At first, I didn’t realize she was in there. The inside of my Sleepypod mobile pet bed is a very fashionable (and quite comfy) black fleecy faux fur material. But somehow, the fur looked a little… scruffy. Suddenly an ear flicked. And then Halley lifted her head, yawned, and looked at me as if to say, “What?” And she tucked her head back into the bed, a puppy ball who fit inside the circular bed almost to overflowing—and went back to sleep. I had just washed and dried and zipped back into place the interior plush, something I always do after I use the carrier to take one of the cats to the vet, which was why it was in the middle of the kitchen floor, and more accessible than usual. Halley stayed tucked inside the bed for quite a while. She seemed comfortable, sometimes lifting her head to rest it on the side, or curling back up with her snout stuffed in among her legs. It occured to me that all the dog beds in our house are more Lilah and Jaspe-sized. As in… big. All of my pups like to rest their heads on pillows, or the raised sides of dogs beds, but maybe they also like that enclosed feeling as well. So now we have a smaller dog bed, one that’s not too big, and not too small. One that is Halley sized, just right. We’ll see if she uses it. But based on past experience, I’m not taking any bets. Where do you pets like to sleep? You may also like:
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It’s the only reason I wish fall would last a little longer: my dogs love playing in the leaves. Jasper stomps through it, tail held high like a banner, wagging with joy, until he finds the perfect spot to lie down. Halley just runs through the piles, disappearing into waves of flying leaves. And Lilah? She just walks through the piles, playing with her brothers, tuning into her playful self and romping—a word I would rarely use with my serious thoughtful girl. And then, she’ll lie down—often right next to Jasper—with the biggest smile on her face. Me? Yeah, I romp and stomp and play along with them. I bask in their energy, their joy, their in-the-moment appreciation for the simple gift of a pile of fallen leaves. When their playing causes the leaves to spread out to an unsatisfying thinness, I’ll rake everything back into a fluffy pile. Again. And again. And again. One of the many gifts that my dogs bring me: joy. It’s worth every moment I re-rake a pile of leaves. And while I’m doing that, I send out an appreciative thank you to Mother Nature for providing this brief moment we all can share. What do your pets think about fall? You may also like:
The post Haiku by Dog: Leaf appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Halley and Calvin have made a lot of progress. A year ago, Halley needed to be leashed and restrained at all times. She couldn’t control herself near the cats, and would bark and whine and shriek and howl like a baby Nazgûl. And the cats? They’d hide. If you asked me last year at this time if I thought we’d ever be able to live together in peace, I would have sobbed and said, “No way.” At the time, I was heartbroken because I thought I’d have to give Halley up. Dogs. Cats. They don’t speak the same language. A dog wagging her tail is saying, “I’m happy! Play with me! I love you!” A cat wagging his tail is saying, “I’m hisssed off. Stay away from me! I will attack you!” And yet. We all worked together toward a goal: shalom bayit. That’s Hebrew for “peace in the house.” Halley worked on curbing her enthusiasm, and dealing with the frustration of not getting what she wanted (like sniffing a cat.) And Calvin, like the other three felines in the house, worked to overcome his fears, to stand up for himself, and to allow Halley to get close enough for the two of them to get to know each other. Maybe even become friends. And here we are. It wasn’t easy. There were misunderstandings. Disagreements. Hissing. Swatting. Barking. Chasing. I was the ref, the moderator, the Soother in Chief. And the provider of tons of rewards (read “treats”) for good behavior. Seriously folks, if they can do it, we can do it. Let’s try. Even if we don’t understand each other, we can learn to get along. Because I think in the end, we all desire shalom bayit. Do you have more than one pet? How do they get along with each other? You may also like:
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“It’s always the quiet ones.” — Calvin T. Katz, The Most Interesting Cat In The World. Stay comfy, my friends. You may also like:
The post I Don’t Always Sit Quietly #MostInterestingCatInTheWorld appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Athena is our kitchen manager. She plants herself right in the middle of the floor, so as we walk back and forth from counter to sink to stove to counter to oven, we have to step over her or around her. One might think that she would consider it a dangerous place to hang out, what with all the backing and forthing, carrying hot things, heavy things, pointy things. But no. She lies comfortable and confident. In the center of it all, as dinner prep revolves around her. As it should be. How do your pets help with dinner? You may also like:
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Towels are my favorite laundry item. They’re hard to ruin. They’re easy to fold. And there’s something inherently satisfying when you pile them in a neat stack. Unfortunately I’m not the only one in the house who likes freshly laundered towels. Particularly those fresh from the dryer. Stack ’em high, and they’re even more attractive. When I come back after taking less than a minute to bring an armful of clothes upstairs—not even to put them away yet, but just to set them in the “I’ll put them away later” position on our cedar chest—invariably someone has taken possession of my towels. LIke a silent siren call that awakens resident felines from their deepest slumber, warm-from-the-dryer towels are a major attractant. And once one of the cats claims Mount Towelrest for their own, there’s not much that will depose them. Unless it’s dinnertime. And while the cats are gustatorially distracted, I’ll put my towels away in the linen closet. Except for maybe the top one, which by then will have enough cat fur to mark that territory as belonging to kitty king (or queen) and crown, and may need to be re-washed and dried for its intended use. Unless another cat gets to it first. Do your cats occupy your laundry? You may also like:
The post Text from Cat: Who rules? appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. This is how you know Halley is now part of our family; it’s her first haiku, and even though she’s just put her metaphorical toe in the waters of poetry, I think she nailed it. She now nose how to craft the three-line verse, having learned from the other inhabitants of our home. Not only have they grounded her in the technicalities of the art form, but they’ve also taught her the more subtle aspects of the Life With Dogs and Cats style. And she really digs it, too. She’s hole-y engaged in the process. Do your dogs like to dig? You may also like:
The post Haiku by Dog: Hole appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Note: Life with Dogs and Cats received no money for any products mentioned in this post. We may get a small commission if you click on or use a link to purchase an item. It’s been eleven months since I adopted Halley; ten months since I last wrote about her. Back then, I was despairing that she would ever become a permanent part of our family. Every time I’d sit down to write a post about her, we’d have another setback, another problem. Most of the issues revolved around Halley’s relationship with our cats, which metaphorically speaking was like python and mongoose. Roadrunner and coyote. Seinfeld and Newman. Matter and antimatter. That is to say, awful at best, antagonistic at worst, and absolutely unsustainable. It was like living in a war zone. Halley was most definitely NOT good with cats. The rescue group had told me she was okay with them, had even “tested” her with one, but it turned out not to be true. I don’t blame them. They tried. They had the best intentions. They did the right things. (Read more about our first month with her, and her adoption story.) My dilemma was this: If Halley was going to stay with us, I needed to make sure my cats were safe with her in the house. Not just that they were safe but that they felt safe. That they could go about their feline business on any given day, eating undisturbed, using whichever litterbox was the right one for the moment, napping wherever the sunbeams fell, offering play-by-play commentary on the chipmunks and birds outside our windows, and demanding—and receiving—appropriate lap time with their humans. But every time Halley saw one of my cats, she’d tense up, stare, and act like she wanted nothing more than to simply get them. I don’t think she would have intentionally harmed them, but she was obsessed with them, fixated on them, fascinated by them. The cats—who are both predator and prey—read that body language real well. Yet that was only the tip of the behavioral iceberg (among other things, which you can read also read about in my previous post, I Didn’t Expect Baby Nazgûl). She was Exhibit A in “What Barrier Frustration Looks Like,” meaning if she was thwarted from getting her way, she would throw a puppy temper tantrum, barking and pulling and jumping and running and flinging herself toward the desired object or creature (like one of the cats for instance) and let loose demon screams that would put fear in the heart of any living soul.
