tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65480078263568095972024-03-05T00:25:25.631-07:00The Beautiful BondMemories that share the amazingly beautiful bond that forms between humans and animals.Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-50498693193324639362020-01-12T08:42:00.002-07:002020-01-12T08:42:58.021-07:00Lead. Follow. Lead. <div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: rgba(8, 27, 51, 0.8); font-family: futura-pt; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: 0.32px; margin-bottom: 1.6em; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Lead. Follow. Lead</em>. </div>
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These three words sound simple, but I quickly learned it’s more difficult to apply than one might imagine. </div>
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For me (<a href="http://www.troykechely.com/" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position-x: 0%; background-position-y: 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto; color: #e54a35; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration: none;">Troy Kechely</a>), the first time I heard them was in one of a dozen emails from my K9 instructor after he reviewed a video of a training sessions with my dog Daisy. As I stumble through the process of learning how to transform Daisy and I into an explosive’s detection (EDD) K9 team, he made it clear I would hear those words often.
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He was right. </div>
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Not only do I hear them from him, but I also find myself repeating them constantly. I even contemplated a tattoo on my arm as a reminder. </div>
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So, what does lead, follow, lead actually mean? </div>
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In the context of an EDD K9 team, it means that as a handler there are times to lead the dog and a time to follow the dog. The trick is not only knowing when to do each, but to have the willingness to learn. Specifically, the “when” to follow part. Humans tend to want to always lead, especially when working with animals. Perhaps it is pride or a superiority complex, but it is a struggle. A good handler must learn to trust the dog. That is a phrase I’ve heard often. <em style="overflow-wrap: break-word;">Trust the dog</em>. </div>
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The handler leads the dog on the search up until the dog begins to show signs it’s on an odor. It’s then that the handler must relinquish their leadership role and trust the dog and follow. If the dog is struggling or you need to move to another area, then you lead again. </div>
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Lead. Follow. Lead.</div>
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What’s interesting is that the more I repeat those words the more I see their application to all aspects of life—especially within teams such as those in special operations. </div>
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Effective teams are comprised of members who know when to lead and when to follow. This comes with trust. Trust is earned through time, training, and real-world deployments. Once this is earned, trust your teammate that they will do their job, just like they trust you to do yours. </div>
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Trust to lead, follow, lead.</div>
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Trust is the key. Both in the K9 and Special Operations world. If you want to learn more about this concept and others that make Special Operations and EDD K9 teams so amazing, then be a leader. Get signed up for the <a href="https://specialoperationswritersconference.com/" target="_blank">Special Operations Writers Conference</a> and bring your friends. </div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-67450016656977629092019-12-23T07:44:00.003-07:002019-12-23T07:44:52.954-07:00The Christmas Pardon
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></b><br /></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 24pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">The Christmas
Pardon</span></div>
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<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
By Troy Kechely</div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Copyright 2007</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-column-break-before: always;" />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Caitlyn
heard a soft cough coming from the living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She stopped drying the dishes and went to investigate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She saw Outlaw lying on his dog bed in front
of the fireplace, a scene she had become accustomed to over the last three
months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her three other dogs were each
in their regular places on the two couches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their heads popped up wanting to see if Caitlyn had brought in any
treats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Determining she hadn’t, they
laid down again and tried to fall back asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All were still recovering from the past two days of Christmas
celebration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caitlyn walked over to the
old Rottweiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You doing
okay, Outie?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sat down next to his
head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog’s soft brown eyes looked
up at her, though she knew he could barely see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even in the dim light of the smoldering fire and the lights of the
Christmas tree, she could still see how Outlaw’s right eye was a lighter color
than the other – the result of an untreated injury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vet had said that it was probably very
painful for him, and Caitlyn started treating it the moment she took the dog
in, but she wondered how many years he had suffered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
She gently caressed his head as he
laid it on her leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could feel the
scar on his ear and see the other one across the bridge of his nose. Down his
neck, she felt yet more scars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each one
was a story of hardship, each one a tale of neglect and abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When she
first heard about Outlaw it was in an email from one of the members of the dog
rescue group she volunteered with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
shelter in Missoula was asking if there was any way for the group to take an
old Rottweiler who didn’t have long to live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was not uncommon for the group to take in such cases, trying to give
the dogs a few final good months of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
What was uncommon was for a shelter
to make such a request.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually they
would just euthanize the dog, but there was something special about this
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the communications rolled back
and forth, Outlaw’s story unfolded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
name was fitting, as he had become a regular inmate of the shelter over a
ten-year period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never for anything bad
- mostly misdemeanors such as dog-at-large or chasing cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each time, the family would come and bail him
out, but the staff wondered what kind of home he was going back to. Over the
years, they noticed evident untreated injuries and ailments, yet they had to turn
him back to his owners after giving them warnings about his care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
When he came in for the last time,
the owners never showed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shelter
called and found out that they had moved, leaving Outlaw to his fate at the
shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The staff knew that a dog this
old would not be adopted, and his health had diminished to the extent that he
had a hard time walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly, he just
liked to sit and be petted or hang out with one of the other dogs at the
shelter that he had befriended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Once Caitlyn read the emails, she
knew she wanted to take him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a
soft spot for the geriatric dogs, and something about Outlaw struck her heart
in a way that she hadn’t felt in a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was not the only one who would be touched by him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In only one week’s time from the first
inquiry by the shelter, Outlaw was in a vehicle beginning the 500-mile journey
to Caitlyn’s home in Wyoming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
She received updates as he traveled
along the route, starting with the goodbye at the shelter and how all the
animal control officers and staff came out to bid farewell to the old
Rottweiler, many of them in tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
all, half a dozen people were involved with his transport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caitlyn was always amazed at the efforts that
her group put into saving a dog, even an old one that no one wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
When Outlaw finally arrived, he
immediately had her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog,
though large, had a gentleness about him that could not be described; it could
only be experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caitlyn took him to
her vet the day after he arrived and confirmed that his health was failing, a
combination of old age and hard living. Focusing more on quality of life versus
longevity, they started him on treatment for his eye and his hips, simply to ease
some of his pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
With each passing day, Caitlyn
found herself becoming more and more drawn to this dog and him to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More amazing, she saw everyone in her family
being affected by him, including her own dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Usually rambunctious and full of energy, her three other Rottweilers
kept a wide berth of respect for Outlaw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They did the usual sniff and greet, but after that, they let him be;
when he walked by, they stepped out of his way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Outlaw carried the air of superiority even in his degenerated
state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now, in the post-holiday quiet, she
sat with him, feeling him breathe. Caitlyn wondered how Outlaw might have been
as a younger dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strong, vibrant, full
of life and confidence. With each pass of her hand, she felt the bones of his
back and the scars of countless injuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She noticed that her female Rottie, Gertie, was watching her with
ever-vigilant eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caitlyn smiled at
her, but Gertie did not acknowledge it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Outlaw let out another soft cough pulling Caitlyn’s attention back to
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She moved her hand down to his
chest and felt the soft steady beat of his heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Thank you, God,” Caitlyn spoke out
loud, thinking back to the last vet visit only a week ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The prognosis wasn’t good. After two hours of
tests and discussion Dr. Sites told her the dog had only days, perhaps a week
before he would pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caitlyn had heard
that before with a dozen different dogs, almost all due to cancer. Outlaw was
different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came to her from a life of
pain and wandering, and she made it her mission to give him as good a life as
she could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had held back tears as
she left the vet’s office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Driving home, she had prayed, “God,
just get him through Christmas. I know you have to take him, but please get him
through Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me and the
grandkids, please.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
She realized now that each heartbeat,
each breath, each moment was a blessing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She looked up and saw the sheet of paper lying next to Outlaw’s
bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She reached over and unrolled it to
reveal letters made in thick colored marker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chelsea, her
eight-year old granddaughter had become especially fond of Outlaw and took it
upon herself to shower him with as much affection as he would tolerate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
When the whole family arrived on
Christmas morning, Chelsea was the most excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her beaming smile had a way of lighting up
the room, and it grew bigger as people opened the gifts that she gave them.
Caitlyn’s son and his wife actually had to encourage Chelsea to open her own
gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The entire morning, Outlaw rested
on his bed in front of the fireplace and watched with his normal placid
demeanor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even when Caitlyn gave him his
stocking filled with doggie treats, he didn’t show a bit of excitement. Though,
when he thought no one was looking, Caitlyn saw him pull one of the treats out
and tenderly eat it. </div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
At the end of the day, the room was
strewn with wrapping paper, and all the grandkids were playing with their new
toys. Chelsea suddenly ran to where she had hung her coat and then came running
back, her blond ponytail with the candy cane striped ribbon trailing behind
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She slid to a stop on her knees
next to Outlaw. In her hands, she held a rolled up sheet of paper with a bright
red bow.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Chelsea, what do you have
there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that a gift for Outlaw?” Caitlyn
asked.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, it is a gift for Outie,” Her
smile beaming brighter than it had all day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Honey, his name is Outlaw, you
know that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Not anymore!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chelsea handed Caitlyn the rolled-up paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she unrolled it, the child’s scrawl became
visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having a grandpa who was a
lawyer, Chelsea knew more about legal-speak than most adults, and the document
showed it.</div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pardoned
of all Crimes and Sins</i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From
this day on you are a new dog</i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You
are no longer Outlaw but are now known as Outie.</i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Signed:
God</i></b></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He is too nice too be an Outlaw,
so he is now just Outie,” The room was silent as the grown-ups watched Chelsea
put her arms around the old Rottweiler’s neck and give him a kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You are not an outlaw anymore, Outie.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Caitlyn took a deep breath and
wiped a tear from her eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
For the rest of the day, Chelsea didn’t leave Outie’s side,
playing with her toys and showing her Barbies to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally, if she wasn’t petting him
enough, he would nudge her with his large head so she would stop what she was
doing to pet him softly and talk to him sweetly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When everyone left, Chelsea was the last to
hug and kiss all of Caitlyn’s dogs, saving her final goodbye for Outie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now, as Caitlyn sat with Outie, the
silence was a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the day before, but it was
a nice change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her husband, Don, had
gone to run a few errands, leaving Caitlyn with the dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normally she would have gone along, but she
just didn’t want to be away from Outie. Petting him, she looked at the paper
pardon and smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I guess you got a full pardon
buddy; no more jail for you, huh?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
looked down at his head as she stroked his fur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Right, Outie?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t
move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caitlyn shifted her hand down to
his chest and realized she couldn’t find his heartbeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her chin trembled as she sat with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gertie got off the couch sensing
something was wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walked up
slowly and sniffed Outie’s paw and then laid down at Caitlyn’s feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She rested her head on her paws, her deep
brown eyes looking first at Outie’s body and then up to Caitlyn’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You are free now, Outie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can rest now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caitlyn began to cry as her other two Rotties
got off of their couch and moved near her, sensing her pain. Each laid down
next to her, the silence of the room only broken by the crackle of the fire and
Caitlyn’s sobs.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5a7tnZXy7QDUqdtRFfZnfv2QUpuBWmNHz580VDbgh-ApKzxPQArZQUsClzW1Lls70oAGy6ShIm2mxkhhf3g9zmfgM0WyQbdKt3Ao9ElOgfkex0TqeB1XkeSB03typTvgYgAI6Pn_zptAh/s1600/Outlaw+%2526+His+Angel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="311" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5a7tnZXy7QDUqdtRFfZnfv2QUpuBWmNHz580VDbgh-ApKzxPQArZQUsClzW1Lls70oAGy6ShIm2mxkhhf3g9zmfgM0WyQbdKt3Ao9ElOgfkex0TqeB1XkeSB03typTvgYgAI6Pn_zptAh/s320/Outlaw+%2526+His+Angel.JPG" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outlaw and Kathy, the woman who opened her home to him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-column-break-before: always;" />
</span>
Prolog:<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like all of
my Christmas stories, this one is based on actual events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outlaw was, as described here, an old
Rottweiler who had lived a very hard life and had become a regular at the
Missoula Human Society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, one day,
his family didn’t bother coming to get him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The staff had grown to love Outlaw and many were, indeed, in tears as he
was loaded up for his transport to Wyoming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Once there, Outlaw lived his few
remaining months being pampered and spoiled like he deserved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During a hot summer day, he went and lay
under his favorite shade tree and coughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Kathy, the amazing woman who took him in, went over to him and sat next
to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He laid his head on her lap and
then passed away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everyone
who met Outlaw, was affected by him in a way that is impossible to
describe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being the one who was first
contacted by the shelter, I started the ball rolling on getting him out of
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t care how, all I knew is
that this dog should not to die in a shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was the mission.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was
amazing was how many people stepped up to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Many others, myself included, offered him a home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, it was Kathy who was best suited to take
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I would
like to thank Teresa, Denise, Pam, Karen, Rich, Bill and Kris and everyone else
who helped get Outlaw out of the shelter and into Kathy’s loving home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The biggest thanks goes to Kathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It takes a very special person to take in a
dog that you know will die soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know
of only one other person like her and they both are amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hope this
shows the effort and purpose of rescue:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>to give a dog a chance at a life that is filled with love and hope, even
if only for a few months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I pray that
you all have a blessed Christmas and a joyous New Year.<br />
<br />
Troy Kechely<br />
<br />
<br />Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-44321179981703314612019-09-24T15:12:00.001-06:002019-09-24T15:14:10.920-06:00Entropy<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 36.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "&quot" , serif; font-size: 30.0pt;">entropy</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">[ˈentrəpē]</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">NOUN</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 12.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt;">physics</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 12.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">a thermodynamic quantity representing the unavailability of
a system's thermal energy for conversion into mechanical work, often
interpreted as the degree of disorder or randomness in the system.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 12.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">"the second law of thermodynamics says that entropy
always increases with time" · </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 12.0pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">lack of order or predictability;
gradual decline into disorder.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
In June 2019 I had the honor and privilege of being allowed
to attend, as a guest, a K9 handler conference through the American Society of
Canine Trainers International (ASCT).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This wasn’t a public event, as it was for doing the annual
certifications for both law enforcement and civilian K9 teams. Having been a
decoy for the local K9 teams for over two years I was already keenly interested
in the event, but when the instructor, Chris Aycock, the president of the ASCT,
opened up the classroom portion of the first day with the laws of
thermodynamics he had my full attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those laws are familiar to me given I majored in Mechanical Engineering,
so to hear it brought up in a K9 school was unexpected, but I knew exactly
where he was going with it. Though the laws were simplified for the course, it
went as follows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything in the universe
is made up of energy. If energy isn’t put into something it falls into disarray,
or in thermodynamic terms, entropy increases. Everything includes relationships;
relationships with other people and relationships with animals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is in line with what I’ve always believed
and have taught since starting Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue back in 1997. When it
comes to dogs, you get out of them what you put into them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>i.e. If you don’t put energy into the dog,
then it and the human canine relationship will fall into disarray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
Now before you break out the crystals and go all new age on
me, let me clarify what energy is in this context.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Energy is time, effort, thought, and
emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone who has worked with difficult dogs or
trained dogs to high levels of capabilities know this to be true for the simple
fact that you can’t achieve such things without that investment of energy.<br />
<br />
<br />
A great example of this is a Rottweiler named Jack that I
talked about in my blog, <i><a href="http://beautifulbond.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-terrible-twos.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">The Terrible Twos</span></a></i>. Jack’s owner called me
thinking they would have to put him down due to aggression issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a little advice she invested energy
into Jack every day, never slacking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jack is now one of the most amazing dogs I know of, an obedient guardian
and faithful friend of all of the family.<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9qWlvmelWVZeqggS8I4X6NlxVa7vYIGLDjgSnkAWtBnu6PdCmS188A_L3DBDSv4dmyi4tIKEEGU9JNs6W8kR-bHYbK3R8AWwOAYhp8IcPspn5NPkkep4ptifamX2LopcVLaXZKCrfoQL/s1600/IMG_0256+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9qWlvmelWVZeqggS8I4X6NlxVa7vYIGLDjgSnkAWtBnu6PdCmS188A_L3DBDSv4dmyi4tIKEEGU9JNs6W8kR-bHYbK3R8AWwOAYhp8IcPspn5NPkkep4ptifamX2LopcVLaXZKCrfoQL/s320/IMG_0256+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My two most recent rescued Rottweilers are other good
examples. Those of you who have followed this blog know about Carly and that when
I got her in 2013 she had major issues. In fact, it took me weeks before I
could touch her without being bitten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These issues were the result of abuse the first part of her life and
then years in a kennel, waiting to be adopted. In February of 2019, I had to
say goodbye to Carly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even on that day
she wanted nothing more than to be by my side, even though her leg was
quivering with severe pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the years
I had her I was the only person she trusted completely. There were a few others
she trusted most of the time and those I could count on one hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was just one of those dogs. Though she
had fear issues, I was able to take her to public places and visit friends with
little concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew what her issues
were and made sure she didn’t have to deal with them unless I closely
controlled the situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked to
me for that comfort and trust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of
this was only achieved through the investment of time, effort, thought, and
emotion. Lots of it. And you know what? It was worth every bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like all the difficult dogs I’ve worked
with, if you put that energy into them, into earning their trust, working
through their issues, and training them to not be a slave to whatever hell of a
past they came from, then you get amazing dogs.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8SHP8QPPAt-BnfRMSSkRrIusHMPlsJM6W3y2lZTihx8YB058nIMDCyz3MHbujUerqFS5eV7OAieZWT8O7YLfq2Rln5vTp_0GVYh4JTf7Qw7Puj7KCvwK71Xf8GMf0sMOv2uaWucxPtFh/s1600/IMG_2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8SHP8QPPAt-BnfRMSSkRrIusHMPlsJM6W3y2lZTihx8YB058nIMDCyz3MHbujUerqFS5eV7OAieZWT8O7YLfq2Rln5vTp_0GVYh4JTf7Qw7Puj7KCvwK71Xf8GMf0sMOv2uaWucxPtFh/s320/IMG_2797.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daisy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
With Carly’s passing I was without a Rottweiler in my life
for the first time in 24 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To say
there was a hole in my world was an understatement. It took four months before
I got serious about looking for a dog, and it wasn’t until July that I adopted
my 9<sup>th</sup> Rottweiler and 7<sup>th</sup> rescue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daisy came to me with issues, like all of the
ones I take, but this time was different. Daisy is great with people, no fear at
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her issue is predatory drive. High
predatory drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was the first
Rottie I had with the level of this drive that she has, and I purposely wanted
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, for the last three years
I’ve been working with K9 units.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over that
time several joked that I should get a dog so I could train with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though such comments were often not that
serious, it planted a seed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That seed
has now grown, and I’ve been given the opportunity to train Daisy for a very
special purpose, as the team dog for the Gallatin County Tactical Dive
Team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are not sure to what end her
training will take her, but for now I’m striving to get her certified as a
level 1 Search & Rescue dog through the ASCT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is interesting about this new journey is
the energy required from both Daisy and I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You see, a K9 team is different from a normal human pet bond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is deeper, more complicated, and requires
much more energy to make it work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
is where I’m at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Investing time, effort,
thought, and emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All to train with
and learn about Daisy and the world of K9 teams. So far that investment is
paying off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If things start to fall
apart there will be one reason. Me. The investment of energy is all on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I don’t invest, then the bond, and the
hope of our success, will fall into disarray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is the nature of the universe.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, I pose this to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Are you investing energy into your relationships? If you want to see
them grow, to not fall into disorder or disarray, then invest that energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s worth it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Troy Kechely is the author of two novels that portray the
transformative power of animal-human connections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To learn more about the author, and to order <span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00ZYAZCPY/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0" target="_blank">Stranger’s Dance</a></i> </span></span>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/069279333X/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1" target="_blank">Lost Horse Park</a>, </span></i>visit
<span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.troykechely.com/">www.troykechely.com</a>.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="color: blue;"></span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-20430868968991812452017-10-13T20:23:00.001-06:002017-10-13T20:23:25.026-06:00Precarious Preconceptions <div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I learned, yet again, about another incident
involving an aggressive dog. It was a
dog-on-dog incident, and in the end, one dog required a trip to the emergency
veterinary hospital to have her ear stitched up. The situation was not uncommon, but it was startling
in that the attack was truly unprovoked and was an ambush.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s most surprising is that these dogs have known each
other for almost four years and have been on countless walks together. In fact, according to those involved, the
dogs had just completed an almost hour long walk during which the victim, a
spayed female, had walked next to the aggressor, a neutered male of similar
size, for almost the entire walk. For
the purpose of reporting this story, I’ll refer to the female dog as Moxy and
the male as Jack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The attack took place at the end of the walk. Approaching the house where Jack lives, the
owners of the dogs wanted to see what Moxy would do when she saw some inflated
Halloween decorations near the front door.
The group walked up to the decorations and Moxy looked at them, a little
on edge. Jack was turned around facing Moxy,
but off to her side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In an instant, Jack latched onto Moxy’s head in a violent
assault. Moxy was blind-sided by the
attack, which lasted a couple seconds before both owners could pull the dogs
apart. Moxy had a serious injury to the
side of her head and ear, and she was taken to the emergency vet for treatment
that required sedation and many stitches.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both owners were mortified by the incident, and Jack’s owner
is making efforts to correct the issue.
The unfortunate aspect of this story is that it’s just another example that
can be used to misconstrue how some breeds are more predisposed to aggression
than others. You see, one of the dogs
was a Rottweiler, the other was a Golden Retriever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2sWZMMXBRXaUu_DLcwKVXZW0QMK4fkeOMIqzXdW7hpOrqPPtITP9yfl_o1_Hxfa6_7aWz1AU5qMWz9a8S-WBpH_eMS-GSk_hVQyQXz0yrdGng0HtbxLqLqTTXm4Sh4mBjxu9giteL_03r/s1600/GSD_Aggressive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="460" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2sWZMMXBRXaUu_DLcwKVXZW0QMK4fkeOMIqzXdW7hpOrqPPtITP9yfl_o1_Hxfa6_7aWz1AU5qMWz9a8S-WBpH_eMS-GSk_hVQyQXz0yrdGng0HtbxLqLqTTXm4Sh4mBjxu9giteL_03r/s320/GSD_Aggressive.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
* * *<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now be honest, when you learned the dogs’ breeds, did you
automatically assume that the aggressor was the Rottweiler? If so, then you are guilty of having
precarious preconceptions about dog breeds.
Because the truth of the matter is that the aggressor was the Golden
Retriever, the victim was the Rottweiler. In fact, it was my Rottweiler, Carly, this
past Saturday evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_QUN_9etKtDg3o2UVP7iig_14ZA7pMdITY2IlsvNDaMtZUt9B04fslnAtZLHrTGHoshlqqTdF2sRgCkhhMOVCyZYC4KsOK2el9INQRvUMRuxaQkHjpu1kZyFW4mE5ztn65xZwojS_D4H/s1600/Carly_Injury.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_QUN_9etKtDg3o2UVP7iig_14ZA7pMdITY2IlsvNDaMtZUt9B04fslnAtZLHrTGHoshlqqTdF2sRgCkhhMOVCyZYC4KsOK2el9INQRvUMRuxaQkHjpu1kZyFW4mE5ztn65xZwojS_D4H/s320/Carly_Injury.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly's stitched up wounds while still under sedation.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I presented this situation in a veiled manner to prove
a point. We all are guilty of being
prejudiced in one form or another. With
dogs, this prejudice is a result of our own personal experience but also,
predominantly, it is skewed by the media in both news and entertainment. How often has a news story covered a vicious
dog attack and shown a stock graphic of a snarling Rottweiler or Pit-Bull only
to find out the dog was some arbitrary mix? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In over twenty years of rescue work and serving as an expert
witness and instructor on canine behavior, I’ve seen aggression show up in every
breed. A friend of mine who worked in
animal control for many years in a town of over 80,000 shared that retrievers
were one of the main breeds implicated in dog bite incidents. Does this mean that retrievers are naturally
aggressive? No more so than any other
breed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reason for the high number of bite incidents, based on
my experience, is twofold: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
</div>
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><div>
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<ul>
<li>First, the breed with the most bite incidents
are almost always the most popular and numerous in that geographic area.</li>
<li>Second, the dogs with the aggression issues are
almost always owned by people who, though aware of the problem, put in little
to no effort to correct it. <span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span></li>
</ul>
</span><!--[if !supportLists]--><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recognizing and acknowledging those two realities, it
becomes clear that aggression is not a breed issue but a human issue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So where do we get these precarious preconceptions? Emotions.
Media outlets are masters at playing on emotions—hooking your emotions
ultimately translates into higher ratings and ad sales.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes those emotions are tied to past events. An attack as a child by a specific breed of
dog can leave a terrible emotional scar.
For me, the first time I was bitten was by a Golden Retriever when I was
five. I was playing in a friend’s front
yard when the dog approached. I did what
I was taught in school. I let him sniff
my hand, and when I saw his tail wag I knew he was friendly (a fallacy that is,
sadly, still taught). When I reached to
pet the dog’s head, he bit my face. Thankfully
there was no permanent damage and I don’t hold this incident against the breed.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is interesting is that when I talk with someone who has
a prejudice towards a particular breed of dog, the first thing I notice is how
emotional they are about the topic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now please don’t take this wrong, but I need to let you in
on a little secret. Emotions make us stupid. More specifically, the more emotional I am,
the less rational I become. That’s just
biochemistry. Strong emotions limit our ability
to access the rational part of our brains. Thus, emotions make us stupid. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, if I’m chatting with someone, and the topic of Pit-Bulls
comes up, and that individual becomes suddenly enraged, I know that trying to
rationalize with them is a wasted effort, at least while they are so charged up. The time to address prejudices is not when
you or the other person is stuck in the heat of an emotion, but only when both
parties are able to look at the facts of the matter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A great example of this occurred in January 2009 when a
state legislator tried to introduce a bill that would ban “Pit-Bull type
dogs”. As you might imagine, there were
a lot of very emotional people both for and against this bill, with the
majority falling in the latter category.
People in western culture are, after all, very emotional about their
pets. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With standing room only, I was one of a handful of people
allowed to testify before the subcommittee.
The man who spoke before me, a representative of the Humane Society of
the United States and a dear friend, gave an excellent presentation on the
fallacies of identifying a dog’s breed type based on appearance. He showed that it would be nearly impossible
logistically and financially to test dogs and classify them as
“Pit-Bulls”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my turn came, I stood before the committee, looked at
my notes, and realized that I couldn’t use them. I understood the focus of my notes was all
about breeds and the misconception that some are more aggressive than
others. Instead, I improvised and made
my presentation on the true heart of the problem: the owners. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Dog aggression is not
a breed problem.</b> It is a human problem. Over 30,000 years of cohabitation between
humans and canines shows that dogs are amazingly forgiving and show
considerable restraint with regard to aggression stemming from their natural
instincts. Over my entire life I’ve seen
nearly every breed of dog show some form of extreme aggression. The problem always goes back to the numbers
of breeds in an area, the culture of the people that own them, and whether that
regional culture is one that has a shared positive value for human and canine
lives or not. People who don’t value and
respect the human-canine bond, well, those are the ones that create the
conditions for high rates of aggression in particular breeds. Improvising as I did at the subcommittee
hearing, I tried my best to explain this issue.
Thankfully they were not emotional about the topic and listened to
reason, killing the bill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So back to the original topic. Do you have precarious preconceptions regarding
particular dog breeds? If so, ask
yourself why? I know for me, having
worked with as many dogs as I have, I can say that all dogs have the potential
for aggression. The responsibility is
always on humans to be aware of that potential and make constant daily choices
to mitigate the risk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world is full of horrific examples of precarious
preconceptions towards specific dog breeds. Let’s all take a deep breath, let the
emotional charge dissipate, and base our biggest decisions on facts. To solve canine aggression issues, we need to
look at and calmly address the base behaviors of the individual animal and not write
off the breed as a whole. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Troy Kechely is the author of two novels that portray the
transformative power of animal-human connections. To learn more about the author, and to order <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strangers-Dance-Troy-B-Kechely/dp/1511771356/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Stranger’s Dance</span></a></i> and <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Horse-Park-Troy-Kechely/dp/069279333X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Lost Horse Park</span></a>, </i>visit
<a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><b><span style="color: blue;">www.troykechely.com</span></b></a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-74905359250750168792017-07-24T07:47:00.000-06:002017-07-24T13:26:38.391-06:00When the Bond Breaks<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When I started this
blog, it was my full intent to focus on the beauty that is found in the bond
that can develop between humans and animals, especially between people and
their dogs and horses. Though that will continue to be my focus in future blogs,
due to recent events I feel the need to shift focus to look at what happens
when that bond is broken. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb9w2LB4UJjQCdpRC0xmo7dXjPZzuFYvmZwNxXDv7970qO0R3Y8PIp_FEkNGzmTxtf81Fka_o37R_nBhCSOhCXnXild83a-y1Hs2MaHvgp2Ojhrx74cSr7erQNLxsh43U-CZtRJX5lHm6O/s1600/Broken_Bond.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb9w2LB4UJjQCdpRC0xmo7dXjPZzuFYvmZwNxXDv7970qO0R3Y8PIp_FEkNGzmTxtf81Fka_o37R_nBhCSOhCXnXild83a-y1Hs2MaHvgp2Ojhrx74cSr7erQNLxsh43U-CZtRJX5lHm6O/s320/Broken_Bond.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The harsh realities of when the bond between humans and canines is broken</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A recent tragedy here in Bozeman, Montana served as a
reminder that we don’t live in an ideal world where everyone and all creatures get
along. One only has to look at nature or
the nightly news to witness the brutality within the life cycle of predator and
prey. Utopia doesn’t exist. Yet in our comfortable suburban worlds, some are
lulled into the illusion that it might.
What a shock when reality calls. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On June 24<sup>th</sup>, a local resident was attacked by
two dogs who belonged to one of her tenants.
The woman eventually died. After
the horrible news broke, people started asking me what I thought about it because
of my background in teaching and testifying about bite investigations and
canine behavioral assessments. I wasn’t
able to say much because I wasn’t privy to the details of this specific
incident any more than they were, and it is dangerous to speculate about actual
events when the public facts are few. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For that reason, I won’t focus on this particular incident
but instead use it as a starting point.
