by Randy Grim
We named him Dodger for a reason: He dodges humans because they scare him, and when cornered, he sees a man about a horse on the floor, on your shoes, on himself, or worst of all, a foul back-end explosion in surrender. I identify with him completely (not the back-end explosion part) and would have fostered him myself except that my house is currently inundated with socially challenged dogs, including Dodger’s brother, Bud, and if I take in any more, it will give the neighbors the ammunition they need to have my house raided by authorities and condemned, and trust me, I do not look good in stripes.
Because Dodger and Bud were feral dogs, we couldn’t just keep them at the shelter and hope for the best. Truly wild dogs like them are the ultimate shy, overly submissive cases—their fear of humans is what kept them alive—so socializing them, or any shy dog, into the human pack requires pathological patience, because no matter how kind you are to them, no matter how many treats, hugs, or whispers of assurance you give them, they still act as if you’re about to kill them. After a few days, you start to feel insulted—it’s the ultimate rejection—and man’s best friend thinks you are the bogeyman.
When Bud first came to my house, he’d never been on a leash, so I carried him in my arms from the Jeep to the door, because I didn’t want to put any more stress on him than necessary. I thought I was being nice. He thought he was being carried away by the bogeyman to be eaten, and thus saw men about horses and covered me with back-end explosions the whole way.
When we got inside, my dogs swarmed around him for inspection. They thought that they’d found a new friend to play with. He thought he was about to be attacked en masse, so he tried to make himself invisible by flattening his ears, tucking his tail, crouching down as low as possible to the ground, and then slinking through their legs to escape.
The gang followed him to the kitchen where he crawled under the table. They thought he was leading them on a game of chase and pursued accordingly. He thought he was being cornered by predators and rolled on his back and stared at the wall—his way of begging them not to attack.
They thought, “Wimp,” got bored, and eventually walked away. He thought, “I’m still alive,” and stayed flattened to the floor under the table before scurrying to make his nest under my bed for the next three days. For those three days it was like having a prisoner sentenced to solitary confinement lurking under the mattress. At night I would slide his meals under the bed, and by morning the bowl would be pushed back out, empty. This also meant having to withstand putrid smells seeping out from beneath my prison cot of a bed. I moved to the guest bedroom with a bottle of Febreze.
It’s all a matter of misinterpretation.
In the wolf world, where everyone understands each other, all of Bud’s reactions make sense. From a very young age, wolf pups elicit regurgitated food from the adults by crouching down, tucking their tails, and licking the sides of the adult’s mouth. As they grow and their status in the pack’s hierarchy becomes clearer, the subordinate wolves continue the puplike behavior around the more-dominant pack members as a way of keeping everyone happy.
Likewise, when a new adult wolf from the outside seeks permission to join the pack, he assumes submissive postures—crouching, avoiding eye contact, rolling on his back—to let the others know that he’s no threat. If he acts submissive in a convincing-enough way, he might be granted membership, and at the very least won’t be attacked.
The ultimate submissive gesture among wolves and dogs is seeing a man about a horse. In the wild, if a subordinate wolf sees a man about a horse in the presence of a dominant wolf, it’s his way of saying, “Go ahead and kill me. I’m so low compared to you, I won’t even fight back,” and usually it’s enough to avoid any conflict.
But while it’s important to understand what a submissive dog says with his actions, it’s even more important to know what a dominant pack member says with his. Those in the upper echelons of a pack stare directly at those lower in rank and emit low growls, stand over them, and place paws across their backs.
So guess how your shy dog interprets your attempts to be friendly:
Your Action: loving gaze
His Interpretation: direct stare
Your Action: kissing baby noises
His Interpretation: low growl
Your Action: bending down and reaching toward him
His Interpretation: standing over
Your Action: petting him as he crouches
His Interpretation: paw over the back
Your Action: sliding food under the bed
His Interpretation: the bogeyman is also a vending machine
He’s so scared by this point that he’ll see a man about a horse on the floor as a final plea for his life. Imagine a giant predatory spider towering twelve feet above you, making weird hissing noises, and extending a hairy arm in your direction; would you lose it or what? That’s the level of fear an overly submissive dog experiences every time a human being coos sweet nothings and tries to pet him. When I rescue these types of dogs, I wear sunglasses, squat sideways, and speak in a monotone voice, reciting the ABCs.
Usually, however, we make things even worse for the poor guy, because while we try harder and harder to get him to like us, he becomes more and more afraid. Then, when we scold him for seeing a man about a horse on the floor, he has no other way to tell us how sorry he is for not communicating his intentions more clearly, and so he you-know-whats some more.
In a dog’s world, people are his pack members, and if he’s yelled at or punished when he’s young, or if he doesn’t socialize with humans during the first eight weeks of life when he’s developing his sense of self, then he will be prone to an inferiority complex that will haunt him throughout his life. Whether you’ve rescued a shy dog from a pound, a puppy mill, a pet store, or the streets, the answer is not to overwhelm him with love and affection, but rather, to do just the opposite and leave him alone for a while. Ignoring is your best training tool in the beginning; simply be a vending machine.
