Wow, haven't updated this in a long time! I've been a bit busy. Anyways...
My dog always knows when it's time for bed. The last thing I do before I get into bed is put on hand cream. And when I start putting on the hand cream, he gets up from whatever he was doing and goes into his kennel in my room, where he sleeps. I'm just assuming it's scent, because he's never watching me do this. This makes bedtime a lot easier, so I'm grateful for the skill. Recently, however, that sense of smell is making bedtime very, very difficult.
I took him to the vet about a month ago, just to get his shots done and have a checkup. He was having problems with mild discharge from his eyes, so the vet took a look, and determined that he probably had a mild allergy to some pollen or something. The vet prescribed him eye drops, informing me that I needed to put one in each eye before bed.
As you can probably guess, my dog does not like the eye drops. I'm going to again assume he goes off smell, because I try to prepare them (lid off, damp towel to get gunk in his fur out) out of his view, but somehow he always knows when I'm making his eye drops.
Now, instead of going to bed when I put on my hand cream, making life infinitely easier, he hides as soon as I start preparing the eye drops, and I'm forced to play a game of hide-and-seek with my dog before bed.
As stated before, he's incredibly smart, and his hiding places get more and more elaborate as time wears on. At first he just lay really still on the couch, as if he thought that somehow he would spontaneously develop mutant chameleon disguise powers. When this didn't work, he started hiding behind pieces of furniture, and being really, really surprised when I just walked around the furniture to get to him. He's tried hiding under blankets (decently) and pillows (poorly), but the odd lump (or the body part inevitably sticking out) always ruins his plans. He's tried going into his kennel and facing the back, but promptly forgets why he's hiding when presented a treat, and is super, super shocked when after he gets the treat, I grab him by the collar and administer eye drops.
Last night, when I was once more attempting to give him his eye drops, I couldn't find him anywhere. I hunted in his usual hiding places, and some unusual hiding places, but no dog. I was starting to get worried when my covers rustled. I removed them from where they were, halfway off the bed, but there was no dog to be seen, at least not until my dog shot out from under my bed in between my legs, almost tripping me in the process. Now, usually once I find him, the game changes from hide-and-seek to tag. Last night, however, I was fortunate. The covers disguising his place under the bed were not conductive to running on, and I managed to grab him before he could take off. By this time, it was past midnight.
I'm really looking forward to the day he doesn't need these stupid eye drops anymore.
Monday 29 September 2014
Thursday 22 May 2014
Idiot Savant
I knew when I first got him that he was probably going to be very smart. He's a Papillon, ranked #8 on the dog breed intelligence list, and the only toy breed in the top 10. I was excited to have such a smart breed, and only envisioned teaching my dog tons of amazing tricks, the best dog in the land. He did not disappoint my expectations, teaching him tricks is a breeze- for example, I just recently taught him how to "Sit Pretty/Beg", which took a grand total of twenty minutes to teach and master. He has a wide vocabulary as well, knowing the names of several different objects. I do agility with him and he learns faster than I do! However, he did exceed my expectations for intelligence in several unpleasant ways.
It was an upsetting day the day I learned that he had figured out how to open the basement door, thus unleashing himself upon the entire household, and while he was still very much badly behaved. This was a problem, because he could no longer be contained in the basement, where I could keep an eye on him. My dad and brother attempted to fix the door so that he'd be unable to open it, and it worked- for a while. He's figured out how to open the door again now.
I used to leave treats in my coat pocket in preparation for walks, but he soon discovered how to extract things from pockets. I started leaving his treats on the table, but then he figured out how to get on top of tables, as detailed in my earlier post about his sandwich-thieving ways. I had to find a new place to store them- and, of course, never abandon food (or a drink!) on a table anywhere, a hard lesson to learn. Many sandwiches were lost to his insatiable gluttony, and I still catch him in the act of drinking from my bedside glass of water (even though he has a perfectly nice doggie bowl of water literally right outside the door).
At the time these things drove me absolutely bonkers, I was sure that door-opening and table-climbing was the worst that he could ever do. Then he learned how to open his kennel, and the other things paled in comparison. So I switched kennels, and fortunately, he's only figured out how to open the one, but it's a matter of time before he figures out the others.
When I and one of my aunts visited my grandparents, my dog came along, along with her two. My grandparents have a fenced-in yard. Somehow, no matter what measures we took (including buying plywood boards from the store and nailing all possible gaps, uprooting half the rock garden, creating a thorny barrier of branches, and entreating various deities), my dog managed to escape (with my aunt's along for the ride most of the time). We never actually did manage to find a way to prevent the great dog escapes, that's a story for another post, though.
Oh, and I also can no longer leave food in my backpack, because he's figured out how to open zippers. AND he can climb chain-link fences.
However, after proving time and time again how wickedly cunning he is, he sometimes just does things that make me question his intelligence.
He, like other dogs, likes to stash toys and bones away. Many a time I've caught him industriously shoving tennis balls under the basement couch, his favored hiding spot. Somehow, no matter how often he does this, he fails to recall the fact that he cannot get them out from under the couch. Upon discovering (again) that he can't reach the item he's hidden under the couch, he begins whining and galloping back and forth on top of the furniture, then jumps to the floor to try to get the item again- and when this inevitably fails, he repeats the process, his vocalizations getting louder and louder until someone (usually me) goes over and grabs his object of desire out for him. This, of course, is made more complicated by the fact that he has a vast trove of toys squirreled away under that couch, and he is very, very specific about which toy he wants, refusing all until the correct one is found. He bounds off happily with his prize, but oftentimes will just stuff it back under the couch again half an hour later, to my chagrin.
We don't have a fenced in yard (and given previous experiences with fences and my dog, I doubt very much it would be effective), so instead we have a long tether in the backyard, so he can run around to his little heart's content within the safe boundaries of our garden. The garden has a couple little bushes, barely more than twigs in the winter, and some stakes, and other small obstacles. He patters around happily until he inevitably snags his leash on one of these miniscule barriers. The simplest solution would, of course, just going back the way he came, or just giving a bit of a tug. These concepts have escaped his grasp, however, and I often have to go outside to rescue him from the little twigs. Upon discovering he has snagged himself on a plant, he immediately begins howling like he's being murdered, which, granted, is an effective way to get help quickly, as no one wants to subject the neighbors to his cries for very long. I have tried many times to direct him back around the object, and while he easily does it when I point and tell him to go back around, he somehow never remembers how to do it when he gets stuck again.
I have one of those rubber Kong toys for him, the ones you can fill with food. He knows that when I pick up that Kong, he is going to get fed tasty food in his kennel, so he eagerly goes running for his kennel (or the nearest kennel, though that is corrected easily enough with a simple "wrong kennel" command) whenever I start preparing the Kong. He knows that: a) He only ever gets fed with his Kong toy in his kennel; b) There's always awesome stuff besides his regular food in the Kong, like peanut butter and real meat; c) To go to his kennel immediately when the Kong is being handled- and yet, he is still shocked and appalled whenever I close the kennel door and lock it after giving him the Kong. He's smart enough to immediately run for his kennel without being asked whenever he sees me pick up his Kong toy, and yet, not smart enough to remember that whenever I feed him his Kong toy in his kennel, I close and lock the door on him.
He has a traveling kennel that I cart him around in on a semi-regular basis. Whenever I start getting ready to go anywhere, he anxiously runs into his carrier, then runs back out and does it again (loudly) if the door is not locked immediately behind him. He knows that if he goes in that kennel, he gets to go out with me- but apparently forgets this as soon as he's in the kennel and locked in. If the carrier case is not picked up right away, he begins screaming, flailing about like we're going to leave him behind in that kennel. The kennel he automatically goes to anytime I get ready to leave, because he knows that when he's in that kennel, he goes with me.
For every ten times I am blown away by how smart he is, there's one time I'm confused about how dumb he is. Unfortunately, logic is not his strong point- being too smart for his own good is. I don't know why I expect more, he is just a dog, but he's a dog who's just so darned intelligent most of the time that his moments of doggish bafflement seem odd in comparison. Then again, perhaps this is where he wants me- baffled. The longer I know him, the more I suspect that my dog is secretly a criminal mastermind.
UPDATE: SPEAK OF THE DEVIL, HE JUST FIGURED OUT HOW TO OPEN HIS NEW KENNEL LAST NIGHT. FML.
It was an upsetting day the day I learned that he had figured out how to open the basement door, thus unleashing himself upon the entire household, and while he was still very much badly behaved. This was a problem, because he could no longer be contained in the basement, where I could keep an eye on him. My dad and brother attempted to fix the door so that he'd be unable to open it, and it worked- for a while. He's figured out how to open the door again now.
I used to leave treats in my coat pocket in preparation for walks, but he soon discovered how to extract things from pockets. I started leaving his treats on the table, but then he figured out how to get on top of tables, as detailed in my earlier post about his sandwich-thieving ways. I had to find a new place to store them- and, of course, never abandon food (or a drink!) on a table anywhere, a hard lesson to learn. Many sandwiches were lost to his insatiable gluttony, and I still catch him in the act of drinking from my bedside glass of water (even though he has a perfectly nice doggie bowl of water literally right outside the door).
At the time these things drove me absolutely bonkers, I was sure that door-opening and table-climbing was the worst that he could ever do. Then he learned how to open his kennel, and the other things paled in comparison. So I switched kennels, and fortunately, he's only figured out how to open the one, but it's a matter of time before he figures out the others.
When I and one of my aunts visited my grandparents, my dog came along, along with her two. My grandparents have a fenced-in yard. Somehow, no matter what measures we took (including buying plywood boards from the store and nailing all possible gaps, uprooting half the rock garden, creating a thorny barrier of branches, and entreating various deities), my dog managed to escape (with my aunt's along for the ride most of the time). We never actually did manage to find a way to prevent the great dog escapes, that's a story for another post, though.
Oh, and I also can no longer leave food in my backpack, because he's figured out how to open zippers. AND he can climb chain-link fences.
However, after proving time and time again how wickedly cunning he is, he sometimes just does things that make me question his intelligence.
He, like other dogs, likes to stash toys and bones away. Many a time I've caught him industriously shoving tennis balls under the basement couch, his favored hiding spot. Somehow, no matter how often he does this, he fails to recall the fact that he cannot get them out from under the couch. Upon discovering (again) that he can't reach the item he's hidden under the couch, he begins whining and galloping back and forth on top of the furniture, then jumps to the floor to try to get the item again- and when this inevitably fails, he repeats the process, his vocalizations getting louder and louder until someone (usually me) goes over and grabs his object of desire out for him. This, of course, is made more complicated by the fact that he has a vast trove of toys squirreled away under that couch, and he is very, very specific about which toy he wants, refusing all until the correct one is found. He bounds off happily with his prize, but oftentimes will just stuff it back under the couch again half an hour later, to my chagrin.