It’s a harsh, painful reminder that, no matter what we think of our
animals, how much we love them, or can’t imagine them doing harm to anyone,
they are still animals. Their behavior
is directly connected to their base instincts and whatever stimuli they have
experienced throughout their lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was teaching animal control and law enforcement
officers across the nation, I always brought the focus back to base instincts. More often than not, the dog’s experiences and
past training are an unknown. The only
known constants are the dog’s instincts—specifically pack, predatory, and fear
instincts. When a dog is under high
stress, he is operating almost entirely on instinct. Even highly trained working dogs, such as those
in military or law enforcement K9 units, operate on an instinctive level. The training just helps redirect and control
it. Let me put that another way: Training is simply the suppression or
redirection of instinctive behaviors. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the past 30,000 or more years, we humans have
established an amazing relationship with canines. This has grown well beyond dogs meeting our
original practical needs for protection and assistance in hunting or hauling
supplies. Today, our connection with
domestic dogs is primarily one of friendship, even lapsing into a perceived
familial bond. Alas, there is the
problem. When we anthropomorphize our
dogs, we begin to interact with them as small humans, thinking their minds work
like ours. They don’t. Dogs don’t see us as family. They see other living creatures as either in
the pack or not. When we humans forget
that, problems arise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the years, I’ve been asked to submit written testimony
or testify in person in a dozen or so court cases regarding dog bite incidents. In all those cases, as I analyzed the dog’s
behavior, I could trace the root cause of the attacks to some human action. Even in the instances where a court was not involved—often
at an animal shelter where the dog was showing extreme aggression—I could trace
back almost all bite incidents to human causes.
(The few exceptions involved untreatable neurological issues in the dog.) In the majority of the human-caused incidents,
I found that the dog’s behavior, though unacceptable in western society, was in
fact entirely normal for canines operating in a feral pack mindset. In essence, the dogs were just being dogs, operating
on their base instincts in a moment when they lacked human guidance and control.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was one court case that I had to testify in that
involved a dog attacking and severely injuring another dog down the
street. I won’t go into details, but I
spent over half an hour on the stand.
During a break after that, the owner of the dog that had been attacked approached
me and said something I will never forget.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What happened to my dog isn’t right, but at least now I
know why it happened. Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dogs were just being dogs. As harsh as it sounds, that’s the truth. This doesn’t excuse the dog. Far from it.
I will not hesitate to recommend a dog be euthanized if the level of
aggression shown is one that results in severe injury or is very likely to be
repeated. As a society, we can’t
tolerate certain violent behavior. That
is why we have jails. That is why we
euthanize some dogs. It is something that
society has deemed necessary. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dogs involved in the recent fatal attack in Bozeman were
euthanized and rightly so. But what
about the other half of the equation?
How about the human owners? In
this particular case, they have been charged with two counts of
vicious/dangerous dog and two counts failure to have current rabies vaccination
per county ordinance and will face the consequences. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As mentioned earlier, in almost all the cases of canine
aggression that I have assessed, I could trace the cause to <i>humans</i>.
Though not necessarily the dog’s owner.
You see, I’ve seen instances where the owner was not the cause. Perhaps it was a previous owner or, in rare
instances, sometimes the victim’s actions triggered the aggression. Regardless, we humans almost always bear the
yoke of responsibility when it comes to how our dogs behave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a firm believer that we are made to be stewards of
creation. That includes the care of the animals we share our lives with. For dogs, this care goes well beyond food,
water, and shelter. There are far too many
who think that is where their responsibility stops. No, responsible dog ownership must include
training, socialization, containment, and in rare cases, the choice to end the
animal’s life to protect others. If only
all people understood and honored that responsibility. That’s my utopic dream now, isn’t it? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reality is that we humans are flawed, prideful, selfish
creatures much of the time, and those less savory qualities can erode the beautiful
animal-human bond. When we forget our
responsibilities to the animal, when we neglect training or worse, train aggressive
behavior without the obedience to control it, that is when tragedy happens. The
dog, without a solid foundation of training and socialization, will operate on instinct
and, in some cases, this can end in catastrophe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In dog-handler relationships, we humans are the ones whose
moral choices can result in life or death, for our dogs and even for other
people. This is a massive
responsibility. Recently the weight and
power of that responsibility really hit me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While conducting research for my third novel, I’ve spent a
lot of time with law enforcement K9 handlers from around the region. This is pure joy for me, and I count myself blessed
to be allowed to hang out with them, observe their work, and even take some
bites as a decoy every now and then. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During this research period, I learned that a new K9 officer
just announced he didn’t want to do it anymore—after only a month as a handler. He’d completed all the training, got placed
with an amazing dog, and then said no.
The dog was left in limbo, stuck in a kennel for weeks until things finally
got sorted out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQfgwX5RTtn_-AWWQjFR7FoL-PFqPz4_QnjpZOVH3uWoKwbF6oCBTVCBtelpQeQAz52GIJd51OdOa40h-Z09YHH8uXPkmIE-9wWhhEQFCWuFK-GS6Lh7kt09FVmTi4F9SHcM8iEp3ioJ-O/s1600/IMG_20170628_112323251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="1600" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQfgwX5RTtn_-AWWQjFR7FoL-PFqPz4_QnjpZOVH3uWoKwbF6oCBTVCBtelpQeQAz52GIJd51OdOa40h-Z09YHH8uXPkmIE-9wWhhEQFCWuFK-GS6Lh7kt09FVmTi4F9SHcM8iEp3ioJ-O/s320/IMG_20170628_112323251.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking some bites from Gallatin County Sheriff's Office K9 Miles</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was shocked. Angry even. Then I learned that the other handlers felt
the same. I struggled to understand my own
anger, but it wasn’t until I spoke with one of the other handlers over lunch
that I grasped it. He explained to me
what kept him committed to his work as a K9 handler. What most people don’t realize is that being
a law enforcement K9 handler is a 24-hour a day job. The handler’s work doesn’t end when the shift
does. He or she still needs to care for
the dog, which goes beyond basic needs.
This continual work is done without pay.
When I asked what kept him doing it, his answer captured what is at the
core of the strongest human-canine bond: Commitment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want to let him down,” the officer said, referring
to his dog. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, that man saw the dog as a highly trained, highly
capable partner who was only held back by the limitations and willingness of
his human handler. Years of training
investment had brought this dog to his present aptitude. For this K9 officer, and I think most others,
to “let the dog down” would be on par with letting down a spouse or a fellow
law enforcement officer. That is how
strong this officer’s bond was with his dog.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was then that I understood my anger in response to the
handler who quit. He had let his dog
down. He had broken the bond that he had
built up over the time they were together. I don’t know the reasons for his decision, and
I don’t hold any anger towards him specifically. It’s more general, a deep grief regarding anyone
who breaks the bond, as I know how hard it can be to form it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bond. That is
what it all comes down to. What are we
willing to do to build and <i>maintain</i>
it? Do we comprehend the responsibility
we have by entering that bond? I hope
so. God knows it took me a long hard
year with my first two Rottweilers to learn it.
I swear the only thing that makes the bond possible is that dogs are
forgiving creatures. We humans fail
repeatedly. We get lazy and forget to
train, or we train with improper methods or motives. Still, the dog forgives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, our dogs want the bond. They want that connection where the framework
of training and structure intersect.
They want you to not let them down, to not break the bond. Because when we break it, the dog is the one who
pays the heaviest price.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Troy Kechely is the author of two novels that portray the
transformative power of animal-human connections. To learn more about the author, and to order <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strangers-Dance-Troy-B-Kechely/dp/1511771356/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Stranger’s Dance</span></a></i> and <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Horse-Park-Troy-Kechely/dp/069279333X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Lost Horse Park</span></a>, </i>visit
<a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.troykechely.com</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-26909591074255818302017-06-18T08:00:00.000-06:002017-06-18T12:22:47.903-06:00My Bond With My Dad<div class="MsoNormal">
*I did not have time to have this edited so please forgive any errors. I will be the first to admit that though I am a good story teller, I'm terrible with the mechanics of the English language.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My Bond With My Dad</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pick your feet up Troy.” My Dad instructed me with hushed
words as we trudged through deep November snow.
This command intended to minimize the noise I was making as we made our
way to the west side of the ridge that forms the Continental Divide.
Being only seven or eight years old, my short legs struggled to comply
with my Dad’s demand but I tried.
Together with one of my older brothers, whom I don’t remember, we made
our way through the timber to a large park where we hoped to see some elk but
were greeted only with the setting sun and a snow-covered expanse. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBjq61VKet9Dcg5lsnS7xNSh3p4uukws4zlAEzI0LDqf7VdShnpzJ3AVq9-l8hagnUB4f-MuWyJUbBgh1GD8NxlznC9Obu7Zp2EgZzXxAHep5VO6weDLTNbxXdXDhA1Zn_IVCCMFuRQbd/s1600/Dad_Hunting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBjq61VKet9Dcg5lsnS7xNSh3p4uukws4zlAEzI0LDqf7VdShnpzJ3AVq9-l8hagnUB4f-MuWyJUbBgh1GD8NxlznC9Obu7Zp2EgZzXxAHep5VO6weDLTNbxXdXDhA1Zn_IVCCMFuRQbd/s320/Dad_Hunting.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite photos of my dad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is my first memory of going hunting with my Dad. Though way too young to carry a rifle and
legally hunt, Dad would often take myself and my brothers out on late afternoon
hunts if his job allowed him to get home early and drive up to the top of MacDonald
Pass to get an hour or so of hunting in before darkness enveloped the
land. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is just one of hundreds of memories I have of time with
my Dad. Many involve ranch work or other
adventures. Some were not so pleasant given that Dad and I did have our
disagreements at times. Still, of all my memories, it is the times hunting that
I cherish the most, and, especially since he has been gone over a dozen years,
they are the memories I miss the most. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though our last official hunting trip together was a pheasant
hunt in North Dakota that was a unique experience, it was not the one I feel
strongest towards. That one is reserved for a trip a few years before that, on
one of our last times going into hunting camp in the Gates of the Mountains
north of Helena. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiogfc8nOOMGm94OEZOGP4YsDVJHErauvuN52AD1KSCyEFvG_OqlBXACgRiUbupqEOaDXQSZD2Nv01ejB3W8XvL2QARKfIHDOe9aDgxLqIuAuDsFOD08OHoBMqKOr9ju9NZwvNxufndMyYh/s1600/Dad_Pheasant_Hunt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1600" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiogfc8nOOMGm94OEZOGP4YsDVJHErauvuN52AD1KSCyEFvG_OqlBXACgRiUbupqEOaDXQSZD2Nv01ejB3W8XvL2QARKfIHDOe9aDgxLqIuAuDsFOD08OHoBMqKOr9ju9NZwvNxufndMyYh/s320/Dad_Pheasant_Hunt.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Dad and I's last hunting trip together.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because Dad had bad knees and was out of shape, our time up
in hunting camp had diminished over the years. The effort to pack the camp in,
set it up, and maintain it was proving to be too much. My brothers had all moved on and it was just Dad
and I who had the time to do the work.
This year it was my uncle and I who set it up as Dad was unable to
help. Still, my Dad loved hunting camp
and would make every effort possible to go up, even if only for a weekend. I like to joke that Dad was a doctor by day
but liked to pretend he was the mountain man, Jeremiah Johnson, on the
weekends. I was okay with this though as it meant I got to play along. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that time, I was in college and Dad was working a lot of
on call shifts as a pediatrician. Being
on call meant he had to stay close to the phone and be able to get to the
hospital quickly if needed. This meant that
the hunting camp was not an option. Yet
his desire to hunt was strong and he arranged for me to go up on a Friday
night and have camp ready as his call shift ended Friday night at midnight. Our friend, Dan and his wife joined me
up at the camp. With Dad’s on call
status ending that night, he wanted me to meet him at the
unloading point with our horses well before sunrise on Saturday morning. At this stage in my life I was fine with
that, my comfort of working with horses
in the mountains was at its peak. That
Friday, Dan, his wife, and I went to the camp and got settled. I had two horses for Dad and I. My Dad’s horse, Comanche, and my horse,
Sil. Going to bed that night, I lay in
my old army surplus sleeping bag going through all the things I needed to do when I got up. All the while, Dan’s snoring filled the tent. Outside, the breeze flowed through the trees,
their branches brushing up against the canvas walls of the tent in a cold serenade. I could hear the horses stepping in their
corral and an occasional snort. Sleep
finally did come but it didn’t last long.
Several times I remember waking up and checking my watch, wanting to make sure that I would not miss my
meeting time with my Dad. It was
important to me not to disappoint him. I
was to be at the truck by six which meant I needed to be up by five. At a
quarter to five I pulled myself out of my sleeping bag and dressed without
benefit of light. I was comfortable in
the dark so it wasn’t a big deal. I
exited the tent to be greeted by a black canvas of stars framed by the towering
trees around the camp. Still not
needing a lantern or flashlight, I saddled Comanche and Sil, pausing a couple
times to just pet them and stare at the blanket of sparkles above. With horse’s
ready, I headed out of camp and down the narrow trail. I learned later from Dan that he never heard
me leave and to this day is amazed that someone could get up, saddle up the
horses and leave camp without a light and without waking anyone. One of my prouder ninja moments I must say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1S8MgJM_5XR7Cs8Fy0Ex8EoUZk-p44NwU3ZCeLEfg2aUf-CiDWtiYpiU2IOBOfiN1OL_ZfepsRx75jahFWqiCSYjVinT08c7rXAd4ru4PPm0peZjWM1c1xEYcyjueEVM5EXThMPCo6Q4D/s1600/Dad_Comanche_Sil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1045" data-original-width="1600" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1S8MgJM_5XR7Cs8Fy0Ex8EoUZk-p44NwU3ZCeLEfg2aUf-CiDWtiYpiU2IOBOfiN1OL_ZfepsRx75jahFWqiCSYjVinT08c7rXAd4ru4PPm0peZjWM1c1xEYcyjueEVM5EXThMPCo6Q4D/s320/Dad_Comanche_Sil.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad on Comanche with Sil in tow heading out for an afternoon hunt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Picking our way down the trail to the trucks, we arrived
just after Dad had. He stood outside his
truck with a large Mini Mart mug that he always had full of coffee. Dad was dressed for the hunt with a thick
wool coat, bright orange hunters vest,
and his mountain man fur hat that he liked to wear. After he tightened Comanche’s cinch and got
into the saddle, the two of us headed out for a day’s hunt. We covered a lot of ground that day, including some of my
favorite places. Places that sadly I haven’t been back to since. Places like Sheepherders Monument, Windy
Ridge, and the Crow’s Nest. It was while
come back from the Crow’s Nest that Dad and I encountered a ice sheet across
the trail. We had headed back towards
camp using a different route than we had coming up and the trail crossed an area
that the snow had melted and then formed a massive patch of ice. This was on a steep side slope so it was a
risk taking the horses across, especially while riding them. We talked it over and decided to walk across leading our horses, and take our time. Our horses had
cleated horse shoes so I felt confident that they would be okay but I worried
about Dad making his way across. I told
him I would go over first and then be ready if he needed help. Slowly Sil and I stepped across the
fifty-foot span of ice until, thankfully, we reached the bare trail on the
other side. I held Sil's lead rope as I watched Dad
make his way across. I thought he was
going to be okay when suddenly Dad’s feet went out from underneath him and he
went down hard. Comanche, being the
amazing horse he was, stood still and waited patiently for my Dad. Seeing that Dad couldn’t get his footing
again I started to tie Sil up so I could help but Dad told me not to. He crawled on hands and knees until he
cleared the ice, Comanche following behind at the end of his lead rope. As Dad stood up I could see he was
hurting. I asked if he was okay and he
revealed he had dislocated his finger. I
tied up both horses and helped Dad take his glove off. Sure enough, one finger was bent at a nasty
angle. Dad told me I needed to reset it
for him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hesitated of course.
This was my Dad. A doctor. The man who had reset my finger when I had
broken it. The one who stitched me up
many times and had provided care to all us kids and our friends at one point or
another. Yet he had asked me to
help. I tried to think how he had set my
finger before and grabbed the finger. Dad
held onto a tree with his good hand as I pulled the finger and let the tendons
snap it back into its proper position. Dad
was visibly in pain but didn’t make a sound.
I helped him get his glove on and then got him on Comanche and made sure
he could handle the reins with his injured hand before I got on Sil. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of the weekend was uneventful thankfully and I
can’t say I remember much else about it.
I do remember that time below Windy Ridge and Dad taking the spill on
the ice. I remember it because I
realized then that Dad didn’t view me as a kid or just his son, but as a man, a
fellow hunter and horseman. I guess that
is why I cherish it so much. It was
times like that where I felt a connection with my Dad beyond that of family
relations. A connection from a shared
love of the mountains, of horses, and of the hunt.
I miss that connection dearly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This last week I’ve heard a lot of men talk about their dads
in preparation for Father’s Day. Some
men remembering how positive an influence their dad was. Some just the opposite. Some sharing that they didn’t know their dad
or that they lost him at an early age.
In all of that it made me thankful that I had the time with my Dad that
I did. Yes, some of those times were
turbulent but perhaps that is what made the good times so special. The times of being on a horse on the top of a
mountain, miles from anyone, anyone except your dad. A true blessing that I am thankful for and
wish others could experience the same. Remember such times with your dad. Cherish them, they are fleeting and pass
quicker than you want.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiij0552zSiRBeJsmN8krEIarzrL9-6P8kCUF7mxeDKaOb5gOygg3XCXsZjxCdd73vcpzc1ucziopOq4-yFA0HPYsOyrCnxPdE8a7jcdX8dQIMH_ChJEkKylPwmb4gKWNh-N-ivd-SBhcLc/s1600/Dad_Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiij0552zSiRBeJsmN8krEIarzrL9-6P8kCUF7mxeDKaOb5gOygg3XCXsZjxCdd73vcpzc1ucziopOq4-yFA0HPYsOyrCnxPdE8a7jcdX8dQIMH_ChJEkKylPwmb4gKWNh-N-ivd-SBhcLc/s320/Dad_Me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and I around 2001 while out playing in the mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bond my dad and I shared when we were on horseback in
the mountains is one I tried to capture in my second novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Horse-Park-Troy-Kechely/dp/069279333X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1497794091&sr=8-1&keywords=Lost+Horse+Park" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Lost Horse Park</span></a></i>. It was my hope that I could transport the
reader into the saddle high up on a mountain top with the wind blowing and the
expanse of God’s creation all before them.
It was on one such trip that I penned this poem back in 1988. I know how much my dad loved the mountains,
how he felt heaven was there. That is
why we spread his ashes up on a high ridge near the Continental Divide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<b>Heaven</b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
By Troy B. Kechely</h4>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I sit myself upon this ridge and stare across the land.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The rough and sculptured mountains rise, each created by God’s
hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The wind brings its message, blowing to and fro;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Crying out for all who live, for those who care to know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The clouds slowly amble by, observing their domain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
For truly they are the rulers of the mountains and the
plains.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I wonder of the things I see, and how we coincide;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
And I ponder if I do live, or perhaps if I have died.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-1766798781524514602017-06-07T16:32:00.000-06:002017-06-07T16:32:00.023-06:00The Worth of a Dog<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently some dear friends of mine experienced a horror that
all pet owners fear; their dog Abby was hit by a truck. It was an accident, and
thankfully the resilient little Blue Heeler survived but not without a major
injury that will take quite some time to heal. Knowing the little fur-covered
canine lightning ball, and how much she is loved by her family, there was no
surprise as to their urgency and absence of hesitation in getting her the
medical care she needed. Still, I do not
envy them in terms of the long recovery time that lies ahead and the veterinary
bills that will inevitably be stacking up.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAG2VXSplV1gSE1juIvMAbwvnq5NCfXwcXA5M3M03bJG6Ew_4KRm-4ndGgdSNZpw-zbDD06IhtI0IvyJnnEPfFdJzIlrhVJ3Sq9PsdH9-muQOYQQpQ1qvPcXkVNgpkxpMnNHwkfXxcqJ5M/s1600/Abby1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="532" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAG2VXSplV1gSE1juIvMAbwvnq5NCfXwcXA5M3M03bJG6Ew_4KRm-4ndGgdSNZpw-zbDD06IhtI0IvyJnnEPfFdJzIlrhVJ3Sq9PsdH9-muQOYQQpQ1qvPcXkVNgpkxpMnNHwkfXxcqJ5M/s320/Abby1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abby after coming home from the vet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every pet owner out there understands these realities at
some level. Pets can be hurt, they become
sick, their care costs money. Sometimes
lots of money. Still, I don’t know of a
single person who regrets spending the money they did on their pets. If there is any regret I’ve seen, it is in
the desperate attempt to keep the animal around when it would have been better
to end its suffering. Often that is done
out of a personal desire to not part with a beloved friend, which is why money
is not an object. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I’ve known some people who’ve had to make the tough
choice to put an animal down simply because they could not afford the required
medical care. I don’t fault them for that.
It is a personal choice that we must make as pet owners -- a difficult,
often heart-wrenching choice. At the
center of the issue is this one simple question: What is my pet worth? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This topic became the seed for a tense conversation between
my dad and me many years ago. I was back
on the ranch visiting, and my step-mom, dad, and I were out on the patio
enjoying a nice summer day. I’m not sure
how the issue came up, I just know that dad was wondering why I wasn’t able to
afford something even though I had a good job. I explained that I had just gone
through a year in which both of my dogs had experienced some serious health
issues that were rather costly. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, how much have you spent?” My dad asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Between the two of them, over two thousand dollars,” I
replied honestly. Such an amount may not be a lot to some, but at that point in
my life it was a huge sum that took me a year to pay off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What!? I can’t believe someone would spend so much money on
an animal. People are out there wasting all their money on their pets when it
could be used to help other people or other important things.” Dad actually expanded on the list for a bit,
but you get the point.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he had paused long enough for me to jump back in, I did
so in a very calm manner, something I learned is important to do when dealing
with my dad. Don’t raise your voice
because if you do it stops being a discussion and becomes an argument--, not a
pleasant thing between two alpha males.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dad, how much do all those bronze sculptures in the house
cost?” I queried. Dad was a very successful man in the medical
profession and had an amazing collection of western and wildlife bronze
sculptures. Dad remained silent so I
continued, “My dogs are with me the majority of my day. They are my friends, my protectors, and my
confidants. I literally have a closer
relationship with my dogs than I do with most people. They are always there for me, always loving
me, always faithful. I’ve taken them to
nursing homes, walked in parades with them, and used them in my canine behavior
classes. What do those sculptures do?
How many people do they help or comfort?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad pursed his lips but kept quiet. My step-mom just smiled, knowing that my
point had been made -- a point that I didn’t intend as an insult or implication
that my dad was somehow uncaring. Far
from it. I can’t tell you how many times
my dad had helped families in need by meeting them on a weekend or evening at
his clinic so they wouldn’t have to pay the ER fee. He really loved people and did a lot to help
them. My point in all of this was that
his view of the worth of a dog was vastly different from my own. I did notice, though, that he never again
questioned my dogs’ value to me. If
anything, he grew to respect it more in the years prior to his passing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This brings us back to the original question. How do we put a value on our animals? What are we willing to pay to keep them
safe? I think the answer that most would
give is best summarized by a story involving my friends, Matthew and Amanda,
and their dog, Merlin. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkV3drnEVPdGFERMt7EvZUIlqy_nM-GOXpMGujQXi21alzwNkec0bocYqHGH6fG1-ODLdsaNJzQXbZz8iUa6DE1LT2_vNC0s57bXUSOfqQmHk-zxLgNnJLvUGym7N6h3G6Zcf_WWXMHSx/s1600/Merlin2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkV3drnEVPdGFERMt7EvZUIlqy_nM-GOXpMGujQXi21alzwNkec0bocYqHGH6fG1-ODLdsaNJzQXbZz8iUa6DE1LT2_vNC0s57bXUSOfqQmHk-zxLgNnJLvUGym7N6h3G6Zcf_WWXMHSx/s320/Merlin2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matthew, Amanda, and the mischievous Merlin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Merlin came into their lives with the reputation of being
the most difficult dog at the shelter. A
massive, jet black German Shepherd and Malamute mix, the dog was a handful, to
put it mildly. His destructive behaviors
were legendary and finding a good boarding facility that could handle him was
difficult. While living in Billings, Montana,
Matthew and Amanda had to go visit out of town family and managed to find a
veterinary hospital that also did boarding.
The facility seemed well-equipped to handle Merlin, so Matthew and
Amanda were excited to go on their trip.
As Matthew dropped Merlin off, the desk clerk handed him a form to fill
out. One of the questions caused Matthew
to pause:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the event of a medical emergency do you wish lifesaving
care to be provided and if so, is there a maximum monetary amount that you do
not want us to exceed?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matthew’s brain ran through a list of increasing amounts,
wondering if each one was enough. He and
Amanda had discussed this issue, given they were a young couple just starting
out in life and living on a limited income.
Matthew also knew that his wife viewed Merlin as higher valued than he,
himself, did, but that isn’t what drove his answer. With each amount he considered jotting down,
he wondered if they would stop there and let the dog suffer and die, when
perhaps another couple hundred dollars could save him. As the values climbed in his head, he came to
the only answer that seemed right. In
bold, block letters he wrote: SAVE MY DOG!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There you have it. A
fixed amount couldn’t be set. Not in his
mind, not considering how much they loved the big black dog that shared their
lives. And perhaps that is how it should
be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve personally had a
discussion with both my vet and my mom regarding the care of my dogs if I’m
gone. My instruction has been to do
whatever is necessary if it has the likelihood of saving the dog or of ending
its pain. I’ll deal with the monetary
issues later. Save my dog, I’ll handle
the costs later, that is the decision I have made. I can always work overtime or sell some items
if it comes to that. There is almost
always a way to make more money, but there is never a way to get a beloved pet back
once it is gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The value of the connection we have with our pets goes beyond words. It is something I try to include in all of my novels to give the non-pet owning readers a glimpse of what it is like. To learn more about my novels, go to www.troykechely.com.</div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-50230068287020084442017-05-19T17:45:00.002-06:002017-05-19T17:57:07.411-06:00Slowing Down<div class="MsoNormal">
Growing old sucks.
Though I’m only in my forties, I have noticed my body telling me that its
warranty expired about fifteen years ago.
As if that wasn’t a sufficient reminder of the inevitable cost of time,
I see an even more powerful one, that of watching my dog slow down. When I got my girl, Carly, back in November
2013, she came to me with a well-earned nickname, ‘Crazy Carly’. She was a high energy, high drive dog with a
propensity for destructive behavior. Yet
now, that damaging nature is relegated to her Wubba toy as well as any small,
furry rodent that might foolishly draw too near her in between her nap times. Carly’s pace has slowed due to a bum elbow,
and she is continually more content to stop and sniff the bushes and trees than
drag me at a high pace in the direction of her choosing. A dominant female Rottweiler who always had
to lead the pack, she is now happy to just be in the pack. Carly is slowing down it seems. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this. Having had many dogs in my years, all rescues,
almost all were with me drastically shorter periods than if I had gotten them
as puppies. Still, it is no easier to
watch now than it was then. The
appearance of gray hairs, the longer sleeps throughout the day, especially
after walks. No matter what the species, we all start to slow down as we
age. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The slow, steady deceleration seems more tolerable, though,
than the sudden decline that often coincides with illness. I watched a good friend experience that
recently with her Rottweiler, Duke. She’d
had him for almost nine years, having gotten him as a puppy. I had the pleasure of first meeting Duke just
a few days after she got him, and I continued to watch him grow into a large,
handsome dog who became Emily’s faithful companion. Through social media I, along with many
others, followed Duke and Emily’s adventures. Among the duo’s favorites were
long road trips, told through pictures of Duke at various landmarks along the
way. Then, last month, Emily received the
worst news a person can hear about a loved one.
Cancer. I had dreaded this
day. Not only because Duke was such an
amazing dog, but because I knew how important he was to my friend Emily --how
much time they had spent together, how he had protected her and comforted her
during hard times. To know that he was
going to leave her was hard to watch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQP0zufPzeY98sJGRFyGi3MX6-12uueEw-u9mXHUPb4Se5c6ebtAtbrbr22AJvrFM_GJkUBDGzGhrjXuoH9EWy5yUMs5z_9JGD6t32dGA427UekeU6-xY_NZTTzLZBrTpB7P8zWd6qU9Pk/s1600/Duke04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQP0zufPzeY98sJGRFyGi3MX6-12uueEw-u9mXHUPb4Se5c6ebtAtbrbr22AJvrFM_GJkUBDGzGhrjXuoH9EWy5yUMs5z_9JGD6t32dGA427UekeU6-xY_NZTTzLZBrTpB7P8zWd6qU9Pk/s320/Duke04.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though social media can be a pain at times, one benefit is
that it allows a connection to friends that you might not normally have. Emily shared Duke’s final weeks via Facebook,
including some road trips and his enjoyment of various foods that were sent to
him by family and friends. His final
weeks were truly ones where the focus was his comfort. Still, I could see in
the photos and in Emily’s words that Duke was slowing down. Fast. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIES0YBJt2GiUYRYsNbCxJmpaQzqKNP0QURH2jY-h9KGrX48rdMxFk61AnTWst7kPdredfiU5h-j765ClJqQt3ry9jWKFG7H1U0QScrxYkeEpI9-d_MQ1XXyzQ-gcbRkccXeLxl-kBDF7D/s1600/Duke03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIES0YBJt2GiUYRYsNbCxJmpaQzqKNP0QURH2jY-h9KGrX48rdMxFk61AnTWst7kPdredfiU5h-j765ClJqQt3ry9jWKFG7H1U0QScrxYkeEpI9-d_MQ1XXyzQ-gcbRkccXeLxl-kBDF7D/s320/Duke03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those final days, Emily posted pictures of a stunning
sketch she was creating of Duke. Emily’s
artistic skills are exceptional, and this work was a fine tribute to her
boy. What was amazing to me was that she
was often working on it through tear-filled eyes while Duke rested nearby.
