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. 

Who's the Alpha?

There are people out there who have a mark on their forehead that is only visible to dogs, at least this is what I’ve heard.  Some say the mark says ‘Sucker’ or ‘Gives Treats’.  For my mom, I’m certain she has such a mark that says ‘Big heart, lots of love.’ This is evident from my childhood on the ranch, watching her struggle to care for a new born calf abandoned by its mother, as well as seeing how she still grieves over the passing of a grand puppy years after the fact. Yes, my mom has a soft spot for animals.  Anyone who has met her knows how sweet she is, but few realize that this same woman raised four boys on a ranch and could bring the wrath of God on any disobedient child when required.  As for the dogs, well, she was and still is a little more understanding when naughtiness occurs.

A classic example of this was when she met Belle for the first time.  Belle was a Rottweiler whose owner was killed in a car wreck in Wyoming.  For two years Belle was kept in a kennel by the woman’s mother, never having been let out because the elderly woman couldn’t handle her.  Having been in rescue since 1997, I know that such situations are more common than you might believe.  What made Belle unique was that she had been protection trained.  What this meant is that this beautiful ninety five pound dog was not only fearless but she had a middle finger the size of Wyoming with teeth to back it up.  If you looked up the term ‘Alpha Bitch’, Belle’s picture would certainly be there as an example.

After my girl Mickey died, I arranged to have Belle transported up to the shelter in Bozeman so I could start working with her and hopefully integrate her into my home.  I clearly remember the day she arrived.  A good friend and dog trainer, Angie, was there with her husband John as Belle was unloaded.  Jumping out of the crate that was in the back of the pickup truck that transported her, Belle landed on the ground as if she owned everything she saw, head high, dominant stare, with a body that looked as if she had been a former member of the East German Woman’s track team.  The girl was a beast. 

“Dear God Troy, she’s built like a brick sh*t house!” Angie exclaimed.

I just nodded in agreement. Now, Belle was smaller than my last female but the confidence that this dog exuded easily added another twenty pounds. Unlike many dogs, Belle made no effort to greet people, instead focusing on exploring her surroundings and giving everyone an investigatory gaze for a moment, sizing us up I suppose.  So began our introduction and the process of working with Belle.

After a couple months of getting to know Belle at the shelter and learning, purely by accident, that all her commands were in German, my mom informed me that she wanted to come to the shelter and meet Belle.  I wasn’t sure about this because by that time Belle had a powerful reputation at the shelter.  Either she liked someone or she hated them.  The common factor for those she hated was that they were afraid of her even before meeting her or they were people that could be described as having a more passive nature.  My concern was that Belle was a dominant dog, so much so that she would challenge you on a regular basis simply to see if you were the alpha dog that day.  If you were she was a great dog to work with.  If you weren’t, well, let’s just say that she could be a temperamental challenge whose bite was just as bad as her bark.

Relenting to my mom’s request, I had her come to the shelter and brought Belle out to the ‘Get to know you zone’, a large pen with benches and toys that allowed people to interact with a prospective pet without the distractions of all the activity in the shelter.  As usual, Belle explored the area, lifting her leg to mark in multiple spots instead of using the typical female squat.  At one point Belle walked over to my mom who was sitting on a bench.  Leaning against my mom’s leg in typical Rottweiler fashion, Belle looked up at her with pitiful brown eyes.  Mom started petting her and commented, “I don’t know what your concern is Troy, she just needs some love.”

I shook my head, knowing that Belle had read mom like a cheap paperback and knew she could work this human well.  I didn’t bother to explain how Belle had already tried to eat two of the staff members. Seeing how much mom was enjoying petting Belle I knew it wouldn’t have mattered.

Though I had planned on adopting Belle, another person fell in love with her and adopted her, knowing, full-well, her issues.  About a year later, through a series of events, I ended up taking ownership of Belle and it was then that the adventure really started.  Once in my home, Belle was a mischievous, intelligent opponent but also a loving, loyal protector. During that time I focused on honing her obedience training so I could control her aggressive drives.  She really was a joy to train when she was in work mode, and over the two years I had her she was a regular demonstration dog at classes I taught.  When she wasn’t in work mode, she was a bit of a test.  If she jumped up on the bed and didn’t want to get down or if she got in the truck wanting a ride she wouldn’t budge.  Any attempt at moving her unleashed a barrage of aggressive barks and snapping teeth.  These were the alpha tests.  Having worked with a lot of psychotic dogs over the years, I know the difference between an alpha challenge and full blown intent to kill.  Belle was all about the challenge.  It was a assessment to see if I would cower and retreat as a submissive pack member or if I would be willing to take the alpha position. I picked my battles and always won but had to be smart about it.  Sometimes it involved a catch pole and other times it required grabbing a pillow and knocking her off the bed or the couch when she got aggressive after refusing to get down when commanded.  For the record, of all the dogs I've worked with over the years, Belle was the only one that required such drastic methods.