My dog, when she was a puppy, sounded like a Nazgûl from The Lord of the Rings movies.
That combination of terrier-style obsession with an inability to self-regulate when thwarted was, to say the least, a doozy of a behavioral challenge. Halley needed someone who could train her, who could handle her issues, and who could help her be the best dog she could be. In the hands of someone who did not understand her, who did not use positive reinforcement techniques, who did not have the tools or skills to teach her, she would become uncontrollable. Reactive. Possibly dangerous. So I was extremely reluctant to give up on her, to give her back to the rescue group. That would be one black mark against her, and if her next family couldn’t cope with her, she’d wind up back again—or experience worse things I didn’t want to imagine—and I simply couldn’t bear the thought of sentencing her to an unstable future. So I kept working with Halley. I talked and consulted with vets, behaviorists, trainers. I read dozens of articles, and bought several books on training reactive dogs. (I’ve listed some titles in the box at the end of this story). I took Halley to basic training classes. Socialization events. I brought her to two different doggy day camps, where I hired trainers to work with her on site. I had a trainer--Anne Macaulay of On Good Behavior—come visit us in our home (pre-COVID days; sigh) to help assess whether it was even possible that Halley could be trained to live with cats. Anne gave me a cautious, “maybe.” But she told me if anyone could do it, I could. I studied everything. We practiced everything. Because I work from home (even before the pandemic), I worked with Halley throughout the day—always using positive reinforcement, catching Halley doing the right thing, and rewarding her for it—and sometimes rewarding the other inhabitants for doing the right things as well. The key to all of this was consistency. And patience. And baby steps. Actually, whatever is less than baby steps. Gnat baby steps. For example, Halley sees a cat and is quiet for .5 nanosecond. Click. Treat. Then, days later, for 1 second. Click. Treat. Then, over time, 3 seconds. Click. Treat. Eventually, 15 seconds. Click. Treat. Halley looks at me instead of the cat. Click. Treat. Halley can actually lay down in the presence of a cat. Click Treat. Halley stays down in the presence of a cat. Click Treat. Click Treat. Click Treat. Click Treat. Click Treat. That progression took months. Months of short, few-minutes-at-a-time training bursts, delivered mostly ad-hoc, when opportunities presented themselves. To treat increase Halley’s frustration tolerance, we actually created more barriers, so she encountered them a lot. This was something the trainers at day camp did, too. She needed practice in being frustrated. She needed to learn self-regulation. That she could control her emotions; that delaying immediate gratification would result in a desired reward. So, at first, inside the house, Halley was either tethered to me, or was hooked up to a leash that was attached to a table—and that only happened when I needed extra hands. There was never a second when she wasn’t supervised, except when we were all asleep. Due to her stress and fixation on the cats, I fed them separately. Brian gave the dogs their meals outside while the cats were served in the house.
Eventually, the dogs were allowed inside, but had to stay gated and supervised in the laundry room. Then they could be in the kitchen while the cats were being fed, but Halley would be leashed and attached to the faucet post. There she couldn’t see the cats (because our kitchen island blocked the view) and they couldn’t see her. She was taught to be quiet while I prepared dinner. To stay on her mat. How long did this take? Months. This was a lesson in patience. I only pushed Halley slightly forward in her training when I felt comfortable she had mastered one of her baby gnat steps. And I went backward a gnat step or two if she failed too often, letting her win, get rewarded, and feel confident before we tried a gnat step forward again. Eventually, the cats got used to Halley being in the kitchen while they ate. Sometimes they would walk past her on the way to the litter box. I wore my treat bag in the house, and only took it off when I went to the bathroom or slept; a reward and a clicker were always at hand, so I could mark the desired behaviors when I saw them. Other than meal times, for the most part, the cats hid when Halley was in the house. Avoiding Halley meant they avoided me. Athena and Calvin staked out the basement—a room Halley had no access to. Elsa Clair ruled the upstairs. I put a strong barrier at the base of the stairs, and also created a cat-safe area out of my daughter’s old bedroom, using our favorite gate that features a cat-sized opening, so Halley couldn’t enter the room, even by accident. Dawn hid under the family room couch. This wasn’t the best hiding place, as Halley could smell her under there, and any time she was in the family room, the dog would attempt to antagonize the cat, getting close enough the the base of the couch to cause Dawn to growl and swat at the skirting. This was endlessly amusing to Halley, but not to Dawn, or to me, so I spent a lot of time rewarding Halley for ignoring Dawn, and tossing treats under the couch to make up for Dawn’s unwilling participation in a puppy training activity. Months.
My puppy HMy puppy Halley is learning how to be calm near our cats. In this video, we practiced while my cat Dawn was hiding under the couch.
I missed my feline companions; they were always hiding. So at night, after the dogs settled down in the bedroom with Brian, I snuck downstairs to spend quality time with the cats. This also gave me an opportunity to assess how they were doing. My vet told me that cats are more resilient and adaptable than many people give them credit for, but I needed to be patient, to give them time. So every night, I played with them, petted them, scratched their chins, and provided laps for them to curl up in. They still loved me. They were all okay. They were managing. I could continue trying to make this work.