Perhaps that is why it was so beautiful and captured his essence as well as it
did. The drawing was not just a project,
it was love transferred to paper, a successful attempt to capture Duke before
the slowing down ground to a halt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5e3u-c25evStnY7SNAgyoVECb6jYS1JgMgTv-6AqRnnTKjIYnyTDMXaycl2YWYoD61LSiRCejmdHDJwY3EQI91EMtnj9qIqFv26vaKG1q0PFtg9NB52_EOrXK3gwN1xNnNX2kllbIeNH/s1600/Duke02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5e3u-c25evStnY7SNAgyoVECb6jYS1JgMgTv-6AqRnnTKjIYnyTDMXaycl2YWYoD61LSiRCejmdHDJwY3EQI91EMtnj9qIqFv26vaKG1q0PFtg9NB52_EOrXK3gwN1xNnNX2kllbIeNH/s320/Duke02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she posted about his passing on May 10, 2017, I hurt
for her as I do for all those who have loved and lost a dog. I know that pain well. It is the curse of owning dogs. They somehow work their way into our hearts and
their passing leaves a hole that little else can fill. Perhaps that is why I become a little sad
watching Carly slow down, knowing what is coming. I don’t know when, but the outcome will be
the same. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If there is a lesson in this reality it is this: Slowing
down isn’t really a bad thing, as it allows us to see the world, our lives, and
those in it in a more appreciative manner.
Like Carly, and all my dogs before her, slowing down and just taking in
her surroundings becomes a lot more important than being in a hurry to lead the
pack. Perhaps that is why God created us this way. The slowing down that is part of growing old
offers the opportunity to appreciate what we have before it is too late. When Carly has passed on, hopefully in a few
more years, I will apply the same lesson to any rescue Rottweiler I take in, knowing
that no matter how young they are when I get them, eventually they will slow
down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fG0K2q_tSRqs6k-czW3HHKjvDlJrsQNs1F4JMEbtxkCaf3b-BEeAoDuprRJLWZw3YpG22IJAe5rSwkgbi1vKWom7TQe3o1-qg4STAA4SYtNjScO5bAZvlMAFL7c_Y-QWta0K62iRrpc-/s1600/Duke01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fG0K2q_tSRqs6k-czW3HHKjvDlJrsQNs1F4JMEbtxkCaf3b-BEeAoDuprRJLWZw3YpG22IJAe5rSwkgbi1vKWom7TQe3o1-qg4STAA4SYtNjScO5bAZvlMAFL7c_Y-QWta0K62iRrpc-/s320/Duke01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Dedicated to my friend Emily and her dog Duke <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Duke: End of Watch 10-MAY-17.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Duke and Emily are a wonderful example of the beautiful bond
that forms between humans and dogs. I try to capture that bond in my novels as
I feel it is a unique part of our humanity.
For more information about my books, please go to www.troykechely.com.<o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-90351489739237428842017-03-26T09:32:00.001-06:002017-03-26T20:52:11.553-06:00Tank<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>"While only six, he possessed an old soul, and he clearly had
no issues with anything I placed in front of him."</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EDxKrR9YPGSwGNs1_fmoJ4rmG-p-yG3-qgC2tbXW5UXL0kMig-oHJ-sHU6p_YioS7IJgap9UQsDH1rCHKyYzpXKw4boY-t2uXdmGtnHV0XrkfES7SWspbd1Ov8bt9oIrIMIDMl_QQQxK/s1600/Tank06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EDxKrR9YPGSwGNs1_fmoJ4rmG-p-yG3-qgC2tbXW5UXL0kMig-oHJ-sHU6p_YioS7IJgap9UQsDH1rCHKyYzpXKw4boY-t2uXdmGtnHV0XrkfES7SWspbd1Ov8bt9oIrIMIDMl_QQQxK/s320/Tank06.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tank showing a little attitude</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1TzgdhLR3tiRFhmGNK8v1_yPALF8I8KKTCPSpwNDBb0gnGg7V1v7BCkmBBHr-Hr_-IF9kEfKIyxxBXyySpVdccYr8vp9MNWi-P-mtmXo9GzQfEt_3sM6Lc3nT_CJwGBtMlzwDOY_eHKG/s1600/Tank05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1TzgdhLR3tiRFhmGNK8v1_yPALF8I8KKTCPSpwNDBb0gnGg7V1v7BCkmBBHr-Hr_-IF9kEfKIyxxBXyySpVdccYr8vp9MNWi-P-mtmXo9GzQfEt_3sM6Lc3nT_CJwGBtMlzwDOY_eHKG/s320/Tank05.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying some sun with the cat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfQ7PHv7Non6xaDZuy4w89FQ0GjCunFy3kxXyIfI4atbZI4lrKQWrqKTeIskbmApa9HA26azWAsVOw598c3X4b-zwDId-EHuQrCtG8Ayt2wsMJWxacvlBFn5RIM7Ckifpl7X0jlKwJFkg/s1600/Tank04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfQ7PHv7Non6xaDZuy4w89FQ0GjCunFy3kxXyIfI4atbZI4lrKQWrqKTeIskbmApa9HA26azWAsVOw598c3X4b-zwDId-EHuQrCtG8Ayt2wsMJWxacvlBFn5RIM7Ckifpl7X0jlKwJFkg/s320/Tank04.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tank in the beautiful Paradise Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was how my friend Jessika described her first meeting
with a horse named Tank. With a body
fitting of his name, standing 17 hands and 1400 pounds, the white and patchwork
colored horse was to become a major part of Jessika’s life. Long before she met Tank however, Jessika’s
life was already devoted to and often motivated by her love of horses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A child of the deep south, Jessika grew up with horses, learning
to ride western style before switching to English style at age 13. With one of her first competition horses,
Ginger, Jessika competed in hunter/jumper competitions before switching over to
three day eventing, an equine triathlon. Shortly thereafter, another dream of
hers took over. That was the dream of
being in law enforcement. Pursuit of law
enforcement lead Jessika to Montana where, after college, she became a police
officer in a small town an hour north of Yellowstone National Park. Though living one dream, she never gave up
her first true love, horses. It was after she was forced to retire Ginger due
to health reasons, and while looking for another competition horse, that she
decided to combine her passions. That’s when Jessika’s life headed for real
change.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a lot of self-initiative, Jessika convinced her small
department to let her start a mounted unit comprising her and a new partner,
Larry, a horse she had picked specifically for this new job. Jessika dove into her new pursuit as only a
stubborn redheaded southerner could, leading to numerous trips with Larry to
trainings and visits to departments around the country that had established
mounted units. She describes how Larry performed
in this new endeavor:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Larry was actually fabulous as a police horse. He was brave, curious, and very generous;
however, it was often on own his terms.
He’s by far one of the most sensitive horses I’ve ever ridden, a prima
donna, if you will. Normally, mounted
units have at least a few horse and rider combinations. LPD’s unit was unique, as it was just Larry
and me. Horses are naturally herd
creatures; they find confidence and security when they are together. While Larry often displayed these traits on
his own, there were also times where he did not. He also developed ulcers, which are extremely
common in competition horses and horses that are under stress. Mounted police work is not for the faint of
heart, nor is the training for that matter.
Having a confident mount on every ride is paramount, especially if
you’re a one-horse unit. I retired him
from police work and turned him into my three day eventing partner."</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With Larry no longer an option, Jessika did what any other
horse-loving woman would. She went horse
shopping. That is when she found Tank.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAtp1V1fCmD0ygPUH_kILUiv_ySGHp1t1SHvQdwWhpWftnCDjxkLIBwRpLa3U0wRRJWU8KIAOeIWLSdAzRTYjB7gsJgeP_2iY_nxOVwe6sh-FeytJJr1aBZDjML2_XseQnAase5v5LHwZ/s1600/Tank01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAtp1V1fCmD0ygPUH_kILUiv_ySGHp1t1SHvQdwWhpWftnCDjxkLIBwRpLa3U0wRRJWU8KIAOeIWLSdAzRTYjB7gsJgeP_2iY_nxOVwe6sh-FeytJJr1aBZDjML2_XseQnAase5v5LHwZ/s320/Tank01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jess and her husband training Tank for police work</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>"It was love at first sight when I met him. Ask any horse person and they’ll tell you it
is both the worst and best feeling in the world. No matter how much you love a horse, they
still must pass the veterinarian pre-purchase exam. After only riding Tank for a few minutes, I
knew right then and there that he would be perfect as my partner. I test rode him solo on a nearby road, with
cars zooming by, then later, walking over a tarp. While only 6-years-old, he possessed an old
soul, and he clearly had no issues with anything I placed in front of him. Days later, he passed that pre-purchase exam!"</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bond between Tank and Jessika was one that only horse
people could understand. It was a trust,
a friendship, and a love that couldn’t be broken. This bond was tested and proven true one
fateful day. On June 27, 2016, Jessika
was out for a ride on Tank in the mountains near her home. It was a beautiful summer day and the trail
was not anything unusual for her and Tank.
Along for the ride were Jessika’s two Boxers, Roxie and Archer, both of whom
were regular participants on these rides. Perhaps it was the enjoyment of the
trail and a calm, sunny day, but whatever the reason, Jessika wasn’t prepared
when something happened that caused her to fall from Tank. She has no memory of the few minutes leading
up to the accident but here is what she thinks happened. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At a rocky part of the trail, Tank stumbled a little and in
just a heartbeat, Jessika fell to the ground and struck her head on some
rocks. Even though she was wearing a
riding helmet, the impact rendered her unconscious on the trail, although she was
not alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>"While I remember everything up until the few
minutes before the accident, I have complete amnesia of the accident
itself. My next memory is that of waking
up in the hospital, two days later. I’ve
had multiple people state in disbelief that I was by myself at the time, but in
reality, I was not alone. Tank was
grazing nearby and my Boxers had bedded down around me. I was conscious when
the hiker found me; however, I have absolutely no memory of it. I apparently
fought the paramedics and my deputies, yet I have zero memory."</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So began Jessika’s
long recovery from what is called Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI). Yet, like during the time of the fall, she
was not alone during this long process.
Her husband, step-children, friends, and coworkers all were there to
help, as was Tank.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>"I was ignorant of brain injuries when this happened. I simply was not prepared for just how long
and hard recovery would be. Tank has
helped me on every level possible - spiritually, physically, and mentally."</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite the injury, Jessika’s love for her horses, and for
riding, were not diminished and, in fact, were to become driving forces in her
recovery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>"About three weeks after my TBI, I felt confident enough to
get back in the saddle. Even though it
was against doctor’s orders, as well as my husband’s, it was something I had to
do. I thought I had a bond with Tank
before the accident, but I did not truly feel it fully until I got back on him
after my injury. He just seemed to know.
He was gentle, affectionate, and patient
with me. I only had the energy for a
twenty-minute ride, but I just knew that he knew what was going on with me. While he was gentle and patient with me those
first few months, over time he would gradually test me here and there. That’s when I knew I was really progressing
under saddle. From the time I
got back on him after the injury, he just knew what my capabilities were."</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This story, itself, captures the beautiful bond between
horse and rider, yet with Tank it portrays just a touch of how wonderfully
impacting this horse with a tough name is.
More evidence of Tank’s impact was captured in February 2017, when
Jessika posted a picture of Tank visiting an old woman whose husband had passed
away. The relationship between Jessika
and this couple had been long-forged, and Tank, like so many animals, seemed to
understand that he was needed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>"I met Marlys and her husband, Bob, while delivering jury
summons on duty about seven years ago. I
had arrived that afternoon during a very difficult time in her life. I adored her the moment I met her and we kept
in touch over the years. In 2015, while
conducting training in the neighborhood on Tank, I decided to stop by their
residence to say hi. Marlys’s love for
Tank was immediate. Tank responded in
kind and was more affectionate with her than he had ever been with me. Bob and Marlys soon became my adopted grandparents. They embodied everything grandparents are
supposed to be - warm, kind, selfless, humble – everything we all aspire to
be. Whenever training in that
neighborhood, I was always sure to bring Tank by. And even when I wasn’t working the
neighborhood, I would trailer him over to their house. Bob always had a ridiculous amount of carrots
and apples stocked in the fridge for Tank, just in case we made a surprise stop. Marlys had been ill for some time and had
been reliant on Bob to care for her. His
love and commitment to her was undeniable.
Bob passed a week ago Sunday, yet I can still hear his laugh and see his
big bright smile as he brought out Tank’s treats."</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The picture that Jessika posted after Bob's passing, combined with her comments,
clearly highlighted just how big a heart Tank has. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqJd8Y9yP4U0Vw92TcyStflbnVgQDcioOck82WJMToE2kmf6E-2y_MlHKSUjl30ruIu77H-cGMTLKFh8tDaKmq5rwjK_cgm4JWEuVKCIJTDw8-HTKf5sxGUyhIlTK-awaJah2KDFTEgBo/s1600/Tank03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqJd8Y9yP4U0Vw92TcyStflbnVgQDcioOck82WJMToE2kmf6E-2y_MlHKSUjl30ruIu77H-cGMTLKFh8tDaKmq5rwjK_cgm4JWEuVKCIJTDw8-HTKf5sxGUyhIlTK-awaJah2KDFTEgBo/s320/Tank03.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tank's visit with Marlys after her husband had passed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><i>"For the first time in 64
years, my Marlys spent Valentine's Day without her beloved husband. This warm,
kind soul passed away on Saturday. I can't bring her
husband back, but I can bring a 1,400 pound teddy bear by for a few hours. </i></span><i><o:p></o:p><span style="background-color: #f6f7f9;">He got super protective of
her that day. He even warned one of the girls when she got too close to their
little "zone". I was appalled yet fascinated at the same time. Like a
mare protecting her foal."</span></i></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
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Many people have been around dogs and cats, but few have had
the privilege of working with horses.
The equine/human bond is unique and entirely about trust. It is based on both horse and rider being a
part of one herd, one mindset. Trusting. Faithful. Jessika and Tank are the classic example of that beautiful bond between horse and rider.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbY4rB2ndJ1lIzJoFahBVQ40mcdH9pmA3ekX-TfyixO9nNUvofijQvvPuQh9PFKJx0wlMQbUoEAZFRV71B1Mziy4eB5S6AAjPa99SfFFrvVRYG5AHO6iJ1b20PKxbaQA67lFlGLoBMCzl5/s1600/Tank02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbY4rB2ndJ1lIzJoFahBVQ40mcdH9pmA3ekX-TfyixO9nNUvofijQvvPuQh9PFKJx0wlMQbUoEAZFRV71B1Mziy4eB5S6AAjPa99SfFFrvVRYG5AHO6iJ1b20PKxbaQA67lFlGLoBMCzl5/s320/Tank02.jpg" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jess and Tank</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was my intent to capture this special equine/human bond
in my second novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Horse-Park-Troy-Kechely/dp/069279333X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Lost Horse Park</a></i>. If nothing else, I desire to give readers a
taste of what it is like to be one with a massive animal that runs with the
wind. A special thank you to Jessika for
sharing her story about Tank and for contributing the pictures contained in
this blog. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Troy B, Kechely</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
www.troykechely.com</div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-51700593883318212782017-02-16T18:05:00.001-07:002017-02-16T18:10:20.269-07:00All Hail the Queen<div class="MsoNormal">
When the small female Rottweiler named Queen was surrendered
to the shelter, the score was Queen 3, Cats 0.
Even being just sixty-five pounds and having bad hips, Queen was still
very adept at dispatching her feline foes.
Her family, unable to keep her contained at the small trailer they
rented as well as deal with the city fines for having a dog at large, had no
choice but to turn her over. The tragedy
of this was that they were alive because of Queen. Not
just once, but twice, Queen had saved her family. The first life-saving incident had occurred
when she chased off a Grizzly bear that had charged the family while they were
out cutting wood. The second was the
reason they were living in a rental where her containment had been an issue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOSn87rrkqYTyzvY_jSHYhl-fu_Me-9wgCjDjkbrmhWhHocYnj8qMlquKxsyXzy8r1kVG_p-mOLnb7s2BsVzczOZvJMb8K8ohEG101FzuTkAaOuVhdp1nIazikMDynGBSEfGlNx5ii40d/s1600/scan0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOSn87rrkqYTyzvY_jSHYhl-fu_Me-9wgCjDjkbrmhWhHocYnj8qMlquKxsyXzy8r1kVG_p-mOLnb7s2BsVzczOZvJMb8K8ohEG101FzuTkAaOuVhdp1nIazikMDynGBSEfGlNx5ii40d/s320/scan0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her majesty, Queen.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After a long day of cutting wood in the forest, the tired
family had returned to their home in Helena and allowed Queen to stay inside
that night. Sometime during the night, a
fire started. Scratching feverously at her owners’ feet, Queen woke them,
allowing them just enough time to grab their two children and leave the
house. They lost everything but their
lives. It was after that fire that the
family moved to Bozeman, where Queen discovered her hidden talents of cat
removal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheiPovJ1C20N2AvgnHPdxEx1Y6FlkjqN8osJ7lwk1KNLLLQbERhM61Xm_VarVAuig0Fo8PS1XKc6ENfgo5vf088uoLxewZL0nOqqRLgBEOr9IJdtLQyTJMYZyKhElKQajka9lffiSM1te/s1600/IR_Queen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheiPovJ1C20N2AvgnHPdxEx1Y6FlkjqN8osJ7lwk1KNLLLQbERhM61Xm_VarVAuig0Fo8PS1XKc6ENfgo5vf088uoLxewZL0nOqqRLgBEOr9IJdtLQyTJMYZyKhElKQajka9lffiSM1te/s320/IR_Queen.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The story about Queen's heroics</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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Queen was just as her name described, though small in
stature, she was a regal and powerful female, controlling all she
surveyed. Queen soon became the majesty
of the shelter, ending up as the canine ambassador, when visiting local
elementary schools, since her demeanor towards people was exceptional. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aside from her friendly disposition
towards people, Queen also became known for a few quirks she had. One involved buckets. Yes, buckets.
Queen, for the most part, could care less about her regular water dish,
but when someone donated a bunch of large, thick rubber-sided, horse watering
pails, something triggered in Queen. She
would become totally fixated on the buckets, replete with destructive
intent. Her favorite pastime quickly
became “get the bucket”, as the staff would say. Now keep in mind a couple of things. First, this six-year-old, small Rottweiler
with bad hips seemed a mismatch for the large, thick rubber-sided containers
that held nearly twenty gallons. Despite the odds, however, Queen decimated
every bucket she could get ahold of. In
less than a week, her first bucket looked as if the local militia had used it
for machine gun practice. Its sides were
perforated with countless, perfect canine tooth-sized holes and large chunks had
been removed and tossed about the pen. This
tenacious behavior with the buckets carried right over to tires and trees as
well. Yes, trees. She might have been a small Rottweiler but it
was common to take her for a walk, only to have her drag back a ten-foot-long
log she found along the way. These,
along with her amazing ability to catch mice and leave them in her water dish
for the staff, and her love of tennis balls and a green squeaky moose toy, made
Queen one of the most beloved dogs at the shelter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsXlOuY1pcsgS1ZZ9DBas524EMZ2uDgKeopxiCMS6uicA7tRIck8MF96zMy38J6c3gVyzGxHvnvNG0D25oa2Uki3cWN0zPkXYwcwmJ9nupvS-uu0D0jYTBDTAhEJKQqPggyJ0_sdoxwha/s1600/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsXlOuY1pcsgS1ZZ9DBas524EMZ2uDgKeopxiCMS6uicA7tRIck8MF96zMy38J6c3gVyzGxHvnvNG0D25oa2Uki3cWN0zPkXYwcwmJ9nupvS-uu0D0jYTBDTAhEJKQqPggyJ0_sdoxwha/s320/scan0002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen and her tire. Who says diamonds are a girls best friend?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 2001, after 22 months at the
shelter, I wondered if perhaps Queen would ever find a home. Still, like with all the dogs I worked with,
I held out hope that God had a home waiting just for her. In late May, the
shelter decided to hold a remote adoption at the local Costco store. Costco was kind enough to allow this to
happen and had always been supportive of the shelter and its efforts, even
setting up bins so people could donate items purchased there to the
shelter. Several dogs were taken for the
remote adoption event, but the two that I took were Queen and Adonis (See the
blog, <i>Heaven Sent,</i> for his story). Both dogs had been there almost two years,
and I desperately wanted to see a good home come along for the both of them. The crowd was thick on that beautiful
Saturday, and though many people stopped to pet Queen, no one showed particular
interest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the case until a woman and
her teenage daughter stopped to ask more about Queen and what was involved in
adopting her. Queen put on her normal
charms and rolled onto her back for a belly rub. Amy, the woman, explained that they lived out
of town and were there to pick her husband up from the airport. They just
wanted to get some shopping out of the way while waiting for the plane to
arrive. She talked about how her husband
used to own Rottweilers but hadn’t had one for years, and she said she knew
that he would love to have another. I
told her about Queen’s issues with cats along with all her good traits. Amy told me she would talk to her husband
when they picked him up in a few hours and if he was interested they’d stop
back by. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After they left I didn’t get my hopes
up, as promises from people to come back are rarely kept. I knew this having been doing rescue work for
several years at this point. The following is in the words of Crystal about how
they broke the news to her step-dad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white;"><i>We got to the airport and Mom
had told Rich we had a surprise for him. He said, What a dog? Mom
said yes! You could see the tears welt up in his eyes. He excused
himself. We went back to Costco to talk about Queen. Queen what a
beautiful name. </i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a pleasant surprise when Amy,
Rich and Crystal did return that afternoon.
Rich, was a quiet man and seemed somewhat gruff, which I understood considering
he had just been on a long flight. Still,
he at least tried to get to know Queen.
As usual, Queen rolled over onto her back for a belly rub but looked
away from him while he petted her. Rich seemed a bit bothered that she appeared
disinterested. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t think she cares much for me,”
Rich said dryly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was just about to explain to him
how Rottweilers take a while to get to know and trust someone, but Queen beat
me to it. She rolled her head over and
licked his hand gently. The deal was
done. In that moment, the gruff and
tired man’s heart melted. The
application and checks were completed, and Queen went home to her new
family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxcF0M0FQM4HGdmqVaBzxtc5thPKVeivG3t6ZEdwxCSkyjbNm5TxYMIBecWjlaMKUbm51YkeY7bQFb8xq5bdjn91kE1cykodajOdSp_LVRD5qtzqdL1z1ULYg4DVfQFNBPY9zkldkR_8I/s1600/Queen_Amy_Rich_Crystal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxcF0M0FQM4HGdmqVaBzxtc5thPKVeivG3t6ZEdwxCSkyjbNm5TxYMIBecWjlaMKUbm51YkeY7bQFb8xq5bdjn91kE1cykodajOdSp_LVRD5qtzqdL1z1ULYg4DVfQFNBPY9zkldkR_8I/s320/Queen_Amy_Rich_Crystal.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The happy family on adoption day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought it was a happy ending and
for a while it was. Throughout the
summer, the shelter would get updates from Amy about how Queen and Rich were
always together, and they even heard that their favorite pastime was going for
a ride in the jeep on their mountain property. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly, after only a few months with
her new family, tragedy struck. In
August, while sitting at his desk at home, with Queen at his feet as was typical,
Rich died of a heart attack. Crystal
describes that dark time:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="background: white;">In August of 2001 a
friend and I were visiting Montana when Rich passed away suddenly. Our
lives were crushed. Queen would not leave the front door, she knew
something was wrong, she knew Rich wasn't there. </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>After everyone had left, Mom had Queen. She was there for my
mom when she was alone on top of that mountain. I would occasionally go back
out to see them. Queen was so smart and she helped me heal from my broken
heart. One night we came home to the front door wide open, we were
scared! Queen could sense it, she went into protection mode. She
stood straight up, ran around the house, woofed, checking everywhere she went
for a intruder. She didn't stop until we stopped. I look back now
and think she would have done anything to protect us, to protect the ones she
loved.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbTppG1A9dOxDrgsRUJYCYQhN2HaZvF9qlHeZfLHHq7OP5-BZATzlt1DmSKWqywn_5R2sKwsWlEfMrWoHPWJ547rv2M_gs7NrpBESvC9oVFlZfi-Y_mblFB6rJtZHio6I4RYQ3t_SWpWq/s1600/Queen2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbTppG1A9dOxDrgsRUJYCYQhN2HaZvF9qlHeZfLHHq7OP5-BZATzlt1DmSKWqywn_5R2sKwsWlEfMrWoHPWJ547rv2M_gs7NrpBESvC9oVFlZfi-Y_mblFB6rJtZHio6I4RYQ3t_SWpWq/s320/Queen2.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen and Amy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t hear from Amy again until
Christmas, in the form of a letter. It
was one of those standard letters that people send out to all their family and
friends as a Christmas gift. Its purpose
was to let everyone know of the events of the past year. Amy’s letter was more somber than most. She told about the elation of adopting Queen
and then the sudden loss of her soul mate.
She then went on to explain how she knew that Queen was sent to her from
God, to help her through this tragic time.
It seemed that Queen, once again, was a hero, saving her loved ones from
tragedy. Like most Rottweilers, Queen
became more than just a dog; she became a protector, a confidant, and a
supporter. Queen’s excess of confidence
was exactly what Amy needed during this dark time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For many years, Queen continued her
watch over Amy and her daughter Crystal, making sure that the deer or other
trespassers didn’t get to close to the house, while being wise enough to allow
the moose to wander as close as they wanted. Queen was smart enough to know not
to tangle with a moose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>There will never be another dog like Queen, she was one of a
kind. I still think about her 11 years after she passed away. You
wouldn't think a dog, would have an impact on you like that and people that
have never had an animal will never understand. They are a part of your
family, when you lose them it's like losing a part of yourself. Queen
will always have a place in my heart.</i><span style="font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRAzHzRCTu_hf_2HF-_bPD8MW5izGFdo0BVTdeHLPrEA-Ghl0kHA3A7BRTTvN0q_Vwo-9y_QU-r_TzqVAY8ErnNoCXhef18sDnbNcZOXe1CVmfOF9-ZK7gJqJGDc1p8-DnUq7KRYhYKAC/s1600/Queen1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRAzHzRCTu_hf_2HF-_bPD8MW5izGFdo0BVTdeHLPrEA-Ghl0kHA3A7BRTTvN0q_Vwo-9y_QU-r_TzqVAY8ErnNoCXhef18sDnbNcZOXe1CVmfOF9-ZK7gJqJGDc1p8-DnUq7KRYhYKAC/s320/Queen1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen and Crystal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Though news of her passing in 2006 hit
me hard, I take comfort in knowing what an influence she had on the people who
were blessed enough to know her. That positive, powerful influence
was no surprise, really, she was, after all, canine royalty.<br />
<br />
<br />
The reason this latest blog has taken as long as it has is that I was focused on publishing my second novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Horse-Park-Troy-Kechely/dp/069279333X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank">Lost Horse Park</a></i>. Though a stand-alone novel, it connects to my first novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strangers-Dance-Troy-B-Kechely/dp/1511771356/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank">Stranger's Dance</a></i>. You can learn more about them at my website, <a href="http://www.troykechely.com/">www.troykechely.com</a>.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-71737028813536245722017-01-18T09:01:00.001-07:002017-01-18T09:01:34.380-07:00Lost Horse Park
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hey everyone, I wanted to let you know that my second
novel, <em><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Horse-Park-Troy-Kechely/dp/069279333X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Lost Horse Park</a></em>, is now available on Amazon and through my <a href="http://www.troykechely.com/" target="_blank">website</a> in
both <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Horse-Park-Troy-Kechely/dp/069279333X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Kindle and paperback</a>. If you love history, Montana, horses and dogs then
this book is for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also
available through Amazon in Europe and other parts of the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here is a summary of the book:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After causing trouble in his Montana hometown one time too
many, teenager Jim Redmond has run out of options. A run-in with the law
results in an ultimatum: either head to juvenile detention or spend the summer
working with a backcountry trail crew along with the intimidating World War II
veteran Tom McKee. What soon emerges is a moving exploration of the human heart.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
Lost Horse Park is a stunning novel that takes readers from the rugged
wilderness of Montana to the dark jungles of the Vietnam War and through the
Italian mountains of World War II, uncovering the hearts of two men who are
more similar than either of them could have ever imagined.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">
This sweeping novel examines the emotional connection humans share with
animals, while poignantly exploring what it means to trust others and--above
all--trust yourself.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVG3SH72pVaHTiYg33XtGpHdeHLcukkZWt2wYw6vY1rfQz5JVY9FWKWR9jv-KXAwWB6cOeXbHBhqAuVzkLuOrQv1eo-EnrFNoRuiSoMZXeFpdMNQsBRkkmh634MowjX6ouOEKfZqtxpUl/s1600/Lost-Horse-Full-Cover-1+Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVG3SH72pVaHTiYg33XtGpHdeHLcukkZWt2wYw6vY1rfQz5JVY9FWKWR9jv-KXAwWB6cOeXbHBhqAuVzkLuOrQv1eo-EnrFNoRuiSoMZXeFpdMNQsBRkkmh634MowjX6ouOEKfZqtxpUl/s320/Lost-Horse-Full-Cover-1+Front.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you enjoyed my first novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strangers-Dance-Troy-B-Kechely/dp/1511771356/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Stranger’s Dance</a>, then you
are sure to enjoy this one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please share
this with others and thanks for following this blog and my novels.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Troy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
P.S. I'm working on a new blog and hope to have that out in the next couple weeks. Until then, enjoy the beautiful bond with the humans and animals in your life.Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-55534279137791398312016-12-15T17:46:00.003-07:002016-12-15T17:46:59.424-07:00Sacrifice<br />
<div class="WordSection1">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Though my blogs have always been based
on real events, I am making an exception for this, my final blog of 2016.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote the following story back in 2000 as a
Christmas gift for family and friends, and I later shared it with various
rescue groups because it captures so many aspects of rescue work that few can
understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though the story itself is
fictional, many of the events are based on real life situations that I, or
other rescuers, experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I share it
as a blessing to you this Christmas season, and I look forward to sharing more
examples of the beautiful bond between animals and humans in 2017.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Sacrifice<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
By
Troy Kechely<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Copyright
2000<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The sounds of ringing bells flowed
from the speakers in my truck doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
fingers tapped along with the music as I mimicked the sound of the bells with
my mouth, careful to pay attention as I drove out of my office parking
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Carol of the Bells” had always
been my favorite Christmas song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now,
with two days remaining till Christmas, I was filled with joyful expectation of
the holiday and time with my family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was going to be the first Christmas in almost three years that I was not
undergoing some kind of surgery. I recounted mentally the times I had been
operated on to remove the golf ball-sized tumor in my head and then recalled
the surgeries required to repair the damage it had done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What affected me the most was after I awoke
from the first surgery, and I had been told my heart had stopped and that they
had struggled to revive me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was only
26 and had not even considered dying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now, three years later, I had overcome my fear of death, trusting more
in God and recognizing that He was in control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My dealings with death nowadays were restricted to rescuing Rottweilers,
as I often had to recommend that animals be put to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost always their aggression was due to bad
owners; dogs beaten and neglected to the point that humanity was the
enemy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not hold it against the dogs
when they tried to bite me, but I also recognized that they could never be
placed in homes and it was best that they be put down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully, it had been many months since I
last had to make such a recommendation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dogs at the shelter and in foster homes were all well-behaved and,
like typical Rotties, provided daily challenges but nothing out of the
ordinary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Working with such dogs was my one
pleasure in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the surgeries,
my motivation to recover was so that I could return to working with the Rotts
at the shelter. I often thought of their dark brown eyes looking towards the
door, waiting for me to come during my lunch hour to take them for a walk along
the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps I pushed too hard to
recover but I had to for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The song on the cassette ended and
a new one began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned onto Main
Street towards home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had managed to
take the afternoon off so I could pack for my trip to the family ranch in
Helena.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The roads were covered in snow
and ice, typical for Bozeman in December.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My tires slipped as they struggled to gain traction as I turned a
corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling into my driveway, I
ejected the cassette tape and shut off my truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my briefcase in hand, I headed into the
house to be greeted by 225 pounds of dog wiggling wildly at my feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mickey was the most energetic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A large purebred Rott, she contorted into a C
shape as her nub of a tail vibrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Griz, my Rott/Malamute cross stood next to me, his tail wagging slightly
as he let out a barkish howl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I set my
briefcase on the table and moved across the living room so I could let the dogs
out back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bounding out the door, they
sniffed and marked the snow that covered my backyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Closing the door, I decided to leave them out
for a bit so I could prepare for my trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My friend John was supposed to come over and ride to Helena with me that
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I packed I ran through my head
all that needed to be done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The phone rang
just as I was just letting the dogs back inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was one of the local Highway Patrol
officers letting me know there were reports of a stray Rottweiler running loose
on the Interstate on Bozeman Pass, just east of town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got the information I needed and then hung
up the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mood switched from the
joy of packing and the excitement of the holiday to one of serious
reservation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The weather outside was bad
and it would be dark in only three more hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With a sigh I convinced myself of what I had to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Picking up the phone, I called Valerie at the
local shelter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Hey Val, I just got a call from
the Highway Patrol about a Rott on the pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Do you have room if I can catch him?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></div>
</div>
<div class="WordSection2">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“If we don’t then we’ll make room.