We don't have a fenced in yard (and given previous experiences with fences and my dog, I doubt very much it would be effective), so instead we have a long tether in the backyard, so he can run around to his little heart's content within the safe boundaries of our garden. The garden has a couple little bushes, barely more than twigs in the winter, and some stakes, and other small obstacles. He patters around happily until he inevitably snags his leash on one of these miniscule barriers. The simplest solution would, of course, just going back the way he came, or just giving a bit of a tug. These concepts have escaped his grasp, however, and I often have to go outside to rescue him from the little twigs. Upon discovering he has snagged himself on a plant, he immediately begins howling like he's being murdered, which, granted, is an effective way to get help quickly, as no one wants to subject the neighbors to his cries for very long. I have tried many times to direct him back around the object, and while he easily does it when I point and tell him to go back around, he somehow never remembers how to do it when he gets stuck again.
I have one of those rubber Kong toys for him, the ones you can fill with food. He knows that when I pick up that Kong, he is going to get fed tasty food in his kennel, so he eagerly goes running for his kennel (or the nearest kennel, though that is corrected easily enough with a simple "wrong kennel" command) whenever I start preparing the Kong. He knows that: a) He only ever gets fed with his Kong toy in his kennel; b) There's always awesome stuff besides his regular food in the Kong, like peanut butter and real meat; c) To go to his kennel immediately when the Kong is being handled- and yet, he is still shocked and appalled whenever I close the kennel door and lock it after giving him the Kong. He's smart enough to immediately run for his kennel without being asked whenever he sees me pick up his Kong toy, and yet, not smart enough to remember that whenever I feed him his Kong toy in his kennel, I close and lock the door on him.
He has a traveling kennel that I cart him around in on a semi-regular basis. Whenever I start getting ready to go anywhere, he anxiously runs into his carrier, then runs back out and does it again (loudly) if the door is not locked immediately behind him. He knows that if he goes in that kennel, he gets to go out with me- but apparently forgets this as soon as he's in the kennel and locked in. If the carrier case is not picked up right away, he begins screaming, flailing about like we're going to leave him behind in that kennel. The kennel he automatically goes to anytime I get ready to leave, because he knows that when he's in that kennel, he goes with me.
For every ten times I am blown away by how smart he is, there's one time I'm confused about how dumb he is. Unfortunately, logic is not his strong point- being too smart for his own good is. I don't know why I expect more, he is just a dog, but he's a dog who's just so darned intelligent most of the time that his moments of doggish bafflement seem odd in comparison. Then again, perhaps this is where he wants me- baffled. The longer I know him, the more I suspect that my dog is secretly a criminal mastermind.
UPDATE: SPEAK OF THE DEVIL, HE JUST FIGURED OUT HOW TO OPEN HIS NEW KENNEL LAST NIGHT. FML.
Tuesday 29 April 2014
Of Dogs and Sandwiches
I'm not too sure why it's the sandwiches.
Maybe my dog really likes sandwiches. Maybe I just eat a lot of sandwiches. Maybe it's a little bit of both. In any case, my dog steals a lot of sandwiches.
The first time he stole my sandwich was the day he discovered how to climb on top of chairs, tables, and counters. I was having a late lunch after having returned from a doctor's appointment, and I was starving. I pulled out all the stops, creating a truly beautiful grilled cheese sandwich topped with enough bacon to make the gods cry tears of joy. Very much looking forward to eating the sandwich, I placed it on a plate and on the kitchen table, a place I assumed it would be safe from would-be canine thieves. That settled, I went to the bathroom.
When I walked into the kitchen again, not five minutes later, ready to eat my sandwich, I was greeted by the sight of my dog, standing on the kitchen table, muzzle covered in crumbs and a half-eaten sandwich unceremoniously strewn about the table and floor. Time stood still for a moment. He froze, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Our eyes met. I could almost see the gears whirring behind them. I opened my mouth to give voice to my familiar cry of "NO TYBALT NOOOO", and the spell was broken. He grabbed the rest of the sandwich and made a flying leap off the kitchen table, booking it into the living room, with me in hot pursuit.
As crafty as a fox, he dove under the nearest couch where it would be difficult for me to reach him, and set to gobbling down the rest of my sandwich as quickly as he could. I attempted to get it back. I wasn't going to eat it anymore, considering it had been chewed on by my dog and tossed around the floor, but it was the principle of the matter. I was not going to let my dog get away with stealing my sandwich!
To his credit, he managed to swallow half of the piece that was left before I managed to stick my arm under the couch and grab him by his collar to pull him out. He did his very best to look contrite, but the fact that his tongue kept on darting out to collect morsels of food from his muzzle rather ruined the effect. I grabbed a broom and swept under the couch, collecting what was left of my glorious sandwich and throwing it into the garbage as my dog looked on, darting in every so often to try to lick up crumbs.
After cleaning up the considerable mess (and making a new sandwich), I resolved to never leave my sandwiches unattended again. My dog, of course, found a way around this.
This time it was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I had it on a plate and I was carrying it downstairs, to eat by my computer. My dog hovered around me eagerly, just waiting for me to put it down for even a second. He must have gotten tired of waiting, because he darted in between my legs mid-step and tripped me. Arms flailing wildly to balance myself, the sandwich went flying off the plate. Ever the opportunist, he seized it and galloped upstairs to hide under the couch again.
Though realistically I know that the fact that I tripped over him as he wound about my legs was an accident, there's a part of me that believes that my dog is secretly an evil mastermind, deliberately tripping me in an attempt on my life so as to have the sandwich for himself. I have discovered that most places I think are out of reach of my dog are not, in fact, out of reach of my dog. The sandwiches live in fear, knowing he could strike anywhere, at any time. My dog is a sandwich fiend. He has stolen (and attempted to steal) many more sandwiches from me, especially when I get careless and leave my food unattended on a table or counter. At least he keeps me on my toes.
Maybe my dog really likes sandwiches. Maybe I just eat a lot of sandwiches. Maybe it's a little bit of both. In any case, my dog steals a lot of sandwiches.
The first time he stole my sandwich was the day he discovered how to climb on top of chairs, tables, and counters. I was having a late lunch after having returned from a doctor's appointment, and I was starving. I pulled out all the stops, creating a truly beautiful grilled cheese sandwich topped with enough bacon to make the gods cry tears of joy. Very much looking forward to eating the sandwich, I placed it on a plate and on the kitchen table, a place I assumed it would be safe from would-be canine thieves. That settled, I went to the bathroom.
When I walked into the kitchen again, not five minutes later, ready to eat my sandwich, I was greeted by the sight of my dog, standing on the kitchen table, muzzle covered in crumbs and a half-eaten sandwich unceremoniously strewn about the table and floor. Time stood still for a moment. He froze, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Our eyes met. I could almost see the gears whirring behind them. I opened my mouth to give voice to my familiar cry of "NO TYBALT NOOOO", and the spell was broken. He grabbed the rest of the sandwich and made a flying leap off the kitchen table, booking it into the living room, with me in hot pursuit.
As crafty as a fox, he dove under the nearest couch where it would be difficult for me to reach him, and set to gobbling down the rest of my sandwich as quickly as he could. I attempted to get it back. I wasn't going to eat it anymore, considering it had been chewed on by my dog and tossed around the floor, but it was the principle of the matter. I was not going to let my dog get away with stealing my sandwich!
To his credit, he managed to swallow half of the piece that was left before I managed to stick my arm under the couch and grab him by his collar to pull him out. He did his very best to look contrite, but the fact that his tongue kept on darting out to collect morsels of food from his muzzle rather ruined the effect. I grabbed a broom and swept under the couch, collecting what was left of my glorious sandwich and throwing it into the garbage as my dog looked on, darting in every so often to try to lick up crumbs.
After cleaning up the considerable mess (and making a new sandwich), I resolved to never leave my sandwiches unattended again. My dog, of course, found a way around this.
This time it was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I had it on a plate and I was carrying it downstairs, to eat by my computer. My dog hovered around me eagerly, just waiting for me to put it down for even a second. He must have gotten tired of waiting, because he darted in between my legs mid-step and tripped me. Arms flailing wildly to balance myself, the sandwich went flying off the plate. Ever the opportunist, he seized it and galloped upstairs to hide under the couch again.
Though realistically I know that the fact that I tripped over him as he wound about my legs was an accident, there's a part of me that believes that my dog is secretly an evil mastermind, deliberately tripping me in an attempt on my life so as to have the sandwich for himself. I have discovered that most places I think are out of reach of my dog are not, in fact, out of reach of my dog. The sandwiches live in fear, knowing he could strike anywhere, at any time. My dog is a sandwich fiend. He has stolen (and attempted to steal) many more sandwiches from me, especially when I get careless and leave my food unattended on a table or counter. At least he keeps me on my toes.
Friday 25 April 2014
Life Before Human
I'm not the only one in this relationship who had a bit of a rough start. I don't know the exact details, but this is what I have.
Piecing my dog's history together was no easy feat, considering the number of owners he'd been through before he came to me. Fortunately, paper records managed to transition with him from owner to owner, and upon some digging, I was able to mostly sort out my dog's earlier life. I know who owned him, don't know exactly how it went, but drawing upon his behavior I have some educated theories.
The first record I have of him is from the pet store his first owner got him from. Upon digging into the information the sheet provided about the breeders who sold him to the store, I discovered, to my horror, that he'd been born in a puppy mill.
The papers from his first veterinary exam (done by the store) stated he had an abnormal dewclaw on his right hind leg that needed to be removed ASAP, an abnormal dewclaw he still had when we got him. We ended up being the ones to get the surgery done, as well as have him neutered.
He was purchased at the pet store at a young age, then was quickly returned to the same pet store later, I'm assuming after his new owners found out that Papillons are not cuddly lap dogs, but actually highly intelligent hunting dogs that require proper exercise, adequate mental stimulation, and a lot of attention. I'm assuming the next people who purchased him figured out the same thing, and foisted him off to someone (off kijiji) after a few scant months of owning him.
The information gets clearer from then on, considering this is the lady I got him from. She worked a lot so she didn't have time to take him for walks, instead training him to poop in her bathtub, so he rarely got taken outside. He was (understandably) highly destructive, so she took to locking him in a kennel all day to prevent him from destroying more of her property. He took to chewing on that abnormal dewclaw, probably because there was nothing else to do. At least she eventually realized she couldn't meet his needs adequately and put an ad up on kijiji, which I saw, you know how the rest of the story goes.
He was very anti-social when we first got him, skittish and agitated. He would automatically duck away if you went to pet him or pick him up, and even when he got better about that, he never seemed to actually enjoy the attention, always escaping the petting/cuddling as soon as possible. He had a strong dislike of kennels and being left alone, a problem which was exacerbated when he developed an attachment to me, having a full-on meltdown if I even left the room. I had to take him everywhere with me in the house, because if he could not reach me he panicked immediately.
He wasn't quite sure how to behave around other dogs, flailing madly and barking like a lunatic whenever he saw one, frequently choking himself on the leash in an attempt to get closer to the other canine in question. He was not house trained- except for going in the bathtub. He didn't know his name (which was good, because we changed it), he didn't know any commands, he didn't know how to play fetch or tug of war.
My educated guess is that the people he got passed around to didn't have time for a dog of his energy level, or underestimated how much work a dog was, or saw him only as a fluffy little designer dog you could stuff in your purse and carry around with you everywhere you go.