I know, I can hear some people screaming now.  Some saying that she should have been euthanized and others that I should never hit a dog with anything.  In my defense, nothing I ever did hurt Belle, other than her pride, so can keep the condemnation to yourself.  These incidents were few, with the majority of her challenges being that of giving me the bird and ignoring a command when she was in a pissy mood.

Not long after I had Belle I needed to leave her at my mom’s house for a few hours.  Belle had been there many times, but this would be the first time she would be alone with my mom and step-dad. As I was leaving I felt I should give mom a warning.

“Mom, Belle will likely challenge you.  If she does, don’t reach for her.” I added, half-joking, “Just grab something and hit her with it.  Preferably something soft.”

“Oh we’ll be fine.” Mom insisted as she petted Belle and my other dog, Griz.

Before you freak out about me leaving a dog like Belle with my mom let me explain something.  Belle never charged when being defiant. I knew her challenges were about holding ground and not attacking anyone.  The risk was always if you reached for her or infringed in the area she was guarding. I knew Belle, and more importantly, I knew my mom and step-dad.  They had been around me and my various rescues over the years and had become rather dog savvy, so I had confidence that they could take care of themselves.

Sure enough, not five minutes after I had left, Belle jumped up onto my step-dad’s living room chair. The height gave her the dominance she was wanting.  Mom told her to get down and, to my mom’s surprise, Belle barked and lunged at her with a snap of her teeth.  The sweet, animal-loving woman who raised me quickly reverted back to the woman who survived raising four boys on a ranch, a mighty feat if you ever get to know us boys.

Once more the command was given and Belle responded with the same defiance.  Mom, heeding my advice, didn’t dare reach for the beast on the hassock, instead she grabbed a hefty throw pillow from the couch and gave Belle one more chance to obey.  With a big middle finger and a few angry barks, Belle replied.  The first hit was by no means hard and Belle didn’t budge but again challenged.  The second hit with the command was with more authority. Belle stood defiantly, teeth bared.  Apparently, with a hyper dominant, protection-trained Rottweiler, the third time is the charm.  The impact of the pillow motivated Belle to obey and jump down.  From that day on, Belle never challenged my mom again and, for the record, Belle came to adore my mom, the woman who Belle, after that day, truly felt was alpha. 

My mom and Belle

I only had Belle for a couple years before bone cancer took her.  During that time she traveled all over the state helping me teach animal control and law enforcement officers how to safely deal with dogs. To this day, she ranks up there as one of my favorite dogs.  Perhaps it was because her loyalty was not freely given but had to be earned and maintained.  I know that my mom, too, achieved dominance with Belle and held it till Belle’s final day.

 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. 

Real Men Do Cry

The original version of this article was my first published work and appeared in Dog & Kennel Magazine in June 2003.

Real Mean Do Cry

I was raised on a small ranch and spent most of my teen years working on larger ranches around the region. Between that and hunting I was very familiar with death, where the slaughter of livestock was common, and pets were tools to help with chores such as herding cattle, rather than family members to be loved.  Crying over the loss of animals was not welcome and often garnered the ridicule of one’s father or older brothers.  Because of this I learned to keep my emotions in check as a “young man” was supposed to do.  Yet, I realized quickly that feelings existed and, though repressed, they came out on occasion, regardless of how “strong” the man was. 

On many occasions I watched my dad deal with horses who had to be put down for a variety of reasons.  I was never allowed to be there when the vet showed up and they, subsequently, walked the horse to a quiet place in the trees.  When my dad returned, he showed no signs of emotion, acting as if nothing had happened.  It was only in my teenage years that I saw how much a man can care for an animal and grieve for it when it died.  One of our horses broke its leg while on a back country ride.  Getting a vet there to euthenize the animal was not an option given the time it would take.  The horse was in great pain and, sadly, my dad made the decision to shoot the horse.  It was the first and last time I have ever witnessed such an event.  I had grown up hunting, so shooting an animal for food was part of my life and didn’t bother me.  Yet to see a valued horse, a creature that I had spent countless hours with in the mountains, shot, was traumatic to say the least. 