Do you need help?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Valerie was one of
those women who had an endless source of energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She claimed her energy came from chocolate
and caffeine but I suspected there were other sources, specifically her love of
animals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My only problem with her was
that she was a cat person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, even
with that flaw, she was the life and soul of the animal shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the animal care manager, she was the one
who allowed me to start working with the Rotts that came in and even used me to
do home checks for adoptions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Nah, from the sounds of it I think
I can get him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When are you closing up?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well, we close at 5:30, but let me
give you my cell number and you can call me when you catch him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is he injured?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val’s concern for the dog was evident in her
voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Not sure, he was on the Frontage
Road about 20 minutes ago, so I am hoping he will be easy to find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will give you a call when I know more, okay?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Val gave me her cell number and I
hung up as Mickey nudged me with her large head, wanting the affection that she
had been denied while I was at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With a pat on the head, I moved her to the side so I could put my boots
back on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Griz lay in the corner chewing
quietly on a raw hide bone, his eyes on me as I laced up my boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The phone rang again as I was grabbing my
coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Hello.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Hi, my name is Becky Jacobson. I
got your number from the sheriff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
is a stray Rottweiler in my yard.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
It took only a few questions to ascertain
that it was the same dog the Highway Patrol had called about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The family that called lived off the Jackson
Creek exit near the top of the pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Rott was in bad shape and sniffing around their barn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked the lady if she would catch the dog
and hold him for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said she would
try as she used to have mastiffs and she was comfortable with larger dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hanging up the phone, I moved quickly to get
there, hoping that the dog would be contained when I arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave my dogs a treat and told them to
behave as I grabbed my cold weather overalls and headed out the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left the door unlocked and a note taped to
it so Johnny would know where I was when he showed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saying goodbye to the dogs, I stepped outside
into the cold midday air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting my
truck, I watched the silver cloud that my breath formed as I waited for the
engine to warm up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
In less than ten minutes I was on
the interstate heading east towards the pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although my attention needed to be on the icy road, I could not help but
run through different scenarios regarding how the dog might behave when I arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The ride there took longer than
expected, but the road conditions kept me from going as fast as I would have
liked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heading up the pass, the snow
began to fall more heavily and the wind picked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at my watch. It had been almost 40
minutes since the first call regarding the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Turning off the Jackson Creek exit, I saw the blurred shapes of the few
ranches that covered the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once on
the Frontage Road, I followed the directions Becky Jacobson had given me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arriving at her house, I pulled in, hoping to
see a Rottweiler but, instead, seeing nothing but the falling snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my knock, the door was opened and the
warmth from inside washed over me. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></div>
</div>
<div class="WordSection3">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You must be Tom. I am so
sorry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right after I talked to you the
dog headed down the Frontage Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
followed him, trying to get him to come to me, but he crossed over the railroad
tracks about a half mile up and I couldn’t stay with him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her early thirties, Becky ushered me
inside as she spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A young boy stood
behind her looking at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled at
him briefly, the lights of their small Christmas tree giving a cheerful glow to
the small ranch house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got the details
of where the dog had gone and quickly left, wanting to find the dog before the
weather worsened and darkness fell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
drove up the narrow two lane frontage road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To my right about a hundred yards ran the four lanes of interstate
traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes scanned everywhere,
hoping to see the black form of the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the point where Becky said the dog had left the road I pulled
over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found the tracks of the dog
although they were now almost covered with wind-driven snow that was falling
all the harder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put on my overalls and
grabbed a flash light, leash, and a can of cat food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Valerie had taught me that trick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pop top can of cat food often was enough
to entice a hungry dog to come close enough to be caught.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
With everything in hand, I headed
off the road towards the railroad tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Stepping off the shoulder of the road, I found the snow to be over two
feet deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forcing myself through the
drift, I managed to follow the trail of the dog to the embankment of crushed
rock that formed the base of the railroad tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The steel tracks were almost clear of snow because
of the half dozen freight trains that lumbered up the pass each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was easier to walk with the thinner snow
cover on the tracks, but impossible to see where the dog had gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking a guess, I walked east, following the
tracks towards the tunnel, hoping that he had taken shelter in the 200-yard-long
underpass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I neared the entrance, the
tracks cut through the rock, leaving a steep slope to a ditch and then a solid
rock wall on either side of the tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Praying that a train wasn’t due, I proceeded toward the tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turning on my flash light, I entered the dark
cavern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beam of light swept along
the floor for the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also was
looking at the end of the tunnel to see if my movement would force the dog into
the light that beckoned from the other end. Approaching the end of the tunnel,
I felt the wind as it funneled into the cavern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The light from the snow was almost blinding after spending several
minutes in the darkness of the tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
looked all around to see if there were signs that the dog had passed that way
but nothing could be seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to
head back and look closely at both sides of the tracks to be sure that I had
not missed any tracks leading from the railroad embankment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Back on the other side, I searched
the sides of the tracks, noticing uneasily how quickly my tracks had become
covered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to lose hope of finding
the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paused briefly to check the
dark mouth of the tunnel behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
concerns about a train coming took precedence for the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the wind howling past me I knew I would
not hear a train until it was too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I also knew that any approaching train would be going very slow as it
labored to make the top of the pass, giving me time to get out of the way, if I
saw it coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Flexing my hands restored some
warmth to my stiff fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The storm
had intensified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling back the sleeve
on my overalls I noted the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been
almost two hours since the first call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could not see my truck through the swirling snow and growing darkness, but I
knew it was parked almost a mile down the tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heading towards it, I kept looking at the
ground, hoping for any sign of the dog. Perhaps he had been picked up or had
been able to find shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly, I knew
that even with shelter it would take a lot for the dog to survive if it was in
as bad a condition as had been described.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
</div>
<div class="WordSection4">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
About 75 yards west of the tunnel,
I saw a path carved into the deep snow across the ditch, at the bottom of the
railroad embankment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I followed the
tracks, moving carefully down the slick, rocky slope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other side of the ditch was very steep
but flattened out about twelve feet up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was almost to the ditch when my footing failed and I plunged through
the ice covering the foot-deep water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was able to keep one leg out, quickly but my left pant leg was quickly saturated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The icy water sucked the heat from my skin,
and even with my overalls I could feel my leg begin to numb up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cursing silently, I regained my footing and
made the leap to the other side of the ditch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My urgency was now not only for the sake of the dog but also for
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the temperature dropping, I
was at risk of frost bite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I struggled
up the slope, following the windblown path made in the snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first I thought they might be deer tracks
but after brushing away some snow, I clearly made out the large paw print of a
dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With renewed hope of finding the
dog, I crawled up the last bit of the slope and found myself on a bench about
40 feet wide and 100 feet long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the
end was the mouth of an old train tunnel, closed to use almost 40 years previously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The chain link fence, intended to keep people
out, was mangled from countless trespasses s by local teenagers looking for a
place to explore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The path in the deep
snow led to an opening on the left side of the fence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling out the flash light, I wedged myself
through the opening, wondering what the darkness held for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the dog was still in there I ran the risk
of cornering it and it may attack out of fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still, at least I would be able to get a hand on it and subdue it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swept the light back and forth as I crept
deeper into the tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could smell
the pungent odor of infection as I proceeded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon my light passed over a mass of black fur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I froze as the light shown over a curled-up
form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I moved closer, seeing clearly the
black and tan markings of a large male Rott.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could see most of his ribs through the shivering, dull fur that
covered him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Hey pup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey puppy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You want to go for a
drive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How about a treat?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My efforts to elicit a response went unheeded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I moved closer, wanting to gain control of
his collar in case he awoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Expecting at
least some kind of reaction, I was surprised when the dog did not even move as
my gloved fingers touched its neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
logging chain that encircled it was so tight I could not get a finger under
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realized that the dog was dying of
exposure and I had to act fast. Disregarding the risk, I knelt and took the dog
in my arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judging by his size I
figured he should weigh a healthy 120 pounds, but upon lifting him I realized
that he was lucky if he weighed 75.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
let out a whine as I lifted him but he did not struggle, his strength long
since taken by the harsh Montana winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I carefully made my way to the tunnel’s entrance I noticed a glow in
the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a falling star, it seemed
to grow larger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment I was
startled, not sure what it was until I heard the harsh, shrill whistle of the
approaching freight train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the train
lumbered by I forced myself through the hole in the fence and made my way to
the edge of the bench that fell to the ditch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stood holding the dog as the train passed, car by car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the last car went by I saw that along with
the red warning light on the back, someone had made a star out of Christmas
lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I chuckled, glad that someone had
taken the time to remember Christmas while working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing I couldn’t safely walk down the steep
slope with the dog in my arms, I fell to my butt and slid down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My feet crashed through the ice once more,
this time soaking both of my legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wasn’t worried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had less than a mile
to the truck and its heater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made my
way up the railway embankment and then headed east along the tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I walked I prayed silently that the dog
would live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not feel breathing
but tried not to think about that fact as I continued walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pant legs of my overalls were frozen
solid by the time I reached the truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Opening the passenger door, I laid the dog on the seat and quickly
wrapped him with an old poncho liner I kept handy for emergencies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I now heard his breathing, short and raspy,
as if he had congestion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Closing the
door, I went to the driver side and got in, starting the truck and setting the
heater on maximum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
After letting the truck heat up I
turned around and headed down the road, shivering slightly as my body struggled
to regain warmth like the dog next to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stopped at the Jacobson’s house since they were the ones who had seen
the dog originally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Becky opened the
door before I could knock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Did you find him?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The worry on her face was genuine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yes, but he is almost dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I use your phone to call the shelter?”<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></div>
</div>
<div class="WordSection5">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Becky’s husband was home and they both quickly invited me
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I dialed Val’s number at the
shelter, they stood and watched, their faces solemn and concerned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Becky peeked out the window briefly to see if
the dog was visible in my truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The couple’s
son sat playing on the table as I heard the phone ring through the
headset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val’s welcome voice answered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Val, this is Tom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve got the dog, but he is in bad
shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Won’t even move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you get Dr. Murray in?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Sure can, I already gave him a
heads-up about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can be here in 15
minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you think it’s hypothermia?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah, that and severe malnutrition
and possible abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m up Jackson Creek
and should be at the shelter in about 20 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where do you want him?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Valerie thought for a moment on what room was
available.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well, let’s put him in the
spay/neuter trailer for now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he’s
healthy we’ll figure out where to put him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Does he have any tags?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No, just a logging chain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looks like the damned thing was welded
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s tight on his neck so we will
have to cut it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also reeks of
infection, but I haven’t had time to look him over really well.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Lovely, well hurry down and Doc
Murray and I will be ready.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Thanks Val, see you in a bit.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I promptly thanked the couple for letting me use their
phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Becky’s husband had listened to
most of the conversation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Heck of a way to start the holiday,
huh?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked back at him and shook my
head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No, really kind of sucks to tell
you the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you hear of who might own this dog please
call the shelter, okay?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both
nodded and wished me a Merry Christmas as I stepped back out into the cold
mountain air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Opening the door to my
truck, I was greeted by the rank odor of the previously mentioned infection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Rottweiler did not move, though he was
still breathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulling out onto the
icy road, I heading towards Bozeman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The snow was falling more heavily r as my headlights forged a path
through the falling flakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The traffic
on the interstate was sparse as I made my way through the canyon curves at the
bottom of the pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the while I kept
one hand on the massive head of the Rott lying next to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could feel that he had scars on one of his
ears and muzzle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smell of the
infection hung heavy in the truck, forcing me to open the window a crack to
allow fresh air in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After 25 minutes I
was turning into the shelter, the sky a dark grey as night settled in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled up to the trailer that served as the
spay/neuter clinic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val was waiting by
the door and rushed out to help me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
gently as we could, we pulled the Rott out of the truck and carried him up the
metal stairs into the warmth of the trailer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I said hello to Dr. Murray as he motioned us into one of the exam
rooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I removed the poncho liner from
the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the harsh light of the room
we were exposed to the desperate condition of the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of his ribs showed as did many scars, several
longer than my forearm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val shook her
head as she tried to find a vein in which to administer an IV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to stay out of the way, I watched as
the doctor and Val tried to get the dog’s body temp up and deal with any life-threatening
issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After almost an hour, the dog
opened its eyes, but I could see that its strength was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Not much else we can do at this
point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be honest, I don’t think
he’ll make it through the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he
does it will be a miracle.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Murray’s
face was strained with his words.<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span></div>
</div>
<div class="WordSection6">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Supposed to be the season of
miracles isn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess we will just
have to see.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked over and placed
my hand on the broad forehead of the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His eyes followed my hand as it approached, filled with fear but
relaxing when he realized that I wasn’t going to hit him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw that the chain collar was much tighter
than it should be and I made a quick decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I went out to my truck and, after a few moments of digging through my
tools, I found my bolt cutter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking
back into the exam room, I noted Val’s look of confusion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“If he dies he is not doing so with
that damned chain on his neck.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Valerie
nodded and held the dog’s head as I cut through the links of chain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Rott did not move until we started to
remove the chain itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smell of
infection suddenly grew worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The links
had been imbedded in his skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we
pulled the chain slowly from his neck, the dog growled in discomfort but did
not fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The chain, once removed,
revealed deep wounds, each draining pus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Val kept shaking her head in disbelief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“This is why I don’t like people.”
she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both Dr. Murray and I agreed
with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I think we need pictures of this,
Val. If we find the person who did this I am going to make sure he is nailed to
a wall.” Dr. Murray stepped out of the exam room and returned shortly with the
shelter camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two rolls of film later
we had documented every injury the dog had, including three circular burn marks
that Dr. Murray figured to be cigarette burns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With little else to be done, Dr. Murray left, telling us to call if
anything changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val and I stayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat by the dog’s head, my hand stroking him
gently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Expecting to be snapped at, I
looked the dog in the eye, watching for the glimmer of life to return to him.
The dog stared back at me, no aggression in his stare though he certainly had
the right to hate me given all the abuse he had endured at the hand of
man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, the dog did not move, not
even lifting his head as I stroked his soft, black hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val checked his pulse and I could tell by
her face that it wasn’t strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I prayed silently, the first time
in months that I had talked with God for more than a few seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I felt overwhelmed to ask God to spare
this dog, to give him the chance at life that he had never had before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched as Val changed the IV bag hanging
from a pole next to the exam table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
fingers continued to gently rubbed the dog’s head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly, I moved my hand down to his muzzle,
closer to his mouth, partially to scratch by his nose as my dogs always enjoyed
the same, but also to see if he would bite, to gauge if there was any anger in
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my hand drew closer, the dog
moved his head slightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With total
tenderness, the dog licked my hand once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I paused, startled by the act of tenderness, and watched the life fade
from his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The light of the
Rottweiler’s eyes dissipated slowly until it disappeared completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
was something I had seen many times growing up on a ranch, in the death of a
calf or a deer I had shot, yet now this moment pierced me deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hung my head for an instant, allowing my
hand to continue touching the nose of the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“It’s over, Val.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val looked down and tried to find a pulse but
acknowledged what I already knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I’m sorry Tom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doc said that he might not pull
through.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a deep breath and stood
up, still allowing my fingers to touch the short hair on the dog’s muzzle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swallowed my emotions and looked to Val.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“How do you want to handle
this?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val asked, referring to the
disposal of the body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was noticeably
drained from the ordeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her normal
level of energy had been zapped by the loss of the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“We have pictures in case we ever
find the person who did this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I say
we let this boy go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can get the
crematorium fired up and deal with it tonight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Do you want the ashes?” I thought for a moment about her question, wondering
what benefit I would gain <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by keeping the ashes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had only known the dog for five hours, yet
something told me that was exactly what I should do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I replied yes and grabbed my coat, poncho
liner, and bolt cutters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After putting
things away in my truck, I helped Val carry the dog into the crematorium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched as she slid his body into the fire
chamber and closed the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t
speak or cry, and I simply watched in cold numbness as she activated the
burners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room filled with the heat
and roar of the flames as they began their work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked outside and breathed in the cold,
crisp air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val came out and stood with
me as we watched the snow gently fall to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Gonna be cold tonight,” I spoke
for no reason besides making small talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Val nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah, they say it will be below
zero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You still heading over to
Helena?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah, my friend should be at my
place by now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose I should get
going so we won’t be too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks
for all you did Val.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you see the
doc tell him thanks as well.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I will Tom, have a safe trip
tonight, okay.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked to my truck,
trying to keep my mind from focusing on anything besides my footsteps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I drove home, I allowed the sound of the
engine and the tires digging into the snow to keep my attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ten minutes it took to get home felt as
though I was in a time warp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The passing
cars and falling snow created a surreal experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw that the house lights were on, which
meant that John must have gotten my note.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I opened the door to see that Mickey was laying on the couch with John
as he watched TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Griz was by the door,
and soon both dogs were at my feet, wanting my affection and sniffing at the odors
that had accumulated during the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Where you been, butt munch?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John was rarely tactful, but his friendship
was never in question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he saw my
face he realized that his question was in poor taste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat on the couch and allowed Griz and
Mickey to come over for petting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Crappy night, John, a really
crappy night.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Did you find the dog?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Not a good ending, I take it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No John, not a good ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You ready to go?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah, just have to throw my gear
in the truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Got packed before I got the phone call,
but I don’t want to talk about it now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Let’s get on the road before the weather worsens and Dad thinks I was in
a wreck.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
John, the dogs, and I were loaded
in my truck and on the road in less than 15 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After getting gas and a bite to eat we drove
in silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You got any music to listen
to?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John was finishing up a cigarette
as he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Just Christmas music, and I know
how much you love that stuff,” my sarcasm clear in my answer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“What they heck, it’s better than
nothing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I leaned over and pushed the
cassette into the tape player on my dashboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon the familiar songs of Christmas flowed from the speakers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The songs helped keep my mind from wandering
to the memory of the life that had faded from the dog’s eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A song that I had not heard before came
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I listened to the lyrics a tear
formed in my eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>The blessed dawn of Christmas Day<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>I pray one day my heart will see<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>The light of God’s eternity<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>And know that Jesus died for me<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>Now close my eyes<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>So I may rise<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>At blessed dawn of Christmas Day<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Why the hell did he have to lick
me?” I suddenly blurted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
John looked at me as if I was nuts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“What are you talking about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who licked you?”</div>
</div>
<div class="WordSection7">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“The dog, he licked my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had every reason to bite me and he licked
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all the abuse he had received,
he licked me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t even know who I
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all he knew I was just another
human going to hit him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead he
licked me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
John realized that I was starting
to vent. We had been friends for over 24 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had been by my side when my parents divorced, and I had been with him
when he and his wife separated and finally divorced themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though we had many differences, our common
bond of friendship and a shared love of animals allowed him to see what I was
going through.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Maybe he knew you were trying to
help.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“How could he?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My God, John, someone had burned him with
cigarettes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind of bastard does
that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That dog never even had a
chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the scars I saw, this dog
never had a chance at life at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet
he licked me....right before he died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
hate doing that, considering an animal’s eyes as it dies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hunting is one thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least there is a challenge and I eat what
I kill, but this dog had no chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
chance at all.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah, he did Tom, you gave him
that chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It just might have been too
late is all.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remained silent for a
moment as the emotion continued to swell within my chest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I’m not sure I want to do this
anymore.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Do what?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Rescue. I am thinking that the
sacrifice is too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, look at
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am 29 years old, and I don’t date,
I don’t do anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why? Because I
spend all my time with Rottweilers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
kind of life is that?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John knew that
the answers to my questions were in me already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He shrugged in the dim light of the truck’s dashboard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“The kind of life that you have
chosen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If not you, then who?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I don’t know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“It sounds to me like you are
having a pity party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been with
you while you worked with the dogs at the shelter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You love doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know you do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t argue with John’s statement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pleasure the Rotts at the shelter got
when I took them for walks over my lunch hour was something I did, indeed, enjoy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“After your tumor was removed you
went off on that religious kick, remember?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You were talking about God and about how you were born again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t buy it for a while there, but I saw
something in you change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if
I believe all the stuff you say about Jesus, but I do remember some of the
things you talked about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You told me
that when Jesus was crucified He asked God the Father to forgive those killing Him,
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You said that was true
forgiveness and true sacrifice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe,
just maybe, that dog was doing the same thing, forgiving you, as a human, for
all the crap it had received from humans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And just maybe God was using that to get your attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You say Christ died for your sins, well the
sacrifice you make for those dogs seems small compared to what He did for
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or are all the things you say you
believe a bunch of garbage?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
My hands gripped the steering wheel
tightly as John’s words sank in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
not the issue of my sacrifice for the dogs but the topic of forgiveness that
hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Realizing that Jesus had forgiven
those who killed him, I had to question who I was willing to forgive myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My anger at seeing the abuse and subsequent
death of the Rott that night was focused on the people who had done such a
thing to a magnificent animal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, I
knew that I needed to forgive them whether they asked for forgiveness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judgement was to be reserved for God
alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears gently traced paths down my
cheeks. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
We drove on as the music continued
to play over the stereo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart, mind,
and soul conflicted with one another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
thoughts returned to the gentle lick of my hand by the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I silently asked God why He had let him die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not expecting an answer, I posed the question
for my own analysis perhaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John pulled
out a couple of cigars he had been saving as a gift for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trying to relax, I lit the cigar and allowed
the flavor to calm me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cracked the
window a bit to allow the smoke to escape and the noise of the road to rush in
along with the cold night air. John had lit his cigar and was puffing away quietly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked through the back of the cab of my
truck into the topper to make sure that my dogs were okay and not eating his
duffle bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turning back to look down
the road, he took a puff on the cigar and then looked at me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“What was his name?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took my eyes from the road for an instant
and looked at John.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Whose name?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“The dog, what was his name?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked back at the road and realized that
during the whole ordeal the issue of the dog’s name had never entered my
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I don’t know, he didn’t have any
tags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I didn’t think about it
much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was more worried about saving
him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“A dog shouldn’t die without a name,
just wouldn’t be proper.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No, I don’t suppose it would.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“So, what should you name him?” I
shrugged in uncertainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was at that
moment that something the pastor of my church had said returned to my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“His name was Venia.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
John looked over at me as if I was nuts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“That sounds like a girl’s name. Where
did you pull that one out of?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“It’s Latin for forgiveness.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John was silent upon hearing the name’s
meaning, the sound of the truck mixed with the soft Christmas carols emanating
from the speakers filling the cab.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I like it. Venia it is. Very
appropriate.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nodded as everything
that had happened finally fell into place in my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Forgiveness through
sacrifice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heck of a concept, huh?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John took another puff of his cigar as I
turned up the volume.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“The meaning of Christmas, I
believe.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John nodded as he leaned his
head back, enjoying his cigar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound
of ringing bells was crisp and clear as “Carol of the Bells” began to
play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My fingers tapped softly on the
steering wheel as I allowed the music to reacquaint my spirit with
Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In silence John and I
listened to the music, captive to our own thoughts as we continued our journey
down the highway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<u>Afterword<o:p></o:p></u></div>
The search for the dog was a real event and took place
exactly as I described.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fictional
aspect of the story is that I never found him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I lost his tracks in the drifts near the railroad tunnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To this day I don’t know what happened to
that lost Rottweiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The descriptions
of the wounds and condition of the dog are real, and I know of countless dogs
who have come into shelters or rescues in similar condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lick, the act of love by the dog, yes,
I’ve seen that too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is why I love
dogs the way I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can learn a lot
from them regarding the act of forgiveness. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Merry Christmas everyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Troy B. Kechely<o:p></o:p><br />
<a href="http://www.troykechely.com/">www.troykechely.com</a><o:p></o:p><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcM-aZowY1UTeARKV6BkL7defaV1mmIXV0o-R3f1UYBMBFjE9wJKVvxvgk72xNa6EN6krnA2GjFTDNwpRejy0ouU8Iu5aQYu81P7kMtDuED3qtWp1cEWxMJ4CR0bVRLBwerfupajApFeO/s1600/DSC_0466.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcM-aZowY1UTeARKV6BkL7defaV1mmIXV0o-R3f1UYBMBFjE9wJKVvxvgk72xNa6EN6krnA2GjFTDNwpRejy0ouU8Iu5aQYu81P7kMtDuED3qtWp1cEWxMJ4CR0bVRLBwerfupajApFeO/s320/DSC_0466.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly and Bradum in 2015. Bradum passed away Aug. 1, 2016.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-27675121950908783712016-11-30T18:50:00.001-07:002016-12-01T07:17:09.840-07:00Griz Weather<div class="MsoNormal">
“It looks like Griz weather.” I wasn’t addressing anyone as
I stared out the window observing the Montana winter announce itself in the
form of a blizzard, considering the only other being within ear shot was my dog,
Carly. Watching the howling wind push
the countless snowflakes in near horizontal paths, I remembered how such
conditions had been perfect for my boy, Griz.
Sub-zero temps, drifting snow, conditions that any normal living
creature would want out of were all heaven for the Rottweiler/Malamute mix that
had shared my life for thirteen years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tPV_8B7pglZTfB4MznAm2lg6Jzt5tiB48DCbz1KJL662o13WRVvpCAxBKdcszUcideeJLIT1yK7vm982skXpR1Vf_rPWQlKtH2W5AXG6974FgdQTIJRiUsHRPbkXv6rnK37z9KHj_ZWj/s1600/IMG_0978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tPV_8B7pglZTfB4MznAm2lg6Jzt5tiB48DCbz1KJL662o13WRVvpCAxBKdcszUcideeJLIT1yK7vm982skXpR1Vf_rPWQlKtH2W5AXG6974FgdQTIJRiUsHRPbkXv6rnK37z9KHj_ZWj/s320/IMG_0978.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Griz, forced to endure the tortures of being indoors.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To say that Griz enjoyed the cold was a bit of an
understatement. My black and tan walking
carpet was built for the arctic with his three-inch-thick coat. I joked that I could make another dog from the
fur that Griz shed each spring, and people laughed until they saw the bags that
I would collect with each brushing. In
the summer, Griz looked almost normal, even thin, if he ventured into the water
and his fur happened to reveal the true shape of his body. But come fall, with the first frost, Griz
added several inches to his girth. All fur. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hckDBW1BWmyvwYAOQs88DBEULUXT2Wda6gQgdtWj43jy2SWamxK9qymW1GPR5NT6aFlWluohxxCD47ieOjjfbEM_0Dzxh1EEP3DWTXqxFswNZoDELEt_Hn0XOluFtb941GxceCYpEBvv/s1600/dogs+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hckDBW1BWmyvwYAOQs88DBEULUXT2Wda6gQgdtWj43jy2SWamxK9qymW1GPR5NT6aFlWluohxxCD47ieOjjfbEM_0Dzxh1EEP3DWTXqxFswNZoDELEt_Hn0XOluFtb941GxceCYpEBvv/s320/dogs+006.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even in his final years, Griz still loved to go lay in the snow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The battle with Griz’s preference for cold was a long one
for both him and I. My struggle was to
keep the vacuum from exploding from cleaning up the constant trail of fur, and
for him, it was in finding a cool spot in the house. Though he would have preferred to stay
outdoors at night, I insisted he remain inside.
