Escape artist Saint

Daisy has progressed really well in many ways. We can walk down the beach in the morning and she keeps our pace, not pulling or yanking on the leash. We can even lash the leash around her halter at her waist and let her continue on her own. She'll stick by us – that is, so long as there aren’t any distractions like dogs a half-mile down the sand.

Maybe that’s why we dropped our guard a bit while visiting a friend’s house in Oakland, Calif. We were helping out Daisy’s godmom – yes, she has a godmother, more on that later – and moving some things out of the house into a small, freestanding garage out back. We tied Daisy to a tree nearby while we loaded boxes into the garage and tried to stack all their goods relatively neatly. At first, Daisy hated the idea. She whined and then would let out with a loud bark – unusual for this non-barker who didn’t seem to realize she had the ability until a year or so ago. But she finally settled down on the grass and as long as I stuck my head out of the wooden garage doors now and then, she was okay. This was great, I thought, good training.

When we went back into the house to do more packing, Daisy came along. We left the door propped a little so people could go in and out. Bad idea. I looked up from a pile of papers to spot a wisp of a tail heading the wrong direction – out the back. I went after her. But Daisy’s fast. She was down the block, crouching low to the ground in a fast trot and heading toward the intersection. I put the speed on, glad I had worn tennis shoes that day. She rounded the corner, passed the YMCA, and shot around another corner.

This was Oakland, not Montara. People speed down this street in their hot rods, police cruisers chase parolees on the lam, fire engines roar out of their station. Daisy’s godparents live in a “transitional” neighborhood --- theirs was one of the refurbished old gems amidst rows of houses suffering from impoverished urban blight. We ran. Daisy could have chosen the route to the freeway, down to the shopping center, who knows where. She was picking up speed. What if I couldn't catch her? Suddenly, she slowed and stopped. On the other side of the grating was a silvery pit bull, nosing through the fence back at her. No barks, no bites, not even a growl. The pit bull was staying back a little from this big animal. Daisy lunged forward in a rude greeting but I grabbed her. The pit bull was curious. Another time, I decided, and dragged Daisy away. Disappointed, she came along back around the block and to her godmom’s place. Another lesson learned… generally, she’ll stick around. But if she’s got some business around the corner – watch out.

Earth gas and other theories

For a definitive ... well, interesting, piece on earthquakes and animals, see this 2003 National Geographic story.

".. precisely what animals sense, if they feel anything at all, is a mystery. One theory is that wild and domestic creatures feel the Earth vibrate before humans. Other ideas suggest they detect electrical changes in the air or gas released from the Earth."

While Japanese researchers trust their pets, the article says, American scientists appear to be more skeptical. The bottom line, according to those creative U.S. thinkers? "More research is needed."

Can pets predict earthquakes?

Oops, sorry for the long absence. Regular deadlines intervened. But that's no excuse, we know, so we will try to do better.

The night before last was very exciting around about these parts. We had a 5.6 earthquake, large and long enough to set the house shaking for some time. We were sitting at dinner and at first it seemed as if someone had kicked the table. Or maybe someone with a loud stereo was driving by. We looked at each other, and the shaking kept going. And going. The windows rattled, the candlesticks wiggled. The table shook. We sat in our chairs but we felt like we were riding a roller coaster.

One is supposed to climb under the table when such a thing happens. But we just sat there. Could have been our surprise. Or it could have been the unperturbed animal lying there on the floor. I read in the paper this morning that pets have a remarkable ability to anticipate earthquakes. Somehow they can feel one is coming, whether through higher sensory awareness or some kind of sixth sense. Look to the animals, the sages say, and you'll be prepared.

Hmmm. If this animal was alerting us, it certainly wasn't apparent. Not only did she not lift her head before the quake, but she didn't budge at all while the earth rolled beneath her. Perhaps this dog has been earthquake-proofed. Bolted to the foundation. But an earthquake early warning system? I think not.

Daisy alerts us to a 5.6 earthquake.

Leapin' Saints, Bernard!

