By way of introduction.... (Sophie's story)
Posted: Wed Mar 29, 2006 1:06 pm
Sophie is a rescued “throwaway” who had lived in the woods behind my apartment for an indeterminate amount of time. I started working with her when I was feeding a stray cat in hopes of finding it a home. One morning, I threw open the curtains and found a white arctic wolf polishing off the cat’s dinner. I soon realized she was a chow, and only slightly less a wild creature as I had originally thought. My neighbor took the cat, and I took the problem child.
She was a shy girl, and I’d go so far to say, borderline feral. I gained her trust by excruciating inches. For weeks, I’d put her food outside, come inside and sit while she ate. Any sound or motion would startle her and she would disappear into the woods. One day, I put her dish on the patio, sat down beside it and started weeding my plants. Previously, she had growled at me if I didn’t set the dish down in a timely fashion, and it was no different this time. I looked her square in the eye and said, “Well no, I don’t think so,” and brought the dish back into the house. I think the look of utter shock and outrage on her little face is something any chow owner would recognize (yes, Judy, she is a right baggage). I waited a full five minutes, took the dish back outside, sat down and calmly futzed with my plants. She glared at me for a minute or so, gave a little grunt, and tucked into her dinner. That was a breakthrough.
A full six months after first seeing her, I touched her for the first time. I was knocking down spiderwebs from the eaves of the patio and noticed Sophie watching me with great interest. I began to whisk the featherduster around her like a cat toy, and she jumped on it with enthusiasm. While she was gnawing on it, I reached down and scratched her head. It still brings tears to my eyes when I remember how she leaned into my hand, God only knows how long it had been since she had felt a loving touch from a human.
It took nine months of negotiation to actually get her into the apartment. She was content during the winter to make her bed on the patio. Many mornings I would find her making a muddy “pressed ham” against my sliding glass door with her bum. No amount of pleading would get her inside, until summer came. Summers in Tennessee are pretty unbearable even without a fur coat. Her method for keeping cool was to wallow in a small trickle of muddy creek in the woods. I started leaving the door open with the AC on full blast and she eventually started creeping closer and closer until she finally made her way in. I would have to sit perfectly motionless while she slept, with the door open and then eventually with the door closed. It occurred to me that I had never seen her fully asleep before... she would doze in the back yard and startle awake at the slightest sound. It so touched my heart to see her sleep such a deep uninterrupted sleep, I didn’t mind being still. If she panicked and ran to the door, I let her out immediately. If she came to the door, I let her in immediately.
About the time these miraculous events occurred, the wheels came off of the wagon, and she went into heat. She resorted to her former wary ways, avoiding being touched and running to the woods at any provocation. I had tried to get her in and keep her in when I first saw the signs. My neighbor even donated a diazepam to try to calm her down. I would have done better to have taken it myself. I slipped it to her in a chicken liver, and the effect was about like giving Paris Hilton a cocktail. Have you ever noticed how many chow mixes there are in the world? They have to be one of the most amorous and determined breeds on the planet. She bolted at the first opportunity, and that was that.
The father was a perky cocker spaniel with a snappy little bandana around his neck. I’m sure he had an ID tag as well, but I had no luck making friends with him as that was clearly not on his agenda. It was sad to see his bandana become more and more bedraggled as the days wore on, but finally, she was done with him, and sent him off with a nip on his rump for his trouble. So much for romance.
This was pretty disasterous, but I considered the upside. Surely she would see the virtue of birthing her pups in a nice, safe, cool apartment. Surely she would want to be in close proximity to three heaping plates per day of chicken, kibble and vegetable stew. Well, no. When her time came, she hightailed it to the woods with not so much as a backwards glance. I was frantic. What if she had complications while whelping? What if she got viscious with a neighbor who got too close to her pups? I was reduced to a weeping, blithering wreck. My neighbor and I scoured the woods in the dead of night trying to find them. No luck. In full-on disaster mode, I was sure I would never see her again. About four-ish the next day, a much thinner Sophie came calmly wagging up to the back door ready for dinner. Ecstatic, I came and sat outside as she ate, determined to follow her back to her pups when she was done. It amazes me still how a white chow, that in most circumstances sticks out like a sore thumb, can simply step into the woods and disappear without a trace. I never had a chance. Over the weeks, I would search the woods. Sophie would pop out unexpectedly with the attitude of, “Oh, it’s you. How delightful”, but never took me to her den.
Finally, after four weeks (and on a dark and stormy night to boot), she brought three of the fattest babies I had ever seen to my door. Truly a testimony to good nutrition and strong chow genes, they looked nothing like the daddy. The two males did have the cocker puppy tendency to pee and poop anywhere and everywhere but the female was chow down to the ground and disdained to do either in the house. I hated giving her up, she was a carbon copy of her mother.
As it turns out, if there had been ten puppies, I would have had no problems placing them. Many people had courted Sophie with little success, and were content with getting a pup. I placed the little girl with an experienced former chow owner who actually tried to pay me for her.
Today Sophie is a relatively normal, neutered(!) and carefree girl. We did our socialization by going anywhere dogs are allowed, but she considers me her designated human, and as such I am the only one who gets to pet her. She actually enjoys the company of humans now, but prefers to keep them at arms length. It cost her a lot to give up her wild ways, and I don’t force the issue. It infuriates me to think that any dog that requires the least amount of trouble or training is in danger of being booted out the backdoor or taken to the pound.
One day while we were walking, I met a neighbor who finally gave me her story. It seems that the family who owned her kicked her out after she had puppies, kept the puppies, abandoned her, and moved away. She wandered behind the apartments for a couple of years going door to door for scraps. Sometimes the nice people who fed her moved away, and not-so-nice people moved in. She became more and more frightened of people as time went by, and small wonder, since every human she came in contact with had let her down or abused her. Anyone who had tried to befriend her were suspect after a certain point. He asked me how on earth I had gotten her to come around when all others had failed.
