Border collies are known for their teamwork when herding.
​How about this teamwork when "getting hosed"? 

Early in the process of writing Lance: A Spirit Unbroken, I joined a critiquing group. It was the single best thing I did to improve my writing. Subjecting my work to others’ criticism wasn’t easy for me, but better to learn from fellow writers before publishing, than learn the hard way from readers after publishing. In those early critiquing sessions, I was told to do two things: get rid of the big words and write less formally. The former was relatively easy to accomplish; the latter required a leap of faith on my part but I'm confident the book became a lot more conversational by the time it got published.

Along the way, one of my fellow critiquers suggested that I make Lance a talking dog. Other members of the group rolled their eyes, but he was dead serious. I thought about his suggestion, but not for too long. To do such a thing would have changed the trajectory and the mood of Lance’s story and, in my mind, diminished the serious purpose I had for writing the book. That purpose was to raise awareness re: animal maltreatment and, hopefully, inspire the reader to take action.

Though Lance and I did not have oral conversations (except for the occasional bite!), I feel there were times when he and I communicated mentally, beyond his obeying a command or understanding words like “treat” or “hike.” For example, not once, but twice, he escaped from his abusive owners’ property and showed up on my doorstep. Wasn’t that a silent cry for help? 

In the book, Lance occasionally "talks" to me, not in quotes but in italics. I’ve wondered at times if a reader might find my communication with Lance a stretch, but so far no one has commented to that effect.

How about you? Do you have “conversations” with your dog? What has your dog “told” you and vice versa?

​I'm not sure I could remember the exact order of these challenges while I was unsuccessfully trying to handle them! 

I rescued Gabriel from a homeowner who cared more about his Italian furniture than he did for a dog’s life. When I met Gabe, he was being kept outside in a cage with a rug over the cage in 85 degree weather. The man let him out of the cage so I could meet him. Gabe immediately wanted to play ball but the man kept hitting him with a fly swatter. Gabe was 7 months old.

Guess what? I rescued this boy. He was the sweetest, most gentle soul. When he was 4 1/2 he got epilepsy and to this day I wonder if the many hits on the head by his original owner were to blame. But Gabe had Jake and Daisy and they played together every day. When Jake died, you could see all the sadness in Gabe but he kept on fighting for his own life. He was on a lot of meds. Finally, he couldn't fight his illness any more. One year after Jake crossed over, Gabriel joined him. He was only 10 1/2. Can't even begin to tell you how much Daisy and I miss him. My tribute to Gabe follows:
    

By the time I met him, Lance’s life had been up for grabs for a decade. Then, one day, I overheard Lance’s owners joking about “nuking “their dog. Considering how they’d treated Lance for a decade, I couldn't help but think his life might be literally on the line. Since we were living in a no-dogs-allowed apartment, my wife Clara and I frantically searched for a house to purchase and found one within a couple of weeks. A few days after we moved in, I showed up at the Schmidt residence and asked to take Lance. My request was denied. Mrs. Schmidt insisted—I'd say delusionally—that Lance was part of her family. I drove back home, at first confused and then flat out angry. A part of the family? Who the heck was she kidding? I decided that if I couldn't get Lance by hook, I'd get him by crook. I began scheming—I would steal Lance, if necessary. In the book, I mention that I might be a bit rusty in the theft department, not having stolen anything since my shoplifting days as an adolescent. A lapse of memory. It was only after Lance: A Spirit Unbroken was published that I remembered having committed theft as an adult and that thievery just so happened to involve a dog…

…One summer, back in the 1980s, I was going through a tough time. Among other things, I was between jobs. John, a friend of mine, let me stay at his house in Roosevelt, Long Island while I got back on my feet. Living with him at the time was a family (we’ll call them the Smiths) he had befriended. They had a dog, a Terrier mix, named Quincy. The first time I laid eyes on him it was obvious he was being severely neglected. He was a scrawny, smelly mess. I noticed that at dinner he was either ignored or thrown an occasional scrap as an afterthought. The Smiths were the kind of people I wouldn't be caught dead with but my own circumstances had thrown me under the same roof with them.

When I got my initial unemployment check, one of the first things I did was buy Quincy a bag of kibble. Every so often I’d supplement that with some of my own dinner. Within a month, Quincy was back to his appropriate weight. John and I also gave Quincy a bath (the first of his life?). We had to use scissors to cut gum, candy and other foreign objects that were embedded in his coat. Admiring our handiwork, John said, “Quincy has his dignity back.”

