Eros and Dogs

The Greek language has different names for different types of love: Philia, Caritas, Pragma, Eros, Agape.

Those who regard Love to be an all-permeating force at the very essence of being look at Agape as the all-embracing spiritual love which descends from higher realms of existence down into the world, to embrace all beings in unconditional love. Agape is the love that asks no questions and places no demands – all are loved just because. It is this descending unconditional love that awakens the hearts of spiritual beings, radiating upon the world like the warming, inspiring glow of a million suns.

Eros is the ascending aspect of Love, the irresistible, mighty drive to reach up, commune and become from a singular ‘me’ a larger, collective ‘we’. Some view Eros to be the very drive that causes atoms to commune and become molecules, molecules to cells, and cells to organisms. It is this force which compels humans to become couples, tribes and communities and it can be persuasive enough to make you lose your appetite and sleep until you have done so.

There is a narrow view of erotic love, which confines its meaning to couple relationships; but in the larger sense, Eros is the same invisible force that drives us, humans, to dance with others, share meals with others, embrace each other, and share our most intimate thoughts and feelings with each other.

Humans are a complex animal: we hunt, feed and mate, but we also build cities and countries, invent things, tell stories, and ask deep questions about meaning and values. To be fulfilled in our erotic communion with another, we need to be met at the depth of our complexity – and if we are preoccupied about what makes life worth living, or how to alleviate suffering in the world, we thrive in conversations with others who share the same passions and in shared action towards mutual goals.

At the same time, with greater complexity arise greater problems, and often a deep level of psychological development leaves us detached from more primordial aspects of our existence. We gain greater intelligence, and we lose some of our instincts. Our greater conversation partners or activism buddies often do not touch us or move with us as we’d like; or our best lovers and dance partners don’t meet our mental depth, and we are left wanting.

This is where our best friend, the Dog, is there to help out: living with our animal family members we connect with them at the primordial aspects of our being that we have otherwise largely disowned: touch and movement. Because our dogs are not human, we have no expectations from them for deep mental connection, and where a friend who fails to listen to your dreams and passions will disappoint you, a dog will not, because he’s not supposed to do anything else but eat, sleep, mate or not, and play.

Trading Hugs for Food!

Ideally, erotic relating would be the meeting of two beings who commune at all the levels of their being, from the simple, primordial, animal aspects of their self, to the highest peaks or deepest depth of thinking, feeling and acting: we touch together, move together, talk together and act together. In reality, this is rare, if at all possible, so we seek the human companions of the equally complex men and women for living, working and playing with; and we rely on our dogs for affectionate touch, caresses, hugs and kisses, and we walk with them, run with them, swim with them. Unlike children, they never grow up to shy away from your kiss (“Ew, mom!”) or from shared activities.   

The dog has lived with humans for tens of thousands of years, in a relationship that changed from a simple transaction: “You feed and shelter me, and I’ll protect your young, herd your sheep and hunt with you and for you” to: “You feed and shelter me, also provide me with exercise, play and a job that’s a good fit for my breed and personality, and I’ll cuddle with you, kiss you, and sleep with you in bed so no matter what goes on with your human relationships, I’ll make sure that you’ll never feel lonely”.

Dogs have empathy, and can feel with us. How many human tears have been dried up by dog’s tongues, how many hurts have been comforted by a caring paw and a wet, cold nose? There’s something valuable in the simplicity of being there with a friend in need without preaching to them, trying to fix them, or offering unsolicited advice and while we human learn how to offer such simplicity to each other, dogs already have it for us.

While no dog can replace a lover, a child or a friend, and no lover, child or friend can replace a dog, it is the same mighty Eros that compels them to commune with both human and beast.

Embracing Kinook upon her arrival in my life - June 2001

I Miss You - A dialogue

“Ookie, I miss you so much”

“I see how sad you are. I wish you weren’t sad. I want to see your head lift up.”

“Kinook, my love, I feel so much love coming from you!”

“You are my Alpha human!”

“Ookie, you are the perfect dog for me. If I had to choose from a million dogs, I’d choose you all over again, if I could. Tell me, my love, how was I as a human for you?”

“A bit aloof, Tana. You’ve been distant, sometimes days at a time, sometimes more. I could see your body and couldn’t feel your mind. You’re there but not there. And you’ve always been very protective of me. I felt protected in so many ways. And you were distant, withdrawn in yourself, but when I hurt, you were there for me, with me. Alarms always brought you near me.”

“Would you choose me over other humans?”

“I don’t know how to answer this question, Tana. I don’t have a comparison with other humans. You are my pack, my world, and I can’t imagine my world otherwise.”

“What was it like inside you? What was the pain like? Did I keep you for too long?”

“I had headaches, on and off. And knee pain, and back pain, and the back pain was manageable until that time I fell, then I had sharp, shooting pain from my hip down my left hind leg. The warmth of your palms helped with the pain, and put me to sleep. I trusted your touch less after that day when I fell. But when the warmth came, it helped. Pain was less bothering me than the loss of my sight and hearing, mostly my sight. I couldn’t see well and that made moving around so difficult.”

“This conversation helps me, Kinook. Is this helpful to you too? Could we talk again?”

“I’m sleepy. Let me rest.”

“What do you want me to do with your ashes?”

“Scatter them over the Billings Estate graveyard, I’d like that. Bring those two cookies as well.”

“I will, my love. Rest in peace.”

No Dogs Allowed!

You know that you are a dog lover when you count your dog into your daily activities. With a little bit of creativity, a car, and a heart full of love, you can combine dog walking with shopping and running errands, and this is what I did with my new canine love, Kinook.

Kinook at the lake

Exploring my new city, Ottawa, I found a place where I felt right at home from the first visit: a family-owned building on Main Street, Mama Poppy and her daughters, and their businesses: a vegetarian restaurant called The Green Door, where all the who’s who in the healing arts, yoga and meditation meet, intentionally or not, and eat; a consciousness, spirituality and well-being specialty book store, Singing Pebbles; the new age gift store The Three Trees and a health food store called at the time The Wheat Berry (that’s before wheat-free was fashionable). That building was my favourite hangout where I’d browse the books, listen to meditative music, chat with people, have a flavourful vegetarian Mediterranean-inspired meal (the owners are Greek), and shop for food, books, incense and crystals.

The Green Door and its sister businesses stand across the street from the St. Paul’s University, a doggie-loving academic institution to my taste, where hundreds of happy (wo)men’s best friends gather to romp the green pastures of the University’s property, along the Rideau River. Dogs run after sticks and balls and each other, the water-loving kinds jumping all the way to the water and back, and it’s an ongoing people and fur friends outdoor party. Ottawa’s culture is quite conservative, and compared to what I knew in Romania, Israel and Yellowknife, it is quite hermetically closed to newcomers, with one outstanding exception: the doggie park! Walking your dog in Ottawa is more likely to get you a conversation with strangers and a phone numbers exchange than going to any other place, well, except the Main Street businesses, which are like a Greek-new-age embassy of warm hugs and communion.

Kinook and I adopted the Main Street walk-n-shop as one of our outing routines. Kathleen the trainer-turned-friend had advised me to walk with Kinook in a variety of places. “It keeps her on her toes” she said, and a lover of variety myself, I went along with it. So on a sunny day we’d take the car, Kinook taking her regal spot on the back seat, on a doggie blanket and towel, go for a walk behind St. Paul University, go down to the river for a pee and a drink of water, the order of which never mattered, for as long as one was upstream of the other; then visit the dog-friendly Singing Pebble book store and have a browse and a chat with Moira.

