I'd rather be hiking...

Last week, we went for a hike.

Our favorite meadow has become very green and filled with dandelions.  Maya loves it there, and had a blast running around.

 

There was also frisbee.

 

Silly Maya fact: like Zoolander, she is not an ambi-turner.  Long ago, I taught Maya a "spin!" trick, where she spins in a counter-clockwise circle.  All attempts to teach her a similar trick in the opposite direction have failed.  If I even try to lure her in a clockwise circle, she falls over.

Thankfully, this difficulty only afflicts her during trick-training sessions.  She is perfectly capable of rounding on the frisbee from either direction.

On our way back to the car, we ran into a surprise.

For those unfamiliar with the sight, that is a large bull elk.  He was browsing busily, trying to add bulk and fuel the growth of his velvet-covered antlers.  I put Maya back on her leash, just in case she got any stupid ideas, and we gave him a wide berth just in case he got ideas of his own.  It was all very peaceful though, and we passed by with no more than a few wide-eyed stares from all parties.

I love spending time in the woods with my dog.

one nice thing about dogs

They are very appreciative, even of everyday occurrences.

Maya's expression of amazed enthusiasm that I have, once again, had the brilliant idea of going for a walk together.  She can barely contain her glee -- what a lucky dog she is, to have an owner of such genius.

hypnotic stare

Maya's first backpacking trip

We took Maya backpacking last weekend.  To give you some perspective, backpacking is one of the things I've dreamed about doing with my dog since before we had a dog.  We love backpacking, we do a lot of it (in a good year), and I am pretty sure that part of the reason we chose to adopt Maya was that she seemed like a good, sturdy, correctly-sized dog for backpacking.

(Two other reasons: I wanted a dog who really represented dogs in my area and Maya is as typical of a "New Mexico Brown Dog" as you can get; and Maya reminded me a little bit of a baby elk I once found under a bush).

It took almost two years for us to take Maya backpacking.  Because it turned out that she wasn't really prepared for life on the trail (or life with humans, or life in general), and then the next spring, I broke my ankle and couldn't do any hiking at all.  In any case, we had almost two years to work on some foundation skills, which was probably to our benefit.

So we planned a really tiny, easy trip.  It was in a place we've been before, where the trails are flat and easy, where there is plenty of water, and where we were sure we could find a sufficiently isolated campsite.

This is Maya at the trail head.  She was much too excited to pose for pictures.

The plan was to hike about four or five miles and then find a campsite.  We packed generously -- lots of spare socks and extra gear.  Maya carried her own food, towel, water bowl, and the toilet paper.  I read varying reports on what dogs should carry, everything from 10-30% of their own body weight.  We figured about 5-6 lbs would be plenty for Maya's first hike under pack this year.  Certainly, I don't think it bothered her.

The first issue we encountered was fallen trees.  We had forgotten that, so early in the year, trail crews would not have cleared winter dead-fall yet.  Trees blocked the trail at every turn.  Some we leaped over (well, Maya leaped, I climbed).  Some we traversed around.  A few, I had to crawl underneath, due to steep surroundings.

More troublesomely, everything was deep in mud.  Clambering over a fallen tree is all very well, but when your first footstep on the other side slides into a quagmire, problems arise.  Brian gouged his hand early on, and hiked on while bleeding.  I had my good ankle slide into a hole, which produced some worrying sensations but no lasting damage.  Then Brian did some ankle-straining slipping and sliding as well.  Maya had no issues.

The mud only got worse, and began to be supplemented by melting piles of snow.  We passed a few people (two of them in camouflage -- a particular concern in the Maya-verse) and Maya did nothing more than wiggle her eyebrows and look interested.  That distracted me sufficiently from noticing that the trail was turning into a cold swamp.

The swamp went from cold to frozen.  After a couple of miles, we were trying to hike around snow drifts instead of fallen trees (okay, often snow drifts AND fallen trees).  There was ice.  The trail headed into a ravine, and then the snow got serious.

(heading into the ravine)

I don't necessarily mind hiking in snow, but I dislike it during the spring.  Most of the snow was soft and wet, and that means post-holing.

For those unfamiliar with the experience, post-holing is when you are crossing frozen snow, balancing on the top crust, and then your leg, quite suddenly, drops into the snow.  If you are wearing a backpack, this happens more often and sometimes with startling speed.  Depending on the depth of the snow, you can drop just a few inches, or all the way up to your hip, so that your crotch is suddenly resting on frigid snow. This produces some interesting conversations, such as:

"Do you think this is one of those trips we're going to look back on and curse ourselves for not turning around sooner?"

"I don't know, I think...weeeHEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

The snow got deeper, my toes froze, a certain amount of ungraceful floundering occurred.  Maya thought it was all great fun, even when she was the one doing the floundering. 

Finally, we exited the ravine.  I won't say we shed tears of joy, but it was a near thing.  We sat on a rock in the sunshine, allowing feeling to return to our toes, and pretended we really hadn't thought the whole thing was that big a deal anyway.  Maya lay in the sunshine and looked happy, which is something I always appreciate.

