tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89210489480621389792024-02-19T19:27:13.663-05:00Caring for KinookThe story of a fifteen-year friendship and companionship with the best dog in (Tana's) the world, Kinook, and the growth and life lessons acquired while caring for her.Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-62839998238522667182017-11-01T14:38:00.000-04:002017-11-01T14:38:02.918-04:00The Single Dog Mom<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">June 2003: Kinook and I remained alone in the house. I felt responsible for her, like a mother to a child. I was juggling work, social life, caring for myself and for her in this aftermath of intense emotional drama, and with a great deal of uncertainty on financial resources. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Not having children of my own makes it difficult to judge the degree of challenges a mother faces, and from where I was looking, as a single woman caring for a dog, it seemed to me that children were easier to look after than dogs. Children are welcome everywhere - there are no sign in stores, doctors’ offices, office buildings or parks that read: “No kids allowed”. But dogs - at least in Ottawa, Canada - they are a different story: dogs are not allowed in most shopping malls, all restaurants, many offices and office buildings, and unless they are service dogs, they are certainly banned from grocery stores. Only specific parks in town are dog-friendly, and none of the beaches, including the public beaches on natural lakes in national parks, allow dogs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">What this meant for me, as a single care-taker for Kinook, was that if I tried to lump my chores in one travel, and combine shopping and various appointments with dog-care and walking, I had to leave Kinook in the car, which was only possible in the colder weather, to make it safe for her, as car interiors get too hot in the summer. I would not dare tie my dog in front of stores and leave her on the street - what if somebody steals her? I couldn’t risk that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I have no close family this side of the Ocean, so Kinook filled in the role of sister, daughter and close friend. I became really creative in finding places where I could go with her and things to do where I could include her. When I would set playdates with friends, and someone would propose a place to go to, I would immediately check: “Is it dog-friendly?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">One summer day I met with my two friends, Lucie and Anne, and went for a stroll in Ottawa’s Byward Market - a central place of shopping and entertainment for the young and bohemian crowds. Kinook was on leash, by my side, her suburban canine self utterly curious and intrigued by the downtown smells and busyness. Lunchtime pulled us towards an Italian restaurant with patio tables. I tried my luck and asked the owner: “Could we have lunch at a patio table? We have a dog…” Luckily the owner wanted our business more than he feared Health Canada laws, and allowed us in. I was at my happiest, out with girlfriends, and with my puppy-girl by my side. Why is it such a thrill to do things with your dog? I can’t remember being so thrilled going out on dates with sexy men - and I have been out on dates with quite a few lovely, sexy, great men! Maybe it’s a offer versus demand thing: places to go with your dogs are so scarce, that when you find one, it feels like you won the lottery. Maybe I’d be less thrilled in a place like Yellowknife, where people take their dogs everywhere. Everyone in Yellowknife seems to drive trucks instead of cars, and every truck has a large, calm, fluffy dog riding in or on it, enjoying the scenery and their rides with their humans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Canal Ritz restaurant on the water is one of those grey areas where taking your dog out for dinner is legitimate thanks to logistics: the restaurant’s patio is fenced by a low, simple fence which makes the separation between inside and outside merely symbolic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So I would go for a meal with my puppy girl and tie her outside on the fence, then sit at the table right next to her, on the inside. I could touch her, pet her, and feed her my steak (of course!) while we were dining together but legally, she was not in the restaurant. This became one of the places you go primarily not for the food, but for the company and view. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Look! Squeaky toys!” I would tell Kinook, pointing my fingers towards the ducks lazily floating on the Rideau Canal waters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“How underwhelmingly interesting” my placid working breed of a dog would say with her eyes and body language. She had no interest in either chasing birds, or squeaking toys. “Is there more steak on your plate for me?” she’d inquire instead. Requesting steak from a human’s plate is a time proven tradition, way more effective than duck-chasing and a much better use of an Akita’s time. The mark of an intelligent dog is that she knows that the source of her food is the human’s plate and fridge, and not so much on the land, so it’s important to know where to place one’s efforts and attention.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Kinook and I walked often at the Arboretum, a doggie-friendly park filled with interesting specimen trees, a lovely park unfolding further down from the Canal Ritz on the Rideau Canal. There was a “doggie beach” at the park, where water-loving dogs would swim, retrieve sticks and balls, or try their luck chasing ducks and geese. One day we watched a black Labrador Retriever stalk a bunch of ducks up and down the water, while his human was patiently watching the scene from a bench. “The self-entertaining, self-exercising dog” I thought, my eyes on this scene which looked like a live clip of a doggie comics cartoon: the black Lab swimming up and down, following the ducks with committed aplomb, neither bored or discouraged enough to give up, nor eager enough to get tired ; the ducks were just enough annoyed to try and get away from the dog, but not threatened enough to flee. So the pursued and pursuer swam up and down, up and down. And Kinook - she couldn’t be bothered. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Kinook had a thing for squirrels though. She took more interest in creatures who jumped, ran and climbed up trees, than water creatures who swam. Her double coat getting heavy while in water kept her interested in dry land endeavours, while her greatest aquatic adventures consisted in wading through the water with an open mouth so she could step forward and drink at the same time, in examining the occasional fish or frog, ears perked up and rotating to the sides, like satellite dishes. Occasionally she’d jump up and stomp in the shallow water with a sudden splash in a half-hearted attempt to catch that fish or frog by surprise - but really, without placing all her bets on the move.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But chasing squirrels on dry land, that was a different kind of game: it was entrancing, compelling, deeply engaging, and it had a very specific procedure to it. First, you watch the squirrel from afar. You lower yourself by flexing the knees, you lower your tail, and the ears go pointing forth. You gently walk forward towards the squirrel, as silently as you can, treading lightly over the tops of fresh, dewy blades of grass. You walk step by step, stop for a short while with one front leg in the air, smelling the breeze coming the way of your nostrils from the squirrel. And when you’re close enough to the target, you sprint with your full speed towards it, and give it your all to reach it! When the inevitable happens, and the little creature has climbed up a tree (why, oh, why do they put trees wherever there are squirrels? It’s not fair!) you sit under the tree, looking up at your almost-caught game, and speak up your mind from the tops of your lungs: “I see you! I know where you are! Come on down here, you pesky little squirrel! Come on down, and make my day!