When Bud rooted himself under the bed, for example, I completely ignored him for three whole days. It was important to let him gain confidence at his own pace, because if I’d spent time trying to coax him out, he would have focused so much on his fear of me that he wouldn’t have been able to see the following:
Me feeding the other dogs.
Me playing with the other dogs.
The other dogs playing with each other in my presence.
A pack ruled by a calm, dignified, exceedingly handsome provider (me), whose stellar leadership abilities create an atmosphere of peace and tranquility among the otherwise unruly rabble (them).
In fact, one of the best ways to lure a shy dog away from his fear is to let him watch more-socialized dogs interact with you. At Stray Rescue, we try to place a feral or overly submissive dog in a foster home where there are other dogs to set an example, because it is the best way to show them how the other half lives. Nobody likes to miss out on the fun, so ham it up with your other dogs as if you’re throwing a party just to make your neighbors jealous. Jealousy can be a great tool with the shy dog.
During those first three days of Bud’s introduction to our pack, I never once bent down and looked at him under the bed. Direct eye contact for any extended period of time is one dog’s way of saying to another, “I’m about to kick your ass,” so when I changed his water or slid him food, I didn’t look sideways at him for a second.
The first big break came when I brought out the hot dogs. As I’ve explained in other chapters, no dog can resist offal-stuffed intestines, so I sat on the floor near the bed, doled out wiener bits to the other dogs, and, using a magazine as a fan, I waited for the smell to reach Bud. In less than two seconds, his nose went into high gear, his ears picked up, and his eyes darted from one dog to the other as they downed the goods. He knew the party had started without him.
Without making a big scene, I casually tossed a hot-dog slice his way, which he inhaled, and then I continued feeding the others. I di
dn’t immediately toss him a second piece but let him watch the others swarm around me for theirs, and when I heard him whine, I glanced his way for the first time. Then I tossed him his second piece. As anyone addicted to junk food knows, one or two bites just ain’t enough, and within seconds, Bud had slunk out from under the bed with just his head peering out, like a Pez candy dispenser waiting for more.
That night when I came home from the shelter, Bud moved his headquarters from under the bed to under my kitchen table, closer to the fridge—the ultimate vending machine—so I locked the other dogs out of the kitchen, sat on top of the table, and tossed hot-dog pieces down onto the floor. With each piece, Bud’s nose appeared first, followed by his head, followed by his tongue, which darted out with the agility of an octopus tentacle, grabbed the hot dog piece, and retracted. Then his head disappeared back under the table.
Over the next hour, I tossed the hot dogs farther and farther out, until Bud’s entire body emerged from under the table, and by midnight, he stood at the other end of the room catching the treats in his mouth mid-flight as I flung them. Then he threw up because he’d eaten so many hot dogs, and when I inadvertently wailed “NOOOOO,” and gagged in too dramatic a fashion, he slunk back under the table, peeing the whole way.
(Note to Reader: Because I have avoidance issues, it often takes me days to deal with a pile of dog throw-up. For those of you with similar issues, drop an old towel over the throw-up so you don’t have to look at it, and let it sit there for three days, spraying Febreze on it. By that time, it will have hardened up just enough for you to grab it under the towel in one piece, and you can toss both into the outside garbage can in one fell swoop without retching.)
(Note #2 to Reader: If you want to be smart about it, drop your significant other’s favorite shirt over the pile. When they ask why it’s on the floor, shrug and leave the room. From that point on, it’s their responsibility.)
Back to Bud. Up until the point when he threw up, I was desensitizing him to his new environment, which meant every time I threw a hot dog farther out and he crawled farther out into the room to get it, he received a reward for braving the unknown. Unfortunately, when I wailed and gagged, it scared him back under the table, so for the next several nights we went through the same exercise, but this time, I wailed “NOOOOO” and gagged each time I threw the hot dog out, so he came to associate me wailing and gagging with receiving a groovy treat.
Likewise, all shy dogs must learn to associate pleasure with what scares them (this is why I smoke, for I use the same technique). Many, for example, see a man about a horse when a person walks in the front door. They do this because when the person walks in, they usually act “aggressively” by bending down (standing over), making weird kissing noises (low growls), and petting them on the head (paw over back).
Again, it’s a matter of misinterpretation, so instead of “aggressively” greeting your shy dog at the door, try ignoring him instead. When you first walk in, don’t look at him and don’t direct any words his way. Then wait for him to approach you, and when he does, bend down to his level, avoid prolonged eye contact, speak softly without making coochy-coochy-bla-bla-coo baby noises, and pet him under the chin or on the chest between his front legs.
If after a few days of this your shy dog still sees a man about a horse when you arrive, add a little treat every time you walk in the door, but don’t just hand it to him—toss it across the room so he has to go and find it. This diverts his focus from fear to food, and if you’re consistent, he’ll soon associate your arrival with hunting for treats and forget he was ever afraid.
Whatever you do, don’t yell or scold him if he sees a man about a horse in front of you. It’s tempting, I know, and this is where it gets tough, because no matter what you do to assure him of your affection, he still acts like you’re going to kill him. It’s easy to lose your temper, but if you do, it will only make him more scared and confused, and he’ll see more men about more horses even more often.