Then we hiked on, up a hill, and to the most perfect campsite.  Dry, warm, soft, and with a view.  We set up the tent, unpacked, basked.

Part of our strategy to help Maya acclimate to camping had been to practice some of the skills at home.  Relaxing on a tether, relaxing while the tent was set up, etc..  She has been doing well, but we still decided not to tether her this time.  Having a leashed dog attached to one of us slowed camp preparation slightly, but it was worth it for overall contentment.  And Maya was truly content.

Brian cooked dinner, I provided companionship for Maya.  It may not seem like an equal division of duties, but things like this mean the world for Maya's peace of mind.

This photo is especially for Clarese.

 

Dinner was hot, if not particularly gourmet, and welcome.  Maya ate every bite of her dinner too -- another indicator that her stress levels were low.  I washed the dishes (Brian taking over Maya-sitting), we tidied up our camp, and we went for an evening walk.  Because there was nobody else around, we let Maya off-leash for some frolicking time.

And did she ever frolic.

If you are ever wondering if your dog is having a good time, a sustained twenty minute burst of the high-speed zoomies is by far the best reassurance I have found.  Maya tucked her butt and zoomed.  Her face laughed, her body kicked and leaped, and she played the silly dog game of pretending to crash into me (but not really making contact).  She was joyful.

We walked around through the woods, which were full of snow drifts and interesting poop.  Maya took a break from her zoomies to sniff, chase after some squirrel-noises, and explore.  Every so often, she'd run over to us and beam a huge, ear-to-ear grin..."Can you believe how great this place is?!?"

Then she found a snow drift to conquer.

Countdown to explosion in 3...2...1...

Wooohooooooo!

 

Nothing like mid-May snow zoomies to finish off a day in good spirits.

Bedtime was complicated by the fact that Maya didn't want to lie under her blanket (really, a big down jacket that covers her perfectly).  I knew it was going to be a cold night -- the giant piles of snow that surrounded our tent were one clue -- and wanted her covered.  She knew that she was plenty warm right now, thanks, and didn't need to be covered.  She won.

Sometime after midnight, I was awoken by Maya standing over me, making sad grumbly noises.  Yes, it was cold.  I unzipped my sleeping bag, made a nest for her beside me, and gestured her to lie down.  Still grumbling, she complied, and I wrapped her up in my sleeping bag and arms.  She lay stiffly, I think resenting the arm lying over her, and then after a minute, as the warmth of my body penetrated, let out a huge groan of relief and melted into a happy dog puddle.  We snored together until shortly before dawn, when Maya stood up to stretch and let a blast of sub-freezing air into the bag, simultaneously waking and paralyzing me.  Still a few kinks to work out in the camping department.

Once the sun rose, I thawed enough to move.  We attended to our morning tasks, then walked up the valley.  It had been our plan to spend two nights camped here, with a long day hike in between, but then, it had also been our plan to have a very easy trek into camp.  The snow levels, mud, and fallen trees had dented our enthusiasm slightly, and when we found more of the same ahead, we decided to go for a long ramble across the ridge top instead.

 Legs warmed up, we returned to camp, packed up, and headed back toward our car.

The hike was the same as the day before, except in reverse.  Snow, mud, trees.  Despite it being a Saturday, we saw only one other hiker.  Maya saw him too, except that when she spotted him, he was mostly hidden by an embankment (and wearing camouflage besides...why so many people in camo?).  She let out a long growl.  Not her menacing growl, but her higher-pitched "WTF is that?!?!" growl.  I walked her up a little hillock so she could get a better view.  Once she could clearly see the silhouette of a person, the growl vanished, her face relaxed into a goofy grin, and she pressed her forehead briefly against my leg.  Ha ha, just a person.  I played a few rounds of LAT with her, with lots of cookies, and we hiked on peacefully.

By Saturday evening, we were home again.  Maya walked directly from the front door to the couch, climbed up, and fell so fast asleep that I had to shake her awake for dinner.  A short trip, maybe, but definitely taxing for her.  And thus ended Maya's first backpacking trip.

But not her last, I think.

shower time

I took a shower today and nobody stuck their head in to try and lick my knees.  I knew that when I finished, I could towel off in peace, without fear of bodily harm or inconvenient tongues.  Sometimes, it's the little things that really make your morning.

Because of course, it wasn't always so.  There was this distinct period -- about the first three or four months of life with Maya -- where none of the above could be said.  It wasn't just the shower...she slammed into me on a daily basis, ignoring my personal space (and low damage threshold) and over-reacting to anything and everything I did.

