PeaceBang

PeaceBang’s Pack

When SweetieBang moved out, I was pretty frantic about the idea of being a busy, single beagle mom. I take dog guardianship seriously and the reason I hadn’t adopted a dog years ago was because I think it’s cruel and selfish to leave a pack animal crated or alone for 10-12 hours a day. A cat is one thing: felines are much more solitary animals, and although they get lonely and need attention and play time, they can do fine for long hours on their own. Dogs, however, need much more attention and exercise, not to mention the opportunity to visit their outdoor bathrooms! I thought I was in for expensive dog-sitters and horrible early winter mornings wearily leashing the dog and taking him outside for his toilet business, frantically rushing home after meetings to find a miserable, pee-soaked creature crying in his crate, and loads of guilt.

My anxiety was compounded by my dog’s breed: beagles are notoriously hard to train and for that reason, Greg and I were solemnly advised by the animal shelter never to let Max off his leash. “Beagles are one big nose on four legs, and they’re fast,” warned the shelter director. “The second he smells something exciting or sees a squirrel he’ll be off and tearing through the woods and you won’t see him for days.” All the beagle books said the same thing. I was petrified, as I have acres of woods behind my parsonage and a busy main street (it’s literally Main Street!) out the front door. But Greg reassured me that we could do it; we’d simply leash the dog every time we opened the door, we’d build an expensive fenced-in yard (for which my Parish Committee generously gave permission, even though the initial vision involved cutting a new door into the back of the mud room) and we would, in the words of “Project Runway’s” Tim Gunn, “make it work.”

Then Greg and I didn’t work out, and I got cold feet about caring for the dog on my own. I called my friend Judy who has three beagles and she talked me off the ledge. She described just how to contract for a fenced-in yard and promised to help keep an eye on Max on my busiest days. She cheerleaded me into reconsidering my ability to keep the commitment I had made in late March.

One night in late June I had a talk with Max. We sat on my bed together and I looked into his eyes and told him that I was worried that I couldn’t be the best caregiver for him. I cried. I told him that maybe he deserved to be with a family, with lots of people in and out of the house and a real pack to keep him feeling secure and always loved. I got his velvety ears all wet and he told me with his trusting brown eyes that he knew I already loved him and would do my best. We went to sleep and for once I didn’t move him to the foot of the bed but allowed him to snuggle himself against me, his smooth little seal’s head resting on the curve of my hip. The cat came and curled up at my head, purring. When I awoke the next morning I realized that my fears about caring for the dog I had adopted were actually spiritual fears that have plagued me all of my life: how much love and care are we allowed to ask for? How much nurturing can we expect from those who claim to love us? When does our need for love and care tip into the category of “too needy,” and is there any such thing?

I believe that there is not. I have been told by people I once trusted that there is such a thing as being too needy, and I no longer believe them, although I certainly do believe there is such a thing as having a limited ability to give love. Those who don’t have great reservoirs of love to give often accuse those who desire relationship with them of being too needy. I am finally figuring this out. Yes, extending love, care and compassion can be tiring and can drain our inner resources. But when that happens, it is our own responsibility to care for ourselves, to set boundaries in a kind and fair way, to seek understanding of ourselves and others, not to attack or blame those who are vulnerable and reaching out to us. Yes, there are some unhealthy people in the world who are true energy vampires who give nothing back, but they’re easy to spot and possible to extricate oneself from. They are not the norm. Why had I doubted my capacity to love and care for this adorable little being? Why had I backed away in my heart from this “needy” creature? It was time for an exorcism.

Over the next few days after our little talk, I observed Max carefully and saw that he has five basic needs and that I could meet all of them. His needs are to sleep, to eat, to pee/poop, to play, and to be loved.

I started taking him everywhere with me, determined to make him part of my “pack” of friends and their children and animals. I stopped crating him when I left the house and trusted him with full run of the kitchen, which made our hours apart much easier on both of us. To my great relief and gratitude, he did not engage in any of the beagly behaviors I had been warned about: destroying furniture, digging, or baying. He seems to spend my absence sleeping on a blue cushion, curling up in his crate of his own volition, or chewing toys. I imagine the cat pays him a visit, as she is agile at jumping the baby gates that contain him.

