by Jim Gorant
The dog would not walk into the crate on her own, and she hardly moved once she was inside. She simply lay in one spot and stared out at the world around her, stared at Stirling. It didn’t matter if Catalina left the door open or closed, stayed or left, brought the other dogs in or kept them away. Jasmine stayed put-not flinching, not stretching, not even, it seemed, blinking.
For the first few days the dog would not drink or eat, at all. Finally, Stirling simply left bowls of food and water just outside the crate and left the room, closing the door behind her. Only then would Jasmine inch out of her vault and partake.
Four or five times a day, Stirling picked Jasmine up and carried her outside. As always, the dog went rigid at the touch, and Catalina hauled her like a FedEx delivery to the yard. She put Jasmine down on the grass, and the dog lay motionless, staring at her. Only after Stirling backed away, went inside, and closed the door would Jasmine get up and relieve herself. Then she would skulk across the yard to a hole in the ground she’d found. She would crawl down into the hole and resume her frozen vigil, staring out at the world around her like a statue.
When she was not outside, she spent almost all her time in the crate. Although the door was almost always left open, Jasmine never ventured out. Whenever Stirling came in, the dog would stare at her with an intensity that was unnerving. Anywhere Catalina went in the room, anything she did, Jasmine fixed her with a steady gaze. There was nothing threatening about it-as always the dog kept her head down-but it was inescapable and unchanging.
In the evenings, Catalina would go into the room, put on a soft light, play soothing music, and simply sit near the crate. She was hoping to help Jasmine decompress and relax and to start forming a bond. She would offer treats and toys, but as always Jasmine was unmoved. If Catalina tried to pet Jasmine, the dog would tremble. Jasmine just stared. Every time Stirling looked over, all she saw were those eyes, and she came to think of the dog as two brown circles boring into her. When Jasmine stared like that her ears were perked up, and the bent one asked, what, when, why?
Catalina was beginning to have some questions of her own. Perhaps it came from all the years working with dogs, but she had developed an inner sense, an almost animal instinct, that she followed unerringly. When she had first gone to see Jasmine at WARL, she had not analyzed the prospect of taking the dog. She hadn’t weighed the potential impact on her family or what the odds of actually helping the dog might be. She simply felt it. Deep within her she felt that she wanted to help. She needed to help. And she had gone with that feeling.
Now, though, the first shades of doubt occasionally flashed through her mind. Had she been wrong? The stakes were high. Just because many of the Vick dogs were in foster homes, it didn’t mean they were home free. Each dog was officially undergoing a six-month period of observation, and it was still a possibility that any dog could be deemed dangerous or mentally unstable to the point that its status might change. The powers that be could determine that any given dog might have to be moved from a home to a sanctuary or might even have to be euthanized. Already, BAD RAP had voluntarily sent one dog, Mya, to Best Friends because she proved too damaged for the outside world.
Catalina was determined to keep anything like that from happening to Jasmine, but she knew that if the dog continued to struggle, hard questions would follow. She never had any illusions that it would be easy, that it would be anything but a long, difficult process requiring patience and will, but it had been four weeks and the dog was still lost in the woods of southern Virginia. Catalina did not know if Jasmine would ever make it out of there.
Despite the lack of progress, Stirling continued to follow her instincts. She may have wondered if Jasmine would ever reach the hoped-for state of recovery, but she never questioned her decision to take Jasmine in.
Catalina considered what she had to work with. The one thing that had any noticeable effect on Jasmine were the other dogs. By now, Catalina was certain it was safe to let Jasmine mingle with her other pets. She’d observed them together many times and she could sense that Jasmine would not attempt to harm them. She could see that Jasmine needed other dogs. Jasmine had grown up in a world of animals and she felt safer and more comfortable among her own kind.
