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.

Grievance with Grief

Since posting about the passing of my boy, Bradum, I’ve received numerous messages of condolences and support, all of which I greatly appreciate.  One message, though, caught me off guard.  A social media friend sent me a note asking how I deal with the grief of losing a pet.  You see, my friend had lost his dog just five days after Bradum had passed, and it impacted him so much so that tears would flow without warning.  It took a long, pre-sunrise walk with Carly for me to sum up my response to his query. Even now I’m not sure I answered him in a way that helped. How does one explain how they handle grief and what is the best way to comfort someone who is grieving, especially when they live a great distance away?

Before I share my response to his inquiry, I must state that part of what hit me with his note wasn’t his question itself but that he would ask me.  Am I an expert on the topic of grief at the loss of a dog? God, I hope not, but after losing seven dogs in twenty-two years, perhaps I have a little more experience than others.  I will share what I can and hope it helps my friend and any others who face the void left when a beloved pet dies.

To give justice to my answer I need to go back to when I was a kid on the ranch.  Death was a part of everyday activities.  I remember helping my parents attempt to save an orphaned calf, only to walk up in the morning to bottle feed it and find its lifeless body.  With livestock there was some level of detachment but not much, at least not for me.  I worked with these animals, and my brothers and I helped raise some of the orphaned calves, only to end up selling them for slaughter.  I don’t regret those events: it was simply life on the ranch.  When you add to that the game hunting my family did, it raised my awareness of the fragility of life all the more.  Seeing something die is one thing but to take a life is another. I’m thankful my dad taught my brothers and I that we must respect the animals we hunt, even thanking them for the meat they provide after the kill. Though my dad got into trophy hunting it was never my thing; I hunt to put meat in the freezer.  The old adage that you can’t eat antlers is one I still live by.  Though I enjoy hunting, the act of taking a life never fills me with pleasure.  Rather, it is a job, a task that needs to be done and I ensure I perform the task as efficiently as possible.  Nothing twists my emotions more than having to walk up to a wounded animal, to look it in the eyes, and then to have to finish it off.  It is a mix of emotions for me: on one side, sadness that the animal suffered in any way and on the other, anger that my first shot wasn’t effective in preventing that suffering. 

I know that my emotional connection with the animals I hunted came from an incident that occurred long before I could hunt.  I was in grade school when the Montana Fish, Wildlife, and Parks asked if we would foster a fawn deer and antelope that had been orphaned when their mothers had been killed.  The policy nowadays would be that the babies be euthanized, but back then the FWP had a facility where orphans were kept, almost like a zoo.  At the time they were out of space at the facility so they asked my dad if we could help.  I remember bottle feeding both animals, but without their mothers their chances of survival were slim.  Sure enough, the deer died first, then the antelope.  I remember seeing the antelope fawn take its last breath and it haunted me in ways I still can’t describe.  It wasn’t a fear of death, mind you, but the full acceptance of how fleeting life can be.

Now, these stories were about animals I didn’t have much connection to yet I still felt somber at their ends.  When our family dogs passed away, though, I really experienced true grief. In high school and college, I was spared such grief by not having any dogs of my own.  It wasn’t until 1994, when I got my first two dogs, that I bonded with animals whose ends caused an extreme impact.  Taz went first, suddenly and without warning at age four.  I still don’t know what happened, I just know that I was devastated.  When Mickey’s turn came after ten years, I had tried to prepare myself, but her passing left me depressed and prone to sudden tears at just the mention of her name months later.  I used to be ashamed of this and never shared the reality with anyone.  It was when I was talking with a good friend and fellow Rottweiler owner, that I saw I was not alone in my emotional connection with a pet.  My friend was and still is in law enforcement and is one of the toughest people I know; however, for more than a year after the passing of his female Rottweiler, a dog that was a part of his wedding, my friend still teared up when talking about her.   This helped me to realize that my grief was normal and even stronger with dogs because of one thing - time.  You see, when my dad died I grieved but not nearly to the depth I did when Mickey died.  This wasn’t because I didn’t love my dad -  far from it -  it was just that I had spent so much more time with my dog than I had my dad in the years prior to his passing. The sudden absence of Mickey from my life was more of a shock to my system. 