I couldn’t train Halley to be good with the cats if the cats were hiding and only making brief appearances during meal times, or when they could hear the silence that meant the dogs were outside. But this was an issue I couldn’t force. I had to wait. And hope. And be ready for a chance encounter between Halley and a cat. One day, Athena wandered up out of the basement when Halley was sleeping. I rewarded her with treats, which of course woke up the dogs. Then everyone got treats. Halley was leashed, so she couldn’t reach Athena, and I rewarded them both heavily as long as Halley could stay quiet and attempt calmness. It worked! For only a few moments, but long enough for Athena to calmly walk away, back downstairs, instead of dashing off in fear. It didn’t take long for our resident tortie to realize that if she ventured out when Halley was present, she would get snacks just for sitting around, observing the situation and offering commentary from a safe height on a step stool, chair or the buffet. This equated the dog with pleasant moments—and food. Then one evening, Dawn didn’t retire to her undercouch lair immediately after dinner; instead, she curled up on a chair tucked under the kitchen table. This gave Halley practice in reducing her intensity when a cat was around. Halley got rewards for being quiet, for looking at me instead of the cat, exhibiting anything that looked like self-regulation. I also rewarded Lilah and Jasper for calmness and quiet. Both dogs are very attuned to household tension; as it increases, it causes Jasper to bark, sparking a cascade of events with Lilah jumping in the middle like an ice hockey ref breaking up a gloves-off fight, and cats scampering away in fear. My goal was to keep that anxious atmosphere from developing; if I could feel the situation becoming tense, I’d provide more rewards or add more space between the players—or stop the training session before it escalated. At first Dawn was too nervous to accept treats while Halley was in the room, but eventually, as Dawn stayed out more and more, Halley began to calm down (remember those gnat baby steps?), and the cat began to feel good enough to enjoy the food. By then I was using cat kibble as a reward. It’s small enough that the cats could eat it, tasty enough for everyone, and each individual kibble didn’t have too many calories. To control everyone’s weight through this process, I cut down on the amount of food everyone received for the meals. One by one, the cats started coming out of hiding, cautiously testing the environment, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. But with special treats involved (I normally feed my kitties wet food, so kibble was a high-value, coveted reward), they could come back.
My puppy is learning to relax with my cats, and my cats are learning to tolerate my puppy. Positive reinforcement in the form of treats (cat kibble) helps everyone.
In some ways, it became more difficult as now I had to be vigilant, knowing a cat could show up at any moment, and staying attuned to Halley’s moods, reading her body language to tell me if a cat was in the area that I hadn’t seen. This way I could be ready to grab or stomp on Halley’s leash, and pull a clicker out of my pocket for an instant unscheduled training session. At this point, I was training all four cats and three dogs simultaneously. If I didn’t have a clicker, I would say, “Yes!” and “Good girl,” which Halley understood was almost as good as a click, since —just like a click—those words would be followed by a reward. Calvin and Athena would sit on the basement stairs, hiding behind the door—which Halley couldn’t get through because of the Door Buddy hook that keeps it open just wide enough for feline passage, but not a 30-pound puppy. As the cats got to the top of the stairs, Halley would sniff them, and treats were served all around. Soon, one of the kitties would feel brave and walk out into the kitchen. Click. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat. Often I would position myself on the floor with cats on giving everyone treats: often surrounded by all three dogs and four cats. Click. Treat. Treat. Treat. I thought that once Halley was able to calmly tolerate a cat’s presence, she could apply what she learned when the next cat appeared. But cats are individuals, with different scents and personalities, and it became clear to me she could differentiate. Likewise, each cat had to define their own relationship with Halley, what they were willing to tolerate, what made them run, and eventually, what would cause them to hiss and swat. So it was slow going, as each of the four cats, and Halley, had to figure out for themselves how to accept each other. To be honest, I was thrilled the first time Halley got swatted. (Thank you Dawn.) Now Halley realized that cats had sharp and pointy bits that could be employed if she got too nosy. She wasn’t hurt (no blood drawn), but she began to respect Dawn a little more after than. It was her first lesson in how to understand the feline language, and that a growl and a hiss could presage an encounter with claws. This bit of information she did apply to her interactions with the other felines of the house: growl / hiss = warning.
After a close (and controlled) encounter with my cat, my puppy learns to respect her.
As we took our baby gnat steps, I sometimes posted our progress on Facebook. But never here. It felt like if I posted here, it meant that Halley was staying, that she had a permanent place in our home. For all these months, I was not sure. I wanted to get to a point where I could trust a leashless, unattended Halley—and the two other dogs—to be calm around the cats. And I needed the cats to be safe, to feel safe, and to confidently go about their feline business undisturbed. Until then, there was always the possibility that I would need to give Halley up. This was another reason for my silence on the blog; it wasn’t just the loss of my dog Tucker, whom I was still grieving during all of this. It was the potential loss of Halley. The huge amount of mental and emotional space that grief and training took up in my head. And then, of course, the pandemic, which, while my family and I were lucky enough to avoid getting sick, nonetheless affected us dramatically here in New Jersey in the spring. I told myself I would write about our journey with Halley, when I knew for certain that she could stay. That there is, as we say in the Jewish tradition, shalom bayit, peace in the house. I finally believe we’re there. Dawn is rarely under the couch these days; she sits on Brian’s lap during evening “TV time” and hisses Halley away if she gets too close. And Halley (usually) backs down, though sometimes she offers commentary, which consists of little yips of frustration, but nothing like the Nazgûl screams of her early months. Still, Halley will come to me when called, walking away and leaving Dawn alone. Jasper has learned to temper his hockey-ref tendencies. And Lilah can’t be bothered getting involved anymore; nobody seems to be in danger so she doesn’t feel she has to step in. Athena will probably hold her anti-Halley grudge forever. She never forgave Tucker for being a nosy terrier, and she throws silent kitty curses at Halley when the dog has done something egregious, like occupy space. But she’ll come by when treats are being offered. Training hasn’t stopped, nor do I ever expect it to. And Halley has learned to detour around our tortie cat; again, she may complain about it, but gently, and somewhat respectfully. And at a safe distance. I could never tell if Elsa Clair took notice of our dogs—any of them. I always thought that she viewed them as moving furniture, useless furniture at that, since she couldn’t jump up on them. But she actually sees Halley, will talk to her, walk past her and glance at her, even offer an exploratory sniff. I had been worried about her, since she had experienced some of the worst of Halley early on. I guess Elsa Clair is a bit more forgiving than her sisters. As for Calvin, he stayed hidden for much longer than the other cats, so he avoided experiencing the worst of Halley. Maybe that’s why there’s a budding friendship between the two of them. After Tucker died, I could tell Calvin missed him; he would jump up on my bed and look puzzled and sad when his dog buddy wasn’t there. I’ve actually caught Calvin rubbing Halley, and while she’s a bit confused about the activity, she looks to me for approval, and stays calm. The two of them will often lie near one another on the rug in the kitchen, hoping for a treat or two—and I’ll oblige for such well-behaved creatures.
