Trust Must Be Earned

One of the most valuable lessons I learned as a young boy was that trust and respect can never be demanded but, instead, must always earned. Once earned trust and respect must be maintained and never betrayed. Though this principle was intended for interactions with humans, I learned, after starting Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue (BSRR), that it applies as much to dogs and other animals as it does to humans.  

My first application of this rule, which I described in a prior blog, came while working with my first rescue, Bear. The next time involved a Rottweiler/Chesapeake mix named Nikki. This poor girl came into the shelter afraid to death of men, so much so that only the female staff could enter her cage to catch her.  If a man came near, she would cower in the corner and snap at the guy who dared to try and touch her.  Given that she was a Rottweiler mix and a dog with issues, I was naturally drawn to her.  As with all the dogs I’ve worked with, I looked at the problem and figured out solutions to reach an end goal -- the goal being that the dog is rehabilitated. To make this happen with Nikki, I had one of the female staff catch her, bring her out into the exercise yard, and let her loose with me.  I then sat near the door and had the staff member sit next to me.  For two weeks we did this, and each day Nikki would venture closer to us, and more importantly, to me.  I never tried to touch her or catch her, but, instead, let trust slowly build between us.  As time went on, I was eventually able to pet her and even to get a leash on her.  Finally, I no longer needed the female staff member, and myself and one of the male staffers began working with Nikki on a daily basis.  The transformation that resulted was amazing. 

In just about a month, Nikki had gone from being terrified of men to completely trusting Dave and I, so much so that Dave started taking her on long hikes on his days off.  One of the most difficult days occurred when Nikki was adopted by a wonderful lady out of Missoula.  Dave was heartbroken, but he knew that he wasn’t able to adopt her himself, and it was the best option for Nikki.  Later that year, we received a photo of our beloved Nikki that showed her in a whitewater raft with her owner and five men.  Nikki’s smile beamed as she stood on the raft, floating down the river during a research project in which her owner was involved. 

When she’d first come to the shelter, Nikki was almost a lost cause. Yet with time and consistency, trust was earned, respect was given, and the result was an amazing transformation.  This is typical with rescues; time and consistency and trust and respect are vital prerequisites.  These necessities, when employed wisely, can take some of the most difficult dogs and turn them into good canine members of society.

My latest problem dog is another great example of that.  Carly is a BSRR rescue that no one wanted to adopt.  She had come to BSRR from a kill shelter in California and spent two years in our group.  During that time she earned the nickname “Crazy Carly”, because she was so intense and exuberant in all she did.  In reality, she is just a high drive dog who had no past training whatsoever.  Her main negative issue was a fear of people, especially of men.  I have no doubt that she came from an abusive home.  Because of this, if anyone tried to touch her she would bite them.  Women seemed  able to earn her trust the fastest but only with lots of time invested.  When I adopted her I knew full well that I was her last hope, as BSRR was considering euthanizing her, given her ongoing behavioral issues. I guess you can say I have a soft spot for the difficult dogs, as the moment I had an opening I started the process of getting her to me. 

Once she arrived, though, it was a difficult time, just like it had been with Nikki.  The difference between the situations was that I didn’t have a female to help me out with Carly.  The first week, I had arranged to take off from work as it was Thanksgiving, that way I would be with her twenty four hours a day.  For those first few days I couldn’t touch her without her trying to bite me.   I was, thankfully, able to put a leash on her and walk her with my other rescued Rottweiler, Bradum.  These walks helped more than you can imagine.  The pack is everything to a dog, and Bradum is a calm alpha, which worked well to teach Carly that our pack was safe.  By the second week I was able to pet her, though occasionally it would trigger some memory, causing her to jump away in fear. I never reacted negatively to her responses, I just respected her and kept working toward the goal of earning her trust. 