I started taking Quincy with me to the local high school where, while I ran around a quarter-mile track, he did the kind of investigating dogs normally do in all the nearby foliage. Every once in a while he'd join in and run right alongside me as I circled the track. Usually, that didn't keep his interest for long and he went back to further canine snooping.

About six weeks after I had moved in with John, I found employment in New York City. That meant a round-trip commute via the Long Island Railroad five days a week. Every workday morning when I’d leave the house, Quincy would stare at me from a window, propped up on the sill with his front paws, begging me with his eyes to either take him along or come back inside the house. Oh, the guilt trips (literally and figuratively) Mondays through Fridays!

The first evening I came back home from my job, Quincy was nowhere to be found. After much searching, I found him up in my bedroom, ensconced in a closet I’d left open. That was where I would find him after every workday. I had the distinct feeling he didn't want to be around any of his owners during my absence.

Then I met Clara. We hit it off immediately. The problem was she lived some thirty-five miles away in the Village of Patchogue. Lots of phone calls led to our first meeting, several dates and, after a January weekend together, the decision that I would move in with her. The following  Monday I called off work and headed back to John's place to get my stuff. While driving on the Long Island Expressway, I had no trouble convincing myself that I should and would take Quincy with me.

It was early evening when I got to John's place. No one was home, making my caper easier to pull off. I parked my VW beetle in front of the house, went inside and, after exchanging greetings with Quincy, began collecting my personal belongings and taking them out to my car.

On my last trip to the car the Smiths pulled into the driveway. I happened to be carrying a bag of dirty laundry so I told them I was going to the laundromat, sensing they hadn’t noticed the rest of my worldly possessions crammed inside my VW. I hadn’t aroused their suspicions, but taking Quincy to the laundromat might. I went back inside, trudged upstairs and sat myself at the desk in my bedroom, pondering my next move. Quincy lay down next to his would-be dognapper. What to do? I wasn’t about to unpack my car but I couldn’t leave my possessions in it either—that would be an open invitation to anyone with sticky fingers. No telling what my extensive LP and 45rpm record collection was worth.

Then, opportunity knocked! I heard talking and laughing coming from downstairs. I descended to the first floor and realized the Smiths, all five of them, were in the back room watching TV. From there, they couldn’t see the front door to the house—as long as they stayed put. I went outside, started the car and came back into the house. The Smiths were engrossed in whatever show they were watching so I went upstairs, leashed Quincy, and descended the stairs, hoping and praying he’d keep his yap shut. Out the door we went, high-tailing it (Quincy doing so literally!)to the car. After squeezing Quincy into the back seat between my dumbbells and stereo, I scooted into the driver’s seat and slowly drove away, not wanting to attract attention or arouse suspicions. I kept a lookout in my rearview mirror, all the while trying to cook up an alibi if nabbed and forced to explain what I was doing. Once I entered Southern State Parkway, I gunned my car to the extent you can gun a 1973 VW Beetle. Quincy and I were home free!

We arrived at Clara’s and, before unloading any of my personal property, I let Quincy into Clara’s house to meet her. What did he do? He went into a furious spin and then took a humongous dump on the living room floor. Quincy had introduced himself! Clara is a dog lover so Quincy put a damper on the relationship.

Moral of this story? After a long car ride let your (kidnapped) dog poop outside before bringing him inside.

As for Lance, did I have to kidnap him? I can’t give that away but, if you haven’t already, you can find out by reading Lance: A Spirit Unbroken. 

www.lanceaspiritunbroken.com
PLEASE SHARE WITH YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY
Please comment below