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Is it a coincidence that all my friends are animal lovers, and particularly dog-lovers? It so happens that all the houses I have been invited to for visits and dinner, have been open to me together with my dog - except those houses with territorial cats, but for some reason I don’t remember myself visiting many of those houses. I do, however, remember visiting Gabriela’s house in Gatineau, the Quebequois (French Canadian) city right across the river from Ottawa. Gabriela and I share the same cultural background, both born and raised in Bucharest, Romania, and as we found out in our conversations, we even attended the same school, but in different years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Gabriela was a single Mum for her (human) daughter. She loves people (she’s a medical doctor), and she loves animals. Kinook and I entered her home, we humans gathered for chats and tea, and Ms. Pup went on to do what she needed to do when on new grounds: she went exploring. There’s a great deal of new smells to take in when on a visit, so she went ahead meticulously examining Gabriela’s house room by room, her life enriched by the novelty of the experience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In the middle of the conversation, we heard a far away bark. “Wroof!” And then a pause. Then again, “Wrrroof!” And another pause. And it went on and on with committed, predictable barks, neither too flimsy nor too enthusiastic, spaced out at about five seconds apart. We went looking and found that the sounds came from upstairs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Oh!” Exclaimed Gabriela on our way up the stairs. “She must have found Gogu”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Gogu is a ubiquitous male name in Romania.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Who’s Gogu?” I asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“The Hamster” she replied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We found Kinook planted in front of Gogu’s cage, staring him in the eye, intrigued and bedazzled by this creature that she couldn’t reach in spite of it not climbing up a tree, and she kept interrogating him: “Who are you?” Pause. “What are you?” Pause. “Come on out!” Pause. “Look at me!” Pause. “Come on out!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Gabriela took Gogu out of his cage, and we were both (scientifically) curious to see what would happen in an encounter between our furry friends. She carefully held Gogu in her hand, and sheltered him in case Kinook would decide to consume him as her treat; then she placed her under the nose of her curious visitor. Kinook sniffed carefully, filling the data files in her brain with the new information, and then she gently licked the hamster twice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It wasn’t the exuberant, affectionate sloppy and slobbery kind of a lick that translates to the human kiss which the more passionate dogs are known to do. It was a careful procedure of curious exploration to complement her sense of smell, where she employed the taste buds on the tip of her tongue (specialized on hamster-tasting, I am sure!) to get all the information that she could on Gogu, which proved satisfactory enough given Gogu’s silence and stubborn reluctance to answer any of Kinook’s interrogation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The encounter was short-lived, as Kinook’s short attention span being that of a typical Akita, a breed too intelligent and curious to be captured by one single event for too long, so once satisfied with the smell-taste introduction to the hamster, she went on to explore new corners of our hostess’s home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The most difficult part of being a single Mom for Kinook was caring for her during the times I needed to travel out of town. I had to find a good, reliable dog sitter. And I did. On one of our walks to the Conroy Pit doggie park, we found the business card of a woman who offered “A home away from home” to dogs. I called. The woman was freshly retired from her job as a computer science college teacher whose dream was to come home to a moving carpet made of dogs. She had two fluffy canine creatures of her own, and she went on advertising for her retirement occupation as a dog-sitter. The woman, Penny, was a true dog lover. She lived in a two-storey townhouse across from a park, had a dog-friendly car (a van) for chauffeuring her clients to the off-leash grounds, and had turned her house into a doggie day-care place with walk-in crates under the stairs, toys, and a hall-of-fame wall in the entrance hallway showing the portrait photos of her favourite clients. Kinook’s face was on top of the pile! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Kinook proceeded to steal Penny’s heart, and upon my returns from travels, when going to pick her up and bring her home, I would hear stories of what she had done, like staring at Penny’s dinner pizza until she got her share. One time I came to pick Kinook up, and she came to greet me, her Akita-enthusiastic tail vibrating extended way beyond the usual two seconds, and then she returned to a marrow bone she was chewing with an outstanding exuberance and a delighted smile on her face. I will never know for sure, but when I think of it now, she was so happy at Penny’s that I think I could have left her there, and she would have been as happy as she was running to our car to go home with me. Penny was clearly the dog-sitter made in Heaven, and a fur baby’s single Mom’s best friend!</span></div>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-15364961747741949522016-08-15T16:42:00.000-04:002016-08-15T16:56:10.056-04:00The Dark Night of the Soul<div class="MsoNormal">
What makes a human’s destiny has been the subject of endless
debates – is it predestined conditions, family genetics, life experiences, or
life choices? Is it written in the stars, or can a human make their own good
luck and good fortune? </div>
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What is even more mysterious is what makes the destiny of a
dog? Anyone who has lived with dog siblings from the same mother and father
will attest that there is more to it than genetics or astrology: animals born on
the same day, to the same parents, under the same conditions, develop
differently and have different life paths. Is it karma? Is it chaos? Who knows?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTKqL0NiemZoYvA_FoV-9c0gl_pIiorUD5bcJCFxppksIRxN-v_kzANw-u-2HsH1tsJLsixLBS9xBcRFG0qDpQppcFeUpf6Y6Qn5NFBbZNTEGPLZE180En98Fe9TPeWB734KG1b_TgA4/s640/blogger-image-2038679561.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTKqL0NiemZoYvA_FoV-9c0gl_pIiorUD5bcJCFxppksIRxN-v_kzANw-u-2HsH1tsJLsixLBS9xBcRFG0qDpQppcFeUpf6Y6Qn5NFBbZNTEGPLZE180En98Fe9TPeWB734KG1b_TgA4/s640/blogger-image-2038679561.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ED4sQHBFAcu_PnexQiSiBXA9Si92hF5k7TKovstqxA2THU8RDVrvDBErcvpDRStYM5KA1qFtMRYf_1FH-JLDS-5j-QtXU-qrxIHvojg_C4gUiSui3pYxo0UTwEdv-asexeu36lbqwLI/s640/blogger-image--1039536185.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ED4sQHBFAcu_PnexQiSiBXA9Si92hF5k7TKovstqxA2THU8RDVrvDBErcvpDRStYM5KA1qFtMRYf_1FH-JLDS-5j-QtXU-qrxIHvojg_C4gUiSui3pYxo0UTwEdv-asexeu36lbqwLI/s640/blogger-image--1039536185.jpg"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></a></div></div><br></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Kinook’s life started with stability and care, together with