Just when we thought that Daisy's escape artistry was a thing of the past, we find out that it isn't. When Sally and I stopped to get some smoked salmon from a local purveyor near Princeton Harbor, we would soon learn that Daisy has lost none of her agility or stealth. She was riding in the back of the Volvo wagon and had been on her best behavior all day. We parked on the street, directly in front of the fish market, leaving our Saint in the car, fast asleep. One thing we did differently, though. We had the back seats down so that she had more room to lie down. We also left the right front window down for more air circulation in the car. How likely was it that she could squeeze her considerable figure between the front bucket seats and exit the right passenger window?

After we bought our fish, I looked out the shop window at our car and said to Sally, "She must really be asleep and completely flat in the back of the wagon -- I can't even see her!" We quickly learned that I couldn't see her because she was not there. We rushed to the car and tried to figure out what had happened.

Our hearts sank as we looked in the empty wagon. There was no sign of her in the front seat, the back seat, or the way back. I looked up with worry at the busy highway not far from us. Then I saw her trotting down the sidewalk about two blocks away. Thinking quickly -- an infrequent occurrence -- I leapt into the car with Sally and drove discreetly drove down the road, passing Daisy, then stopping a half-block ahead of her. I got out of the car, opened the back of the wagon and turned toward our girl. She looked a little surprised, then quickened her pace. Her carriage suddenly appeared in front of her, inviting her to jump in. How could she resist? In a flash, she flew into the back of the car, alighting on her comfortable spot. She looked up at me, as if to say, "Why aren't you driving us home now?"

Well, at least we figured out a better way to get her back into the car if she ever bails out again on her own. Chasing her, we know, causes her to show how fast she can get away from you. But pulling up ahead and inviting her to join the party? Who woulda thought?

Winston tried to scare Daisy on purpose (possibly)!

I hate to think that Winston would try to scare Daisy on purpose, but what other reason could he have for dressing up as Dracula? I think Daisy's panicky behavior was completely appropriate under the circumstances. She knew that ferocious , undead Yorkie was going to bite her neck the first chance he got, end of story. If you don't believe me, take a look at the photographic evidence: unlike sleeping dogs, photos don't lie.

Her reaction to being tied up in the back yard was understandable, too, if we had remembered what happened to Nana, the delightful Saint Bernard who cared for and watched over the Darling children in "Peter Pan." Who could ever forget the heartbreaking scene in the Disney version of Peter Pan, poor Nana tethered to the ground while watching Peter and all the little Darlings -- Wendy, Tigger, Christopher Robin and Piglet (or whoever) -- flying off into the night. Recalling that scene is enough to drive any Saint Bernard to the edge. We have to consider the possibility that Daisy was distraught because she was worried that someone was going to spirit us away to Neverland without her. She probably knows that in the original story (not the Disney version), Nana got to go along to Neverland with Peter and the kids. Why Disney changed the story must be quite a story in itself. Daisy and I would both like to know why anyone would leave their beloved Saint behind.

Our big mistake

They say animal training has as much to do with the humans as with the dog. They're right.

While up in Oregon, Tom's sister invited us to dinner. We headed over to Barbara's place with delight. We looked forward to spending the evening with his two sisters and brother-in-law and knew it would be a great meal -- topped off by a blackberry tart made with berries we had picked wild that morning.

Lottie, a very well-adjusted white Lab, lives with Barbara and her husband Martin. So we thought we'd park behind the house in a shady area and leave Daisy in the car with the windows down. As Tom carefully backed into the spot, though, it felt like we were entering a steam bath. Too many trees breathing heavily in the muggy air. That wasn't going to work.

Oregon isn't like our little California coastal town, Montara. It's hot there in the summer, even in the early evening.

We moved the Mini Cooper to the front of the house. It was quite shady there, too, but less steamy. We rolled all the windows down, put a screen in the front and started down the steps toward the house. Little did we know that Daisy had already spotted big sister MaryBeth's tiny Yorkshire terrier, Winston, through the distant window. Winston lounged in MaryBeth's lap and stared up belligerently toward Daisy. Or at least she thought. Daisy started yelping almost immediately. She began barking more heatedly. Soon she was in a panic.

Winston just peered through his tiny brown curls at her. Horrible.

We asked Barbara to close the shades in the house but the damage was done. Daisy would not be left in the car, not with that little guy behind the shade, staring at her. And by then she had barked herself into such a panting frenzy that we didn't dare leave her alone.