Fast-forward two and a half years, and I can now touch, pet, play with, and otherwise work with Carly without any issues.  My current goal is to have her become comfortable with others petting her, especially the veterinarians. We are making progress, but like with many rescues, it is a slow process.  It is an achievable goal, as long as I remember the basic rule: trust and respect must be earned, never demanded, and time is my greatest ally in that effort. 

The concept of earning one’s trust and respect is at the core of both my first novel, Stranger's Dance, and my second novel, Lost Horse Park.  It isn’t published yet, but you can learn more about it at my Kickstarter campaign to raise funds for the final editing costs.  

Comfort in the Herd

I’m not sure how old I was when I first rode a horse but I was young, very young -- probably only three or four-years-old. At least, that is my first memory being on a horse’s back.  I remember being lifted up by my mom and then handed to my dad who sat high up on his buckskin horse.  I recall sitting in front of him, amazed at how big the saddle horn was as well as how far off the ground we were. 

That was the start of my love and respect for horses, something that would grow over the years I spent on the ranch.  Though I don’t have regular access to horses now, the smells, the sounds, and the simple presence of a horse is a comforting thing to me.

From the time I was first allowed outside by myself, I would seek out our herd of a dozen or so horses.  In the winter I’d find them in the fields near our house, allowing us the ease of feeding them closer to home.  During the warmer months they would be further away, often in the broad expanse of aspen trees that followed Porcupine Creek as it cut through our ranch.  When I would get near, the herd never spooked, not if my intention wasn’t to catch them.  The horses knew the difference in my approach and could spot a lead rope a mile away.  If I was just there to say hi they would gladly welcome me into their fold, tolerating the small bipedal creature that wandered among them, petting their heads while trying to offer fresh-pulled grass. During those times with the herd, I felt a peace and contentment I still find hard to explain to non-horse people. It was such a good feeling that if I had time, I would commonly seek out the herd just for that enjoyment.  Yet there was one time that seeking of such comfort wasn’t out of enjoyment but out of necessity.

It was New Year’s Eve and my parents were holding a party at our place.  I might have been seven or eight-years-old at the time. Never being too comfortable in crowds, I typically retreated to my room to read books or play with Legos.  Perhaps it was the alcohol fueled revelry that drove me out of my normal place of solitude. Regardless of the reason, I went downstairs and put on my boots and coat as I prepared to go outside.  The entryway was empty as I donned the winter layers; the majority of the guests were in the kitchen and living room.  No one heard me walk out the front door, and with its closing I was blessed with the wondrous solitude of winter in the mountains. Though it was cold there was no wind, so I headed down our road for a bit until I could cut across the field to where the horses and cows stood quietly along the path. It was there we had spread a truckload of hay earlier that same day. The further I got from the house, the less the noise of the party could be heard until, finally, after several hundred yards, the only sounds I heard were those of my feet in the six inches of snow covering the ground.

As I moved closer to our livestock, the cows spooked and trotted a short distance to ensure that the small, blue-coated menace who approached never got close enough to harm them.  The horses though, like always, didn’t run.  Jane, my mom’s horse, approached me and sniffed deeply at my coat, searching for a treat I suppose.  A few others did the same as I walked among the forest of equine legs.  As I moved among the herd, petting them all, I talked with them. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I do know that I spoke to them.  This was not uncommon for me, as having conversations with my animals was standard then and still is now. For over an hour I stayed within the herd, petting and talking to the horses. I enjoyed the comfort they provided and the respite from the noise and frivolities back at the house. It was only when my feet began to get cold that I was motivated, though reluctantly, to return to the house.

Once back home, I entered the front door and was in the process of taking my boots off when my mom came into the entryway.

“Where were you?” She asked, a bit confused that one of her children had been outside without her knowledge.

“Out with the horses,” I answered plainly, as I finished taking off my boots and coat.

“Well, okay, be sure to tell me if you go out again,” she requested.

“Okay,” I said, as I headed back upstairs to lose myself in a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel, Shipwrecked.

