From the beginning of our relationship, we’d known we wanted a dog of our own. When we first started dating, Naomi had an old, fat, beloved golden retriever, Winston, who lived at her parents’ house. I never met him, a fact that still pains Naomi. Her father is very conservative, and we debated for a long time what would be the right time for me to visit, considering that she didn’t intend to come out to him until she was financially independent, afraid of what he might do. Before I could come visit, Winston passed away. He was Naomi’s best friend and brother. He was her love. I knew when that happened that finding a way for her to experience that kind of love again was of the utmost importance. Right before we moved, I went to see an allergist. We had decided that we might be able to get a dog once we were on our own, but there was still a major obstacle: I had been allergic to everything with fur since I was very small. We went to the allergist in the hope that I could get allergy injections, and in two or three years, we might be able to adopt. To everyone’s surprise, when they did the allergy testing prior to prescribing the injections, they discovered that I had grown out of my dog allergies at some point. We were so happy. We decided that we’d get a dog as soon as we were on our feet in our new town.
We moved to the Midwest from the Northeast in December of 2010. We had been in a long distance relationship for three years, and then Naomi had moved to join me at my parents’ house in Vermont for a semester while I applied to library schools. I couldn’t have moved anywhere without her, as I don’t drive, I can’t walk long distances, and my health is extremely volatile, all owing to a chronic pain condition that has me in doctors offices at least once a week. Also, I love her. So there’s that. When we moved here, it was so cold. The weather was strange and unpredictable. It would be warm at 3:00pm, and the roads would suddenly freeze at 5:00pm. We missed home. I started school, and Naomi looked for a job. She’d temped in VT, so she started there. She taught a few trombone lessons at a local school. Finally, at the beginning of spring, she got a part time job and I got a fellowship.
We didn’t have a lot of money, but we knew that if we budgeted realistically and carefully, we could cut out unimportant expenses and spend on what we really wanted: a dog. We had visited a local shelter, and the pet store in the mall. Although both of us are aware of the problem of puppy mills, we thought it was a good idea to visit dogs in a place where we knew we couldn’t take them home, that was close to our house, and where I, who had very little experience with dogs, could learn about their behaviors and personalities, and start learning the secret language of dog communication. I was stunned to see how expressive some of the puppies were, and how closed some of the others were. I learned that the most forward dogs were often strong-headed and difficult to handle. I also learned about the wonderful smell puppies have, and the joy of being able to calm and comfort them or excite them into play. I learned about the supremely soothing experience of having a dog fall asleep in your arms.
We read about all the breeds, and had long conversations about what kind of dog would be best for us. We read book after book after book. I had never had a dog before, and I wanted to do this right. We knew we needed a dog-social dog, because we someday want to adopt again. We knew we wanted a dog active enough to hike with Naomi, but low-energy enough to be ok if, because of my pain disorder I was suddenly unable to walk him. We also needed a dog that would be calm and low anxiety, but one who would also love us and want to be near us. We visited the shelter a number of times, and, as you do, I fell in love every time, first with a low-slung russet golden retriever mix, and later with a brindle bull terrier puppy. Each time, however, we knew it was not the right time for us, or not the right dog, and so we went home alone. Happily, other families adopted both of those dogs shortly after each visit. Naomi decided that, since we were not sure we had enough time to welcome and acclimate a dog while I was still in school, we should stop going to the shelter.
I agreed at first, but then, about a week later, I saw on their website that there were a number of pit bull puppies that had just arrived at the shelter. While we had been reading about dogs, we’d talked about many different breeds. The one that we could both agree on, and the one that I had really fallen in love with, was the pit bull (and its various variations). I read about their history as faithful protectors and family dogs, and the recent resurgence of interest in them. I watched with dismay every time there was a news story about a dog-fighting ring, and tracked the progress of the rescued Michael Vick dogs (many of whom now have loving homes). In our new home, we had to face the harsh reality that many of these dogs were in the shelter because they’d been bred by unscrupulous backyard breeders to be fighting dogs or “protection” dogs, or rejected by puppy mills. I began to think that, if we could find a pit bull that we could bond with, it was our duty to adopt him or her, and pull at least that dog out of the cycle of abuse, so when I saw a litter of pit puppies, I thought we at least had to go visit them.
