Olive

"That didn't take long" I said to Nikki when she handed me her phone.  She was getting ready for work and I was barely awake.

"I know, she's pretty cute isn't she?"

I knew we were all in the second I looked at the photo.  Damn.

Less than 24 hours earlier we made the excruciating decision to put our beloved Bella down.  It was the right thing to do, but it was still devastating.  We were working on processing the emotions and dealing with a dog-less house for the first time in 19 years. Empty.  Everything felt empty.

I took a closer look and the adrenaline I felt completely surprised me.  I knew we would get another dog eventually, but I didn't think I could feel this excited about a dog so quickly. No doubt it was the resemblance that reeled me in.  The puppy looked eerily similar to Bella when she was young.  Within an hour I had the required adoption forms completed and I told Nikki as she left for work, "I'm gonna go get her."

"Olive", she said, "Let's call her Olive."

According to the rescue agency (The Dog Spot Rescue), Olive's mother is a Treeing Walker Coonhound and the father is unknown.  She was one of a litter of 9 puppies, living outside in squalid conditions, arriving at our house having been treated for giardia, kennel cough, and various parasites.  The owner didn't speak much English, but the staff was able to convince her to give the puppies up for adoption. All indications were that the dogs would have been given away to people in the neighborhood, or grocery store, or whatever, all sickness included.  The odds against her survival were long.  She wasn't off to a good start in life.

Prior to adopting Olive I had never heard of a Treeing Walker Coonhound so I immediately set about learning more. Through diligent reading I've come to find out I'm in for a mess of shit.  This breed is known for being very intelligent and stubborn.  Both of these traits have been clearly manifest in our brief two weeks together in her actions and (dog) words.  We're working on coming to a resolution.

Her intelligence was at the forefront of our initial interactions.  Hell, within a matter of days, Olive appeared to understand the concept of going potty.  She begged to go out, then promptly did her business and ran back inside.  "I can't believe how easy this is," I thought.  Then, she showed the dark side of her intelligence:  She used me as a springboard to get onto the couch, which she couldn't reach otherwise.  "Nikki, did you see that?", I screamed.  I had to read some more to find out if that happened the way I thought it did. I found this on Wikipedia:

"This breed is highly intelligent, and consequently they require absolute consistency of training, as they look for loopholes to exploit. They may attempt to negotiate, responding to human direction by offering an alternative course of action they prefer.  They have been known to use objects as tools or to manipulate their environment to accomplish a task (e.g., moving furniture to climb over gates, using household objects to manipulate kennel mechanisms, etc.). 

Uh-oh.  If she had thumbs she'd be a primate. 

In the next several days I saw all of these traits play out.  The first day I put her in her pen we had a huge negotiation about her thoughts on this matter.  She protested when I put her in the pen so I gave her my best alpha dog stare and used my deepest voice to put her firmly in her place.

"No!" I bellowed with an intense gaze.

 She considered my offering for a brief second, then gave me a counter offer.

"HELL NO!  NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!" she said emphatically, looking me directly in the eye the whole time.  Then she sat and stared at me.

This was repeated several times.

The negotiation seemed to be going well. Both parties stated their case with equal vigor.  I stated my position and she offered an alternative course of action.  Wow, raising dogs is really rational and rewarding, except for the fact that I'm supposed to win.  This conversation made me realize I needed the upper hand in the negotiations and I saw the solution in the form of a squirt bottle.

Initially, the bottle has an element of surprise to it that a puppy can't quite figure out.  A stream of water magically appears from the heavens and startles them into ceasing the current behavior.  This worked for a short amount of time until she figured out where the water came from.  Then she got a gleam in her eye.

(Olive Digging a huge chunk of grass out of the ground):  

Me:  SQUIRT!  No, stop digging!

Olive: (shakes water off of her head, looks at me out of the corner of her eye).  KNOCK IT OFF!

Me:  (SQUIRT, SQUIRT, SQUIRT).

Olive:  (Shakes head again, butt in air) Seriously!?  That's annoying.  STOP! (continues digging)

Me: (SQUIRT SQUIRTSQUIRTSQUIRTSQUIRT). 