By following her instincts Catalina was about to tap into a very powerful influence of dog behavior, the pack instinct. Canine motivations can be broken into a few key areas: survival, food, and companionship. Survival includes the drive to find shelter, procreate, and defend oneself, which comes in the form of fight-or-flight instincts. In that regard, Jasmine had established her crate as a den and since she had been spayed there was no procreative drive. In the fight-or-flight equation she’d clearly given up the fight and that was not a bad thing; it was the constant state of flight or withdrawal that had to be undone. The food drive includes not just eating, but any behavior associated with hunting or gathering food, and while Jasmine did consistently eat, she wouldn’t come out of her crate when someone was around and she never displayed the sort of tracking and chasing behavior associated with hunting, which indicated that she was not very deeply moved by those instincts. The companionship drive reflects the need dogs have to integrate themselves into a social order, the pack. Catalina could see that this instinct was still strong in Jasmine.
In the yard with Rogue, Sophie, and Reymundo, Jasmine continued to show her only signs of life. She interacted with them, sniffing and walking and occasionally rubbing up against them. Moreover, she looked like a different dog during these times. She was more relaxed and comfortable and seemed almost normal.
Stirling needed to use this to her advantage. Jasmine was now on a pretty steady schedule. She got food in the morning, which as always, she ate in solitude. Every two hours Stirling would carry Jasmine out to the yard, where she would pee and then sit in the hole in the ground. In the evenings Catalina would feed her again and then sit with her, playing soft music. At night she would let all three dogs out together in the yard.
Jasmine always had a leash dragging behind her, and one night Stirling put leashes on the other dogs, too. She held these leashes as the dogs walked in the yard, and when Jasmine went to join them, Catalina picked up Jasmine’s leash in the other hand.
Jasmine stopped and looked back at her. She looked at the other dogs, sniffing their way across the yard. Jasmine seemed to be weighing her options. She wanted to walk with the other dogs, but she was nervous about the leash and Stirling ’s proximity.
After a moment she moved forward. She walked with the other dogs. She went a few steps, then stopped and lay down, frozen again. Stirling dropped the leash and Jasmine went straight to her hole in the ground. It was over in an instant, but it had been something new. Something to build on.
The next night Stirling repeated the process and again Jasmine walked a few steps with the other dogs while Catalina held the leash. She kept at it each night until she could take all three dogs on short walks around the yard.
It wasn’t much, but it was progress, and Stirling would take whatever she could get. It had been nearly two months now and nothing else had changed with Jasmine. She still would not eat with anyone in the room. She shook when Stirling came near, had to be carried outside and in-stiff and petrified-and would not be touched. Everything scared her. Voices from upstairs, footsteps anywhere, would set Jasmine to trembling. Stirling had never had so much trouble earning a dog’s trust, but the success in the yard gave her new hope.
She redoubled her efforts, using the other dogs to buy Jasmine’s trust however she could. Every night when she played the soft music, she would bring the other dogs in the room and simply sit, petting the other dogs and relaxing. From the safety of her crate Jasmine watched, unmoving, those intense eyes burning into Stirling.
Stirling took to bribery, too. From time to time she’d randomly pop her head in the door of Jasmine’s room and throw a treat across the floor. The dog would never move to retrieve the snack while she was there, but when she came back later it was
always gone. Still, Jasmine did nothing to acknowledge it. Most dogs would recognize the routine and send some sort of signal-a tail wag, a yawn, a snout lick, something-to show their appreciation, but Jasmine offered nothing, just those two brown eyes, shining out of the crate.
The second month passed and so did the third. It was the same thing every day, over and over. Breakfast, dinner, hauling in and out. Jasmine sitting in the crate. Alone. Staring. Jasmine sitting in the hole in the yard. She interacted a little with the other dogs, she took her short walk on the leash, she stared out from the crate as Stirling and the other dogs sat in the soft light.
Something had to give.
30
ON HIS SECOND DAY with Jonny Rotten, Cris Cohen was up at 6:45. Jonny had slept quietly through the night and Cohen was happy to see that he hadn’t had any accidents in the crate. By 7:00 they had negotiated the stairs and were out on the street. Jonny was excited and scattered, but better than he had been on the first day. He still jumped from side to side, and he alternated between stopping short and pulling forward, but he wasn’t tying up Cohen in knots.
