Have I rescued the child of Satan? (*A tale for anyone who doesn’t have a “perfect” dog)

 

By Mary Kay Roth

Soaring through the air, my tennis shoe hit my living room wall with an angry thud, landing right next to my terrified puppy, Pip, who cowered underneath the table.

“Pip, you’re not my dog, you are the child of Satan," I sobbed, "and I’m taking you back to the shelter.”  

It was a dark evening, several months ago, I was exhausted and exasperated, almost at the breaking point with this then seven-month-old mutt. 

In my defense, sure, I’ve posted cute pictures of Pippa on my Facebook page.  She looks so darned adorable.  

But this dog is a terror.

Even though I’m savvy enough to hide my best stuff, she manages to chew through shoes, lunchboxes, bras, rugs, pillows, quilts, books, chair legs.

When I get ready to take a shower, she waits for the exact moment my clothes hit the floor, nabs the closest item and goes revving off to hide her incredible prize. Which doesn’t seem so bad until a guest visits your home, sits down on the couch – and your underpants are tucked beneath a pillow.

Yes, I’ve tried crating her, but she totally freaks out. In our last attempt she managed to scoot a sizable crate across the room, pull down a coat rack, tug my best jackets into the crate and chew them to shreds. By the time I got home, her nose was bleeding from endeavoring to squeeze through the bars.

Yet, when I tried leaving her loose and on her own, she busted and escaped through a screen window, and I returned home to find her frolicking in the backyard.

And, holy moly, when she wants to come inside, she has learned to climb onto the 2-inch-wide ledge underneath our picture window, stand up on two legs and precariously plaster herself against the glass. Mind you, the first time she did this the neighbors texted to see if everything was ok. “We’ve never seen a dog do that.”  

Of course, I haven’t yet addressed the greatest challenge. This dog is scared of nearly everything: trash cans and tree limbs – electric mixers and fans – carwashes – planes, trains and automobiles – suspicious bags of mulch and the sound of Velcro – printers, brooms, geese, umbrellas, thunder – the wind – anybody she doesn’t know. 

Regrettably, whenever Pip is anxious, she howls and barks, endlessly – with zest, fervor and persistence.  

My wise and gentle veterinarian explains that Pip is a “reactive dog,” which means she over-reacts to normal situations, frightened of the world. Often nothing traumatic has happened. Some dogs are simply born that way.

“Yes, reactive dogs can be incredibly challenging,” the vet confirms, trying to soothe my tattered nerves.  “But when they finally trust you, when you start understanding them, they can be such sweethearts.” 

In truth, by the time I threw the shoe and hollered at Pip on that god-awful night, I was worn down, in tears and ready to give in.  But after the shoe toss, Pip came crawling out from under the table, her body drooped in shame, then lay her head on my lap and sighed. A deep, sad sigh.   

And in that moment, something shifted that night.  Hugging her tighter than I ever had before, I made some sacred promises to my puppy: 

1. No more shoes, anger, threats. 
2. I would seek out some help.

S-O-S and hallelujah, in the coming weeks I did find the most amazing, super-duper dog trainer named Jim.  Admittedly, when he visited our home for the first time Pip barked at him for two hours.  But by the second visit she adored him as much as his bag of treats and his toolbox of magic advice.

“She’s such a love," Jim tells me. "You need to get inside her head, grasping how it would feel to be afraid of the world, helping her find her calm – helping teach her to self-soothe.” 

“And you can always call if you are losing it,” he whispers at the end of each session, leaving behind a list of rock-solid tips and, perhaps more importantly, a bundle of hope.  

Nowadays, whenever Pip gets scared, I hold her close and assure her the world is safe.  She has learned to sit, lie down, spin, high five, recall, shake hands (and we’re working on playing dead). We practice 180-degree turns to get a better grip on walking together. And we’re tackling the fine art of eye contact.  Indeed, I can now place a treat on her paw and she’ll leave it there until she looks up to get the thumbs up. 

Thankfully, I’m not alone in this endeavor.  Neighbors all around us – whom she barks at incessantly – are now armed with treats to coax Pip closer. Wonderfully willing friends stand outside my front door, sometimes endlessly, while we teach her to calm – before any guest is allowed to enter.

Nevertheless, let me be completely and abundantly clear: This is not a tale of instant miracles. 

At 10 months and still growing, Pip’s hazardous tail continues to wipe out dishes and whack down children. 

Yes, a basket of chew toys has eased her destruction, but lately she’s captivated by felt tip pens. Every day, several times a day, she charmingly denies stealing any – until I pry open her mouth and check out her technicolor tongue. Gotcha. 

Now almost 70 pounds of muscle and zero self-control, she nearly pulls off my arm on walks.  So, to slow her down, I use what they call a “gentle lead”– though she’s gnawed away six gentle leads (and counting).  I swear she hunts them down just to destroy them.

And if she gets loose, generally by shimmying out of her harness – beware – she dashes and darts in huge crazy loops with wild abandon. On her last great escape, I only nabbed her because she paused to poop … and I tackled her.

Pip simply seems incapable of avoiding trouble. There’s no wishy-washy bland in this dog’s soul.  

She wants to romp with every canine we meet on the trails but gets so super-charged she terrifies them. And when she finally overcomes the fear of a human, she turns to extreme and absolute adoration, overwhelming them with doggy embraces, nips and licks.  

Strolling down park paths, Pip will happily trot beside me, then unexpectedly yank in a totally different direction – “squirrel” – as we attempt to ignore the inevitable parade of elegant dogs that obediently follow their masters and never disobey. 

Well, that’s not my dog.

My dog, in her many lunatic moments and for no particular reason, will suddenly whiz and bounce around the house, leaping over furniture, roaring about corners, knocking over everything in her path – then dive-bomb onto my lap and tip her head back so I can stroke her under the chin.

My dog loves the smell of flowers, until she eats them, and confidently attempts to pick up sticks that are four times her size.

My dog still barks at almost anything that moves, especially squirrels, bugs delivery people – in truth, everybody who comes to the door – and, most outrageously, her evil nemesis, Smoky the neighborhood cat.

And when I wake up in the morning, my dog is generally draped on top of me – at least until she spies the light of dawn and thunders out of bed in anticipation of a sunrise walk.  

Pip is a hound who bounds through life with unbridled passion – with a heart so big it spills over with joy. 

Turns out, I guess, she’s not really the child of Satan.  

Pip is mine.