a Mama, a Papa, two children and another dog, a female Lab. Then, when she was
one year and a half, she ended all by herself in a Humane Society cage, where
she lived for two months until we found each other. She came into our home
fully loved and wanted, a calm dog with serene brown eyes who trusted us from
day one, and had no fear of vet visits or thunder. You know how you can tell if
a dog has been abused and beaten? You raise your hand above when she can see
you: if the dog lowers her head in fear, she’s seen that gesture before, and it
caused her pain. Kinook had no connotation to the raised hand, it meant nothing
to her, and she watched me and my arm with slight boredom, the experiment
proving that she had no history of trauma or abuse.</div>
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Her new home, our home, was a detached house on a suburban
corner lot surrounded with lawn, flower gardens and cedar hedge. The Eastern
side of the garden, connecting the side door with the driveway, was fenced, and
safe for Miss Pup to go and sit outside on her own as she pleased. The upstairs
had a living room, three bedrooms, the kitchen and bathroom; the basement
recreation room, one bedroom and bathroom were claimed by my healing arts client
work and Reiki classes. My office desk was in the large recreation room, with
my back against the wall and my face facing the stairs. The utility room with
furnace, washer and dryer, and storage, were also downstairs and across from my
desk, to the left of the treatment room (the bedroom).</div>
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At first Kinook was clumsy walking down the stairs; she
sounded like a herd of cattle trotting around, neither her nor I being quite
sure of how exactly she placed her feet on those steps, in which order. She
didn’t go downstairs if she didn’t have to, and her first reason was to be
there where interesting action took place. </div>
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On a Saturday morning, as my Reiki students would start to
come in for a class, Kinook would come to the basement to check them out, each
one of the humans passing a nose test of her sniffing, often a taste test of
her tongue as well. Students were seated on chairs forming a circle, and Kinook
would lie down inside or outside of the circle and soak in the soothing feelings
of the Reiki class. During attunements, the transmission ceremony through which
I, as a Reiki Master, initiated the participants into becoming practitioners,
Kinook would stare attentively at my hands and at the space above my head,
making me wonder what was she seeing that I didn’t.</div>
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Then there were the times when the basement was sought as a
refuge...</div>
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My husband J.’s moods were unpredictable, and anything could
trigger him, at any time. Sometimes it was something that someone had said at
his office, at other times, a fellow passenger in the bus on his ride back
home. Most of the times, it was me, something I had done, or said, or didn’t
do, or didn’t say. No one would know in advance when his cheerful mood would
turn to gloom, and when it did, he’d be changed, his eyes bulging, his lower
lip pressed outward, his face distorted with anger, nose wrinkled, forehead
frowning. His voice would thunder and his pace would quicken, the sound of his
barefoot heels hitting the floor tiles with a thud, and he would rant about the
object of his anger, calling them (or me) names, wishing them (or me) bad
things to happen. The air around him would change, and a feeling of dread would
arise: my heart would race, my stomach tied up in knots, the upper body
collapsing over my waist, my limbs would feel cold, weak and shaky. </div>
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If I were at the computer, downstairs, behind my desk when
J. would arrive home triggered, Kinook would run down the stairs in her rushed,
clumsy way, and come to hide behind my chair. I would try to soothe and
reassure her, pretending I was calm; and I could lie with my words, but not
with my body: I was as scared as she was. Were we afraid of being harmed by J.?
Or did we both tune in empathically into his fears and trauma, and became
ourselves vicariously traumatised? All living things are like cells in an
organism, we communicate with each other whether consciously or not, and
through the mirror neurons that science has discovered, or perhaps through the
energy fields that mystics talk about, we tune into each other’s states of
being, and influence each other’s thoughts, feelings and sensations.</div>
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J.’s moods were unpredictable, and he was verbally violent,
cursing, threatening and insulting. He didn’t hit Kinook, but I found out from neighbours
that when he would walk alone with her, he’d tug at her leash violently,
impatient with her disobedience of him. When the three of us went for walks,
and when Kinook and I were alone, she obeyed me – I was her Alpha, and my
gentle voice and touch was convincing enough for her to come when I called,
stay close, within eye sight, or sit, or lie down. It was not so when J. walked
with her, and the more turbulent his emotional state, the less inclined Kinook
was to follow him; the more she’d disobey, the angrier, and more impatient he
would get, and when his leadership failed, he’d compensate with force by
tugging on the leash.</div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kinook’s calm slowly changed into anxiety and allergies. Her
skin became itchy, her eyes teary, and she scratched crying with irritation,
until her skin was bleeding, and an odor would ooze from the wounds. No one can
really say what caused the allergies, and to what extent they were
psycho-somatic and triggered by mental distress. The calm this gentle dog had
when she joined us was eroded, and gave way to anxiety and fear from sudden
noises and lights, from the camera flashlight to fireworks to lightning and
thunder. Her body shook often, and she sought refuge behind me.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
On June 13 2003 I was getting dressed to celebrate a friend’s
birthday. I had signed up for an art summer camp with the Ottawa School of Art,
a week of daily drawing and painting classes. I was already taking weekly
classes with a local community centre and painting watercolor on paper, and
acrylic on canvas. When in good mood, J. and I called each other ‘Motek’,
Hebrew for ‘Sweetie’. When in good mood, J. would watch me paint and fondly
call me; ‘Toulouse Motek’. </div>
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This afternoon the mood turned gloomy:</div>
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“How much did you pay for the classes?” J. asked.</div>
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“Two hundred dollars” I replied, my stomach tied in knots.</div>
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“Two hundred fucking dollars?!” he thundered back. “We don’t
have two hundred dollars! Where did you get the money?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I charged it to my credit card” I replied sheepishly.</div>
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Everything else went into a blur in that moment: his
thundering voice, something he said about this painting of mine being an
expensive hobby, his pacing with heavy, stiff legs, shaking the earth with resounding
thuds. I could feel my heart high in my chest, close to my throat, and my hands
were frozen. I watched helplessly Kinook who had started to pace, ears back in
distress, her eyes spelling fear, as she looked at J., at me, and at the door.
