Animal Magic

by Carolyn Press-McKenzie

  I asked his owner if she engaged with Jake, or was he just left to his own devices. She explained that although she was essentially working from home at the motel she really didn’t spend a lot of time with him. I prescribed a change of routine, where she would allow him to become more involved in her day at the motel and that she should give him little jobs to do, to help him feel included and valued. Jake’s owner should also take him to a park or the river herself so that they could enjoy the experience together, but on her terms. Only a week or so later Jake’s owner called back. She just didn’t have the time to try the tasks and she was in a constant state of worry as to his whereabouts as he was now slipping the collar and chain. So the very next day Jake found himself sitting in kennel number 7 at the Wellington SPCA.

  At the time we were swamped, having just taken in seven deaf Dalmatians from a backyard breeder. I was working with them, teaching hand signals until way past my home time. With still so much paperwork to do I knew that I was about to be the only one left in the old shabby building. A little nervous to be lurking the corridors on my own at night, I asked Jake if he would mind joining me at my desk upstairs.

  What a gorgeous dog. He was a gentle-looking soul, predominantly huntaway, very leggy, very intelligent and only about two years old. Even though we had only just met, he trotted next to me, off-lead, through the maze of doors and corridors until we reached my desk. He settled at my feet as I worked, looking just as content and relieved as I was to have a companion. As the hours passed and the work was finally done, I settled Jake back in his kennel. I leaned down and, with his chin cupped gently in my hand, looked into his deep intelligent brown eyes and promised him that I would find him his happiness.

  The next day I was rostered to start work a little later. As I walked down the driveway to the front entrance of the shelter, to my complete surprise, there was Jake wagging his tail and extremely pleased to see me. He had escaped. In all my time at the shelter, Jake was the first dog I had ever known to escape the compound. It was impressive, but more than just a little bit worrying.

  As Jake and I entered the building one of the staff, who was far from impressed with my let’s-save-them-all attitude, was quick to remind me that we would be better to put an animal to sleep than to put it back out into the community where it could cause an accident. Of course I kindly disagreed and said I would find a way to keep everyone safe and happy, while acknowledging that we did have huge responsibility to place dogs in the community and that I was, and always would, take that very seriously. I pondered a while for the best solution.

  I found Jake amazing. In fact, I’d go so far as to say outstanding. There was no doubt in my mind he was a special dog with that can-do attitude I admired so much in all creatures. His life to date had been boring and had had little enrichment, but instead of sitting around stressing about it, he had found a way to improve it all on his own. Surely that sort of attitude and capability, while not always appropriate, should be recognised and admired. The sad thing was he was now seen as a naughty dog that was too out of control. I just needed to put all that cleverness into the right home. Jake was not a dog that should be or deserved to be overlooked; he needed to feel valued and he needed to be an involved part of a family, not just an annoying afterthought. Seeing him outside the confines of the shelter that day, I was looking at a dog who just wanted to connect. He wanted to please and he wanted to be seen.

  I knew if he kept escaping at the shelter then I would be pressured to dispose of him, and, if you know me at all by now, you’ll know I was more likely to walk out with him trotting at my side than to send him to heaven for simply being so desperate to belong.

  Well, as the saying goes, timing is everything. My friend Vicky the vet called that morning to ask if I knew of a great family dog for some friends who had moved to a new lifestyle block. Vicky barely had time to put the receiver down when I was on the phone to her friend, digging for more information.

  The mother was a retired flight attendant who wanted to spend more time with her young and growing family, so they had bought an old relocated church on several acres of vineyard. They wanted a family dog to be part of every aspect of their lives; they wanted a best friend for their children and a companion for her mum as her husband was often away for work. As I listened to the warmth in her voice I started to get excited. I also loved the fact that getting a dog was something her whole family had discussed and prepared for. They were committed to doing whatever they could to be engaged and attentive parents, and the dog they adopted would be an important family member.

  Then, as per protocol, I asked about their fencing. For a moment my heart sank. It was seven wire farm fencing and an absolute doddle for a boy like Jake to escape over. On paper it should have been a no right then and there, but in my heart I knew that no fence would keep this boy home. Maybe being a valued family member might. It was risky and I explained his situation thoroughly to the woman. I also explained that if they were indeed happy to take Jake for a trial and he did run off then we would take him back in a flash. So with my fingers and toes crossed into knots, Jake went on trial to the country. I waited anxiously for news.

  He learnt to play with toy tractors with his new little brother and to run alongside big tractors with his adoring new dad. He would fondly sit at his new mum’s feet as she did the accounts or put another load of washing out and he snuggled on the sofa in between loving arms as the family settled in to watch the telly for the evening.

  The updates that came in over the first year reported that Jake was the perfect family dog: loyal, loving, amazing with the children and a wonderful companion for the mum and dad. He never did run away, not even once. Several years later I was thrilled to get another update. I felt a little teary as they told me his favourite spot was sitting on the deck looking over his land and attentively watching his children playing. Jake had found his forever home. His safety fence was not made of wood, not at all, it was made of something much stronger and greater: it was made of love.

