Bonding with Bobby

When you live with a dog, things can go from good to bad as quick as a shot, with no warning.  If I'd forgotten that, I was reminded of it today by Bobby, the impish Cocker Spaniel who's a bundle of cuteness and mischief.

The first time I saw Bobby on Petfinder, I fell in love.  It wasn't hard.  He was adorable and winning and it was hard to imagine that there could be anything but sweetness in that doleful face.  I hadn't lived with a Cocker Spaniel since I was a young child, but having shared my life with Springer Spaniels for almost 20 years, I figured I knew what to expect.  I was wrong.

Bobby was a doll during the long ride from New York to Massachusetts on the warm September afternoon that I met him and brought him home.  He was coming with a rap sheet, so I had entered into our adoption contract advisedly.  Through no fault of his own, he'd landed in a kill shelter, but had been miraculously rescued by Pamela Schechter of Companion Critters, who cuddled him and coddled him and gave him a spiffy haircut so he'd make a good impression.  Bobby had lasted at his original adoptive home only 48 hours, having been asked to leave after he bit his adopted "father" as he tried to collar him when he fled from their fenced yard.  I was cautious, but initially undeterred.

After only a few days, I was ready to bring Bobby back.  His fascination with my cats bordered on mania.  They were terrorized, spending their days quivering under my bed while Bobby strutted his stuff.  I couldn't believe what I'd done to them; I had been assured that Bobby liked cats, but he sure didn't show any respect or affection to Neil, Glenda, and Django.

Not only that, but I discovered that Bobby's name should have been, "Mr. Into Everything."  After having lived with several mild mannered Goldens and Springers for so many years, I was completely unprepared for a dog who not only surfed counters but regularly safaried into kitchen cabinets, waste baskets, and purses, eating everything in his path.  He was a seven-year-old in a seven-month-old's body.  I hadn't signed up for that.

But instead of relinquishing Bobby, I decided to take him on.  A few sessions of training were only marginally helpful.  The trainer thought she could use conventional methods to bring Bobby around, but none of them worked on a little guy who wasn't used to being told what to do.  I tried EFT and though for 24 hours, Bobby didn't flinch when he spied one of the cats, the magic quickly wore off.

It finally hit me that Bobby was like no other dog I'd ever had.  I had to learn his rules, and play by them, if we were going to make any progress.  That meant lots of sweet talk and encouragement, and never trying to grab an item of contraband from his mouth, lest I become bite victim #2.  I praised him and loved him and even when he exasperated me, I forgave him.  Again and again.  And he forgave me.

I became the student, and Bobby, the teacher.  As I softened, so did he.  We grew closer, in spite of myself.  Even the cats noticed the difference, gradually gaining the confidence to mingle with Bobby without fear.  On days when I spend hours bent over a computer, Bobby's little face peeks up from under the table as if to say, "Take a break.  Pet me."  And I do.

Yet I hadn't understood how much Bobby meant to me until this morning, when somehow, he scooted away as I opened the door to retrieve a just-delivered package.  Perhaps because his mostly white coat blended with the snowy driveway, I didn't see or feel him go.  It was only when my other dog, Tennessee, tried to push the door open as I was closing it, that I realized something was amiss.  I turned around expecting to see Bobby waiting in the hallway behind me, but he wasn't there.  I rushed around the house, frantically calling him, but then, in horror, I understood that he'd bolted.  My heart sank.  I could feel the adrenaline rising as I flung open the door and screamed, "Bobby!  Where ARE You?!"

And there, sitting quietly as though nothing had happened, was Bobby.  Not a fugitive, but just a little Cocker Spaniel who, after more than a year, understands that this is his home--a place where he is loved and appreciated for who he is.  A place where he belongs.

An Alternative Approach to Veterinary Care

Dr. Kevin Landau doesn't prescribe medications for his animal patients, nor does he vaccinate them.  He doesn't X-ray them or inject them with steroids or painkillers, either.  Yet this holistic veterinarian has achieved remarkable results in treating cancer, ulcers, enigmatic lameness, lyme disease, liver failure, seizures, and a variety of ailments and diseases that often resist conventional medicine.

Armed with wispy thin acupuncture needles, a pharmacy of time-tested Chinese herbs, expertise in chiropractic, and knowledge of diagnostic techniques based on Traditional Chinese Medicine, Dr. Landau makes a big difference in the lives of his equine and small animal patients from a base in Pelham, MA, in the heart of the Pioneer Valley.

"When you're working with animals," Dr. Landau explained, during an informal seminar at the Equine Essentials Tack Shop in Oxford, MA on January 17th, "it's important to walk in without a huge agenda.  It's a give and take process between you and the animal."  A member of the Board of Directors of the American Holistic Veterinary Medical Association, Dr. Landau's approach is designed to complement, rather than compete with his patient's primary vet.  "I'm trying to be part of the team," he said.

