C.A. Newsome's Blog: Barking

If you enjoy ripping into your packages on Christmas, you know how your favorite canine feels tearing into a toilet paper roll, a favorite form of enrichment at CARE. This is a safe treat for when your dog is unsupervised. I like to give one to Padfoot when I leave him at home, to give him positive associations with being alone.

Start with an empty toilet paper roll (cut down paper towel rolls also work) and a handful of hard or semi-soft treats or kibble. A variety of tastes adds to the stimulation. Here I’m using dehydrated liver, slices of pupperoni, and calming chews.

Fold down the sides, then the ends.

OPTIONAL: use a muddler to tamp down the folds from the inside. the handle of a screw driver also works. 

Fill with treats, leaving about an inch at the top. I had room left, so I tossed in some Milkbone Minis.

Fold over the ends and voila!

The single most important thing I did to manage Padfoot’s reactivity was eliminating triggers by timing neighborhood walks and finding places to walk where we could avoid people and dogs. Wesleyan Cemetery has been a godsend since it is close by and I can see anyone coming from hundreds of yards and change directions if I need to. Dog-friendly Arlington Cemetery is also great with wide roads and high visibility. If I didn’t have them, I’d look for an area zoned for light manufacturing, like the neighborhood around CARE’s Dane facility. It’s not scenic, but the roads are wide with little traffic and no foot traffic except us dog walkers. 

The theory is to use the low-trigger environment to work on our partnership so Padfoot is focused on me instead of taking his own initiative, then slowly introducing triggers. That works, to a point. It’s not in my personality to maintain heeling for a half-mile, and Padfoot rebels during longer training sessions. He’s a decent loose-leash walker and I want him to be free to smell things and enjoy himself. I suspect I am not as strict with him as most trainers would want me to be.

We are at the point where I can tell him to sit when I see him zeroing in on something, and he will switch his focus to me and actually sit (most of the time. This strategy works best if I have him sit beside a car so it blocks sight of the dog that has his attention). We are completing neighborhood walks with him only triggering once or twice, and rarely with people, as long as they are across the street.

Last week I introduced a new strategy. One of the easiest ways to train is to tell your dog to do something immediately before he’s going to do it anyway. (In addition to teaching them to correlate the behavior with the command, it kind of bamboozles your dog into thinking you are in charge.) I decided to use this strategy to remind him that I am leading and to keep his focus on me while we have a loose-leash walk.

To do this, I call shots all during our walks, even though he knows exactly where we are going: “left turn”, “right turn”, “cross” (for cross the street), “in” (for go inside), “about” (for turn around) and “walk on” (which I tell him when he stops because he’s focused on something and I am dragging him away before he goes off. Not strictly in the same category of the other commands, but hope springs eternal that he will eventually learn this one.) 

So far this is helping. Stay tuned. 

Padfoot loves lick mats. While you can puree things like chicken broth, pumpkin, green beans and carrots to smear on the mats and freeze, it’s dead easy to smear on peanut butter—Padfoot’s absolute favorite—and stud it with small treats and freeze it. I have 2 silicone mats I keep in the freezer for when I need them. I punctured a hole and slid a carabiner through so I can clip it to the inside of his crate (Padfoot is not the instrument of mass destruction that Gypsy was, so I don’t worry about him chewing it up). The only thing I don’t like is the textured surface makes them a pain to clean. 

CARE makes lick mats with frisbees and carabiners, smearing the concave side with the goodies and hanging them on the outside of dog kennels, facing in. The dogs have to work a bit and there’s no danger of an unsupervised dog chewing up the frisbee and choking on plastic. These are also much easier to clean.

Me and Padfoot at Arlington Cemetery, where dog walkers are welcome.

Recently Desiree and I switched our Sunday morning walk from Wesleyan  to Arlington Cemetery, which is much larger and welcomes dogs. Desiree (and Felix and Padfoot) and I easily log more than 3 miles there, more than twice our distance at Wesleyan.

Padfoot has graduated from his prong collar to a martingale for our usual walks, but he’s still reactive in strange environments. Here he’s wearing a light-weight prong collar and a harness with a honking big handle on the back.