No-where for her to hide behind me now, she scratched the door with her right
front paw, asking to be let out. I let her out and thought, I can’t subject
this dog to this, it’s cruel. My thoughts were racing and muddy. I have to
rescue her. I’ll call the Humane Society to come and rescue her. I reached the
cordless phone, no phone number in mind. I muttered something about calling,
and J. came quickly towards me, towering over me with his fist hovering up in
the air, as he hissed: ‘Want to call the cops? You cow, you stupid, stupid cow!
I’ll give you a good reason to call the cops, I’ll hit you so hard, you won’t
be able to dial!’</div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s when I dialed. I dialed the only phone number I could
think of. I dialed 911.</div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
J. stooped and soon after an operator answered, he unplugged
the phone from the jack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within a few minutes, the living room phone rang. I ran to
answer.</div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Did someone at this number call 911?’ a female voice asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blurted loud and quick, as quick as I could, my home
address. </div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Is someone ill, ma’am?’ asked the voice</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No, my husband threatens to hit me!’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
J. ran to the living room, struggling with the stiffness of
his body to stoop low in order to find the phone jack behind the furniture and unplug
the chord. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We’re on our way to you Ma’am’ the voice reassured me. ‘Where
is your husband now? Can you put him on the phone for me?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
J. took the phone and controlled his voice: ‘Hi, no-one is
going to hurt my wife, Ma’m. She’s fine, there’s no reason to send a car here.
You folks have better things to do’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The car arrived. The things that always happen to others, or
in movies, but never to me, today were happening to me, to us. Police officers
separated J. and I, and compared our stories. They handcuffed him, and took him
away. An officer offered to drive me to the hospital, as I was shaky, crying
uncontrollably, and had sharp pain in my chest. I declined, unwilling to risk
being sedated with drugs, and I signed the papers for it. My friend Lucie came
by and remained to give me a hands-on Reiki treatment to help me sleep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kinook and I remained on our own, both shaken and unwell. I
had nightmares, dreaming that J. would take revenge on me and come to kill me,
and would wake up startled, hallucinating his voice thundering: ‘Fuck!’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kinook became too scared to walk, and it was heartbreaking
seeing her on the top of the driveway, looking suspiciously in all the
directions, planting herself on her behind on the pavement, unwilling to budge.
I had watched Cesar Milan’s Dog Whisperer programs, and using some of his
methods I managed to gently coax Kinook into going for walks; we’d make it to a
school’s fenced yard where dogs were welcome after hours, and once unleashed,
she was looking worried towards the gate, ready to head home on her own. She
had no joy in socializing, no joy out of our walks. And I felt guilty to have brought
a peaceful animal into my home, and wreck her mental health like that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before the summer was over, I managed to find a classical
homeopath veterinarian doctor to treat Kinook, Femma Van As. Kinook and I both
embarked on a journey to healing and coping. It was not easy, but we had each
other.</div>
<div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7R2cJRrWMyQebzqdKFQxPHwv4zz-qgQXjGqW-tLAJ9Xbq2s6lTOtQpXcjq-7T2GYQzxkzZaPbleRrrCCIUDPFPBRde4pMx5S4NAk_-3o-yndB0h_rTIejXWPnIyUtxUyxc_sM55mxog/s640/blogger-image--2102317343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7R2cJRrWMyQebzqdKFQxPHwv4zz-qgQXjGqW-tLAJ9Xbq2s6lTOtQpXcjq-7T2GYQzxkzZaPbleRrrCCIUDPFPBRde4pMx5S4NAk_-3o-yndB0h_rTIejXWPnIyUtxUyxc_sM55mxog/s640/blogger-image--2102317343.jpg"></a></div><br></div></div><br>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-13133009427810652852016-07-28T11:25:00.001-04:002016-07-28T12:23:20.108-04:00Why Alpha?<div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuDUxtANIBbCNQkmTtVWCtC2E5bD2SKuHDzNqdeacwtuFOcs2CpHFKhVv1XGqtt4TyQWbbekXve5GZtsRNIzGihwuaDNjdGbFe4U0FqZGlcytwU5OemwU3RGikMx49H31BF8_Pu5VTd0/s640/blogger-image-536211535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuDUxtANIBbCNQkmTtVWCtC2E5bD2SKuHDzNqdeacwtuFOcs2CpHFKhVv1XGqtt4TyQWbbekXve5GZtsRNIzGihwuaDNjdGbFe4U0FqZGlcytwU5OemwU3RGikMx49H31BF8_Pu5VTd0/s640/blogger-image-536211535.jpg"></a></div></div><i style="font-weight: bold;">The case for leadership in dog care</i></span></div><div><br></div><div>When do you and puppy cross the road? When there's a squirrel on the other side, or when it's safe to do so? And whose decision is it?</div><div><br></div><div>There is confusion between dominance and leadership. Dominance is a forceful attempt to control others, emerging from helplessness and frustration; it's a decision based on deficiency. Leaders are calm and assertive influencers of their environment, who act on purpose. Leaders can be kind and powerful, whether a human Dalai Lama or a canine Border Collie herding the sheep with calm and poise. </div><div><br></div><div>I remember seeing my friend Natasha crying the premature death of her miniature poodle after she ate a poisoned bit left by the garbage bin by a cruel, malevolent human. The dog was on a leash, and faster to swallow than my friend's attempts to get her to spit. It was tragic.</div><div><br></div><div>Who decides whether a chicken bone from the garbage bin is a good idea for a snack, your dog, or you? And if your command: 'Leave it!' or 'Drop!' is successful, was this an act of evil dominance, or loving care - effective loving care?