Moira is this ageless woman who loves nature and has stories of animals and trips to Africa. There’s something about Moira that makes me think of Safari explorers– her sporty clothes, her gray hair braided in one thick braid which rests on one shoulders, her love of animals. She’s worked at the book store for a long time, and judging by how comfortable she looks, always with welcoming, smiling face and eyes, my guess is that she likes it there. Moira and I liked to chat, and when I wanted to eat next door at the restaurant, she took Kinook in her care while I was away. Kinook spent some time behind the counter, but did all she could to find her way to the door and watch outside, nose against glass, to wait for me, and see my return. The French say: “Qui m’aime, aime mon chien” – who loves me, loves my dog. I felt at home among dog lovers, and in these places where my pup was welcome.

And I felt not so much at home in all these other places where the “No dogs” sign stared in my face, from shopping malls to parks to beaches. My assumptions about Canada being a dog-loving country turned wrong in Ottawa and its surroundings. It was for the first time that I was seeing an entire park banning dogs and I could neither understand why, nor accept it. Some parks allowed dogs only on leash, a policy largely disobeyed; and most of these parks were frequented by canine delinquents who happily and carelessly ran around from tree trunk to tree trunk with no leash on, taking in the glorious bounty of scents.

It was the summer of 2001, and to me a real summer is when you go swimming outdoors in a natural body of water. As a child growing up in Romania, I travelled for hours each summer to spend a good two weeks on the Black Sea shore. During the fifteen years of living in Israel, I lived within walking distance from the beach – the Mediterranean beach, mind you! Then I moved to Canada, and my first Canadian summer was that impossibly cold Yellowknife weather when people perspire profusely at a mere 25 degrees Celsius, and lakes are put there by the gods not for you, human being, to swim in their waters, but for your dog! So Arctic summer means that you take your dog for a hike and throw a stick into the lake so puppy gets to swim, not you, but if you so chose, you're welcome to vicariously enjoy the water through your furry friend.

Well, now I was in warm(ish) Ottawa, and I had a dog, so following the compelling mental images of my heart’s desire, I jumped in the car together with my husband and my new, wet-nosed love Kinook, and drove to the Gatineau Park.

The wooden bridge on the way to the beach

Parc de la Gatineau is the French name for this lovely Quebec national park, a beauty spreading over miles and miles of forests and lakes, so big that, if you live in Europe or Israel, think that your country has turned into a park, that big! It has trails and lakes for swimming, lakes for hiking around, one lake for staying away from dipping in because it has funny substances that you don’t want on your skin; and it has a couple of visitors’ centres where you can go and get maps for the whole thing.

Meech Lake is a go-to-swim lake, and bathing suit on, I parked the car in the parking lot, and together with husband and dog, I trotted the short hike towards the beach, looking forward for a dip in the water together with Kinook.

At the beach, we were greeted by an NCC (National Capital Commission) officer in uniform, who pointed towards the dreaded “No Dogs Allowed” sign at the entrance to the beach, and who requested that we leave.

“Is there a beach where we can take our dog?” I asked the officer.

“No ma’am, all public beaches are banned to dogs”

“Why?” I asked.

“For health reasons, ma’am” and then he added, "It's Health Canada regulations, ma'm!"

I was surprised, disappointed and angry, and I complained all the way back to the car. How exactly do dogs pose a threat to human’s health? I thought of the park across the street from my home, where dogs were allowed on the right hand side of the park, but not on the left hand side of the park where the children’s playground was. Moms and dads who happened to have both human kids and fur kids to walk with, couldn’t go to the park without splitting the family in two. Now we were in a forest lake, not in a fancy country club with man-made swimming pools (and I’ve seen dogs in those country clubs in Israel, baking in the sun alongside their humans, their only threats posed only to ice-cream cones and hot dogs). Forests are inhabited by bears, deer, raccoons, geese and loons and a great variety of animal species big and small, all of whom are known to pee and poo, some of them on the beach, and some of them in the lake. Dogs on the other hand sleep indoors, often in the same room and bed with their humans; they see the vet more often than I see my doctor; they are vaccinated, bathed, fed special food, kissed, caressed, hugged, and hand-checked for ticks; and I cannot understand how their pee and poo is more dangerous to humans on a beach, than the pee and the poo of scavenging wild beasts. Argh!

Back in the parking lot I saw a group of men who were unloading bicycles from their cars. One of them had a fluffy white little dog with him. I approached the man, cheeks flushed from anger and disappointment, and pointing to his dog, and mine, I asked him: “Where do you go to when you want to swim together with your dog?”

The man, while placing his protection cap on his head and fastening his gloves, replied: “There’s a nudist beach up ahead on this trail. If nudism doesn’t bother you, you can take your dog there. The beach is unofficial so nobody will bother you about her.”

“How do I find the beach?” I asked, pretty sure that nudism bothered me much less than no-dogs beaches.

“Oh, that’s easy!” the man replied, pointing towards a small plaque nailed on a tree: “Just follow the ‘Nudism Prohibited’ signs!”

Just follow the signs!

The signs helped, and we trotted on a hilly hiking path for about twenty minutes. On the way to the nudist beach we met the beginning of the Meech Lake spreading on both sides of a picturesque wooden bridge, the cool azure blue glistening in the sun so proud and beautiful,  sunlight sparkling on the surface of its water, so magical that it makes you tingle watching it. Kinook ran to the shallow water and went wading with her mouth open, letting the water flow in as she drank like a crocodile. I watched with a huge smile on my face: this, like most everything that she did looked so cute and funny to me, so adorable, especially since, as the respectable and dignified dog that she was, she did everything with a very serious look on her face.

Wading in shallow water

Another few minutes on the main path, we turned to the left to a smaller path, and then again to the left on an even smaller path, literally out of the beaten track, and into the woods again. And then trees turned to low bushes, and the tiny path opened to a small beach covered with grass, and a breathtakingly beautiful view. No sight, sounds, or smells of cars or roads: all the eyes could see around the waters were trees, a dock on the other side to the left, and on the far side across, a house. Naked bodies of men sprinkled the grassy beach in front of us and the forested hill to the left, lazily lying like lizards, soaking in the sun. A group of three or four naked men were standing in the lake to their waist, chatting.

We found a spot in half-shade and laid down the beach blanket. Kinook went to the water for a drink, a pee and to chase some frogs. I looked around a bit curious, a bit apprehensive, and amused at my own hesitation to undress. I removed the bra of my two-piece bathing suit and kept my arms crossed in front of my chest for a long while.

I remembered a scene from a beach in Israel. It was soon after a large number of Persian Jews fled Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini, and immigrated to Israel. Many of the Israeli women at the beach wore topless bathing suits with tiny thong bikini bottoms. A small group of male Iranian newcomers walked by one such woman who was lying on her back the sand, her young, round, cheeky breasts reaching up to the skies to be sun kissed. The men slowed down their pace, and stared at the woman, heads pulled forward towards her on stretched necks, their eyes and mouths wide open in shocked amazement. It must have been a great cultural shock for them, leaving behind a society where women were covered from head to toe, the Moral Police arresting anyone for even showing a strand of hair or an inch of skin on their ankle, to arrive to this place with bare breasts and buttocks. I looked at the men and thought poorly of their cultural attitudes.