Despite my mom’s request, I rarely told my parents when I was going outside to be with the horses.  Perhaps it was a little of a rebellious attitude, but more likely it was simply that I didn’t want anyone to deny me the comfort of being with the herd, even if only for a short while.

Today I no longer have the opportunities to experience that same pleasure, but on occasion I do visit friends who have horses.  The smells and sight of those beautiful animals always take me back to that cold winter night and the solace I experienced when the herd had taken me in as one of their own.

If you love horses you will enjoy my second novel, Lost Horse Park.  It isn’t published yet, but you can learn more about it at my Kickstarter campaign to raise funds for the final editing of it. 

Photos provided by Junia Wollman.

 

Second Novel

Greetings,

This is my first blog post that isn't about the bond between humans and animals.  Instead it is a request for assistance. For those that know me, you understand that I never ask for help until I've exhausted all options for doing it myself.  I'm at that point now with my latest writing project.  The link below is to a Kickstarter campaign that I started to raise funds for the final editing of my second novel, Lost Horse Park.  If you can help that would be wonderful but if not that is fine.  All I ask is that you share this link with others as the more people that know about it the better. 

Thanks and have a great day!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1329667794/lost-horse-park-a-novel-by-troy-b-kechely

Dog People

A couple of weeks ago I was having lunch with a good friend of mine who just happens to be my veterinarian.  While chatting, we discussed the topic of people and dogs, specifically people who don’t like dogs and people who do.  The group that doesn’t like dogs requires no explanation as they are who they are, and we accept them even though we might not agree with their views.

Where it becomes a bit more complicated is within the group that likes dogs.  After we each shared experiences about people we knew who ‘liked’ dogs, my friend and I came to the conclusion that there are actually two types of people in that category.  The first, we agreed, were people who are fond of dogs but with conditions.  Those conditions include: the dog is well behaved, doesn’t make a mess, doesn’t cause trouble, isn’t aggressive, doesn’t shed (much), and loves everyone and everything.  Basically, they like a dog as long as it isn’t an inconvenience.  My friend and I each have dealt with our fair share of these types of people, often not in positive ways.  During my time volunteering at the Humane Society of Gallatin Valley, I saw numerous dogs dumped because they were an inconvenience.  Almost always it wasn’t the dog’s fault but was simply a lack of willingness – on the part of the owner - to work with the dog and its issues. Needless to say, my friend and I have limited tolerance for people like that.

The other type of person that likes dogs are those we called ‘Dog People’.  We identified these as the types who, once they take in a dog, it is forever.  Period, no exceptions.  The dog chews up something, and the Dog Person realizes that the dog was just bored and redirecting energy. The Dog Person realizes they need to exercise the dog more and stimulate it mentally as well as not leave things lying around.  The dog acts aggressively towards other people or animals, and the Dog Person invests time into training and socializing the dog, even if it takes years.  If the dog becomes old and can’t do things like it used to, the Dog Person changes their lifestyle to accommodate the dog.  Basically, the Dog Person takes in a dog with the full expectation, and even pleasure, of completely incorporating the dog into their lives. 

There are many examples of these types of people and the fact that you are reading this points to the likelihood that you, yourself, are a Dog Person.  One such example is some dear friends of mine who have been helping with Rottweiler Rescue for over a dozen years.  As husband and wife they never had kids, but, instead, have devoted themselves to caring for rescues they have adopted.  The price of that was that for over five years they never took a vacation, because they weren’t willing to put their dogs in a kennel.  I know that feeling as I’m the same way.  The reason for this is that, like my friends, the dogs I have taken in spent too much of their time isolated in kennels either in rescue or at shelters.  To put them in one again is just not something I’m willing to do if another option exists.  For my friends, they found someone who would house sit for them, allowing them to finally take a much needed vacation. For me, I am fortunate that my parents live nearby and are willing to watch the dogs for me.  Yes, in an emergency, I would put my dogs in a boarding kennel but, being a Dog Person, I will always try and find the solution that least traumatizes my dogs.