</div><div><br></div><div>The Alpha dog doesn't bark her head off, or bite: she elegantly embodies love and power and with just one look and the right stance, the pack will follow.</div><div><br></div><div>There is a family who adores their dog, but when it comes to obedience, they feel frustrated and annoyed. They constantly scream from the top of their lungs at their dog, whenever there's too much barking or running around, and they did exactly the same thing with their previous dog before this one. It is not the dog that causes the screaming: it is what these people do. </div><div><br></div><div>The Alpha doesn't scream: she whispers. The Alpha doesn't scream, because she doesn't have to! The Alpha embodies love and power in her stance, her breathing, her movement, her touch and her voice. The Alpha protects, provides, soothes and leads the way to safety. </div><div><br></div><div>The Alpha leads with elegance.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaphAazlwKaWIzO15YL9md_T1uQz5TFPVsAKgXOA5yInODcrY0YyRZITLMAZC2j1y6FdPmEYRMD5gL26o7V0IICgzZy2CDjoztj9Yefu5Yaps4Cjj1H2ds1NgXBceHpaRgHlpZMBBkB64/s640/blogger-image--1292636357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaphAazlwKaWIzO15YL9md_T1uQz5TFPVsAKgXOA5yInODcrY0YyRZITLMAZC2j1y6FdPmEYRMD5gL26o7V0IICgzZy2CDjoztj9Yefu5Yaps4Cjj1H2ds1NgXBceHpaRgHlpZMBBkB64/s640/blogger-image--1292636357.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>In this photo I'm sticking my face in Kinook's bowl to teach her that it's okay for me to handle her food. She first got worried at my 'Yum! Yum!' sounds, but quickly got to make peace with my touching her meals.</i></div><br></div>Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-7283432608231639412016-07-04T10:04:00.001-04:002016-07-04T10:47:27.639-04:00New Driver, New Passenger<span style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">I'm a late bloomer. The good part of it is, when all the other flowers are starting to wilt, I bloom. All my friends got their driver's licence when they were in their late teens; me, in my late thirties. More precisely, at thirty nine and a half. </span><br><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">I had just moved to Yellowknife to join my newly wed husband J., and had plenty of time on my hands, so why not take driving lessons. At first I was quite nervous, whatiffing myself: what if I am too old to learn new tricks? What if my reflexes are too slow? What if I'm too emotional to be let loose on highways?</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">My driving instructor was reassuring: "You are a very good driver - you have a bit of a heavy foot on the acceleration, but other than that, you'll be just fine". And I was. The road test was a piece of cake: the city is too small for accidents, with traffic too light, and not enough lanes to change; the only time of the day where a bad driver stands the chance to make an accident is between 4:55 and 5:00 pm sharp, when the government employees rush home, time fondly known as the city's rush minute.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">We bought a family car when we moved to Ottawa, in the end of the year 2000. Now, if you are a new driver behind the wheel in your own town and neighbourhood, you kind of know your way around when you switch chairs from passenger's to driver's. This wasn't my case - I was new in Ottawa, new behind the wheel, newly married and newly Canadian, and quite overwhelmed putting it all together. There was tension between two of my inner voices: one side of me saying: "Go, drive, be free!" while the other voice, and quite a loud one too, was saying, in a high pitch: "Whaat? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you know how people die in car accidents?!?" I could feel both voices inside my body, the fear tightening my stomach in a knot, while the voice of my soul opening my chest in warm spaciousness, warmth spreading all around my arms and the rest of my body.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">At first I drove with J. in the car with me, but my husband's temperament was far from reassuring: he'd lit a cigarette, puff nervously on it, and instruct me with an alarmed voice to go that way or this way by stretching his index finger in front of my face. J. was so stressed by my driving practice, he'd dream about it at night, and I'd hear him yell in his sleep: "It's green! Go, go go!!!"</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">The first time I drove alone, it was both scary and liberating. My worst fear was of getting lost - this was before GPS and electronic maps and sexy voices telling you where to go while keeping their fingers to themselves. The next scare to overcome was driving on the highway. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21hVedRtDrDeJwU7BWFC9tOwS4qY0fgZhG4oGLkdf3X1uGkFlmRB4ibrIuM1mJgiittsgstpT3jAiutuSP2-k5JJ7VeiBgUxJljQkP5hrL0iQ3wCy4rPlm30hsU2gygraxpTDejCvmKY/s640/blogger-image-1606170119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21hVedRtDrDeJwU7BWFC9tOwS4qY0fgZhG4oGLkdf3X1uGkFlmRB4ibrIuM1mJgiittsgstpT3jAiutuSP2-k5JJ7VeiBgUxJljQkP5hrL0iQ3wCy4rPlm30hsU2gygraxpTDejCvmKY/s640/blogger-image-1606170119.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">And then the scariest of all was driving the most precious cargo I was in charge of, my new puppy girl Kinook. She sat on the back seat, nose glued to the window, checking the sites for a while, then sat back on her tail, calmly gazing ahead of her. We went on exploratory drives together, spiralling around our home, every time widening the circle of our exploration as my confidence grew. </div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">One night I took the wrong turn on the highway, and instead of heading towards home, I found myself across the river, in Quebec, driving towards Montreal, with nowhere to stop and consult the paper map. I muttered "Oh, shit!" and briefly turned to look at Kinook, who shared none of my fears, but looked at me with her characteristic calm, serious face.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;">"She trusts me!" I noticed. I looked up from my new driver tunnel vision and followed the road signs. I followed the road and drove us back home, to live up to my dog's trust in me.