Now I was sitting on this other beach in my new home country, Canada, facing the other end of prudish attitudes: my own! Public nudism is quite common in Europe, not only in the South of France, but also in the country of my birth, Romania, which boasted a nudist colony by the Black Sea - but for some reason I had never been to that place and this, here in the Gaineau Park, was my first mixed - men and women - nudist encounter. As the morning advanced towards noon, a couple of families, with women and children, appeared on the beach, and when the other women dropped their panties, I dropped mine. Participating in public nudism became easier after that, including learning to make eye contact when talking to others, instead of staring down below their waists.

A number of regular beach-goers called themselves ‘naturists’, even though they were smoking and drinking beer, so I quickly learned that naturists are not necessarily vegetarians, vegans, or even natural-health seekers. They are men and women who like to get together naked. One of them, Lucien, greeted us with a wide smile and a warm, friendly hand shake, and told me the story and politics of the beach, which, I learned, was “clothing optional”, which meant that one had the freedom to do with (or without) clothes, as they liked. The regular naturists shared a code of unwritten rules about their stay at the beach, which included careing for the environment, cleaning after themselves and packing all the garbage away when leaving; respectful behaviour towards women and men, with no overt sexual passes to others, and these rules made the place pleasant for all. Kinook was immediately welcomed by most everyone, and she was an easy companion, with little demands. She went to the water to cool off, and then lied in the shade of a tree; the greatest annoyance she was ever guilty of was when

planting herself in front of whoever was eating their lunch, shaking an unsolicited paw, staring at their sandwich.  

Us, humans, got along well, and unlike clothes-on beaches, we formed friendships and talked about things personal and political and philosophical, agreeing and disagreeing on things; and later on, when Mark Zuckerberg made it available, some of us connected on Facebook. Weekend after weekend, summer after summer, until late in October for as long as dipping in the cool lake was still possible, Kinook and I trotted up and down the trail to the lake, and we had the best times ever in that place where no clothes were required and no dogs were banned.

Happiness is playing in the lake together!

The Good Girl's Training

There are horror stories about rescued dogs who have been so traumatized that they are anxious and aggressive, and they display such neurotic behaviour that their adoptive families have great difficulty enjoying their company.

None of that was true for Kinook. She was a calm, easy dog from day one, uninterested in chewing anything other than treats that were offered to her, and there was never a need to dog-proof the house upon her arrival. Shoes, flower vases, books and potted plants remained where they were, on the floor, or at dog-nose level, and nothing got chewed or broken or peed upon. I prayed for an easy dog, and got one!

So when I hired Kathleen Collins to help me train Kinook, it was not to make her into an easy pet, which she already proved to be from day one, but primarily to protect her, a lesson I’d learned the hard way with Mushi, the dog who did not come when called, and got killed by a truck.

At the training sessions

When I saw Kathleen I thought of a Marry Poppins for dogs: she was a slender woman with copper-fire wired, wild hair adorned with feathers, the poise of a horse-riding princess, and the high-pitched voice and laughter that was endearing to humans and commanding respect to animals. I had met Kathleen at a local business show, and kept her unusual card which depicted a Borzoi hound dog silhouette, as thin and poised as her owns, and mentioned: “Animal Lifestyle” – training, animal behaviour, and pre-pet consultations.

Kathleen arrived at our home, her tiny body making herself felt as a huge presence. Kinook liked her from the first touch, and Kathleen produced tiny bits of sausage to introduce herself to my dog.

“See how she lies down with her back to you?” Kathleen pointed out. “It means that she trusts you!”

She kneeled on the floor near Kinook and proceeded to demonstrate commands to which my dog responded as if she had always done that: eagerly and naturally. “Come!” “Sit!” “Down!”. When I tried the same, I could swear my dog yawned with boredom, and if she talked, she’d say something like: “Meh, I don’t think so, lady.” That day I learned that Kathleen trained people before she trained dogs.

The fiery woman made it clear in writing and in spoken word: her approach was positive reinforcement. Give commands to the dog when you expect the dog to respond, and reward her with “Good Girl!” Dogs can pick up mental images, so never call a dog when you are incongruent about your message, for example, when you call the dog but expect her to go away, because the mixed message will confuse the animal and she will fail to come. Avoid if all possible to create situations that require you to deem your dog a “Bad Girl!” Treats will be used first as bribery, to motivate the dog to perform a command, and then later as reward. In time, treats as rewards will be replaced with an associated gesture, like a pat or caress, and word. Calling the dog’s name means only one thing: “Pay attention to me!” That’s it! A common mistake many humans make is use the animal’s name in lieu of a command, and worse, in lieu of a punishment, uttered angrily. This creates distrust and a rupture of connection between human and animal. Kathleen made it clear: make training a positive, fun experience for Kinook, something that she looks forward to. It is my responsibility to behave in such a way that Kinook enjoys paying attention to me, so I should only call her name with a kind, benevolent voice; and it’s up to me, not to my dog, to make her answering to my commands worthwhile her time. This approach was different than the militaristic attitude I had seen in other dog handlers in the past: it was kind, fun, playful and pleasurable for both of us. I liked Kathleen and her approach. In fact, I liked her so much that I befriended her, and she is still very dear to me.

“What do I do if Kinook does something I don’t like?” I asked. The all-positive training was like learning a new language to me.

Kathleen advised to never say “no” to Kinook (it’s a bad vibration thing!). What I want is for Kinook to stop her behaviour, so all I need to do is either to say: “Stop!” or make a specific sound, such as: “uh-uh-uh!”

I learned all about pack behaviour: each pack, in our case, our Tana-J.-Kinook family, has a leader, an Alpha. If humans are too weak and do not claim their Alpha position, the dog will kindly oblige to assume it, which is problematic, because leadership is stressful, and a stressed dog makes an unhappy dog, and an unhappy dog makes an unhappy family. How do you establish your leadership role in the Dogese language? You go in and out of doors first, as the Alpha watches for dangers. You decide when games begin and stop. You dispense attention within limits, and proceed to ignore the dog upon arriving at home, at least for two-three minutes while you place down your purse and groceries and remove shoes and coat. As difficult as I found this last task, it proved itself useful to prevent separation anxiety in Kinook: if it’s not a big fuss when I return, it’s not a big fuss when I leave, and she’s happy just as well.

Kathleen met with us once or twice a week in our home, and in a variety of outdoors fenced places where she could work with us and sometimes other clients. J. and I learned to walk with Kinook on and off leash, call her, ask her to sit, to stay and wait, to lie down, to work for her food by shaking the paw, and then shake the other one. Kinook was all too happy to perform for Kathleen, and eventually she became eager to perform for me too – I had apparently more leadership bones in me than J. – and with practice and fun, I turned out to be a quite skilled and effective handler for my pup. I suspect that Kinook received some training in her first months of life with her previous family, and even if she must have received her commands in French language, she understood English just as well and responded fast. As a truly honorable Canadian, Kinook proved herself bilingual.

Training, I must admit, became a two-way street. She trained me, J., and our house guests to open the door whenever she fancied going out, then back in, then out again, which was a favourite occupation of hers. She also trained us to provide her with two, not one meal a day: an egg for breakfast, and meat for dinner, with free choice kibble in between. Kinook also taught me that even though she looked like a wolf, she was not a wolf, and she preferred her food spiced and cooked and flavourful, and she turned her nose away to anything raw and bland. Culinary art is one of my favourite creative expressions, and I obliged, mindful of what was doggie-friendly, with no onions, just a hint of garlic, selected spices and plenty of herbs.