  CHAPTER 14

  Not every dog’s normal

  My heart melted the moment the inspector placed him in my arms.

  Only about six weeks old, he was full of beans and completely oblivious to the fact that only having three functioning legs wasn’t every dog’s normal.

  ‘Where on earth did you find him?’ I was almost whispering as I gently sketched my finger around the outline of his wee deformed fourth leg.

  The inspector explained that he had been found asleep in a slipper on a back doorstep in Porirua. The procedure was that we would hold him for seven days to see if anyone came to claim him. If no one showed, this gorgeous little pup’s fate was in the hands of the powers-that-be at the shelter.

  ‘Oh dear, what do you want to do with him, Carolyn?’ the CEO asked, as I walked into her office still cradling him in my arms. Her eyes fell on his obvious deformity.

  ‘I’d like to take him home, if that’s okay?’ And so I did.

  I named him Napoléon because his little left foreleg was so deformed it reminded me of the classic Napoléon Bonaparte pose, arm placed across his chest and tucked into his jacket. As I told the precious wee fellow his new fancy name, I also informed him that he would be called Ned for short.

  Over the next few days I put a lot of thought into whether to amputate Ned’s little chicken-wing leg. It was so deformed surely it was useless? But I decided not to rush, to take some time to get to know this sweet little bundle of courage and truly understand how things were for him. As I watched him manoeuvre around over the week ahead, I noticed that he used the leg to lean on and to prop himself up. And to our delight we watched him flap it ever so slightly when he swam. So we decided not to amputate, not yet, not unless it stared to cause him some trouble or if he got it caught on things. As Ned grew, he completely mastered the art of having only one functioning front leg. He’d hop along after Murphy and Haggis, crashing to a halt and always landing on his outstretched chin.

&nbs
p; Right from the get-go Ned looked very similar to a kelpie, maybe not pure bred, but kelpie was definitely the top guess of everyone who met him. As Ned’s personality revealed itself to us this headstrong and determined little chap started to show some true kelpie behaviours.

  I am always amazed and delighted to see how much a dog’s breed can help you to understand their nature and quirks. No matter what home, good or bad, no matter what environment, city or country, chained or family pet, and no matter what age, I am yet to meet a golden retriever who doesn’t like to lie in puddles. It’s instinctive, it’s in their genetic make-up, it’s who they are. And similarly with Ned, his kelpie-ness meant he absolutely couldn’t help himself from nipping passing animals on the backs of their legs or their bottom. He never did it to people but any animal who walked by was fair game.

  Although Ned was very active and tried hard to keep up with everyone, you could see that his nipping was partly exaggerated by frustration. As he grew older and slowed down, his good front leg became more arthritic and he in turn became less agile and more exasperated with his disability, but his instincts to want to bite bottoms remained as strong as ever. Of course we trained him out of this behaviour from the beginning; just a glance from us or a well-timed ‘Oi, Ned, be nice’ when we saw an animal trotting obliviously in his direction was enough for him to flop to his chin with a defeated and guilt-ridden look. He’d then shuffle back away from his target or simply let it pass on by. But to completely erase the thought of bottom-nipping from his mind would have been as impossible as asking a retriever to dislike water.

  Over the years I have seen so many dogs in such inappropriate situations, for instance a one-year-old Siberian husky that came into the SPCA. Her owner, an international student, had purchased her from a pet store. The puppy then lived for that year in the solitude of an apartment, unsocialised, untrained and undesexed. The adolescent dog was dumped at the shelter a week before her owner was due to fly back home to China. Very few of her emotional or physical needs had been met, and she was confused and like a coiled spring. That apartment and that particular owner was night and day from what she needed and the damage was great. Of course we worked our way through her issues, teaching her to trust new people and situations. Because she was a smart girl, she quickly learnt to be a vibrant, strong and athletic husky and was eventually homed with a family who truly understood her needs.

  It’s easy enough to train dogs to behave a certain way, but you can’t change who they are . . . that’s innate and it’s kind of beautiful. And when choosing a pet it’s probably one of the most important things to consider.

  CHAPTER 15

  Becoming part of the solution

  Meanwhile, back at Pakuratahi we were run off our feet.

  I was taking home from work the animals who had no safe solution or outcome, like some kittens with ringworm. They just needed time to be medicated and to heal, but because of ringworm’s contagious nature, SPCA policy dictated they would be euthanised if they remained at the shelter.

  Jim and I were also getting more and more calls about horses, sheep, cows, roosters and pigs that were in trouble. We were working around the clock to keep up. We wanted the animals to be safe and have bright futures, but we were starting to feel a little used. Folk who had made foolish choices and had got themselves into a pickle weren’t calling us for help and advice, they were calling us so they could just dump their animals and run. We were fast becoming the one-stop shop for owners looking for an easy way out.

  The sanctuary was certainly saving lives but I was feeling more and more troubled that we weren’t breaking the cycle, and in that respect we were failing the animals. We weren’t being allowed, or maybe we weren’t taking the opportunity, to teach the owners responsibility. As usual, I pondered on it for a while. Jim and I agreed that we weren’t prepared to give up, we just needed to be a little smarter.