</div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><br></div><div style="color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ypxT83bNzVyZbGWkSRBj3TY-u-1YDqLq3Ukqs6Aza3y4IwE3EE-VtR_8fTxZ74kfGYOTQ7JgcjDa-2U8xUDL095sAcxsc4TbbvIONW75ZxeUCcpJlIB5xWAGpOiLWrzkdpR7nMeDguw/s640/blogger-image--1719919069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ypxT83bNzVyZbGWkSRBj3TY-u-1YDqLq3Ukqs6Aza3y4IwE3EE-VtR_8fTxZ74kfGYOTQ7JgcjDa-2U8xUDL095sAcxsc4TbbvIONW75ZxeUCcpJlIB5xWAGpOiLWrzkdpR7nMeDguw/s640/blogger-image--1719919069.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6bBCTDZ-33D6unhWSvV6Tq9paj-9bYSAuvkQuLZzeiVafc3jIINMZK-S3jc4Rg74M3QpxFNAtOYAZzo8feIn3YJ_6w1koWyt5WT4W1W6Edppg7iweUMo8wlOgF447_t0gspFrWcoEwE/s640/blogger-image-2057563539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ6bBCTDZ-33D6unhWSvV6Tq9paj-9bYSAuvkQuLZzeiVafc3jIINMZK-S3jc4Rg74M3QpxFNAtOYAZzo8feIn3YJ_6w1koWyt5WT4W1W6Edppg7iweUMo8wlOgF447_t0gspFrWcoEwE/s640/blogger-image-2057563539.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div><br></div>Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-50314030235945924202016-06-26T14:55:00.001-04:002016-06-26T15:05:15.566-04:00Eros and Dogs<div class="MsoNormal">
The Greek language has different names for different types
of love: Philia, Caritas, Pragma, Eros, Agape.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGMLb5Rt1Ix8BJvyGFsYlojlWaEqzGdK9QUtk3sgh-_ymRBbWeR07-IUk-455JE3sXRlKs1KwGe1oltk8Rwfl_ZbbJszh0re2_b96y8fBAtiReCUdDQIRa8kX70NBUoATYuT6xLV40to/s1600/IMG_5066.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGMLb5Rt1Ix8BJvyGFsYlojlWaEqzGdK9QUtk3sgh-_ymRBbWeR07-IUk-455JE3sXRlKs1KwGe1oltk8Rwfl_ZbbJszh0re2_b96y8fBAtiReCUdDQIRa8kX70NBUoATYuT6xLV40to/s640/IMG_5066.PNG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trading Hugs for Food!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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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. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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”.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQSKl-P4FcF8ZKfbjbElyxgZfJGnnqdULRt1n_9Fjau6DFUuVPvyns0hNhBh7DkS67GjT4rSiJ5UuYEsut9varJnHTQ4Y3NvsGyzoe2Ge0hLLCJzRkIoxNeqQbAIVV-Cob8LWPmlks9E/s1600/Memoirs_0049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQSKl-P4FcF8ZKfbjbElyxgZfJGnnqdULRt1n_9Fjau6DFUuVPvyns0hNhBh7DkS67GjT4rSiJ5UuYEsut9varJnHTQ4Y3NvsGyzoe2Ge0hLLCJzRkIoxNeqQbAIVV-Cob8LWPmlks9E/s640/Memoirs_0049.jpg" width="631" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Embracing Kinook upon her arrival in my life - June 2001</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-803822556583826042016-06-20T11:58:00.000-04:002016-06-20T11:58:39.334-04:00I Miss You - A dialogue<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Ookie, I miss you so
much”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I see how sad you
are. I wish you weren’t sad. I want to see your head lift up.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Kinook, my love, I
feel so much love coming from you!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“You are my Alpha
human!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“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?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“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.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Would you choose me
over other humans?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“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.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“What was it like
inside you? What was the pain like? Did I keep you for too long?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“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.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“This conversation
helps me, Kinook. Is this helpful to you too? Could we talk again?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I’m sleepy. Let me
rest.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“What do you want me
to do with your ashes?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Scatter them over the
Billings Estate graveyard, I’d like that. Bring those two cookies as well.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I will, my love. Rest
in peace.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8zZ7G0gjBtOEnZbzI2wq0_thMZSOUWlxMu0t3A8MrKKqB60qkA0Rw7_JZb7SqbPAVaxCUQU6AOASjcN5OSzbXVfqrV8DCKBOWF4pmsAo8Rqlmb8yUbjby7xJshHbY2nOwDOS5cF48hE/s1600/October+2007+-+the+Beautiful+Canadian+Leafs+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8zZ7G0gjBtOEnZbzI2wq0_thMZSOUWlxMu0t3A8MrKKqB60qkA0Rw7_JZb7SqbPAVaxCUQU6AOASjcN5OSzbXVfqrV8DCKBOWF4pmsAo8Rqlmb8yUbjby7xJshHbY2nOwDOS5cF48hE/s1600/October+2007+-+the+Beautiful+Canadian+Leafs+001.jpg" /></a></div>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-24963661905377277672016-06-17T15:48:00.000-04:002016-06-19T18:54:39.496-04:00No Dogs Allowed!<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2JVHg6EOZ5f6SLOdKFCYGvwIGVLsxttzVrqdo1OLWeOUQtzbvva2_ngpeHdZHXwVYjXAiXjg7zYj1VEzWQxD3qo1j9_KwzriG6KejeIp5OotuUHw8607_rA1xKxS4mMtVMiNT_zU5Ok/s640/blogger-image-241553511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2JVHg6EOZ5f6SLOdKFCYGvwIGVLsxttzVrqdo1OLWeOUQtzbvva2_ngpeHdZHXwVYjXAiXjg7zYj1VEzWQxD3qo1j9_KwzriG6KejeIp5OotuUHw8607_rA1xKxS4mMtVMiNT_zU5Ok/s640/blogger-image-241553511.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kinook at the lake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9D2q1GFMqzCYtjJU_t3w-n7se6_1eG7Ef1a6Xyolu9Gq2d3w_LS_HhV5M6ZBkeSP4wHGbcq5JKmgCcxnr371L2UA4M5INdX9G2qa-cniSl5gXXGO-1Ndv-AWKDMz5FYQ_oY17P_d83A/s640/blogger-image-331180583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9D2q1GFMqzCYtjJU_t3w-n7se6_1eG7Ef1a6Xyolu9Gq2d3w_LS_HhV5M6ZBkeSP4wHGbcq5JKmgCcxnr371L2UA4M5INdX9G2qa-cniSl5gXXGO-1Ndv-AWKDMz5FYQ_oY17P_d83A/s640/blogger-image-331180583.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wooden bridge on the way to the beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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“Is there a beach where we can take our dog?” I asked the
officer.</div>
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“No ma’am, all public beaches are banned to dogs”</div>