The remedy was a compromise between the both of us. I kept the thermostat below 65 degrees and I
left the weather stripping off the bottom of the front door to allow for a cool
draft. Griz took advantage of that primitive
style of air conditioning and would sleep in front of the door all winter
long. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCayQAeE6M47zyb0ttPRUJ1Zy66DUUuKeFQHPUE0qFFOYn8dWeaSjjnkDOr5i40HfSIQqYhBThiTqPGFXhMp1MGGQOnP63QyF0UTYNAySoffn5jJjf8PCUbB-52GomBUnKw6uM603leQb2/s1600/Griz+First+Snow+2011+030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCayQAeE6M47zyb0ttPRUJ1Zy66DUUuKeFQHPUE0qFFOYn8dWeaSjjnkDOr5i40HfSIQqYhBThiTqPGFXhMp1MGGQOnP63QyF0UTYNAySoffn5jJjf8PCUbB-52GomBUnKw6uM603leQb2/s320/Griz+First+Snow+2011+030.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Griz in his element.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcETNVjePOBBC7DEeqCVCY9UDYAwtDhKI1DOiNpuxQ8eZy1_wOdXAc1pjJgol9r_ZH_UnKfDQB3uMDCJufNJOhJBzk42UuoDnkE3JnWrG4DCKmsma607HQrrfgWaWZiz90K2jSkdFXJ-2/s1600/Griz+the+snow+dog+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcETNVjePOBBC7DEeqCVCY9UDYAwtDhKI1DOiNpuxQ8eZy1_wOdXAc1pjJgol9r_ZH_UnKfDQB3uMDCJufNJOhJBzk42UuoDnkE3JnWrG4DCKmsma607HQrrfgWaWZiz90K2jSkdFXJ-2/s320/Griz+the+snow+dog+004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Griz doing his famous bark/howl in protest about being asked to come in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGFQwzgKnTCdaugDW9cDwoZ9lJQgfXmdafuW9wcaDtIdXYch3wrcsT2ApXm-V5fOA5Cf2UwsB14FjAfJIqLtPoAy9q_BUCJVPNI9622wrNiRK0560WFtvJKT8XgtbDTUtA-6qFSAagotI/s1600/Winter+Fun+018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGFQwzgKnTCdaugDW9cDwoZ9lJQgfXmdafuW9wcaDtIdXYch3wrcsT2ApXm-V5fOA5Cf2UwsB14FjAfJIqLtPoAy9q_BUCJVPNI9622wrNiRK0560WFtvJKT8XgtbDTUtA-6qFSAagotI/s320/Winter+Fun+018.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh powder isn't just a thrill for skiers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The compromises carried over to our car travels also, as my
mom learned back in 2009. After losing my girl, Belle that year, Griz and I did
the bachelor thing for a while. Neither
of us were in a hurry to have another dog in the pack. Since Griz loved everyone, my mom and I
decided to do a road trip down to Casper, Wyoming with Griz to visit my grandma
in her nursing home. It was late October
and the cold of fall had settled in, as had Griz’s winter coat. Just before we left, I told me my mom to bring
a well-insulated coat for the trip. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have one in my bag.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, you need to wear it in the car,” I instructed her. She looked at me as if I was nuts. She had never done a road trip with Griz, and
she was about to learn about his preference for cold. You see, with Griz air conditioning was mandatory
year-round. In the summer, my poor car’s
AC was often on maximum while Griz stood on the center console between the front seats, his head as close to the
vents as possible. It was normal to see
Griz’s breath frosting in the cold air as he panted. In the winter, I was at least able to lower
the fan speed or open the back windows, letting in the chill to his liking. That had been the case with this trip, and the
back windows were down for much of the travel.
If mom and I wanted to talk, the windows were rolled up and the AC
turned on, bringing Griz up to the front to cool off and enjoy the
conversation. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwinR07nNJ5nNpRWcNgels047TTdnQCBKTpVxii19bMVS8BzLH3lxJDDaxl3hCBG_t3NDEkhgHD4KKC8CqPrUbU99hsLD5XeiGhyGpRmfHHder_k8dYT0jHxs68wi3Q0d-atdqKDxoEJf-/s1600/Casper_101509+047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwinR07nNJ5nNpRWcNgels047TTdnQCBKTpVxii19bMVS8BzLH3lxJDDaxl3hCBG_t3NDEkhgHD4KKC8CqPrUbU99hsLD5XeiGhyGpRmfHHder_k8dYT0jHxs68wi3Q0d-atdqKDxoEJf-/s320/Casper_101509+047.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Griz enjoying the air conditioning while mom tolerated the cold.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there Mom and I were, driving through central Montana and
Wyoming, bundled up like arctic explorers just so that Griz could be
comfortable. Though a bit chilled from
the drive down, the time at the nursing home with my grandma was a blessing as
Griz was a hit with all the residents.
His big baritone barks and howls made everyone smile. Our trips through the halls were always short
because Griz required the respite of the outside chill at regular intervals
given the warmer temperatures of the nursing home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Grandma and Griz</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXfAfOmYp5kvQcoWJS1qjsISKfx3aBYx7YNFx8sjJRojpHY8mF5TxigoNTwcWZxXFVpp-LZguU6rLAwKQP6Rk4_ymJZ7wAF4ecfZSPlKkfw07SkcAIiAW6uKgxolD3Mfak-UJXSlXwAHi/s1600/Casper_101509+020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXfAfOmYp5kvQcoWJS1qjsISKfx3aBYx7YNFx8sjJRojpHY8mF5TxigoNTwcWZxXFVpp-LZguU6rLAwKQP6Rk4_ymJZ7wAF4ecfZSPlKkfw07SkcAIiAW6uKgxolD3Mfak-UJXSlXwAHi/s320/Casper_101509+020.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Griz and I making new friends</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ngKvsy0jkSlBlXfEd1knVS14406SHJYQE0S85CLqynfjkgaWM33qn-GXX5iRXCBxQyIoc_cC8Jbtjg8iZHPeFMtvJWz0ePSRJhcKDDpi3PDMIfWSuKDn_RPtcddwkIH5Z-oFHYfyPtB9/s1600/Casper_101509+013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ngKvsy0jkSlBlXfEd1knVS14406SHJYQE0S85CLqynfjkgaWM33qn-GXX5iRXCBxQyIoc_cC8Jbtjg8iZHPeFMtvJWz0ePSRJhcKDDpi3PDMIfWSuKDn_RPtcddwkIH5Z-oFHYfyPtB9/s320/Casper_101509+013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He was a sucker for food.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOVEMMtFOeDp_ovO4rdDbTC8MnCHgYmDF9Ajq_rwjwUUn6510iW3_OTJm8x13I8e3zBJiLLOtjWxA32ZgxyeEJdYAUJ5IjNI50JEEkjDfF3_cN6SIJ7zREwjZv2uPdwfb3dDHCqzNVqrj/s1600/Casper_101509+011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOOVEMMtFOeDp_ovO4rdDbTC8MnCHgYmDF9Ajq_rwjwUUn6510iW3_OTJm8x13I8e3zBJiLLOtjWxA32ZgxyeEJdYAUJ5IjNI50JEEkjDfF3_cN6SIJ7zREwjZv2uPdwfb3dDHCqzNVqrj/s320/Casper_101509+011.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He was a happy boy getting all that attention</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Such were the necessities of sharing life with Griz. Though at times annoying and requiring a resigned
acceptance of wearing sweatshirts, I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. As another winter rolls in I find myself
missing those days with Griz. I miss his
howls as he asked to be let out into the cold, his brown eyes peeking out from
a snowdrift that had formed over his sleeping form, and the
impact craters he left as he dived into
the snow and roll around in shear ecstasy.
Yes, I miss Griz and winter will always be Griz weather to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjN7TBOdOj-98S5g30kZXqp5px7eInjYFgsQs7SYk7Dr3F5MWEe8FxPEElAvb4O-jil8vJx7I7588PFG7Nydj0dK9yU5To3lT8_l8EElcRFzU-oM_Ojz7RWPu4htW3_pwuTabE9RvpNbS/s1600/Snow+Griz+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjN7TBOdOj-98S5g30kZXqp5px7eInjYFgsQs7SYk7Dr3F5MWEe8FxPEElAvb4O-jil8vJx7I7588PFG7Nydj0dK9yU5To3lT8_l8EElcRFzU-oM_Ojz7RWPu4htW3_pwuTabE9RvpNbS/s320/Snow+Griz+003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A normal sight when living with the Griz dog.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfcwxfBeyae3YR0T8ou9iIrsw5ewO6sqb-ktmnK2Mnl6uFVH07PCMAGwBOmVV53Igh1oSQPm8F8auP5_XgXBs3x-hNMbw5Qz7Cb-nLu_wHjkNoKe0bz1I-3YAfW7ZRJApQAIAodUpIno5/s1600/Griz+Winter+013_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfcwxfBeyae3YR0T8ou9iIrsw5ewO6sqb-ktmnK2Mnl6uFVH07PCMAGwBOmVV53Igh1oSQPm8F8auP5_XgXBs3x-hNMbw5Qz7Cb-nLu_wHjkNoKe0bz1I-3YAfW7ZRJApQAIAodUpIno5/s320/Griz+Winter+013_small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My handsome snow dog.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Griz was one of several dogs that inspired the character, Stranger, in my first novel and it is his eyes that grace the front cover. If you would like to know more about my writing efforts then check out my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Twitter</span></a> pages or check out my website at www.troykechely.com. My first novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strangers-Dance-Troy-B-Kechely/dp/1511771356/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1476231662&sr=8-1&keywords=Kechely" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: blue;">Stranger's Dance</span></i></a> is available through Amazon in both Kindle and paperback and is available in Europe and Asia through the relevant Amazon sites for those regions. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKnYcYU6om6JqK3bxbD6M5PSTtEAWV0O7L7u9vEs2JXSXSLF4iIdTEzUaTn2bytEuNjXV_t-ZG3J62mhg_klXndKyy5Sw6QrXmqdF9YQVuf_PJWDAOe8EPvY4hl51HfYp5mr53B0sh24et/s1600/Griz_Pic+012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKnYcYU6om6JqK3bxbD6M5PSTtEAWV0O7L7u9vEs2JXSXSLF4iIdTEzUaTn2bytEuNjXV_t-ZG3J62mhg_klXndKyy5Sw6QrXmqdF9YQVuf_PJWDAOe8EPvY4hl51HfYp5mr53B0sh24et/s320/Griz_Pic+012.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Griz and I at Headwaters State Park in Montana.</td></tr>
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Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-489926544349853172016-10-11T18:33:00.002-06:002016-10-12T14:59:18.575-06:00Heaven Sent<div class="MsoNormal">
No one knows exactly where the black and tan dog came
from. All that was known was that he was
found trotting down the middle of a dirt road somewhere west of Bozeman,
Montana in the spring of 2000. Who knows
how long he had been out on his own or how many cars might have gone by him
till one finally stopped and offered the dog a ride, delivering him to the
Humane Society of Gallatin Valley? The
male dog wasn’t big but he wasn’t small either; perhaps, as far as dogs go, he
could have been considered large on the medium side of things. His black and tan markings, combined with a
calm, confident demeanor, made it clear he had a good helping of Rottweiler in
him. He was kept in the stray side of
the shelter for the standard five days, yet nobody came looking for the
mysterious pup. At the end of the
holding period he was moved to the adoption pens and named Adonis, given how
handsome all the staff found him. He
took to his name as if he was born with it and settled into shelter life with
no stress nor concerns. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1DrDV5YW1vbKkfU6cwDaz4T132I1KPl7geGd_0IBczIO3wVmx3pvsNxRU3BIGs01xlH8wW-Obb2jdMWw45xk0kxbRGoHVNJfn071pIRkpYNDNkiooBed3IP39NtJSINLxn5y5sjRyt6O/s1600/adonis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1DrDV5YW1vbKkfU6cwDaz4T132I1KPl7geGd_0IBczIO3wVmx3pvsNxRU3BIGs01xlH8wW-Obb2jdMWw45xk0kxbRGoHVNJfn071pIRkpYNDNkiooBed3IP39NtJSINLxn5y5sjRyt6O/s1600/adonis.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adonis shortly after he arrived at the shelter.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Given that he was a Rott mix, I added him to the list of
dogs I walked during my lunch hour, and we quickly became good pals. So much so that, when he was the only Rottie
there, I would take him for a drive and a hike, followed by a cheeseburger. For over a year Adonis lived at the shelter
with no one showing interest in adopting him. None of us could understand this apparent
disinterest because Adonis was intelligent, athletic, and friendly with other
dogs and most people. We resigned
ourselves to the fact that it had to be the ‘most people’ part that prevented
his adoption. You see, I learned quickly
that Adonis didn’t like kids, especially if they held something that looked
like a weapon. He didn’t become aggressive,
he just grew visibly nervous and would give warning barks. It was enough of a concern that we decided to
limit which homes he would be allowed to go to.
As much as I hoped Adonis would find his forever home, I did enjoy my
time with him and, unlike most dogs, his extended stay at the shelter seemed to
have no adverse impact on his health nor his mental well-being. Still, I wondered why no one had adopted
him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My answer came in a very unexpected way that summer. On a quiet weekend, in the middle of June,
2001, a vile person attempted to abduct a young girl from a home in Belgrade, a
small town just west of Bozeman. The brave
young lady was able to stave off her attacker.
In frustration, he left her home, only to go to another home from which
he abducted a nine-year-old girl, assaulting her and releasing her three hours
later. Thankfully, the man was arrested
a few days later, but that didn’t quell the fear that had arisen in the
county. I knew this because I began
receiving several calls a day from people wanting to adopt a Rottweiler in
order to increase the security of their homes and families. One call will forever be one I
remember. It was the call that I, and
Adonis, had been waiting for.<br />
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the staff at the shelter who called me that day. I had just gotten home from work and was
trying to let my dogs out back and prepare their dinner. The staff person told me that a family wanted
to adopt Adonis since their daughter was afraid after the recent
abduction. I assumed it was like all the
rest of the calls that week and asked if the family had young kids. The staff said the family did have young kids
and that, in fact, they ran a daycare out of their home. I shook my head as I told the staff that
Adonis couldn’t go to a home with small children. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I know, but the mom is very set on Adonis. Would you just talk with them?” I could hear the frustration in the staff
person’s voice. I agreed and waited a
moment as the phone was passed to the hopeful family member, a woman who was
polite but who also had a confident and intent tone. She explained to me that they felt Adonis
would be a good protector for their home.
This is not something you want to hear as a rescue person, since it
often means the dog will either be relegated to being an outdoor dog or, worse,
trained to be aggressive. I resorted to
my normal script, explaining that we didn’t adopt out guard dogs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did they explain our situation?” the mom interrupted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, they told me that your daughter was afraid after recent
events, just like a lot of families are,” I said in a less than sympathetic
tone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, our daughter is <i>the
one</i> the man first tried to abduct.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grasped the gravity of the situation and realized I had
put my foot in my mouth a bit with my insensitive attitude. Still, the truth of
their situation didn’t change certain unnegotiable items. I explained to the
woman that Adonis wasn’t good with kids, to which she quickly replied,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really, then why is he here in the lobby with my four kids,
playing with them and giving them licks?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t know what to say and asked to talk to the staff
again, asking if what the mom had said was true. The staff confirmed that it was. I had only one more card to play and that was
to let the family know that, because he was a Rottweiler mix, a home check was
required prior to adoption. They asked
if I could come over that night, to which I agreed. It was apparent that they really wanted
Adonis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I arrived at their home, I was greeted by the family -
mom and dad, three boys, and a very withdrawn girl. Most of my talking was with the parents, and
it was then that I began realizing that this home was meant for Adonis. I
became fully convinced, however, when I heard that, while at the shelter
earlier that day, the young girl had walked down the rows of kennels in the
adoption room, stopped at Adonis’ cage and said, “This is the one.” The following is the girl’s own words
regarding her first encounter with Adonis:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="background: white;">My first memory of Adonis is
easy to recall. He was sitting there. He didn't bark. He looked at me. </span><o:p></o:p>And it's like he said, "I've got you". He was behind a chainlink gate in his kennel, and I remember feeling panicked that he was there. I felt my stomach rise in my throat. I knew I had to get him out. It felt like ages until the worker opened the gate and brought him to me. I remember she said, "Sometimes he can pull". I took the leash, and that leads me to my second memory. I remember watching his tail wag as he walked. His black and brown markings swayed from side to side in front of me. But everyone watched in amazement because he wasn't actually pulling on the lead. He was just walking... walking... walking... and then he'd stop and look back, like he was making sure I was still there, or okay. I knew he was mine. I just knew it. I can't describe how I knew, but I felt it, like it was vibrating inside me. And for the first time in three days I felt happy. I felt safe. I knew I wasn't ever going to be in any danger again. Adonis was there for me. </i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With those new details, Adonis’s exemplary behavior around
their children when they visited him at the shelter, and after completing my
home check, I approved the adoption. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KPo3cfCw00SP4514EOEZgWxwcbMjFBLWYxsJBmK9uzr1jG9EiDFakI67uZomsITs2NIJqkFf_sx_hN-5ALCHyFnlDzJ7FytIFncsA7fmi3hCLqYWBfhDjH8L2db6SDNJa8db2Dley71q/s1600/Adonis01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KPo3cfCw00SP4514EOEZgWxwcbMjFBLWYxsJBmK9uzr1jG9EiDFakI67uZomsITs2NIJqkFf_sx_hN-5ALCHyFnlDzJ7FytIFncsA7fmi3hCLqYWBfhDjH8L2db6SDNJa8db2Dley71q/s320/Adonis01.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adonis guarding the bed as usual.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the weeks that followed, I received regular phone calls
from the family letting me know how amazing Adonis was. From the moment he had come into their home,
he had been the young girl’s shadow. If
she went into the bathroom, he laid right outside the door. If she went in her room, he was on the bed
with her. For the first few days, they had
to keep the hall lights on because Adonis would be aggressive with anyone he
couldn’t identify if they dared to climb the stairs. This was all fine with the family, mainly
because for the first time since their daughter had nearly been abducted, she
felt safe enough to sleep in her own room.
She did, after all, have a seventy-five-pound dog as her personal
bodyguard now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The issue of Adonis being bad with kids during his stay at
the shelter. Well, that proved to be a
non-issue at his new home. Quite the
contrary. Instead, he was very
protective of them, much to the approval of the parents, including the dad who had
decided to chase his kids around his truck acting like a bear. Adonis had rushed out barking and put himself
between the dad and the kids, causing the dad to stop his growling as Adonis
defended the little ones. Adonis’ owners
were, at first, fearful that the dad would be angry. In fact, he was thankful that Adonis was so protective
of the kids. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaw9Y-MfbU8VL-fZI3kfAq18HJf3E8-Y0HdmbzS2fr8EOjQBwOVT-ZiKtULxT-kx0jBnlIZkswUyeoLgNc84QdboVDkb8JExAjWUPZTfOvQDlAlAbVq_2S5a3-RHMagt0A6FV013VtLBJY/s1600/Adonis02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaw9Y-MfbU8VL-fZI3kfAq18HJf3E8-Y0HdmbzS2fr8EOjQBwOVT-ZiKtULxT-kx0jBnlIZkswUyeoLgNc84QdboVDkb8JExAjWUPZTfOvQDlAlAbVq_2S5a3-RHMagt0A6FV013VtLBJY/s320/Adonis02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best therapist is a loving dog.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For eight years Adonis was not only the guardian of the
daycare but he was the ever-present shadow of the girl who had adopted him as
she grew into a young woman. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>He was medicine for me. For the first time in a while I actually slept in my own room. I was finally motivated to wander away from my parents; I wanted to walk Adonis and I knew I didn't need them to come with me. I took him everywhere. I remember one time my dad took me to Old Navy not too long after the attempted abduction. I took Adonis. He was a companion dog, so he went into the store with us. I ended up losing my dad in the store somehow and the quick panic set in. I felt my blood run hot, my hands became clammy, my breathing was quick, and tears threatened my eyes. I began to try and run, but Adonis stood fast. I stayed with him, knowing he was my support. My Dad came around the corner just a few seconds later.</i></div>
<div>
<i> </i><br />
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I was encouraged by my counselors, doctors, mental health
professionals, and my parents to try and be as independent as I could and to
use my dog as a tool for success, not a reason to seclude myself. I remember
one time I had a particularly bad day at school. Kids could be mean, and I was
frequently teased for the things that had happened to me. I cried on the bus
all the way home. I walked up the driveway, and there he was, looking through
the window by the front door. He knew. He knew. He knew. I didn't have to do my
homework that night. I didn't have to go to school the next day. I stayed with
Adonis and regained my confidence.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i> When I was going through stuff like this I'd talk to
him. I'd ask him why bad things had happened to me. I'd ask him what I did to
deserve it. I'd ask him why other kids couldn't just leave me alone. I'd ask
him if he understood. Of course, he never spoke back to me, but he always
answered. I'd feel calm after our conversations. I'd feel more confident. I'd
often follow up a session of burying my face in his fur and sobbing (until he
was wet and his fur was stuck to my cheeks) with a pep talk to both of us. I'd
say things like, "Together, I can do anything," and, “With your help
I'll show those mean kids that they can't hurt me," and, "If it
wasn't for you I'd never feel any better". Adonis wasn't just my guardian
angel. He was my confidante, my therapy, my companion, and my protector, not
just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I look back on the times I spent with Adonis, and I realize
now that because of him, I learned how to trust again, love again, smile again,
hope again, and believe in myself and others again. Most of all, he helped me
learn how to live again. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During that time, the girl’s confidence grew, all because
she knew Adonis was there. Confidence
led to more independence and, finally, to the decision to pursue an education
in dance at a school in New York City. The only downside was that she knew Adonis
wouldn’t be able to go with her. Still,
she really didn’t have much concern as Adonis would stay with the rest of the
family and their other dog, Butch. Butch was another Rottweiler mix who, though
big, wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree.
Lovable and loyal, Butch was great, but he didn’t have the bond Adonis
had with the girl. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the decision finalized for the girl to go to New York,
and only a few weeks before she was to leave, I received a call in the early
hours of Easter Sunday. Adonis had
fallen ill that weekend and the family had scheduled a surgery for Monday.
Sadly, he didn’t make it. Well before
dawn, I drove to the home to be with the family, whom I had grown very close
to. There, on the floor of the living
room, lay Adonis, his duty to the girl finished. His watch was over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9uJGmgtcvjmX2cUFhtB0w74QitDiGq92lTUAaF5zWiYML23Cyl8h8-CTr8YPV6-dobn4Ng1pQ8Ss4CAg3T9smMkVItl0dhdVh9bripQP7kuzP9tbrVTp97uaQ7mJwnU0EIyUlc1ggD-A/s1600/Adonis03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9uJGmgtcvjmX2cUFhtB0w74QitDiGq92lTUAaF5zWiYML23Cyl8h8-CTr8YPV6-dobn4Ng1pQ8Ss4CAg3T9smMkVItl0dhdVh9bripQP7kuzP9tbrVTp97uaQ7mJwnU0EIyUlc1ggD-A/s320/Adonis03.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saying goodbye.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Losing Adonis hurt so badly. I walked around for over a year afterward
feeling like I didn't have my right arm, or left foot, or both eyes. I was so
broken. But he'd always come back when I needed him. I could feel him, even
after getting my Lola girl. When she was still learning, I could tell he was
there. Now Lola is gone and I don't feel Adonis as much. Occasionally I do
though. Mostly I feel Lola, I feel her all the time, and I miss her dearly, much
like I missed Adonis. But I'm in a familiar place. I now have Libby. Libby is
still learning. I can still feel Lola. When Libby has learned, just like Adonis
passed the torch to Lola, Lola will pass the torch to Libby, and then it will
be Libby's turn. Today is the
anniversary of Lola's death. It's been two years and I'm feeling her less than
I used to but still very frequently. Today, as I mourn Lola, and Libby is sitting
beside me, I feel Adonis... my boy... my angel. He's never really gone. He
never will be. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoQuote" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Just a few months ago, I went back to court, to a parole
hearing, to face the man that tried to end my life. Adonis was there. It was
like I could feel him doing his Rottie lean on my leg, and I could feel Lola on
my other side, doing the same Rottie lean. With Libby at my side, I stood up to
that man. I told him of the good choices I had made in life and let him know
that choice is truly the only thing we actually have control over, because
choice is the one thing that is truly ours. I really wonder how much of that
was Adonis talking...? Adonis taught me how to work through my troubles and
make good choices. The man stayed in jail. He will be there for six more years
before we go back for another hearing. But thanks to Adonis, I was able to get
through those tough early years and to get to these later ones. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoQuote">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After so many years in rescue, I’ve seen things that really
can’t be explained, except to attribute them to a higher power. Adonis was one of those. If there ever was a dog who was heaven-sent,
who had but one purpose in life, it was Adonis.
He came at just the right time, into a terrified young girl’s life and
helped her through her darkness. When
his job was done, he was called back to the place from where he’d come. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m still honored to be friends with that family. The young girl is now a beautiful and amazing
woman. One thing, though, hasn’t
changed. She always has a Rottweiler mix
as her companion and her guardian.
Though all dogs are special and fill their purpose, none will ever be
Adonis, the dog who was wandering down a lonely dirt road on his way to his
destiny. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0BxTIJWHsvGk7r-bHWcttojEMGmA2IBwdPXOwJvJFfBnz6lvhkiCzBOnxVtl3j9HW-C1pCCj6qn3YUDY1plcBL5hUF4Ecsbsp0eX_N45pgRwF_ehxB2ssYmS1sbuicmJHkMXVEm3Me7A/s1600/Adonis04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0BxTIJWHsvGk7r-bHWcttojEMGmA2IBwdPXOwJvJFfBnz6lvhkiCzBOnxVtl3j9HW-C1pCCj6qn3YUDY1plcBL5hUF4Ecsbsp0eX_N45pgRwF_ehxB2ssYmS1sbuicmJHkMXVEm3Me7A/s320/Adonis04.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adonis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adonis was one of several dogs that inspired the character, Stranger, in my first novel. If you would like to know more about my writing efforts then check out my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Twitter</span></a> pages or check out my website at www.troykechely.com. My first novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strangers-Dance-Troy-B-Kechely/dp/1511771356/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1476231662&sr=8-1&keywords=Kechely" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: blue;">Stranger's Dance</span></i></a> is available through Amazon in both Kindle and paperback and is available in Europe and Asia through the relevant Amazon sites for those regions. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-41654368331586993762016-10-04T20:09:00.002-06:002016-10-04T20:09:37.377-06:00Reality Check<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I wrote the following in 2003. It was one of those experiences that demanded
I document it immediately given the impact it had, and still has, on me. Of all my rescue experiences, this one summarizes
the first rule of rescue better than any other, that rule being:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can’t save them all, but save the ones you can.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Since starting Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue in 1997, I’ve had
the pleasure of working with some really great animal shelters. Some facilities have been well-funded with
state-of-the-art components while others have been dirt poor and barely getting
by. A few have even been places where it
was obvious the people or person running it were there just for a paycheck and
had no compassion for the animals in their care. Others, though, have been staffed by amazing
people who would do anything to help save an animal. This story revolves around one of the most
underfunded, dilapidated facilities I’ve ever seen. My time spent working with so many good
shelters didn’t prepare me for the reality check I was about to receive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was early October 2003, and I had planned a trip to Salt
Lake City from Bozeman on a Monday. The
Friday before my trip, I received a call from a small animal shelter in
southern Idaho regarding a female Rottweiler.
The man reported that the dog was very sweet, but if he couldn’t find a
home for her she would be euthanized on Monday.
I scrambled to find a foster home for her and to see if anyone was
available to evaluate her. I came across roadblocks to my plan, so I made
the decision to take a detour while driving down to Salt Lake so that I could
evaluate the dog myself. It was about an
hour out of my way, but the shelter worker was adamant that this dog was worth
looking at. I made the proper
arrangements and set out on Monday as planned.
It was harvest time in Idaho, and as I drove I watched numerous farmers
struggling to harvest the crops before winter set in. Following the directions given me, I made my
way through many small towns and turned onto a dirt road behind a high
school. I continually kept my eye out
for a large building that would house the number of animals that certainly came
in from a county as large as this one, but I was startled to arrive at a 12-foot
by 24-foot, cinder block building, complete with a very small sign saying
“Animal Shelter”. Standing out front was
a large man who I figured must be my contact.
After introducing myself we walked inside. The front third of the building was an
office, a bathroom, and garage area with a closed door. I wondered, but didn’t ask, if it was in the
garage area that the dogs were euthanized.