  I do my best thinking in the shower and one particular morning as I was waiting for the conditioner to condition I was tossing around the idea of rebranding the sanctuary. I thought about giving it a name that told people we were there to help, but that they must play a role in their animals’ futures too. Whether we were being asked for help or to take a pet, I wanted our name to suggest that the owner was part of the solution. I pondered extracting the word ‘kura’ out of Pakuratahi, the name of the area we live in. Kura means ‘to educate or to teach’ in Maori, but I wanted something a little less obvious than the obvious. I also knew I would have to get iwi—Maori tribe—permission and I didn’t feel it would be likely for such a strong and important word. So as the conditioner conditioned I started throwing together letters and forming acronyms . . . And there it was, obvious and yet not obvious: HUHA—Helping You Help Animals. Our first point of contact, our brand was saying that ‘we are here to help you’ and it was the emphasis on the ‘you’ that gave us hope. So the trademark paperwork was submitted and we began our new journey, with the confidence that with a name like HUHA we could change attitudes and expectations in the community.

  Back at my desk at the SPCA, I had just put down the receiver after talking to a woman about her son’s dog. Her son had jetted off on his Overseas Experience and left his mother in sole charge of his dog. He, like many adolescent pet owners, hadn’t taken full responsibility for finding a suitable solution for his dog when his life changed; he had just left his mother to pick up the pieces. We often say that a pet is not an Xbox, and so many young folk who love the idea of a cool companion to play with don’t realise the gravity of the commitment. They can’t just chuck their pet in the cupboard or walk away when they have had enough . . . and yet sadly so often they do! Understandably, the unprepared mother wasn’t coping as she was working full-time and to top it off she was a little scared of the big mastiff–Staffy cross. She explained that he had been raised with small children, cats and a bunny rabbit. His bed was a beanbag in their lounge.

  ‘Can you please take him? I just can’t do this any more,’ she sobbed down the phone.

  I actually did have one spare kennel, so if he fitted the shelter criteria I might just be able to help, and to be honest I was sick to death of constantly turning folk away. With the capacity to hold only twelve dogs, including the seized dogs, and such tough criteria set by the powers-that-be, I found myself in the awful position of saying no more than yes. This was not my style at all. I always tried to offer helpful suggestions and alternative solutions, but often we were the public’s last call before the final visit to the vet.

  ‘Bring him down this afternoon and if he fits the criteria then of course we will help,’ I reassured her. My fingers were crossed as I hung up the phone.

  A few hours later I met the lady and her dog in the car park. My heart sank. With his muscular build, light piercing eyes and red nose, he was most certainly of pitbull heritage.

  The woman stood anxiously with the big lug of a dog sitting nicely next to her.

  ‘Can you tell me again what breed he is?’ I asked.

  She could see the disappointment in my eyes and replied, ‘My son told me to say he was a mastiff cross.’ She looked as defeated as I felt.

  He actually looked like a lovely dog, and as I offered him my hand to sniff he happily allowed me to tickle him under the chin. His tail wagged enthusiastically as he repositioned himself and leaned into my leg. He was just a big goof. But with his light eyes and red nose, he would be a dead goof if I allowed him to place one foot inside the shelter. There was absolutely no denying that he was a pitbull and that was a breed the SPCA did not entertain.

  To be fair, pitbulls are very hard to place. They often have had such a rough upbringing that they come with a lot of emotional baggage. Combine that with an innate nature to guard and protect and sometimes that baggage presents itself in the form of aggression. An unhappy or insecure pitbull can be a very tricky dog to work with, let alone rehome. Although I often had pitbulls in my care at the shelter, awaiting processing by the inspectors, I had never be
en allowed the opportunity to take one through a training or rehabilitation programme. There was no movement on that rule and even the sweetest natured and wiggly bottomed puppies, as I suspected this big boy once was, were destroyed. No discussion or correspondence would be entered into on this firmly entrenched rule.

  I stood quietly with this beautiful dog still happily leaning up against me. I hate to feel defeated. This lady had had to face the reality of working full-time and not being strong enough to walk him; I could have worked her through those issues and made valid and helpful suggestions but the overriding fact was that she didn’t want the dog and the daily responsibility to care for him was too much.

  Then all at once I remembered a friend of a friend whose old Staffy–pitbull cross had just died at the impressive age of fifteen years. I asked the lady to wait in the car park as I ran inside and made a few phone calls. After ringing around I found this guy and, yes, if it was the right dog he was nearly ready to love again.

  As the 34-year-old self-employed tradesman walked down the driveway towards us, the big blobby pitbull noticed him right away. His excited tail wag graduated to a full-blown bottom wag. He reared with delight on the end of the lead as he realised that the young man was actually coming straight for him. I couldn’t help but tear up as the man dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the big boy. It was as if no one else existed.

  Both of us in tears, the lady and I hugged each other, and hugged the tradie. Her son’s dog was not going to die that day but instead he would gain a new master. A kind, caring and responsible master who would protect him and keep him out of harm’s way in such a judgemental world.

  CHAPTER 16

  The neighbours

  The saying goes that ‘you can choose your friends but you can’t pick your family’.