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“Why?” I asked.</div>
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“For health reasons, ma’am” and then he added, "It's Health Canada regulations, ma'm!"</div>
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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!</div>
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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?”</div>
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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.”</div>
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“How do I find the beach?” I asked, pretty sure that nudism
bothered me much less than no-dogs beaches.</div>
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“Oh, that’s easy!” the man replied, pointing towards a small
plaque nailed on a tree: “Just follow the ‘Nudism Prohibited’ signs!”</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7yFZ-4q3C2hu_iosWkxs63fR0HtvrEXc7_WllCxyt9k5FVkJrHB6pU70kk-21qVEtAGM3Gck4M22hiJLhKRtBRkMUWzp49UOlBdSxtz-mOWldtGk9UGUxU9r9L-2g5kZ6DzvRFI6f5v0/s640/blogger-image--574262070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7yFZ-4q3C2hu_iosWkxs63fR0HtvrEXc7_WllCxyt9k5FVkJrHB6pU70kk-21qVEtAGM3Gck4M22hiJLhKRtBRkMUWzp49UOlBdSxtz-mOWldtGk9UGUxU9r9L-2g5kZ6DzvRFI6f5v0/s640/blogger-image--574262070.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just follow the signs!</td></tr>
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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, s<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">unlight s</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">parkling 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.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wading in shallow water</td></tr>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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</div>
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planting herself
in front of whoever was eating their lunch, shaking an unsolicited paw, staring
at their sandwich. </div>
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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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> 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.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRudZELkPH077uYhDl_kW7PitAgP2Y-Lpjn4DJcchMjEVQVuVCT8g0tlAf7cSvx6tqDvnUWdqQcOZKAUzCDNbCK0EzfwYuLeLptQ5loF99d2feClgS19Tj8lpn3nY2dkE2PcbeYC7_Vgc/s1600/Meech+Lake+Summer+2005+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRudZELkPH077uYhDl_kW7PitAgP2Y-Lpjn4DJcchMjEVQVuVCT8g0tlAf7cSvx6tqDvnUWdqQcOZKAUzCDNbCK0EzfwYuLeLptQ5loF99d2feClgS19Tj8lpn3nY2dkE2PcbeYC7_Vgc/s640/Meech+Lake+Summer+2005+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happiness is playing in the lake together!</td></tr>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-85286311078078977602016-06-14T13:46:00.001-04:002016-06-20T12:57:15.116-04:00The Good Girl's Training<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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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! </div>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the training sessions</td></tr>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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“See how she lies down with her back to you?” Kathleen
pointed out. “It means that she trusts you!”</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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“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.</div>
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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!” </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTTQr2YdmqRT0e5W679Ndw6GifLgsbOSicirh8gqOvg7S4Q6jM5ZRGpjTNZstlhWRKYsmdmYyrwyqYmepAJpz59K7orbmyXlBwNtiEQolUU5gAa_shYasAk3dxG6z3-RkyhLRq_FQIgw/s1600/2014+April+30+201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTTQr2YdmqRT0e5W679Ndw6GifLgsbOSicirh8gqOvg7S4Q6jM5ZRGpjTNZstlhWRKYsmdmYyrwyqYmepAJpz59K7orbmyXlBwNtiEQolUU5gAa_shYasAk3dxG6z3-RkyhLRq_FQIgw/s400/2014+April+30+201.JPG" width="297"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shake the paw!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNZgox629WwwnA5hvqHc-oLop45HmJZmsHqqrBK0ItolunkOkahMZxFL5kullvGcBmL69HVJzK5GQcSVWcubjdwEb1ETtj68_271gB06orDbspLUsUDwCvwzaum78MGo5XMyWs0OEK4c/s1600/2014+April+30+202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNZgox629WwwnA5hvqHc-oLop45HmJZmsHqqrBK0ItolunkOkahMZxFL5kullvGcBmL69HVJzK5GQcSVWcubjdwEb1ETtj68_271gB06orDbspLUsUDwCvwzaum78MGo5XMyWs0OEK4c/s400/2014+April+30+202.JPG" width="297"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shake the paw!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br>
<br>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEegSFfWzjF4BjjKkUhL6PcapFQ9uI51N_veoZLBqoevAWbmTuxywUSjGhiDgNInwXrwXDkxJjYZ4ZuFymezpR3ns_gvDd_LcTbUbafQqLgT6s-4kSJL3qNSQLnHOzAaNniGR30evVf4/s1600/2014+April+30+203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEegSFfWzjF4BjjKkUhL6PcapFQ9uI51N_veoZLBqoevAWbmTuxywUSjGhiDgNInwXrwXDkxJjYZ4ZuFymezpR3ns_gvDd_LcTbUbafQqLgT6s-4kSJL3qNSQLnHOzAaNniGR30evVf4/s320/2014+April+30+203.JPG" width="239"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sit!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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!”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“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!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And she is, Kinook, a Good Girl indeed!</span><div><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br></span></div><div><br></div>Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-14290020726055652362016-06-09T12:37:00.000-04:002016-06-19T18:57:43.713-04:00A Different Way to Love<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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...