Olive:  (Hauls ass over to new spot and starts frantically digging)  F*&ckin' thing don't reach over here does it, smart ass?

And so it goes, a battle of wills that I imagine is just beginning in this great adventure of raising a puppy.

I write this stuff down because much of it will be forgotten when she's mature and "normal" life has returned.   I've never had kids, but having a puppy in my 40's makes me understand the irrational impulse to shake a baby.  She's infuriating, frustrating, time consuming, and demanding.  And she has me wrapped around her finger because she is absolutely loving and trusting.  At the end of the day when she's tired and plops her head in my lap, she owns me.  I'm all in again.

Bella on the left at 5 and Olive at 3 months

Olive at the Casa Madrona hotel

Playing

She spends all day plotting how to get on the couch, but when I place her on the bed for a photo, she frantically tries to get down.

Christmas Table Center Piece

Looking guilty, although she hadn't done anything wrong.

She's Gone

Shocking, body rocking waves of tears flood over me. Do I really sound like that? It's been one day, not even quite.  She's still real, but she's gone.  Her smell is still here.  I want to love on her, she's not there.  The impulse is real, it's physical, I can feel it in my arms, the sensation of grabbing her skin, rubbing her neck, I can still feel it on my hands, but she's not there.  I know she's gone, but I don't, because I turn the corner to see her, expecting her to be there, but she's gone.  I make some coffee and think, I guess I should feed Bella now, but she's not there to eat.  Her homemade food is still in the refrigerator.  Goddamn she's become so fussy about eating late in life.  Wait, she was fussy.  Now she's gone.  I don't need to heat up the food.  There's no dog to eat it.  I sit down at the counter and try to do something normal.  I read ESPN. Suddenly I think, I'm sure Bella wants to go out now, it's about time.  Every morning for the  last 14 years. I turn, she's not there.  She's gone.  Her leash is right over there, but she's not.  She's gone. Forever.  I can see her hills out my window.  She loved those hills.  See that one?  She frenzied every time we got to the top.  It only took  a small glance and she knew.  Butt high in the air, staring at me, waiting for me to move.  The smallest gesture and she's off, I can't touch her, she's too fast.  She's laughing at me, now I'm laughing.  Left.  Right. Low to the ground.  How long can she do this?  I'm back in my kitchen.  She's still gone.  We won't be doing that anymore.  No more getting chased by cows.  No more rolling in shit.  God that made me mad.  And it made me laugh.  Hey Nikki, check out Bella, she rolled in shit again.  Get her outside now.  Now she frenzies again.  Baths make dogs do that.  They all do that.  Around the table.  Rolling crazily on the floor.  She's laughing at me, I can't catch her.  I'd love to give her another bath.  But she's gone.  There's her blanket in the laundry room, her hair all over it.  I pick it up, it still smells like her.  Corn chips.  All dogs smell like corn chips, especially their feet.  I can feel her feet in my hands.  But she's gone.  But she's here, I can see her hair.  I can smell her.  But she's gone. I can't reconcile the difference.  More body rocking waves of tears.  Splitting headache.  I think I just drooled during that wave.  Uncontrollable waves of grief.  Life goes on.  But it doesn't, not today anyway.  I'm in between worlds.  She's here and she's gone.  I pull out the old photos.  There she is as a puppy.  4 months old with fully grown legs, completely out of proportion.  Running, chasing, laughing with the other dogs.  Now she's gone. The dogs link us to the start of our married life.  The others have been gone for awhile and I've reconciled that.  Today, though, Bella's gone and it's confusing.  She's here and she's gone.  I go upstairs.  She was never here, her hips too tired to make it up the stairs.  Refuge for my mind.  I work a little.  Small relief.  I haven't heard Bella go out the dog door this morning.  Oh yeah, she's gone.  She won't do that anymore.  I want so badly to walk downstairs and love on her a little bit. But I can't.  She's gone. I've been through this before.  Time heals all wounds, right?  Maybe.  I don't know.  Not today, though.  She's gone.  I want to see her.  Today.  But she's gone.  It will get better.  But not today.  She's gone.