I’m not crazy about prong collars. In Padfoot’s case, he self corrects with the prong collar and is a great loose leash walker unless he’s triggered. I tried the Halti head collar—which I prefer to the Gentle Leader—but he hated it and kept biting the chin strap apart (easily replaced with cotton twill tape). I switched to the Martingale after training at CARE to handle their reactive dogs. I trust them since they handle thousands of dogs a year. They fit all their dogs with Martingales. I feel more comfortable delivering a quick correction with the Martingale than with any other kind of collar. 

In the photo I’m using the padded Halti double ended training lead. It’s designed so you can clip one end to a collar and the other end to a harness, giving you excellent control. It has rings in it so you can clip one end to make a traditional leash handle, or you can wrap it around your waist to walk hands-free. I love that it’s padded all along the length. It makes it much more comfortable to grip it at any point, necessary when you need to gain control of a lunging dog. 

I’m wearing the dog walk belt I created when I started volunteering at CARE. The belt has a roomy Cincinnati Library fanny pack on the left, where I keep a spare roll of poop bags, an ultra-sonic corrector, a can of compressed air pet corrector, and a mini air horn—which CARE dog walkers carry to call for help if they run into trouble (in my year volunteering I’ve never heard one go off). CARE also recommends shaker cans, small containers with an assorment of nuts, bolts, washers, or coins, anything that will make an obnoxious rattle.

In the center you can see a poop bag dispenser. What you can’t see is the Dalzom poop bag holder, which is a plastic device designed to hold your filled bags until you find a trash can. The red pouch on the right is for treats. For those of us who remember the original Batgirl, This setup reminds me of Barbara Gordon’s utility belt. 

I’m carrying a water pistol in my pocket, which grabs Padfoot’s attention better than all the other aversives in my arsenal. The trick with aversives is recognizing trigger situations early enough to have them in hand when you need them. Happily, I need them less and less.

If you’re wondering, my clothes are so baggy because I bought them before I lost 100 pounds on the Keto diet (another story for another time). I enjoy loose clothes so I still wear them.

Have you ever looked at those lists of dog breeds, the ones that tell you the which breeds have the most of certain characteristics? It you look at lists for “most intelligent,” “most loyal,” and “most willful/independent/stubborn” you’ll see the same breeds. And most of those breeds ended up in Padfoot’s DNA. 

Please note: anything I say about dogs and dog training is my opinion, based of thirty years with street urchins I have loved. I don’t claim to be a master dog trainer. Anyway, in my experience, the more intelligent a dog is, the less “do it because I say so” will work once they reach adolescence. And the smarter a dog is, the more they are likely to rebel at dominance oriented training and the more you need to build respect. 

Think about every movie you’ve ever seen where the well-meaning do-gooder attempts to help the kid living on the streets. The kid doesn’t trust anyone but himself, lacks discipline, and has little appreciation for structure. If you want to address reactivity, jumpiness, mouthiness and pretty much anything else, it’s essential to get them to accept your leadership. Getting there requires baby steps. 

Core to teaching your dog to control their impulses are Sit, Down, and Stay. Use plenty of praise and treats in a quiet setting with no distractions. (Padfoot picked up Sit in about 5 seconds. Down requires submission and was much harder for him. Stay was impossible. I would tell him to “Stay,” and he thought it meant “Dance.” I gave up and started over with “Freeze,” and that works for us.)

Once they have mastered these commands and understand that good things happen when they listen to you, start using them in your daily routine. Ask them to Sit at the door before you open it, or when friends approach (getting in front of their impulse so they don’t jump). Tell them to Stay while you set their dinner down several feet away, and pick the bowl up if they move before you release them (don’t make them wait too long. 10 seconds is enough to get the point across). 

The more they want what is on the other side (getting to go outside, getting to eat, etc.) the more motivated they will be to listen to you. And the more they listen to you, the more they will listen to you when they encounter distractions or triggers. Progress is only ever by degrees. It’s often one step forward and two back, so mark and celebrate all the tiny wins.

I know this sounds very remedial, and it is. It’s also the path of least resistance to building trust, and it’s so easy to forget basics when you are dealing with the chaos an undisciplined dog creates.

I mentioned my arsenal of aversives earlier, and they are another important tool. I’ll talk more about them next month.