He's very intelligent, fortunately, so rehabilitating him from his bad habits has been a lot easier than it could have been. I got him before he even turned two, so his youth definitely played a factor in his ability to adjust and cope.
I am proud to say that he is now a shameless cuddle whore who adores and seeks attention from everyone he meets, heels nicely on the leash, knows eighteen commands/tricks, knows his name and the names of several specific objects (eg. "Ball", "Rope"), is (mostly) housebroken, does agility, and gets along fabulously with every dog he meets. The separation anxiety is a lot better, I can go to different rooms all over the house without him freaking out, though he still panics when I leave the house- we're working on that.
My parents got him as a therapy dog for me, but I sort of ended up becoming his therapy human too. We sort of rescued each other, in a weird way. The beginning was a bit of a crapshoot, but it turned out perfectly. I wouldn't trade him for any dog in the world.
Piecing my dog's history together was no easy feat, considering the number of owners he'd been through before he came to me. Fortunately, paper records managed to transition with him from owner to owner, and upon some digging, I was able to mostly sort out my dog's earlier life. I know who owned him, don't know exactly how it went, but drawing upon his behavior I have some educated theories.
The first record I have of him is from the pet store his first owner got him from. Upon digging into the information the sheet provided about the breeders who sold him to the store, I discovered, to my horror, that he'd been born in a puppy mill.
The papers from his first veterinary exam (done by the store) stated he had an abnormal dewclaw on his right hind leg that needed to be removed ASAP, an abnormal dewclaw he still had when we got him. We ended up being the ones to get the surgery done, as well as have him neutered.
He was purchased at the pet store at a young age, then was quickly returned to the same pet store later, I'm assuming after his new owners found out that Papillons are not cuddly lap dogs, but actually highly intelligent hunting dogs that require proper exercise, adequate mental stimulation, and a lot of attention. I'm assuming the next people who purchased him figured out the same thing, and foisted him off to someone (off kijiji) after a few scant months of owning him.
The information gets clearer from then on, considering this is the lady I got him from. She worked a lot so she didn't have time to take him for walks, instead training him to poop in her bathtub, so he rarely got taken outside. He was (understandably) highly destructive, so she took to locking him in a kennel all day to prevent him from destroying more of her property. He took to chewing on that abnormal dewclaw, probably because there was nothing else to do. At least she eventually realized she couldn't meet his needs adequately and put an ad up on kijiji, which I saw, you know how the rest of the story goes.
He was very anti-social when we first got him, skittish and agitated. He would automatically duck away if you went to pet him or pick him up, and even when he got better about that, he never seemed to actually enjoy the attention, always escaping the petting/cuddling as soon as possible. He had a strong dislike of kennels and being left alone, a problem which was exacerbated when he developed an attachment to me, having a full-on meltdown if I even left the room. I had to take him everywhere with me in the house, because if he could not reach me he panicked immediately.
He wasn't quite sure how to behave around other dogs, flailing madly and barking like a lunatic whenever he saw one, frequently choking himself on the leash in an attempt to get closer to the other canine in question. He was not house trained- except for going in the bathtub. He didn't know his name (which was good, because we changed it), he didn't know any commands, he didn't know how to play fetch or tug of war.
My educated guess is that the people he got passed around to didn't have time for a dog of his energy level, or underestimated how much work a dog was, or saw him only as a fluffy little designer dog you could stuff in your purse and carry around with you everywhere you go.
He's very intelligent, fortunately, so rehabilitating him from his bad habits has been a lot easier than it could have been. I got him before he even turned two, so his youth definitely played a factor in his ability to adjust and cope.
I am proud to say that he is now a shameless cuddle whore who adores and seeks attention from everyone he meets, heels nicely on the leash, knows eighteen commands/tricks, knows his name and the names of several specific objects (eg. "Ball", "Rope"), is (mostly) housebroken, does agility, and gets along fabulously with every dog he meets. The separation anxiety is a lot better, I can go to different rooms all over the house without him freaking out, though he still panics when I leave the house- we're working on that.
My parents got him as a therapy dog for me, but I sort of ended up becoming his therapy human too. We sort of rescued each other, in a weird way. The beginning was a bit of a crapshoot, but it turned out perfectly. I wouldn't trade him for any dog in the world.
Monday 21 April 2014
Human vs. Hill
This following post is just about me, no dog-related shenanigans, so if you're here for the dog stuff skip this one!
Today, I did something that I thought I was never going to be able to do again. And it was awesome.
Rewinding the story, we need to visit my years in high school. There is a mall that's about a 45 minute walk away from our house (which I didn't use very often), and, more relevant to myself back then, the dance studio I studied at. The thing that keeps it from being a light stroll is the absolutely massive, steep hill in between.
In high school, this was not daunting. I was in excellent physical shape, and so I make the trek up that hill to my dance classes and back several days a week. Ah, for those easy days...
When I developed Fibromyalgia, my physical shape obviously went out the window. During the worst period of it that I have ever experienced, I could barely walk up the stairs from my room to the kitchen, let alone walk up a hill. I didn't leave the house except for weekly doctor's appointments during that time, I had too little energy and too much pain to do so.
Fortunately, I improved when my dog entered the picture and I started a new medication. By forcing me to work through the pain, he helped me rebuild my stamina despite my illness. When I was well enough to take my dog out for his walks without having to pop opiates and nap immediately afterwards, I started running errands again, a huge step in regaining my independence.
I started taking the bus up to the mall whenever I needed to go shopping. I had some errands to run today, so I planned to do the usual, take the bus up.
I ran into some troubles, the bus I needed to take was going to be a while, and I needed to get stuff done quickly if I was going to get stuff done. On top of that, I couldn't find my bus tickets. I had resigned myself to having to move errand-running to another day, when a tiny voice whispered at the back of my mind. The conversation went something like this:
Subconscience: Psst. Hey. Hey. You should walk.
Conscience: Wait what?
Subconscience: You heard me.
Conscience: What, you mean like to the corner store to buy some bus tickets?
Subconscience: No, forget the bus tickets, just walk there.
Conscience: I can't!
Subconscience: Why not? You walked downtown and back the other day!
Conscience: That is true... But what about that huge hill? There's no way in hell I'm making it up that!
Subconscience: Be the hill.
Conscience: What? That doesn't make any sense!
Subconscience: Don't believe in yourself. Believe in the me that believes in you that believes in silly anime references. And I believe you can climb that hill.
Conscience: ... I'll go make a training montage playlist on my iPod if you promise not to make that "believe it" Naruto reference you're thinking of making.
Subconscience: EXCELLENT JUST AS PLANNED
Finished talking with myself, I packed a water bottle and my bottle of T3s. Preparations complete for my grand trek, I set out from my house. The hill was several blocks away, so I had time to get a rhythm going, strolling along to tune of such classics as "Getting Strong Now" from Rocky and "You're the Best Around" from The Karate Kid. It was a little silly, but I felt I needed all the help I could get.
Finally, I arrived at the base of the hill. I briefly considered turning back and just doing my errands another day, but I'd come too far to quit now. Water bottle in one hand, iPod in the other, I began the trek upwards. My body immediately piped up to protest.
Body: No, what are you doing? That hurts!
Me: No pain, no gain!
Body: I'm not ready to do this again! In fact, I'm never ready to do this again, ever!
Me: What, you're just going to refuse to ever walk up hills again?
Body: Oh man, here Fibro comes, you've gone and done it now...
Fibromyalgia: Stop! No exercising! You're going to need to break out the Percocet if you keep this shit up!
Me: YOU DON'T TELL ME HOW TO LIVE MY LIFE FIBROMYALGIA YOU DON'T KNOW ME, YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE I'VE BEEN, I DO WHAT I WANT, I'M AN ADULT
Fibromyalgia: FINE. Hope you like Percocet, because you're going to need it!
And so, I continued up the hill. About a quarter of the way up, I had to stop and sit under the shade of a tree, chugging my water while I waited for my muscles to stop screaming in protest. Knowing that if I didn't get back up and continue soon, I was going to lose my nerve, I started walking again. I had to take another rest stop about 75% to the top. A friendly woman asked me if I was going to be okay, and I didn't want her to worry, so I said I was fine and got up and started walking up the hill again after the shorter break.
After what felt like forever, I finally reached the summit. Sweaty, red-faced, and panting, I did a victory fist-pump and gave a little "YESSSSSSSS" before unceremoniously flopping down onto someone's front lawn, downing the rest of the contents of my water bottle. A man with his child crossed the street so as to avoid the crazy lady who was currently lying on someone's lawn giggling in between desperate gasps for air. If I were in his position, I totally would do that too.
After about five minutes I remembered I actually had a purpose for walking up this big hill. Errands. I forced myself to my feet and walked the rest of the way to the mall, legs feeling like jelly. I refilled my water bottle at a fountain there before I finished my shopping trip. I picked up bus tickets, but not for taking the bus back as I'd originally planned. Fuck the bus, I'd walked up that hill and I was damn well going to walk back down it!
And so I did. Despite how sore, exhausted, and gross I was, I walked down that hill, and I walked back to my house. Immediately performing damage control, I am sitting in a comfortable chair in front of my computer with a heat pack, ice, water, and ibuprofen. I hurt a lot, and I'm definitely going to be feeling it even worse tomorrow, but I'm not going to take my Percocet, or even my T3s. I'd rather put up with the pain than continue drugging myself up on prescription opiates.
I'm freaking exhausted and so, so sore, but it was worth it completely. I won today's battle with Fibromyalgia. In fact, I totally punched Fibromyalgia in the face today. I am the Queen of that hill ("Not a Queen, a Khaleesi." My Targaryen-white hair helpfully reminds me. Blood of the dragon and all that). Awesome day.
Today, I did something that I thought I was never going to be able to do again. And it was awesome.
Rewinding the story, we need to visit my years in high school. There is a mall that's about a 45 minute walk away from our house (which I didn't use very often), and, more relevant to myself back then, the dance studio I studied at. The thing that keeps it from being a light stroll is the absolutely massive, steep hill in between.
In high school, this was not daunting. I was in excellent physical shape, and so I make the trek up that hill to my dance classes and back several days a week. Ah, for those easy days...
When I developed Fibromyalgia, my physical shape obviously went out the window. During the worst period of it that I have ever experienced, I could barely walk up the stairs from my room to the kitchen, let alone walk up a hill. I didn't leave the house except for weekly doctor's appointments during that time, I had too little energy and too much pain to do so.
Fortunately, I improved when my dog entered the picture and I started a new medication. By forcing me to work through the pain, he helped me rebuild my stamina despite my illness. When I was well enough to take my dog out for his walks without having to pop opiates and nap immediately afterwards, I started running errands again, a huge step in regaining my independence.
I started taking the bus up to the mall whenever I needed to go shopping. I had some errands to run today, so I planned to do the usual, take the bus up.
I ran into some troubles, the bus I needed to take was going to be a while, and I needed to get stuff done quickly if I was going to get stuff done. On top of that, I couldn't find my bus tickets. I had resigned myself to having to move errand-running to another day, when a tiny voice whispered at the back of my mind. The conversation went something like this:
Subconscience: Psst. Hey. Hey. You should walk.
Conscience: Wait what?
Subconscience: You heard me.