It was chaos.  During the first few months, Maya blackened my eyes several times, usually because I exercised poor timing in choosing to tie my shoes or pick things up off the floor.  She knocked me down the stairs a couple of times, and once, when I sat on the bottom step aching and trying to assess the damage, turned around and apologetically split my lip wide open.  I was covered with bruises from her slamming into me and/or pawing at me, and took to sidling down the stairs with my back to the wall in order to try to prevent further damage.  One time, a dog wandered past our back fence while I was out in the yard with Maya, and she took off after it at a dead run.  I happened to be standing in her path, and without pausing she ran me down, knocking me off my feet and causing me to spend the next few days icing my knee, limping around, and cursing whatever temporary insanity had caused me to bring home a dog at all.

Poor impulse control is closely related to reactivity, with similar roots in lack of socialization.  It was also, at least partially, a function of age: Maya was an adolescent, and adolescents of any species are seldom renown for their excellent judgment and careful consideration.  Then too, there was the fact that we could barely take Maya out of the house at this point, so she had a lot of energy to burn.  It wasn't malicious, it was just relentless and horrible.

This also relates to why I didn't start blogging about Maya for many months.  I wanted to document some of her progress, because I knew it would matter to me later, but a blog titled "My Dog is an Asshole and I'm Not Sure I Can Cope" really wasn't the stuff of my dreams.  But other than noting her fabulous ears, I had little other material.

The shower was particularly bad.  Forget quiet contemplation or lively karaoke, I needed to be on guard, especially considering the slippery footing.  Things got particularly risky once I turned the water off, because Maya considered this a cue to start helping herself to her favorite treat: licking my dripping legs.  Ick.

It wasn't just icky, it was dangerous.  As soon as I turned off the water, I'd hear her tail begin thump-thump-thumpity-thumping against the floor as her excitement built.  I'd try to snatch enough towels off the rack to cover my ridiculously tender skin, and she'd try to barge into the shower, crowd into me, and start licking.  If I pushed her away, she'd push back harder (Maya loves a good wrestling game), and if she didn't feel like she was getting enough to lick, she'd paw at me and leave great welts and scratches.

I couldn't just lock her out of the bathroom, because she wasn't potty-trained.  Without fail, taking my eyes off of her for even a few seconds meant an "accident."  I don't know how to say this delicately, but there is little point in taking a shower if the next thing you have to do is get down on your knees and scrub dog shit out of the carpet while your dog careens around, out of her mind with relief that you are together again and knocking you disastrously off-balance.  I could crate her, but she'd shriek at the top of her lungs every time.  We shared a wall with a neighbor, and didn't want to push our luck too far.  I couldn't tether her, because she would twist leashes/cables/tethers around her neck when I wasn't watching and proceed to strangle herself.  So, I let her in the bathroom, closed the door, and tried really hard to keep my feet under me in the slippery shower.

It's funny thinking about this now.  As I've said, Maya is my first ever dog.  Owning a dog brings a steep learning curve, and if I found myself in the same situation now, I'd bring in a cupful of treats (or stuffed Kong).  As soon as I turned the shower off, I'd pitch the treats on the floor, dry off hastily, and avoid a great deal of superficial damage.

What I did instead was use the reward Maya wanted most: licking me.  I was already beginning to do a lot of self-control exercises with Maya in other parts of the house -- building a "leave it," doggy zen, sit and make eye contact, "back up," and more.  It was all very hard for her, but the basics were beginning to click.  So I used the same exercises post-shower.

As soon as I turned off the shower, I'd whip a towel off the rack and hold it like a matador's cape, effectively blocking Maya's access to my legs.  Then I'd instruct her to sit.  As soon as her butt hit the ground, I'd hold out one set of five pink, wiggling toes, and graciously allow her to lick them dry.  We started there, then added a longer sit, backing away if she was crowding me, eye contact, and a wait for release.  It took months, but it was marvelous!

Turns out this is application of something called the Premack Principle: more probable behaviors (licking) will reinforce less probable behaviors (not mauling me).  A foundation of smart dog training, and incredibly valuable to me, my physical well-being, and my happiness in the shower.  Plus, who knew my little dog would work so hard for just a taste of my toes?

Of course, we've come a long way since then.  When I shower, I no longer fear injury or insult.  Maya has developed other interests in life, so when I am busy getting clean, she is usually lying on the couch and watching robins hop around our back yard.

Sometimes, when I turn off the water and pull the shower curtain aside, I find Maya lying at the bathroom door.  When we make eye contact, her tail gives a few thumps against the floor and her ears waggle hopefully.  If I feel like it, I extend one set of pink toes and issue an invitation; eyes laughing, Maya walks over and graciously dries them off for me.

You know, I don't miss Maya's puppyhood at all.

Wednesday

The snow is gone, so I can go back to believing that it is almost summer. I am even planning another trip for the upcoming weekend.  Ostensibly, it is to help Maya practice her camping skills, but of course the real reason is that I have itchy feet. Summer makes me crave movement.

Of more immediate interest: the backyard is once again dry enough to withstand a little fetch.

Happy May Day!

Woke up to this.

No camping for us this weekend.  Maya does not seem sure about this unexpected change in seasons, especially since she recently left her winter coat all over our carpet, couch, and clothing.  Brrr!