Padfoot chillin’ at the dog park.

I’ve spoken to two animal communicators since I adopted Padfoot. Melissa told me that he’d once had a person, but then he didn’t, and she had seen images of him wandering down what looked like a country road (which could be many roads inside the city). She said no one would help him and when he scavenged compost heaps for food, people would chase him off with garden implements.

Donetta told me his original owner kept him confined in a small space or tied up, and when he was tied up, neighborhood kids would torment him. She said his owner was someone like a criminal, maybe a drug dealer, who wanted a mean dog to scare people. Padfoot was not given training and he was not treated well. The criminal/drug dealer/bad guy dumped him because he wasn’t mean enough.

While Melissa is new to me, I have known Donetta for decades and so many of the things she has said have been verified. Still, I have no way to know if any of this is true. But it serves to remind me that dogs too often wind up in shelters because someone didn’t care for them: a puppy that was never trained becomes totally unmanageable when it hit adolescence. Or an older dog is cast off when they become ill and incontinent. Or the dog just plain becomes inconvenient for someone who doesn’t care.

Whatever their history, all shelter dogs come with some kind of trauma. In addition to being abandoned and facing an uncertain future, there is a good chance that the owner willing to dump them did not treat them well.

As I said, I have no way to verify any of the things Melissa and Donetta said. But I have been looking at Padfoot’s behavior—the scavenging and resource guarding and his wild man antics—through the lens of this story and it all fits.

The few times I tied him up, he flipped out. I guess I would too, if it left me vulerable to abuse.

July 4th he did not bat an eye as firecrackers blew up around the neighborhood during our walk, though he became anxious that night when fireworks went off. I suspect he was used to gunfire, since that’s what firecrackers sound like.

I’ve joked that when we are out walking, he acts like he’s the Secret Service and I’m the president’s daughter. After talking to Donetta, I’m wondering if he isn’t doing his very best to be a good dog according to the rules he knows, that the dog who wasn’t mean enough is determined not to get dumped again.

He loves being petted. But as he presents himself for a chest rub, he stares into the distance with this stoic expression like he’s undergoing a humiliating medical procedure. It makes me think he’s uncertain of his reception and is waiting for the shoe to drop.

When I see his behavior through the lens of trauma, it reminds me to be patient and and kind and loving while he figures things out.

We’ve made a lot of progress. Last week Padfoot went to book club and he was great, even riding the tiny elevator with strangers. I took him to the neighborhood block party for a brief visit early on when there were only a few guests. He was friendly to everyone, if a little anxious.

He’s feaking out less in the car, spending more time with his head out the window instead of bouncing back and forth between the front and back seats while beating my head with his tail and setting off the hazard lights. (Donetta didn’t say, but I bet his prior owner never took him for car rides, either.)

He’s a terrific loose leash walker when he’s not being reactive and those reactive episodes are fewer and less intense. He’s always liked to curl up against me but he now lays his head in my lap sometimes. And more and more he is giving me eye contact with a relaxed, happy face. Sometimes I even get kisses.

We’re in a good place.

Here is my serious lad with a rare smile.

March 16th was the 6 month anniversary of Padfoot’s Gotcha Day. My boy is all sleek intensity. He thinks he’s the Secret Service and I am the President’s errant daughter. He has to go everywhere with me. I have to take him with me to get the mail. If he is in the car and I stop for coffee, he has to get out and do a perimeter check.

It’s. His. Job.

All of which makes it difficult to leave him at home.

Last month I promised to share my trials and errors with Padfoot. While everything happens all at once, I am breaking it down by topic. This month is crating. I work from home so Padfoot is rarely alone and then usually for about 90 minutes.

Things have changed since I adopted Beez in 1993. I gave him the run of the apartment and balcony when I went to work and came home to whatever devastation he’d created. I arrived home not long after I adopted him to find Beez—who desperately needed a walk after more than 8 hours—had chewed both of his leashes and I had no way to restrain him. I finally slipped an electrical cord through his collar to take him out.

I crated Gypsy when she was young, to protect the apartment from her devastation. I crate Padfoot to protect him from himself.