Tom came out and comforted her. We had only one more option. It was cooling off nicely outside, so we got a rope and tied it to the waist hook on Daisy's halter, then tied her to a tree. We set a big bucket of water beside her and began walking nonchalantly toward the house. Daisy knew what was coming next, and she wasn't going to let it happen without a fight. All along she had been sure this time would come. One day we'd abandon her, and clearly this was it. She barked, she whined, she cried nonstop. We called down to her from the deck above, but even our nearby voices couldn't console her.

I think we withstood her misery about 15 minutes, at the most. Finally, Barbara's husband Marty suggested a solution. MaryBeth drove Winston home and Lottie went out to the car. Daisy got to come inside. She drank a couple cups of water, dribbled across the kitchen floor and collapsed in a relieved heap.

It's obvious we should have known better. Daisy isn't ready to be left alone, especially in a strange place tied to a tree. While she doesn't mind waiting in a car, it does stand to reason that the experience is totally different. The next day we set out for California, but we were all traumatized.











The rope after removal.

Shower scene

Daisy loves rides in the Mini, and last weekend she had the chance for a glorious trip. But first, we wanted to make sure that we weren't sharing that very small space with an, um, shall we say, somewhat malodorous large dog?

Not that Daisy doesn't groom herself well. She doesn't groom herself hardly at all. That's a cat thing. She does generally stay fairly clean, except for the fine coat of dust that builds up over time as the result of diving into iceplant or stiff bushes in an effort to wipe the Halti off her face. And then we must acknowledge the sand and the burrs that collect in her skirt, despite a good rinse every day after our morning walk.

So it was time for a bath. Or truthfully, failing a large enough bath tub, we settled for a shower. Fortunately for me, this is usually Tom's job, and he accepts it gracefully.

He started with a good rinse.
Then a rub down.








Daisy shakes it off.

Rest.









Second spin.
Another rinse.
This calls for a more serious shake.










Shall we try that again?
This is Daisy's favorite part.










Yes, makes it all worthwhile.
Finally, an hour later, we're done.

Scratching at the door

Well, it turns out that either our hearing was bad or Daisy had indeed waited a few minutes for us to return. Only a few. Then she realized that she had been abandoned. Trapped.

When we did get back a half hour later, she was right by the door. So happy to see us! All seemed well, until one of us turned to close the door. She must have stood right there, and waited. Our steps faded. She looked up and up. The door was tall. She nosed around for a way out. And when the thing didn't open on its own like it usually did, she tried to claw it open.

The back of the door, which we ourselves had painstakingly painted, coat after coat, was not a pretty sight. Tom was ready to return Daisy. We both knew, however, that this was not an option.

We thought perhaps she wasn't really that unable to stay alone. Perhaps those dogs walking way over in the field beyond our house had caused Daisy's fright. So we overlooked the scratches on the door.

The next time I had to leave the house and Daisy alone in it -- just for a half hour, I reasoned -- I strung up sheets all along the windows. I closed the shoji panel in my office so she could sleep under the desk, her usual spot. I tiptoed away and crossed my fingers.

Oh boy. When I returned, it was as if a tornado had struck. My desk chair had been flipped around, the lamp knocked over. There were shoji pieces all over the floor like tinker toys. The wooden desk had been completely cleared of papers, phone, stapler, letter holder and the other miscellaneous junk that had piled up. The surface was pristine, except for two long scratches. And my lap top computer -- well, never to be used again. It looked as if Daisy had climbed on the chair and pulled on the shoji in order to get out the window. But the seat twisted around under her weight. Quickly she tried to brace herself on the computer desk, instead crushing two big pawprints in the laptop keyboard. That was pretty scary, so she must have jumped on another, big wooden desk off to the side. All those papers and things? Well, when you're in a hurry, you just let the debris fall where it may.

There was no point to yelling at Daisy or crying at the loss of my $2,000 computer. So I jumped on the desk myself, surveyed the damage, and broke into laughter.

Left alone

What we did see next that day were two deer up on the ridge, ghostly in the fog. Hmmm. We could only hope that their path didn't cross the bobcat's.

By now you have probably surmised that Daisy was still in the car when I returned. She had fallen asleep and showed no signs of distress. She did, however, let it be known that she had completely lost her trust in me. She would not let me out of her sight for the next couple of days, following me from one room to the other and blocking the door if I showed any signs of leaving. Once in a while she would pointedly lick her ankle to show where she had bruised it when I had tried to force her into the car.