As time went on, I took in more rescues and experienced loss upon each of their passing’s.  Most dogs I adopted were older so my time with them was short.  There was one stretch in which I lost three dogs in three years.  This compounded loss felt as if I had been repeatedly hit in the gut without the opportunity to catch my breath.  Still, I learned from it. 

One lesson I learned was to pre-plan for having to put a dog down. Having a plan helped offset the shock a little when the time came.  Also, by pre-planning, I pre-grieved.  What does this even mean? Well, when my girl Belle had bone cancer I knew I would have to set a date to have her put down before her leg became so weak that the bone broke.  Mentally and physically, besides her leg, she was in good health.  Still, I had made the decision that Belle would go with dignity and that I would pull her from the game before the cancer beat her.  The problem with this plan was that for the three weeks leading up to it, my mind dwelt on what was coming.  I would sob late at night as she snored next to me, knowing that soon I would have to end her life.  Yet those weeks of grieving before the event helped somewhat.  The pain of the act itself was as severe as always, even the few days afterwards were hard, but I bounced back faster than I had before.  Why? I believe it was because I had already released much of my sadness.   

The above was part of my answer to my friend: pre-planning and pre-grieving.  But the biggest thing that helped me through such times was still having another dog in my home.  The other dog was grieving, as was I, at the loss of their pack member and they looked to me as the alpha to lead on.  That remaining life, that companion, still needed me to walk them, to feed them, and to love them.  This, in my experience, is probably the best cure for the loss of a pet

Carly and I on an early morning hike last weekend.

Since Bradum’s passing, Carly and I have been working through this process, with my efforts on building her confidence and focusing on getting some of her remaining issues resolved.  When the time comes, when the right dog needs a home, my pack, and my heart will be ready to take them in, all the while knowing that at some point I will have to say goodbye.  I guess that is what life is really all about, hellos and goodbyes.  We can count how blessed we are by how many of those hellos and goodbyes we experience with both the people and the animals we love.

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.

Comfort Zone

“Here are the classifieds, find a job. You aren’t spending your summer watching TV.” My mom tossed the newspaper in front of me, and her tone made it clear her command wasn’t simply a suggestion. It was my first summer in Oregon with my mom and stepdad, the result of my parents’ divorce five years earlier and due to the fact that mom had gotten a job in Gresham, Oregon.  All my prior summers had been work-filled on the ranch, starting in the spring with branding and moving cattle to high country pasture at the top of MacDonald Pass. Once the cattle were gone, I was busy irrigating every day after school until summer break started.  Once summer commenced, preparing equipment for haying season went into high gear.  July was filled with weeks of putting up hay, and the rest of the summer was made up of fence repairs and other tasks necessary to maintain a ranch. It all came full circle when the cattle were brought back to the ranch.  In Oregon there were no such demands on my time, much to my enjoyment, at least until the moment that newspaper landed in front of me like a prison sentence.

“There are a lot of restaurants looking for dishwashers or waiters,” Mom opined from the kitchen.  I mumbled my disfavor at those possibilities and opened up the classified ads to see what options existed. Row after row of jobs, some with good pay, greeted me, but only one caught my eye. Buck bales, clean stalls and a number to call.  Mom came over to check my progress.

“Find anything?” She asked as she dried her hands on a dish towel.

“Yeah, I’ll call this one tomorrow morning,” I said, pointing to the ad.

“Why that one? There have to be better jobs out there.”

“Because that one will be around animals and it’ll be out in the country.  Why would I want to flip burgers if I could do ranch work instead?” 

Mom shook her head and left.  My stubborn nature had long been known to her so she chose not to fight my decision, content that I would at least be doing something that didn’t involve the TV or playing hoops with the neighborhood kids. 

The phone call the next morning put me into contact with an elderly man named Kernel, who had a Simmental cattle and Appaloosa horse ranch south of town. Though a good five inches shorter than me, Kernel carried his nearly seventy-year-old frame as though he stood ten feet tall.  I learned later that he was a retired school teacher and still taught driver’s education courses, which explained the calm but confident demeanor he projected. With a faded yellow ball cap tilted to one side, Kernel gave me a tour of his small spread while telling me what was expected for the job.  The first duty would be to clean the six stalls in the barn each morning, followed by feeding and watering his prize Appaloosa horses.  When that was complete I would be expected to help load forty-five-pound hay bales onto a trailer pulled by a Chevy truck that looked like it was one gear shift from the junkyard.