I hadn’t seen a smoke stack when I first arrived so I doubted they were cremated
on-site but, more than likely, the bodies would be disposed of at the county
dump. Before opening the door to the
kennel area, the man warned me about the barking as they were at capacity with
dogs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The overpowering sound of barking was nothing compared to
the sight I encountered as entered the area all the dogs were kept. Before me was
a tight-spaced, dimly lit room filled with cages stacked two high, all full of
small to mid-sized dogs with only a narrow walkway. Some cages contained two or three dogs
each. Along one wall sat the cages for
bigger dogs. To say these were kennels
would not be fair as they were barely large enough to hold a dog over eighty
pounds. Along the back third of these larger cages was a narrow drainage trench
in the concrete floor that ran parallel with the wall. Between that and the diminutive cage size,
there was barely any room for the canine occupant to lay down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The closest pen held
a gorgeous German Shepherd, his large body filling the cage with no room to
spare. It appeared as though the dog had spilled his food on the filthy floor in
order to get to it. I realized that this was the only way he could eat, as the
food and water dishes were old coffee cans and his large head couldn’t reach
into the bottom of them. His brown eyes
pleadingly looked to me and my heart dropped into my stomach. My reality check had just been cashed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the last pen was the Rottweiler I was there to look
at. I asked if there was a yard to take
her into so that I could perform the evaluation, but my fear was confirmed. There was no yard; the dogs were kept in
pens 24 hours a day. In fact, staff had to crawl into the pens with the animals
to perform cleaning duties, never letting them loose. I attempted to hide my anger, and went to retrieve
the dog and hook up a leash. The Rottweiler
didn’t have a collar so I made a loop out of my leash and placed it over her
head. She didn’t pull hard, and I let
her lead me out of the shelter into the sunshine. As I hooked up a prong collar to start the
evaluation, I asked how long the dog had been here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“I think since September 30<sup>th,</sup> but I would have
to check,” the staff man answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was stunned that the dog had been there for over three
weeks, but the man had said she was a nice dog and he obviously wanted to try
and save her. The Rottie, who I had
begun to call Sweetie, was fascinated by the American flag waving in the wind
above the shelter roof. As I observed her fascination, I realized that it must
have been three weeks since she had been outside in the sun. Her coat was gray and dusty and in desperate
need of both a brushing and bath. Her
muscular body pulled me around as I let her explore, and all the while I watched
her body language as I put her through the paces. She was beautiful, and, judging from her
teeth, about two to three years old. I
spent about twenty minutes working with her, discovering what issues she
had. Other than some minor dominance
concerns, something I expected from a Rottie, she was sweet as could be. Once finished, I told the man that I would be
back Wednesday to pick her up and put her into foster care. He said he would make sure she’d be ready. Reluctantly, I led her back to the
kennel. She desperately didn’t want
return to the confined space, and I had to force her in. After closing the pen, she tried to nibble
her food, but, like the German Shepard, her head was too large and prevented
her from reaching the food that remained in the bottom of the coffee can. My heart was torn up. I tried not to look at the other dogs, but I couldn’t
help but return my gaze to the German Shepherd in his too-small pen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“I don’t suppose you could take that Shepherd with you when
you pick up the Rott?” The man had obviously
seen me admiring the dog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Sorry, I only have room for one.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Yeah, I would take him home myself but my wife would kill
me. Sucks because they are all going to
be put down tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I didn’t look at the man.
I didn’t want to. His words were
clear enough. Tomorrow every dog there,
except the Rott, would be euthanized. I
thought of that beautiful German Shepherd who could barely fit in his pen. I shook my head and again told the man that I
would be there early morning on Wednesday, and he, likewise, reassured me
Sweetie would be ready. As I pulled away,
the images of all those dogs inundated my thoughts, their time expired with no
one trying to claim them. The eyes of
the Shepherd hurt me deeply as they flashed through my mind. The memory of the dog’s eyes along with the
sounds of the scared barking that echoed in the cinderblock room all caused my
chest to ache. As I hit the highway I
set the cruise control and felt the first hint of a tear form in my eye. It had been a while since I had allowed
emotions surrounding a dog to affect me.
My walls, which had been built up, and enforced by the safety of working
with a no-kill shelter, had just come crumbling down. I called a friend on my cell to vent. It helped a little but not much. Slowly, as I drove, I tried to focus on
arriving at my destination and picking Sweetie up on Wednesday, not on all the
other dogs at that shelter, especially the German Shepherd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tuesday was spent taking care of business in Salt Lake City,
but even given the distractions of my trip, my thoughts rarely strayed from the
dogs I had seen. I talked with foster
families, wondering if there was any way to save the German Shepherd, or any of
the other dogs, but we were full and already pushing limits with the
Rottie. It was one of those terrible but
necessary decisions I had made when I had started Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue: the Rotties had to come first. I was also limited by the fact that the car I
was driving was one I had borrowed for the trip and really only had room for
one large dog. Still, my heart was heavy
with what I knew was going to transpire.
To drive back to the shelter, walk in, and only see the Rottie was more
than I cared to ponder. Still, to save
one is what it is all about, as one person can never save them all. It just isn’t possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">That night I came
down with a stomach virus. Not able to
sleep, I was forced to relive the time I had spent at the shelter --the sounds
and the looks in the dogs’ eyes as I walked by were as real as ever. By 5:30 am I was tired of trying to sleep and
decided to hit the road. It was only 45
minutes earlier than I had planned, but I am glad left early since my illness
had intensified as I drove, and I found myself making numerous stops to deal
with its symptoms. Finally, at one truck
stop, I wised up and bought some medication, praying that it would get me
through the long stretches of the remaining drive. (The sparse population of northern Utah and
southern Idaho made for long distances between rest stops.) Thankfully, the weather was nice and the
clear blue skies made the drive enjoyable. In my mind I ran through how I was going to
handle Sweetie and deal with any of the possible situations that might develop
with her. I didn’t have a crate to put
her in so I had prepared the back seat to be as comfortable as possible. I had bought some sheets and a collar, as she
hadn’t had one when I’d performed the evaluation. I had even purchased her a
chew toy in hope that she would be more interested in playing with it than
trying to help me drive. There is
nothing worse than a Rottweiler trying to play co-pilot while you are doing seventy-five
miles per hour on the interstate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I pulled into the shelter at 8:30 and saw the truck of the
man I had talked with two days before. As
I entered the front door I was greeted with the joyous sounds of barking. My heart leapt, even if only for a moment, as
it meant that not all the dogs had been euthanized. I walked down the hallway and opened the
thick metal door to the kennel area, seeing the man I had met on my first
visit. He was standing there, his arms
deep in a sink of soapy water, cleaning coffee cans for that day’s
feeding. The barking was intense, and upon
first glance it looked as if all the dogs were there, including the German
Shepherd. I said hi to the worker and he
told me to help myself to the Rottie. I
nodded, and as I walked back to her pen the German Shepherd stood there looking
at me, his bushy tail moving back and forth against the cage, hopeful I was
coming to his pen. I steeled myself and
focused on Sweetie as I walked past the German Shepherd’s cage. Along the
bottom of all the cages was dog food, fecal matter, and urine. Upon arriving at Sweetie’s cage, I saw that
her pen was no different. Still, she had
managed not to step in the large piles of soft stool and wiggled excitedly upon
seeing me. I opened Sweetie’s pen and
looped the leash around her neck. The other
dogs grew more excited as I walked her out of the room. I forced myself to avert my eyes because I
knew that if I truly looked at any of them I would lose focus of my
mission. Once outside, I put the new
collar on Sweetie and tried to brush out some of her coat, minimizing the amount
of shedding that would occur during the drive.
The worker came out from the back of the shelter. We chatted briefly. and I had him fill out a
release form for our group, giving us custody of the dog. I started to pull out
cash to pay him the adoption fee but he declined. He just wanted her saved. I asked about the others. He simply shook his head in reply and
mentioned that today or tomorrow was their last day. I could tell he didn’t enjoy the task the lay
ahead but had no choice. Still, I
wondered if anyone in the county knew of the conditions there and how easy it
would be to help to change the shelter conditions as well as the opinions of
those overseeing it. Yet, it wasn’t my
problem, not now. My role was simply to
transport Sweetie to her new foster home.
I did thank the man for at least making the effort to contact me about
Sweetie. His eyes told me that he did
not enjoy what he had to work with but that he was glad to see at least one dog
being saved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Initially it took a
lot of effort to get the ninety-five pound Rottie into the car. She was scared and I couldn’t blame her. The
last time she was in a vehicle she had ended up in the shelter. After a quick
stop at a local veterinary office to get a health certificate and rabies shot,
I headed out of town. Once on the road, Sweetie
laid down, sprawled across the entire seat, and she didn’t move unless I
stopped and got out myself. I wondered
if she was okay as I was used to Rotties being very aware of everything as I
drove. It was only after an hour or so
that the realization hit me: given the conditions she had come from and the
size of her cage she probably hadn’t been able to lay down for more than a few
hours a day. Even if she had been able to lay down it wouldn’t have been lengthwise
but curled up in a ball on the cold concrete floor. With that epiphany I reached behind my seat
and ran my fingers along her dirty, dry fur.
I felt her lick my hand softly as I told her that she was safe now. I turned off the radio and hoped that the
silence and the soft back seat would allow her to finally sleep deeply. Sweetie dozed off here and there but mostly
just stared out the window of the back door.
We made several rest stops along the way, and I hoped that the more I
handled her the more she would relax. It
worked and, while heading for Monida Pass, she fell fast asleep. Her heavy breathing was, perhaps, the nicest
sound I had heard during my trip. For
the moment my thoughts were only on the dog in back. The barking and pleading looks from the dogs
that I had left behind were momentarily subdued. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuY8mXgB4tK7tFJoSrUgvaGegRomAfI8MrASodgoxeh1pNPqa-VHbcTVQcsj3y1scDiau6Y3-W9_xo3y91cYMGAzz5nakStYAJii-kUWnz9Cnhj-1PjAIF3Rp4zhc6PvloIP2c7q6pPJ2/s1600/Troy_Sweetie.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuY8mXgB4tK7tFJoSrUgvaGegRomAfI8MrASodgoxeh1pNPqa-VHbcTVQcsj3y1scDiau6Y3-W9_xo3y91cYMGAzz5nakStYAJii-kUWnz9Cnhj-1PjAIF3Rp4zhc6PvloIP2c7q6pPJ2/s320/Troy_Sweetie.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweetie and I shortly after I brought her back from Idaho</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Six hours later, and after dropping Sweetie off at her
foster home, I arrived home and was once again inundated with thoughts of the
other dogs. Still, there was nothing I
could do. There was no one close, and
certainly no other rescues in that area, that I knew of. The saddest part of it all was that it represented
only one shelter out of hundreds in the country. All were overcrowded, and all were forced to
do what they had to. I am not against
euthanizing dogs if they are deemed habitually aggressive, not responding to
training, but to put down a dog only because no one wants it pains me to no
end. This, however, it is a reality that exists and one I must accept. I am thankful for the reminder of that reality;
it forces me to remember why I started BSRR and why rescuers across the country
do so much for just one dog. The focus must
be one dog at time. Save one dog and
then move on to the next. One of the
undeniable truths of rescue is that there will always be another dog needing
help somewhere. We, sadly, will never be
short of that necessity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUpctj-hB0sMyP-XWBN5cuoLro5hiExQbbqJW17RfxeotGpzEbO62UE5TuHEWPti0nnANwSuNj0Yul0lsFSTU_ECpUE4Xrx0EJMSnrBRuZc-B-i4Zh5B-yaF8Y0xsMrsYuYrs2b3JXfgE/s1600/IMG_3825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUpctj-hB0sMyP-XWBN5cuoLro5hiExQbbqJW17RfxeotGpzEbO62UE5TuHEWPti0nnANwSuNj0Yul0lsFSTU_ECpUE4Xrx0EJMSnrBRuZc-B-i4Zh5B-yaF8Y0xsMrsYuYrs2b3JXfgE/s320/IMG_3825.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweetie and the feather.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sweetie was adopted a few months after being rescued and
lived eight wonderful years with her human, Julie. For me, Sweetie is a dog I will always be
glad I was able to save, yet to this day, I’m still haunted by the eyes of the
German Shepherd. His look captured the
plea of every animal that is awaiting its death in countless shelters around
the country. For that reason alone, I
will never purchase a puppy but will always adopt. I ask, no I beg, that you do the same. I close with a Karen Davison quote that captures
the reality and hope of rescue:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>“Saving one dog will not change the world, but surely for
that one dog, the world will change forever.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWq4Ha1y3H76nb_Che3D0qz9anvEh2keDFo_8jPg4XuRhJfO_UX2tAMU1b0ovLKen6MMAqV_iwoWRE01ylVaLhpQcbc8b_XhcWVoeZa7DEnYt9kBMCzq375_7LGFUNXwtDYAhRej5_66qB/s1600/IMG_3827.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWq4Ha1y3H76nb_Che3D0qz9anvEh2keDFo_8jPg4XuRhJfO_UX2tAMU1b0ovLKen6MMAqV_iwoWRE01ylVaLhpQcbc8b_XhcWVoeZa7DEnYt9kBMCzq375_7LGFUNXwtDYAhRej5_66qB/s320/IMG_3827.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweetie and her little friend at her forever home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For more information about Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue, go to www.bigskyrottrescue.org. </span>If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Twitter</span></a> pages. You can also learn more about me at my website <a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.troykechely.com</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink">. </span> There you can also purchase my first novel, <i>Stranger’s Dance.</i> <br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-27269807411957555242016-09-27T18:26:00.000-06:002016-10-13T09:28:55.896-06:00The Terrible TwosI sat in my living room looking at my two,
eighteen-month-old Rottweilers and faced a terrifying decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should I end their lives?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What led to this agonizing quandary was a behavioral
change in my dogs that I wasn’t prepared for. The change was hyper-protective
behavior, specifically protection of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The latest incident had involved both dogs lunging at a person who
walked by me on the sidewalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taz had
gone for the face. I thank God that both dogs were on leash and no contact was
made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was, however, mortified at what
my sweet, innocent puppies were growing into, and I had begun to wonder if
every bad thing I had heard about Rottweilers was true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpRNiP7xRDCq-bzSuRvZJ06yOemlnK-Zm8VGZaVti4_w7B5E2ZxQUUcOKAiB_AKjTFGhmLt8Qfj3aL6E-Q_q5TrnMD7FOEQhClbpvmIBDfbfBNKRe2SNxeBmIX7YGWJAps2Oerg7pamrh/s1600/Taz%2526Mickey_Bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpRNiP7xRDCq-bzSuRvZJ06yOemlnK-Zm8VGZaVti4_w7B5E2ZxQUUcOKAiB_AKjTFGhmLt8Qfj3aL6E-Q_q5TrnMD7FOEQhClbpvmIBDfbfBNKRe2SNxeBmIX7YGWJAps2Oerg7pamrh/s320/Taz%2526Mickey_Bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My rather innocent looking Rottweilers, Taz and Mickey.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That was back in 1996, and I’m thankful I didn’t put Taz and Mickey
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I dove headlong into
understanding canine behavior and correcting the issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m thankful to say that my hard work paid
off and I ended up with two great dogs, not perfect by any stretch, but manageable.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">It is said that hindsight is always the clearest and that is true in
this case. That period was a harsh learning curve for me and almost ended my
ownership of Rottweilers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, by
addressing the problem, rather than <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>giving up, I not only kept both dogs for their
full lives, but I also learned skills that helped me become an expert witness
on canine aggression and bite behavior. It is fair to say that period in my
life was so close to being a disaster for both me and my dogs, and I now want to
ensure that others don’t experience the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
As part of Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue, myself and other trainers regularly
offer free training advice to people who are struggling with their dog’s
behaviors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This advice is oftentimes the
last resort before the dog has to be put down or placed for adoption. Consults
are usually performed by phone call or email, so what help we can offer is
limited but we do the best we can, and I like to think that it has helped to
keep a lot of dogs within their families and in society’s good graces.<br />
<br />
The most common issues we receive requests for help on are cases in which
the dog is being overly protective of territory and/or pack members, which
includes the humans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without question,
the majority of these incidents occur in dogs between the ages of one and
three, or as we in the rescue business say, the terrible twos (in reference to
the two-year stretch where negative behaviors are most likely to materialize).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike a human toddler, these terrible twos
are not about saying ‘no’ to everything; these are more in line with the
tumultuous, and often rebellious, teen years in humans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, given the manner in which dogs age,
their teenage years fall within that one to three-year range.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t exactly
a shining angel of good behavior when I was a teen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like most, I was rebellious and sometimes a
bit violent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though not positive behaviors,
these are expected and predictable behaviors as this is the period in
development in which the person or dog is trying to figure out where they stand
in the world or in their pack --yes, humans operate on a pack system, much like
dogs, but that is a topic for another blog. With Rottweilers, in particular,
this behavior often manifests itself in alpha behaviors which include
territorial protection, possession aggression, pack member protection, and
various dominance based behaviors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
behavior of pack member protection, alone, has been the basis of three phone
calls I’ve received in the last two months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each call was from a person who had owned dogs previously or had owned a
Rottweiler that was ‘perfect’ but now had a 100+ pound male Rottweiler who was
becoming very aggressive towards guests and strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each dog had been neutered and had some
rudimentary obedience training but was now becoming a liability to the home.<br />
<br />
In each of these phone calls, I first listened to the full explanation
of the dog’s history and behavior, including the triggers for the negative
behaviors. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After confirming that what
the dog was doing was not extreme, I said one thing before addressing training
recommendations.<br />
“Your dog is normal, and though the behavior looks bad it can be
fixed.”<br />
<br />
That one statement sets the tone for all that follows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, back in 1996 when I was thinking my
dogs were demon-possessed monsters beyond my control, I would have loved to
have someone explain to me that what my dogs were doing was, indeed, normal, not
acceptable but normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to learn
that fact on my own over many years of study, so I want people to know that pivotal
truth right from the start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each time I
said that line, I could hear the relief in the caller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, by the time we are called for help,
we’re typically the last resort before either placing the dog in rescue or
euthanizing it. It is an encouragement for clients to hear that what their dog is
displaying is not unusual behavior, but instead correctable behavior, and it is
an encouragement I wish I had received back in 1996.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
After issuing this reassurance, I delve into the basics of pack
structure and how the dog is testing where they are within the pack
structure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some breeds are more
forgiving in this process, and their teenage rebellion is limited to mild
stubbornness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For Rottweilers, though, the
rebellion can appear a bit more intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The reason for this is simple: Rottweilers don’t believe in a power
vacuum. Either you are in charge or they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Problems erupt when the dog doesn’t see anyone in the pack as being alpha.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a Rottweiler, this won’t do, and given
their dominant nature they will assume the leadership position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is where the aggressive behavior takes root.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alpha is the defender of the pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My job as a trainer is to help the human take
back their leadership role.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once the
transfer of power occurs, it is amazing how quickly the behavior of the dog
improves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dogs simply like to know where
they are in the pack, and it is our job to establish the hierarchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
During the calls, I do emphasis that this isn’t a quick fix and will
take time and consistent, effective training.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I often recommend that they enroll the dog in a good obedience course
with an instructor that understands difficult dogs, such as my friends Ron
Murray, Angie McDunn, Davina Schoen, and Ben Donoghue. The good news is that if
the owners can stay true to the training and get the dog past three years of
age, then their hardest work will be done, just as in raising a teenager.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my dad told my stepmom when they were
dealing with some teen issues with my step-brother, “We just need to keep him alive
until he reaches eighteen.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
This may seem a simplistic view but it is accurate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As parents of a teen one must do their best,
through guidance and discipline, to help their child through the tumultuous
teen years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the same with a dog,
and especially so with a Rottweiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thankfully, the teenage years of a Rottweiler are mostly limited to the
terrible two -year stretch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It takes a
lot of work but it is so worth it in the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">In closing, I do want to clarify that once you’re
through the terrible twos, the training doesn’t end.</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;">Remember, Rottweilers don’t believe in a
power vacuum, either you are in charge or they are.</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;">They are one of those breeds that will look
at you daily and ask “Are you alpha?”</span><br />
<br />
So, just as I told each of those callers, when dealing with unwanted
behaviors in their dog, put on your ‘Alpha Bitch’ t-shirt and take charge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t be harsh
or cruel, but be consistent in setting rules and enforcing them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog wants this; it wants the structure of
a stable pack and it is up to us to provide it if we want ourselves and our
dogs to survive the terrible twos.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><o:p> If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Twitter</span></a> pages. You can also learn more about me at my website <a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.troykechely.com</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink">. </span> There you can also purchase my first novel, <i>Stranger’s Dance, </i>or get it directly from Amazon by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Strangers-Dance-Troy-B-Kechely/dp/1511771356/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1475022302&sr=8-1&keywords=Stranger%27s+Dance" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">clicking here</span></a><i>.</i> </o:p></span></span></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-75281209921736363912016-09-21T07:15:00.003-06:002016-09-21T07:15:24.445-06:00Beautiful Stars<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK2"></a>The stars really were beautiful that late summer
evening. With each blink of my eyes the sky became clearer, a curtain of black
embroidered with countless sparkles of light.
As I lay on the grass of the intermural field near my home, I couldn’t
help but admire the beauty of the night sky.
Now how I got there, well, I need to step back a bit to get to that
point.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK1"><br /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eighteen months earlier, the day after Christmas, I had brought home
two roly poly, completely adorable Rottweiler puppies named Taz and
Mickey. Having grown up with ranch dogs,
these were my first Rottweilers and my first experience with puppies. It was also the first time I lived with dogs
in the house, our ranch dogs having been relegated to living either in the
garage or outside. This new experience resulted in a rather costly learning
curve of dealing with highly energetic and easily bored Rottweiler
puppies. During this period, I coined a
saying that I stick by to this day: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There is no more destructive force on this planet than two bored
Rottweiler puppies.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp3zgD0JxQE6vc4EpI75mXvAuEz8vs9XwwvcttxWre2iGMHdoj1pwB2uF3uxjrJ_g4z5Fwd_d-MkyejUqlw1I3b-JcOdFIAyuLWZiAbqeAoNyuHqnUsVTEi-jMdkiUxGfoV0wjZyUe6-Y/s1600/Taz%2526Mickey_Pups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzp3zgD0JxQE6vc4EpI75mXvAuEz8vs9XwwvcttxWre2iGMHdoj1pwB2uF3uxjrJ_g4z5Fwd_d-MkyejUqlw1I3b-JcOdFIAyuLWZiAbqeAoNyuHqnUsVTEi-jMdkiUxGfoV0wjZyUe6-Y/s320/Taz%2526Mickey_Pups.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taz & Mickey at about 16 weeks. So innocent looking aren't they?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That learning curve included teaching myself how to repair sheetrock
walls, replace stair handrails, buying replacement hats, boots, and gloves for
my roommate after theirs met untimely deaths in the jaws of Taz and Mickey, as
well as assorted fence and lawn repair skills.
I also learned, thankfully, that tired dogs were well-behaved dogs. To achieve the goal of tired dogs, I
scheduled long walks morning and night as well as play time in the large
intermural fields across the street from my house. In the fields the dogs could romp to their
hearts’ content, resulting in a peaceful
crash into slumber when they returned home.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
At the time, I enjoyed jogging for exercise. Not
anything major, as anyone who knows me can attest I don’t have a marathon
runner’s body nor discipline. Still, a moderately
paced jog was a good way to clear my head and get some exercise myself. Though I enjoyed this type of exercise, I
didn’t jog with my dogs until they were over a year old, per the advice of my
veterinarian. The reason for this being
that because Rottweilers grow so quickly, jogging might cause joint issues
during their development. So when Taz
and Mickey reached eighteen months of age I decided to take my pups out for their
first jog. Understand that when I say
pups that applies to their mental status only, because physically they were
more adult than puppy. Taz was already
eighty pounds and Mickey weighed in at almost ninety pounds. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In preparation for this outing, I had decided to take them out late
at night. Nighttime allowed for the heat of the day to pass and would ensure
that I had walked them so that pooping and peeing wouldn’t be an issue. It was after ten when I put the dogs’ leashes
on, and their excitement at the non-routine outing was evident as they exuberantly
bounced off of one another, each one taking turns at playfully biting the
other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Half walking, half being pulled across the street, we reached the
vast expanse of closely mowed grass that made up the intermural field. Taz and Mickey thought for sure this was time
to run and play, and after trying to jog a little with them on leash, I gave up
fighting the hyperactive, fur-covered devils that seemed hell bent on tying all
three of us together in a Gordian Knot with their leashes. I unclipped the leashes from their collars,
and like a shot they disappeared into the dark in a flurry of growls and
rumbling paws. Freed from my canine hoodlums, I started my jog, all the while
listening to where my dogs were, an easy task given how vocal they were as they
played. Even as focused as they were on
wrestling with each other, they still kept within fifty yards of me as I did
the fat man shuffle around the perimeter of the field.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was on my second lap that
I really got into the jogging zone. My
mind was focused on my breathing and on the pace of my steps. Still, my ears kept track of my dogs, that
sensory option being my only way to really do so. Black dogs on a green field in the pitch black
of night meant that my eyes were worthless in the effort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember exactly where I was when the unplanned stargazing
occurred. I had been running east, along
the south edge of the field, about one hundred yards from my house. Somewhere from behind I heard Taz and Mickey
growling as they wrestled and kept pace with me. The growls grew louder. Then I heard the thunder of Rottweiler paws
hitting turf at quick intervals. They
were coming. I told myself to just keep
breathing and just keep jogging. The
sound of Taz and Mickey grew louder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hoped they wouldn’t run into me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the last thing through my mind before my legs flew out from
under me. Briefly, I was parallel with
the ground and caught my first glimpse of the stars. Gravity, that merciless, unforgiving law of
nature, then did its work. I landed with
a thud, the wind from my already taxed lungs rushing out upon impact. Fading quickly were the sounds of Taz and
Mickey, still running, playing and growling, oblivious of the havoc they had
wrecked. Struggling to catch my breath, I lay on the cool grass staring
skyward. The stars were, indeed,
beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMFWSPq3lQrj6LU4ZgrdRWLAUbdp1ttGi94i_4cP0lffV1k7QT-b6FmOgJwRh8awn-mHOUVFLVyQM7IA3XAJq8g2Fn2kTmd9Ivdo3zYXgkVsp8VO_sCWimgU47ZruqUMhtHuRXzHUCtlSY/s1600/Taz%2526Mickey_Bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMFWSPq3lQrj6LU4ZgrdRWLAUbdp1ttGi94i_4cP0lffV1k7QT-b6FmOgJwRh8awn-mHOUVFLVyQM7IA3XAJq8g2Fn2kTmd9Ivdo3zYXgkVsp8VO_sCWimgU47ZruqUMhtHuRXzHUCtlSY/s320/Taz%2526Mickey_Bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taz and Mickey at about three years old. Hogging the bed as always. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to
check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Twitter</span></a> pages. You can also learn more about me at my website
<a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.troykechely.com</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink">. </span> There you
can also purchase my first novel, <i>Stranger’s
Dance.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-79740495513826405642016-09-15T07:04:00.001-06:002016-09-15T07:05:30.155-06:00Taking Care of the Cat<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK2"></a>Last week my best friend, Brett, texted me
asking if I would be willing to take care of their cats while they were gone. Now, the moment I received the text I knew
that they had scraped the bottom of the barrel and exhausted all their normal
cat care people. This was obvious
because, well…I’m not a cat person. Don’t
get me wrong, I’ve know some cool cats in my time and I definitely don’t hate
them, but I never want to own one again either. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK1"><br /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my friend’s inquiry I responded, “Please define, ‘take care of’
for me”<i>. </i> This was necessary because Carly had already
cost me a screen window when she’d tried to ‘take care of’ their cats after
they had moved into their new house. He
clarified that he wanted the cats alive and unharmed and that my job involved
food and water and that Carly was not allowed into the house. Bummer. Oh well, I grudgingly agreed, but only
because Brett and his family are dear friends, that and he buys really good
German beer and shares it with me on occasion. Hey, I may not love cats but I
can be bribed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52jRPUU8A8KDAk6gJ3TdMVp_tnP-e3zSMGeZ_n5D9zlkLJTVrLWwbw58t9UaTADX67B2h8qcPWz_FMSVyXRf4TOJw_-mpV8jQwOI6mrVP8Iw0dh2lNvqfKG1Kbb8IweyhuTFRysLoQgwJ/s1600/Screen_Carly+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52jRPUU8A8KDAk6gJ3TdMVp_tnP-e3zSMGeZ_n5D9zlkLJTVrLWwbw58t9UaTADX67B2h8qcPWz_FMSVyXRf4TOJw_-mpV8jQwOI6mrVP8Iw0dh2lNvqfKG1Kbb8IweyhuTFRysLoQgwJ/s320/Screen_Carly+001.JPG" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly after she tried to 'take care of' my friends cats.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I stated earlier, I don’t hate cats, I’ve just learned that I
have a much stronger preference for dogs.
When I was a kid on the ranch we occasionally had cats, though they
always seemed to meet an untimely demise at the hands of our dogs when a door
was left open by my dad. This was always
suspicious because these incidents occurred when the rest of the family was
gone, that and the fact that my dad had no love of cats. There was one exception though, and her name
was Crystal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know where the Siamese cat wandered in from. She showed up
randomly at times, hanging out for a few days and then departing. Occasionally
she had on a collar but never any tags. Now,
my dad didn’t care much for having the cat around, but I liked the idea of
something keeping the mice out of our saddles.
We didn’t have any cat-aggressive dogs at the time so it was perfect. Dad and I went around and around on the issue
and then one day dad said he’d taken a shot at the cat but missed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You had your chance, so she gets to stay now,” I said, rather
pissed that he had shot at the cat. I can understand shooting at a coyote that
drew too close to the cattle during calving season or something but a cat? Really? Apparently dad accepted that he had missed his opportunity to rid
the world of another cat and for the next several years, Crystal, as I began to
call, her given her stunning blue eyes, made her home on the ranch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the summer we saw less of Crystal because her hunting grounds
expanded dramatically, but in the winter I saw her every time I went out to
start the tractor to feed or to plow the road.
The block heater of the old John Deere was plugged into an outlet in a ramshackle
log cabin, the interior more resembling a chaotic repository for every piece of
scrap metal and random item imaginable than something actually livable. Though nearly impassable for human occupancy,
the junk piles made a great home for Crystal.
During the deep freeze of winter, her hunting grounds included that
cabin, the tack shed, and our old barn. It
was in the cabin, though, that I always spent time with her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost every day, while layered up in a thick Carhart coverall, I
would make my way to the tractor, unplug it, coil up the cord, and hang it in
the cabin. As if t on cue, Crystal would
meow and make her way toward me, crossing the junk piles. I would pet her for a bit, much to her
enjoyment, evidenced by her loud purring.
When I would head back out she’d jump onto my shoulders so that she
could rub against my head as I checked the oil before starting up the tractor. She would then find the opening of my collar
and burrow her way into the coveralls to enjoy warmth for just a few minutes. I quickly learned to hold my arm to my
stomach so that she stayed around my chest, otherwise she felt inclined to use
her claws to prevent gravity from pulling her downward. With Crystal warm and purring against my
chest, I would climb into the tractor. Needing
to idle up to operating temps, I would g climb down and go back into the cabin
where Crystal would stick her head out of my coveralls and enjoy being petted
and talked to. This was my normal
routine with Crystal, and I even snuck some cat food or tuna to her on occasion,
not daring to tell my dad, then, one day, I saw something I really couldn’t
believe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the time, Dad drove a diesel pickup truck that needed to be
plugged in during winter just like the tractor.