One day the three of us went walking to the Arboretum, a beautiful park by the water, with blooming crab apple trees and lilac bushes, and one of the official doggie-friendly parks in Ottawa. To teach Kinook to walk off-leash within reasonable distance, we followed Kathleen’s suggestion, and while our pup was way ahead of us on a trail, we hid behind a bush. When she looked back to see us, she must have panicked, because it only took that one time for us to hide to keep Kinook walk only as far as she and us could still see each other.

I teach Reiki from home, often during weekends, and during lunch my students and I share a potluck meal with healthy vegetables, fruits, nuts and Kinook’s favourite, cheese. What seemed to me like successful dog training, seemed to my dog like successful people training, and she proceeded to sit in front of a student who had cheese on her plate, lift a paw, then lift the other one, the magical formula for receiving treats. And it worked. Every time.

Shake the paw!

Shake the paw!

Sit!

Kathleen and I shared a great deal of ways to view the world, and when our professional relationship ended, our friendship took us on long, happy hikes, me with Kinook happily exploring generously-scented bushes in doggie forests, Kathleen speeding alongside Nigel, her beloved female Borzoi, too fast for me, of course, since like my dog’s breed, the Akita, I too am a low-energy type.

I asked Kathleen if she can help me get more cuddles out of my dog. Her reply came with the usual ironic high-pitch voice: “Hell, no!” If you wanted a cuddly dog, you should have consulted with me before adopting one. You have an Akita. Asiatic breeds are like the people, a bit aloof. Don’t get me wrong, she loves you to bits, but she’s not cuddly. If you give her too much affection, she’ll give you this regal look and tell you to piss off, get a life!

And when she said: “Piss off! Get a life!” she could have well spoken the exact words that Kinook would have said to me if she could. Kathleen is like that, the voice impersonator for all breeds and species of animals, and she does it damn well. There were times when I kneeled on the floor, near my dog, eager to exchange some tender, affectionate hugs and kisses with her; and every time she would stand up quietly and move over a few feet away, leaving me alone on my four on the floor, looking at her say: “Piss off! Get a life!”.

“Kathleen, do you know a vet with holistic view and practice in town?” I asked. She did know someone, and Kinook and I went to see Eddy Beltran.

Eddy was wearing a face mask, his face only showing a pair of kind, bright blue eyes. He showed me how to lift my big girl to place her on the table, then he looked at her. “Come, stand in front of her face, so she can see you” he instructed me while he proceeded to touch and palpate the dog’s body. “Take a deep, slow breath” he continued to instruct me, “and let it out with an audible sigh”. I did so, and Kinook followed my lead with a sigh of content. That little intervention prevented any fear of doctors, the deep peaceful sigh of my body giving my dog the clue that all is well, and she can relax too.

“Look at these big, brown, kind eyes of hers!” Eddy exclaimed, and then turned towards me and said the last thing I expected to hear from a busy sought-after veterinarian with a waiting list to his practice: “Any time you need someone to sit for your dog, give me a call, and bring her over! She’s such a good girl!”

And she is, Kinook, a Good Girl indeed!

A Different Way to Love

Why is it so easy and compelling for humans to love dogs, often so much so than to love one another? We all are animals, humans and dogs alike, both on top of the food chain, one species more advanced than the other, equipped with self-awareness and logical reasoning, the other less advanced, and yet, we get along so well, and for so long.

Humans have distanced themselves from our animal nature and from our bodies, living disassociated lives from the neck up, expressing a tiny little fraction of our grander identity as conscious beings, promoting intellect over instinct, head over heart and body, thinking over feeling. And that forgotten and denied part of ourselves, the Animal Self, trapped away outside of our awareness and permission, has sought expression in a variety of ways, from the joy of primal dance to the darkness of pathological, out-of-control behaviour. Relating to a dog allows the animal in humans to come out and play, literally and metaphorically. We touch, we kiss, we move, we hike and explore wild nature trails otherwise largely ignored by dog-less human beings, and we vicariously live a primal life of feeding, hunting and mating through our animal friends.

Even then, we often miss the point, and we extend our darkest deprivations upon them, removing parts of our dog friends’ bodies without blinking because if we can repress our sexuality, we think that so can they.

Kinook was spayed, and I had mixed feelings about it. Spaying makes female dogs easier pets, with none of the annual or bi-annual mess that intact dogs create; it also deprives the animals’ bodies of their sex hormones which are such an integral and important part of anyone’s vitality. Women at menopause seek hormone replacement therapy, and at the same time we think nothing of our canine friends. I was sad that Kinook’s body was not intact, wondering how it affected her, did she have pain? Was her mood, or immune system affected? She couldn’t talk, and I couldn’t really know. At the same time, a part of me was relieved that somebody else made that decision, because if I adopted a new pup today, I would not want to have parts of their bodies removed, which would be going against the cultural grain here in North America where neutering and spaying is considered a responsible thing to do for dog owners. Scandinavians believe that spaying and neutering animals is cruel, and only a small percentage of the populations proceed with the surgery for their animals.

When I adopted Kinook I was sensitized by my practices with the healing arts, and for the first time in my living with dogs life, I’ve asked myself not only what I wanted from a dog, but what a dog wanted and needed from me. The name ‘dog owner’ sounded wrong, as if I owned this other being, to do with as I please, like a toy, like an object; ‘dog guardian’ sat well with my regarding Kinook to be a conscious, sentient being that I was caring for.

I wanted to love her better than the ones before her, to understand her ways and needs and motives, and no-one helped me better with this new quest to love than a woman I met named Kathleen...

On the King's Trail in the Gatineau Park

The Adoption

On June 13 2000 I left my familiar world behind, home, family, friends and dogs, and headed towards my new home, Canada, and my new husband, J. It’s always easier to be the one that goes away than the one who is left behind, and while I embarked on an adventure towards the unknown, my closest friends remained, eyes cloudy with tears, waving at me as I disappeared on the other side of the Passport Control station at the Tel Aviv airport.

My final destination was Yellowknife, in the Northwest Territories, a place I had only seen in photographs, many of which were taken during the short Northern Canadian summer. The place was unlike anything I knew, the climate, the midnight sun, the huge sky over an unusual land with low and rare trees and low and rare buildings; the faces of First Nations, faces I had only seen in cinema so far; the cold, windy weather that turned my Israeli summer clothes into a joke; the North American diners with neon lights and greasy meaty dishes. People were friendly, and just like the Israelis I had left behind, ready to strike a conversation with perfect strangers at any time and place, which made me feel a little bit at home when everything else did not.

There’s nothing like a small, isolated town to meet people easily and fast, and I did. I had barely landed and my phone was ringing off the hook with lunch invitations from new girlfriends, and inquiries for Reiki treatments and classes. One of the students, Julie, was a cheerful blonde young mother from New Brunswick, who liked to take her two-year old daughter Zinnia and her Akita-mix dog Tia to long, meditative walks on one of the city’s hiking trails, and I accompanied them often. Yellowknife has a reputation for informality, and was the perfect place to teach Reiki Mastery to a student while walking in nature, climbing over bare boulders, circling a lake. Philosophy, it seems, does not require confined spaces, and the love of wisdom, dialogue and learning flourish very well in the open air. So does affinity and affection, such as between teacher and student, student’s child, and, as you will guess, student’s dog. Tia and I had a thing for each other.