As they walked, Cohen started to get an idea of what Jonny did and didn’t like. He was very interested in people and wanted to say hello to everyone they passed. He didn’t seem to care much about dogs. Garbage trucks were a definite dislike. The first one they passed sent Jonny scrambling in three directions at once, eyes popping, head swiveling, nails scratching against the concrete in an effort to escape. He didn’t seem to know where he wanted to go, but he didn’t want to stick around.
Cohen felt sorry for the little guy and tried to calm him, but he also had to fight back a chuckle. In his moment of uncoordinated panic, Jonny reminded Cris of Scooby Doo. Whenever Scooby saw a ghost (which happened with alarming frequency), he would go into a leg-spinning, head-twisting retreat accompanied by the cartoon sound effects of speedy footsteps, klonks, bonks, crashes, and breaking glass. Out on the sidewalks of San Francisco, Jonny had just gone totally Scooby.
It wouldn’t be the last time that day. Everything was new to him, and while he spent 85 percent of the walk wagging his tail as he explored, the other 15 percent included less happy interactions with the real world. Still, they made it to the Lawton School, a small building two blocks away, before turning for home. As they paused in front of the school Jonny looked up at Cohen with his head tilted. A tall, wide set of stairs led up to the building’s front door, and Jonny seemed to be asking, “Do I have to go up those?”
When Cohen ignored the steps and turned for home the little dog pulled ahead of him, crossing back and forth as he went so that Cris stumbled comically over the leash.
After his big morning adventure Jonny had the day to relax in his crate, chewing on a few toys and basking in the sun. But when Cohen came home at 5:00 P.M., it was back to work. This time they walked through Golden Gate Park, a place full of dogs. Sure enough, they had hardly entered the park when one approached. The dog seemed like it wanted to come over and Cohen wasn’t sure how Jonny would react. He made sure to place himself between Jonny and the other dog. As it passed, Jonny looked over but seemed to have little interest. Jonny knew it was a dog; he saw it, but he didn’t care. The pattern repeated itself several times with other dogs and each time the result was the same.
This was great news, and it made Cohen feel positive about Jonny’s long-term prospects. Sure, the little guy was scattered and scared and full of misdirected energy, but he was people-friendly and had no interest in messing with other dogs.
As Cohen reflected on these things, he felt a sudden jolt in his shoulder. A crow was hopping along the ground just off the path. Yes, Jonny was fine with dogs, but he wanted a piece of that bird like nobody’s business. How many times had a big black menace like this one teased him from the trees while Jonny was chained up in the woods? Cohen had no idea, but he made a mental note. Crows: not a fan.
After a nice dinner, Jonny retreated to his crate. He was wiped out, and by 7:30 he’d crashed. The house filled with the sound of his sweet little snores.
Jonny and Cris were out by 6:00 A.M. the next day. Cohen had started to work with Jonny on heeling and the little guy was getting the hang of the leash, so they made more progress, marching right past the school and on to Sunset Playground. A set of bleachers stood next to a field, and Cohen took Jonny over to check it out. Cohen looked up at the long row of steps. He looked at the dog. It was worth a try, he thought.
Maybe it was the open-air setting. Maybe it was that there were few distractions, but Jonny went up and down those stairs without a problem. For the first time, Jonny seemed a little more focused and Cohen figured that the steady exercise was helping settle him.
But Cris had to work a little late that night and when he got home at 6:00, Jonny was a ball of energy. On their walk, Jonny was hyper. He scrambled around and he jumped up and down so steadily that Cris felt as if he were walking down the street dribbling a basketball. At the playground the sound of screaming children distracted him and made him uneasy, as did the wind, and the cars and the crunching leaves underfoot. As well as Jonny had done that morning, he was equally unfocused that night.