What influenced me more was seeing how my dad reacted. As a big, proud man, emotion was not something he showed often.  He was a doctor, rancher and hunter, so he saw death constantly and handled it as he was required to, calm and restrained, never letting others see him cry.  Yet that day I saw this man, my dad, cry for hours over the loss of this horse.  That moment in my life demonstrated to me that my emotions were normal, even for a man. 

Some say that women and men handle emotions differently.  Women tending to be more open and forthcoming with their feelings, a blessing really.  Men on the other hand, be it a result of society or genetic code, tend to keep their emotions to themselves and often show them only to those within their circle of trust.  I learned that these emotions are very intense and need to be released, and, most importantly, that to do so was not an indication of weakness. 

It was this acceptance of emotions that allowed me to become involved with Rottweiler Rescue and to start Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue.  It was while doing rescue and working with the local shelter that I saw how the loss of pets affected those that loved them.  Seeing people come to the local shelter with their family pets who had died had great influence on me.  Since the shelter had the only crematorium for animals in the county the number of such visits was high.  Usually it is the veterinarians or their assistants who brought the animals to be cremated after they have been euthanized.  The owners are often too distraught to come with them.  Still, on occasion, the owners themselves would bring their pet on their final ride.  You can see it the moment they walk in; the look of loss on their faces, the tear stains on their cheeks.  Often the shelter staff helps them carry the pet back to the crematorium when the grief and heartache are too strong for the owner to do it alone.  It was one of these moments that confirmed my belief that real men do cry, and that there is no shame in doing so.

It was winter, and I had just finished working with the Rottweilers at the shelter.  I was walking out of the lobby when I saw the man come in.  He was easily over six feet tall and two hundred pounds in weight.  Though it was barely ten degrees outside, he wore only jeans and a thick flannel shirt.  His clothing was work-worn, and his rough hands and weathered skin told me his occupation was a hard one.  He seemed a strong man, both physically and emotionally, yet his face was solemn and fixed and you could see the pain clearly in his eyes.  His words to the staff member at the front desk were typical of a man, particularly one from Montana.

“My dog died.”  No quiver in his voice, and his face hardened with the three words exiting his mouth.  

The staff member handed him the paper work as I ventured outside to head back to work.  I shivered against the cold as I zipped up my jacket, not thinking much about the man who had come in.  Walking to my vehicle I saw the truck that the man had driven up in.  I could see into the back but saw no dog.  I wondered if he had driven there with the dog up front.  I started my truck, and as I sat there letting it warm up I saw the man come out, a shelter employee walking behind him. 

I watched as they spoke and I knew what was being said.  The employee pointed towards the back of the building where the man would need to drive his truck in order to unload the dog.  The man shook his head and opened the passenger door.  I caught a glimpse of the shape of a medium-sized dog on the seat.  The employee moved to help retrieve the dog but the man stopped her.  It was his task to do.  She nodded and waited for the man to pull the dog out.   The limp body hung in the big man’s arms.  The dog weighed perhaps fifty pounds, but the man showed no strain as he straightened up.  Slowly, the stone features of his face began to weaken.  The employee walked along the outside of the shelter toward the back door at the crematorium.  The man followed. 

I found myself fixated on this event playing out before me.  The man’s steps were slow and deliberate.  Each time his foot broke through the six inches of snow his face grew more pained.  This man could have easily let the employee carry the dog, as so many people do, thus avoiding the heartache he was enduring.  Instead, out of honor and love, he chose the task.  If I had seen this man on the street I would have never imagined him having such devotion and love for a dog.  Yet here he was, doing perhaps the most painful thing he had ever done.  The reason was evident.  This dog was his companion, his friend, and his actions were a final act of loyalty. 

The man and his dog disappeared inside the crematorium.  I thought of leaving, but instead waited to see him return.  In a minute the employee and the man came out of the door.  The man’s face was hard again, but he was cordial to the employee as they spoke.  I saw him nod his head and walk back to his truck.  It was after he climbed in the truck that I saw him wipe a tear from his cheek.  He drove away and I left soon afterwards; however, the scene was etched into my mind and soul. 