He did this over at the tack shed since it was closer to the house. One day I watched dad plug in his truck and
remain at the tack shed door for several minutes. As I observed closely, I saw that he was
petting Crystal. I later learned that dad
had actually bought some cat food and had been leaving a dish of it in the tack
shed for her. I hadn’t seen the bowl of
food because I hadn’t been in that building all winter. Apparently my dad’s hatred of cats was not as
deep-seated as we were all led to believe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglf9A27FDpWOvnsMjeZh0YBElTCrqEkIESKbo3ePjdZoBkyJ2y61LzTjEJ9y4CUSd3kZ0dgEBuKhgDQF6s_xByQf8q74HHRlJyC9cjcrKlt7sgriKQ3urKY_dTMXO-3QzWx7WunX0EOGmt/s1600/Crystal+and+Tyler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglf9A27FDpWOvnsMjeZh0YBElTCrqEkIESKbo3ePjdZoBkyJ2y61LzTjEJ9y4CUSd3kZ0dgEBuKhgDQF6s_xByQf8q74HHRlJyC9cjcrKlt7sgriKQ3urKY_dTMXO-3QzWx7WunX0EOGmt/s320/Crystal+and+Tyler.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crystal and my little brother, Tyler, in the old cabin. Sadly this is the only picture I have of Crystal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure how many years Crystal was at the ranch, but it was at
least three as I recall. I only know that one year she was gone, never to
return. Perhaps a predator got her, or maybe
she succumbed to the harsh environment. It
is my hope, though, that she had wandered to a home that invited her in and
that she spent her last years in warmth and comfort. Still, I will never forget
her beautiful blue eyes and her insistence at warming herself inside my
Carharts while I worked on the tractor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Regarding my friend’s cats that I was asked to care for, well, I did
as was asked and all ended well and yes, I’m still on speaking terms with my friend.
So, like my dad, my dislike of cats is
more bluster than truth. Still, I do
prefer my dogs, but I will take care of a cat every now and then, if I have to,
I guess. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to
check out my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Twitter</span></a> pages. You can also learn more about me at my
website <a href="http://www.troykechely.com/">www.troykechely.com</a><span class="MsoHyperlink">. </span>There you can also purchase my first novel, <i>Stranger’s Dance.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-64707900479016359192016-09-08T06:45:00.000-06:002016-10-04T16:22:43.805-06:00Secret Ingredient<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK2"></a><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">If you have not been living under a rock and have
actually read more than one of my blogs, you know I love Rottweilers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since welcoming my first two Rotties, in
1994, I have been addicted to this breed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Growing up with a hodgepodge of dogs on the ranch, I felt I knew canines
well enough, until Taz and Mickey stormed into my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After only a few months I realized that these
were not typical dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What set them
apart from their fellow canine cousins took me a while to really nail down, but
once I did it made perfect sense as to why they acted the way they did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The way the history of the Rottweiler was told to me, and confirmed by
various sources, is that when Roman forces conquered Germania, their supply
trains of livestock and carts followed them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Helping with that task were Roman Mastiffs, big powerful dogs who aided in
the herding of cattle and pulling of carts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once in Germania, these Roman Mastiffs bred with the existing herding
dogs in an area that was later christened Rottweil, a town named for the red
tile roofs of the bathhouses the Romans had built there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This new breed of dog came to be known for
its fierce loyalty, strength, and intelligence, but the breed came with a
secret ingredient thrown in the mix, thereby setting them apart from other dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ZpZohi9RfPRf_VPOs0ZFSFqaJ4x3hQII9XvDk0AHAUhPDuLGdpDMIVRj2kTQ3SJCJ1ohSmq4Q5tiyaWgXo14jK87e5vLDdST6oTxUv-xsj3tCZ1QlHLchrxK1sYhuygByoJLGgHyRfFs/s1600/BELLE+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ZpZohi9RfPRf_VPOs0ZFSFqaJ4x3hQII9XvDk0AHAUhPDuLGdpDMIVRj2kTQ3SJCJ1ohSmq4Q5tiyaWgXo14jK87e5vLDdST6oTxUv-xsj3tCZ1QlHLchrxK1sYhuygByoJLGgHyRfFs/s320/BELLE+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My girl Belle had a massive "F You" attitude, especially when she had her toy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The way I like to describe a Rottweiler is this: a Rottweiler is a
dog that has the strength and stoicism of a Mastiff and the intelligence of a
Border Collie but with a very large middle finger added to the pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was it, the defiant, look-you-in-the-eye-and-question-whether-you-are-Alpha-enough-to-run-the-pack
attitude that set the Rottweiler apart from all the other dogs I had known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took years of working with countless
Rottweilers (and other breeds) to truly confirm this, but I have full
confidence that the secret ingredient that makes a Rottweiler special is that
stubborn ‘f*** you’ type attitude they convey at times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">This was confirmed yet again when I took my Rottweiler, Carly, to
the vet for her annual checkup and vaccinations the other day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My vet walked into the exam room and we chatted a bit about
how she was doing since Bradum had passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The entire time, Carly lay on the floor near me but with her eyes fully
locked on Dr. Anderson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her ears weren’t
back in apprehension and outside of a slightly elevated pant rate, she was as
calm as always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Anderson then did as
he does with all the dogs, he sat on the floor and called Carly over to him,
hoping that she would want attention and allow him to perform the exam while petting
her, like most dogs allow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Come here, Carly,” he said in his always calm, even tone -- which
only contributes to making him such a great veterinarian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carly didn’t budge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to coax her over one more time and
then stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I couldn’t see
Carly’s face from where I was sitting, but apparently the look she gave Dr. Anderson
was a good one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Troy, if that dog had middle fingers I believe she would be giving
me doubles right now,” he said, giving up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Yep, there was that secret ingredient again, displayed right on cue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJYGNnBKqsIl65rp8HxYOALrF5I-wSprFhXZ6yhiOwUId6CntvxmLq93isHYCMujZiROte-1N7cjE50wNU4C9_VSY5Ez4H4t1Gkxg0mfpTzM1MfRB0hdCA4EcUdh94mCRxkKHhjDkY4vv/s1600/Bradum_Carly+028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJYGNnBKqsIl65rp8HxYOALrF5I-wSprFhXZ6yhiOwUId6CntvxmLq93isHYCMujZiROte-1N7cjE50wNU4C9_VSY5Ez4H4t1Gkxg0mfpTzM1MfRB0hdCA4EcUdh94mCRxkKHhjDkY4vv/s320/Bradum_Carly+028.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly and "the look".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What’s awesome about people that know Rottweilers, even if they
don’t own one, is that they understand that the middle finger is a breed trait,
and they actually love the dogs for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is what makes Rotties unique, and is, after all, their secret ingredient.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Do you have an example of a Rottweiler with an attitude? Share it in
the comments below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you want to know
more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank">Twitter</a>
pages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also learn more about me
at my website </span></span><a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span style="color: #0563c1;">www.troykechely.com</span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><u><span style="color: #0563c1;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></u></span>There you
can also purchase my first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger’s
Dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-8434555550406470992016-09-02T08:36:00.002-06:002016-09-07T07:51:42.298-06:00The Cost of Confidence<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK2"></a>One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned working
with dogs came from my dog trainer friend, Angie, when we were asked by a
shelter to come help do behavior modification on some of their worst dogs. We were being shown a dog that exhibited such
extensive fear issues that it was nearly paralyzed and had been for over a
month. A staff member would enter the
outdoor kennel and leave food and water while the dog cowered inside a Dogloo
doghouse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You need to get that dog out of there. You can’t let it stay like
that,” Angie told the staff who responded by saying that any attempt to place a
leash on the dog triggered massive fear aggression. “Then use a catchpole!” Angie said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her point was this: When are dealing with a
fearful dog it must be broken out of that mindset. Leaving the dog in its
fearful state will only drag it deeper into negative behaviors. This is why fearful dogs should never be
paired up together in a shelter setting.
Fear feeds on fear, which is why such dogs should be paired or worked alongside
a calm, confident dog. The dog that
cowered in its dog house, well the staff did what Angie directed. A catchpole was used (not harshly) to remove the dog from
the doghouse, out of the kennel, and it was taken for a walk. After only a few days of repeating this, the animal
was no longer hiding in the dog house but out exploring its kennel, even when
staff went by. After a few more days it
allowed contact, then finally a leash, and eventually it started acting like a typical
dog. Through confident measures and by not
allowing the dog to wallow in its fear and insecurity, confidence was created,
which basically saved this dog’s life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of all the dog bite cases I’ve been asked to be involved in, most of them were the result of fear aggression, also known as defense
aggression. The dog, facing an
unfamiliar or terrifying situation has only three options when under high
stress: flight (run), fight, or freeze (submission). Fear-based bites are often
the result of the dog not having the ability to run away and not being of a
submissive temperament. Thus, the only
option that remains is to fight. For
this reason it is so important to work with fearful dogs by breaking them out
of fear cycles. In shelters, where time
is short, it is important to take more drastic measures, such as using a catch pole
to physically remove the dog from its self-imposed prison. This isn’t done out of anger or in an aggressive
fashion, but it is done in a manner by which the dog has no other option but to
submit. In doing so dogs learn to trust
their handler over the world they were so fearful of. There are few things more awesome than
watching a skilled dog trainer, such as my friends Angie, Ben, and Ron, take a
very fearful dog, that had been biting everyone and everything, and in a few
months have a stable, calm dog that is on its way to being a well-behaved
member of its pack and society.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil34kSBTRyB40XOTDCVdCaZRMytmo4Re71qLzIlom66dH5qr3gmnvTci0pj3_gWEDFnm16y6cfX4eHw_9Mc1uV8c4lTIYPvMQe1nK-QDl11oppSFY2U42tBxQdsvDiIQvsCV5uBOEMonQm/s1600/IMG_5994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil34kSBTRyB40XOTDCVdCaZRMytmo4Re71qLzIlom66dH5qr3gmnvTci0pj3_gWEDFnm16y6cfX4eHw_9Mc1uV8c4lTIYPvMQe1nK-QDl11oppSFY2U42tBxQdsvDiIQvsCV5uBOEMonQm/s320/IMG_5994.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly, queen of the tire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to address this topic because my girl, Carly, is one of those
fearful dogs. I consider her a dog with
conflicting personalities. She has the
drive and dominance of a working line Rottweiler, but because of her past she
came to me with almost no confidence and high defense aggression issues. What helped most with her transition wasn’t
just my efforts but also my male Rottweiler, Bradum. I didn’t realize how much confidence Carly gleaned
from Bradum until he passed away on August 1, 2016. In the last two years,
Carly had grown to be my brave guardian who took on most challenges without
much hesitation. However, in the week following Bradum’s death, she reverted
back to being an insecure dog. This makes
sense, really, Bradum was one of those dogs who carried himself with calm
confidence and who rarely had to push the issue of being top dog. Carly fed off of that confidence, and I
attribute her positive behaviors to him being a part of the pack. Come on now, you would be brave too if you
had a 120-pound Rottweiler as your backup, wouldn’t you? Now that Bradum is
gone, I’ve had to ensure that Carly understands that her confidence should
come from me. I’m still Alpha; I’m still
here. It has taken a few weeks, but
Carly is back to her normal, guard dog behaviors when out for a drive or in the
house. This is in part because I didn’t
let her revert back to her old self for very long. Instead, I focused on her
obedience training and proactively continued pack walks at Montana Murray
Kennels here in Bozeman and with my friends Brett and Mike and their dogs. These settings required putting her in
challenging situations in which she had to look to me for confidence. It has
all helped. Consistency in training,
routine in daily life, and exposure to situations where she can see that I will handle
it have all been key factors. Through these
circumstance she sees that she doesn’t need to protect me (though I know she
will), but rather I will protect her. I
am, after all, the Alpha in the pack. This
is all she needed, to know that there was still a leader after Bradum died and that
the scary circumstances were not really so scary after all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqd0EqoMTmsTU97GyBFoT5THAkrmwJVh7HqYyBqiYtQrVRYI63WQwuKTGbd001DL-3Ax1OYPAzvcCeL908fyRkhyphenhyphen6b5k0V2QKBDUTDV_0-hLA1THBB_aaeAKp9Jk2elvHSW0BdO0duY2-/s1600/IMG_5996.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqd0EqoMTmsTU97GyBFoT5THAkrmwJVh7HqYyBqiYtQrVRYI63WQwuKTGbd001DL-3Ax1OYPAzvcCeL908fyRkhyphenhyphen6b5k0V2QKBDUTDV_0-hLA1THBB_aaeAKp9Jk2elvHSW0BdO0duY2-/s320/IMG_5996.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly and I doing confidence training at Montana Murray Kennels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Does Carly still have issues?
Yep, and I suspect she always will.
Even so, she continues to make improvements with each day, though it
takes consistent effort on my part. I’m okay with that effort in order to help continue to build her confidence. It is a cost I’m willing to pay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: #cc6611;">Twitter</span></a> </span>pages. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also learn more about me at my website </span></span><a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span style="color: #0563c1;">www.troykechely.com</span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><u><span style="color: #0563c1;">. </span></u></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There you can also purchase my first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger’s Dance.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> For those outside North America, <i>Stranger's Dance</i> is available through Amazon UK and Amazon JP in both Kindle and paperback.</span></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-8642241998439497392016-08-19T20:15:00.000-06:002016-09-07T07:50:55.430-06:00Grievance with GriefSince posting about the passing of my boy,
Bradum, I’ve received numerous messages of condolences and support, all of
which I greatly appreciate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One message,
though, caught me off guard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A social
media friend sent me a note asking how I deal with the grief of losing a pet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, my friend had lost his dog just five
days after Bradum had passed, and it impacted him so much so that tears would
flow without warning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took a long,
pre-sunrise walk with Carly for me to sum up my response to his query. Even now
I’m not sure I answered him in a way that helped. How does one explain how they
handle grief and what is the best way to comfort someone who is grieving,
especially when they live a great distance away?<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Before I share my response to his inquiry, I must state that
part of what hit me with his note wasn’t his question itself but that he would
ask me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I an expert on the topic of
grief at the loss of a dog? God, I hope not, but after losing seven dogs in
twenty-two years, perhaps I have a little more experience than others. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will share what I can and hope it helps my
friend and any others who face the void left when a beloved pet dies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
To give justice to my answer I need to go back to when I was a kid
on the ranch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death was a part of
everyday activities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember helping
my parents attempt to save an orphaned calf, only to walk up in the morning to
bottle feed it and find its lifeless body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With livestock there was some level of detachment but not much, at least
not for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked with these animals,
and my brothers and I helped raise some of the orphaned calves, only to end up
selling them for slaughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
regret those events: it was simply life on the ranch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you add to that the game hunting my
family did, it raised my awareness of the fragility of life all the more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing something die is one thing but to take
a life is another. I’m thankful my dad taught my brothers and I that we must
respect the animals we hunt, even thanking them for the meat they provide after
the kill. Though my dad got into trophy hunting it was never my thing; I hunt
to put meat in the freezer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old
adage that you can’t eat antlers is one I still live by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I enjoy hunting, the act of taking a
life never fills me with pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rather, it is a job, a task that needs to be done and I ensure I perform
the task as efficiently as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing twists my emotions more than having to walk up to a wounded animal,
to look it in the eyes, and then to have to finish it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a mix of emotions for me: on one side,
sadness that the animal suffered in any way and on the other, anger that my
first shot wasn’t effective in preventing that suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">I know that my emotional connection with the animals I hunted came
from an incident that occurred long before I could hunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in grade school when the Montana Fish,
Wildlife, and Parks asked if we would foster a fawn deer and antelope that had
been orphaned when their mothers had been killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The policy nowadays would be that the babies
be euthanized, but back then the FWP had a facility where orphans were kept,
almost like a zoo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time they were
out of space at the facility so they asked my dad if we could help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember bottle feeding both animals, but
without their mothers their chances of survival were slim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, the deer died first, then the
antelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember seeing the antelope
fawn take its last breath and it haunted me in ways I still can’t
describe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t a fear of death,
mind you, but the full acceptance of how fleeting life can be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Now, these stories were about animals I didn’t have much connection
to yet I still felt somber at their ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When our family dogs passed away, though, I really experienced true
grief. In high school and college, I was spared such grief by not having any
dogs of my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until 1994,
when I got my first two dogs, that I bonded with animals whose ends caused an
extreme impact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taz went first, suddenly
and without warning at age four.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still
don’t know what happened, I just know that I was devastated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Mickey’s turn came after ten years, I
had tried to prepare myself, but her passing left me depressed and prone to
sudden tears at just the mention of her name months later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to be ashamed of this and never shared
the reality with anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was when I
was talking with a good friend and fellow Rottweiler owner, that I saw I was
not alone in my emotional connection with a pet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend was and still is in law enforcement
and is one of the toughest people I know; however, for more than a year after
the passing of his female Rottweiler, a dog that was a part of his wedding, my friend
still teared up when talking about her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This helped me to realize that my grief was
normal and even stronger with dogs because of one thing - time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, when my dad died I grieved but not
nearly to the depth I did when Mickey died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This wasn’t because I didn’t love my dad - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>far from it - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it was just that I had spent so much more time
with my dog than I had my dad in the years prior to his passing. The sudden
absence of Mickey from my life was more of a shock to my system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">As time went on, I took in more rescues and experienced loss upon each
of their passing’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most dogs I adopted
were older so my time with them was short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was one stretch in which I lost three dogs in three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This compounded loss felt as if I had been
repeatedly hit in the gut without the opportunity to catch my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I learned from it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">One lesson I learned was to pre-plan for having to put a dog down. Having
a plan helped offset the shock a little when the time came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, by pre-planning, I pre-grieved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does this even mean? Well, when my girl
Belle had bone cancer I knew I would have to set a date to have her put down
before her leg became so weak that the bone broke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mentally and physically, besides her leg, she
was in good health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I had made
the decision that Belle would go with dignity and that I would pull her from
the game before the cancer beat her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
problem with this plan was that for the three weeks leading up to it, my mind dwelt
on what was coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would sob late at
night as she snored next to me, knowing that soon I would have to end her
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet those weeks of grieving before
the event helped somewhat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pain of
the act itself was as severe as always, even the few days afterwards were hard,
but I bounced back faster than I had before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why? I believe it was because I had already released much of my sadness.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The above was part of my answer to my friend: pre-planning and
pre-grieving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the biggest thing that
helped me through such times was still having another dog in my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other dog was grieving, as was I, at the
loss of their pack member and they looked to me as the alpha to lead on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That remaining life, that companion, still
needed me to walk them, to feed them, and to love them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This, in my experience, is probably the best
cure for the loss of a pet <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LPpCWqg_3VwdarksOxBKgzTsd8gHfh-yMPE2WQdEgzW0CKNNWQi3IzjHoXyQAzC8WOROQzBjg0EIo7lalY4AwkRBArKDCIQstbIIsXi71XanA_colvdR9gccbFBsS9D1mxOF0VACizj6/s1600/IMG_5938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LPpCWqg_3VwdarksOxBKgzTsd8gHfh-yMPE2WQdEgzW0CKNNWQi3IzjHoXyQAzC8WOROQzBjg0EIo7lalY4AwkRBArKDCIQstbIIsXi71XanA_colvdR9gccbFBsS9D1mxOF0VACizj6/s320/IMG_5938.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly and I on an early morning hike last weekend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Since Bradum’s passing, Carly and I have been working through this
process, with my efforts on building her confidence and focusing on getting
some of her remaining issues resolved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
the time comes, when the right dog needs a home, my pack, and my heart will be
ready to take them in, all the while knowing that at some point I will have to
say goodbye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess that is what life
is really all about, hellos and goodbyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We can count how blessed we are by how many of those hellos and goodbyes
we experience with both the people and the animals we love.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to
check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank">Twitter</a> </span>pages. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also learn more about me at my website
</span></span><a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span style="color: #0563c1;">www.troykechely.com</span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><u><span style="color: #0563c1;">. </span></u></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There you
can also purchase my first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger’s
Dance.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> For those outside North America, <i>Stranger's Dance</i> is available through Amazon UK and Amazon JP in both Kindle and paperback.</span></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-1612964756350782292016-08-08T18:55:00.000-06:002016-08-08T18:57:43.925-06:00Comfort Zone<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK2"></a>“Here are the classifieds, find a job. You
aren’t spending your summer watching TV.” My mom tossed the newspaper in front
of me, and her tone made it clear her command wasn’t simply a suggestion. It
was my first summer in Oregon with my mom and stepdad, the result of my parents’
divorce five years earlier and due to the fact that mom had gotten a job in
Gresham, Oregon. All my prior summers
had been work-filled on the ranch, starting in the spring with branding and
moving cattle to high country pasture at the top of MacDonald Pass. Once the
cattle were gone, I was busy irrigating every day after school until summer
break started. Once summer commenced, preparing
equipment for haying season went into high gear. July was filled with weeks of putting up hay,
and the rest of the summer was made up of fence repairs and other tasks
necessary to maintain a ranch. It all came full circle when the cattle were
brought back to the ranch. In Oregon there
were no such demands on my time, much to my enjoyment, at least until the
moment that newspaper landed in front of me like a prison sentence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK1"><br /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There are a lot of restaurants looking for dishwashers or waiters,”
Mom opined from the kitchen. I mumbled
my disfavor at those possibilities and opened up the classified ads to see what
options existed. Row after row of jobs, some with good pay, greeted me, but
only one caught my eye. <i>Buck bales, clean
stalls </i>and a number to call. Mom
came over to check my progress. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Find anything?” She asked as she dried her hands on a dish towel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I’ll call this one tomorrow morning,” I said, pointing to the
ad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why that one? There have to be better jobs out there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because that one will be around animals and it’ll be out in the
country. Why would I want to flip
burgers if I could do ranch work instead?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom shook her head and left.
My stubborn nature had long been known to her so she chose not to fight
my decision, content that I would at least be doing something that didn’t
involve the TV or playing hoops with the neighborhood kids. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The phone call the next morning put me into contact with an elderly
man named Kernel, who had a Simmental cattle and Appaloosa horse ranch south of
town. Though a good five inches shorter than me, Kernel carried his nearly
seventy-year-old frame as though he stood ten feet tall. I learned later that he was a retired school
teacher and still taught driver’s education courses, which explained the calm
but confident demeanor he projected. With a faded yellow ball cap tilted to one
side, Kernel gave me a tour of his small spread while telling me what was
expected for the job. The first duty
would be to clean the six stalls in the barn each morning, followed by feeding
and watering his prize Appaloosa horses.
When that was complete I would be expected to help load forty-five-pound
hay bales onto a trailer pulled by a Chevy truck that looked like it was one
gear shift from the junkyard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he was done explaining the duties, he asked if I wanted the
job.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When can I start?” I answered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right now if you want.” He pointed me to the barn. “You know you’re
the first local kid to answer my ad. I usually
only get the migrant workers. The kids
around here would rather wait tables; seems it is cooler to do that than shovel
manure and buck bales. Why you doing it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shared that I had grown up on a ranch, so working around horses
and cows was as comfortable to me as anything.
Kernel nodded his head and the deal was done.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For three summers and a few Christmas breaks, I worked for
Kernel. I don’t know how many tons of
hay I bucked or how many wheelbarrows full of horse manure I mucked, but it was
all good. After the first month, I
apparently earned enough of Kernel’s trust that he asked if I would go with him
to horse auctions around the state.
Jumping at the chance, I said yes, though I later learned that Kernel
just wanted me to tag along so he could have someone drive him home since the
auctions ended late and he tended to doze off that far into the evening. Still,
it was fun to be around cowboys, ranchers, and the simple, almost forgotten
world of rural America. For summers away from my beloved Montana, I truly did
enjoy my time working for Kernel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my fondest memories of those summers were the battles that
ensued between myself and Kernel’s horse, Rock.
The big stud Appaloosa was a proud and mischievous cuss who challenged
me the first time I dared enter his stall.
Growing up with horses, I was never afraid but knew well enough to pick my
battles and not become careless around the fifteen-hundred-pound equine attitude problem. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After several weeks, Rock accepted me, and we fell into a morning
routine that, to this day, makes me smile when thinking about it. After cleaning stalls, I would toss a couple
bales of hay down from the loft to feed all of the horses. They knew what was happening the moment I
started to climb the ladder, so by the time I had climbed back down and was
cutting bale strings, the whole herd was excited. Carrying armfuls of hay to each manger, I
would go down the line until I came to Rock’s stall. Now, here is where things became
interesting. You see, Rock was a little
impatient and had a nasty habit of biting if his breakfast wasn’t served
quickly enough. Rock’s bite wasn’t just
a playful nibble; it was a full on bite that would leave one heck of a
mark. After learning this painful lesson
for the first time, the following day I waited for Rock to lean out to try and
grab my arm. Then, with a quick flick, I slapped his nose. The slap wasn’t strong but it contained
enough force to cause Rock to pull back and shake his head in annoyance. This would go on a few times before he would
back off, allowing me to finish delivering his meal in peace. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the daily battle between Rock and I occurred, and I realized that
Rock was actually enjoying the game. He
would try different approaches in his sneaky horse-like attempts at gaining the
upper hand. Each time, I would insert my
counterattack and the volley would be exchanged prior to me placing hay in the
manger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day while feeding, I was unaware that Kernel was watching
us. As I got to Rock’s stall, the game
started in earnest and Rock was a bit more cantankerous than normal, though I now
suspect it was because he knew his rider was present. After two attempted bites by the horse and my
retaliatory slaps to his nose, I heard a voice boom behind me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What the hell are you doing picking on my horse?!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned, wide-eyed, figuring I was about to be fired at best or have
my butt kicked at worst. Yet, when I
glanced at Kernel, I spied a glint in his eye that betrayed his false
gruffness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He started it,” I said, pointing to Rock.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I don’t doubt it. Rock has a knack for that.” Kernel laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was in that moment I knew I had found my perfect summer job. Following the three summers I worked for
Kernel, I had to say goodbye as I headed off to attend school at Montana State
University. I never saw Kernel or Rock
again, but I’m thankful I got to know both of them. Mostly, though, I’m
thankful I went with my gut in choosing that job over what everyone else my age
was doing. Perhaps that is the lesson in
it all. Hard work, doing something you
love, really isn’t hard work at all. In
fact, it is a blessing compared to doing easy work that you hate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My battles with Rock were an inspiration for the relationship
between Jim and Comanche, characters in my second novel, <i>Lost Horse Park</i>. I’m currently finishing its final edits and will
be soliciting publishing agents later this month. If you want to know more
about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank">Twitter</a>
pages. You can also learn more about me
at my website <a href="http://www.troykechely.com/">www.troykechely.com</a><span class="MsoHyperlink">. </span> There you
can also purchase my first novel, <i>Stranger’s
Dance.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-7333936422364310082016-08-02T18:43:00.001-06:002016-09-07T07:52:19.983-06:00One in a Million<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK2"></a>“Of all the animals I get to work on,
Rottweilers are the hardest. They just
don’t let you know when they’re hurting and when they do it’s too late.” Dr. Spencer Anderson spoke with a downcast
face as he walked into the exam room on Monday morning, August 1, 2016. He knew
the moment he saw my old Rottweiler, Bradum, that things were not good. We had been trying for a month to figure out
why he had digestive issues. All the
usual treatments and exams had failed to produce any definitive results. Then,
in just twelve hours, my boy declined in energy and awareness. At the end of two hours at the veterinary
hospital, a diagnosis of Lymphoma was determined to be the most likely
culprit. Bradum was shutting down. Spencer, a dear friend, has always been
upfront with me in providing options, as he knows I’ve been down this road many
times, the last three with him there assisting my pets in passing. I knew that
anything we did would be a long shot, and I wasn’t going to put my boy through
that, preferring, as always, to let my dogs go out with some dignity. They are Rottweilers after all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZElXuUYYyAeZFeJZDfWR3BBbtkm5rvjcTN9wQO2fIZWIblUHuTT8fHTrx34tUtQ-50sqR2B-twOF9UHPEcx2h84Hxjus0ck7yAnFOgdN0n3QCMO-vIaf3agfXTSbDP_mQqUzeXOe-Pjv/s1600/IMG_4352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZElXuUYYyAeZFeJZDfWR3BBbtkm5rvjcTN9wQO2fIZWIblUHuTT8fHTrx34tUtQ-50sqR2B-twOF9UHPEcx2h84Hxjus0ck7yAnFOgdN0n3QCMO-vIaf3agfXTSbDP_mQqUzeXOe-Pjv/s320/IMG_4352.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Handsome Bradum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I got Bradum in March 2012 from Big Sky Rottweiler because his
family was moving and unable to take him with them. I wish I could take credit for his wonderful
obedience and social skills but I can’t.
He came to me about as perfect as a dog can be. I might have polished a
few things and switched his commands to German, but really, he was about as good
a dog as I could have hoped for.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoERRRwdgStxHZapZ_2akeyilbCofJ2Wcc4IcnzaYiwQoetHcz8feZTFwUhz4cfd9dOSF2uHDx3_pHwrJS1xtPeDrMyJ8qoXyP-UKG-8Oa8ylzhBi8PsGCun9w-wLjkRyzff8GIC64WBnP/s1600/Bradum+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoERRRwdgStxHZapZ_2akeyilbCofJ2Wcc4IcnzaYiwQoetHcz8feZTFwUhz4cfd9dOSF2uHDx3_pHwrJS1xtPeDrMyJ8qoXyP-UKG-8Oa8ylzhBi8PsGCun9w-wLjkRyzff8GIC64WBnP/s320/Bradum+026.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
At six-years-old and 120 pounds, he was a burst of energy and
vitality that had been absent in my life for quite some time. My last senior dog, Griz, had passed a month
prior, after thirteen wonderful years with me.
My remaining dog, Grace, was nearly blind and partially crippled from an
injury that occurred long before I adopted her.