I took him on pastoral visits, and to church meetings. I took him on play dates with doggie pals –with great trepidation because he’s not always well-behaved when meeting other dogs during walks. To my relief, I found that Max is great on playdates. My friend Michael encouraged me to let him off leash in his backyard one afternoon and I was elated to find that when other doggies are around, Max is happy to frolic in the immediate vicinity and shows no considerable interest in tearing off in pursuit of prey. Victory! I encouraged him to curl up in my lap while I watched movies or read books, understanding that for him, warm bodies in a pile means comfort and family even if for me it means dog hair on my clothes and a furry puppy making me warmer on a hot day. I maintained some necessary boundaries with him (no, he can’t visit the bathroom with me, no, he can’t jump on me when I’m eating or cooking, no, he can’t come into the store with me, no, he can’t play with my shoes, clothes or home furnishings but he CAN play with one of his many toys. No, he can’t terrorize Ermengarde, he has to respect her as Feline Diva of the Household.) I wrestled with him on the living room floor until we were both panting and laughing. He fake-gnawed on my neck and growled and I gnawed on his neck and growled right back. He absolutely loved every second.

I began to sleep as late as I wanted, and Max slept soundly along with me. He is fine managing his bladder around my schedule. I had obsessed over nothing.

For the first time in my life, I let instinct guide me and shut out the old, critical voices that would judge the way I was choosing to integrate this dog into my life. “You give that dog far too much attention,” or “Just let him chase the cat, she’s too spoiled” or “He has to learn to be alone, just get on with your life.”
What if I gave him all the love and attention he needs for awhile? I wondered. What if I just met all his needs and made him my focus for a couple of weeks, not rejecting him in any way for being “too needy” because he obviously wants to be with me so much? What if I treated him the way I would like to be treated, which is to be totally and unconditionally accepted for my nature? What if I did the dog thing instead of the human thing and didn’t project my own wounds and insufficiencies onto this little animal?

So that’s what I did, and what I am still doing. One afternoon a week or so ago as we were walking out in the yard, I thought about how much I DON’T want to build a fenced-in yard or get an electric/invisible fence that would zap Max and maybe not even work. Then I had a radical thought: what if the shelter director was wrong? What if all the books are over-generalizing about beagles? What if this beagle is just a really mellow version of the breed who can be trusted off his leash in my own backyard? What if he had some obedience training by his previous guardians that is or was unapparent to me? What’s the worst that could happen if I tested my theory? He’ll run off and I’ll be a worried mess and then he’ll come home or a neighbor will find him — maybe even Judy! What if I let go of fear around this dog and started having some real fun with him? I opened my hand and let go. Max ran off with the leash towing behind him while I watched, trusting and hoping with all my heart that I was right. He bolted down the length of the yard, made a happy little circle in the grass, and came bounding right back toward me. He thought it was a great game. I clapped and whooped, and he tore around like Seabiscuit, excited and proud and loving his freedom.

And so we did that for about a week. I put baby carrots in my pockets and took him to the back yard, letting go of the leash and letting him run around, sniff and do his business. I made up a little three-note whistle to use when I wanted him to come to me and he learned that when he did, he might get a carrot treat in addition to a thousand kisses. “Max!” I whistle, clap twice, squat down and open my arms. My beagle comes flying toward me, ears flapping in the wind, and skids to a stop between my knees. He never tires of coming to get his loving praise and I never tire of giving it. Sometimes it takes four or five whistles for him to obey me. Sometimes he goes into the woods to scout out some creature and I have to go in and help him “remember” where I am. But even as I am leading him firmly back to the yard, I never yell at him, only correct him with stern and simple commands he can understand, like “Off” or “Come.” And then, even if it took a few “reminders’, he is lavished with love and praise when he gets where I want him, because I want him to associate coming back to home base with happy feelings with Alpha Dog Mom.

As of two days ago, he doesn’t even have the leash attached at all. He comes outside when given permission, follows me to the yard, and we play. I throw a ball and he catches it and runs to me with it. Sometimes he bolts right by me and I have to mock-chase him, which he adores. He races around in circles until he exhausts himself and flops down in the grass. He drinks from a yellow bowl filled with rainwater. I scold him for eating poop (we have to work on that), but he comes to my whistle with 95% reliability. When I think we’ve had enough, I whistle and clap and he follows me inside, through the screen door where the cat has been looking out and waiting for us.

We are a pack. Everyone gets, and gives, all the love they need, and it is never too much.

(Max on his way to or from a playdate, mid-yawn, July 2008)