I waited until we went to the recycling center close to the shelter, and then casually suggested that we go visit just one more time. Naomi acquiesced, reluctantly. We were greeted at the door by a very enthusiastic volunteer, who asked us what we were there for. Naomi said we were just visiting, but I said that I was especially interested in any pit bulls they might have. The volunteer’s eyes lit up, and she led us over to a dog she described as a staff favorite. It was a lean, heavily muscled pit-mix, a female named Gloria. She leashed Gloria and took the three of us out to the enclosed exercise yard. She let Gloria off the leash and left, saying she wanted us to get to know each other. Two things quickly became clear: that Gloria was mixed with something with a mighty strong nose, and that Gloria did not know her name. No matter how loud we called, or how many times we squeaked the toy we’d brought, or waved our arms, Gloria could not care less about us. She was in her own little world of scent on the other side of the yard, and nothing could bring her back. Obviously, this was not the dog for us (although we hope that lovely volunteer eventually took her home).
When the volunteer came back, we told her that Gloria was lovely, but we hadn’t really clicked, and were there any other pits or pit mixes in the shelter? She said that she’d just been talking to other volunteer about that, and she had been reminded of one dog not in the general population because he had contracted kennel cough immediately on arriving at the shelter as a stray. She told us that we could see him, but because he was quarantined, he had to be the last dog we visited with before leaving. We agreed, and decided to go see him immediately. She led us into a tiny office where he was sleeping on a mat on the floor. His name was Owen and he was this golden tan with an interesting dark stripe down his spine and two funny little cowlick whorls on his butt. It was easy to tell that he was sick: he was shedding in clumps, his fur poofing off his body when he moved, he had this deep burr of a cough, and his eyes were red and irritated. Despite his obvious discomfort, as soon as we walked in with the volunteer, he got up and began walking around us, sniffing our pant legs and shoes. He was build very oddly, with short stubby legs and a big barrel chest. They told us later that they thought he was a basset hound/pit bull mix, although we doubt it. I sat down on the floor with him, and he leaned up against me, licking my hands and Naiomi’s leg while we talked about what little history they knew about him, and how his treatment was going. He was almost done with it, but had about a week left of medication to take. After about a half an hour of sitting with him, during which he’d fallen asleep on my leg, Naiomi and I decided we needed to talk alone. After making sure that we’d put our names in as potential adopters, and done everything to prevent someone else coming in and adopting him first, we walked out to the car, covered in dog fur. We got into the car and just sat there. Naomi began to talk about all the reasons she’d decided it wasn’t a good time for us to have a dog—all the reasons we should wait. I let her talk, and I listened, but it didn’t matter. My mind was made up. This was our dog. This was our boy.
We had long conversations for the next 24 hours. Eventually, Naomi called her longtime best friend, The Best Friend, who was late in her first pregnancy. The Best Friend didn’t have a job. Her husband was underemployed. They were on assistance programs, and most of their food came from a program to prevent malnutrition in mothers and infants. Obviously, there were not financially stable, but they’d decided to have a baby anyway. Naomi wanted to know if The Best Friend still thought it was the right thing to do. If adopting this dog was the right thing to do. The Best Friend said yes. The next day, we went out and bought a crate, a collar, food and water dishes, and a couple of chew toys. I called a local vet to make sure that we could come in with the dog immediately to continue his treatment for kennel cough. The evening, after some tense moments when the car wouldn’t start and we had to get a stranger to jump-start us, we went to get our dog. Because Owen, like Gloria, had not been in the shelter long enough to know his name, we already had a name picked out from our favorite book series, The Dark Tower. That day, Roland entered our lives.