Conscience: What, you mean like to the corner store to buy some bus tickets?
Subconscience: No, forget the bus tickets, just walk there.
Conscience: I can't!
Subconscience: Why not? You walked downtown and back the other day!
Conscience: That is true... But what about that huge hill? There's no way in hell I'm making it up that!
Subconscience: Be the hill.
Conscience: What? That doesn't make any sense!
Subconscience: Don't believe in yourself. Believe in the me that believes in you that believes in silly anime references. And I believe you can climb that hill.
Conscience: ... I'll go make a training montage playlist on my iPod if you promise not to make that "believe it" Naruto reference you're thinking of making.
Subconscience: EXCELLENT JUST AS PLANNED
Finished talking with myself, I packed a water bottle and my bottle of T3s. Preparations complete for my grand trek, I set out from my house. The hill was several blocks away, so I had time to get a rhythm going, strolling along to tune of such classics as "Getting Strong Now" from Rocky and "You're the Best Around" from The Karate Kid. It was a little silly, but I felt I needed all the help I could get.
Finally, I arrived at the base of the hill. I briefly considered turning back and just doing my errands another day, but I'd come too far to quit now. Water bottle in one hand, iPod in the other, I began the trek upwards. My body immediately piped up to protest.
Body: No, what are you doing? That hurts!
Me: No pain, no gain!
Body: I'm not ready to do this again! In fact, I'm never ready to do this again, ever!
Me: What, you're just going to refuse to ever walk up hills again?
Body: Oh man, here Fibro comes, you've gone and done it now...
Fibromyalgia: Stop! No exercising! You're going to need to break out the Percocet if you keep this shit up!
Me: YOU DON'T TELL ME HOW TO LIVE MY LIFE FIBROMYALGIA YOU DON'T KNOW ME, YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE I'VE BEEN, I DO WHAT I WANT, I'M AN ADULT
Fibromyalgia: FINE. Hope you like Percocet, because you're going to need it!
And so, I continued up the hill. About a quarter of the way up, I had to stop and sit under the shade of a tree, chugging my water while I waited for my muscles to stop screaming in protest. Knowing that if I didn't get back up and continue soon, I was going to lose my nerve, I started walking again. I had to take another rest stop about 75% to the top. A friendly woman asked me if I was going to be okay, and I didn't want her to worry, so I said I was fine and got up and started walking up the hill again after the shorter break.
After what felt like forever, I finally reached the summit. Sweaty, red-faced, and panting, I did a victory fist-pump and gave a little "YESSSSSSSS" before unceremoniously flopping down onto someone's front lawn, downing the rest of the contents of my water bottle. A man with his child crossed the street so as to avoid the crazy lady who was currently lying on someone's lawn giggling in between desperate gasps for air. If I were in his position, I totally would do that too.
After about five minutes I remembered I actually had a purpose for walking up this big hill. Errands. I forced myself to my feet and walked the rest of the way to the mall, legs feeling like jelly. I refilled my water bottle at a fountain there before I finished my shopping trip. I picked up bus tickets, but not for taking the bus back as I'd originally planned. Fuck the bus, I'd walked up that hill and I was damn well going to walk back down it!
And so I did. Despite how sore, exhausted, and gross I was, I walked down that hill, and I walked back to my house. Immediately performing damage control, I am sitting in a comfortable chair in front of my computer with a heat pack, ice, water, and ibuprofen. I hurt a lot, and I'm definitely going to be feeling it even worse tomorrow, but I'm not going to take my Percocet, or even my T3s. I'd rather put up with the pain than continue drugging myself up on prescription opiates.
I'm freaking exhausted and so, so sore, but it was worth it completely. I won today's battle with Fibromyalgia. In fact, I totally punched Fibromyalgia in the face today. I am the Queen of that hill ("Not a Queen, a Khaleesi." My Targaryen-white hair helpfully reminds me. Blood of the dragon and all that). Awesome day.
Sunday 20 April 2014
King of Agility
After I'd had my pup for a while and had improved enough that I thought I could handle it, I started Agility classes with my dog. It'd be a great way to channel his energy and intelligence into something constructive, and I'd be able to start conditioning myself to run again, even if just in short bursts. We took classes with a friend from the dog park.
As I'd expected, he did really well. I know that sounds like horrible bragging, but he's smart and athletic, the two main ingredients of Agility. He was cruising through the class impressively- until he got bored and decided to be a rebel.
We were doing little runs of the beginner course, consisting of a little jump, a table, and a tunnel for the last. He'd been through all these obstacles several times already, so he knew what was going on. Our first turn came up, and we did it without incident. I was feeling pretty smug after that, confident that this was going to be so easy for us. It was only our first class and already he'd mastered the course!
The other dogs went through, and our turn came up again. I was confident we were going to give another masterful performance. I feel like I sort of know how parents feel when their offspring accomplish something. Perhaps my dog felt he had to knock me down a couple pegs (which, to be fair, was totally true).
We breezed through the jump and the table, no problem. We were almost home with a perfect score! Approaching the tunnel alongside my dog, I firmly gave the command "go tunnel". Instead of going through the tunnel like he'd been doing all night, however, he jumped on top of it.
Despite my best efforts to calm myself, I couldn't help a little laughing fit (along with everyone else in the class). In an attempt to finish the course, I asked him to get off the tunnel and go through it. He sat down on top of the tunnel, staring at me. He looked so darn proud of himself that I had another giggling fit. Eventually I managed to direct him off the tunnel and through it. Everyone in the class cheered when we managed to get through to the other end.
I went to move to the back of the line to wait our turn again, but my dog had other ideas. As if to say that he had conquered this obstacle, he lifted his leg and peed on it, which is a big no-no in Agility class. I don't know why I thought this was so funny, it just seemed so ridiculous to me at the time. I burst into more laughter, and, to my relief, the teacher and other students laughed along with me as I dragged my dog away from his conquest.
He went home that night feeling content, having crowned himself the King of all that he surveys.
As I'd expected, he did really well. I know that sounds like horrible bragging, but he's smart and athletic, the two main ingredients of Agility. He was cruising through the class impressively- until he got bored and decided to be a rebel.
We were doing little runs of the beginner course, consisting of a little jump, a table, and a tunnel for the last. He'd been through all these obstacles several times already, so he knew what was going on. Our first turn came up, and we did it without incident. I was feeling pretty smug after that, confident that this was going to be so easy for us. It was only our first class and already he'd mastered the course!
The other dogs went through, and our turn came up again. I was confident we were going to give another masterful performance. I feel like I sort of know how parents feel when their offspring accomplish something. Perhaps my dog felt he had to knock me down a couple pegs (which, to be fair, was totally true).
We breezed through the jump and the table, no problem. We were almost home with a perfect score! Approaching the tunnel alongside my dog, I firmly gave the command "go tunnel". Instead of going through the tunnel like he'd been doing all night, however, he jumped on top of it.
Despite my best efforts to calm myself, I couldn't help a little laughing fit (along with everyone else in the class). In an attempt to finish the course, I asked him to get off the tunnel and go through it. He sat down on top of the tunnel, staring at me. He looked so darn proud of himself that I had another giggling fit. Eventually I managed to direct him off the tunnel and through it. Everyone in the class cheered when we managed to get through to the other end.
I went to move to the back of the line to wait our turn again, but my dog had other ideas. As if to say that he had conquered this obstacle, he lifted his leg and peed on it, which is a big no-no in Agility class. I don't know why I thought this was so funny, it just seemed so ridiculous to me at the time. I burst into more laughter, and, to my relief, the teacher and other students laughed along with me as I dragged my dog away from his conquest.
He went home that night feeling content, having crowned himself the King of all that he surveys.
Dog vs. Roomba
It was immediately apparent that Papillons were not a low-shedding breed as the internet had claimed (Further research shows them as moderate shedders, if he's a moderate shedding dog I don't want to see what a heavy shedding dog is like). My parents were not pleased, my mother especially. She was not going to vacuum the house every day.
My dad does what he always does, which is suggest we get some sort of new high-tech gadget to deal with the problem. My mother was skeptical, she was a veteran of my father's zany schemes. Somehow, he sold her on the Roomba, and a little robot was introduced into the home.
My dog, like most canines, wasn't the biggest fan of vacuum cleaners, but he tolerated them. Whenever anyone was vacuuming, he just got out of the way and waited for it to be done. He'd obviously made the connection that vacuum cleaner = operated by people, because when dad first turned it on and fiddled with it he was fine, but then as soon as dad stepped away and the thing started moving by himself, he damn near just about jumped out of his skin.
He stared at the Roomba in abject horror, then looked up to me, entreating me with his puppy-dog eyes to utilize the wizard magic he assumed I was capable of and make it stop whirring around on its own. "You're fine," I reassured him, "you'll get used to it." Unable to speak magic wizard language, he did not take comfort in my words.
He eventually screwed up his courage and stopped hiding behind my legs, slinking towards the evil intruder in an attempt to investigate. When barking at it failed to garner a response, he attempted to engage it by sniffing wherever he presumed its butt was. The Roomba slowly turned, and, to my dog's terror, started slowly whirring towards him, gliding menacingly over the polished wooden floors of the kitchen.
My dog attempted to stand his ground, barking a warning at the Roomba, but when it became apparent this strange creature was not going to back down, he turned around and made an expeditious retreat. He soon learned he was faster than the thing, so he didn't feel the need to gallop around at full speed. He just trotted away with his tail between his legs, whimpering and looking behind him every so often to check if the beast was still chasing him. It was.
He sought my assistance by hiding behind me once more. I was too busy laughing to comfort him. The Roomba drew closer and closer, the pitch of his whine got higher...
And then the Roomba bumped against my foot, and did what it is programmed to do when it his an obstacle, which is to turn around and go the other way. Feeling he had to get the last word in, my dog peered between my legs and gave one last growl at the retreating vacuum robot. The pack leader had used her strange wizard powers to conquer the evil beast!
Roomba was set to run on a daily basis, so this sort of behavior continued for a few days until he realized it couldn't climb on top of couches like he could. Dog had outsmarted the evil beast without even using wizard magic! Victorious, he is no longer bothered by the Roomba.
My dad does what he always does, which is suggest we get some sort of new high-tech gadget to deal with the problem. My mother was skeptical, she was a veteran of my father's zany schemes. Somehow, he sold her on the Roomba, and a little robot was introduced into the home.
My dog, like most canines, wasn't the biggest fan of vacuum cleaners, but he tolerated them. Whenever anyone was vacuuming, he just got out of the way and waited for it to be done. He'd obviously made the connection that vacuum cleaner = operated by people, because when dad first turned it on and fiddled with it he was fine, but then as soon as dad stepped away and the thing started moving by himself, he damn near just about jumped out of his skin.
He stared at the Roomba in abject horror, then looked up to me, entreating me with his puppy-dog eyes to utilize the wizard magic he assumed I was capable of and make it stop whirring around on its own. "You're fine," I reassured him, "you'll get used to it." Unable to speak magic wizard language, he did not take comfort in my words.