While I never knew if the man wept more than I had seen, it didn’t matter.  The grief and devotion I saw that day spoke more of what a real man is than perhaps anything else.  Since that day I have had to take that same walk eight times after being with my dogs in that final moment.  It was the least I can do for them, given the unlimited love and devotion they have given me.  And on that last walk, I, a man, unapologetically cried.  It is, after all, the manly thing to do.

If you love the bond and devotion between dogs and humans, check out my novels.

Stranger's Dance: Kindle: http://amazon.com/dp/B00ZYAZCPY E-Books: http://books2read.com/u/3LpRg1 

Lost Horse Park: Kindle: http://amazon.com/dp/B01N5LA7LK E-Books: http://books2read.com/u/bxzoLl

Great Vets and The Next Generation

On November 18, 2015, my dogs and I had the honor of giving a presentation to the Montana State University Pre-Vet Club. When I was asked to do this I wasn’t hesitant, but I will admit I was a little concerned as to how to keep the students young, over-worked, and stressed minds attentive. Teaching has always been natural for me, and I’ve presented to groups both large and small around the nation, so that wasn’t the issue.  Instead, it was recognizing that I had an opportunity to pass along over 20 years’ experience on dog handling and behavior assessment. In a way I would be passing the torch to these future veterinarians. 

In all my years of working with dogs, I’ve learned that there are good veterinarians and great veterinarians.  The good ones know their stuff and can care for the animal well enough; however, you can just tell that they really don’t connect with the dog.  The great veterinarians are the ones that do connect, often better than they do with the human owners. 

While giving my presentation, I was pleased to see that one of the professors was a longtime friend, Dr. Mattix, who was the one who had spayed my first two Rottweilers, Taz and Mickey. I remember that day well.  I had already brought the dogs in for some shots or other medical work and I had seen the other veterinarian of the practice. She was a ‘great’ vet but I didn’t know it at the time.  When my dogs were over six months old I decided to get them spayed, having no desire to deal with more puppies or fend off the neighborhood hounds when my girls were in heat.  I scheduled the appointment without a care which vet did the work.  While waiting in the exam room, Dr. Mattix entered, wearing her standard white doctor’s coat and files in hand.  I had never met her and she paused at the door looking at the files, then looking at my six month old Rottweilers who were sitting near me, and then back to the files before looking at me. 

“Do these dogs need muzzles?”, she inquired with a confused look on her face.

“I don’t think so, why?”

“Well, there is a warning on their file.”  Dr. Mattix set the file down and leaned over with a big smile. “We don’t need no muzzles do we puppies?” Her voice was playful and friendly and it elicited a fur ball of loving Rottweiler bounding across the room to say hi to the welcoming lady. 

I never did learn why the other vet had put a warning in my dogs’ file.  They were puppies and had never shown any sign of aggression.  In hindsight, I now realize that the other vet had a bias against Rottweilers and she likely wasn’t a dog person.  The practice was, after all, aimed at exotic and small pets, and I switched not long after I learned that they had let Dr. Mattix go. 

Dr. Mattix is just one of many great veterinarians I’ve worked with and I’m honored to call her a friend.  She is one of those who doesn’t hold a bias against a breed and even if the dog is aggressive, they don’t take it personally.  My current veterinarian is one of those great ones as well, having served in the U.S. Army and having cared for the Military Working Dogs in Iraq. His calm, cool demeanor has helped him in many situations. Being in rescue, I tend to adopt the dogs that no one else wants or can handle.  It comforts me that when I do have such a dog, taking them to the vet will not be a major ordeal for any involved. 

Picking a good veterinarian can be hard though.  Over the years I have learned to not only trust my gut but also trust my dogs.  Perhaps that was the biggest leap for me, trusting my dogs.  If they are properly trained and socialized and yet give a warning sign about a person or situation, I now know that I had better pay attention.  That trust has helped me find great veterinarians and has also reinforce the beautiful bond that has existed between humans and dogs for over 30,000 years. 

Oh, and regarding that presentation I did for the pre-vet club, well, I picked the one topic that I knew a couple dozen college students would relate too. Stress.  Specifically, the effects of stress on both human and canine behavior and how to reduce or eliminate those effects.  When I began teaching I wasn’t sure how well the topic would be received, but the attentive stares and thoughtful questions told me I was doing something right.  The only downside was Bradum.  Yes, my 122 pound love bug of a Rottweiler was a bit of a distraction and I had four girls ask if they could take him home with them.  After explaining the consequences of any such attempt they relinquished his leash back to me. Funny though, no one made such an offer for Carly. She is my current problem dog and was nervous in the large group.  This was a good thing though because I started the class, right after I entered the room and even before introducing myself, by asking which dog was most likely to bite.  One student was astute enough to observe that Carly was showing nervous warning signs. 