How far we've come! My dog Halley can lie calmly next to Calvin as he rolls around the floor. My dogs and cats are learning to live together peaceably.
Halley is still a work in progress. In this post, I haven’t touched on the training I’ve done to help her remain calm and non reactive when there are other dogs around. To stop fence running. To sleep in a crate. To bark an appropriate amount at appropriate times. To allow me to brush her teeth and comb her coat. We’ve had tremendous success on all those fronts—each with its own baby gnat steps. We’re still working with Halley on walking near cars. And clipping her nails. And I think she’ll struggle with frustration tolerance for a long time. But she’ll do that here. With me. In her home. Surrounded by the people—and dogs—who love her, as Lilah and Jasper clearly do. And cats who don’t mind having her around—mostly—and one (Calvin) who seems to want to actually be her friend. Halley is home for good. Do you have a dog with barrier frustration or other behavioral issues?Here are a few helpful hints. Use only positive reinforcement. I can’t stress this enough. I never punish Halley. I just catch her doing the things I wanted her to do—however fleeting those behaviors are at first—and mark them (using the clicker) so she knows what they are, and reward her. Find a trainer who can help you. I could not have done this alone, without the advice and coaching of people who know more than I do. This can even be done during the pandemic; there are trainers who can train outside, meet you in a park, or work with you via an online meeting tool like Zoom. Ask your vet for recommendations. Try clicker training. It’s easier than you think and animals learn real fast. Clicking enables you to mark a good behavior from afar. Plus a click is processed in the brain faster than words, and it’s the click that starts the release of the dopamine, the chemical messenger that signals pleasure. I have about six clickers (I keep putting them down when I’m not wearing something with pockets and misplacing them) and try to always have one at hand. I also use “Yes!” in those rare moments a clicker wasn’t nearby. Figure out and use the highest value rewards for your pet. For high-stakes training, use the reward that is most desired. For example, don’t just use dog kibble or a boring snack, use bits of cut-up cheese or freeze-dried liver. Your dog will let you know what they like, what they’re willing to work for. If someone offered you a single french fry to get up on a table and sing the theme song to Gilligan’s Island, you might not do it, but if it was an expensive scotch or the keys to a beach house for the week, you might reconsider. Keep the treats on hand. I wore my treat bag all day. I also have small dog-and-cat-proof closed containers of treats placed around the house, so I can grab one any time I need to. You don’t want to have to run to another room when you’re trying to reward your pet when you’ve caught them doing something right. You may want to adjust the amount of food you give your dog at meal times so they don’t gain too much weight. Be patient. Now be more patient. Training like this takes time. It is not something that takes weeks. Think months. Years. Gnat baby steps. It took Lilah years to learn how to deal with her anxiety. It’s better to go back to a step that your dog is successful with if they’re not ready to progress. Be consistent. Rewarding behavior sometimes, punishing behavior other times, and ignoring bad behavior on other occasions is a recipe for failure. That doesn’t mean you have to train your dog 24/7, but there are other tools you can use, if you aren’t able to jump into an impromptu training session: distraction (offer a toy, or call your dog to you, or make a strange noise) or removing the dog from the situation (take them outside, bring them to another room, close a door). Be a student of your dog’s body language. A dog, much like a human toddler, doesn’t have the words to tell you when they are stressed, anxious or over stimulated. But their body language can tell you a lot. A dog who is stressed may lick their lips, yawn, or pace. (Here’s a handy poster with illustrations showing signs of canine—and feline—anxiety. Practice in short bursts. I train Halley in mini sessions of less than five minutes, usually no more than two or there. I stop while she’s doing well (quit while you’re ahead) or if I see early signs of anxiety. Consider keeping your dog on a leash in the house. The leash stays on, even when you’re not holding it. The great thing about a leash is, you can quickly stomp on it, which will stop a running dog. You’ll want to make sure your dog is wearing an appropriate harness and not a collar for this so as not to hurt them. Consider training to a mat. I had never done this with my other dogs, but it’s a great tool for self-regulation, and we used it in Halley’s basic training. A mat becomes a safe place, a calming place for your dog. And it’s portable, so you can bring it with you. I brought mine to the Dog Writers’ Association of America awards ceremony earlier this year (pre-pandemic) and it helped Halley stay calm and centered in a novel environment. Do some research. The Google can help you, up to a point. There are tons of videos out there that can show you training techniques like clicker training and using a mat. Get recommendations from your trainer or your vet. The books that helped me with Halley are: Chill Out Fido!: How to Calm Your Dog by Nan Kene Arthur and Fired Up, Frantic, and Freaked Out: Training the Crazy Dog from Over the Top to Under Control by Laura VanArendonk Baugh. Have fun. It’s not all work. Find ways to bond with your dog, via walks and playtime. Give them opportunities to burn off a little steam with physical activity. Besides, training can be fun and enjoyable for all; remember that good behavior equals rewards so your dog will learn pretty quickly that training is a good thing. Know when to fold ’em. If you’re struggling, if other animals or humans in your home are not safe, please do the right thing and go back to the breeder or rescue organization where you got your dog, and ask for help. Any reputable organization will take your dog back and rehome them with someone who is better equipped to handle the training, or may work with the dog more before attempting to adopt them out again. If you don’t have access to the breeder or original rescue group, look online for organizations in your area, for breed-specific rescue groups, or ask you veterinarian or trainer for help. There is no need to feel guilty if it doesn’t work. Halley (and to be honest, Lilah, Rosie and Tucker) were not starter dogs; they needed someone who could handle their challenges. And I was ready to give Halley up if I was convinced she wouldn’t work out—no matter how much that idea hurt me. The pets who were already part of the family needed to be safe, and that was most important. If you’re training your dog to get along with your cat(s), here are a few more tips…Ensure your cats have safe, dog-free zones. In the beginning, Halley was only allowed on our main floor. We also created a temporary cat room she didn’t have access to. Today, Halley still isn’t allowed in the basement. It’s a cat-only zone. Throughout the house, make sure your cats also have plenty of vertical places to climb, and low cave-like places (like Dawn’s favorite undercouch lair) where Halley and the other dogs can’t reach. These are places they can bolt to if they feel threatened. Provide dog-free access to litter boxes, food, and water. Ensure whatever cat zones you’ve created also include a place for the cat to safely eat, drink and go to the bathroom. Watch for cat stress and health issues. Cats are very good at hiding their stress, so you need to be vigilant in watching them for signs. Make sure they’re using the litter box (though unfortunately that may become apparent if they