Normally we take Daisy everywhere. We learned she had separation anxiety about the time we discovered she had no social skills with other dogs. One afternoon we left her in the house for about a half hour to get the mail. We couldn't walk her with us, after all, because the post office is a gathering place for our little town's residents, who generally bring their dogs along with them. As we departed, we listened for barks or other sounds of anxiety. Nothing. No whimpers. No scratches. It seemed she was okay.

Well, we discovered a half hour later, not exactly.

Watching or watched? Lynx Rufus

Daisy and I took to the fields this morning because we had a little less time and wanted a change.

We passed by the stream in our usual morning daze, but felt something watching us. Daisy stared, I startled. It was a big, tawny cat. Too big, though, to be somebody's house cat. Daisy normally has little interest in such creatures but she could see this one was different. Crouching in the dry grass, it stared at us and then gave what looked like a snarl. We stood very still for a minute and then I remembered.

The bobcat, Lynx Rufus, it seems, eat only meat, according to the University of Michigan Museum of Zoology. They like rabbits, rodents, birds and reptiles. Occasionally they like small deer and domesticated animals! Now this cat was about 60 feet away and no more than 30 pounds. But I had read what to do. I stretched up tall, kept eye contact, and walked slowly away.

I honestly doubt there had been danger, but it certainly was good practice just in case a mountain lion was next.

Incident at the back of a car

Imagine trying to wrestle a small steer into the back of a Volvo station wagon. A soft, furry, smallish steer. There I was, trying to lift Daisy into the back of the car and she would have nothing of it.

She pushed against the bumper with one paw, against the car floor with another. She wiggled and made herself very heavy. One hundred thirty-five pounds heavy. When she finally decided to give in and jump, I lost control and she lost balance. Quickly I reached down in an effort to soften the fall, managing to cradle her rear about an inch above the cement floor. I let her stand. She tried to run. I heaved her up again, front paws first, then with a deep breath, up with the back. She wiggled and resisted with all her might. After I accidentally pinched her skin in a second near fall, she yelped piteously and got in.

No, Daisy does not like to be left alone. The ol' car in the garage trick worked a couple of times. She'd jump in eagerly, we'd close up the rear door and sneak quietly away. Now she might head toward the car with pleasure, but with a glance around the vicinity she quickly sizes things up. She makes an abrupt U-turn and tries to make a break for freedom.

I was about to be late for an assignment, so I opened the car windows, propped open the doors, and opened the garage a little so air could flow through. A gate behind the back seat would keep Daisy from slipping out and getting into trouble.

Usually we just take her. But I was worried about the heat over the hill where the fog had lifted. I didn't want to leave her in a scary parking lot or on an urban street. I knew she would be safer at home, but Daisy evidently did not.

After the yelp, I felt terrible. I gave Daisy a hug and a bite of canned salmon for consolation. Then I shut the door. But I worried. Daisy seems able to escape anything. And I wouldn't have hurt her intentionally for the world.

Learning How to Talk Dog

Daisy's not much of a nurse. She got very annoyed when her human companion was too sick with a summer cold to get up and take her for a walk. She leaned her big nose into my face, cried a few times, snorted and then fell at the side of the bed in disgust. Kerplunk! An hour later I was out in the field, being pulled along in a daze by a happy, if somewhat anxious, Saint Bernard.

Before I accuse Daisy of lacking empathy, though, I must admit that she's right there when she suspects someone is feeling down or upset. She might run over and lean up against the unhappy party, presenting her back at about hand level for a rub. Or she might collapse at the distressed person's feet, nudging her head up against an ankle. When things really get bad, she'll press her head into the sorrowful lap, prodding a hand into action. A hug from a Saint Bernard can be very comforting.

Once I tried to test Daisy's intelligence, inspired by the instructions in a book by Stanley Coren called The Intelligence of Dogs. You're supposed to toss a towel or blanket over the poor animal's head and see how long it takes to climb out from underneath. The idea is that if you understand your dog's intelligence, you can communicate with it better. I didn't want to traumatize Daisy, so I tossed a towel just lightly over her head. She was unimpressed. She didn't move an inch. Now I know Daisy is not stupid. I regretted the test -- maybe it was culturally biased. Put Daisy in a backyard she does not prefer, and she's a veritable Houdini. So I have wondered if there is a problem with the test's underlying assumptions.

