Life's the Pits

I started doing volunteer work at the Amarillo-Panhandle Humane Society the first week of March this year. It began as a requirement in order to gain my certification from Animal Behavior College. I waited until the last week I was still taking classes to cram in my 10 necessary hours and was more than happy to finally have it over with. Frankly, the place was depressing and by my second day out there I broke down in hysterics, tears streaming down my face, announcing I would never return.

Well, I returned. The same week I started my hours at the Humane Society (which shall henceforth be referred to as HS), my sister-from-another-mister, Jena (and just so it sounds right in your head while you’re reading this, it’s pronounced like “Gina”), became the new Executive Director there. She's got a heart as big as Texas, and I have yet to meet another person whose passion is greater than hers when it concerns the welfare of animals. She's a doer, not a talker, and she's inspired me to be the same. As long as I'm being honest, I'll admit she's guilted me into 1/2 of it whether it was intentional or not. Knowing she's up before 5:00 in the morning every day makes it a LOT harder to hit the snooze button until noon with a clear conscience.

Some time in December, Jena and I started making plans to win the lottery so that we could open a Pit Bull rescue and rehabilitation sanctuary for the Texas Panhandle since that doesn't really exist anywhere closer to here than Dallas. We both own Pits and know they can be incredible dogs (and have been historically noted as such) but we’re also painfully aware of the stigma surrounding them because of the selfishness and stupidity of human kind. We started sorting out legal papers, figuring out how to screen potential adopters, looking at and pricing plots of land, imagining blue-prints, and all sorts of shit. Needless to say, we never won the lottery and real life eventually got in the way. Actually, not winning the lottery didn’t really hinder our dreams altogether… we just got veered in a different direction.

About the time Jena was being hired as the Director of HS, I landed my training position at Animal Lodge. I teach group classes twice a week now, and work the Camp & Train (which is essentially a 2 week doggie boot-camp) “students” on a daily basis. We both kind of got our dream jobs. Neither one of us really imagined the term “dream job” would include being covered in shit, piss, blood, vomit or any other number of natural bodily functions regularly, but we couldn’t be happier.

One day Jena called me and said the HS board had revisited its previously applied policies and finally approved the implementation of the adoption of Pit Bulls. After at least a decade of not having been able to rescue this particular breed from the shelters, we were both ecstatic.

Most people should already know (although some seem to not) that this is a decision that requires quite a bit more planning and responsibility than trotting down to the pet store and picking up a cute little Bichon Frise bouncing in the window. (I said they’re cute – save the “I have a Bichon, you racist!” hate mail, please.) Pits need dedication, supervision, training, exercise, proper socialization, adequate fencing, super strong chew toys (don’t even waste your money on the squeaky shit), and LOTS of love and attention. They are NOT yard ornaments. Despite their tough exterior, they’re really quite sensitive – as are ALL dogs. People all too often forget that animals have feelings and it breaks my heart that so many of them need to be reminded of that. “That dog in my neighbor’s yard just won’t quit barking!” Did you take into consideration he might be tied to a tree with no food or water or attention with nothing to do but bark until his plans of escape come to fruition? If that were you in his place, you’d be pretty pissed off too.

Anyway, there’s a huge adoption event that comes through town every year (well, this is the third), North Shore Animal League America’s Tour For Life. It starts in Jersey or somewhere over there and makes stops all over the country. Jena has been preparing for this since she received notification, and about a month ago she called and said she’d pulled a Pit for it. “He’s really sweet; I named him Sparky. I need you to help me get him ready for this adoptathon. Can you give me an hour a day to just come work with him?” She knew I wouldn’t say no. This was our opportunity to prove what our mission had been about all along.