Now, this conversation between my friend and I eventually circled back to the problem dogs we have owned and the destruction they have caused.  Most recently for him, this problem dog is his rescued Belgian Malinois. She damaged the interior of his brand new truck when fireworks went off nearby.  For me, it is my girl Carly, who destroyed the front seat of my Subaru while I was gone inside the local hardware store for all of seven minutes.  She wasn’t scared, as had been the case with my friend’s dog. No, Carly was pissed because she couldn’t get to a bird-shaped kite that was whipping around in the wind near my car.  Carly, like many working line dogs, is highly intense with high predatory drives, and if she can’t release her energy on the target of her choosing she will release it on whatever is handy.  In that instance, it was the front seat of my car. 

 I share this because my friend and I both reacted similarly when we discovered the damage.  We didn’t get mad, we just realized what had happened and accepted it for what it was.  We then made changes to our lives (and vehicles) to try and prevent such things from occurring again.  You see, that is what Dog People do: we work with the dog, and, over time, not only does the dog become better behaved but so do we. 

So I ask this of you, what kind of person are you?  Are you a person who likes dogs but only if it isn’t an inconvenience, or are you a Dog Person? If you are the former then do me a favor, don’t get a dog.  Go spend time at the local animal shelter, walking dogs, in order to get your dog fix, but don’t bring a dog into your life unless it is for the entire life of the dog regardless of the inconvenience they might cause.  I ask this because, from my own experience, dogs will most certainly be an inconvenience at some point in their lives.  But you know what? I love them for that and that is why I’m a Dog Person.

 

If dogs are a big part of your life then you will enjoy my first novel, Stranger's Dance.  Check it out at my website www.troykechely.com or on Amazon.  Thanks.

Old Dogs

I have a soft spot for old dogs. There, I admitted it.  They don’t just tug at my heart strings, they jerk them hard enough to knock me off my feet, usually to lay down next to them and pet them as they snore in old dog dreamland.  This applies to all dogs but especially to larger dogs and, of course, to Rottweilers.  There is something about grey muzzles, slow wobbly walks, and droopy eyes that melt whatever resistance I might try to maintain. 

It has always been my dream to have a large Rottweiler retirement ranch, where old Rotties, that no one else wants, can come and live out their days in comfort.  Alas, this is just a dream but it is a nice dream.  In the meantime, I’ve had the pleasure of working with a lot of old Rottweilers over the years, including several I opened my home to.  It is one thing to have a dog from a young age and see it through to the end many years down the road.  For me, that was the case with Mickey and Griz, who lived to ten and thirteen-years-old, respectively.  As dear as those dogs are to me, it was the ones that I had the shortest time that seemed to impact me the most. 

One such dog was named Draco.  I had received a phone call from a shelter in Idaho asking if Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue could help them out.  A member of the community had passed away, leaving his very large Rottweiler behind at his house all alone.  In the month that it took to sort things out, the man’s brother had been stopping by daily to feed the dog but otherwise the poor old dog was by himself. The shelter was desperate to find a home for him, though they knew it would be difficult.  You see, Draco was over ten-years-old and had Cushing’s Disease.  His time was limited, and few people were willing to take in a dog who would die in just a few months.  I didn’t even bother speaking with the other members of Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue. I told the shelter I would adopt him, myself, and began making arrangements.  I didn’t see the point in taking up valuable kennel space when I had a home that was perfect for Draco.  I already had two old dogs, Griz and Grace, so adding one to the canine geriatric ward was not a big deal. 

I didn’t know much about Draco other than that he was old and very big - one hundred and forty four pounds to be exact. I also knew that he was the grand puppy of the Rottweiler that had stared in the motion picture Ferris Bueller’s Day Off with Matthew Broderick. Other than that, I was walking into this one blind. 