Thankful

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Like everybody else over the weekend, I took stock of what I'm thankful for and resolved to be less petty about the mundane things, the things that don't matter in life.  I eat on a regular schedule, I have a roof over my head, and I have all the basic necessities one requires to be generally fulfilled.  Sure, I complain and I say things are a pain in the ass, and I have a few laughs about it.  After spending some time thinking about all the things I'm thankful for, I still didn't feel like I had it nailed down, like I was missing something very basic that still wasn't articulated.   Then, it hit me like a ton of bricks as Nikki and I were enjoying a walk with Bella, and I knew exactly what I was thankful for.

We often go for walk in Sorich park in San Anselmo on the weekends when we want to do something different.   The air is always cool and it has the heavenly smell of damp eucalyptus trees most days.  It must be pure sensual ecstasy for a dog to sniff the area, and Bella did so with urgency.   You can choose an easy path or you can choose to head straight uphill for a more difficult climb and workout.  We climbed first and got some nice shots from up high, then headed back down to the footpath for some easier walking.  We've been to the park several times so we knew that we would eventually run into Mt. Tamalpais Cemetery if we followed the path far enough.  

Cemeteries always give me pause because I inherently know that's where we all end up.  Whether it's now or a year or 50 years, that's the end game, and our time on earth is so inconsequential in geological time.  Regardless of your religious beliefs about the after life, I would venture to say we all feel that claustrophobic feeling when we look at burial plots.  If there is the smallest black hole of doubt that may exist in your universe of faith and in the after life, it will certainly rush to the forefront in these moments of reflection and mock you, call you names, and laugh in your face.  In fact, I can imagine that this very moment of reflection and claustrophobia is exactly why religion exists in the first place.  We can't fathom nothing.  Despite all that deep thinking, I still couldn't help but notice the small concrete mausoleum nearby and that it would make a nice, gritty background, so I got a shot of Bella by it.  Also, the deciduous trees are strikingly similar in color to the Colorado aspen trees in the fall, something that always surprises me just a bit.

Nikki pointed out a particular headstone as we were walking back out of the park that caused me to reflect again.  The sun coming through the trees was beautiful and the headstone seemed to be isolated from the others.  I looked at the date and noticed this person was buried in 1956.  That's 55 years ago, in the ground longer than I've been alive.

And then it hit me.  The thing I'm thankful for, the thing I couldn't quite articulate earlier is this:  I'm thankful to be alive, today,now, smelling the eucalyptus, walking, thinking, writing.  I may be gone tomorrow, but right now, I'm breathing.  I'm of this world. And that's what matters.

Our Refugee Puppy

Photo by Jeff Allen

The gray has begun its slow, inevitable creep across her muzzle as she approaches nine years old, but the gray brings me comfort.  It means she has lived long past her execution date, the day I heard the awful scream that brought her into my life.  None of it was planned or expected.

  I was on a trip with my Dad, who was researching a motorcycle travel story in a Harley-Davidson side-car rig for a magazine.   We were on our way back home after spending several days driving up and down the baja peninsula, he on the motorcycle and I in a trailing van with a photographer and a writer.  Until that point, I had always been a dog lover, but a chain of events brought a little puppy we came to name Bella, into my life and left an indelible impression on me and changed the way I understand and experience all dogs.

  We first noticed her as we were sitting around the hotel Pinta hotel in San Ignacio, Mexico. The two nights we spent there were the most at any location during the week.  The hotel looked like an old mission, but with clean sheets, hot running water and a passable restaurant.  The main courtyard had a large pool, giving the place the feel of an oasis in the hot dry Baja desert. 

  As all feral dogs in Baja, she looked like a mix of several breeds.  The most obvious characteristics were that of a German Shepherd and Doberman.  Her hair was short, but had the same black and tan markings of a Shephard.  Her feet had the high toes of a Doberman with the same posture and deep chest.  Sometimes when she panted, her forehead wrinkled, making her look like a Sharpei, or a Bull Terrier.  Here ears were perhaps the most prominent feature, floppy and two sizes two big.