He eventually screwed up his courage and stopped hiding behind my legs, slinking towards the evil intruder in an attempt to investigate. When barking at it failed to garner a response, he attempted to engage it by sniffing wherever he presumed its butt was. The Roomba slowly turned, and, to my dog's terror, started slowly whirring towards him, gliding menacingly over the polished wooden floors of the kitchen.
My dog attempted to stand his ground, barking a warning at the Roomba, but when it became apparent this strange creature was not going to back down, he turned around and made an expeditious retreat. He soon learned he was faster than the thing, so he didn't feel the need to gallop around at full speed. He just trotted away with his tail between his legs, whimpering and looking behind him every so often to check if the beast was still chasing him. It was.
He sought my assistance by hiding behind me once more. I was too busy laughing to comfort him. The Roomba drew closer and closer, the pitch of his whine got higher...
And then the Roomba bumped against my foot, and did what it is programmed to do when it his an obstacle, which is to turn around and go the other way. Feeling he had to get the last word in, my dog peered between my legs and gave one last growl at the retreating vacuum robot. The pack leader had used her strange wizard powers to conquer the evil beast!
Roomba was set to run on a daily basis, so this sort of behavior continued for a few days until he realized it couldn't climb on top of couches like he could. Dog had outsmarted the evil beast without even using wizard magic! Victorious, he is no longer bothered by the Roomba.
Starting Life With Dog
Here is where it starts to get actually entertaining instead of just being sad, lol.
Continuing from Life Before Dog, my parents sat me down and told me that they were getting me a dog to be my ESA, aka Emotional Support Animal. It's different from a Service Animal in that they do not receive formal training and I cannot bring him with me everywhere we go, but I am allowed to have him live with me wherever I live, even if there is a no pets policy, and I can take him with me on airplanes and transit. As for why an ESA instead of an actual SA, Fibromyalgia is not cut-and-dry, training animals specifically to assist people with the disease would be far too inconsistent, not to mention the fact that you still have some people who don't even think it's a real illness. I didn't need a dog to guide me places or press buttons or open doors for me, I needed a reason to live for. I needed something to force me to get out of bed in the morning, eat breakfast, go outside. I wouldn't do it for myself, but if there was a dog in the picture, my parents knew that I would do those things for the sake of the dog, no matter how painful and difficult it was, and they hoped that eventually I'd start doing that stuff for myself, too. I'm happy to say they were right.
I'd given up on life when they told me. I'd hit absolute rock bottom, and I'd been scrabbling to crawl out of the pit for so long that I gave up on even trying. That conversation started the spark. Somewhere in the utter blackness I saw a light. It was just a little spark, but it was more than I'd ever expected to see again. I had a goal, I had something to work towards. For the first time in forever, I felt like I actually had a purpose.
It felt good, having something to do with myself again. I threw myself into planning. I researched breeds, read training manuals, watched several seasons of the Dog Whisperer. I looked at local shelters and rescues, I asked friends with pets, I discussed things with my parents, I looked at the rules and regulations surrounding ESAs. Pretty soon all I was doing in a day was researching dogs, dogs, dogs.
I decided that not just any dog would suit me. No, if I was going to get a dog, it was going to be the most perfect dog in the entire world. I had all these great fantasies in my head of Lassie-esque devotion, a dog-human relationship so touching it would totally make an awesome movie. Critics would give it five stars, everyone would sob as they watched the touching tale of I and my perfect dog.
As one can imagine, I had a very strict set of standards. I had the image of my perfect dog all laid out in my head. They would be smart so I could teach them lots of tricks, they would be impossibly loyal, they would be small and hypoallergenic, they would be cuddly, laid-back lapdogs that didn't require a lot of exercise so that I could keep up with them, they wouldn't be too young or too old, they had to be well-behaved and impeccably mannered. I already had enough problems of my own to worry about, I didn't want a dog that came with baggage to add to mine.
After pouring through the SPCA, local rescues, breeders, and kijiji ads, I somehow managed to narrow it down to three candidates. The information I had on them met the criteria so far, they were all breeds that were on my yes-list, they were at good ages. I got in contact with the current owners, discussed prices, and, of course, going to see the dogs. I had decided to be objective. I was not going to take home the first one I met, I was going to meet all of them and carefully evaluate how well we'd fit together. I was going to take time to decide this, because it was an extremely important decision. This dog was about to become my constant companion, for better or worse, and I needed to be absolutely sure I had the right one. But as they say about the best-laid plans, things didn't quite work out the way I thought they would.
December 23rd, the day before Christmas, was the day I'd set up to meet the first of my candidates. The others were farther away, so we went to go see him first. I remember feeling sick in the car, my stomach full of butterflies, like that feeling you get when you really, really like someone and want to tell them, that giddy nervousness. My dad drove me. We soon pulled up at the house. Reminding myself one last time to be cool about this, I knocked on the door.
The lady opened the door, and I spied the reason I had come here. My heart leaped in my chest when I saw him. I'd obviously seen dogs before, but I was currently looking at a dog that could potentially be mine. It changed everything. He was dressed in a little santa suit with a jingle bell collar. I immediately felt sorry for the poor thing. His owner then introduced him as Bambi, and I felt even worse.
I asked all the questions I had prepared. The lady answered them as best she could, but there were some gaps. She was definitely trying to cast him in the best possible light. If I had managed to remain objective, I would have probably left to look at the other dogs. She brought him over and introduced us- well, attempted to. When she called for him he seemed to ignore her, and when she eventually moved to go grab him, he attempted to trot away, looking miffed at the entire affair. She plunked him down in front of me, and I offered him my hand to sniff. I looked deep into his eyes, and I could tell that he was thinking "wow such bullshit do not want no human no pet no much desire to explore gotta go fast why touch do not like RABBIT". He shifted away from attempts to pet him. He growled when she picked him up. Eventually he wriggled out of her arms and trotted off, presumably to some other area of the house, away from all the big two-legged things that kept getting all up in his business.
Perhaps sensing that kernel of doubt in the back of my mind, she assured me he was super smart, and she'd taught him all kinds of tricks! She called him over. He eventually showed up when she shook the treat bag. My eyes went to him as I awaited a demonstration of his skills.
She told him to sit. He cocked his head and scratched his ear. The woman assured me he totally knew how to do this, and tried several times to get him to sit, attempts which he observed disdainfully. Hoping to salvage the situation, she desperately said that she'd been teaching him how to give kisses! She put her face up close to his and requested he give her a kiss. Instead of licking her, he just kind of drew his head back and trotted away disdainfully, those treats were not tasty enough to warrant him having to deal with this shit. He'd flunked the first half of the test. On top of that, he wasn't even neutered.
She let me take him on a walk for part two. She had to dig for a leash, explained she didn't have time to walk him. Objective, stay objective.
We took him out for a spin around the block. It became immediately clear he had absolutely zero training in this. He pulled every which way, getting distracted by every little thing, bounding around like a tetherball during a particularly vicious match. "Wow, he's so curious! He really likes walks!" I cheerfully made excuses while attempting to control an 11-pound living wrecking ball as he flung himself in the general direction of whatever was most interesting at the time, which happened to change every few seconds. My dad, who knew what I was looking for a dog, was skeptical. I babbled on about something involving him being intelligent, I don't really remember, while the dog proceeded to choke himself on his leash in order to attempt to investigate a squirrel he'd just seen. Eventually we turned around and had to drag him back, a difficult thing to do when your dog is attempting to run in the opposite direction you need to go because "Holy shit I just saw a tree guys gotta pee on that this is mine oh wow is that a rabbit holy shit I fucking love chasing rabbits am outside best day ever".
After managing to wrestle him back inside, my dad was just about done. He kind of gave me that look, the look that says "do you think this is a wise decision because I don't". Redundant, because I'm pretty sure I was screwed the moment I laid eyes on him. I wanted this dog. He was absolutely nothing like my dream dog, but I figured with so much time on my hands, I'd be able to whip him into shape pretty quickly. My dad asked me if I was sure, and I said yes. He still looked a little doubtful, so the lady suggested we take him for a day and see if we wanted to keep him, the clever woman.
We left the house with him and a whole bunch of stuff she'd given us, his kennel, vet's papers and such, some food, a stuffed animal, a bunch of toys that had never been used, still in the packaging. He obligingly hopped up into the back of the car with me and we started the ride home.
I couldn't stop grinning like a loon. This was a dog. This was my dog. Holy shit, I had a dog. As far as he was concerned, however, he didn't belong to me. He bounced around the car nervously, shying away from my attempts to pet him. I thought it was reasonable for him to be nervous around cars, he'd been through four owners before I got him, and he hadn't even turned two. He probably associates cars with never seeing his home again, I speculated.
When we got home and came in the door, my mom and brother were surprised. They'd been told that we were just going to meet the dog today, and didn't think I'd be bringing him home right away. I unleashed him proudly, told him to explore his new home.
The very first thing he did was run over to the nice white leather couch in the family room and lift a leg to pee on it. As far as first impressions go, he'd screwed the pooch on that one.
My mother was horrified, but, to her credit, did not lecture me. He wasn't the kind of dog I said I was looking for, but I'd picked him, and my parents were willing to respect that. So long as I got him house trained ASAP, mom told me he was out if he kept it up.
He came home with us for a trial day, and never went back. I awoke Christmas morning the proud owner of a dog. A naughty, ill-mannered, and mischievous dog, but a dog nonetheless.
It was the best Christmas ever, despite the fact that he made a nest out of the wrapping paper, and we couldn't catch him to get him out of that stupid Santa suit, nor could we get the demented jingle bell collar off his neck that day. Still the best Christmas ever.
Continuing from Life Before Dog, my parents sat me down and told me that they were getting me a dog to be my ESA, aka Emotional Support Animal. It's different from a Service Animal in that they do not receive formal training and I cannot bring him with me everywhere we go, but I am allowed to have him live with me wherever I live, even if there is a no pets policy, and I can take him with me on airplanes and transit. As for why an ESA instead of an actual SA, Fibromyalgia is not cut-and-dry, training animals specifically to assist people with the disease would be far too inconsistent, not to mention the fact that you still have some people who don't even think it's a real illness. I didn't need a dog to guide me places or press buttons or open doors for me, I needed a reason to live for. I needed something to force me to get out of bed in the morning, eat breakfast, go outside. I wouldn't do it for myself, but if there was a dog in the picture, my parents knew that I would do those things for the sake of the dog, no matter how painful and difficult it was, and they hoped that eventually I'd start doing that stuff for myself, too. I'm happy to say they were right.
I'd given up on life when they told me. I'd hit absolute rock bottom, and I'd been scrabbling to crawl out of the pit for so long that I gave up on even trying. That conversation started the spark. Somewhere in the utter blackness I saw a light. It was just a little spark, but it was more than I'd ever expected to see again. I had a goal, I had something to work towards. For the first time in forever, I felt like I actually had a purpose.
It felt good, having something to do with myself again. I threw myself into planning. I researched breeds, read training manuals, watched several seasons of the Dog Whisperer. I looked at local shelters and rescues, I asked friends with pets, I discussed things with my parents, I looked at the rules and regulations surrounding ESAs. Pretty soon all I was doing in a day was researching dogs, dogs, dogs.