Yellowknife, NWT, on the trail with Julie, her daughter Zinnia, and Tia the Akita mix

Arctic summer lasted about two weeks, depending who you ask; according to me, summer ended on August the first, and I was shaking, teeth chattering, looking for gloves and house shoes at the stores, only to be told, honey, it’s too early, come back in season, in October. I told J. that I wanted to move somewhere warmer, and in October 2000 we moved to the Canadian Capital, Ottawa.

Our Ottawa home was a suburb dream: spacious, a corner lot with a fenced side yard surrounded with a protective cedar hedge, and a wide driveway leading to the side yard entrance. Next door to us were a friendly couple, Candy and Dennis, and their small black Labrador-Terrier mix female, Sophie. Did you notice how dog lovers who don’t have dogs pour their affection on other people’s dogs? J. and I did the same. J. hadn’t had dogs of his own, but he once lived in with a girlfriend who had two shelties, and they were the closest to being his own than any other dog.

Our home became an extension of Sophie’s home, our yard an extension of hers, and she had toys, balls and chewing treats all over our place. As much as she disliked other dogs, Sophie adored human beings, and she’d come running at me, tail frantically wagging, and cover me in kisses.

My marriage was difficult, and J. and I argued a lot. There were few things we shared, one being a keen sense of humour, and another our love for dogs. We spoke about adopting a dog, and neither of us was specific about when. I felt lonely, with no family or friends in Canada, in a culture I found difficult to integrate to, foreign to the flamboyant, loud, outspoken, affectionate culture I had left behind, and the dysfunction of my marriage made everything worse. I often dreamt of Dubi and Pupi and woke up in tears, feeling lonely and homesick. I needed someone to love and share affection with.

I wanted to love a dog.

Years ago I took pride in owning pure-bred dogs, like Cici the Dachshund and Mushi the Cocker Spaniel, checking their bodies for the signs of the breed, and holding their pedigree papers as precious as my university diploma. My views had changed, and now I could not agree to encourage breeding when shelters are brimming with unwanted animals, either being killed for lack of space, or living lonely, isolated lives in cages. It did not make sense to chop away a dog’s tail, like Mushi’s tail had been chopped before we bought him, solely so it could win championship medals for their owner’s vanity. I wanted to rescue a shelter animal, and J. agreed with me.

A newspaper article published in the Ottawa Citizen covered the financial hardships that the Aylmer, Quebec humane society shelter faced. If they didn’t improve their money situation, they were facing closure. I showed the article to J. and proposed we adopted a dog from Aylmer. Ottawa has its own shelter, very well organized and funded, well enough that they can afford mailing promotional material and spending on advertising. We opted to help the underdog.

Having lived with dogs before, I had an idea about what I looked for in a companion. A dog to love was not enough: I wanted a dog that got along with other animals and with people; I worked from home, serving healing clients and students, and remembering how Dubi and Pupi used to bark underneath my treatment table while I was working at relaxing the person lying on it, I decided that I wanted a dog who didn’t bark much. I wanted a clean dog, an easy dog, the perfect dog for me.

On the sunny morning of June 2^nd 2001, I stepped into my living room, where I sat in meditation and practiced Reiki and yoga, and prayed: “May I find a friendly, kind, sweet-tempered, easy dog. May the dog get along with other dogs, and with people, especially with my house guests. May this dog be a good fit for us, for me, and good in all the ways, better than I can think of and imagine now. May my adopting this dog today be blessed.”

Left: Tana and Kinook at the Arboretum; Right: Practicing obedience; Low Left: Kinook and Sophie at the Conroy Pit

At the shelter we went to look at the dogs, while I was secretly looking for a Dubi and Pupi – alike, or a Golden Retriever. J. and I would point at a dog, and we’d be given a long leash to walk with him or her. We looked at a white male with brown patches, and J. said: “Nah, I don’t know, I can’t connect with him”. Then we looked at another dog, and another, and J. wasn’t sure. I had no preference, thinking that I would love no matter what dog we would adopt, and silently trusting that my the cosmos would act in a magical way in response to my prayers, and without any struggle, the chosen dog we’d take home would be the right one for me.

After two hours of walking with dogs at the end of long ropes, a woman volunteering at the shelter approached us and asked:

“Can I help you find a dog?”

I replied: “Yes, I am looking for a dog that is quiet, doesn’t bark a lot, and gets along with both people and animals. And my husband should feel a connection with the dog as well.”

“Have you tried Kinook?” asked the woman.

“No. Who is Kinook?” I asked, and she took us to a black dog with the head of a wolf or a bear, and a curly tail. I then realized that neither J. nor I had looked at any of the black dogs in the shelter. We went by as if our attention skipped over the black animals, for no reason that I know or understand. I went to visit the bathroom while J. and Kinook headed to an enclosed outdoor space where she could be let free. When I joined them, J.’s eyes were soft and shiny, and he announced me: “I want her!”. While I was away, Kinook the black dog gave J. a play bow, looking him right in the eye, then ran away circling the yard, with short, soft growls.

I turned towards the volunteer and asked: “Does she bark a lot, like this?”

“Oh, no!” the woman reassured me. “She only barks now of excitement to be running free”

We went to pay and sign the adoption papers. We had a two-page history on her from her previous family: she was one year and a half old, an Akita mix, she had lived with two children and another dog, she had been spayed, she had a microchip implanted in case she’d be lost, and she had been crated. Her family had to relocate, and they surrendered her to the SPCA, where she had been in her cage for two months.

Paperwork done, we returned to the cages to collect our new dog. The black animal who followed us jumped up and down with high energy, and when I looked closer, it was a male. “Oh” the volunteer woman apologized, “that’s Max! My mistake! Here is Kinook!”

Max’s happiness was cut short and he returned to his cage. My heart went with him, and I can only hope that someone adopted him, and that he found his forever home. I can only hope that all the dogs and the cats in the shelter get adopted into loving forever homes.

Always with a serious face!

On our way out I asked to be shown the cats of the shelter. I would have been ready to bring a cat home as well, and I had a young black kitten who purred in my arms and kissed my neck as a candidate. I placed the kitten against J.’s chest, hoping he’d steal my husband heart, but J. protested, swatting his hands in the air: “Ouch! He’s clawing me! Take him away!”

Kinook jumped in the back seat of the car, and watched calmly as life turned a new page for her. Her coat was dull and matted, and she smelled of stale urine. At home we were greeted by a happy to see us Sophie, who was unpleasantly surprised to see another dog get out of the car together with us. Kinook gave Sophie a play bow, and barked a brief, cheerful invitation to play, which sadly was met with disgruntled growls and a wrinkled nose with bare teeth.

Tana with Kinook and Candy with Sophie, socializing the girls (well, trying to)

At home, I gave Kinook a bath, and the most magnificent dog emerged from the bathtub: a beautiful girl with mirror-black shiny, silky fur and a pair of the kindest, brightest, calmest brown eyes that looked at me.

Kinook made herself at home in my heart in no time.

Visiting Pembroke

The Dogs That Came Before Part Five: Dubi and Pupi

Israelis occupy themselves very little with dog contraception, and Marcu’s own contraceptive method for his dog in heat Tirtza consisted of chasing after her down the street, hoping to reach her before male canine suitors did. At times, he won. Several other times, he didn’t.

Tirtza was a spaniel like mutt with short, white hair and large brown patches, long nose and floppy ears. She and Marcu were inseparable, and so was Marcu with my then boyfriend, Tibi. The three of us lived in the same building, a ten story building filled with mostly single immigrants, a few of them from Romania, like myself, like Tibi, and like Marcu.