Having that hands on observation and explaining the impacts of stress on dogs was critical for those students to becoming great veterinarians.  By understanding how stress limits the dog’s ability to recall imprinted behaviors, those learned through training and socialization, the students saw the importance of not only controlling their stress and fear but also changing the environment so that the dog’s stress was reduced.  If that wasn’t possible I then covered the basics of eliminating the fight and flight options of the dog so that the only option for the animal was to submit. The goal is to do this without being harsh or cruel.  If these students walked out of the presentation with that knowledge then I feel I did my job of passing my knowledge onto the next generation.

The confirmation of this success was the enthusiastic call for me to return next semester to teach about approaching and handling nervous or aggressive dogs.  Though I don’t get paid for this I feel it is a worthwhile effort.  The goal being that of equipping the next generation of veterinarians with knowledge and experience so that they aren’t just good but great.

The Christmas Gift

To say my dad had a big heart, especially for family and children, would be an understatement, he was a pediatrician after all.  However, that big heart rarely extended to animals.  He was old school in that animals were just that, animals, things to perform a task with little affection being shown. Provide for their needs and use them as you will, anything else is wasted effort. I remember once when he was giving me a riding lesson he stated,

“Never be nice to your horse in the mountains cause it’ll get you killed.” 

He learned horsemanship from old cowboys where a heavy hand was the norm.  To be clear, my dad wasn’t cruel, he just rarely showed any affection for an animal. Try as I might to emulate that creed I just couldn’t.  Instead, I always connected with the animals on a deeper level than what appeared to be the case with my father. That isn’t to say I didn’t jerk a rein hard when the horse was being obstinate, it’s just that I preferred to work with the horse rather than against it whenever possible.  Perhaps it was the narrow mindedness that teens sometimes possess, but I just never saw my dad having that same point of view. Then one Christmas night he proved that he was much more than a heavy hand, when it came to horses, and that I should never look at the exterior gruffness of a person, but rather try to see the heart beneath.

It was early evening on Christmas Eve or Christmas day and dinner had ended.  My younger siblings were playing with toys or the latest football video game that had become a tradition at our house.  Whatever the case, most everyone was in the living room when I heard dad call me from the kitchen,

“Troy, come help me check the horses.” 

Always preferring the company of horses or dogs over humans, I left the festivities and joined my dad.  From the entry hall we went out into the cold garage and started putting on layers of wool and Carhart coveralls to fend off the single digit temps that we knew awaited us outside. 

“Is everything okay?” I asked as I zipped up my Carharts, knowing full well that for my dad to go outside on Christmas was unheard of.  He mumbled something about checking the horses’ water and feed, though I knew that was false, as I had set out a round bale for the herd just the day before and they still had plenty of hay.  I didn’t press the issue, though, as I had learned to just go with it and not question everything my dad did. Once outside, the chill snapped at any exposed flesh as the snow creaked with each step of our boots.

“Go get one of the kid’s sleds and meet me over at the tack shed”, Dad ordered.  I obeyed as I watched him trudge through the foot deep snow that had drifted across the path to the small log cabin serving as storage for all our saddles and horse related gear.  Digging out a long red plastic sled that had been snowed over, I dragged it to the shed with the long rope that was tied to the front.  “Here, help me out”, Dad requested, handing me a fifty pound bag of oats and then another one of alfalfa nuggets. Being the one responsible for the care of the horses and all the tack, I knew that these bags of feed were recently purchased and not by me.  It was then that I realized what my dad was up to. 

In silence we walked down the snow packed road toward where the horses stood huddled around the mound of hay, the laden sled dragging behind with both dad and I sharing the effort.  Breathing caused the cold to sting our lungs and form icy clouds with each exhale.  For almost three hundred yards we walked until dad was content with the spot.  The horses were in another field about a hundred yards from us, huddled around the swath of hay that I had spread out with the tractor the day before.  We were free of the bright lights that illuminated the house and now stood in the dark field with a sliver moon and a river of stars above us.