decide to “go” elsewhere.) If they feel threatened, they may mark their territory by inappropriate elimination as well. Look for changes in appetite or behavior. Spend quality time with your kitty. Find a way to create dog-free time with you cats. Offer them special treats, pet them, love them; give them the attention they crave, without the stress of worrying about the dog. Reward everyone for good interactions. You are not just training a dog. You’re also training the cat to equate the dog with a good experience. As much as possible, work to make any encounter between the species a good one. If your dog isn’t ready, don’t push it. If your cat isn’t ready, don’t push it. About the pronouns in this pieceI consciously use the word “they” as a singular gender-unspecific pronoun. In the past, I might have switched back and forth between “he” and “she” to eliminate bias. But now I understand that gender is nonbinary; it isn’t just those two choices. I could rewrite my sentences so that they don’t use pronouns, and eliminate the awkwardness that a singular genderless pronoun causes those of us who are grammatical word nerds (and I include myself in that group). And you might wonder if it really matters when I’m writing about dogs and cats. However, language is an important contributor to our perceptions, and I want to help make our world a safer and more accepting place for nonbinary people. Even a seemingly minor change can start to make a difference. Thus, by using the gender-neutral “they,” I can get more comfortable writing it and my readers can get more comfortable reading it. And together we can all contribute to meaningful change. Read more about the history of “they,” which as far back as the 1300s was acceptable as a singular unspecified pronoun, until a grammar book author (a woman!) decided to designate “he” as the standard. The post Halley and the cats: A successful adoption made possible through training, positive reinforcement, and patience appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. On Saturday night, I won a major award. (Bonus points for anyone who gets the movie reference.) I was honored with a Muse Medallion from the Cat Writers’ Association for my poem “Cat Dreams” that appeared in Cat Talk, the official magazine of the Cat Fanciers’ Association. But wait! There’s more. In February of this year, I received a Maxwell Medallion from the Dog Writers Association of America at their annual banquet for an essay about my dog Pasha, entitled “What’s Wrong WIth Your Dog” that was included in the book Second-Chance Dogs: True Stories of the Dogs We Rescue and the Dogs Who Rescue Us by Callie Smith Grant. I received another Maxwell (OMG, yes, two in one night!) for my poem Haiku by Dog: Yearning, which featured a photo of Tucker looking sadly out our front door. And more: In July, one of my stories (about Tucker and Calvin) was included in an official Chicken Soup for the Soul anthology, The Magic of Cats. It has always been a dream of mine to be a Chicken Soup writer.
Which is why it’s just about perfect that yet another essay (about how Tucker came to live with us) is in the chapter on love come true in a second Chicken Soup for the Soul book, Listen to Your Dreams, which goes on sale today. Still not done: Two of my stories are included in an additional book by Callie Smith Grant that’s due out in September, this time about our feline friends, entitled Second-Chance Cats. And of course, there’s Halley. Sweet. Silly. Brilliant Halley. Obsessed. Yappy. Too-smart-for-her-own-good Halley. Our new lab / Border Collie / terrier puppy who exemplifies both the best and the worst personality traits of her heritage. Sometimes simultaneously. Awards. Stories published. Dreams achieved. The adoption of a puppy. I should be celebrating. For heck’s sake (this is a family friendly blog), I should be posting about these successes. But I haven’t. I’ve been quiet online. Almost complete radio silence since Tucker’s death. Only two blog posts and sporadic social media in more than a year. I am truly thrilled about my awards. The books. The new addition to our family. But I didn’t write about any of it here (other two stories about Halley.) Because I just couldn’t. I. Just. Could. Not. We’ve all loved and lost. And I know you never get over a loss; you just learn how to live with it. The hard parts are the milestones. The first fill-in-the-blank without your loved one. The first walk with only two dogs. The first fall with nobody to chase a ball through the leaves. The first snow without Tucker charging through it. But those events are kind of predictable; I could mostly prepare for them. What’s worse are the moments that blindsided me with an expected punch of grief that left me breathless, that turned me into a puddle on the floor, wanting so desperately what the universe has told me I cannot have. The squeaky ball discovered, forgotten in a corner. The first time I called the names of three dogs by habit. The email from the company that I bought special food from for Tucker when he got sick, reminding me about the upcoming order that I now had to cancel. I knew to expect all of those things. I’ve lost pets before. And people. I learned to navigate a life that didn’t include them. But to open up my computer and confront my blog. That. Was. So. Painful. Tucker is everywhere. He’s on page after page, text after text, haiku after haiku. He’s in my photo archive, my history, my data. He’s in my drafts—all the posts with him in it that didn’t go live because we ran out of time. I could navigate my home, my neighborhood, my physical space where the Tucker-shaped hole exists. But Tucker is woven through my blog like he is woven through my heart. There is no route through my online existence that doesn’t take me through a minefield of memories. That doesn’t require painful decisions, like whether I post the stories and poems that feature him, or leave them as literal ghosts in my machine. That doesn’t require changes to a place that is in some ways frozen in a moment, like leaving a room just the way it was when someone was still with us, because to make any changes is to move on. And I’m not sure if my funny bone, severely injured when I lost Tucker, has healed enough for me to be humorous again, writing amusing haiku, or silly texts. Writing has always been my therapy, my medicine, my antidote against Agnes, my depression. But I couldn’t swallow this bitter pill; it was too big, too overpowering, too much looking straight at my loss screaming at me from my computer. Too much facing it. Too much living with it. Too much being forced to accept it. The thing I miss most about Tucker is his joy. Jasper and Lilah—and even little Halley now—are happy dogs. They enjoy their lives. They’re sweet and playful and amusing. But Tucker was the most joyful creature I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. I never tired of throwing his ball, because the joy he took in the game was so contagious, so infectious (if you’ll excuse the untimely word choice) that it fed my soul. I thrived on it. I craved it. I miss it so damn much. But I’ve also heard from fans that my writing brought them joy. That the tales and poems and comical musings of my dogs and cats made them smile, or giggle or outright LOL. It’s been just over a year since Tucker died. And I think it’s time for me to take a deep breath, and to come back. To start writing here again. To bring joy to others, maybe not quite as intensely as Tucker did for me, but to settle for a snicker or a grin. Maybe even to find some solace in my memories of him, in a place rife with his presence. I’m back. At least I hope so. I hope you’ll accompany me on this journey. I hope you’ll understand when I stumble or hide or stall. I hope I’ll heal along the way. And I really hope I can spread some joy. The post Winning Awards. Getting Published. And yet… appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. I