties to multiply. But with
one innocent purchase, we were able to at last see how sweet he could be when he felt safe.

We had picked up some throw-balls and chew bones for Leaf right after adopting him. A couple of weeks later, Linda bought a stuffed toy dog at the pet store. It was a replica of a long-bodied dog with little feet and made a squeaking sound when its bulbous black nose was squeezed. The middle part of the toy made a noise that sounded like a hungry tummy in need of more dog food.

After Linda presented the toy dog to Leaf, he sniffed it and then grabbed its body in his teeth, which made it squeak. From that moment on, Leaf was in love. He took his toy everywhere with him, from room to room, to his bed, on to the couch, to the kitchen, and to his potty outside.

Watching this lonely little boy hold on to what appeared to be the first toy to which he felt an attachment touched my heart. At night and during day naps, Leaf would have his foot-long stuffed toy snuggled tightly next to his body. He’d go to sleep with his legs wrapped around it. It was as if he had never had anything so wonderful that belonged only to him.

One afternoon we noticed the toy dog propped upright against the window with its nose and eyes peering outside, while Leaf napped on the couch. It was placed in the spot where he regularly sat and watched the world go by.

As I sat on the couch later that day, drinking a cup of tea, Leaf did it again. He carefully placed his toy upright, with its nose and eyes pointing toward the sidewalk. He leaned the toy against the windowpane in such a position that if it were a living creature, it could watch the neighborhood dogs walking past our house. Then Leaf jumped on the couch and immediately went to sleep.

I was amazed at how he had placed the stuffed animal in exactly the right position. It was as if Leaf had decided to make the toy dog stand guard while he snoozed. Or perhaps he had assigned it the task of keeping watch for possible visits from neighbor dogs. I wondered if Leaf was
telegraphing the message, “Won’t you come in to my house? I have this great toy we could play with,” to the neighborhood.

Our home, as a war zone, subsided when the cats got better at handling Leaf’s incessant chasing. One afternoon Linda and I witnessed a tussle between Speedy and his canine nemesis. Speedy was stretched out on the living room sofa’s backrest. He looked like a true Lion King with his gray coat and whiskers.

Leaf usually liked to settle on the same high perch, but today Speedy had claimed the territory as his. Leaf decided to hunker down on the lower seat section, ignoring Speedy’s turf only inches above him. Deliberately, yet relaxed, Speedy fully extended and embedded his claws into Leaf’s backside. Leaf froze and made a low yelp and dared not move without the risk of being gouged. After weeks of what Speedy must have considered as “this obnoxious dog” chasing him, he was taking his revenge. “Speedy, you made your point,” I said, as Leaf waited for me to save him.

Linda got up and examined Leaf’s back. “I think Speedy’s claws are stuck,” she said.

Speedy lifted his paw, yawned, and moved himself into an even more comfortable position. Leaf quickly sped away to take his nap elsewhere.

We wondered what we should do to control the behavior of this small dog the vet had called “a troubled teenager,” which is essentially what he was. And so we eventually enrolled him in a beginning class we called Training 101. With time, patience, and more knowledge about how to handle a dog like Leaf, we hoped to help him trust us, adjust to being around other people, and heal.

A
LTHOUGH WE KNEW NOTHING OF
L
EAF’S PAST OTHER THAN THE SKETCHY
information we received from the animal shelter, it was becoming clear that he definitely had history. I got a glimpse of the baggage he brought with him almost every day.

One afternoon Linda, Leaf, and I were on our way to the pet store. When we stopped at a red light, Leaf started growling at a large man who waited on the sidewalk street corner, just as he had done to another man after our first walk around the lake. “What is it, Leaf?” Linda asked. He quickly took on the job of being Linda’s protector and barked, growled, and barked again at the fellow. When the light turned green, Leaf calmed down but repeatedly looked back to make sure we were not being followed.

We were becoming accustomed to Leaf’s erratic mood shifts. Instantaneously he could switch from frightened to protective to wagging his tail enthusiastically. By the time we arrived at the store, Leaf excitedly bounced around the backseat. He loved this store where dogs were encouraged to sniff to their hearts’ content.