It seemed there might be better ways to get a glimpse of the animal mind. And indeed, Sheryl Carver brought by a book that offered a much more interesting -- and practical -- perspective. It's called "Talking Terms with Dogs: Calming Signals," by Turid Rugaas. Now this was more to the point! We read the whole thing in an hour. Soon Tom and I were yawning every time we spotted a dog passing in the distance. We turned to the side politely when Bailey, the black lab next door, stood at the edge of his deck and peered over. We tried licking our noses but discovered this was not in the human toolbox.

Daisy didn't yawn. But one of the next times Bailey plopped down on the deck next door, we did notice a change. She didn't stand and stare or pace back and forth crying inconsolably. Instead she looked out in the field. She sniffed with apparent interest at the lower railing, sneaking a look at him. Of course, that was a good day. Daisy will still stand and stare, cry and whine. But once in a while, she'll politely nose around the deck, maybe stealing a glance when the timing is right.

Eighty-four cats in one house

Recently I read in the newspaper about a lady who had 88 pets in her house. That is, 83 cats, three dogs and two iguana. First, one has to wonder how the animal control people were sure. About the cats anyway. They had to be jumping on tables, slinking out doors, hiding behind the toilet. At least one probably went unnoticed and maybe as many as 10 were counted twice. But those dogs. And the two iguanas!

The cats, dogs and iguanas had the run of two bedrooms and generally were healthy and well-fed, according to the news report. The owner worked for animal rescue outfits and would simply take her charges home. People who hoard pets like this apparently think they're the only ones capable of caring for the animals. While this poor woman clearly was going overboard, I can understand the mindset. I've heard the awful stories from rescue operations-- why wouldn't you want to bring the poor creatures home?

But I can't imagine 34 Saint Bernards running around our place. Not even 34 cats, three Saint Bernards and two iguanas. And how did they all get along?

People like to say that dogs hate cats, but I'm not so sure. Maybe that's just one of those stereotypes, a pop psychology fact that people like to tell one another but really have no clue. Daisy does seem to take a friendly interest in Merlin, the slim white cat with blue eyes that lives across the street. Merlin is an amazing creature that will appear out of nowhere in the driveway, then just as suddenly disappear. He crosses the street with abandon, never looks both ways, and yet has lived at least 18 years.

I've known at least one Saint Bernard and Siamese who were quite fond of one another. That Saint was also close friends with a chicken, but that's a story for next time.

A proper leash

Sheryl Carver is an engineer. Until she discovered her talents with animals, she worked for IBM. So naturally, before anything else she set us up with the proper equipment.

We had been using a Gentle Leader head collar, which is supposed to help you control your dog by gently turning her head and as a consequence, turning her attention and mind in a new direction. But Daisy was not to be swayed so easily. She might turn her head, but she would keep plowing ahead in whatever direction she was going, and you along with her. Worse yet, she would walk very nicely just until you let your guard down.
Then suddenly she would catch the scent of something fascinating. And you would find yourself flying in that direction, too -- that is, if you wanted to keep your arm attached to your body. That girl is strong! She could easily pull a VW Bug, if not a Mini Cooper.


We told Sheryl that we really did not want to be dragged around the hills behind our house anymore. She had a brilliant solution. First, we dug out an old harness occasionally worn by Daisy's predecessor, Perry, who weighed about 170 pounds and wasn't even chubby. This was the type that fits around the chest so you can attach a leash on the back. The harness hadn't helped us manage Perry, so we were doubtful. But Sheryl wasn't finished. We also pulled on a Halti head collar, which hangs more loosely around the nose than the Gentle Leader. We were not much impressed by that either. Perry had never kept one on more than a minute.

But wait, between the two went a leash! Suddenly we had control over a much stronger structure than a line between two points: We were holding a triangle.
So if Daisy started yanking, we could leap out to the side and just hang on. The pressure from two points was simply too much for even Daisy's gargantuan powers and she would stop. One we learned out to manage all that leash, we were set.