Bradum, though, was the rough and tumble goofball that I hadn’t enjoyed
in many years. Games of tug were his
favorite pastime, and his growls and exuberance only added to the fun. Any visiting guest was greeted by Bradum with
a big tug rope in his mouth, the invitation very clear. Few turned him down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAbvRANxEtguAXG15go-MLK0UII0IVTFhdPuYNXk_NkK2qq5HAAFiJgyve5RQfUwadM2voDwwm95N_CRDfhyphenhyphen7mMj_p3psbz84G5Gp6g4aH1IYeIAxlTZkc2KOKgo46etUBk_rzZUbncLq/s1600/Bradum_4126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAbvRANxEtguAXG15go-MLK0UII0IVTFhdPuYNXk_NkK2qq5HAAFiJgyve5RQfUwadM2voDwwm95N_CRDfhyphenhyphen7mMj_p3psbz84G5Gp6g4aH1IYeIAxlTZkc2KOKgo46etUBk_rzZUbncLq/s320/Bradum_4126.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEaGIyc0ypmUDoVi7XtihWt9t5i8HDCsfNCuyiRp6L_13bQpJNjbKF5-1YcSr5nYbtytI7mQVs6_XbHJKZJPAiVkZMks7DRMwiuHk2xFqxszJs84G5R_xpShpn6tV2CT8HBRtS6_qbGpp/s1600/Bradum+and+Flowers+220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEaGIyc0ypmUDoVi7XtihWt9t5i8HDCsfNCuyiRp6L_13bQpJNjbKF5-1YcSr5nYbtytI7mQVs6_XbHJKZJPAiVkZMks7DRMwiuHk2xFqxszJs84G5R_xpShpn6tV2CT8HBRtS6_qbGpp/s320/Bradum+and+Flowers+220.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CkSkHIvt3Sx5VfUvzrNlryX1Xrw-9iktM910EduPy56BdbM0k3wIw1zLlFBx358FibBWYHzrWftCfX2IiADRK8_Dc1xSNwhqLf_P7Fwk3PRiMgieRzjVOxTHU5M2ZVXyiIWhF_RpGoh-/s1600/Bradum_Bailey+048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_CkSkHIvt3Sx5VfUvzrNlryX1Xrw-9iktM910EduPy56BdbM0k3wIw1zLlFBx358FibBWYHzrWftCfX2IiADRK8_Dc1xSNwhqLf_P7Fwk3PRiMgieRzjVOxTHU5M2ZVXyiIWhF_RpGoh-/s320/Bradum_Bailey+048.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I don’t know if Bradum had come from special breeding, I just know
he was a special dog. Yes, I know all
dogs are special, but on occasion one stands out among the rest. Everyone who met Bradum, even fellow Rottweiler
owners, commented on how amazing Bradum was.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One in a million,” a friend said, describing Bradum after their
first meeting. Yes, I tend to
agree. Though I never did any advanced
training with Bradum, I’m confident he could have been a great therapy
dog. I know this because I used Bradum
to teach kids how to approach dogs safely for the Bozeman Police Department at
many of their events. I also used him as
my demo dog when teaching classes to law enforcement and animal control
officers. Each time Bradum was the
inevitable hit of the show. His massive
size and intimidating head and markings were all quickly ignored by anyone who
met him as his butt wiggled excitedly to say hi.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOb7vmsSxIzhjQIpM8MQ0ZhKF9Boo_soJrRbUZ2UbaP4hQe3sEb01-pUb4IOTMzg4wIu8m4w_6PO1ETEN6M7WW-nDx9ksrUg36jicZsV7Lfmaoo2RBXfrVSLC5z7IWsZbt4tSJOgzkj13y/s1600/NNO_2012+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOb7vmsSxIzhjQIpM8MQ0ZhKF9Boo_soJrRbUZ2UbaP4hQe3sEb01-pUb4IOTMzg4wIu8m4w_6PO1ETEN6M7WW-nDx9ksrUg36jicZsV7Lfmaoo2RBXfrVSLC5z7IWsZbt4tSJOgzkj13y/s320/NNO_2012+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bradum with Bozeman Police Dept. Animal Control Officers, JD and Connie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZupnACZ1lLyq5jvwqB_0tKjFGZc6M012hUVL8u7JtZdZ_pRlBe0eUZ3yZRyv3DqTiIMZ1EAAS9glOn1576Lc65Qn3KtqWTly7qg97AIm-4YjhzUaDT1dgY7n-2nuoHnXwBrZ5t7v07RPb/s1600/NNO_2012+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZupnACZ1lLyq5jvwqB_0tKjFGZc6M012hUVL8u7JtZdZ_pRlBe0eUZ3yZRyv3DqTiIMZ1EAAS9glOn1576Lc65Qn3KtqWTly7qg97AIm-4YjhzUaDT1dgY7n-2nuoHnXwBrZ5t7v07RPb/s320/NNO_2012+024.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bradum getting loved on by the kids at National Night Out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-P9jJfT7IB9HKGS37RkFVpIghyphenhyphenhv0EZHAtYLcoIr8BhHoG5uqT7o-S0mW50DN1ZaTFh-LWkMOmbVefOEy-WwaT-ogeuWEqz01uEXKP4Y7lypmH9Utz4ylhKwB8ypQ67tatAxW17dE8d8/s1600/NNO_2012+125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-P9jJfT7IB9HKGS37RkFVpIghyphenhyphenhv0EZHAtYLcoIr8BhHoG5uqT7o-S0mW50DN1ZaTFh-LWkMOmbVefOEy-WwaT-ogeuWEqz01uEXKP4Y7lypmH9Utz4ylhKwB8ypQ67tatAxW17dE8d8/s320/NNO_2012+125.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Using Bradum to teach kids how to safely approach dogs at a law enforcement event</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6XdoocHhbz-N5lKYwOzizs633yH5Oj55xEXBPAKuUnsNB_QrwpPbDAPyo0oJWv-4TEc0rggiR1NM-050ttDWS47WktrJckXMxC30iLFioEQzBMsN0YRKzSnlaMUFXLvJjBwwkftbE5rd/s1600/IMG_4220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6XdoocHhbz-N5lKYwOzizs633yH5Oj55xEXBPAKuUnsNB_QrwpPbDAPyo0oJWv-4TEc0rggiR1NM-050ttDWS47WktrJckXMxC30iLFioEQzBMsN0YRKzSnlaMUFXLvJjBwwkftbE5rd/s320/IMG_4220.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teaching a class with Bradum and Carly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
For four years, five months and six days, Bradum was my closest
friend. Even after his pushy and rather
annoying little sister, Carly, arrived, Bradum still managed to be the center
of my pack. He was the calm, confident
one who helped balance the chaos of my world and Carly’s intensity. If it wasn’t for Bradum’s tolerant yet
dominant persona, it would have been difficult to get Carly to the point she is
at now. Having such a steady rock in the
pack makes working with a challenging member so much easier. For that I will be forever grateful to
Bradum.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6spdsjRH0SbCWmUCdYOgAQBVcBOvgH1tgWyLq-Tv2FtDlNMNY_HlJgmALasAP91q0JIQBaV6Pn5YehRUCx6qWZ8DCPjwSmJwh2npls2K4o8hnM-LhnT9mcNcsGhS4vTGwH_n2dDx_I85z/s1600/Bradum_Carly+036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6spdsjRH0SbCWmUCdYOgAQBVcBOvgH1tgWyLq-Tv2FtDlNMNY_HlJgmALasAP91q0JIQBaV6Pn5YehRUCx6qWZ8DCPjwSmJwh2npls2K4o8hnM-LhnT9mcNcsGhS4vTGwH_n2dDx_I85z/s320/Bradum_Carly+036.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bradum and Carly shortly after I adopted her</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I saw Bradum’s muzzle grow grey over the last year, I knew my
time with him was limited. Having owned
Rottweilers since 1994, I know that anything over eight years of age is a
blessing. The dreaded cancer is so
prevalent amongst the breed. At age eleven, I had hoped for perhaps one or two
more years with Bradum but that was not to be.
The decline happened so quickly, as is often the case with dogs, that
there wasn’t much I could do about it other than prepare as best I could. Even
as Spencer was running the final blood work, I was looking up information for
pet cremation services in the valley. I
have been down this road too many times and I knew the decision I was going to
have to make. Spencer didn’t try to talk me out of it; he knew it was the right
decision as well. As he left to prepare
a shot to try and make Bradum more comfortable until he came to my house that
evening to assist with the farewell, many of the staff members poked their
heads into the room, asking if I needed anything before I left. Some just coming into the room to pet Bradum
and say goodbye. When I was ready to go they let me walk Bradum out through the
back to avoid the waiting room. Several
of the staff struggled to hold back tears, as did I. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzpF7ciaDj-N5O768k_hh00wH5mMIG1k7nNIeo3wq-lxsMmBLpEMNxRWdBo5MkbALsIo20fR8XqQQcIphvOpmzGfDp0SWirUKV0_h_qKtn7WI4wMM2MCrz5ihEieU8aV5MmqdOC8RT33A/s1600/Bradum_IMG_2268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzpF7ciaDj-N5O768k_hh00wH5mMIG1k7nNIeo3wq-lxsMmBLpEMNxRWdBo5MkbALsIo20fR8XqQQcIphvOpmzGfDp0SWirUKV0_h_qKtn7WI4wMM2MCrz5ihEieU8aV5MmqdOC8RT33A/s320/Bradum_IMG_2268.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once home, Bradum collapsed in the laundry room, exhausted from the
morning and the short walk from the car.
Carly took up a guard position outside the laundry room door. She knew something was wrong. After a while,
Bradum had the energy to get up for a drink then to walk a few feet into the
dining room, where he slept some more.
This was the pattern throughout the day.
Walk a little way, rest. Friends
and family stopped by. When my stepdad
came, Bradum wagged his tail for the first time the entire day. He really loved his Grandpa Phil. More people stopped by. Bradum had the energy to greet visitors, but he
often needed to sit or lay down after just a minute or so. Between visitors I cried, usually when Bradum
had retired to a section of tile where he couldn’t see me. Carly was confused, going from being on the
couch next to me to a place on the floor from which she could see both Bradum
and I. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0D1rcRZr-54TRgOxJ0IZnxXVV1HFCBJpZgDjGirmzUYRWUiEq4Ra-dOUDnPrfKE_yfpWkpQBO88hlulTwbYAJz_Tgn-at-pc0JgW9nRXK4Su0vEpvvmtL7FaMP02dxjIf91BxPc5aZ8U/s1600/IMG_3715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0D1rcRZr-54TRgOxJ0IZnxXVV1HFCBJpZgDjGirmzUYRWUiEq4Ra-dOUDnPrfKE_yfpWkpQBO88hlulTwbYAJz_Tgn-at-pc0JgW9nRXK4Su0vEpvvmtL7FaMP02dxjIf91BxPc5aZ8U/s320/IMG_3715.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bradum loved Grandpa Phil</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the time drew near, Carly became more hyper-vigilant, her
protection instinct coming out in full force as my mom arrived, followed by my
friend Mike. Her normal friendly greeting at the door was replaced with deep
barks and growls until I allowed each person in. She did the same when Spencer arrived, though
by then I had her on a leash. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bradum had retired to the tile in the laundry room at this
point. That was where he would end
things. I had no interest in trying to
coax him out to the living room where the guests were. I wanted him to go on his terms. Like a true Rottweiler, Bradum clung to life
as hard as he had his tug rope. It took
a double dose of sedative before he finally slept long enough for the fatal
drugs to be administered. I was lying
next to him, whispering in his ear, telling him to go get his tug. His face twitched as I spoke. God, I hope he was playing tug in his dreams
at that moment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heavy breaths.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twitches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deep sigh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwCtGB92zaIGedoYLlniWg5kdEiS1EPoKszXHo-Him5W1KSHZbVh3gR_UanVfd3_SoIrleq6kNWbdg8Qkg0NFRn6I4skETXx7pWJrqMgXIHLO7QgCBZjcBeVhIOSjxOd-6hXaBQlyrWs_/s1600/IMG_1669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwCtGB92zaIGedoYLlniWg5kdEiS1EPoKszXHo-Him5W1KSHZbVh3gR_UanVfd3_SoIrleq6kNWbdg8Qkg0NFRn6I4skETXx7pWJrqMgXIHLO7QgCBZjcBeVhIOSjxOd-6hXaBQlyrWs_/s320/IMG_1669.JPG" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Bradum, End of Watch: <br />1-AUG-16, 1922hrs.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After letting Carly sniff her brother and then allowing my mom some
time with Bradum, my closest friends, Mike and Brett, helped me place Bradum on
a litter left by Spencer, who had departed after confirming that Bradum was
gone. Spencer prefers to leave people to
grieve as long as needed. With the care
and respect due a Rottweiler, my friends placed the large tug that I had near
Bradum on the litter with him. They then carried him to Brett’s truck, and he
and I drove Bradum to the crematorium.
Bradum’s largest and newest tug went with him as was only fitting. I hope he is playing with some of the other
dogs with that tug. I know I will miss
those games as much as anything else. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rest easy Bradum, I'll see you soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Troy B. Kechely<br />
<a href="http://www.troykechely.com/">www.troykechely.com</a></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-82761372518600104822016-07-29T18:18:00.000-06:002016-07-29T18:25:31.190-06:00Shadow<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Back in 2005 my friend Angie, a dog trainer
and fellow founding member of Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue, and I were
asked to teach a canine behavior and handling class in Casper, Wyoming. Not
only was I excited to take my course material outside of Montana for the first
time, but I also looked forward to the opportunity to visit my grandmother,
Virginia, who was in a nursing home there. It had been longer than I care to
admit since I had last seen her, and I knew that her Alzheimer’s disease was
taking its toll and her eyesight had left her years before. The night we
arrived, I stopped by to visit Grandma and while there, I asked for permission
from the head nurse to bring Angie’s dogs, Taq and Ame, to visit my grandmother
the day after the class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The head nurse
granted permission, even after I explained that Taq was a very obedient
Schutzhund-trained Rottweiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
nurse, I believe her name was Judy, was still okay with the visit as dogs were
always popular with the residents at the home but they rarely made visits. She
was especially excited to have Ame, Angie’s Toy Fox Terrier, there since
smaller dogs were better to have around frail bodies. To have the opportunity
to bring dogs in to visit my grandmother was very special to me as she had always
had a dog in her home, usually a stray that had wandered into her care and
stayed for the rest of their life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of the love that Grandma showed those
strays, I give credit to her for instilling in me the love of dogs at a very
young age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEila2TA3O4H6v3KYGmGqqRpO2zvLMErjKc-LGXv5S3fa63muq1Wtd0LglGHYwwuuW6rzr4FkC9VsdADhKlJqax-CYl6RI8Cf-wcQyABlSF1vMlAVoFic5q5Og3YU8z02RDtrrStkarCbcvG/s1600/CCI07292016_00000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEila2TA3O4H6v3KYGmGqqRpO2zvLMErjKc-LGXv5S3fa63muq1Wtd0LglGHYwwuuW6rzr4FkC9VsdADhKlJqax-CYl6RI8Cf-wcQyABlSF1vMlAVoFic5q5Og3YU8z02RDtrrStkarCbcvG/s320/CCI07292016_00000.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandma and her dog, Lucky, back in 1997</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The class the next day was enjoyable but long, with Angie and I teaching
for over nine hours straight. By the time we finished class and grabbed a bite
to eat with Kathy, a fellow BSRR founding member and the person who had set up
the class, it was too late to go visit Grandma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">The following morning Angie and I said our goodbyes to Kathy and her
dogs and loaded Taq and Ame into my truck with the intention of getting gas and
then spending a few hours at the nursing home, before making the long drive
back to Montana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heading out of the
parking lot I turned to Angie, “I really appreciate you going with me and
taking Ame and Taq to see Grandma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
is going to mean a lot to her.”</span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6PqkLN9udGS5jbuksWEOTu_XM61cAnEfFIWnba8k2l5BaAOH2lKObxAY4RhUITDor1uUd4ejq0GHuIotDeJqBWBDTeNdaMx0tC9MrNBCMery4svyvwBgwVEwpTiHuyVT0GUZsUl0Vf7K/s1600/Angie_Taq-2005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6PqkLN9udGS5jbuksWEOTu_XM61cAnEfFIWnba8k2l5BaAOH2lKObxAY4RhUITDor1uUd4ejq0GHuIotDeJqBWBDTeNdaMx0tC9MrNBCMery4svyvwBgwVEwpTiHuyVT0GUZsUl0Vf7K/s320/Angie_Taq-2005.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angie (left), Ame, Taq, and Kathy and her dogs after our class in 2005.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“No problem Troy. Besides, this is good for Taq and Ame,” Angie said
with a smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had known and worked
with Angie and her husband, John, for many years, and Angie and I had
previously come to the conclusion that we were siblings from a different mother
given that our views on dogs and life in general were nearly always in sync. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Pulling into the nursing home, I saw Taq bounce around in his kennel
and wondered if his energy level was going to be an issue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled knowing that Taq’s nickname was ‘The
Criminal’ due to his regular mischievous antics and propensity to get into trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Do you think Taq will be okay with all of this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has never done this before, gone to a
public setting like this, right?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
asked as I shut off the engine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Angie shrugged her shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Well if you can’t handle him I can take him and you can walk Ame,”
she said, her smile betraying her sarcasm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Umm, no thanks. I’ll let you walk the rodent and I’ll stick with
the real dog.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">She knew full well that I didn’t consider Ame a real dog but more of
a hyperactive rat with a collar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Ame’s
defense, though, she isn’t bad for something that I worry about stepping
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike some small dogs, Ame isn’t a
yapper as Angie doesn’t tolerate it, and Ame actually thinks she is a
Rottweiler because that is what she grew up with. Still, I preferred to have a
big black and tan troublemaker at the end of the leash.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now don’t go picking on Ame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a sweetie and you know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, she will be a bigger hit in there
than Taq.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone knows that older
people like small dogs.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Well, we’ll see which dog gets the most attention, now won’t
we?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">While still in the parking lot, I put Taq through some basic
obedience to remind him that he needed to be on his best behavior. I call it
getting the dog into ‘work mode’, and I use the same method with any high drive
dogs I work with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The German commands did
their magic on him as he sat and downed instantly upon command.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angie and John’s years of training were shining
through at that moment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">I saw Judy as we walked through the front door, and she rushed from
behind her desk to introduce herself to Angie and the dogs, well, more
specifically to the dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think she
might have acknowledged us humans, that were attached to the leash, after a few
minutes of petting the pups. She said we could sit at one of the couches in the
visiting area while they retrieved my grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we sat at the couch I could see that Taq
was a little nervous, but his training and regal attitude overcame that
nervousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is something about
the breed wherein the dog seems to know that it isn’t just a dog but a
Rottweiler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taq’s head went high and he
calmed down as he took in all the activity going on around him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angie sat on the couch and tried to calm Ame
who was her normal neurotic self, her four-pound body bouncing across Angie’s
lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing the two dogs together made
me shake my head. Taq’s head was easily five times bigger than Ame’s entire
body. One was trained in tracking and bite work and the other was simply an
ornament (I’m sure I will catch hell from Angie on that comment). They really
were a true contradiction of canine companions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Judy soon arrived with my grandma, pushing her gently in the wheelchair
that she was confined to due to hip problems and her lack of eyesight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Hey good looking,” I said to Grandma, my normal greeting for her
since I was in high school, “I brought a surprise for you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandma smiled a little at my voice as I
gently took her hand and moved it over to Taq’s massive head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched as the contact with his warm fur
flowed through Grandma’s fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
eyes opened up and she turned her head to try and look at the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She softly moved her hand across his fur, feeling
his shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see a tear form in
her eye as she caressed his ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taq
looked at me for approval and then looked back at Grandma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He seemed to know that he was doing a job and
had to be calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angie then asked if Grandma
wanted to pet Ame and proceeded to place her in Grandma’s lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bigger smile came across Grandma’s face as
she petted Taq with her right hand and Ame with her left. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Soon people began to migrate toward us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The energy of the dogs seemed to pull on everyone
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One by one, both patients and
nurses would come by to see Taq and Ame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The air of loneliness that had permeated the place upon our entrance was
gone, if only for the brief time of our visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Off to my left I could see a frail old man sitting in a wheelchair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was about fifteen feet away but made no
effort to come closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see that
he was staring intently at Taq, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was afraid
of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a nurse was loving on Taq, I
asked her about the man in the wheelchair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“That’s Harold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came here
about a month ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s a very quiet,
and I don’t think he’s had any visitors.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Do you think he is scared of Taq?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“I don’t know, let me go see.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The nurse walked over to the man, who in his prime, would have been just
under six feet tall but now looked as though he couldn’t weigh more than a hundred
pounds, his body diminished under the torment of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Harold, Harold, are you okay?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The old man nodded yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you
like those doggies, Harold?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old man
raised his left hand slightly, and the tremor of his muscles in response to the
effort belayed the difficulty of the simple movement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“That’s Shadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s my
Shadow.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurse looked over at Taq
and me as the man’s words pierced my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I glanced at Angie and saw that her mouth was open like mine because of the
intensity with which those simple words hit us both.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Harold, did you have a dog like that once?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurse asked. Harold nodded yes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“That’s my Shadow.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">I felt my heart tighten in my chest, realizing the connection and
memories that Taq was evoking in the man’s mind and soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Sir, would you like to pet him?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I asked as I stood and began walking Taq over to him, leaving Angie and Ame
with Grandma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taq strained a little at
the collar, pulling me toward Harold, the Rottweiler seeming to sense something
positive in the old man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taq, without
any command from me, sat next to the wheelchair and lay his head on the armrest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The withered, vein-marked hand trembled as it
gently stroked Taq's head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“My Shadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Shadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are such a good boy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurse and I looked at each other through
tear-filled eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For ten minutes the
man petted Taq’s head and spoke of how good a dog Shadow was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t even try to explain that Taq wasn’t
his dog. In that moment Taq was Shadow, and who was I to deny that pleasure to
Harold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">After a while a voice could be heard on the intercom stating that
the morning meal was going to be served soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Angie nodded at me indicating it was time to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a seven-hour drive to Bozeman ahead of
us and it would take her another two hours to get back to her home in
Helena.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Sir, I am sorry but I have to take Ta… Shadow back to his
kennel.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man smiled and patted Taq’s
head one last time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“You be a good boy, Shadow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Remember, I love you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You be a
good boy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the nurse pushed Harold’s
wheelchair away he looked back at us and I saw his hand raise up slightly in a goodbye
wave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went back to sit with Grandma
for another ten minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally,
kissing my grandmother goodbye, Angie, Ame, Taq, and I headed out of the
nursing home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was silent as I walked into
the sunlight with Angie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taq was in a perfect
heel until we were outside and then he reverted back to his normal, criminal
self and began exploring the flower beds in search of one of the countless
squirrels in the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“That was a tearjerker wasn’t it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Angie broke my thoughts with her words as she loaded Ame into her crate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“Yeah, I’m not sure what to say about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks again for letting Grandma see the
dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it meant a lot to her, and
it seemed to mean a lot to everyone else, especially Harold.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“No problem, Troy, besides
after that I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">I motioned Taq into his crate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With a smooth, athletic leap he cleared the tailgate and entered his
crate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I petted his head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIsRkKCYnHedc_2jS8MBI3mWzLSaZ6amkNG_n78li4aj6d0rKY4snnM6TOj6J8W7XVEM38KJ6Lhbig8OSsBbOnwMkdgNyc9sCkO431kdZdkCQa0q_kmXnBDLKXEZhRssl-NhsAPef6fqx/s1600/Taq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIsRkKCYnHedc_2jS8MBI3mWzLSaZ6amkNG_n78li4aj6d0rKY4snnM6TOj6J8W7XVEM38KJ6Lhbig8OSsBbOnwMkdgNyc9sCkO431kdZdkCQa0q_kmXnBDLKXEZhRssl-NhsAPef6fqx/s320/Taq.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taq waiting patiently while Angie and I taught our class.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">“You be a good boy, Taq… I mean Shadow.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smiled at his temporary renaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Closing his kennel, Angie and I climbed into
the cab and headed toward the interstate for home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I regretted having to leave my grandmother,
as I wondered when I would get to see her again, yet those few hours with her
and the time with the man who missed his dog, Shadow had changed me as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Angie, I knew I would never be the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">I was able to visit my grandmother with a dog one more time before
she passed away on January 27, 2010.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That dog was my boy Griz and I will share that story in a future blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taq passed away on March 26, 2008 and was
Angie’s last Schutzhund trained dog. Though both my grandma and Taq are gone,
the memory of that day, a man named Harold and his dog, Shadow, is one that I
will always hold dear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Do you have a story about the power of dogs in reaching people?
Share your story in the comment section below. </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;">Since starting this blog in November, 2015, it has been viewed more than 3,100 times. Thank you everyone for your interest and telling others about it. If you want to know more about
my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my<span style="color: blue;"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span> and <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank">Twitter</a> </span>pages. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also learn more about me at my website
</span></span><a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span style="color: #0563c1;">www.troykechely.com</span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"><span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK2;"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><u><span style="color: #0563c1;">. </span></u></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There you
can also purchase my first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger’s
Dance.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><o:p></o:p>Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6548007826356809597.post-41366081384246363492016-07-23T16:34:00.000-06:002016-07-29T18:19:09.658-06:00Benefits of Dog OwnershipI’m sure you’ve all seen the lists on the internet that
detail the supposed benefits of dog ownership.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some of those lists are researched and very accurate where as others are
based on not-so-scientific methods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
one will fall under the category of the latter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p><br />
Since owning my own dogs, going on 22 years now, I can say
that they have provided me a lot of benefits along the way. I’ve also observed
the benefits that dogs have provided other people as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The following are some examples of those:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 6pt 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Anti-depressants
and stress relief<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
Research has shown that petting a dog helps lower blood
pressure but I’ve seen that it has a much broader impact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, I had a friend who suffered from
depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She shared with me once that
her depression was so bad at one point that she didn’t even want to leave her
bed, even to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What got her up was
her dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her struggle with the grips of
depression were not strong enough for her to neglect her dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though she wanted to hide under her
covers all day, her dog needed to eat, be walked and played with, and be loved.
She saw that another life was dependent on her and that reality pulled her
through that very dark time.<br />
<br />
Another friend works in a very high stress career where
travel for long periods to dangerous places is required.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When he is home though, he shared that even with all the stress, when he
was in bed and his dog would lie next to him, his head across my friend’s
chest, all the worries and memories went away with each pet that my friend gave
his dog. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 6pt 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Confidence<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
The prior blog about <a href="http://beautifulbond.blogspot.com/2015/12/what-hell-do-i-have-to-be-afraid-of-i.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Jamie and Bo</span></a>, is just one example of
how the presence of a dog can instill confidence in a person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another one is a young lady I know who was
almost the victim of child abduction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m hoping she will be kind enough to do a guest blog about that
situation and how an amazing dog named Adonis helped her through that, but for
now I will speak of her current situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After the attempted abduction, my friend has justifiable fears of
certain situations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has learned that
by having a dog with her cancels those fears and allows her to live a very full
life.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
The other example that I find fascinating is the use of
specially trained dogs to help victims of violence or sex crimes have the
courage to testify in court against their attackers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is a link of one such example: <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/calgary/trauma-dog-helps-girl-testify-at-sex-assault-trial-against-father-1.2857825"><span style="color: #0563c1;">http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/calgary/trauma-dog-helps-girl-testify-at-sex-assault-trial-against-father-1.2857825</span></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 6pt 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Getting your butt
out of the chair<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
This last one I’ll share is a personal story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a writer, one of the standard piece of
advice I’ve received is “Keep your butt in the chair!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This simply means that to succeed as a writer
you have to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Figure out a way to
sit down and write every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most
people don’t succeed at writing simply because they let life keep them out of
the chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p><br />
Back in 1996 I was working on my first attempt at a novel. I
finished it eventually but was told that the work needed to make it ready to
submit to a publisher was going to be massive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, I shelved it and I might someday return to it but for now I’m
content that it was a test run and can leave it be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While writing it though, I became rather
absorbed in the story and would spend as much time as I could working on
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that time I was living in a small
condo so my desk was in my bedroom with the chair situated such that my back
was very close to the foot of my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
I was typing away one evening, I felt the gentle push of a paw on my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if it was Taz or Mickey, my
first two Rottweilers, but I ignored it and kept working on the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then came another nudge, a bit more forceful
but gentle enough not to break my flow of typing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without looking back I told my dogs to wait
and that I would take them for a walk in a bit and charged ahead with whatever
scene I was so absorbed in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it
arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hit to the back of my head
that was forceful enough to send my glasses plunging to the keyboard and to
leave my head spinning a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fumbling
to put my glasses back on, I turned to see Taz and Mickey standing on my bed,
butts vibrating in excitement at gaining my attention and their eyes making it
very clear that the time for a walk was now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Needless to say, we went for a walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggyqGZ5m8BZpipLFNAgCePCn6x3KeUz07p5rTEU_4PWKzfPMSp0FHMSL-lWFtb5LIYK9o0yvK3IEYUb2bS3cBtKQw8XzGajuQKI8-PSmSB7qSCIZtgP3pDbd8d4CxWpLyVzoglAZ8CzCQM/s1600/Taz_Mickey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggyqGZ5m8BZpipLFNAgCePCn6x3KeUz07p5rTEU_4PWKzfPMSp0FHMSL-lWFtb5LIYK9o0yvK3IEYUb2bS3cBtKQw8XzGajuQKI8-PSmSB7qSCIZtgP3pDbd8d4CxWpLyVzoglAZ8CzCQM/s320/Taz_Mickey.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first Rottweilers, Taz (front) and Mickey, hogging the bed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Even now as I work on my third novel or these blogs, my dogs
are masters at getting me out of the chair, or, at a minimum, pausing long
enough to give some ear rubs or play a quick game of tug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have taught me that all too often we
become so absorbed in things that we forget to take a moment and enjoy
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if that moment is only a walk
with your dogs or a spirited game of tug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 6pt 0in 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be
sure to follow my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/troybkechely/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Facebook</span></a> and <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://twitter.com/TBKechely" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Twitter</span></a> </span>accounts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also learn more about me at my website
<a href="http://www.troykechely.com/"><span style="color: #0563c1;">www.troykechely.com</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><u> </u></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as well as
purchase my first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger’s
Dance.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 6pt 0in 8pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Troy Kechelyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829970579761285886noreply@blogger.com0