Training Days

Standing in a lineup at dog training class (human, diaper dog, me, Harley, human, etc.), I thought about what had brought us to this juncture. Ben was there as well, but since Harley seemed to respect my boyfriend more than me, I was participating in most of the training activities. Training took place in an empty corporate parking lot with a few grassy islands and trees for shade. Diaper dog and her owner were always nearby. Judging Harley’s intense stare and drooling, the training instructor assumed that Harley wanted to eat the Chihuahua in the diaper. I, however, knew the truth; Harley was more likely to eat the instructor and was just awestruck by diaper dog as we all were.

Leash in my hand, held a certain way (folded into two loops in one hand, a curve of slackness in the other), I worried if Harley could ever settle out of his wild animal phase. On the first afternoon Harley had spent with me, the newly-freed-from-certain-doom puppy had misunderstood my staring into his eyes in loving admiration as a challenge.  That was the one and only time he had growled at me because soon after his grr grr moment, he acknowledged me as his food-giver.  

Once he accepted Ben and me as part of his pack, Harley began lashing out at everyone else. Harley had escaped the backyard to attack garbage men who used trash bins as shields; growled at everyone we knew at least once; and when he went on walks, he was walking us. Harley had recovered from his kennel cough and had been neutered, which did nothing to change his personality (the latter not the former). Curing him of kennel cough returned his natural energy and unveiled more parts of his personality that we had failed to see at the shelter.  

                Most people would have tried to return such a creature as Harley because he was bold, stubborn, obviously had a bad start in life, and was 60 pounds and still growing. That choice was not an option for me. I had taken classes at the East Valley Animal Shelter in high school. I had seen the overcrowding at the shelter, new dogs every day. I witnessed one afternoon the euthanasia of a dog and cat, and saw the freezer where they kept the bodies. I had made friends with a big, auburn Malamute with one green eye and one blue. His name was Bear. He wasn’t up for adoption because his owner had been put in jail so Bear was in lock up to. One day he was gone.  I only made casual acquaintances at the shelter after that.               

In my eyes, and Ben’s as well, the solution for Harley was change, not a return trip to San Pedro. Harley needed to change, and I needed to change. His unpredictable nature and aggression did not mix well with someone who was shy and not used to asserting authority. Training was really for all of us, Harley how to understand commands, and for us (the humans) to learn how to communicate through commands and not let this yellow beast walk all over us. 

And so, our Saturday mornings, at least for a while, were spent in a quiet parking lot surrounded by people with normal dogs (diaper dog was of course not to blame for her diaper predicament) and us with Harley, pretending to be normal.

Lab X

  

Harley was once just a Lab X (Labrador Mix), a yellow creature with short ears and an overall sea lion appearance. When he had no name other than his breed type, he was a ward of the Harbor Animal Care Center (under a different name at the time) in San Pedro, California. I found him there on a warm November day, resting on his side, blinking his chestnut eyes at me, muzzle flapping open in an unintentional grin. He panted and snorted, perhaps wishing the kennel cement were a slab of ice that would eventually tilt and let him slide into the cold sea. I didn’t know he hated water then.

I read his I.D. card (Lab X, seven-month-old, unaltered, male, born on April 1), but found nothing to keep me from moving on to see the other dogs. I was at the shelter with my college boyfriend, Ben, to adopt a dog (years away from where we stayed together too long, never married, and I realized we should break up). Our black puppy, who had originally been saved by Ben from the heartless traffic of Los Angeles, had passed away. After a few months with us, the innocent pup with long black tendrils of hair and a terrier snout walked back into traffic as though fate had only given him a slight reprieve. He was gone, but his absence in our lives remained.       

Some people who lose a dog seek out the same dog; sometimes even give that doppelganger the same name, but not me. When I agreed with Ben that we should go to the animal shelter and adopt another dog, I wanted one different in every way from our rainbow bridge pup. Having lost many animals in my life, I knew there was only one of each one I ever knew.

 Ben and I made the rounds of the animal care center and returned to Lab X. Just for a final glance at him because none of the dogs seemed to be the right one, at least not to me. A shelter employee offered us more information on the yellow puppy. Lab X was mixed with American Staffordshire terrier. He was described as a digger by the kennel workers, which didn’t sound too bad. Who knew the extent of what a digger could do? Ben explained we were considering him, even though I had not quite considered Lab X at all. The dog had kennel cough, which was treatable but might cause him to be put down soon because he was sick in a crowded shelter.

Nearing sunset left the shelter empty of visitors; we were the only souls remaining who might save Lab X. How terrible would we feel later if we left him there to his certain demise?  Still unsure how this dog would fit into my life, Ben and I signed the paperwork and picked Lab X up the next morning.

Lab X was ready to go on our return. He had a scheduled neutering appointment, and would need to see the vet for his kennel cough. Ben and I adorned him with a collar and leash. Lab X sensed freedom as soon as his paws hit the dirt outside the shelter. He grabbed his leash in his jaws and shook it back and forth like a great white, ripping apart his prey. That was the first, albeit not the last, time I ever shouted his name. Since he did not recognize “Harley”, he kept right on with his reckless display, bounding along on either side of me, bucking like a horse who was trying to dismount an invisible rider.

Harley was no longer Lab X; he was a completely different creature altogether…