I decided that not just any dog would suit me. No, if I was going to get a dog, it was going to be the most perfect dog in the entire world. I had all these great fantasies in my head of Lassie-esque devotion, a dog-human relationship so touching it would totally make an awesome movie. Critics would give it five stars, everyone would sob as they watched the touching tale of I and my perfect dog.
As one can imagine, I had a very strict set of standards. I had the image of my perfect dog all laid out in my head. They would be smart so I could teach them lots of tricks, they would be impossibly loyal, they would be small and hypoallergenic, they would be cuddly, laid-back lapdogs that didn't require a lot of exercise so that I could keep up with them, they wouldn't be too young or too old, they had to be well-behaved and impeccably mannered. I already had enough problems of my own to worry about, I didn't want a dog that came with baggage to add to mine.
After pouring through the SPCA, local rescues, breeders, and kijiji ads, I somehow managed to narrow it down to three candidates. The information I had on them met the criteria so far, they were all breeds that were on my yes-list, they were at good ages. I got in contact with the current owners, discussed prices, and, of course, going to see the dogs. I had decided to be objective. I was not going to take home the first one I met, I was going to meet all of them and carefully evaluate how well we'd fit together. I was going to take time to decide this, because it was an extremely important decision. This dog was about to become my constant companion, for better or worse, and I needed to be absolutely sure I had the right one. But as they say about the best-laid plans, things didn't quite work out the way I thought they would.
December 23rd, the day before Christmas, was the day I'd set up to meet the first of my candidates. The others were farther away, so we went to go see him first. I remember feeling sick in the car, my stomach full of butterflies, like that feeling you get when you really, really like someone and want to tell them, that giddy nervousness. My dad drove me. We soon pulled up at the house. Reminding myself one last time to be cool about this, I knocked on the door.
The lady opened the door, and I spied the reason I had come here. My heart leaped in my chest when I saw him. I'd obviously seen dogs before, but I was currently looking at a dog that could potentially be mine. It changed everything. He was dressed in a little santa suit with a jingle bell collar. I immediately felt sorry for the poor thing. His owner then introduced him as Bambi, and I felt even worse.
I asked all the questions I had prepared. The lady answered them as best she could, but there were some gaps. She was definitely trying to cast him in the best possible light. If I had managed to remain objective, I would have probably left to look at the other dogs. She brought him over and introduced us- well, attempted to. When she called for him he seemed to ignore her, and when she eventually moved to go grab him, he attempted to trot away, looking miffed at the entire affair. She plunked him down in front of me, and I offered him my hand to sniff. I looked deep into his eyes, and I could tell that he was thinking "wow such bullshit do not want no human no pet no much desire to explore gotta go fast why touch do not like RABBIT". He shifted away from attempts to pet him. He growled when she picked him up. Eventually he wriggled out of her arms and trotted off, presumably to some other area of the house, away from all the big two-legged things that kept getting all up in his business.
Perhaps sensing that kernel of doubt in the back of my mind, she assured me he was super smart, and she'd taught him all kinds of tricks! She called him over. He eventually showed up when she shook the treat bag. My eyes went to him as I awaited a demonstration of his skills.
She told him to sit. He cocked his head and scratched his ear. The woman assured me he totally knew how to do this, and tried several times to get him to sit, attempts which he observed disdainfully. Hoping to salvage the situation, she desperately said that she'd been teaching him how to give kisses! She put her face up close to his and requested he give her a kiss. Instead of licking her, he just kind of drew his head back and trotted away disdainfully, those treats were not tasty enough to warrant him having to deal with this shit. He'd flunked the first half of the test. On top of that, he wasn't even neutered.
She let me take him on a walk for part two. She had to dig for a leash, explained she didn't have time to walk him. Objective, stay objective.
We took him out for a spin around the block. It became immediately clear he had absolutely zero training in this. He pulled every which way, getting distracted by every little thing, bounding around like a tetherball during a particularly vicious match. "Wow, he's so curious! He really likes walks!" I cheerfully made excuses while attempting to control an 11-pound living wrecking ball as he flung himself in the general direction of whatever was most interesting at the time, which happened to change every few seconds. My dad, who knew what I was looking for a dog, was skeptical. I babbled on about something involving him being intelligent, I don't really remember, while the dog proceeded to choke himself on his leash in order to attempt to investigate a squirrel he'd just seen. Eventually we turned around and had to drag him back, a difficult thing to do when your dog is attempting to run in the opposite direction you need to go because "Holy shit I just saw a tree guys gotta pee on that this is mine oh wow is that a rabbit holy shit I fucking love chasing rabbits am outside best day ever".
After managing to wrestle him back inside, my dad was just about done. He kind of gave me that look, the look that says "do you think this is a wise decision because I don't". Redundant, because I'm pretty sure I was screwed the moment I laid eyes on him. I wanted this dog. He was absolutely nothing like my dream dog, but I figured with so much time on my hands, I'd be able to whip him into shape pretty quickly. My dad asked me if I was sure, and I said yes. He still looked a little doubtful, so the lady suggested we take him for a day and see if we wanted to keep him, the clever woman.
We left the house with him and a whole bunch of stuff she'd given us, his kennel, vet's papers and such, some food, a stuffed animal, a bunch of toys that had never been used, still in the packaging. He obligingly hopped up into the back of the car with me and we started the ride home.
I couldn't stop grinning like a loon. This was a dog. This was my dog. Holy shit, I had a dog. As far as he was concerned, however, he didn't belong to me. He bounced around the car nervously, shying away from my attempts to pet him. I thought it was reasonable for him to be nervous around cars, he'd been through four owners before I got him, and he hadn't even turned two. He probably associates cars with never seeing his home again, I speculated.
When we got home and came in the door, my mom and brother were surprised. They'd been told that we were just going to meet the dog today, and didn't think I'd be bringing him home right away. I unleashed him proudly, told him to explore his new home.
The very first thing he did was run over to the nice white leather couch in the family room and lift a leg to pee on it. As far as first impressions go, he'd screwed the pooch on that one.
My mother was horrified, but, to her credit, did not lecture me. He wasn't the kind of dog I said I was looking for, but I'd picked him, and my parents were willing to respect that. So long as I got him house trained ASAP, mom told me he was out if he kept it up.
He came home with us for a trial day, and never went back. I awoke Christmas morning the proud owner of a dog. A naughty, ill-mannered, and mischievous dog, but a dog nonetheless.
It was the best Christmas ever, despite the fact that he made a nest out of the wrapping paper, and we couldn't catch him to get him out of that stupid Santa suit, nor could we get the demented jingle bell collar off his neck that day. Still the best Christmas ever.
Friday 18 April 2014
Life Before Dog
In order to fully understand where this blog is coming from, you need to know about my background. Life Before Dog.
It feels a bit strange to talk about life before I got my dog. He's integrated himself so thoroughly into my life that I can no longer imagine life without him, even though I've only had him for a year and a bit. I still sometimes have these moments where it all seems so unreal, however. I still find myself going "holy shit I actually have a dog wow" every so often, and I don't think I'll ever really get over it. He changed my life. In fact, he saved it- right before he came into my life, I'd given up. He gave me something to live for long enough for me to find other things to live for.
Backtrack to when I was just a wee kid. I had a bit of a rocky childhood, several traumatic experiences fueling my Manic Depression, with a heaping spoonful of ADHD, NVLD, OCD, and anxiety issues on the side. I was definitely a problem child. I started on prescription medication for my various mental problems when I was in grade two, and since then, there hasn't been a day where I haven't had to take prescription meds every morning and/or evening.
Junior High was hard, High School was even harder. Those things are hard enough normally anyways, let alone tackled while also battling a slew of health problems. I had a lot of emotions, and didn't quite know how to handle them, so I ended up hurting myself, using cutting as a coping mechanism. It all came to a head in my Grade 12 year, when I made a suicide attempt that came dangerously close to succeeding. I landed myself in the hospital for a while, and it was during this time I decided that maybe probably I didn't want to kill myself. Or at least not the way I'd attempted it before, with pills, considering I had to chug liquid charcoal, and when I couldn't finish the bottle I ended up restrained with a tube shoved down my nose and charcoal pumped directly into my stomach, which was a wildly unpleasant experience. Not to mention the sound of my mother crying outside my hospital room.
I got sent to therapy, saw psychologists, psychiatrists, the whole nine yards. Pills can only take you so far though, and while I diligently took my meds, I never properly opened up to any of the therapists I went to. I think at that age I just wasn't ready to talk about my past yet. I really wanted to feel better, but I couldn't bring myself to trust anyone enough to show them my whole self.
But I got that stuff done. I survived High School, I was on meds, I saw some doctors, I was totally good to go... Or at least that's what I kept on telling myself. Back then I thought I had it all together, I thought I was better, but looking back on things now it's easy to see how wrong I was. Just because I'd slapped a bandaid on my wounds didn't mean that they weren't festering underneath.
I did okay, for a while. I took a gap year, worked on a ranch camp, led trail rides and taught archery and climbing and all that good stuff to groups that came through. I learned lots of new skills, I got to live in the wilderness, I got to bum around with horses all day. I had a lot of fun, but also a lot of stress. The Depression I thought I'd totally kicked came back with a vengeance. I still hadn't broken the habit of cutting myself to cope with my emotions. On top of that, I slowly started getting sicker. I gained a bunch of weight. I had no energy. My hair started falling out. I was an emotional wreck. It eventually got to the point where I just couldn't finish my year there. I had to go home and see my doctors.
I was distraught. That ranch had become my life, my home. I didn't know what to do with myself anymore. When my family doctor diagnosed me with Hashimoto's Disease, I jumped on that. Surely it was all just because I had this untreated autoimmune disease! I totally kicked my Depression, my mind was fine, I just needed to take a few more pills a day and everything would get better! Treating my Hashimoto's Thyroiditis did improve a lot of things. But the gaping wounds I'd built up from a lifetime of Depression and a whole lot of unfortunate experiences were still there, no matter how hard I tried to ignore them. And I tried so goddamn hard.
So I went to University next, still telling myself that I was fine. I tried to do everything, five classes, on the cheerleading team, part of several Uni clubs, go go go. As one can imagine, it took its toll on me pretty quickly. At first I thought it was just because I was pushing myself too hard. Eventually, I had to admit that my symptoms weren't just from overwork. I was having symptoms similar to the ones from my Hashimoto's Disease: hair loss, weight gain, exhaustion, highly emotional, and I still couldn't kick that self-harm habit. There were some new ones too, the most notable symptom being in severe pain all over my body every single second of every single day, as well as fainting spells, cognitive issues, confusion, sleep problems. I thought that maybe I just needed a higher dose of my thyroid meds.
I went to see several doctors, they all ran the blood tests, every single one said my thyroid looked fine. But that didn't stop me from getting worse and worse. I ended up having to withdrawal with cause from a bunch of courses, quit some clubs, and couldn't go with my cheerleading team to the big competitions, which was upsetting. Finally, a doctor had the sense to test for other things besides my thyroid function.
I had the blood tests run. I'd had an appointment booked for two weeks after, but I got a call a few days after the blood tests had been run. It was the doctor, and she needed to see me immediately. After a lot of schedule juggling we booked an appointment for a godawful early hour two days from then. I had two days to stew in anxiety, which wasn't very fun.
