A Sound Investment

When Gluten-Free Mama and I made the decision to adopt a rescue dog, we did so knowing full well that it was an iffy proposition. Weren’t dogs from the animal shelter, well, damaged? I mean, why else would they be there, right?

If by “damaged,” you mean neglected, abandoned and unloved, then yes, I think that would be accurate. However, if you think that rescue dogs are somehow incapable of making a successful transition from the bottom of the ladder to the top, then I must beg to differ with you.

Stupid squirrel-why don't you come down here
and say that?

Like those who volunteer their time to work with these dogs-formerly-known-as-pets, I believe that practically all dogs will respond accordingly to time, attention, affection and concern. Show me a dog in need of love, who receives an abundance of it, and I will show you a dog who will deliver it back, tenfold. A sound investment if ever there were one.

Take our Ellie Mae, for example, a mid-sized bowser who came to us as a sweet, eager-to-please dog, but one with insecurity issues. I might have described her as hyper, but that comes dangerously close to describing me, so I want to tread cautiously here. Let’s just say that Ellie Mae needed a minute or two longer than the average dog, to get the message that she wasn’t going anywhere, ever. 

When asked originally what my goals were in going through dog obedience school, I responded that I was ultimately interested in having off-leash control. Though Ellie Mae has constant access to two acres of fenced-in play space, she also resides on a twenty-acre farm, so there are unlimited sugar plums for a doggie-on-the-wide.

I am a Mark-of-all-trades, forking soil on Monday, pounding nails on Tuesday, scrubbing toilet and floors on Wednesday: I ain’t proud, just busy. In my perfect world, my pup goes where I do. As is often the case, I have never dwelt in a perfect world. 

Is that plastic crinkling?

Even our beloved Dozer, whose unexpected-and abrupt-departure led to the adoption of Ellie, would never have been content to just mark time while I labored on something. Not being the kind of individual who can walk and chew bubble gum at the same time, I find it impossible to work on anything of import, and keep an eye on a dog simultaneously. I can do one or the other but not both at once. Not much gets done under those circumstances.

Over the past six months, I have worked with Ellie 24/7, to establish a strong enough bond that I can trust her to accompany me, and stay within the sound of my voice. I started by taking her with me on short jaunts, with her running free, and recognizing that even if she races off at any point in time, she always comes right back.

I have worked for months now on the “leave-it” command, especially as it relates to chickens. Ellie Mae is programmed to respond to any critter she encounters, certainly a product of her country venue. It’s not good; it’s not bad. It simply is.

I am convinced she recognizes that chickens, though critters, are off-limits as far as entertainment goes. Except for the gopher she brought to me, in the same manner that Toby the cat brings rodents, I have never seen her attack or kill anything. 

Ellie Mae has no chance of tracking down the usual suspects: deer, rabbits, squirrels, quail, et al. She could probably nail a skunk, but fortunately we don’t see them anymore unlike the past, when they were plentiful. GF Mama and I were once chased by one; terror is a marvelous motivator.

Still unwilling to take the plunge, earlier this week when I ambled over to SmallBoy’s spot to put in some piers for a little pump/laundry room, I left poor, neglected, obviously maligned Ellie behind. She howled like a hound dog the entire time, reported poor GF Mama, who handled it graciously enough.

She donned headphones.

Two guys, ten hours

Returning to the job site two days ago, to assemble the gathered Tinkertoys, recently obtained from the local building yard, I decided to allow Ellie Mae to accompany me. My plan was that Ellie Mae and bff Large Marge, SmallBoy’s dog, would have a play day.

I was there five hours on Friday and five more on Saturday, and it was my perfect world, at last. There was only one time over the ten hours, that I called for Ellie Mae, and had to wait. It was also the only time that both Ellie and Margie took off together on their own adventure. 

For all of five minutes I fretted, but they both returned, tongues-a-flopping in the breeze to pound the water bucket. When I inquired icily where they had been, I was met with such innocent faces and wide eyes, that I backed the truck up. Why was I catastrophizing, they seemed to inquire, when there was no reason for such behavior?

Who am I to argue with sound logic? Then don’t, those in the peanut gallery all urged simultaneously, so I’m not. Arguing, that is, just basking in the glow of a goal accomplished. 

Now if I could just get Ellie Mae to wear a nail belt, and put in some time on the job, I’d really be sailing.