Marcu was a thin, tall man who walked hunched forward, almost like a bracket, eyes pointing down, a cigarette smoking between his fingers most time. He spoke slowly, his voice and intonation revealing a chronic displeasure with the world, an unhappy man. He took care of Tirtza as well as he took care of himself, which was good enough to survive, not to thrive. And one day, not long after his losing another race to the neighbourhood male dogs following Tirtza, he jumped on a plane to Romania, to bring himself a nice woman who’d hopefully do a better job in caring for him than himself. Subscribing to the principle of the grass being greener on the other side, there were plenty of women in Romania who would happily marry a man established elsewhere, so they could pack, dreamy-eyed, and start a new life in the Promised Land of Not Romania.

Marcu left his house key to Tibi, and off he went. Tibi was to walk and feed Tirtza. And I took over.

I bought Tirtza special dog food for expecting mothers. I walked with her, fed her and loved her. Tibi and I bought a doggie basket-bed to prepare her nest, an expensive one too, which she ignored and one hot Israeli summer day, on July 27 1992, Tirtza brought eight puppies to life in the floor-cleaning bowl, in the bathroom.

That was the day when my teen-age life-style ended.

Honey, We’re Four Now!

Tibi and I moved the puppies to the nesting basket and lined the floors with newspapers for the little guys to play, pee and poo on. The newborns were clean – their mother bathed them with her generous tongue – and smelled like milk. They were tiny, pink, hairless life forms that squeaked when piling up searching for a free tit, eyes still closed, finding their way by following their nose. They were a wonder to watch and touch, and my heart was captured.

Tirtza and the newborn puppies

One day we found one of the puppies dead. We’ll never know what happened – was he born ill? Did Tirtza sit on him by mistake? The mother was very careful and sensitive to her pup’s high-pitch sounds, quick to lift herself up when her body weight brushed too heavily on a little one. I could not deal with death and turning my head away, I asked Tibi to take the dead puppy away. He did, and I don’t remember if we spoke about what he did with the tiny body, whether he buried it or not – death was taboo, not something to pay attention to, let alone speak of.

The seven remaining wonders unfolded under my watchful eyes, the miracle of life taking form from pink bald mice to furry round-faced puppies with sand-brown coats and sparkly eyes, blue-ish at first, brown later, bouncing about, playing their own dog versions of superhero games, growling at each other with what they may have thought was fierce, menacing growls which in fact came out like tiny high-pitch vibrations which I interpreted as “Pick me up and quickly kiss me!” sounds. The puppies’ schedule was simple and straightforward: eat, play, sleep. Food was followed by wrestling, then by siestas. And I was in love.

And loving the little fellows made me concern myself with their fate. The pups’ brothers and sisters from previous litters met a cruel fate: Marcu would gather them in a cardboard box when they were just a few weeks old, too young to even wean, and leave them outside in the scorching heat where children would pick them up, or not, take them home to parents who would welcome a new pup, or not, very likely meet a soon and sad life end. I could not, and would not let this happen to my new seven loves.

Tibi and I took some pictures of the puppies, and made a hand written announcement to distribute and find loving homes for them. Timing did not work for us, and Marcu returned from Romania too soon, displeased with the disorder in his apartment, and determined to get rid of the puppies as soon as he could. My heart sank and my belly tightened with anxiety: I told Tibi that I’d take the pups in my home, a small bachelor’s apartment. I’d take all of them, care for them, then find them homes.

Love for Sale!

So one hot, sunny afternoon Tibi went to Marcu’s home and started bringing the pups to my place, two by two, in his cupped hands, like small watermelons. The puppies were four weeks old, and still suckling. I ran to my vet friends’ clinic, Graciela and Natasha, and brought back an animal feeding bottle. Then bought a baby formula food from the grocery store, and started bottle feeding the pups, one by one. At first Tibi protested at the inconvenience, then, soon enough, his captured heart put a huge smile on his face when he bottle-fed the pups in his folded arms. The dogs were placed in a cardboard box lined with a blanket, and they proceeded to escape and run in all the directions. Those who couldn’t escape cried loud and insistently on high pitch voices: “Pick me up! Let me out!” and got away with it. They cried for food at night, and Tibi obliged by waking up, warming up the milk formula, and bottle feeding it to the pups. Something we did must have worked, because the little miracles kept growing, and they soon graduated to eat real dog food, and then we fed them meat.

I was in my early thirties and eager to have a family. I started to talk to Tibi about marriage, and for a short little while, I got his attention. During the two weeks we discussed a future together, we also discussed keeping a dog for ourselves, and like with all our other topics, we could not agree on which one. He wanted a boy, and I wanted a girl. Eventually we took our best shot at harmonious conflict resolution, and chose one of each. The other pups went to new homes. One alpha guy we named Rambo went to my banking colleague Rivka, and lived to his name by jumping high to pull down fresh laundry hanging on the line, and doing such other mischief that I would hear about every day at work, together with the regular threat: “I’ll return him to you!”

After two weeks of talking marriage, I noticed that I was talking alone. The future plans were gone, but the dogs stayed. Tibi’s choice, the male, became my favourite, and was named Dubi (pronounced Doobee), Hebrew for Teddy. My choice, the female, became Tibi’s favourite and was named Pupi (pronounced Poopee...hey, don’t even start that, okay!) because ‘pupi’ is one Romanian name for kiss, sort of a ‘kissy’.   Dubi and Pupi became family and I was a dog guardian again.

Doggie Karma?

I have no way to say how much of what goes on in a being’s life is dictated by karma, or the law of cause-and-effect, and how much by chaos, some kind of cosmic randomization of events; I have no evidence to confirm either one. At the same time there are strings of events which point towards karma, or fate. One of the seven puppies was the misfortunate one: he was the one constantly being stepped upon and getting hit by furniture, and when we handed him over to his new family, he only lasted that long in his adoptive home before he ran away, never to be heard of again. Another puppy was the winner: things seemed to go his way; he always had good health, and good temper. That was Dubi.

Seven dogs born of the same mother and, judging by the shared color and shape, same father, had seven different personalities. At least the two that Tibi and I kept had two very distinct personalities and karmas, and you cannot attribute the strikingly different traits to genetics, given their shared heritage, or to astrology, given their shared birthdate, so what is it then that causes such differences? Dubi was easygoing, always taking pleasure in life, licking his hand-fed ice cubes, a hot weather treat, while lying down, eyes half-closed; chewing his toys with sheer happiness, bouncing about to show appreciation. Pupi was always cranky and jealous, wanting her brother’s toys, or food, or bones, and jumping at him when he was halfway running back to me at my call, to keep him from getting his “good boy” praise. Physically, Pupi was flexible and agile, able to jump high enough that she could make it in my arms when I was standing, without me bending at all; Dubi was heavy-bottomed and unsuccessful at mimicking his sister in the high jumps: I had to stoop to lift him up. The pair was inseparable, acting often like a two-dog terror commando, one (Dubi) opening the closet door to drag clothes out on the floor (Italian ones first, in the descending order of value, from the most expensive first), Pupi helping him redesign them with holes. Pupi would see someone to bark at, and Dubi would go bite where his sister pointed at. The neighbourhood children always knew that one barks and the other bites, and since the dogs looked very much alike, they’d always inquire which one is the barker and which one is the biter, to know who to pet.