Finally, the day rolled around, I dragged myself out of bed and went in, only to find the doctor looking very grave. She had a couple sheets of paper that were my blood test results. She gave me the papers, and then explained what all the numbers meant. As usual, my thyroid was fine. But my cortisol levels were practically non-existent. The doctor was actually really amazed that I was still going to classes and clubs and running around, so I guess that says something about how stupidly stubborn I can be. More tests were run, and it was confirmed. My adrenal glands had failed.
I asked why. The doctor said she couldn't be 100% sure yet, but that it was most likely the same autoimmune disease that was attacking my thyroid. I thought "Okay, great, gimme some cortisol pills and we're good to go!". Nope. She apologized and told me that because I had the adrenal failure in conjunction with the thyroid failure, I was looking at a diagnosis of Autoimmune Polyendocrine Syndrome, or Lupus. APS is terminal, Lupus has a high likelihood of being terminal. In my first year of University, I was told that I was going to die young. I asked her how many years I had. She said she couldn't be too sure, and it depended upon which one it was, but if it was APS I probably wouldn't make it past 30, and Lupus was just anytime. She referred me to an endocrinologist to get the tests done to properly diagnose me. I was given prescriptions for cortisol and an immuno-supressing drug.
I walked out of that room numb. I didn't cry, not then. I was still pretty heavily in denial. It was so hard to wrap my head around, the fact that I, who fought tooth and nail her whole life against the illnesses she already had, who (at the time, I believed) had overcome those illnesses, I could finally see the light the end of the tunnel, and that light was just snuffed, just like that. Poof.
The specialist I had an appointment with was in Calgary, along with my family doctor and most of the other specialists I was seeing. So like any reasonable person would I pushed the pause button on my education and went home so I could focus 100% on getting myself as healthy as I could be.
Lol j/k nope I continued to flaunt that mile-wide stubborn streak, and kept on doing what I was doing, against the better advice from my doctors and my parents. I set out to get a University degree, and I was damn well going to get that degree, even if I never lived long enough to put it to good use.
It's hard to describe how much life sucked after that. I was still having all these symptoms, and now I had been told that my body was killing itself (I found it so ironic that now that I actually wanted to live my life, I was going to die). My grades plummeted, I had to drop more classes, I had to sit out competitions for the cheer team, and most of all, I felt I had to still pretend that everything was okay. I pushed away my friends, family, and potential friends. I thought it would be incredibly selfish of me to get close to people, and then when they cared about me they'd have to watch me die. I cut contact with a lot of my friends, avoided social events, withdrew from everyone around me and drowned in my own misery.
So here I was, alone, isolated, sick, and probably dying. I hadn't seen the endocrinologist yet, but I kept getting worse and worse every single day. I cut my hair really short, because most of it fell out, and the bald patches were painfully obvious with longer hair. I put on a happy face, but spent hours curled up on the floor in the shower sobbing, because the walls in residence were thin, so the only place I could have a breakdown without people hearing it was while I was taking a shower, when the water drowned out my cries.
Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this? Why was my happiness being snatched away, right when I'd finally, finally earned it?
I went to Calgary for a day to see the endocrinologist, and other doctors. I had a bunch of tests done, then went home to Lethbridge and tried to keep my grasp on my life, while continuously getting worse every single day. Tests results came back showing nothing was wrong from other doctors. Finally, the next appointment with the endocrinologist rolled around. The test results were in. I resigned myself to my fate. I'd been tested for everything else, this was all that was left. At this point, I just wanted the diagnosis, even if it was grim, because then at least I would know, and I could start getting used to it.
It turned out that one of the medications I was on has the incredibly rare side effect of causing adrenal failure. The doctor said that if I went off the meds, my adrenal glands would most likely restart themselves. I lost it. I had a full on panic attack, bawling my eyes out in that little room, because that meant that the symptoms I was having were not caused by the adrenal failure (as I continued to get worse even with proper meds supporting my adrenal glands). The only thing I said was "Then what's wrong with me?". You'd think I'd have been happy, to know that at least I didn't have those terminal illnesses, but to me, it was all that work trying to figure out what I had, and then coming up empty.
I was directed to several different specialists as they went through a long list of what it could be. I had a lot of scary terms thrown at me: pituitary cancer and Multiple Sclerosis, to name a few. Each test came back the same: my symptoms were not caused by everything I'd been tested for. My adrenal glands bounced back and started working again, but I continued getting sicker and sicker. I have no idea how I managed to make it through the school year, but I did.
I went home to Calgary, and as the tests wrapped up one by one with no conclusions, my family doctor fortunately found the solution. I had Fibromyalgia, which is mostly a diagnosis of exclusion (along with being poked in trigger points). I did what I always have done, which is cheerfully tell myself that if I just try hard enough, I can ignore it. I started meds for it and got waaaay better. By the time the next year of school rolled around, I was super fit, eating right, in minimal pain, and feeling optimistic. No one was going to stop me from living my life the way I wanted to live it, not even my own body!
I did really great for quite a while, good marks in classes, keeping up with clubs, had a social life. And then I had the kidney stone. The ordeal of the first kidney stone is a long story that I shall not tell today, but to put a long story short, I had a complete obstruction by the time they found it and I needed to have it surgically removed. And that was it. I never bounced back from the surgery. I got kidney and bladder infections. I started developing abscesses, the symptoms just piled up.
I tried to keep on doing what I was doing, living healthy, trying hard. But it just wasn't working anymore. I got worse and worse. It started to affect my school life. My grades dropped, I had to withdraw from some classes, I missed appointments, I was late for everything, I was irritable, I was tired, and I was always in so much pain.
This time, I did not manage to force myself through the year. I crashed and burned spectacularly, missing two final exams, falling out with the clubs I was in, alienating my friends. My mom came up and helped me do damage control. I managed to get my withdrawals and flunks changed to withdrawals with cause, fortunately, and figured out a plan with the school to suspend my education until I got better. And I told myself I was going to get better. I had it planned out, I was going to take the summer to sort out my health problems, then go back to school in the fall. That didn't turn out as planned.
As soon as I moved back to Calgary for the summer, I crashed. I'd been focusing so hard on keeping myself going, and now that I had nothing to keep going for, my body just decided that this was it. I stopped going outside, only leaving the house to go to doctor's appointments or get more tests done. Every day was agony. Simple daily tasks I once took for granted became impossibly difficult. Buttoning buttons. Eating. Getting out of bed. Getting dressed. I spent most of my day in my bed, asleep, or in too much pain to fall asleep but too tired to do anything else. I had to take breaks while walking up the short set of stairs from the basement to the main floor. I couldn't walk a block without having to stop and take a rest. I was miserable.
August was when I finally admitted to myself that I wasn't going to be able to go back to school. My doctor had been telling me all summer, but I kept on being stubbornly optimistic. I cried the day I woke up and realized that I would never be able to go to school like this.
And thus began the process of attempting to get myself better. I got on waiting lists for specialists and therapists, registered as legally disabled, went to programs designed to help people like me, tried lots of new meds, and while sometimes it would seem as if I was getting better, I would just crash again. I had more kidney stones, which was just rubbing salt into my wounds.
My dog came into my life at just the right time. It was December, I'd been disabled at home for a bit longer than a year then. Quite honestly, I'd given up. I didn't think I was ever going to get better. I felt trapped, caged, a youthful, spirited mind and soul trapped in a decrepit, old body. I wanted to die. For the first time since that fateful attempt in my grade twelve year, I contemplated suicide. I was going crazy. I didn't want to live anymore. Surely death was better than remaining in this broken meatsack and yearning for things I could never have. I continued seeing doctors and going to programs, though I was more just going through the motions than actually striving to get better. I'd given up on getting better.
Earlier that year I'd attended some workshops for people coping with chronic pain. My mom came along. Somehow, the conversation came around to pets, and a lot of the people went on about how therapeutic their dogs were. People started sharing stories about their dogs and the way they'd changed their lives. It sounded wonderful to me, but my family has always been against getting a dog, and I never imagined that it could actually happen. I jokingly told my mom to get me one for Christmas. The other people at the workshop thought it was funny, and chimed in, agreeing that I should totally get a dog. The workshop ended, I went home, and thought nothing of it.
December came around soon, and one day, much to my surprise, my parents sat me down and told me that they would let me pick out a dog for Christmas. My mom had been doing research on therapy dogs, and my father was impressed with what the studies showed animal companions could do.
And the rest, as they say, was history. I got my dog, and my improvement succeeded beyond the wildest hopes and dreams of my parents, doctors, and myself. It definitely didn't go smoothly, but this is already too long for a post. Next time, I'm going to tell the story of just how I got my dog, and the interesting circumstances around that event. So no Life After Dog stories yet, just Life Before Dog and Starting Life With Dog in the next post, but after that I swear I will adhere to the title of my blog. The Life After Dog stories I have are funnier, anyways.
It feels a bit strange to talk about life before I got my dog. He's integrated himself so thoroughly into my life that I can no longer imagine life without him, even though I've only had him for a year and a bit. I still sometimes have these moments where it all seems so unreal, however. I still find myself going "holy shit I actually have a dog wow" every so often, and I don't think I'll ever really get over it. He changed my life. In fact, he saved it- right before he came into my life, I'd given up. He gave me something to live for long enough for me to find other things to live for.
Backtrack to when I was just a wee kid. I had a bit of a rocky childhood, several traumatic experiences fueling my Manic Depression, with a heaping spoonful of ADHD, NVLD, OCD, and anxiety issues on the side. I was definitely a problem child. I started on prescription medication for my various mental problems when I was in grade two, and since then, there hasn't been a day where I haven't had to take prescription meds every morning and/or evening.
Junior High was hard, High School was even harder. Those things are hard enough normally anyways, let alone tackled while also battling a slew of health problems. I had a lot of emotions, and didn't quite know how to handle them, so I ended up hurting myself, using cutting as a coping mechanism. It all came to a head in my Grade 12 year, when I made a suicide attempt that came dangerously close to succeeding. I landed myself in the hospital for a while, and it was during this time I decided that maybe probably I didn't want to kill myself. Or at least not the way I'd attempted it before, with pills, considering I had to chug liquid charcoal, and when I couldn't finish the bottle I ended up restrained with a tube shoved down my nose and charcoal pumped directly into my stomach, which was a wildly unpleasant experience. Not to mention the sound of my mother crying outside my hospital room.
I got sent to therapy, saw psychologists, psychiatrists, the whole nine yards. Pills can only take you so far though, and while I diligently took my meds, I never properly opened up to any of the therapists I went to. I think at that age I just wasn't ready to talk about my past yet. I really wanted to feel better, but I couldn't bring myself to trust anyone enough to show them my whole self.
But I got that stuff done. I survived High School, I was on meds, I saw some doctors, I was totally good to go... Or at least that's what I kept on telling myself. Back then I thought I had it all together, I thought I was better, but looking back on things now it's easy to see how wrong I was. Just because I'd slapped a bandaid on my wounds didn't mean that they weren't festering underneath.