Now days we have nanny cams. I had a cheap Wyze camera for package delivery and I turned it around. Not only could I watch and hear Padfoot, I could also speak to him.

Padfoot hated his crate and would howl piteously, making this screech/squeeling noise like when your steering goes out, but louder and more obnoxious. I sang nonsense to him and it would calm him down. I’d check back in thirty minutes later and he’d be howling again.

Nothing helped. Not the YouTube videos of calming dog music, Not the enrichment treats, not his special crate-safe toys. One day I checked in and he’d bounced against the front panel and knocked it off its hooks and collapsed it. I found him wallowing in garbage strewn all over the kitchen.

She who does not like to be named said to secure the crate with zip ties and lock the door with carabiners. I followed her advice, using one carabiner halfway up and thinking it entirely unnecessary since the door closed with 3 pins that fit into loops and a latch.

An hour later I checked in. The crate was empty, Padfoot knocked the door loose and—skinny boy that he is—squeezed out the bottom corner. He wrestled the top off a 2 pound jar of Milkbone Minis and ate more than half, giving himself a tummy ache.

Friends agreed, Padfoot was too anxious for a crate. I want to stress, in all this time Padfoot loved to rip up garbage but he did not destroy anything that mattered. He did treat my glasses case like a chew toy, but that was it. He did not knock over my grandmother’s antique lamp, he did not eat my shoes. He did not tear up my bedding. He left my hundreds of accessible books alone. My one concern was that in his counter surfing and bouncing around he could hurt himself.

As for the crate, I figured if my Houdini could entertain himself breaking out, he could also entertain himself breaking in. I hooked the door shut with a bungee cord and started putting his meals inside.

I puppy proofed the apartment and saved small boxes to tower on the counters for his surfing enjoyment. I loaded his crate with all the fun things.

And I left.

Preparing to leave was labor intensive but it worked.

For a while.

Then I noticed that despite the awesome entertainment center I’d created for him, he he spent his time racing from the living room window to the kitchen window to the balcony, looking for me and winding himself up. When he launched himself off the recliner next to my living room window he sent it rocking so hard I was afraid it would break. I wound up zip-tying the mechanism.

It broke my heart.

The weather intervened. I’ve lived in the same apartment in a two-family for 35 years. I lost the key to my deadbolt sometime in the 90s. The winter temperatures warped the wood just enough that while I can push the door shut and turn the bolt from the inside, I can no longer get the door to latch when I pull it shut from the hall.

Meaning my boy could get out and risk engaging with the unfriendly dogs downstairs, which would be a disaster.

Run of the apartment was no longer an option. Then a small miracle happened. Padfoot went into his crate and laid down for no particular reason. Spending a few months with the crate containing all manner of goodies and having the freedom to come and go changed his perception of it.

We’ve been using the new crate protocol for about 8 weeks. So far, so good.

I’m sure you’re wondering what kinds of treats I load his crate with. I follow Cincinnati Animal CARE protocols. I figure since they handle as many as 300 dogs onsite at any time, their recommendations are trustworthy. I will share about enrichment next month.

UPDATE: We struck a compromise. Padfoot gets the run of the living room, with one window to look out, and can come and go from his crate as he pleases. As of this posting, he barks for a few minutes for form when I leave but quickly settles down, though he spends most of his time looking out the window for me. When I return home, he gets a quick walk and then he conks out. Hopefully he will progress to the point where he conks out while I am gone.

Gypsy was my heart and losing her was hard. As many of you have guessed, I surprised myself and now have a new pup. Padfoot is brilliant but also a handful. It’s been twenty years since I adopted a young stray with all the complications that can bring. The gift that resulted from taking him on is I have had no time for grief since I brought him home.

I love Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar books – coming of age stories combining high adventure and magic with exercises in critical thinking. Her world contains a number of creatures constructed with magic, one of which is a wyrsa.

I never thought I’d own one.

“In color they were a smoky black, with skin that gave an impression of smooth scales rather than hair. They had long, long necks, too long by far, and arrowhead-shaped heads that were an uncanny mingling of snake and greyhound, with yellow, pupilless eyes that glowed in the same way and with the same shifting color that the globe that had birthed them had glowed. The teeth in those narrow muzzles were needle-sharp, and as long as a man’s thumb. They had bodies like greyhounds as well, but the legs and tails seemed unhealthily stretched and unnaturally boneless.”
Mercedes Lackey, Magic’s Pawn

See what I mean? Look at those ears!

