the little things

Do you ever just sit and ponder the weird minutiae of your dog's life?  I do, obviously, which is why I am thinking about how Maya always runs to the last treat I dropped even if she's sitting by the first.  Like this morning, when breakfast was dribbled out in a long trail starting in the sun room (where Maya was sitting), through the dining room, into the living room, and down the hall.  Maya sat patiently, her tail swishing against the brick floor, and as soon as I told her to go eat, she bolted for the hallway.  Why not start with the pieces of kibble lying within inches of her feet?  Or all the bits she had to run over in order to get to the hallway?  What makes the last few pieces special?

I have been getting involved with a local rescue group, albeit in a pretty minor capacity.  The group got some dogs with severe fear-based behavior issues a while back and has been struggling with them.  I guess I should say that I think there are some really big, really tough questions to be asked about the realities and responsibilities of adopting out dogs with serious behavior challenges.  I've contributed to those discussions too, but in the meantime, I am simply trying to provide some support for foster and adoptive caregivers.

This is one of the things I really wished I had with Maya, at least for the first year: someone who could tell me that everything was going to be okay and then help me learn how to get there, or who could just look at my dog and help me figure her out.  This person is usually known as a "trainer," but I didn't find one then (what I did find was an amazing amount of online support -- thanks you guys!).

I am definitely not a professional trainer, but I figure I am better than nothing (uh, I hope).  At the very least, I understand how it can be to have a dog who doesn't show up in most of the books, can't go to see a trainer or cope with one coming to the house, and can just barely function on a day-to-day basis.  It's a lot of pressure, a lot of stress, and a lot of isolation.  Whether or not having an interested helper is going to make a difference remains to be seen.

What I do know is that a challenging dog teaches you to pay attention to the little things.  The first time the dog can eat in front of you, or the way it holds its breath for a second when you stand up.  The first time its tail tentatively curls up to wag in the frigid winter air.  I still remember the first time I could get Maya out of our back gate and out for a walk while she maintained some semblance of self-control (almost six months after we got her, if you want a timeline).  That was a big thing, but it was built on tens of thousands of tiny moments.  Even if having someone to ask for help or celebrate a tiny victory is only a little thing, I am going to hope that it is one of those that matters.

Maya at the back gate.  I was so excited, I took a picture.  Then I went inside and cried, because even our victories seemed to underscore how far we still had to go, and how hard we had to work for the most basic skills.  Then I went online to celebrate, because I really was proud of Maya (and myself) for even making it this far.