Top: Dubi and Pupi sleeping and playing; bottom: Pupi suckling on her tit-surrogate toy.

Dubi and Pupi were two dogs, with two personalities, and two karmas. As healthy, playful and happy as Dubi was, Pupi was always afflicted with illness, from early age. She did not play at all, the only toy she had adopted, a white stuffed Poodle, was turned upside down, and she would suckle on its legs like on her mama’s tits, carrying what looked to me like an unfinished business with the mother, given the early age that she was separated from her, and whatever other predisposition she may have had towards suffering.

Top left: Dubi shaking a new toy; Top right: Pupi at rest; Bottom: two dogs are happier than one! Bottom right photo taken during a noisy rough play

Homeopathy for Dogs?

By the age of ten months, Pupi was scratching so bad that she had bald patches of skin, having lost fur around her nose, eyes and genitals, revealing a skin that was wrinkled and hardened like an elephant’s. The pigment around her eyes and lips was diminished, and what was black contours in Dubi's facial features had turned raw pink on her skin. She was withdrawn and unfriendly towards strangers, clearly unhappy, and even though the two vets and I were close friends, and both my dogs had V.I.P. (Very Important Puppies) status at the clinic, none of the tried treatments worked to cure her. Pupi was give steroids, both internally and topically, on her skin, and the best results were a temporary relief of the itch, paired by a worsening of her mood. With no medical or pharmaceutical education, I only instinctively reacted to the meds going into my pup, and every time I heard of another steroid prescription, I cringed.

One day, Graciela threw her hands in the air and said: “Why don’t you go and see a homeopathic veterinarian?”

“What’s that?” I asked, hearing the word “homeopathic” for the first time.

“It’s a different approach.” Graciela explained, and that was good enough. I was desperate. There is something in me that makes me suffer more when watching someone dependent on me suffer, much more than my own pain and suffering. I had to do something about it.

“How do I find a homeowhatever?”

“I’ll help you.” That was before Internet, and Google, when veterinarian listings were printed in paper. That’s right, that’s how old I am!

I went home with a list of homeosomething vets, and called. The first one to answer was a woman, Miri Shragenheim, who lived in the North of the country. Yes, she would be available to see me. Yes, she might be able to help my dog. Yes, I could meet her closer to my town Ashdod, in her parents’ home in Rishon LeZion.

Fun! The three of us played often and shared a great deal of affection.

One weekend evening Tibi and I met with Miri the homeopathic vet and sat outside, in the pleasant garden of her parents’ home. Miri waited for us with pen and paper, and she proceeded to write down my answers to her questions. She wanted to know everything about Pupi, whether she preferred hot or cold, did she drink lots of water or not so much, how social was she, what she liked eating and what she disliked.  Some of the questions did not make any sense to me: why would she want to know those kinds of details just to help with an itchy skin? We must have talked for a couple of hours about Pupi, all the while I was sneezing and blowing my nose, and gasping for air, my nostrils so clogged with allergies that my mouth had to breath and talk at the same time, and that was not easy!

It was springtime, and the citrus orchards were in bloom, warm wings of breeze sending enchanting scents throughout the land, perfume that I could neither smell, nor enjoy. I suffered with allergic rhinitis for years, it worsened in time, and I now felt and sounded like Miss Piggy. I sneezed machine-gun style, my sneezing propelling me forward, making me teary, dizzy and irritated. I took anti-histamines, which made me drowsy, sleepy and dry-eyed; they helped for a while and then their effect ceased. Then I saw Doctor Kurlat, a specialist in allergies, who injected substances under my forearm skin and waited to see which of them caused an allergic reaction by watching where my skin flared up, and where it hadn't. He then announced me that I was allergic to dust and weeds, then prescribed a vaccine I was going to inject myself with for a few months. I returned to him teary-eyed with my nose still clogged, and he repeated his tests. This time around, my skin didn’t flare up, and Doctor Kurlat exclaimed gleefully: “You are not allergic anymore!” My response to the great medical news was a profuse teary-eyed "thank you" followed by a noisy set of sneezes! My skin was not allergic anymore but my sinuses, nose and eyes didn't know that.

Later on, a brave young doctor decided to solve my problem the radical way, and operated on my nose and sinuses. I breathed well for a short while, between the time when I healed after the post-op bleeding, and the time when the allergies resumed. Sooner than later I was as ill as before, if not more.

Miri Shragenheim looked at me go through paper tissues, and said: “And you, Tana, you are going to see my professor”. She then scribbled a name and a number on a paper, and handed it to me. The name was Shmuel Shalev, homeopath.

Miri took a few days to do her homework and went to search through a big, fat reference book that homeopaths consult, Materia Medica, and then prescribed a remedy for Pupi. Following that, I witnessed something that I had never seen before, a kind of transformation so comprehensive that I could not recognize my own dog: Pupi stopped scratching, her skin became soft and the bald patches filled up with fur; black pigment returned around her eyes, mouth and nose, and her behaviour changed! She became playful, jumping and bouncing about happily, with a smile on her puppy face, friendly to other people, and to her brother. She looked like a different dog! Later on when otherwise big-shot winner Dubi displayed unwanted aggression, Miri prescribed a remedy he only took once, and became peaceful like a lamb – well, sort of. I was amazed.

When I went to see Shmuel Shalev for my own health, I was suffering with so many symptoms, and I was being so unhappy, and so hypochondriac, that I was convinced that whatever illness I had was terminal. The first, initial visit was lengthy, and my new homeopath wanted to know what seemed to me the most bizarre details of my personality, preferences and life habits. An outgoing extrovert who has a harder time keeping quiet than talking, I happily answered all the questions, some of them through tears, actually, many of them through tears, and in the end of the session, after a few minutes of staring at his computer screen, Shmuel went to the other room and returned to a post-it-note paper folded in four, inside a couple of tiny sugar pellets that he placed under my tongue.

It took some time and patience before I was able to notice improvements – apparently it is easier and faster to heal puppies than human adults – and when I did, when the allergies disappeared, I threw away the nasal drops and spray, and proceeded to breathe fully and freely; the next citrus blooming seasons became a treat to my senses, for a change. Chronic food sensitivities disappeared, together with other chronic problems, and mentally I became remarkably stronger, more confident, more daring, more outspoken, able to make sorely needed life and work changes, like getting a transfer to a better branch at the bank where I was working at, negotiating better working conditions, and winning; later I dared quitting my banking career to pursue healing arts.

The tiny little sugar pellets enabled me and my dogs to enjoy life and each other better than I had thought possible.

Changes

The dogs slept in bed, over the cover, which left both Tibi and I half naked at night. Then we switched to two separate covers. Little by little we switched to two separate lives. We had poor chemistry and we did not agree upon anything except Dubi and Pupi’s wellbeing. When it came to the dogs, we were both willing to give time, money, attention and effort and we were able to place their happiness before our own differences. We babied the dogs. At first Tibi complained to me: “You sneaked the dogs into my life through the back door!” then later, not much later, he was head over heels in love with them, and happy to have them in his life, as I was.