Not all was lost, though. At dinnertime Cohen had begun hand-feeding Jonny. Cris sat on the floor with his legs stretched before him in a vee. Jonny stood in between Cohen’s legs. Cris asked Jonny to sit, showing the dog how when he didn’t seem to understand. Every time Jonny sat on command, he got a piece of food. And so they went each night, piece by piece, through one cup of kibble, reinforcing the sit command.
This was more than a matter of good manners. Dogs that are raised the way Jonny and the rest of the Vick dogs had been grow up very reactive to external stimuli. They see a bird they want to chase, they chase it. They hear a sound they don’t like, they run. Teaching them even the most basic commands, like sit and stay, forces them to tune into their internal voice, especially when those commands are paired with rewards such as food or affection.
Suddenly the dog has to make a choice. In the past he would have simply thought, I smell food, and I want it, so I should just find it and eat it. Now, he had to consider an alternative: If I wait, and do what is asked, I’ll get the food, plus positive reinforcement, and more food. Good things happen to me when I listen to the inside voice rather than simply following my impulses. Teaching a dog like Jonny to sit is actually reprogramming his thought process.
The dog may have been a bit scattered during his walk, but Jonny focused during dinner and did a great job learning to sit. He even continued to sit on command after the food was gone, even though the only rewards were hugs and pats on the head.
The affection riled him quickly and the undirected energy was back. Cohen had begun to clean the kitchen and when two pots clanged together, Jonny went totally Scooby. Cohen put him back in his crate to help him settle down and before long, Jonny’s now familiar little snores filled the air.
On the fourth day, Jen returned from a business trip. Cris had been taking care of both dogs, Jonny and Lilly, while Jen was gone. Since the two were not allowed to interact yet, the routine included separate walks and feedings and playtime for each. With Jen back, the workload could be split up and the four of them could do things as a group. For the evening walk, the quartet set off together, Jen and Lilly leading the way, Cris and Jonny following a few paces behind.
Jonny seemed to like this. He walked in heel without the usual amount of pulling. Cris worked with him on sitting at the park and Jonny did it a few times, even though he wasn’t being bought off with food. On the way home, Jonny paused in front of the school, checking out the stairs that led up to the front door. It was only a few days earlier that they’d stood as an insurmountable obstacle. Now they didn’t seem so scary. A moment later Jonny was pulling Cohen up the steps. If he was Scooby Doo at times-a flushing toilet had sent him scrambling earlier that day-he was Rocky Balboa now.
Jen walked Jonny for the first time the next day. The pooch was a little unnerved by th
is, but he did fine. Cris had never noticed it, but Jen observed that Jonny liked to pee on everything. Marking territory is normal behavior for dogs, but as far as Jen could tell, Jonny took it to an extreme. He also couldn’t pass the school anymore without bolting up the stairs. Having mastered the feat, he now seemed determined to show off.
But if Jonny was sometimes Scooby Doo and sometimes Rocky, another alter ego was also emerging, Mr. Spunky. This guy often came out at night. Anytime anyone played with Jonny, or gave him lots of praise, he went from mellow to madman in sixty seconds. Jonny loved to rub his big square head against Cohen, but when he did he went bonkers with joy. He ran, he leaped into the air repeatedly, he did that crazy thing dogs do when they rub their butt across the ground.
Usually, Cohen calmed him down by putting him in the crate. After he’d relaxed for while he would emerge more focused, and this was when his softer side came out, especially as he continued to decompress from shelter life. Cris and Jen learned that a good chest scratch would often be rewarded with a series of kisses. And that more than anything he liked to lie on the floor and play with his little fuzzy chew toy.
They grew to expect his soft snores when he drifted off.
On day ten, Cris and Jonny were back in the car and on the road, and Jonny was once again looking queasy. They were headed over the Bay Bridge when, almost as if he were feeling nostalgic, Jonny puked in his pen. Cohen groaned at the thought of the cleanup.
Their destination today was not Oakland but an empty parking lot in Berkeley. This was where BAD RAP held its weekly group training sessions. They were quite a sight: As many as fifty or sixty pit bulls could be there on any given week split into groups of ten or twelve and spread out across the rectangular lot.