I drove down to Dillon, Montana to meet the transport halfway.  Like many rescue transports, the car was not just hauling one dog but many.  The back seat was stuffed full of crates filled with dogs going onto other rescues or forever homes.  There, in the front seat, sitting and looking most uncomfortable, was Draco. He was so stiff from the long ride that he needed help out of the car.  I took him for a short walk before having to help him into my car.  With the entire back end to himself, Draco lay down with such a contented look that I just knew he would fit in. 

Once home, my other old dogs went through the normal greetings, and then they all settled into the old dog routine.  Meal, short walk, sleep all day, meal, short walk, then sleep all night. Such is the life of an old dog.  Another routine was ear rubs.  If Draco had one desire, it was to lay his head on your lap and have you rub his ears.  He seemed to prefer such attention from my step-dad.  Perhaps it was the kindred spirit of two old beings, or maybe Draco just knew that he was the best human from whom to seek such attention.  All I know is that when I first introduced them, Draco walked right over and lay his massive head on my step-dad’s lap and looked up with the saddest eyes imaginable. As my step-dad started to rub Draco’s ears, the old dog let out a sigh so full of contentment it would be impossible to quantify.  At that moment Draco was in heaven. 

After the first few days, I could see that Draco was very overweight due to the Cushing’s Disease, so I put him on a crash diet to give his joints some relief.  By the time he got down to 125 pounds he was more energetic and playful, but the attack on his joints from his illness was taking its toll.  Just six months after he arrived, on Memorial Day 2011, I had to make the phone call that no dog owner ever wants to make.  Draco had collapsed several times, his body finally giving into age and disease.  In tears, I sat on the floor next to Draco, petting him as I talked to my veterinarian who was kind enough to meet me at his clinic despite it being a holiday. 

I backed my car up to my front porch, trying to minimize how far I was going to have to carry the massive dog.  With the tailgate of the car and the house front door opened, I walked back to my room.  Draco was looking so tired, but I decided to see if he had the strength to walk to the car. 

“Do you want to go for a drive?” I said as happily as I could, given the emotions of the moment. Draco’s ears perked up and then, with great effort, he got to his feet and hobbled towards the door.  I was barely able to keep up as he went out the door, and, to my surprise, Draco jumped into the back of the car.  He stood for a moment and then laid down for the last time.  His ride to the vet was not a bad one.  It was a beautiful day, and we stopped for a burger and chicken nuggets which he enjoyed while waiting for Dr. Anderson. 

As the end came, I rubbed Draco’s ears and told him how good a dog he was.  He had been in my life just six months, yet the holes that were left in my heart and the hearts of my mom and step-dad, and all that knew him, were immense.  There is a quote by Bonnie Wilcox that I've always been fond of.   It goes, "Old dogs, like old shoes, are comfortable. They might be a bit out of shape and a little worn around the edges, but they fit well." I have to agree. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to take Draco and I wouldn’t trade any of it, including the grief of his passing. 

As my boy Bradum ages, I’m seeing more and more similarities between him and Draco.  There’s the slowness in his walk, the sad yet loving eyes, and the desire to just be near and to have his ears rubbed.  With each grey hair on his muzzle, I know that the time will come when I have to say goodbye to another old dog.  That is okay though; it is a price worth paying for the blessing they give us, even if only for a short while.

For a fictional story about the bond between humans and dogs, check out my novel, Stranger’sDance. Available in paperback and kindle.

Making the Tough Call

“Mr. Kechely, in all your years evaluating and working with dogs, have you ever recommended that one be euthanized?”  The county attorney had a smug look as she finished her question, certain that I was one of those ‘all dogs are wonderful and should never be put down’ people.

“Yes, many times.” I answered.  Her surprised expression was priceless and she went on to ask what criteria I used to make such a decision?  I then spent the next ten minutes addressing the court regarding the standards for evaluations and what would be considered deviations from normal behaviors of a dog based on various stimuli.  This opened up the topic of my evaluation of the defendant’s dog and what my recommendation was.  I was bluntly honest in saying that with proper ownership and efforts to mitigate the issue of the dog’s negative behavior, there was no reason for the dog to be euthanized.  I added with emphasis, however, that the responsibility lay on the owner and if she wasn’t willing or able to meet those requirements then the dog should be euthanized to avoid further issues.  With both attorneys done questioning me, I was allowed to leave the witness stand. During a break I told the owner that the dog’s life was now her responsibility, though in reality, it always had been.

