Heaven Sent

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. 

Adonis shortly after he arrived at the shelter.

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. 

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.
 

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. 

“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. 

“Did they explain our situation?” the mom interrupted.

“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.

“No, our daughter is the one the man first tried to abduct.”

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,

“Really, then why is he here in the lobby with my four kids, playing with them and giving them licks?” 

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.

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:

My first memory of Adonis is easy to recall. He was sitting there. He didn't bark. He looked at me. 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.

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. 

Adonis guarding the bed as usual.

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. 

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. 

The best therapist is a loving dog.

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. 

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 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.

 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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

Saying goodbye.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Adonis

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 Facebook and Twitter pages or check out my website at www.troykechely.com.  My first novel, Stranger's Dance is available through Amazon in both Kindle and paperback and is available in Europe and Asia through the relevant Amazon sites for those regions.  

Reality Check

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:

You can’t save them all, but save the ones you can.

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.

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.   

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.

 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.

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. 

“I think since September 30^th, but I would have to check,” the staff man answered.

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. 

“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.

“Sorry, I only have room for one.” 

“Yeah, I would take him home myself but my wife would kill me.  Sucks because they are all going to be put down tomorrow.”

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

Sweetie and I shortly after I brought her back from Idaho

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.

Sweetie and the feather.

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:

“Saving one dog will not change the world, but surely for that one dog, the world will change forever.”

Sweetie and her little friend at her forever home.

For more information about Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue, go to www.bigskyrottrescue.org. If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my Facebook and Twitter pages.  You can also learn more about me at my website www.troykechely.com.  There you can also purchase my first novel, Stranger’s Dance. 
  

The Terrible Twos

I sat in my living room looking at my two, eighteen-month-old Rottweilers and faced a terrifying decision.  Should I end their lives?  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.  The latest incident had involved both dogs lunging at a person who walked by me on the sidewalk.  Taz had gone for the face. I thank God that both dogs were on leash and no contact was made.  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. 

My rather innocent looking Rottweilers, Taz and Mickey.

That was back in 1996, and I’m thankful I didn’t put Taz and Mickey down.  Instead, I dove headlong into understanding canine behavior and correcting the issues.  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.

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.  Still, by addressing the problem, rather than   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.

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.  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.

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.  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).  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.  You see, given the manner in which dogs age, their teenage years fall within that one to three-year range.  I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t exactly a shining angel of good behavior when I was a teen.  Like most, I was rebellious and sometimes a bit violent.  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.  The behavior of pack member protection, alone, has been the basis of three phone calls I’ve received in the last two months.  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.  Each dog had been neutered and had some rudimentary obedience training but was now becoming a liability to the home.

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.  After confirming that what the dog was doing was not extreme, I said one thing before addressing training recommendations.
“Your dog is normal, and though the behavior looks bad it can be fixed.”

That one statement sets the tone for all that follows.  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.  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.  Each time I said that line, I could hear the relief in the caller.  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. 

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.  Some breeds are more forgiving in this process, and their teenage rebellion is limited to mild stubbornness.  For Rottweilers, though, the rebellion can appear a bit more intense.  The reason for this is simple: Rottweilers don’t believe in a power vacuum. Either you are in charge or they are.  Problems erupt when the dog doesn’t see anyone in the pack as being alpha.  For a Rottweiler, this won’t do, and given their dominant nature they will assume the leadership position.  This is where the aggressive behavior takes root.  Alpha is the defender of the pack.  My job as a trainer is to help the human take back their leadership role.  Once the transfer of power occurs, it is amazing how quickly the behavior of the dog improves.  Dogs simply like to know where they are in the pack, and it is our job to establish the hierarchy. 

During the calls, I do emphasis that this isn’t a quick fix and will take time and consistent, effective training.  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.  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.” 

This may seem a simplistic view but it is accurate.  As parents of a teen one must do their best, through guidance and discipline, to help their child through the tumultuous teen years.  It is the same with a dog, and especially so with a Rottweiler.  Thankfully, the teenage years of a Rottweiler are mostly limited to the terrible two -year stretch.  It takes a lot of work but it is so worth it in the end. 

In closing, I do want to clarify that once you’re through the terrible twos, the training doesn’t end.  Remember, Rottweilers don’t believe in a power vacuum, either you are in charge or they are.  They are one of those breeds that will look at you daily and ask “Are you alpha?”

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.  Don’t be harsh or cruel, but be consistent in setting rules and enforcing them.  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.

 

 If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my Facebook and Twitter pages.  You can also learn more about me at my website www.troykechely.com.  There you can also purchase my first novel, Stranger’s Dance, or get it directly from Amazon by clicking here.  

Beautiful Stars

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.

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:

“There is no more destructive force on this planet than two bored Rottweiler puppies.” 

Taz & Mickey at about 16 weeks. So innocent looking aren't they?

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

 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.

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.

I hoped they wouldn’t run into me.

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.

Taz and Mickey at about three years old.  Hogging the bed as always. 

If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my Facebook and Twitter pages.  You can also learn more about me at my website www.troykechely.com.  There you can also purchase my first novel, Stranger’s Dance.  

Taking Care of the Cat

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.

To my friend’s inquiry I responded, “Please define, ‘take care of’ for me”.  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.

Carly after she tried to 'take care of' my friends cats.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

Crystal and my little brother, Tyler, in the old cabin. Sadly this is the only picture I have of Crystal

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.

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.

If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my Facebook and Twitter pages. You can also learn more about me at my website www.troykechely.com. There you can also purchase my first novel, Stranger’s Dance.

Secret Ingredient

If you have not been living under a rock and have actually read more than one of my blogs, you know I love Rottweilers.  Since welcoming my first two Rotties, in 1994, I have been addicted to this breed.  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.  After only a few months I realized that these were not typical dogs.  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. 

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.  Helping with that task were Roman Mastiffs, big powerful dogs who aided in the herding of cattle and pulling of carts.  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.  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.

My girl Belle had a massive "F You" attitude, especially when she had her toy.

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.  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.  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. 

This was confirmed yet again when I took my Rottweiler, Carly, to the vet for her annual checkup and vaccinations the other day.  My vet walked into the exam room and we chatted a bit about how she was doing since Bradum had passed.  The entire time, Carly lay on the floor near me but with her eyes fully locked on Dr. Anderson.  Her ears weren’t back in apprehension and outside of a slightly elevated pant rate, she was as calm as always.  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.

“Come here, Carly,” he said in his always calm, even tone -- which only contributes to making him such a great veterinarian.  Carly didn’t budge.  He tried to coax her over one more time and then stopped.  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.

“Troy, if that dog had middle fingers I believe she would be giving me doubles right now,” he said, giving up.

Yep, there was that secret ingredient again, displayed right on cue. 

Carly and "the look".

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.  It is what makes Rotties unique, and is, after all, their secret ingredient.

Do you have an example of a Rottweiler with an attitude? Share it in the comments below.  If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my Facebook and Twitter pages.  You can also learn more about me at my website www.troykechely.com.  There you can also purchase my first novel, Stranger’s Dance. 

The Cost of Confidence

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.

“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.  

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. 

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.

Carly, queen of the tire

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. 

Carly and I doing confidence training at Montana Murray Kennels

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.

If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my Facebook and Twitter pages.  You can also learn more about me at my website www.troykechely.com.  There you can also purchase my first novel, Stranger’s Dance.  For those outside North America, Stranger's Dance is available through Amazon UK and Amazon JP in both Kindle and paperback.