Rather than simply treat symptoms, Dr. Landau probes for the root cause of an animal's distress, using his holistic training to identify and interpret "patterns of point sensitivities"--those places in the body where the flow of beneficial "chi" may be blocked, creating dis-ease.  Interestingly, an ouchy point in one area may reflect problems in another.  Horses that have stifle pain, for example, often have an imbalance in the stomach meridian.  And there is a point behind the withers--the "wither pocket"--that is very painful in horses who have ulcers.  Dr. Landau uses herbs to "quiet the stomach fire" and by inserting acupuncture needles in the appropriate points on affected meridians, he can often clear the syndrome that is creating the pain.  In addition to applying dry needles, he sometimes injects points with Vitamin B12 or even with an animal's own blood--a process that can stimulate an immune response.

Among the difficult medical cases for which Dr. Landau has created good outcomes are seizure disorders in dogs and horses.  "I can't say that I achieve 100% success by using acupuncture and herbs for seizures, but I can say that I've been able to help my patients a lot," he said.  He's used the same prescription--coupled with nutritional therapy--with horses who have lymphomas and small animals plagued by various forms of cancer.  The tools of his trade--acupuncture, chiropractic, laser, and herbs--are designed to improve the circulation of blood and energy in an animal's body, while decreasing pain and inflammation.  Like conventional veterinarians, Dr. Landau is out to maximize the health, comfort, and performance of his patients.  But he goes about it a lot differently, always enhancing--and never impeding--an animal's natural ability to heal himself.

The Evidence for Animals in the Afterlife

Anyone looking for evidence that our beloved animals in spirit will be waiting for us at the "Rainbow Bridge" when we die would have found it last night during Psychic Medium Joanne Gerber's appearance at the Hampton Inn in Natick, MA.  The three-hour "Holidays Past" event drew an appreciative crowd of about 100, each of whom (including me) had come in hopes of hearing a message from a departed loved one.

Though I was not one of the lucky people who received messages from people they knew, I was far from disappointed.  Joanne Gerber is a well-respected Medium, with proficiency certifications from the Windbridge Institute and from the beneficiary of the event, the Forever Family Foundation, which "furthers the understanding of afterlife science through research and education."  Not only was Joanne generous, compassionate, and grounded, but she was also astonishingly accurate in providing verifiable details about the spirits who were using her energy to communicate with people in the room.

What impressed me, in particular, were the dogs and cats who came through.  There was a bulldog with a spiked collar, "Spike," who Joanne saw while describing the husband of one of the audience members; he had died 17 years ago.  An elderly woman appeared with her cherished cat.  An older man was there with his large, German Shepherd-like dog.  Joanne knew nothing of these people or their pets until they had beckoned her from the spirit world.  What she conveyed was that they and their animal partners had somehow found one another in an unearthly dimension and were still reveling in the joy of their mutual companionship, as if nothing whatsoever had changed.

I was especially moved when Joanne asked if anyone had lost a young golden retriever named "Jack" or "Jake."  A young woman raised her hand and said that yes, that might be her dog:  her golden retriever, "Jykes" (or a similar-sounding name), had died not too long ago.  This dog came through on his own, with no human spirit to accompany him.  When Joanne explained that she heard the dog apologizing for having run away, the woman burst into tears.  Joanne said she saw Jykyes being hit by an 18-wheeler truck.  Sadly, that was exactly what had caused the poor dog's demise.  But lest the dog's former caretaker melt into grief, Joanne was quick to soothe her, sharing a current vision of Jykes gallivanting happily in the afterlife, without a care in the world.

A sad, sad good-bye to my beautiful Tish

I fell in love with Tish from the moment I first saw her, almost 14 years ago to this day.  She was a happy three-month-old Springer puppy:  the only one of her litter who was still available from her breeder, Sue Sutton of Woodlander Kennels in Maine.  I wasn't sure why Sue hadn't already sold her, but when I saw her, I knew:  Tish was supposed to come home with me.

And from that day to this, Tish rarely left my side.  She was a shy girl who didn't mix well with crowds of people.  In that way, I guess, we were a perfect fit.

On the day I met Tish, Sue mentioned that from the time she'd ventured outdoors, Tish loved to meander through the garden, biting off the blooms of all the flowers she could find.  I laughed off this quirky behavior, until Tish did it in my garden, too.  It didn't matter, though, because there was little mischief Tish could do that wouldn't earn my instant forgiveness.  And when I made mistakes, Tish was quick to forgive me, too.

When I brought Tish home on a beautiful May afternoon in 1998, life seemed so full of hope, of promise.  Tish's exuberance made it easy to believe that our best days were yet to come.  She became the youngest child in a family full of dogs, fitting in beautifully with older Golden Retriever sisters, Ashley and Lady.  And as the self-appointed ambassador of her breed, she welcomed the other homeless Springers who I brought into the fold:  Trudy, Randy, and Liam.  They've all passed into spirit, and now, so has Tish.

For the last several months, I tried to ignore the signs that Tish was not only slowing down, but her body was giving up.  Her eyes became foggy and her ears seemed full of cotton, but I told her each day, as I hugged and caressed and kissed her, "I will keep you safe and take care of you, no matter what comes."  But a series of chronic infections seemed to knock her out with each succeeding recurrence, and by early spring, it was clear that even with treatment, they were taking their toll.