thought I was doing it right this time. I wasn’t making a decision born of the fear of facing a dogless home, like I did when I adopted Lilah and Jasper only three weeks after Rosie died, knowing that Pasha’s days were numbered. I wasn’t making a decision based on a shooting star and an impossible dream like I did when I went looking for—and found—Tucker. This time I was thoughtful. I thought about what size of dog I wanted: small enough that I could carry them in an emergency. What type of personality I was looking for; someone with a little more pep in their step would get my current two moving a little more. What age range: while I knew older dogs needed homes, my entire house is filled with senior pets—or those getting close to senior—and I wanted someone younger who could potentially still be around when my elders are no longer with me. I researched the rescue groups I might adopt through. I only searched for pups from organizations that had good reputations, that I knew I could count on, that wouldn’t just let any dog go with any person, that fostered dogs, and therefore knew enough about them to ensure they are placed well. This time I asked questions. I was so hurt by Tucker’s loss that I was hoping to add someone to the family who would be with me a long time. Health was extremely important to me, so I wanted to know what the dog’s life was like before she came to me, what the foster situation was like. I probably wouldn’t know if the mother had appropriate prenatal care (which can set up a dog—or a human or cat for that matter—for a more healthy life), or who the father was, but the more I knew about a dog’s early history, the better. Most important, I was looking for a dog that was good with cats. That was not negotiable. So by the time I began to fall in love with Halley, I had asked all the right questions, got answers I liked, met her twice, observed her with other dogs, and thought, “She’s the one.” As I mentioned in my previous post, she needed to get along with Lilah and Jasper; if they didn’t approve, the new puppy wouldn’t be a good fit for us, and the potential adoption would end right there. As for the cats, even if Halley was good with kitties—there was one in her foster home, whom I was told she ignored—I figured my four felines would take some time to get used to a new member of the family. I prepared for some sleepless nights during house training. I knew there would be accidents. I was told she was good in her crate, but I figured there would be some adjustments. I could tell she was really smart, and according to her foster Leslie here in New Jersey, she was a bit of an escape artist. I also knew that puppies can be chewers, and figured there might be some damage to the house from chewing or other misbehavior. But. I had no clue, and was completely unprepared for the upheaval, chaos, challenges, illnesses, and emotional maelstrom that came with my personal comet, my Halley. During our first meeting, at her foster home, Halley threw up. At first I chalked it up to the ordeal she had just been through, traveling by van in a small crate all the way from Texas; she had only arrived the day before. She had also just been to the vet only a few hours before I met her, where she received two immunizations. Plus, she was running around the yard like a nut. Still, when I came home from that visit, I stripped down to my undies in the garage, Purelled my hands, threw my clothes directly into the wash, and went straight into the shower. I didn’t know what Halley had—if anything— but I didn’t want to bring it into my home. She had come from a foster in Texas, and before that, a home we knew nothing about. She was also on a transport with other rescued dogs pulled from high-kill shelters; who knew what she had been exposed to along the way. When she had diarrhea the next morning, Leslie took her straight to the vet, where they thought her symptoms might be due to a reaction to one of her immunizations—more likely the leptospirosis. The vet prescribed metronidazole and told Leslie to feed the puppy chicken and rice, continuing with the medication until she had at least two solid poops. My mistake—and it was a whopper—was not insisting that Halley be at that stage—cured, off the medication, with a solid digestive system and the ability to eat different foods and treats—before I brought her home. To be transparent here, I wanted Halley. I really wanted her. And having applied for several other dogs only to have someone else be approved for their adoption, I didn’t want to jeopardize this one. I was afraid of being a pain in the rear, having already asked a zillion questions, visited her twice (on my own and then again with Brian), requested my dogs’ approval (meaning Leslie agreed to drive Halley down to my house for their introduction) and pushed off the adoption by a couple of days because I was hoping to make sure she was healthy. Her veterinary records showed she had all required immunizations. She was up to date, her stool had been tested for worms and parasites twice. I was happy that she hadn’t been spayed yet, but instead came with a connection to a state spay / neuter program that offered the surgery with approved vets for only $20. Recent studies have shown that dogs are healthier if spay and neuter surgery is performed after six months. This was all good. When Halley arrived at our house, Lilah and Jasper approved. We brought her inside where I had gated off the kitchen. She sniffed at Echo—my daughter’s cat whom I was cat sitting that day—and wagged. Both were cool with each other. Then I introduced Halley to her crate; she walked in, wagging her tail. I didn’t close the door, just let her hang out. It all went downhill from there. She saw one of the cats when she was in the crate—I think it was Elsa Clair, though I couldn’t be sure—and had a puppy meltdown, digging and biting at the bars, crying, barking, yapping and making a sound that my daughter Melanie said sounded like a baby Nazgûl (for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Lord of The Rings books or movies, those are the ringwraiths, servants of the evil Lord Sauron, whose screams would make the stoutest hearts shrivel). VIDEO OF SOUND The cat ran away, terrified. When another cat—this time I think it was Calvin—showed up a short time later, and was seen again through the bars of the crate as he walked through the dining room, we had a repeat performance of Baby Nazgûl. That night—and for days after, we had to feed the dogs outside of the house on the deck, because none of the cats would come into the kitchen. I didn’t blame them. Later I brought Halley up to our bedroom and showed her her nighttime crate. It was a duplicate of the one in the dining room, and I had placed it right next to my side of the bed. Halley walked into the crate, looked through the bars and… Baby Nazgûl. Apparently she believed that crates magically caused cats to appear. I had to come up with plan B, and dug up a portable pop-up crate (I keep two of them in my Go Bag for emergencies in case I need to quickly contain my cats). This became Halley’s bed, but since it was flimsy, I spent the next four nights lying on the floor next to her, with my arm slipped through the zippered opening. This kept her calm, and prevented her from digging or chewing through the material. That first night, Halley woke us up at 2:00 AM with explosive diarrhea. I took her outside while Brian cleaned up the mess. Luckily it was contained to the blankets so could still use the pop-up crate when I came back. Mind you, I had brought her to our vet for a checkup that afternoon, where she was pronounced healthy. They had suggested I bring in a stool sample, even though she had already been dewormed, and had her poop checked by two vets within the past couple weeks—once in Texas and again in New Jersey. The next morning, since I couldn’t use crates to control Halley