Ashdod is a harbour city south of Tel-Aviv, on the Mediterranean coast. I lived walking distance from the beach, and the way to the beach led through Gan Eli-Sheva, a park where dogs and people socialized. There are cultures who are biased against dogs, and fearful of them: “Lady, keep your dogs on a short leash!” stressed, high-pitched voices would tell me. And then there was the dog-loving tribe hanging out the park exchanging chitchat and stories while the dogs roamed around. Most of the animals were intact, and freely flowing sex hormones together with that extra competitive feel in the Israeli air made dogs often fight with each other, especially dogs of the same gender. Dubi was half the size of Rottweilers, and eager to pick up on them. One day this almost cost his life and my mental sanity: he ran straight to a Rottie on leash to tell him who’s the Boss of the park and barked his little head off at him; the Rottie said: “Oh, really?”, then picked Dubi by the skin of his neck, and shook him up in the air several times, while I was running and screaming. The big guy eventually placed Dubi down and I ran my hands on his body looking for anything damaged. To my huge relief, nothing was broken, not even the skin, so harm done, but something had to be done about the dogs' behaviour and Tibi and I went to look up the newspapers for dog obedience schools. We found one and travelled to this jail-looking in-residence training place out of town, where we were supposed to leave the dogs in with them, in a cage, until they’d return back to us all well-trained. Tibi and I both cringed and returned home to deal with our dog’s behaviour according to our own common sense, which was reasonable and not sufficient. We proceeded to limit Dubi’s off leash time where safe, and Pupi was able to go as she pleased: she never went far, never picked fights, and was easy to walk with. Even on the leash, the two of them were a sight, each pulling in their own direction, so walking with them looked like I was water skiing, and they were the boat pulling me.

Summer time walks at the beach were early, around 6:00 or 7:00 am, before the day was too hot to be outside. Dubi and Pupi ran fast through the water, growling playfully at the sea breeze, chasing each other in large circles while I was walking barefoot on the wet sand at the water’s edge. When I went in for a swim, the dogs dutifully guarded our towel and clothes, their fail-proof security method consisting of sitting with wet, sandy bums and paws on them. When she was one year old, Pupi was terrified watching me disappear in the water, and would howl in despair. Then she learned I’d come back. Both dogs were invited to join me in the water, but the Medditerranean sea is always wavy and not appealing to small dogs, so they just stayed on the very shallow edge and played.

Top left: Dubi with the TV remotes; Top right: Dubi with my friend Dana and her daughter Tamar; Bottom left: Dubi eating watermelon straight from the shell; Bottom right: Dubi finger-fed by nephew Eitan.

One day I saw a young woman in the Gan Eli-Sheva park, who was peacefully reading a book under a tree, a miniature black Poodle calmly sniffing the grass, keeping close to her. I decided that I was going to do the same as the woman, and on next trip to the park, I brought a book with me. I placed my back against a tree, unleashed the dogs, opened my book, and took a deep sigh of delight. Then a breeze brought a whiff of something that smelled not quite right. Did I step into something? I checked my soles, they were clean. I looked around – Pupi was close, checking the trees – so nothing there. I then turned my head and almost fainted: Dubi’s hair was brown, wet and spiked in smelly crests; he had rolled in a (drunken) human poop, and was highly pleased with himself. Letting Dubi loose and reading outdoors proved themselves incompatible. I ran home keeping the troublemaker at a distance from me and his sister, and at home I bathed the three of us. I didn’t kiss Dubi for a full two weeks.

At the time I was working at one of the largest banks in Israel, in a branch that was sizzling with office politics and interpersonal conflict, and I was miserably unhappy working there. I worked in the import-export department, which made my life more bearable, because I liked dealing with international payments and transactions, and most of all, I liked working with business clients, and they liked me right back. The work week was still six days at the time (we already established how old I was, didn't we!), of which three days were working a split-shift, and I was commuting from my home in Ashdod to my bank's branch in Rehovot, leaving home at 7:30 am and returning three days a week around 6:00 pm. My next door neighbour was the Romanian mother of my family doctor, a friendly woman in her seventies who loved dogs; she came in daily to check on Dubi and Pupi and she’d call me at work to tell me if there ever was a problem, like the day when she went in to find the television turned on, and the TV remote in bed, with Dubi. With so many hours on their own, a dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do! Dubi helped himself with the remote control device, and for as long as he didn't lit up a cigarette or pour himself a drink as well, I was okay with it.

Sharing the love and affection with Vanda's Mother

I always knew myself as fearful and shy, and all my attempts at receiving a work transfer to a branch close to home were failed. I kept asking my manager to transfer me, and approached him not too often, always in a sweet, people-pleasing voice. My health had been failing, and I suffered of migraine headaches and back pain, and I wanted an easier life, less travel, more pleasant work culture, and more time to be with my dogs. I felt guilty for locking them away in my apartment for so many hours.  When a Tel-Avic headquarters highly positioned director visited my branch and talked about the importance of saving the bank’s money, I surprised myself and everyone else by standing up, and speaking up loudly and clearly, with strength and confidence: “If saving is so important, why does the bank employ people from out of town and pay them travel expenses?” The homeopathic remedy was working, and I was finding a kind of strength and courage that I hadn’t know before. I soon moved to a smaller branch with friendly, welcoming atmosphere, still a commute from Ashdod, but I negotiated and won working straight hours, no more split shifts, and I went home early every day, early enough to have time to live life and love dogs.

Soon after moving my workplace, I moved home too. The new place was a more spacious apartment, with one bedroom and a balcony out from the living room, both of them facing East, so I would walke up with the early morning sun bathing my face in golden warmth. It was a pleasant little place with an open view to tree tops and a road, and the dogs adopted their new home quickly. Tibi and I naturally drifted apart, and our relationship switched from being a couple to being friends, which worked much better for all of us. He moved to a different place a bit before I did, and the dogs went to stay with me, but he helped caring for them like a loving dog dad: bought them food, took them for walks, and our dog care remained joined effort.

Time to Say Goodbye

Tibi started dating. We still spent lots of time together, and he was driving me to work every morning, and picked me up in the afternoon, which gave us time to chat more than when we were a couple. When he dated a woman who worked as an art therapist, I was intrigued. It sounded like she was helping people somehow. I remember pondering on the stark contrast between the profound dislike banking clients had towards the financial institution, and the possibility of doing a different job, a kind of work that makes people happy. I started telling myself and others that I’d like to do some kind of work where I'd be able to help people. I asked my doctor friend, Iudith, what she knew about art therapy, and when she told me that the training took about four years, I was disappointed. I was in my late thirties and wanted to learn something that helped me change my work faster than that.

My prayers were answered soon with my discovering of Reiki, and I became initiated and trained in the Japanese healing art. Within two short days I was able to place my hands over others’ bodies, people and animals, and help them relax and reduce pain. A distance relationship with a Canadian man pointed towards a possible future with him in Canada, and foreseeing the end of my banking career with an expected life change and relocation, I quit my job at the bank, printed business cards, put a sign on the door saying "Tana Saler, Holistic Therapies", bought a treatment table with a chair, and became a healer.

Tibi found a woman with whom he shared chemistry; she was a Romanian journalist divorcée who had a son and shared my love for animals and romance, and they got married. When Tibi married Ramona, Dubi and Pupi moved with him, his new wife, and his step-son, Darie. We did what we always did, whatever was best for the dogs. As Graciela the vet once told me, dogs need stability. Tibi was the first one to get married, and his wife immigrated to Israel and moved in with him. I got to visit the dogs and dog-sit when needed. We were still an extended family.

And then one day I married my Canadian long-distance boyfriend, and in June 2000 I said goodbye to my family, my friends, and to Dubi and Pupi, and flew away to Canada.

Dubi with his young human, Tibi and Ramona's daughter Maia