I did okay, for a while. I took a gap year, worked on a ranch camp, led trail rides and taught archery and climbing and all that good stuff to groups that came through. I learned lots of new skills, I got to live in the wilderness, I got to bum around with horses all day. I had a lot of fun, but also a lot of stress. The Depression I thought I'd totally kicked came back with a vengeance. I still hadn't broken the habit of cutting myself to cope with my emotions. On top of that, I slowly started getting sicker. I gained a bunch of weight. I had no energy. My hair started falling out. I was an emotional wreck. It eventually got to the point where I just couldn't finish my year there. I had to go home and see my doctors.
I was distraught. That ranch had become my life, my home. I didn't know what to do with myself anymore. When my family doctor diagnosed me with Hashimoto's Disease, I jumped on that. Surely it was all just because I had this untreated autoimmune disease! I totally kicked my Depression, my mind was fine, I just needed to take a few more pills a day and everything would get better! Treating my Hashimoto's Thyroiditis did improve a lot of things. But the gaping wounds I'd built up from a lifetime of Depression and a whole lot of unfortunate experiences were still there, no matter how hard I tried to ignore them. And I tried so goddamn hard.
So I went to University next, still telling myself that I was fine. I tried to do everything, five classes, on the cheerleading team, part of several Uni clubs, go go go. As one can imagine, it took its toll on me pretty quickly. At first I thought it was just because I was pushing myself too hard. Eventually, I had to admit that my symptoms weren't just from overwork. I was having symptoms similar to the ones from my Hashimoto's Disease: hair loss, weight gain, exhaustion, highly emotional, and I still couldn't kick that self-harm habit. There were some new ones too, the most notable symptom being in severe pain all over my body every single second of every single day, as well as fainting spells, cognitive issues, confusion, sleep problems. I thought that maybe I just needed a higher dose of my thyroid meds.
I went to see several doctors, they all ran the blood tests, every single one said my thyroid looked fine. But that didn't stop me from getting worse and worse. I ended up having to withdrawal with cause from a bunch of courses, quit some clubs, and couldn't go with my cheerleading team to the big competitions, which was upsetting. Finally, a doctor had the sense to test for other things besides my thyroid function.
I had the blood tests run. I'd had an appointment booked for two weeks after, but I got a call a few days after the blood tests had been run. It was the doctor, and she needed to see me immediately. After a lot of schedule juggling we booked an appointment for a godawful early hour two days from then. I had two days to stew in anxiety, which wasn't very fun.
Finally, the day rolled around, I dragged myself out of bed and went in, only to find the doctor looking very grave. She had a couple sheets of paper that were my blood test results. She gave me the papers, and then explained what all the numbers meant. As usual, my thyroid was fine. But my cortisol levels were practically non-existent. The doctor was actually really amazed that I was still going to classes and clubs and running around, so I guess that says something about how stupidly stubborn I can be. More tests were run, and it was confirmed. My adrenal glands had failed.
I asked why. The doctor said she couldn't be 100% sure yet, but that it was most likely the same autoimmune disease that was attacking my thyroid. I thought "Okay, great, gimme some cortisol pills and we're good to go!". Nope. She apologized and told me that because I had the adrenal failure in conjunction with the thyroid failure, I was looking at a diagnosis of Autoimmune Polyendocrine Syndrome, or Lupus. APS is terminal, Lupus has a high likelihood of being terminal. In my first year of University, I was told that I was going to die young. I asked her how many years I had. She said she couldn't be too sure, and it depended upon which one it was, but if it was APS I probably wouldn't make it past 30, and Lupus was just anytime. She referred me to an endocrinologist to get the tests done to properly diagnose me. I was given prescriptions for cortisol and an immuno-supressing drug.
I walked out of that room numb. I didn't cry, not then. I was still pretty heavily in denial. It was so hard to wrap my head around, the fact that I, who fought tooth and nail her whole life against the illnesses she already had, who (at the time, I believed) had overcome those illnesses, I could finally see the light the end of the tunnel, and that light was just snuffed, just like that. Poof.
The specialist I had an appointment with was in Calgary, along with my family doctor and most of the other specialists I was seeing. So like any reasonable person would I pushed the pause button on my education and went home so I could focus 100% on getting myself as healthy as I could be.
Lol j/k nope I continued to flaunt that mile-wide stubborn streak, and kept on doing what I was doing, against the better advice from my doctors and my parents. I set out to get a University degree, and I was damn well going to get that degree, even if I never lived long enough to put it to good use.
It's hard to describe how much life sucked after that. I was still having all these symptoms, and now I had been told that my body was killing itself (I found it so ironic that now that I actually wanted to live my life, I was going to die). My grades plummeted, I had to drop more classes, I had to sit out competitions for the cheer team, and most of all, I felt I had to still pretend that everything was okay. I pushed away my friends, family, and potential friends. I thought it would be incredibly selfish of me to get close to people, and then when they cared about me they'd have to watch me die. I cut contact with a lot of my friends, avoided social events, withdrew from everyone around me and drowned in my own misery.
So here I was, alone, isolated, sick, and probably dying. I hadn't seen the endocrinologist yet, but I kept getting worse and worse every single day. I cut my hair really short, because most of it fell out, and the bald patches were painfully obvious with longer hair. I put on a happy face, but spent hours curled up on the floor in the shower sobbing, because the walls in residence were thin, so the only place I could have a breakdown without people hearing it was while I was taking a shower, when the water drowned out my cries.
Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this? Why was my happiness being snatched away, right when I'd finally, finally earned it?
I went to Calgary for a day to see the endocrinologist, and other doctors. I had a bunch of tests done, then went home to Lethbridge and tried to keep my grasp on my life, while continuously getting worse every single day. Tests results came back showing nothing was wrong from other doctors. Finally, the next appointment with the endocrinologist rolled around. The test results were in. I resigned myself to my fate. I'd been tested for everything else, this was all that was left. At this point, I just wanted the diagnosis, even if it was grim, because then at least I would know, and I could start getting used to it.
It turned out that one of the medications I was on has the incredibly rare side effect of causing adrenal failure. The doctor said that if I went off the meds, my adrenal glands would most likely restart themselves. I lost it. I had a full on panic attack, bawling my eyes out in that little room, because that meant that the symptoms I was having were not caused by the adrenal failure (as I continued to get worse even with proper meds supporting my adrenal glands). The only thing I said was "Then what's wrong with me?". You'd think I'd have been happy, to know that at least I didn't have those terminal illnesses, but to me, it was all that work trying to figure out what I had, and then coming up empty.
I was directed to several different specialists as they went through a long list of what it could be. I had a lot of scary terms thrown at me: pituitary cancer and Multiple Sclerosis, to name a few. Each test came back the same: my symptoms were not caused by everything I'd been tested for. My adrenal glands bounced back and started working again, but I continued getting sicker and sicker. I have no idea how I managed to make it through the school year, but I did.
I went home to Calgary, and as the tests wrapped up one by one with no conclusions, my family doctor fortunately found the solution. I had Fibromyalgia, which is mostly a diagnosis of exclusion (along with being poked in trigger points). I did what I always have done, which is cheerfully tell myself that if I just try hard enough, I can ignore it. I started meds for it and got waaaay better. By the time the next year of school rolled around, I was super fit, eating right, in minimal pain, and feeling optimistic. No one was going to stop me from living my life the way I wanted to live it, not even my own body!
I did really great for quite a while, good marks in classes, keeping up with clubs, had a social life. And then I had the kidney stone. The ordeal of the first kidney stone is a long story that I shall not tell today, but to put a long story short, I had a complete obstruction by the time they found it and I needed to have it surgically removed. And that was it. I never bounced back from the surgery. I got kidney and bladder infections. I started developing abscesses, the symptoms just piled up.
I tried to keep on doing what I was doing, living healthy, trying hard. But it just wasn't working anymore. I got worse and worse. It started to affect my school life. My grades dropped, I had to withdraw from some classes, I missed appointments, I was late for everything, I was irritable, I was tired, and I was always in so much pain.
This time, I did not manage to force myself through the year. I crashed and burned spectacularly, missing two final exams, falling out with the clubs I was in, alienating my friends. My mom came up and helped me do damage control. I managed to get my withdrawals and flunks changed to withdrawals with cause, fortunately, and figured out a plan with the school to suspend my education until I got better. And I told myself I was going to get better. I had it planned out, I was going to take the summer to sort out my health problems, then go back to school in the fall. That didn't turn out as planned.
As soon as I moved back to Calgary for the summer, I crashed. I'd been focusing so hard on keeping myself going, and now that I had nothing to keep going for, my body just decided that this was it. I stopped going outside, only leaving the house to go to doctor's appointments or get more tests done. Every day was agony. Simple daily tasks I once took for granted became impossibly difficult. Buttoning buttons. Eating. Getting out of bed. Getting dressed. I spent most of my day in my bed, asleep, or in too much pain to fall asleep but too tired to do anything else. I had to take breaks while walking up the short set of stairs from the basement to the main floor. I couldn't walk a block without having to stop and take a rest. I was miserable.
August was when I finally admitted to myself that I wasn't going to be able to go back to school. My doctor had been telling me all summer, but I kept on being stubbornly optimistic. I cried the day I woke up and realized that I would never be able to go to school like this.
And thus began the process of attempting to get myself better. I got on waiting lists for specialists and therapists, registered as legally disabled, went to programs designed to help people like me, tried lots of new meds, and while sometimes it would seem as if I was getting better, I would just crash again. I had more kidney stones, which was just rubbing salt into my wounds.
My dog came into my life at just the right time. It was December, I'd been disabled at home for a bit longer than a year then. Quite honestly, I'd given up. I didn't think I was ever going to get better. I felt trapped, caged, a youthful, spirited mind and soul trapped in a decrepit, old body. I wanted to die. For the first time since that fateful attempt in my grade twelve year, I contemplated suicide. I was going crazy. I didn't want to live anymore. Surely death was better than remaining in this broken meatsack and yearning for things I could never have. I continued seeing doctors and going to programs, though I was more just going through the motions than actually striving to get better. I'd given up on getting better.
Earlier that year I'd attended some workshops for people coping with chronic pain. My mom came along. Somehow, the conversation came around to pets, and a lot of the people went on about how therapeutic their dogs were. People started sharing stories about their dogs and the way they'd changed their lives. It sounded wonderful to me, but my family has always been against getting a dog, and I never imagined that it could actually happen. I jokingly told my mom to get me one for Christmas. The other people at the workshop thought it was funny, and chimed in, agreeing that I should totally get a dog. The workshop ended, I went home, and thought nothing of it.
December came around soon, and one day, much to my surprise, my parents sat me down and told me that they would let me pick out a dog for Christmas. My mom had been doing research on therapy dogs, and my father was impressed with what the studies showed animal companions could do.
And the rest, as they say, was history. I got my dog, and my improvement succeeded beyond the wildest hopes and dreams of my parents, doctors, and myself. It definitely didn't go smoothly, but this is already too long for a post. Next time, I'm going to tell the story of just how I got my dog, and the interesting circumstances around that event. So no Life After Dog stories yet, just Life Before Dog and Starting Life With Dog in the next post, but after that I swear I will adhere to the title of my blog. The Life After Dog stories I have are funnier, anyways.
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