and keep the cats safe, I resorted to baby gates, restricting the puppy to our dining room. The first time a cat walked by, she went nuts. Baby Nazgûl again. And she jumped the gate. I put blankets over the gates so she couldn’t see the cats. Apparently Baby Nazgûl could hear them. And still jump the gates. I double stacked gates—one on top of the other—on one entrance to the dining room, and put chairs backed up against the other, effectively extending the height by about a foot. I covered everything with blankets. Apparently Baby Nazgûl can climb when motivated. In an instant. Right over the gates. I gave up on the gates and tethered Halley to me. I put her on a six-foot leash, and she had to go with me everywhere. Which sometimes she didn’t want to do. So in addition to Baby Nazgûl, I discovered that Halley was also really good at passive resistance. As in, I’m not moving and you’ll have to pick me up if you want to go upstairs. Or to the bathroom. Or want to eat. I made sure to give her her metronidazole, and was careful to feed her chicken and rice, knowing that a sensitive digestive system could get even more screwed up if I took her off that diet too soon. Every day I examined my pup’s poop like a mystic reading tea leaves, pleading with the gods of dogs to deliver me two solid poops in a row. When my prayers and supplications were answered—nine days after Halley came to live with us—I brought a fecal sample into my veterinarian, noting that I also saw she had tapeworm. (Leslie had warned me that one of the other pups had tapeworm too, so it wasn’t a surprise.) At least the treatment for that was easy: just one pill. During those nine days, I watched as Baby Nazgûl came out when Halley met my neighbor’s Yorkie for the first time. And then again when she met a pibble in the local pet store. And then when she tried catch a chipmunk running along our fence. And when she was on one side of our sliding glass door and I was on the other. I Googled “puppy temper tantrum”—the only way I could think to describe her behavior—which was how I found out about barrier frustration. My puppy wasn’t a ringwraith; it’s just that she didn’t like to be thwarted. Imagine a two-year-old human who wants cake for dinner and is told she can’t have it. Meltdown. Let’s review: I had a puppy who is sick and on a restricted diet—and was bored with chicken and rice, making it hard to train her with no food other than chicken allowed as training treats. She throws temper tantrums when she doesn’t get her way. I can’t tell if she wants to eat the cats or play with them, as she throws a tantrum every time she sees one. I can’t use crates because she turns into a baby ringwraith. Gates do not contain her. She is tethered to me. My cats hide during the day. This was not working. And then I find out from our vet that Halley’s fecal sample showed an active Giardia infection—yet another parasite. One that is spread so easily that my other dogs were very likely to get it so everyone needed to be treated. That’ll be $228 for medication for all three of the dogs. Five days of mixing powder into everyone’s food. At least they ate it willingly. At this point, I am trying everything. I brought in a trainer—Anne Macaulay from On Good Behavior—who I’ve worked with in the past. She came for a private in-home consultation to help me assess whether Halley’s problem is a cat thing or a frustration thing. The fact that she was fostered with cats is helpful here, and Halley’s early interaction with Echo indicated she could be fine with them. Anne said she thought Halley could be okay, but she’d be a lot of work, and of course there are no guarantees. As a way to help assess her issues, I also brought Halley to a puppy play event through My Dog’s Got Class and saw first-hand that she’s fine off leash with all the other pups. The trainer there told me she is well socialized. This was good news. I signed Halley up for Camp Bow Wow—doggy day care—and she passed the interview, getting along perfectly with all the other dogs. Also good news. But she still can’t stand being thwarted. And if she’s on a leash, and meets another dog on a leash, I can see her building toward becoming a leash reactive dog. Right now she just wants to play, but I’ve read enough to know that her behavior has to change, because it can become aggressive. I tried to take Halley and the other dogs for our daily walk. Walks are a great way to bond with a dog, to practice tolerance of other leashed dogs, and to burn off energy through exercise. The first time we attempted a walk, though, when a car sped by, Halley froze and then added a new performance to her repertoire—the dancing freakout. This time,Baby Nazgûl left the building and in her place was a scared puppy. Something about cars frightens her. Now I added getting her used to traffic to my list of things to help her with. And I can’t use an easy walk in the neighborhood as a tool for training. On Yom Kippur, I brought Halley in for a half day at Camp Bow Wow—I couldn’t leave her alone in the house as she still wasn’t crate trained. I arranged for Maria, their on-site trainer, to work with her while she was there, to focus on the barrier frustration. I also signed Halley up for obedience classes with My Dog’s Got Class. And I brought her there for doggy daycare on a day when I needed to attend meetings, and paid extra for a “Mind Your Manners” session for trainers to work on her issues. In the meantime, every encounter with the cats resulted in a meltdown. By now, though, I had begun to feed Halley real food and to give her high-value rewards. These rewards were nothing more than chopped up FreshPet and other high-quality dog food, which I was able to feed her because I now realized that her digestive issues were caused by the undiagnosed Giardia, which, based on the cyst count, she probably had since she was in Texas. Thus, she got very little food at mealtimes—mostly for practice and exposure to our meal time routine, to ensure there’s no resource guarding, and so she has additional opportunities to deal with her barrier frustration, as she must sit and wait before I release her to eat just like the other dogs. Every day I tried something new: Feeding her morsel by morsel in the laundry room as a training exercise while we feed the cats, so she can see them and be rewarded for calmness. This required elaborate planning and execution, and worked as long as I talk Brian through the feeding process. Feeding her morsel by morsel in the kitchen with the cats across the room. This was a step up from the laundry room, and it worked until Halley lost control. After that, the cats wouldn’t come for dinner. They didn’t feel safe. I think we were on Plan Q by then. Reintroducing her to her crate in our bedroom only. This worked, but we needed to cover it with a blanket because at first Halley wouldn’t settle down unless it was dark. Keeping her on a 30-foot-leash at all times in our fenced-in yard because the ill-behaved yappy neighbor dogs on one side of our house torment her and bring out Baby Nazgûl, and the Yorkie on the other side—while usually leashed and in control—causes Halley to run back and forth by the fence in frustration. The chipmunks in the garden elicit the same reaction. This behavior reinforces her barrier issues; it’s actually fun for her. Making a cat room out of Melanie’s old room. It was going to be my new office, but I outfitted it with our cat tree and a chair and a rug and hidey places, and sealed it off with a gate that features a small cat door. I noticed that Halley seemed to leap over gates to get out of something, but not to get in. Elsa Clair and Calvin discovered the room on their own, but Dawn seemed to think the safest place is under the couch in our family room, and Halley knows she’s there. I brought Dawn up to the cat room once and sat with her, and so did Melanie, but the cat insists on spending her days under the