We adore him and he adores us. We’re quickly forgetting what it was like to live without fur all over our clothes and puppy kisses when we get home. He is our joy. He has set about healing Naomi’s heart—we like to say that Roland, who is very smart and picks up new skills and manners in mere hours, has Winston as his fairy-dog-father, whispering the right things to do in his ears. He is also my best form of pain relief. I had worried that I wouldn’t be able to take care of a dog when my pain flares, but when I’m really hurting, Roland takes care of me. He knows when we are feeling bad, and he comes to us to snuggle and nuzzle and make it all better. I have a cold as I write this, and he is asleep on my feet, warming my toes and snoring.
We moved to the Midwest from the Northeast in December of 2010. We had been in a long distance relationship for three years, and then Naomi had moved to join me at my parents’ house in Vermont for a semester while I applied to library schools. I couldn’t have moved anywhere without her, as I don’t drive, I can’t walk long distances, and my health is extremely volatile, all owing to a chronic pain condition that has me in doctors offices at least once a week. Also, I love her. So there’s that. When we moved here, it was so cold. The weather was strange and unpredictable. It would be warm at 3:00pm, and the roads would suddenly freeze at 5:00pm. We missed home. I started school, and Naomi looked for a job. She’d temped in VT, so she started there. She taught a few trombone lessons at a local school. Finally, at the beginning of spring, she got a part time job and I got a fellowship.
We didn’t have a lot of money, but we knew that if we budgeted realistically and carefully, we could cut out unimportant expenses and spend on what we really wanted: a dog. We had visited a local shelter, and the pet store in the mall. Although both of us are aware of the problem of puppy mills, we thought it was a good idea to visit dogs in a place where we knew we couldn’t take them home, that was close to our house, and where I, who had very little experience with dogs, could learn about their behaviors and personalities, and start learning the secret language of dog communication. I was stunned to see how expressive some of the puppies were, and how closed some of the others were. I learned that the most forward dogs were often strong-headed and difficult to handle. I also learned about the wonderful smell puppies have, and the joy of being able to calm and comfort them or excite them into play. I learned about the supremely soothing experience of having a dog fall asleep in your arms.
We read about all the breeds, and had long conversations about what kind of dog would be best for us. We read book after book after book. I had never had a dog before, and I wanted to do this right. We knew we needed a dog-social dog, because we someday want to adopt again. We knew we wanted a dog active enough to hike with Naomi, but low-energy enough to be ok if, because of my pain disorder I was suddenly unable to walk him. We also needed a dog that would be calm and low anxiety, but one who would also love us and want to be near us. We visited the shelter a number of times, and, as you do, I fell in love every time, first with a low-slung russet golden retriever mix, and later with a brindle bull terrier puppy. Each time, however, we knew it was not the right time for us, or not the right dog, and so we went home alone. Happily, other families adopted both of those dogs shortly after each visit. Naomi decided that, since we were not sure we had enough time to welcome and acclimate a dog while I was still in school, we should stop going to the shelter.
I agreed at first, but then, about a week later, I saw on their website that there were a number of pit bull puppies that had just arrived at the shelter. While we had been reading about dogs, we’d talked about many different breeds. The one that we could both agree on, and the one that I had really fallen in love with, was the pit bull (and its various variations). I read about their history as faithful protectors and family dogs, and the recent resurgence of interest in them. I watched with dismay every time there was a news story about a dog-fighting ring, and tracked the progress of the rescued Michael Vick dogs (many of whom now have loving homes). In our new home, we had to face the harsh reality that many of these dogs were in the shelter because they’d been bred by unscrupulous backyard breeders to be fighting dogs or “protection” dogs, or rejected by puppy mills. I began to think that, if we could find a pit bull that we could bond with, it was our duty to adopt him or her, and pull at least that dog out of the cycle of abuse, so when I saw a litter of pit puppies, I thought we at least had to go visit them.