“Stomp down the snow”, Dad instructed me as he pulled out the big folding Buck knife he always carried.  As I formed a trench with heavy steps of my boots, I heard the tearing of the bags and saw dad start to pour out a long line of oats in the boot formed trench.  I went back and did the same with the bag of nuggets. As I finished, my dad let out a shrill whistle that echoed off the mountains surrounding us. 

The low rumble of thundering hooves was heard across the snow as the dozen horses responded to the call.  They had heard it before.  The whistles always coincided with food.  I used a different whistle than my dad but the effect was the same.  At the head of the herd were our two Belgian draft horses, David and Goliath.  After them came our various saddle horses, icy bellows blasted from their nostrils as their hooves shook the earth through the deep snow.  It really was a beautiful sight, the clear night sky above, a partial moon making it almost like daytime with the blanket of snow, and through it all a thundering herd of horses. 

Stomping hoofs and showers of snow halted the advance as nostrils sucked in the aroma of the oats and nuggets.  The herd ignored us as they necked down to their Christmas treat.  I watched as my dad went to each horse, patting their necks affectionately, and then quietly wishing them a Merry Christmas.  I had done this before, sneaking out during Christmas to wish the dogs and horses a Merry Christmas, but always solo.  I would load up my pockets with alfalfa nuggets to give as gifts but dad had taken it to a much higher level, as was his nature.  Once the food was consumed, the horses milled around for a little while longer, sniffing us to make sure we hadn’t secreted away another treat for them.  Satisfied that the food was gone, the herd meandered back to the hay they had left for their unexpected gift. 

Without a word I grabbed the rope to the sled, and together with my dad, walked back to the house.  The silence of winter always appealed to me but that night it was even more powerful.  I saw my dad differently that night and it forever changed my view of him as a person, as a horseman.

Going back into the house, the blessed silence of the outdoors was replaced with the noisy merriment's we had abandoned an hour earlier.  No one noticed we were back, and for that matter I don’t think anyone realized we had departed.  Neither dad nor I said a word, as none were needed.

Merry Christmas everyone.  May your family, your pack, your herd, all be blessed.

What the hell do I have to be afraid of? I have Bo!

After founding Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue in March 1997, I began working closely with the Humane Society of Gallatin Valley in Bozeman, Montana.  Any Rottweiler that came into the shelter was my responsibility to evaluate, train, and find a home for, and it was no different when I came across a dog named Bo.

Part of my duties at the shelter were to do home checks for any Rottweilers that people wanted to adopt.  On one such occasion, while out in Three Forks, Montana, I was told by the applicant that I should check out a Rottweiler just down the alley from them.  They said that all the neighbor kids threw rocks at the dog every day after school and he really wasn’t cared for by the owners.  Finishing my home check, I drove down the alley and found an eight foot square pen made of sheep fence with a couple pieces of plywood rigged up in a failed attempt at a shelter.  Inside the pen was a dark dog with the markings of a Rottweiler.  I say dark dog because his coat was not the typical black but rather it was gray with dirt and grime.  Stepping out of my car, I started walking toward the dog causing him to slip into protection mode, his barks alerting the owner who was working on something in the yard. She walked over to me as I neared the pen. I introduced myself, saying I was with Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue and just loved Rottweilers and stopped to see hers.  She explained how Bo was her son’s dog but he could no longer keep him.  While we talked, the dog pushed his head through one of the deformed squares of wire. I could tell he was craving for any kind of human affection, but I didn’t dare approach as his eyes told me he was very protective of his space. The lady even warned me, telling how one of their relatives had reached in to pet Bo, only to be rewarded with a trip to the emergency room.  Bo’s eyes are what struck me most and when I see a picture of him today I experience the same feeling each time.  His eyes were intense and powerfully intelligent. Not the intelligence that you see with some dogs, a higher level, such that I swear the dog was thinking more than most humans I interacted with.  Deep in that powerful stare, behind the anger and rage of being kept in a small pen, there was a glimmer of desire.  The desire to be loved, to be a dog in a home instead of in an isolated cage.

Inside the kennel lay an empty water dish, its bottom and sides covered in green algae. I mentioned the dog needed some water and the lady shrugged her shoulders as if not caring but, perhaps motivated by my glare, grabbed a hose and filled the dish, not bothering to clean it out.  