couch. Feeding Halley morsel by morsel in the family room, near the couch under which Dawn is hiding, so that the puppy can be rewarded for controlling herself near a cat. I’m so sorry, Dawn, but you didn’t want to go upstairs to the cat room. Playing fetch and tug with Halley. Anne suggested fetch as a way to burn off some energy, bond with Halley, and direct her inner hunter. We throw stuffed animals, balls, squeaky toys, flying discs, whatever she’ll chase. It took her a while to figure out that if she brings it back, I’ll throw it again, but she did eventually get that, and is becoming more consistent. But wait! There’s more. In preparation for her spay surgery, the vet did standard bloodwork, where we found out Halley has antibodies to both Lyme disease and anaplasmosis. She’s showing no clinical signs for either, but Lyme can be tricky so we’re treating her for that. Tucker had tested positive for anaplasma antibodies all his life, and never showed symptoms. Nearly every day I cry. I want to love this dog, but I’m holding back. She’s everything I thought I wanted: smart, fun, playful, affectionate. But I don’t know whether she can live with us. I can’t put the cats at risk. And Agnes, my Depression, tells me that I am stupid. Why did I think I could handle a puppy at this stage in my life, she asks me. And then she points out that the cats are miserable, and probably will hate me forever. She laughs and chides me, noting that I have a blog called Life with Dogs and Cats and I can’t get a new puppy—who is supposedly good with cats—to integrate with my current feline crew. This has been my life for the past month. It’s why I have posted almost nothing on social media about Halley. There is little joy, because I fear I will have to give her up. Yet. I haven’t stopped trying. Where are we today? We have made some progress. Halley knows Sit, Stay, Down. She sleeps quietly through the night in her crate in my bedroom. She can stay in that same crate for about 15 minutes with a Kong during the day. We’re working on extending that. Until she can be left alone for longer periods in her crate in my bedroom, I am essentially trapped at home—unless I take her to dog friendly stores (I’ve been to every pet shop within a few miles of my house) or she goes to puppy camp or daycare, both expensive propositions. We practice dealing with frustration all day. Plus she has to deal with leashed dogs on either side of her during during obedience class. It’s a huge challenge for her, but I saw some improvement even from the first to the second class. To help with her fear of traffic, I stand at the end of our driveway and she gets treats each time a car goes by. Anne suggested I bring her to parking lots for more exposure. We’ve started going to Starbucks, where I can get a coffee and sit outside with her as she learns that she can be safe with me when there are cars around. For the past few nights, Halley has been able to sleep in our family room—actually sleep!!!—even though Dawn was under the couch only a few feet away. The puppy whines a bit at first, but settles down. Anne had suggested that I reward her when she self regulates; if she looks at me when she’s frustrated that she can’t get to a cat, I give her a treat. If she comes up to me, even better: more treats. We’re training her to a mat, which I’m learning is a great way for dogs to learn self control, to have a spot to go to where they feel safe and can decompress. I’m going through the same process with Lilah and Jasper, as I think it will help everyone. Halley walks beautifully on a leash. She matches my pace. She sits when I stop. She learns everything so fast. It took her less than a week to figure out how to ring a bell if she wants to go potty. She’s pretty consistent with it, and of course quickly figured out that she can ask to go outside any time she’s bored. I let her do that for now. It’s good for her to have some part of her life she can control. We haven’t had an accident in almost 2 weeks. Baby Nazgûl is showing up less often. Halley is still working on controlling her tantrums, but they are happening less and less, and are quieter, shorter, and less violent. As for the cats, we stopped sharing meal times, and we now feed the dogs and cats separately. This causes much less stress for everyone. Until I can get Halley to stay quietly in a crate by herself for more than 15 minutes, Brian has to hang out with her and the other dogs—either outside on the deck or in our bedroom—while I feed the kitties. I think this now allows the kitties to feel safer, while everyone is getting used to Halley’s presence. I am starting to catch glimpses of them peeking around corners, or from behind doors when Halley is around. They’re getting used to her, and I try to keep Halley calm when any of the feline crew are around, providing treats whether she sees the cats or not. Every night, after Halley settles down in her crate, I sneak downstairs to spend about an hour with the cats. I think they forgive me. They purr, crawl into my lap, and complain to me about our resident ringwraith. With all of that, I still don’t know if Halley will be able to stay with us. I still don’t know if we’ll get to a moment where she and the cats can live together—if not in harmony, then at least without violent discord. It crushes me to think that I might have to give her up—but I will if I think the cats are at risk. I’m putting so much effort in to making this work, and my emotions are all over the map at any given moment. Yay! Halley didn’t whine when she caught a glimpse of Athena. Oh no! The cats’ first response when they see me is to run—because they equate me with Baby Nazgûl. However, as Brian reminded me, all this work I’m putting in to train her, to make sure she’s healthy, to increase her frustration tolerance, and to arrange for her spay, will make her more adoptable if it comes to that. But to be honest, that’s little solace if I have to go through another goodbye. The other day, I mentioned to Brian another thing I was trying to help integrate Halley into our family. We’re way past Plan Z by now. He said, “I hope you’re right.” I laughed. I told him I’ve been wrong so many times in the past month that I’ve lost count. That I have failed over and over and over again. This whole process has made so clear to me how important failure is to progress: That didn’t work? Try this instead. Still not working? Try another thing. Change it. Try again. Tweak it. Try again. Ad infinitum. Maybe, eventually, with the right combination of training and patience, I’ll succeed. Despite what Agnes tells me. I love Halley. I want to love her more. I think she’s very special. I believe she’s what my heart needs. But I won’t put my cats at risk. For now, they are not. A couple weeks ago, Leslie texted me to ask how things were going, and I told her I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to keep her. She called me and I wept on the phone with her. Like any good rescue organization, Big Dog Rescue Project said they’d take Halley back, find her a good home, and I could even help choose her next family. I reached out to a friend of mine who has no cats and is a wonderful dog mom, to see if she might take Halley if this doesn’t work. The thought tears me apart. But I have to do what is right for my current family. But I think we’re making progress. I hope we’re making progress. And I’m trying to shut out Agnes, because she is a known liar. My wish is that one day, I’ll look back and think it was all worth it. And maybe others can learn from my experience. For the past three days, Calvin has been leaving me gifts again. This, more than anything, gives me hope that this whole thing might work out. Until then, I’m going to keep failing and trying again. And I’m going to love my puppy. The post I Didn’t Expect Baby Nazgûl: Our first month with a new puppy appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. |