  She was with her mother and brother, and all lived under the front porch.  It was obvious they were still nursing, not more than 6-8 weeks old.  Bella and her brother were lively and rambunctious, the mother very reserved and a bit haggard. The tourists, including our group, took advantage of the opportunity to feed them table scraps, to steal an intimate moment to give them a little affection, and for a moment, imagine another life for these dogs. Surely this small pack belonged to someone associated with the hotel, so the fleeting moment passed and we went about our business.

  Early on our last morning there, packing to leave, we heard a horrible scream that even now rings crystal clear in my mind.  My first thought was that one of the dogs had been hit by a car.  Her mother was pacing nervously, knowing her baby was in danger.  As we approached the sound, we found that Bella had been tied in a potato sack and tossed into the back of a rusty old pickup. Her first ride was going to be her last.  My dad and I walked purposefully to the truck and the driver to try and make sense of the situation.

 It was obvious that the driver had been given instructions to toss this innocent life in the river. Quickly the conversation turned threatening, and the shouting started.

 Though I was livid at the time, I realize now it was a practical solution for controlling the overwhelming feral dog population among people with few means.  It was surprising her mother had lived long enough to have puppies. We were told the males are typically spared, though we have no way of knowing what happened to her brother.

  The result of the exchange between we and the pickup driver was that I owned a new puppy. At the time I had no idea of the implications, but I was adamant that this little girl wouldn’t die today.

  Before we packed her in the van, my dad got on his knee,  held Bella’s face to her mother’s and whispered, “Say goodbye to your baby, she’s going to America and a better life”.  Perhaps it’s foolish, or anthropomorphic, but in my mind her mother understood the exchange and, though sad, gave us her blessing.

  The first few hours of our little traveler with us in the van she sat in a in a bucket.  She smelled like fish and vomited out the effluvium of a fish carcass, a taco wrapper, chewing gum wrapper, and a mouse skull.  I cleaned her up that first night in the hotel shower and wrapped her in the comforter on the bed.  She clearly felt content, safe, and warm because she barely stirred all night.

  The next day we stopped in Maneadero and got her vaccinations taken care of, preparing for the border crossing.  Finding a veterinarian on the main street was easy, but describing what I wanted was very intimidating because I had to explain in Spanish Bella’s story and what I was doing.  Fortunately, I had learned enough Spanish to make this conversation possible, although it was slow going.

  The staff in the office was very helpful and the Veterinarian was understanding and appreciated what we were doing.  He saw us immediately and we were out within an hour vaccination papers in hand. Our stowaway was legal with her first set of papers.

 Approaching the border we tried enclosing her in the motorcycle side car luggage compartment. No way, and she let us hear her scream again.  We believed there was a real chance she could be confiscated and we might never see her again.  I was surprised I could feel such panic over a dog I had known for less than 36 hours.  The deep bond was already intact.

  After considering many complicated schemes, we decided a small hiding place under the seat and a “nothing to declare” were the best option to get her to America.

  With my dad driving, I sat in the back seat, with Bella gently pushed back behind my legs on the floor and covered with leathers and photography equipment. I was praying she wouldn’t make a sound, and not squirm out and initiate a conversation of her own with the guards.  In that moment I knew what it felt like to be a drug dealer, a smuggler, a criminal.  I was terrified and electrified at the same time.  A new life was at stake, a beating heart that needed me to be calm so she could experience life in a truly magical place called America.

  The guard approached the window and took a painfully slow look around the interior of the van.  When was Bella going to appear?  Did she just cry? I tried to give him my lazy, bored and tired Yankee look, but I knew he could read the guilt on my face and would ask me to step out of the vehicle. After several agonizing seconds he pulled his head out of the van and inquired about my dad’s travel humidor full of cigars. “Cubano,” he asked smiling.  “Nope, not from Cuba”, me Dad replied. “ Dominican Republic.”   With that, the guard waved us through.  I resisted the impulse to shout out in triumph for Bella, for us, and for getting away with it. I had a new puppy…but now what?