Doubting neighbors

We find some people skeptical of Daisy's condition. They think we're the ones with a neurosis. One neighbor always shakes her head disapprovingly when when she walks by with her beagle. "It's the owners," she shouts to us as we cower behind the nearest truck. Another surprises us around a corner. "Just let her go, they'll work it out," he calls out as his yellow poodle comes running up and Daisy screeches in fright.

So we weren't surprised that some people seem to doubt whether one could really serve cocktails on Daisy's hindquarters. Here are some photos -- completely undoctored -- to prove our point.

View from the rear

Martini, anyone?

A way to lick anxiety?

Despite Martina Contreras' amazing talents, I don't think Daisy would have been able to watch those neighbors go by without the help of Sheryl Carver. With Martina, we had been able to bring Daisy closer and closer to the dog class with a little less anxiety over time. As we edged slowly toward the group, we brushed her, we fed her salmon, we hugged her and did everything we could imagine that might help her relax. The salmon bits simply fell out of her mouth. Daisy was too focused on watching those animals' every move to actually eat. The brushing, however, worked well -- she had a lovely coat for a long while. And we did manage to get into the same zip code. We even came within about eight feet of one special class that somehow clicked well with Daisy. She seemed especially fond of one young Rottweiler named Zeus.

But our arms were getting tired. I had been reading about neurogenetics for a public radio documentary series I'm working on. We're doing a show on the genetic processes underlying mind, memory and conditions such as ADHD. Some of the material I had collected involved highly stressed rats and misfiring brain chemistry. The poor little creatures reminded me of Daisy.

One researcher I read about, UC Berkeley biopsychologist Darlene Francis, studies how rodents are reared. When put with a demonstrative mother, young rats turn out fine. But stressful environments both before and after birth can produce grumpy, antisocial rodents that have unusually low numbers of neurons. Their brains are swimming in the stress hormone cortisol. If their mothers didn’t lick them regularly, Francis found, little rats performed poorly on cognitive tests and acted stressed out. These babies' environments altered gene expression for a lifetime.

Francis' aim in this work is not to develop a happier rat society, but to get some insight that might be helpful for humans. Other researchers have studied emotional deprivation in toddlers and found that abuse and neglect can lead to lasting problems as adults: impaired cortisol release, poor coping skills, and depression or antisocial behavior. Daisy, I extrapolated wildly, might be suffering from a biochemical feedback loop that had gone awry in puppyhood. Maybe her brain kept misfiring, leaving her reactive and scared most of the time.

The rat studies did offer hope, though. Unhappy brain biochemistry can change in response to stimulation and social enrichment. Researchers put the lick-deprived rats into a stimulating environment with toys and interconnected cages. Both hormone release and behavior changed.

Okay, stimulation and social enrichment. Maybe bodywork, too, I casually mentioned to a neighbor who does craniosacral therapy, which aims to mend the central nervous system by subtle manipulations of the cranial and sacral bones. His face lit up. "I know just the right person," he said. Sheryl Carver, he told me, had worked with many a neurotic dog and specialized in body work along with good training principles. She even did crazy things like wrap the animal in an Ace bandage, he went on. Daisy in an Ace bandage. Tom and I called Cheryl that afternoon.

Poodle encounter

Maybe Daisy didn't get enough sleep last night. We were walking home from the beach this morning at about 8:30 a.m. when we looked up and our neighbor was nearly upon us, gliding up the hill on her bike. Well-geared under a helmet and sky-blue riding pants, she also had two leashes in hand. One was attached to a small white poodle, the other to a beige pseudo-Labradoodle. Oh no! The occupants behind the fence! They are the source of much barking, snuffling, sniffing, and on our side, crying and fence-pounding. Mary (the rider) kept going, head down and determined. Mary was on the other side of the fence that time Daisy crashed through.

Daisy saw the trio coming and... just watched them go by. No leaping, yanking, screeching or heavy breathing. Tom and I stood there, in shock. She stood with us. Then we all turned and walked up the hill toward home.

Anxious dogs

The AKC Gazette is out and Mara Bovsun did a great job explaining the phobic dog. Poor Daisy is part of a doggie mental health trend: about one in three dogs have anxiety disorders, according to one veterinarian. That compares to only one in five humans dogged by intense, unrealistic fears. Mara writes about a project at UCSF to collect DNA from nutty dogs in order to understand any genetic underpinnings. Wonder how they handle the informed consent?