I waited until we went to the recycling center close to the shelter, and then casually suggested that we go visit just one more time. Naomi acquiesced, reluctantly. We were greeted at the door by a very enthusiastic volunteer, who asked us what we were there for. Naomi said we were just visiting, but I said that I was especially interested in any pit bulls they might have. The volunteer’s eyes lit up, and she led us over to a dog she described as a staff favorite. It was a lean, heavily muscled pit-mix, a female named Gloria. She leashed Gloria and took the three of us out to the enclosed exercise yard. She let Gloria off the leash and left, saying she wanted us to get to know each other. Two things quickly became clear: that Gloria was mixed with something with a mighty strong nose, and that Gloria did not know her name. No matter how loud we called, or how many times we squeaked the toy we’d brought, or waved our arms, Gloria could not care less about us. She was in her own little world of scent on the other side of the yard, and nothing could bring her back. Obviously, this was not the dog for us (although we hope that lovely volunteer eventually took her home).
When the volunteer came back, we told her that Gloria was lovely, but we hadn’t really clicked, and were there any other pits or pit mixes in the shelter? She said that she’d just been talking to other volunteer about that, and she had been reminded of one dog not in the general population because he had contracted kennel cough immediately on arriving at the shelter as a stray. She told us that we could see him, but because he was quarantined, he had to be the last dog we visited with before leaving. We agreed, and decided to go see him immediately. She led us into a tiny office where he was sleeping on a mat on the floor. His name was Owen and he was this golden tan with an interesting dark stripe down his spine and two funny little cowlick whorls on his butt. It was easy to tell that he was sick: he was shedding in clumps, his fur poofing off his body when he moved, he had this deep burr of a cough, and his eyes were red and irritated. Despite his obvious discomfort, as soon as we walked in with the volunteer, he got up and began walking around us, sniffing our pant legs and shoes. He was build very oddly, with short stubby legs and a big barrel chest. They told us later that they thought he was a basset hound/pit bull mix, although we doubt it. I sat down on the floor with him, and he leaned up against me, licking my hands and Naiomi’s leg while we talked about what little history they knew about him, and how his treatment was going. He was almost done with it, but had about a week left of medication to take. After about a half an hour of sitting with him, during which he’d fallen asleep on my leg, Naiomi and I decided we needed to talk alone. After making sure that we’d put our names in as potential adopters, and done everything to prevent someone else coming in and adopting him first, we walked out to the car, covered in dog fur. We got into the car and just sat there. Naomi began to talk about all the reasons she’d decided it wasn’t a good time for us to have a dog—all the reasons we should wait. I let her talk, and I listened, but it didn’t matter. My mind was made up. This was our dog. This was our boy.
We had long conversations for the next 24 hours. Eventually, Naomi called her longtime best friend, The Best Friend, who was late in her first pregnancy. The Best Friend didn’t have a job. Her husband was underemployed. They were on assistance programs, and most of their food came from a program to prevent malnutrition in mothers and infants. Obviously, there were not financially stable, but they’d decided to have a baby anyway. Naomi wanted to know if The Best Friend still thought it was the right thing to do. If adopting this dog was the right thing to do. The Best Friend said yes. The next day, we went out and bought a crate, a collar, food and water dishes, and a couple of chew toys. I called a local vet to make sure that we could come in with the dog immediately to continue his treatment for kennel cough. The evening, after some tense moments when the car wouldn’t start and we had to get a stranger to jump-start us, we went to get our dog. Because Owen, like Gloria, had not been in the shelter long enough to know his name, we already had a name picked out from our favorite book series, The Dark Tower. That day, Roland entered our lives.
We adore him and he adores us. We’re quickly forgetting what it was like to live without fur all over our clothes and puppy kisses when we get home. He is our joy. He has set about healing Naomi’s heart—we like to say that Roland, who is very smart and picks up new skills and manners in mere hours, has Winston as his fairy-dog-father, whispering the right things to do in his ears. He is also my best form of pain relief. I had worried that I wouldn’t be able to take care of a dog when my pain flares, but when I’m really hurting, Roland takes care of me. He knows when we are feeling bad, and he comes to us to snuggle and nuzzle and make it all better. I have a cold as I write this, and he is asleep on my feet, warming my toes and snoring.