(Cleanup Tip: Buy the cheapest diapers available rather than paper towels; they absorb the pee quicker and better, and if you are single like me, the grocery-store clerk thinks you’re just an economical dad who buys way too many douches (see chapter 1) and diapers.)
Finally, always let him win. When you play tug-of-war, let him win. When you wrestle on the floor, let him win. When he paws you for attention, let him win. Build his confidence up one win at a time, and in the end, which is just a few short months away, you’ll see a much less submissive dog.
As for Bud ... Fortunately, we found a family to adopt him. Unfortunately, it took a long time, I guess because of the following description we put under his picture on our Web site:
Oh, by the way, that family is me. Bud is pretty normal now, sleeps on the bed and not under it, loves playing with toys, and loves to be petted, but to this day, he eats his meals under the bed. I find that endearing, for it’s a constant reminder to me that nobody, whether two-legged or four-, is perfect.
Bud’s a little shy, so he should have a family with other dogs and parents willing to let him win tug-of-war games and yell “NOOOOO” and then make gagging noises in a convincing way whenever something scares him ...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I Love Old Dogs
Dear Randy,
We adopted a dog from you several years ago. Back then she was an adorable puppy with cute little freckles on her nose. Her name was Cuddles, but we renamed her Casey. She’s a wonderful dog who gets along great with the other dogs in the neighborhood and is completely housebroken. She also graduated at the top of her obedience class.
The reason I am writing to you is that I’m afraid we’re going to have to return Casey to your organization. She is getting old. She’s about ten now and her hair is turning gray around her muzzle, and we no longer see her freckles. Her teeth are showing signs of tartar and her eyes are getting cloudy. I understand this comes with old age, but recently she knocked over the trash can and is still afraid of storms after all these years. Please let me know what I have to do to bring her back. Also, would it be possible to get another puppy after we return her?
Please contact us as soon as possible.
Darren and Dodo Dump
Dear Darren and Dodo,
If you didn’t want a dog, why did you get a puppy in the first place?
Yours truly,
Randy Grim
This one had me shaking like a rattle in the hands of a psychotic baby. I was pissed, and thought it had to be a joke. How could this be for real? So, I did what any good Rescue Randy would do and called to talk with the Dumps, live and in-person. It went something like this:
Randy: Umm ... Hi, it’s Randy from Stray Rescue. I got your e-mail. I just want to make sure ... umm ... is this for real?
The Dumps: Why would you think it’s not?
Randy: Umm ... because, basically, you just seem to be tired of Casey, and umm ... I see no real reason for you to return her. (I knew this would probably tick off the Dumps, and it did.)
The Dumps: How dare you judge us! We have the right to keep her or get rid of her without any crap from you!
Randy: Okay, okay, calm down. Just drop her off, please, you stupid-ass morons.
No, I really didn’t say exactly that. The “stupid-ass morons” part came out of my mouth after I’d hung up.
Let’s look more closely at this letter. The first sentence states that they adopted her several years ago as a puppy, but now she is ten. Did Casey get some sort of accelerated aging disease, or is there something fishy with their story (because it stinks)? Doesn’t the word several mean something like three? So the Dumps are dissembling. Several years is not ten years old, except maybe in giant tortoise years.
Show of hands—how many of you reading this book right now would want a dog that had these characteristics? She’s a wonderful dog. She gets along great with the other dogs in the neighborhood, and is completely housebroken. She also graduated at the top of her obedience class
. My hunch is that many of you are clutching this book in one hand as if it were the doggie bible and raising the other to the sky, shouting “Hallelujah!” If you are like me, none of my kids (kids=dogs) are as well-rounded as Casey. In fact, most of mine ride the short yellow bus.
Another show of hands: How many of you stopped loving or caring for your parents just because the inevitable happened, and they got old? (You all better not be holding up those hands.)
I pray that dog karma exists. When the Dumps get old and gray and lose those cute freckles and their teeth, develop cloudy eyes, and accidentally knock over their own adult Depends diaper pail, I hope they get sent away to the nursing home from hell. The one with Nurse Ratched, who forces you to eat Jell-O while playing Hell’s version of a never-ending bingo game where there is never a winner—only losers with cloudy cataracts.
I love old dogs.
Casey was getting the ax, but what was also very disconcerting to me was the Dumps’ desire to have a new puppy. Do they think dogs are like cars, where you can just trade in the older model (before it dies) for something younger? If they’d written because they wanted to adopt a new puppy to help keep Casey feeling young and to give her some company, that would have been great. But that wasn’t the case at all. I feel awful knowing they’ve probably adopted a new puppy from somewhere else by now. If it’s not the perfect puppy, what will they do next? Let’s just hope the new puppy dumps on the Dumps and destroys their home. Heck, I hope the puppy throws in a bite or two for good measure, and then runs away and lives with someone like sweet little Jimmy from Lassie Come Home.
How would I solve the problem so they would keep Casey? My advice would be intense daily therapy with the world’s leading psychiatrists, and if that didn’t work, try Dr. Phil. If he can’t straighten them out, God help us all—especially if you bark.