Still, as long as I had Tish, I had hope.  In the last few weeks, that hope had begun to wane, though I couldn't bring myself to admit it.  There were so many little signs.  Once a voracious eater who barked for her food dish each night, Tish halfheartedly picked at her meal.  Once eager to dash through our boundless backyard, Tish now tiptoed tentatively, nervous lest she lose sight of me.  Though she'd always napped next to me while I worked at the computer, she now stayed upstairs, fearful of falling down.  She often seemed vaguely uncomfortable, though it was difficult to pinpoint exactly why.

But Tish soldiered on.  And perhaps it was I who was blind, not fully recognizing what I did not want to see: that Tish was slowly, inexorably, dying in front of my eyes.  And that's why it was such a shock when, at 2:30 this morning, I was awakened by her cries.  She'd somehow fallen down the stairs and landed in the sun room, and as I rushed to her side, I saw that she was disoriented and uncoordinated, unable to stand.  I scooped her up in my arms, and brought her back upstairs, imagining for a moment that I would bring her to the vet's office the minute they opened, so they could patch up whatever had gone wrong.

Within minutes, though, it became clear that Tish was already in the process of leaving her beautiful black and white body, and all I could do was to hold her and stroke her and tell her how much I loved her, knowing that her ears could not hear me but hoping that her heart did.  And then, even as I was trying to grasp the enormity of what was happening, she was gone.

All of us who love dogs are wont to say that we hope our canine companions will "die in their sleep" so that we won't have to make the dreadful decision to help them pass out of their bodies.  Just yesterday, I had found myself thinking that to do that to Tish would feel like killing her.  I knew I would never be able to do it.  I have to wonder if she heard me, and decided to spare me the anguish by making her passage quickly and without warning.  What I know now is that it doesn't matter whether the death of a beloved dog comes at home or in the doctor's office:  it is still excruciating for the people left behind.

But not for Tish, who controlled her own destiny, right to the end, choosing to make her exit the same way she lived her life:  privately, bravely, and with me by her side.  Yet through my tears, I keep asking myself what more I could have done, should have done, to forestall this day.  I never wanted it to come.

Schedule a Communication With Your Dog at a Special Price During Adopt-A-Dog Month

To help promote the American Humane Society's Adopt-a-Dog Month and to support canine caretakers everywhere, I'm offering telepathic communication sessions with dogs for the special price of $40 throughout October. 

If you've ever thought of asking an animal communicator to talk with your dog, there's no better time!

This offer is open to all dogs (not just those who have been recently adopted), and the telepathic consultations can explore virtually any topic, including details about a dog's life and circumstances prior to being adopted by their current people, how your dog feels about the members of his family (humans and animals!), or issues relating to your dog's unexplained behavioral quirks, fears, habits, or temperament.

By tuning into an animal telepathically, you can uncover jewels of information that can help to foster a more profound understanding between the species.  And sometimes, dogs who are reluctant to express themselves will open up to an animal communicator, because the interaction is completely nonthreatening.

Dog people who would like to take advantage of this month's special offer can request a consultation with their canine companions by visiting the "Consultations" section of the Animal Translations website.  The $40 fee includes a 30-45 minute session with each dog, a typed transcript of the session, and a followup phone call to discuss the findings.      

Why Dogs Can Sense Fair Play

Here's a fascinating article about how dogs experience a wide range of complex emotions, including jealousy, based on research conducted at the University of Vienna and reported by CNN:

"LONDON, England (CNN) -- Dogs appear to experience a range of complex, unpleasant emotions such as jealousy and pride, scientists have discovered.

Dogs hate their owner showing affection to other dogs.

Until now, this type of behavior had only been shown in humans or chimpanzees, but researchers suspected that other species that live together could be sensitive to fair play -- or a lack of one.

'We are learning that dogs, horses, and perhaps many other species are far more emotionally complex than we ever realized,' Paul Morris, a psychologist at the University of Portsmouth who studies animal emotions, told The Sunday Times. 'They can suffer simple forms of many emotions we once thought only primates could experience.'

Scientists noted that dogs hate to see their owners being affectionate to other dogs and can suffer if a new baby or partner arrives on the scene.

To test the theory, Friederike Range and colleagues at the University of Vienna in Austria asked 33 trained dogs to extend a paw to a human. The animals performed the trick virtually all of the time whether they were given a reward or not -- when alone or with another dog. But the dogs' enthusiasm waned when they saw other dogs being rewarded but received nothing themselves.

Dogs that were ignored extended their paws much less often, doing so in only 13 out of 30 trials. They also showed more stress, such as licking or scratching themselves. 'They are clearly unhappy with the unfair situation,' Range told New Scientist magazine.

She also suspects that this sensitivity might stretch beyond food to more abstract things like praise and attention. 'It might explain why some dogs react with 'new baby envy' when their owners have a child,' she said."

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