When he was done explaining the duties, he asked if I wanted the job.

“When can I start?” I answered.

“Right now if you want.” He pointed me to the barn. “You know you’re the first local kid to answer my ad.  I usually only get the migrant workers.  The kids around here would rather wait tables; seems it is cooler to do that than shovel manure and buck bales. Why you doing it?”

I shared that I had grown up on a ranch, so working around horses and cows was as comfortable to me as anything.  Kernel nodded his head and the deal was done.

For three summers and a few Christmas breaks, I worked for Kernel.  I don’t know how many tons of hay I bucked or how many wheelbarrows full of horse manure I mucked, but it was all good.  After the first month, I apparently earned enough of Kernel’s trust that he asked if I would go with him to horse auctions around the state.  Jumping at the chance, I said yes, though I later learned that Kernel just wanted me to tag along so he could have someone drive him home since the auctions ended late and he tended to doze off that far into the evening. Still, it was fun to be around cowboys, ranchers, and the simple, almost forgotten world of rural America. For summers away from my beloved Montana, I truly did enjoy my time working for Kernel.

One of my fondest memories of those summers were the battles that ensued between myself and Kernel’s horse, Rock.  The big stud Appaloosa was a proud and mischievous cuss who challenged me the first time I dared enter his stall.  Growing up with horses, I was never afraid but knew well enough to pick my battles and not become careless around the fifteen-hundred-pound equine attitude problem. 

After several weeks, Rock accepted me, and we fell into a morning routine that, to this day, makes me smile when thinking about it.  After cleaning stalls, I would toss a couple bales of hay down from the loft to feed all of the horses.  They knew what was happening the moment I started to climb the ladder, so by the time I had climbed back down and was cutting bale strings, the whole herd was excited.  Carrying armfuls of hay to each manger, I would go down the line until I came to Rock’s stall.  Now, here is where things became interesting.  You see, Rock was a little impatient and had a nasty habit of biting if his breakfast wasn’t served quickly enough.  Rock’s bite wasn’t just a playful nibble; it was a full on bite that would leave one heck of a mark.  After learning this painful lesson for the first time, the following day I waited for Rock to lean out to try and grab my arm. Then, with a quick flick, I slapped his nose.  The slap wasn’t strong but it contained enough force to cause Rock to pull back and shake his head in annoyance.  This would go on a few times before he would back off, allowing me to finish delivering his meal in peace.   

As the daily battle between Rock and I occurred, and I realized that Rock was actually enjoying the game.  He would try different approaches in his sneaky horse-like attempts at gaining the upper hand.  Each time, I would insert my counterattack and the volley would be exchanged prior to me placing hay in the manger. 

One day while feeding, I was unaware that Kernel was watching us.  As I got to Rock’s stall, the game started in earnest and Rock was a bit more cantankerous than normal, though I now suspect it was because he knew his rider was present.  After two attempted bites by the horse and my retaliatory slaps to his nose, I heard a voice boom behind me.

“What the hell are you doing picking on my horse?!” 

I turned, wide-eyed, figuring I was about to be fired at best or have my butt kicked at worst.  Yet, when I glanced at Kernel, I spied a glint in his eye that betrayed his false gruffness. 

“He started it,” I said, pointing to Rock.

 “Yeah, I don’t doubt it.  Rock has a knack for that.” Kernel laughed.

It was in that moment I knew I had found my perfect summer job.  Following the three summers I worked for Kernel, I had to say goodbye as I headed off to attend school at Montana State University.  I never saw Kernel or Rock again, but I’m thankful I got to know both of them. Mostly, though, I’m thankful I went with my gut in choosing that job over what everyone else my age was doing.  Perhaps that is the lesson in it all.  Hard work, doing something you love, really isn’t hard work at all.  In fact, it is a blessing compared to doing easy work that you hate.

My battles with Rock were an inspiration for the relationship between Jim and Comanche, characters in my second novel, Lost Horse Park. I’m currently finishing its final edits and will be soliciting publishing agents later this month. If you want to know more about my efforts as a writer, be sure to check out my 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.