This was one of several instances where I was requested by either animal control or attorneys to evaluate and then testify about a dog’s behavior.  The question from the county attorney about if I had ever recommended a dog be euthanized was not surprising to me, and I understood why she thought she had caught me in a trap.  All too often, especially in rescue, people put the life of the animal above all else, when in reality it may be best to euthanize an animal.  Sometimes this is related to health issues or, on occasion, it is the result of extreme behaviors that simply can’t be remedied in a reasonable amount of time.  Yes, you can lock up a dog that is severely aggressive, never letting it have any contact with the outside world because of its behavior, but what kind of life is that? 

Since becoming involved with Rottweiler rescue work I’ve had to recommend almost two dozen dogs be euthanized due to severe aggression. Not a bad number when you consider Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue has saved almost one thousand dogs since its creation in 1997.   Deciding to euthanize a dog is one of the most difficult decisions to make and I don’t make those decisions lightly. I will spend days going over evidence and evaluation results, consulting with other trainers, and finally, when all realistic options are exhausted, I will make the recommendation.  Only then can I sleep at night, knowing I did everything reasonable I could to save the dog.  It was while being involved with these types of situations that I started looking at bite injuries and how they can be a great indicator of the type of aggression and the intensity of it.  That information helped me make informed, not emotional, decisions and, more importantly, helped everyone involved come to a common understanding and acceptance. 

Let’s face it, putting an animal down is hard, especially if it is one you love.  Sadly, the final act of love often times is making that very decision.  I don’t enjoy being one to encourage the act. In fact, one of the most painful things I’ve ever done was to sit next to a friend and convince her that she needed to put her dog down due to a sudden and very violent act of aggression.  In those times I have to shut down my emotions and focus on the facts.  This is often a hard task given the emotional extremes that people will have in such times. 

The pain of that moment, and all those before and after it, is what motivates me to try and educate people the best I can.  I always remind people that dogs are dogs and they will never have the cognitive ability to interact with us in human terms.  We, on the other hand, can understand and interact with the dog in canine terms.  Without question, the majority of cases of canine aggression are the result of humans treating their dogs like small, fury humans.  Dogs are not wired for such behavior, especially the more dominant breeds.  This is the very reason I started using the term ‘Think Dog’ when teaching people, encouraging them to understand canines and to communicate with their dogs in a manner they will understand.  I can’t imagine how many bite incidents could be avoided if more people did just that.  I guess that is why I keep doing what I do, though I have stepped back from active teaching and expert witness work, preferring to direct people to others who are doing the same work.  Still, I know that if I receive the call I will do what I always do - look at the evidence and make the best decision I can, and yes even one in which the dog has to be put down.  You see, I learned a long time ago that having a dog is more than just a responsibility to the dog to provide love, training, and care - it is a responsibility to society. Sometimes that means making the hardest decision imaginable, out of love and out of responsibility. If you aren’t willing to make such a decision then, perhaps, owning a dog is not for you.

What's In A Bark?

The following event occurred in 2001. I found it impacting enough to write it down shortly after it occurred and now I want to share it with you.

Something happened the other day that has struck me profoundly in ways I could not have imagined.  It started off rather simply.  I was down at the local shelter during my lunch hour, walking the Rottweilers that were there.  This is something I do regularly because it’s a brief vacation from the chaos of the engineering/consulting business.  It was no surprise for me to see a large pickup truck pull into the parking lot with noticeable veterinary storage bins in the back.  Many of the local vets visit farms so they have portable vet facilities in the form of a heavy duty truck.  I knew what the vet was at the shelter for.  Being the only incinerator in the area, the vets bring animals they have put to sleep or that have died of natural causes so they can be cremated. In this particular instance, it was a dog.  I thought nothing of it until one of the workers at the shelter mentioned that she knew both the dog and the owner.  As she was about the owner with another worker, my attention was grabbed when she stated that it was a Rottweiler that had been brought it.  I paused with Adonis, the Rottweiler cross I was bringing back from a walk.  I knelt down and listened to the story as I gave Adonis a belly rub.