Stephen and I often talk about what kind of dog we'll have when we get our own place. When I first knew him, but wasn't with him, Stephen had a dog like Naomi's Winston, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier Cross called Bullitt (he wrote about her last year). I've never had dogs myself and I'm not sure about having a dog that might make other people nervous - Pitt Bulls, for example, are banned outright here in the UK and other bull terriers are frequently used and abused in the ways you describe. So I'd be very interested to know how other people react to Roland when you're out and about?
ReplyDeleteI'm so glad you've found Roland. I'm sure you are as good for him as he is for you both.
There is definitely a great deal of prejudice in the US surrounding pits. Here, we have a thing called Breed Specific Legislation. Sometimes BSL bans pits and their variants, but often it just makes it harder to own pits. Some of it is sensible (all pits must be spayed or neutered) even though it comes from a hateful and frightened place. More often, the laws make it more possible for landlords to refuse to rent to a pit owner, or charge you a bigger pet rent than is charged for other dogs. What is most hurtful for me is that some of the smartest people I know, those who would not engage in racist commentary or ablist commentary, have tried to warn me about owning a pit, mostly on the basis of personal or media anecdotes.
ReplyDeleteThe longer I've had Roland, the more I've studied dog bites and pits. The science just isn't behind this prejudice. Part of the problem is that often the police or victims of a dog bite will ID a dog as a pit to the media after it has bitten someone, even if it is a mutt, or even if it is a purebred dog of a completely different breed. In the public's mind, not only do pit bulls bite, dogs that bite are pit bulls. In fact, pit bulls rank just below Golden Retrievers in terms of tolerance and temperament. They were actually bred to be calm and human-social, because of their fighting history and breeding. They would be tended after a fight by strangers, so they had to be equally good with other humans as with their owners. The thing that many people forget is that even if pit bulls were more likely to bit humans (which they're not), they are also way way more likely than other dogs to be abused and fought and neglected by evil, stupid people.
Sorry, you asked a question :) People love Roland. We have had to deal with a few (mostly young women) who have screamed and tried to run away (or once, hit him with an umbrella), but they have been few and far between. For the most part, people recognize Roland as the friendly, lovey boy that he is. He is also very striking looking, with shiny, warm tan fur and a big smile. Often we have him in a bandanna that keeps bugs off him, and he sometimes wears a backpack when I can't carry my things and his, which makes him look like a service dog (which he kind of is, for me). People stop us in the street to tell us what a beautiful dog he is. It is obvious that some of the people who stop us are from urban communities where pits are used as protection and fighting dogs, and they admire him as a status symbol (and are shocked and amused to see a big tough dog being walked by two girls, one of whom walks with a cane or crutches), but many more stop to talk because he's so charismatic.
He plays very well with other dogs, and knows when to get out of a bad situation. If another dog starts trying to scrap, he'll try to calm them down, then run away if he can't. He's a really great dog. Also, he's only about a year, so we expect him to mature and calm even more in the years to come. Right now we're teaching him to help me remember my evening medication, and he already comes and gets Naomi when I'm not doing well (like if i fall down in another room and am trying to get back up. The dog cares nothing for my pride :P ) .
Wow, thanks for such a thorough answer. It really is lovely to hear about Roland. :-)
ReplyDeleteI think the situation with "dangerous dogs" is much the same here in the UK, and since pit bulls have been banned, the focus of moral panic has shifted to other breeds, like Staffordshire Bull Terriers. Just as you describe, when there is a dog attack, there seems an inclination to describe the dog as a particular breed because that kind of washes human hands of the matter. If someone has kept a dog very badly, or allowed or even encouraged a child to torment it, and the dog bites, far better to say its aggression was in its blood all along.
Stephen has lived around dogs all his life including Staffies and English bull terriers (which make nervous - they look a little like sharks on legs), and he has been nipped twice - once by a King Charles Spaniel (an incident Stephen feels was his own fault), and once by a grumpy little Chiwawa.