I met Padfoot volunteering at the shelter here in Northside. He was the first dog given to me to walk during volunteer training. I planned to wait a year before adopting another dog but he tugged my heartstrings and I knew I would regret it forever if I didn’t adopt him.

Cincinnati Animal CARE made it easy. Two days after we met I took him out for a day trip. By the end of the day I did not want to bring him back so I called the shelter and they moved him into the Foster to Adopt program, a one week trial period. As a bonus, that week they were waiving adoption fees for all Foster to Adopt dogs over 40 pounds.

I resisted. I felt I was being set up. I mean, the first dog they hand over to me was named after one of my favorite Harry Potter characters, and while he is brindle, not merle, he has Gypsy’s coloring (though not her eyes). Smart, playful, handsome, affectionate, housebroken; when given the opportunity, he shredded my AARP circulars instead of my shoes. And that week (and that week only) I could have him for free.

It was too much. But then I thought, “when God wants you to have something, He makes it easy.” Like how many signs did I need for me to understand Padfoot was mine? So what if he’s hyper? I can manage that. And then I thought “Gypsy did this. She doesn’t want me to be sad anymore, so she sent this brilliant dog.”

I adopted him. Then as often happens, he got more confident. Wyrsa tendencies emerged, existing side by side with his other lovely characteristics like an evil twin. Life became a battle on multiple fronts.

Padfoot had been at CARE for 16 days when I met him. CARE assesses all their dogs for behavior to ensure volunteers only interact with dogs they are trained to handle. Padfoot was a green dog, which is a no-problem dog, the kind of dog you give to a new, senior citizen volunteer. He was documented as having appropriate interactions in play group. When the walk coordinator handed him over to me she said, “He’s very trainable.”

I was unprepared when things changed.

Padfoot came down with kennel cough the first night he spent with me. It takes up to two weeks for kennel cough to incubate. I took him home on his 16th day at CARE. Most likely he was exposed during the three-day hold required for all strays. He was vaccinated (and neutered) as soon as his hold was up, but by then it was too late. As soon as he was clear, I took him to the vet for his initial checkup. They discovered giardia, which required two courses of treatment.

Along with the endless disinfecting of everything from his toys to all the bedding in the house, his waterbowl and even his butt, he had to remain isolated from other dogs for a month. I suspect that made everything worse.

The first sign of a problem was when my perfect green dog became mouthy and jumpy. He wanted to play with me the way he played with other dogs, or maybe he was practicing his police dog takedowns. When I threw my arms up to ward him off his overly long claws tore up my aging skin. He resisted letting me trim them and I could not in good conscience take him anywhere to get them trimmed.

He began to act like he was boss. He flipped out when I left him in a crate. He became leash reactive, though he was fine when he was loose in the dog park. When we started dog school, he behaved like a wild man and eventually snapped at the trainer, who suggested a muzzle (If you ever want to see a dog flip out, try accidentally dropping a training treat while he’s wearing a muzzle and can’t pick it up).

I’ve had challenging dogs before. Beez wintered over at Red River Gorge before a friend and I rescued him. I don’t think he’d ever been inside. He ate two sofas on the way to becoming an obedience star (neighbors offered to trade their children for him).

Two days after I adopted Max she tried to lunge out of the driver-side window of my car to get at the drive through cashier at White Castle. I had to tie her up to the passenger-side door handle to get my food. For six months she threatened to rip the lungs out of everyone who came within 20 feet.

In the seventh month I was hit by a car while riding my bike. Along with the cognitive problems and debilitating fatigue that I never fully recovered from, I was in pain for three years. My bossy girl Max was the one who insisted I get up and move, even if it was only to the corner of the property and back. I am convinced Max is the reason my pain did eventually go away. And yes, she became a perfectly civilized dog.