Every Wednesday I took Leaf to doggy day care, where he had a full day of playing with smaller dogs, munching on dog treats, watching Animal Planet in the playroom, and being treated as a VIP guest at this resort for dogs. We hoped that going where staff supervised him and the other trained and untrained dogs would help him become more social. He’d get a lot of exercise and give us a break from all his issues.

In spite of his abandonment fears, Leaf loved the facility and the time he spent there. Whenever either Linda or I dropped him off, he’d bolt out of the car toward the door, eager to meet up with his playmates. At the point of departure, though, when we handed him over to one of the staff, he often piddled on the linoleum floor. We couldn’t tell if this was from excitement or fear. I felt some hesitation at leaving him. When I’d call the receptionist later in the morning, she would assure me that Leaf was having a blast. Evidently after we left him, he’d adjust quickly and focus on the task at hand, which was playing to his heart’s content.

One of the staff, a young Latino man, affectionately called him a Spanish name that he said meant “little leaf.” Our dog had a fondness for the man and wagged his tail wildly whenever he saw him.

One day after work I arrived at the doggy day care to take Leaf home. I entered the building and peered into the large playroom, which had a glassed-in upper wall. In the middle of the room, a large man stood observing all the small dogs. I hadn’t seen him there before and figured he must be a new employee. Clean-shaven, with short hair, he wore a gray button-up shirt. The man stared down at twenty dogs milling about on the floor. Leaf was nowhere in sight.

“Where is my dog?” I asked with a note of panic in my voice.

A woman staff member at the reception desk replied, “He’s in the back of the room.”

I was horrified to see my dog sitting inside a locked cage while all the other dogs were having fun.

My mind reeled with assumptions. Was Leaf being treated badly because he was adopted? Was he not perfectly behaved in their eyes? Thankfully, one of the employees came over and said, “Leaf was playing all day. Around 4:30 he got so focused on Rufus, we thought it best to let Leaf have some quiet time.”

The employee pointed to a dog that looked like a house slipper with legs. Rufus scuttled across the floor and wove in and out and underneath
dogs more than twice his size. Knowing how Leaf insanely tries to chase squirrels and rabbits, I immediately understood why they would have to give the furry little dog a rest from my genetically programmed hunter.

The large male dog-watcher opened Leaf’s kennel. Our dog ran out of it fearless, happy, and full of energy. He wiggled over to the man and wagged his tail as the big guy petted him. But the second he spotted Rufus, Leaf’s obsession returned and he took off after the delicate little dog, ready to continue a barrage of rough play. It was obvious why the staff had to monitor his behavior. I appreciated that Leaf hadn’t held it against the male rule-enforcer. He had accepted the kennel time-out session with an attitude that seemed to say
I get it. I’m out of control here. Let me take a nap.

Leaf, who should have been frightened of the man based on his body mass index, hadn’t judged him by appearances. He overcame deeply embedded signals of danger and trusted what he felt in his heart about the person.

Linda and I discovered new things every day about what frightened Leaf. Our previous dogs had short hair, so we’d never needed to find a groomer for them. We didn’t know what to expect from the experience or how groomers did their work. When Leaf needed his first grooming, we looked for a place that would give him a good cocker spaniel haircut. We took him to a groomer in an upscale area of town where many people passed by boutique shops while walking small-breed dogs whom they took everywhere. The groomer at this place, a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair, looked grim when I went to pick up Leaf. “I had to put a muzzle on him,” she said.

“Why?” I asked, surprised at her comment.

“He growled at me when I tried to brush his back end.”

After I brought Leaf home, sporting a cheery red bandanna around his neck, Linda and I discussed the groomer’s comments. Did she have
an issue with our dog because she wasn’t used to working with a tough, streetwise guy like Leaf? We decided to try one more time with her and to look for a different groomer if it didn’t work out.

When I brought Leaf in for his second grooming, neither of the groomers looked happy to see me. I picked him up four hours later, and the groomer said, “I love dogs and I know you adopted him from a shelter. He doesn’t like to be groomed, but I’ll keep working with him. Maybe he’ll adjust.”

I hoped that Leaf would eventually make friends with this groomer. I appreciated that she was willing to let him stay as a client but figured we needed to have an alternate to whom he might relate better.