At this point in my life I was well trained in various martial arts and the use of weapons. This is important because at that moment, it took every bit of restraint I had to not unleash each skill I had on the insensitive excuse for a human that was filling the filthy dish with water.  I kept telling myself that my goal was to save the dog and nothing else.  I had decided that very thing the first time I had looked in Bo’s eyes.  Even if he was aggressive and needed to be put down, I couldn’t leave him there to rot his existence away. Better to end life with someone who cared than to waste away unloved. With that in mind, I continued the conversation and learned that they didn’t want the dog and were thinking of selling him.  It took about twenty minutes of polite conversation before I convinced them to surrender the dog to the local shelter the next day. I say polite because that is one skill I learned in rescue.  Focus on the dog and saving it, regardless of what you want to say to the people.  Be professional, be polite, save the dog. With her promise on the deal, I left. While driving back to Bozeman I called the shelter and let them know that Bo would be coming in the next day. I also let them know we would need to handle him with care.  Thankfully the staff were top notch so I wasn’t too concerned.  Yet as I drove, the rage of seeing Bo in those terrible conditions still boiled inside me.  It took a long time for that rage to go away but sadly, in rescue that rage easily returns when you see the terrible things people do to dogs on a daily basis. The only counter to that is when a dog is saved. When a dog everyone had given up on is turned around and becomes an amazing member of a family and society.  This roller coaster ride of rescue is best summed up in one sentence which I share with anyone wanting to get involved with rescue.  The negatives outnumber the positives, but the positives outweigh the negatives.  The good things may be less frequent than all the bad things but when the good things happen they remind you why you do what you can to save a dog.  One of the best quotes I’ve seen that captures this is: “Saving a single dog won’t change the world but it will change the world for that one dog.”

Flash forward six months.  After Bo came into the shelter, under the expert care of the staff and myself, he became the shelter mascot.  Because he had a strong distrust of people and kids he was difficult to place but that was okay with the staff, who all grew to love and trust the Rottweiler who helped them with their chores every morning.  I will tell more about Bo and his long stay in future blogs, but there is one story that shows how strong an impact a dog can have on a person.

Jamie was a kennel tech at the shelter.  A young lady in her late teens or early twenties, she was perhaps a hundred pounds, if wearing heavy clothing and soaked with water.  She was a thin, gentle gal, who loved all animals, especially Bo.  Now, the shelter back then was located next to the East Gallatin River, with a labyrinth of trails local fisherman used to access the stream. Others that used the trail were homeless people who had taken to setting up camp in the thick underbrush. This homeless population became an issue when some of them began harassing others and even attempting assaults.  The police were concerned enough to give a warning to all the shelter staff and volunteers.

During this time, the shelter had just a couple fenced yards to put the dogs into during cleaning time and a limited number of volunteers to walk the dogs. Dogs like Bo were classified as gold star dogs because of their behavior issues, so only qualified staff and volunteers could walk them.  To offset the lack of exercise time for dogs like Bo, the staff would walk them early in the morning and then let them hang out inside while they cleaned the facility. Sometimes additional walks were provided by qualified volunteers like myself during the day. Finally, before the shelter would close, the staff would walk them again. 

On one of those walks, when it was still dark out, Jamie had taken Bo out on the trails by the river.  This was after one of the warnings by the police about the homeless people causing problems.  Jamie told me the next day that she was terrified as she walked and spent the entire time looking every direction, thinking she was going to be attacked around every corner.  Then an epiphany hit her.  Everyone knew that Bo was protective of his territory as well as those he cared for, so much so that when the staff were being threatened by an irate customer it was decided to keep Bo behind the front desk until the situation was resolved.  With this knowledge, Jamie stopped, Bo stopped and looked up at her.  Looking at the Rottweiler at her feet she said out loud.

“What the hell do I have to be afraid of? I have Bo!” 

With new confidence, Jamie proceeded on her walk as if there wasn’t anything in the world that could harm her.  You know what?  She was right.  Anyone that knew Bo, anyone who spent time with that amazing dog, knew that he would give his life for ones he loved.  What really was amazing about him was not only that devotion but also his restraint when he had to be aggressive, but that is another story. 

Bo ended up being at the shelter for almost a year before a home was found.  If I hadn’t already owned two dogs, Bo would have been mine.  He not only gave Jamie and the staff confidence when walking him, he also was the reason I met someone who would end up being one of my best friends.  All this because we shared a love of Rottweilers, particularly a steely eyed one named Bo.

For more information about Big Sky Rottweiler Rescue, go to www.bigskyrottrescue.org and don’t forget to check out my novel, Stranger’s Dance, on Amazon. Bo was one of several dogs that helped inspired the character of Stranger.