Undaunted, I signed Gia up for agility, but we had to go through their beginner training first.  Add another $195 to the list of charges to rehab Gia.  There were a few other dogs there and Gia was not having it.  She would bark, growl, and try to pick fights with them.  We had to go to the back of the classroom.  She was also developing a Stranger, Danger attitude towards people, now adding kids to the list of things that made her nervous.  These classes were a little “out there” for me.  I guess I am a little old school when it comes to training having been through it enough.  Sitting there on a mat, massaging my dog’s ears, etc. was a little weird.  It is why I do not do yoga myself.  And the whole method of this training was treating.  I realized I would have to monitor my dog’s feeding to compensate for the treats during class. Yeah, no!  My dog is very food motivated but then so am I. However, when we are out on the street and trying to walk, she is over threshold (extremely fired up) and will not take a treat.  It is exhausting.  I gave up on this training and tried to figure out my next move.
One weekend, I went to pick up my dog food from the farm.  It is a ninety-minute drive each way, so we thought we would take the dogs with us.  The farm is in the Hudson Valley of New York.  Beautiful countryside.  The owner of the farm said that his neighbor had a lot of acreage and there are deer trails he allows people to hike on with their dogs.  After we got the food, we went up to the trail.  Anxiously, we let the dogs off leash to explore.  I have never seen THIS Gia before.  She was happy, the white tip of her tail up like a flagpole, while she was exploring the brushes around the lake.  Then she jumped in the lake and started swimming.  We were astounded.  She is a true country dog.  But like I said, we cannot afford that move yet.  When we got home, the old Gia returned.  Not wanting to walk–it is like the Push Me-Pull You from Dr. Doolittle.  Or having a pet donkey.

One evening, Gia was in the yard and I heard her barking (no surprise there), but the barking seemed like it was coming from the front of the house.  I peeked out my front window to see a man walking towards my front door crouched down with his arms open wide like he was going to “scoop” something up.  Turns out, he and his wife were walking their dog and spotted Gia, who had escaped from our yard.  He was trying to corral her so she wouldn’t run into the street.  We never figured out if she jumped the fence (it is a four-foot fence but when your adrenaline kicks in, you do it) or if she scurried under it.  Anyway, the next purchase was a breakaway collar.  She escaped once more and hid in our neighbor’s driveway.  She has not left since knowing the big, bad world waits for her out there.

Last spring, I reached out to one of Gia’s trainers from before…Gia and Clifford love her.  Although her boss’s methods are a little out of date, she has been studying up on some positive training and working with therapy dogs, etc.  She came over and the dogs went crazy for her.  She is good with them too.  She knew we were experimenting with other trainers and ideas and she was fine with that.  We thought maybe an in-house training session for ten days (drop off in the a.m., pick up in the p.m., Monday through Friday) might help.   I trusted them and signed her up.  To the tune of $1800 (because I was an old client, I got a discount).  The training worked up to a point but I really need Gia to be comfortable in her own surroundings…on this busy county road. 

I took a break from trainers.  It did not help that I was laid off from my job last year after twelve years.  I started a new job in January, but I do not have the extra cash to spend on trainers right now, and I do not want to give her any more drugs.  I am in limbo right now.  I have been reading up on some different trainers where I can do the work myself.  They all say the problem is anxiety and can be alleviated with exercise.  How am I supposed to exercise her when she will not go out???  One thing I am planning (after I read my 1000th book on dog training) is to start her walking on my treadmill.  Hopefully, we can burn off some of that stress and she’ll be able to walk outside.  When we were using the trainer the dogs adore, they would jump on retaining walls, park benches and tables to burn some pent-up energy.  Now what Gia does is run from the back door and bee line it to the front window jumping over the couch to bark at someone walking in front of the house.  Not sure that is exactly what the trainer had in mind–making my house Gia’s personal obstacle course. 

My dogs’ lives prior to being rescued are all mysteries. I used to ask God to give Gia the power of human speech just for five minutes so she can tell me what to do and what not to do.  She is such a sweet, smart, and lovable dog.  I enjoy watching her figure out toys and puzzles.  I can see her mind working.  Clifford is lovable and a manipulator.  When he is out in the yard and wants to play, he does this little “woof”.  Hearing him, Gia will tear through the house to go outside to see “what are we barking at”.  I could swear Clifford gives me a wink and a big Pit grin because he got one over on her.  Clifford is calm, cool, and collected and he knows that Gia requires more of my attention and he is fine with that.  Clifford loves to walk (if we get to chase cats and squirrels it is a huge score).  When I look at either of them and they look back at me, my heart is so full of love.

Having Gia has made me more aware of myself.   I take better care of myself so I can be around to take care of her (and Clifford, and my husband, too) but I can also understand why some dogs are returned because people don’t want to put in the time to figure out these dogs.  I believe I have a special needs dog.
In the end, I made a commitment to Gia.  I want to give her the best life possible.  And I will…once I figure out how to do that.

—Patricia Sullivan Jimenez

Don't forget about my special book sale at https://walterstoffelauthor.com/buy-now !