  Before driving back home, I had to make a stop at my dad’s house in Costa Mesa, California to pick up my truck before heading home to Sacramento.  His career and mine brought us both to California from Denver, Colorado, where I spent my childhood.  The motorcycle industry lured my Dad to Southern California, while the Air Force brought me to Sacramento.

  We stayed for a while at my Dad’s place and while there, Bella briefly met Maggie, my childhood Irish Setter who was now twelve. All of our dogs growing up were Irish Setters. I had forgotten how tall she was.  Her legs were very long, bringing her shoulders  to my waist.  Her hair was still brilliant red in most places, though her face was nearly all gray.  She moved much slower and calculated now, but I could still see the athlete’s grace and power in her body. She gently nudged me and cried when she first saw me.  Although it had been several years, she remembered me. The loyalty never wavers.

   The two dogs played a bit, but Maggie soon tired of the new puppy and quickly put her in her place.  The short meeting between the two insured “the chain” remained intact.  Maggie is gone now, but every dog since my childhood has had contact with the next, from Sara to Kelly to Maggie to Bella currently.

  While driving the eigh hours home, I tried to figure a way to introduce our new package of boundless energy to my wife, Nikki, who had no idea what was coming.  Growing up, Nikki was never able to have dogs despite the fact she desperately wanted one.  A month after we were married we picked up our Cocker Spaniel named Maty, who immediately became the focus of all our attention.

  Shortly thereafter, we got her her a companion and found our second love, Mariah, an extremely talkative Samoyed.  Life was a bit frantic at first, but we settled into our routine and Maty and Mariah quickly became strong packmates.  Although Nikki and I had talked about adding a third dog from time to time, we had never quite come to an agreement.  I hoped we could agree now.

  Desperate husbands have a way of introducing dicey surprises, and I’m no exception. I figured since it was February, Bella would become a little Valentine. And she’s the greatest Valentine’s gift I have ever given.

  After hastily parking the car in the garage, I walked into the house and handed my wife a card.  It briefly explained Bella’s situation and told her to go to the truck to see the “package” (she later told me she thought I had adopted a Mexican child).   Nikki met Bella with the same excitement and trepidation I experienced.  Here was a cute, needy new puppy that had to be integrated into our established two dog household, and my wife’s heart melted.

  With a few scheduling adjustments, the transition into the house was fairly easy at first, though it certainly had its rough spots later on as Bella attempted to become the alpha female. Her survival insinct was very strong. This never sat will with Maty who was definitely the toughest of the three.

  Over several years, they had some nasty confrontations and Bella still has the scars around her face to prove it.  But now that Maty is gone, the household has settled into a certain calm, Mariah and Bella each understanding their role and social status. Age has a way of doing that, whether human or canine.  When I look at Bella and my wife now, I can see a deeper appreciation between them, a genuine closeness that has developed over time.

  Reflecting on the experience of adopting Bella, I’m convinced her behavior is a lifelong thank you to humans.  She is extremely sweet, loving, and gentle.  There is a bond between her and I that I’ve not experienced with other dogs. She tells me daily with her expressive eyes that she knows how lucky she is.   When I look at Bella, I can’t help but think of the thousands of dogs that face the same fate she did so many years ago.  The number of dogs is so overwhelming, but there are a few organizations dedicated to helping dogs like her, and it gives me hope.  If you are looking for a new family dog, take some time to research and consider one of these orphans. You won’t regret your choice. Every day you will know you made a difference. 

  I often think of Bella’s Family and wonder whether they made it or not.  Usually the thoughts come when I’m letting Bella run in a nearby field.  Her euphoria brings me an inner peace, because I know exactly what her fate was nine years ago.  Sometimes when she’s running she’ll stop abruptly and look back at me, smiling.  When that happens, I let the moment burn into my mind.  I look around, take it in, and remind myself that we gave her more time, the most precious gift of all. 

  Bella won’t be with us forever and I’m okay with that. Because we both know, she and I, that far away in a dusty Mexican town, among the hundreds of stray dogs, that I took a chance and saved her life.  It reaffirms that her life meant something, and it reminds me that I did something noble when it was inconvenient.