I just smiled and said, “She was very patient with me”.
Sandy
She was a shy girl, and I’d go so far to say, borderline feral. I gained her trust by excruciating inches. For weeks, I’d put her food outside, come inside and sit while she ate. Any sound or motion would startle her and she would disappear into the woods. One day, I put her dish on the patio, sat down beside it and started weeding my plants. Previously, she had growled at me if I didn’t set the dish down in a timely fashion, and it was no different this time. I looked her square in the eye and said, “Well no, I don’t think so,” and brought the dish back into the house. I think the look of utter shock and outrage on her little face is something any chow owner would recognize (yes, Judy, she is a right baggage). I waited a full five minutes, took the dish back outside, sat down and calmly futzed with my plants. She glared at me for a minute or so, gave a little grunt, and tucked into her dinner. That was a breakthrough.
A full six months after first seeing her, I touched her for the first time. I was knocking down spiderwebs from the eaves of the patio and noticed Sophie watching me with great interest. I began to whisk the featherduster around her like a cat toy, and she jumped on it with enthusiasm. While she was gnawing on it, I reached down and scratched her head. It still brings tears to my eyes when I remember how she leaned into my hand, God only knows how long it had been since she had felt a loving touch from a human.
It took nine months of negotiation to actually get her into the apartment. She was content during the winter to make her bed on the patio. Many mornings I would find her making a muddy “pressed ham” against my sliding glass door with her bum. No amount of pleading would get her inside, until summer came. Summers in Tennessee are pretty unbearable even without a fur coat. Her method for keeping cool was to wallow in a small trickle of muddy creek in the woods. I started leaving the door open with the AC on full blast and she eventually started creeping closer and closer until she finally made her way in. I would have to sit perfectly motionless while she slept, with the door open and then eventually with the door closed. It occurred to me that I had never seen her fully asleep before... she would doze in the back yard and startle awake at the slightest sound. It so touched my heart to see her sleep such a deep uninterrupted sleep, I didn’t mind being still. If she panicked and ran to the door, I let her out immediately. If she came to the door, I let her in immediately.
About the time these miraculous events occurred, the wheels came off of the wagon, and she went into heat. She resorted to her former wary ways, avoiding being touched and running to the woods at any provocation. I had tried to get her in and keep her in when I first saw the signs. My neighbor even donated a diazepam to try to calm her down. I would have done better to have taken it myself. I slipped it to her in a chicken liver, and the effect was about like giving Paris Hilton a cocktail. Have you ever noticed how many chow mixes there are in the world? They have to be one of the most amorous and determined breeds on the planet. She bolted at the first opportunity, and that was that.
The father was a perky cocker spaniel with a snappy little bandana around his neck. I’m sure he had an ID tag as well, but I had no luck making friends with him as that was clearly not on his agenda. It was sad to see his bandana become more and more bedraggled as the days wore on, but finally, she was done with him, and sent him off with a nip on his rump for his trouble. So much for romance.
This was pretty disasterous, but I considered the upside. Surely she would see the virtue of birthing her pups in a nice, safe, cool apartment. Surely she would want to be in close proximity to three heaping plates per day of chicken, kibble and vegetable stew. Well, no. When her time came, she hightailed it to the woods with not so much as a backwards glance. I was frantic. What if she had complications while whelping? What if she got viscious with a neighbor who got too close to her pups? I was reduced to a weeping, blithering wreck. My neighbor and I scoured the woods in the dead of night trying to find them. No luck. In full-on disaster mode, I was sure I would never see her again. About four-ish the next day, a much thinner Sophie came calmly wagging up to the back door ready for dinner. Ecstatic, I came and sat outside as she ate, determined to follow her back to her pups when she was done. It amazes me still how a white chow, that in most circumstances sticks out like a sore thumb, can simply step into the woods and disappear without a trace. I never had a chance. Over the weeks, I would search the woods. Sophie would pop out unexpectedly with the attitude of, “Oh, it’s you. How delightful”, but never took me to her den.
Finally, after four weeks (and on a dark and stormy night to boot), she brought three of the fattest babies I had ever seen to my door. Truly a testimony to good nutrition and strong chow genes, they looked nothing like the daddy. The two males did have the cocker puppy tendency to pee and poop anywhere and everywhere but the female was chow down to the ground and disdained to do either in the house. I hated giving her up, she was a carbon copy of her mother.
As it turns out, if there had been ten puppies, I would have had no problems placing them. Many people had courted Sophie with little success, and were content with getting a pup. I placed the little girl with an experienced former chow owner who actually tried to pay me for her.
Today Sophie is a relatively normal, neutered(!) and carefree girl. We did our socialization by going anywhere dogs are allowed, but she considers me her designated human, and as such I am the only one who gets to pet her. She actually enjoys the company of humans now, but prefers to keep them at arms length. It cost her a lot to give up her wild ways, and I don’t force the issue. It infuriates me to think that any dog that requires the least amount of trouble or training is in danger of being booted out the backdoor or taken to the pound.
One day while we were walking, I met a neighbor who finally gave me her story. It seems that the family who owned her kicked her out after she had puppies, kept the puppies, abandoned her, and moved away. She wandered behind the apartments for a couple of years going door to door for scraps. Sometimes the nice people who fed her moved away, and not-so-nice people moved in. She became more and more frightened of people as time went by, and small wonder, since every human she came in contact with had let her down or abused her. Anyone who had tried to befriend her were suspect after a certain point. He asked me how on earth I had gotten her to come around when all others had failed.
I just smiled and said, “She was very patient with me”.
Sandy