Padfoot is possibly the smartest and absolultely the most challenging dog I’ve ever owned. I know we can get through this though I am no expert dog trainer. At this point, Padfoot is too excitable and reactive for group classes. Fortunately CARE has an alumni group on Facebook with lots of resources and a behavioral team if I need them. It’s been a process of trial and error (lots of trial, lots of error) to see what he responds to. We’ve turned a corner, though we have a long way to go.

I’ll share our experiences in future newsletters. Next up: Adventures in Crating

For the past several years I have been using my newsletter as my primary means of communication. Changes in technology mean newsletters are often filtered out or buried in tabs, and a number of long-time readers have complained that they are not hearing from me. All this means it’s time to revitalize my blog.

While my newsletters will continue to provide unique content, going forward I will post my biggest stories here. Much has happened in my dog life over the past few years. July, 2023, Gypsy was diagnosed with osteosarcoma. Taking her leg gave us a year. Over the next week I will catch you up, starting with October, 2024, posted below:

I lost Gypsy shortly before her ninth birthday. It hurts to write this. It hurts to think about it. Her cancer came roaring back and she was in such distress the only thing I could do was let her go.

Mixed with grief is the sense of failure. I suspect everyone who reads this newsletter knows what I’m talking about. All the If Onlys and the Did I Do The Right Thing? and Did I Try Hard Enough?

The horrible truth is, no matter what decision we make we will second guess ourselves. Either we let them go too soon or we needlessly subject them to pain.

I loved all my dogs, but Gypsy is the one I carried strapped to my chest when she was a puupy. She was the canine version of my inner child with all her quirks and insecurities. And after years of agility, she was a partner more than a pet.

I said goodbye. for the first time in more than 8 years I locked the dog door. I swept dog hair out of the corners. I dismantled the giant beanbag I got to keep her company on the floor since she couldn’t get up on the bed anymore. I put away her things. For the first time in this century I was dogless.

I’d had a year to think about what I would do if I lost her. She left a hole so big I had nothing to give another dog and I was exhausted from all the ups and downs. I decided no dog for a year, to give myself a chance to reset. I thought about all the things I was now free to do without the responsibility of a pet. I thought I might travel.

For months I’d had in the back of my head that if I lost Gysy I would volunteer at Cincinnati Animal CARE, the organization that took over the shelter here in Northside 4 years ago. They are a no-kill shelter with an army of volunteers and an amazing array of programs designed to facillitate happy outcomes.

CARE dogs get walks and play groups and enrichment treats and even day trips. CARE provides support to assist with behavioral issues to ensure successful adoptions. Between two facilities they house 300 dogs and 100 cats, with another 200 dogs in foster care.

CARE is next to Wesleyen Cemetery, Gypsy’s happy place. I’d seen the parade of volunteers walking dogs down Colerain Avenue for years. I thought, “I can at least walk dogs.”

To be a dog walker I first had to go through volunteer orientation. Then I had to complete online training modules. then I had to have in person training about dog walking protocols.

Each walker gets a fanny pack with poop bags, treats, compressed air pet corrector, and an air horn. Walking routes are set up to keep the peace with neighbors.

Finally we were led to the gazebo where walkers congregate. Then the walk coordinator brought out this guy.

Stay Tuned.

Everyone hated Daniel Moore. But who got to him first?

Dog parkers Bailey Hughes and Lia Anderson jump in to support Ellen Brandt through the breakup from hell after long-time cohab Daniel Moore is indicted for stealing musical instruments from his clients.
 
When Daniel’s body turns up in nearby Parker Woods, it’s the end of Ellen’s problems—until the investigation points at Ellen and an alibi isn’t enough to protect her. Lia wants to be done with Ellen’s endless drama, but she can’t abandon Bailey—no matter the cost.

Detective Cynth McFadden’s history with Moore lands her the investigation into his death. While she prefers SWAT takedowns to finessing emotional musicians, it’s a huge opportunity to advance her career. The catch? Resolution of Moore’s theft case left his victims high and dry, making his murder a political hot potato. It doesn’t help that former beau and current bête noire Brent Davis is assigned to help her.

The investigation is complicated by decades of tangled relationships and an ambitious prosecutor gunning for a quick win. When Lia and Bailey get involved, it’s a toss up whether the Dog Park Gang will make Cynth’s case, or blow it apart.
 
(97,000 words)

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