The owner was a friend of hers, an older man who lived alone, large and gruff in appearance. He’d had the dog since she was a pup.  Along with her, he had one of her offspring and everything he did was with his dogs.  She described how he would drive all over with his dogs in the back of his truck, the topper gate open so they could look out, but with a safety bar ensuring they couldn’t jump out.  I realized that I had seen this man before.  I asked if he drove a silver full-size Chevy.  The worker acknowledged that he did, and I asked if he lived off of Lincoln Street.  Again, she confirmed my suspicions.  I knew the man, or at least I knew his dogs.  During my daily walks with my dogs, I would often see him drive by, his two Rottweilers looking out the back of his truck.  Upon seeing each other, his dogs and mine would exchange barks. These barks were not necessarily challenges but more like boasts, each stating that the other was trespassing.  These boasts reaffirmed that they were Rottweilers and that this was their turf.  After ten seconds of vitriolic canine dialog, the dogs would go silent, the truck would round a corner, and we would continue on our way.  This happened regularly for the five years that I had been walking my dogs along that route. 

Though I did not know the man’s name nor his dogs’ names, I felt a sense of loss at seeing the Rottweiler’s body being brought into the crematorium.  The worker who knew the owner spoke of how devastating it must be for the man, stating how the dogs had slept with him on his bed and went everywhere with him.  She also wondered how the younger dog was getting along now that the older one had died.  The other worker shook her head in empathy as she filled out the paper work for the cremation.  I took Adonis back to his kennel and thought little more about the story other than the fact that another Rottweiler had died.  At least it was a dog that had known what love was, not a stray or one beaten to death at the hand of an abusive owner, things I’d seen many times over my years of doing rescue work.

It was several days later, while walking my dogs, that I heard a truck coming from behind me.  I turned slightly to see that it was in fact the silver Chevy.  I braced myself for what I expected to happen, the usual lunging and confident exchange of insults between Rottweilers.  As the truck drove past, Mickey, my large dominant female, tensed up and looked at the truck, waiting to see if a dog was in the back.  There was; a single female Rottweiler was looking at us.  The loneliness of her not having a companion was evident.  Instead of the volley of barks I was expecting, she let out a lone, solitary bark followed by a slight whine.  I looked at Mickey, bracing for her to lunge and bark wildly at the dog.  Instead, she and Griz looked on, stopped in the moment as the sound of the other dog’s bark faded into the morning air.  They both watched as the truck turned the corner, their eyes in full contact with the eyes of the Rottweiler in the back of the truck. 

As the truck and its passenger disappeared, my dogs started walking again.  I was dumbfounded by what I had just observed.  Was it possible that they knew of the other dog’s loss?  Could so much be conveyed by a single bark?  Did God give these wonderful creatures the ability to comprehend the grief associated with death?  Could they understand, by such a simple conveyance of sound waves, the agony and loneliness caused by the passing of a loved one? Apparently so. I can’t explain it and I dare not try.  Rather, I sit back once more in amazement of these animals, knowing full well they are not human and that they can’t rationalize as we do.  Yet, just maybe, by some miracle, in that one instant my dogs knew exactly what had happened.  And perhaps, out of respect, they agreed to a cease fire, a truce to honor the fallen.  Then again, what do I know? I am just a human.

For a touching fictional story about the human/canine relationship, be sure to check out my novel, Stranger’s Dance.  Also, I will be holding an author event and book signing at Country Bookshelf in Bozeman, Montana on February 10, 2016 at 7pm.