  When she’s asleep, or when she’s at play, I can look at her and know that it mattered to that one. That’s enough.

  It mattered to that one.

Singularity of Purpose

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Whenever I'm lacking for a subject to shoot, a quick detour to the beach nearly always gives me something to put in the crosshairs.   The first thing I saw when I parked was Kona scrambling furiously around the beach chasing her orange ball and I knew she would be the subject for the day.

Action shots seem to fascinate me endlessly because they really give you a glimpse into what feels like a secret world.  What is normally a blur is frozen for all time and affords us the chance to look at every small detail at our own pace and marvel at all of the kinetic energy on display in something as simple as chasing a ball.

Kona is 2 1/2 and according to her owner is part black lab and part "heeler or something".  She is most likely at the peak of her physical powers and it was pure joy to watch her do her thing.   This brief period of time when we are at our peak is so limited and we only realize it after it has passed us by.   Seeing Kona like this, I wistfully think back to my peak and chuckle at the aches and pains I feel now, even as I walked along the beach.  

Dogs at this age never seem to tire and Kona was no different.  I watched her for 15 mintues before shooting, and worked with her for another 25, and she never stopped looking like she does in these photos.  She swam, ran, jumped, dug, ran, swam, and ran some more without any visible sign of fatigue.  An older, graying hound waiting on the beach for its surfing owner provided the perfect juxtaposition to the scene as he gave Kona the occasional curious glance from a seated position, periodically being spurred on by biological urges and trying to mount her.

When I look at the photos now, I see a stunning singularity of purpose.  Nothing else exists for Kona except the ball and every ounce of her energy is spent capturing it.  When I look, I'm as focused as she is, I become a part of the scene, there but not really there, the world around me fades away....

Abruptly my reverie is broken when my mobile rings.  I look down, I have two voice messages, a text message, 14 personal e-mails (all spam), 6 work e-mails, and 4 facebook updates.   My mind races,  I'm irritated, stressed, already going in 10 different mental directions in the first  5 seconds.  My focus is shattered, I'm a mess and all I can think about is wanting to chase a ball.

Life Goes On...

Today we went on our first outing with Bella since Mariah passed away.   We went to Crissy field in San Francisco where we've taken them both many times and things were very familiar, yet very different at the same time.   The sand, the pier, and the views were the same, but the dominant presence we've known for the last 15 years was missing.

Mariah was the bridge to our young, early life together. We got her a few months after we were married and had arrived in Omaha for my first assignment in the Air Force.  Her boisterous personality was relentless in its energy and we could feel her presence at all times because she demanded our attention.  Bella is the opposite in her approach to life, laid back, observant, a thinker, and extremely sweet.  Mariah seemed to smile and radiate happiness at all times, while Bella often appears morose, coming to life at certain times, particularly when we take her to the beach.  

We tend to project our feelings on our dogs, so it's hard to say if Bella is mourning the loss of Mariah.  Certainly she's reading my recent behavior as peculiar because I am constantly in her face, seeking reassurance that she is OK and that she is moving forward when in reality I need the assurance for myself.  The truth is she's probably happy she gets to eat out of the big bowl now and doesn't have to share the backseat with a manic personality.

Since I've really become heavily engaged in taking photos over the last 3 years, I tend to think in snapshots (framing, composition,depth of field,etc..).  When I think of all the photos I've taken of our dogs over the years, nearly all of them have contained 3 dogs plus a human, so when I observed Nikki walking Bella alone for the first time it cemented for me the reality that this is how things will look moving forward.   The shot of her and Bella walking down the path will be the anchor in my mind for when I moved into my mid-life.  The young guy I see in those early photos with Mariah has changed, I need to accept that and move forward.

As we continued our day at the beach and Bella chased her stick and swam and frolicked, the sadness I'd been carrying over the past week began to slowly lift.  As I watched her shake the water off her fur, smile, and challenge me to chase her, something occurred to me:  Bella still has her life to live, she is happy, she is living in the moment, and she needs our participation. 

 Life goes on.....