At the dog park one day, Linda overheard a man talking about a great groomer named Patty who was always booked up months in advance. We decided to see if we could get Leaf in to see her for his next grooming. Patty, as it turned out, had over thirty years of experience. We believed she could handle Leaf. With her firm voice and love of dogs, there was no reason to doubt that Patty would know how to keep him safe as well as well groomed.

Leaf’s tendency to dominate everything and everyone in his universe caused all kinds of challenging situations. He upended my life with his problems and endless needs. Because of this, Linda nicknamed him Alpha Dog of the World. After reading more about dominant dogs, we realized that because Leaf had been neutered late in life at a year old, he had already developed all the habits of a high-testosterone male.

I felt his behavior was more complex than needing to be the guy on top, however. His small size, vulnerability, and fearfulness revved up his instincts to take care of himself. He couldn’t count on anyone else to do the job. So he made sure people and animals knew not to mess with him.

At first, not knowing any better, we thought Leaf’s actions were cute. While out on walks, he’d jump up and place his two paws on the shoulders of even the bigger dogs. He’d stare into their faces and make sure they knew he was the absolute leader of any pack.

“He is fearless,” Linda would say. But bigger dogs were not impressed with the self-appointed neighborhood leader.

Determined to make Leaf better adjusted to people and other dogs, I took him to a small fenced-in dog park near our house. We arrived after five o’clock one evening, and about twenty dogs and people were already there.
This will be perfect,
I thought,
for helping Leaf find his social place among other dogs.

“OK, boy, go play,” I said encouragingly. I opened the gate, and Leaf ran into the park with the gusto he showed while disrupting our radio interviews. He looked back at me to see if I’d entered the park with him. Then he proceeded to run and play with the bigger dogs.

For a moment I thought we had found the place that would be his equalizer. Watching him guardedly, I felt like a nervous and protective dad. Will the other kids like him?

He stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on the shoulders of every dog he met. The big dogs ignored him. Their attitude seemed to be “whatever.” Or they appeared to be mildly amused by his attempt to be alpha.

Young Leaf’s swagger and attitude irritated a medium-size mixed-breed dog with white and brown markings. The dog had large, powerful jaws. Alpha Dog of the World did not intimidate or amuse “Jaws,” and he snarled at Leaf through bared teeth. This escalated into a growl that lasted more than a few seconds.

“Leaf, come!” I yelled as I ran toward him. I had no doubt this dog could kill him. I grabbed Leaf with both hands and lifted him up over my head as high as I could.

Jaws lunged at Leaf repeatedly. He jumped so high that we stood face-to-face. But I was of no interest to Jaws. His wild and angry eyes focused on Leaf.

I held the little black ball of fur above my head. Jaws snarled and growled. His behavior made it clear that he’d do anything to hurt him.

The dog’s person finally ran over to gain control. “You shouldn’t have brought your dog here,” he mumbled, as he snapped on Jaws’s leash. With a furious gesture he yanked and pulled his snarling dog out of the park.

Although the perpetrator had left, I was so stunned by the dog’s viciousness that I was not about to put Leaf down on the ground. I carried him in my arms to the car and examined every inch of his body. “I don’t see anything, boy. Are you OK?” To my amazement Leaf looked normal. He wiggled his butt and wagged his stubby tail. I did a careful second examination. No wounds or bite marks.

Instead of a frightened, trembling victim, Leaf appeared to be the exact opposite. He was like the cowboy in an old-time Western who swaggers away from a bar brawl, eager to claim he has kicked butt.

“Leaf, you’re a brave boy!” I said and gave him a bear hug. Still not quite comfortable with human touch, he froze. Here I was, his savior, and he was ready to take me on too. My big embrace had sent him over the edge. I understood. Bear hugs would take time to get used to. Hugs from strangers would too.

I silently prepared to take action whenever I saw a well-meaning person approach him with his or her arms outstretched heading straight for Leaf’s adorable face. In these circumstances, he almost always issued a warning growl. I’d have to quickly intervene. People who don’t ask permission to pet a strange dog or rush to get up in a dog’s face don’t understand that dogs interpret this movement as aggression. We soon figured out that we’d need to block people from grabbing at our dog to pet him.