The day I went to meet Sparky he was covered in ticks. Ticks have been REALLY bad in our part of Texas this year and in a shelter, you can’t help but run across them. We put him on a lead and took him out of his kennel to give him a treatment. Jena applied the medicine while I held on to the nylon leash/noose around his neck. To say Sparky was a puller is a gross understatement. I’ve wrangled some damn strong dogs but I was afraid I’d met my match. The lead was cutting into my fingers and I was honestly afraid it was going to come apart at the stitches. The insides of my knuckles were white for a good 10 minutes after I let him go (yes, I probably need to take more vitamins but that’s not the point); it was obvious to me that he’d never been on a leash and if that was the case, he probably doesn’t have any amount of obedience training either. His previous owners made the effort to crop his ears, but not to register his microchip (for that matter, he wouldn’t still be at HS if they’d bothered to come look for him). Sparky had been a lawn ornament. I had three weeks to get this dog trained and my confidence was shaken a bit. This is going to be HARD. But then again, my dog Beau came from essentially the same situation of abandonment and neglect and I got HIM into decent shape, SO keep yer chin up, lil’ camper! It ain’t gonna be no cake-walk but it’s also not impossible.

That night, Jena picked me up and we took a trip to PetCo to pick up the equipment I’d need to work with Sparky. All I really wanted for him was a prong collar, a 30 foot leash, and some treats.

Some people think the use of a prong collar is medieval and cruel. Don’t get me wrong; it CAN be. But it’s also a learning tool and when used correctly CAN be effective. When I was trying to get my dog Beau to walk politely on a loose leash, I tried every trick in every book. I cried at the thought of being a failure; “Some trainer I am. I can’t even get my own dog to stop dragging me around.” *Sniffle*Sob*Snot* I finally broke down and got a prong collar for him. With the correct sizing, fit, placement, and technique, Beau is now doing wonderfully. He still gets excited about every tree on our walks and pulls when I’m not keeping up, but it’s nothing like it used to be. My face is still where I left it instead of smeared across the sidewalk somewhere down the block. {Side note just to make myself clear: Beau is more than ½ my body weight and built of pure muscle. I’ve lost nearly 20 pounds and 2 pant sizes since I started working with him and the other dogs. To take on a dog like him who’s never seen a leash or the inside of a house is work that takes commitment and patience. I saw something the other day that gave me pause… if you’ve got your 2 pound Yorkie on a prong collar, you might want to put him back in your purse and reevaluate your relationship with the Animal Kingdom.}

Every day that I went out to work with Sparky, Jena was usually off doing something selfish like feeding herself or her animals, or at another meeting figuring out how to be better at her job. On day five, I ran into her at HS. When I saw her I said, “Hey, you wanna come see how awesome Sparky is!?” “Yes, I do!” I told her I’d started off with him on a regular leash but by the end of the week I had him on the 30 foot line which was essentially like using no leash at all (but should he run off or get distracted, I still had control). He was smart, eager to please, and did everything nearly perfect in a very short amount of time, especially considering it took a while for him to recognize that “Sparky” was the new sound we were calling him that he was supposed to pay attention to. Over the next weeks, the days we spent together were as much to get him out of his kennel as anything. Run him around, stretch his legs, scratch his belly, then make sure he still remembered his hand signals and what-not. The way he crinkled his nose when he looked up to smile at me was about as delightful as anything I could imagine. He was truly Sparkalicious.

On one of the days that I went to play with Sparky, Jena told me they’d just picked up another puppy and she knew I was going to fall in love with him. “He’s a pit/mastiff mix and we named him Rango.” When Animal Control found him, he had a prolapsed rectum and needed surgery. I learned this via text and replied, “Jesus, his asshole fell out!?” I wasn’t sure what that was all about but when I met him he had little pink stitches in his bottom and a cone around his neck to keep him from bothering them. It was heart-breaking AND hilarious. Then he looked up at me with his little golden puppy eyes and I DID fall in love with him. But I don’t want a puppy… puppies are jerks and pee all over your house. I can’t have him because my house is too small and Beau is enough for me to handle anyway. I found 100 reasons to walk away from this puppy to keep from getting attached to him. Then Jena said, “He’s cute AND he needs a foster home! It’d just be until the adoptathon and I’m sure he’ll get adopted quickly. He’s got special needs and I know nobody will take better care of him than you will. C’moooooon, Shea!”

Shit. Now I have a foster puppy. I guess we’ll see how THIS works out. *Sigh*