This issue also includes an interesting story about dog handlers with disabilities. It's especially good because there's no "gee whiz" about it. It tells handlers' stories in a way that might help someone with a disability leap into the field and offers insights that might enable anyone -- disability or not -- perform better when showing a dog. Competitors who are blind, deaf, use a wheelchair or handle without arms offer lessons on dealing with self-consciousness, building a bond of trust with your performance dog, staying focused and keeping a sense of humor. There's even a great disability joke in the piece.


In the back of the magazine, columnists write about their favorite breed. I'd skip the one about Saints, though. It's quite insulting. "Gone, it seems,are the magnificent, strong-moving animals of my childhood, only to be replaced with poor specimens of the breed," writes K.B.K. I sure hope that Daisy isn't "down in the pasterns," or worse yet, with an "easty-westy rear that could barely carry (her) around the ring." Actually, Daisy is quite broad of beam in the back. In a pinch, you could throw a tablecloth on there and have plenty of room for both cocktails and appetizer plates. Of course, you'd have to get her to stand still.

"Growly" dog class

So how did Daisy make such progress? Sure, we've been working on this two years and she still can't be friends with another dog. But at least we can feel pretty confident she won't bolt out the door at any opportunity. We can walk down the street or in the hills without hiding behind a car or a bush if we hear the sound of little padded feet. Well, some of the time.

We said good-bye to the first trainer after she told us that Daisy would always be at risk for dangerous behavior and that we'd have to get a chain-link fence. She seemed to think Daisy would always be a "bad" dog. Worst of all, we later discovered a yellow sticky in Daisy's vet file that noted her owners were "uncooperative". We were outraged. This lady was biased against all of us!

Then we got lucky and found Martina Contreras, who is fabulous with "growly" dogs. Martina did an evaluation on the lawn in front of her house, watching how her dogs and Daisy (on leash) reacted to one another. Daisy was all over the place, screeching and pulling. Martina's three dogs knew better than to get very near. They ignored her and sniffed other things. Martina told us that Daisy was definitely trainable and redeemable, but was completely unsocialized and might even have been seriously abused.

Martina invited us to observe her Saturday morning dog training courses in a high-tech company parking lot so that Daisy could get desensitized to other dogs. We started right away. We had been told to keep Daisy under her reactive threshold, so we moved further and further distant from the class. We were nearly a football field away and she was still freaking out. Daisy would need to at least be "in the same zip code" in order to become desensitized, Martina yelled over to us. But that took several months, probably. We went every week for more than a year, and still go often.

Miss Behavior

Oh my word, we've got to catch up on our blogging. Daisy's about to become famous. Or maybe infamous, I don't know. Word has it that her exploits will be featured in the July American Kennel Club Gazette.

The good news: Daisy has made some great improvements. The bad news: She is still scared to pieces by Chihuahuas and Golden Retrievers. And she still requires approximately 8 eggs and six cups of rice a day. We now supplement these offerings with some chopped-up greens and kidney beans. A little salmon or sardine juice adds just the right extra flavoring. Packaged dog food just doesn't sit well with her.

What's the latest? Nothing too terrible to report. No more sneaking out of the parked Volvo station wagon and running up a side road toward the fish market. Not as much high-decibel shrieking at the hint of four-footed movement several blocks away. No additional holes in the fence, although I did notice some scratches.

Daisy even attended our dear friends' wedding in Yosemite National Park. She missed the ceremony itself, but came down from her room to attend part of the reception. The Tenaya Hotel just outside the park actually offers a dog sitting service. We were thrilled! Daisy was disappointed with the dog houses they provided, though.



We did have an awkward moment during the wedding rehearsal when the groom rushed over and grabbed my arm with a look of concern. Someone else had been watching Daisy, who apparently had taken great interest in a Yorkshire Terrier. Paul pulled me over to the site of the incident and to meet his sister with the little pup. She didn't seem too concerned and I'm still not sure if a snap or a lunge was involved. But it really would not have been a good start to the wedding if Daisy had eaten the groom's sister's dog.



Here's Camus, the bride and groom's dog. He wanted to attend the reception, not sit in this stifling little tent. In the end, he won the tug-of-war.