</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2P8PvdZn07lus1z7bGYIMWQ6XfP8fnybs7FlrTHcymn773wSP2xZNMVfyhhRucXeEvJVsaISzIXiG4y4vcjKD7r14lGEEro3Xt_NRVpwYlaMEUyH3v-2DIBmTTO-9lwaNpg4m71idwA/s1600/October+2005+062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2P8PvdZn07lus1z7bGYIMWQ6XfP8fnybs7FlrTHcymn773wSP2xZNMVfyhhRucXeEvJVsaISzIXiG4y4vcjKD7r14lGEEro3Xt_NRVpwYlaMEUyH3v-2DIBmTTO-9lwaNpg4m71idwA/s400/October+2005+062.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the King's Trail in the Gatineau Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-23256760412588981942016-06-08T18:29:00.001-04:002016-06-19T19:02:40.601-04:00The Adoption<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBU2tOjcIJlDJobJ0Ye1DOaG8jAheSF3R-YdnYv-mlLu3WoWbQVvmNGV-JeTrUaAGF9yDwcDBvcAfFKVvU5XZoXnTnpjNEW45vMSvun4cbWXI9nOt7MrNdrWLDSoxGffbVT3unJMakBTs/s640/blogger-image--634341054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBU2tOjcIJlDJobJ0Ye1DOaG8jAheSF3R-YdnYv-mlLu3WoWbQVvmNGV-JeTrUaAGF9yDwcDBvcAfFKVvU5XZoXnTnpjNEW45vMSvun4cbWXI9nOt7MrNdrWLDSoxGffbVT3unJMakBTs/s640/blogger-image--634341054.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yellowknife, NWT, on the trail with Julie, her daughter Zinnia, and Tia the Akita mix<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to love a dog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the sunny morning of June 2<sup>nd</sup> 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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqrskYUghqaeB9qrGpDdzU7DHVBOdTxf0_1BrtRcgcI1jlzwxWImrQHFet31vUda08Aynt983TE70xZ1cHyR-BkXRm-TwWYkMd0BhjdSt9_KUZGg7Kd5v0oWozipWN_SI0Eym2jU1T6o/s640/blogger-image--129642900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqrskYUghqaeB9qrGpDdzU7DHVBOdTxf0_1BrtRcgcI1jlzwxWImrQHFet31vUda08Aynt983TE70xZ1cHyR-BkXRm-TwWYkMd0BhjdSt9_KUZGg7Kd5v0oWozipWN_SI0Eym2jU1T6o/s640/blogger-image--129642900.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left: Tana and Kinook at the Arboretum; Right: Practicing obedience; Low Left: Kinook and Sophie at the Conroy Pit<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After two hours of walking with dogs at the end of long
ropes, a woman volunteering at the shelter approached us and asked:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I help you find a dog?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you tried Kinook?” asked the woman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned towards the volunteer and asked: “Does she bark a
lot, like this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, no!” the woman reassured me. “She only barks now of
excitement to be running free”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always with a serious face!</td></tr>
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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!”</div>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tana with Kinook and Candy with Sophie, socializing the girls (well, trying to)</td></tr>
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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. </div>
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Kinook made herself at home in my heart in no time.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visiting Pembroke</td></tr>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-84812326273024791582016-06-03T17:07:00.001-04:002016-06-08T12:04:16.696-04:00The Dogs That Came Before Part Five: Dubi and Pupi<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8n0crr1-eEH-q77VrE5WWf9zCQk_xTsbewXplf1jkzGkMnOvL6mzFYRVeQl1fDxkruNuWr-TZ4MFoi1J-iO6U1ABskRoFp6GEf3W6NadT64zJu_6kEBOj7NVOSBSEKw0Khlw875OZ3Q/s640/blogger-image-892610795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8n0crr1-eEH-q77VrE5WWf9zCQk_xTsbewXplf1jkzGkMnOvL6mzFYRVeQl1fDxkruNuWr-TZ4MFoi1J-iO6U1ABskRoFp6GEf3W6NadT64zJu_6kEBOj7NVOSBSEKw0Khlw875OZ3Q/s640/blogger-image-892610795.jpg" /></a></div>
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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Marcu left his house key to Tibi, and off he went. Tibi was
to walk and feed Tirtza. And I took over.</div>
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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.</div>
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That was the day when my teen-age life-style ended. </div>
<h1>
Honey, We’re Four Now!</h1>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tirtza and the newborn puppies<br /></td></tr>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love for Sale!</td></tr>
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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.</div>
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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!”</div>
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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.</div>
<h1>
Doggie Karma?</h1>
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top: Dubi and Pupi sleeping and playing; bottom: Pupi suckling on her tit-surrogate toy.</td></tr>
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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.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0E5EgCRzifBOBQlvMXSp9DWdkk6p_b1F6gAX9bjU8Kzb1kj1jmg99v9llrNSPv5wOt8aIb3stKxK7f23sss7bDaYv1EtmFFda1K0_4lp790E8j9gDt7GeEYIk9E4y1fPYOJt-ZWOmCX0/s640/blogger-image-1034122055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0E5EgCRzifBOBQlvMXSp9DWdkk6p_b1F6gAX9bjU8Kzb1kj1jmg99v9llrNSPv5wOt8aIb3stKxK7f23sss7bDaYv1EtmFFda1K0_4lp790E8j9gDt7GeEYIk9E4y1fPYOJt-ZWOmCX0/s640/blogger-image-1034122055.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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</td></tr>
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<h1>
Homeopathy for Dogs? </h1>
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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.</div>
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One day, Graciela threw her hands in the air and said: “Why
don’t you go and see a homeopathic veterinarian?”</div>
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“What’s that?” I asked, hearing the word “homeopathic” for
the first time.</div>
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“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.</div>
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“How do I find a homeowhatever?”</div>
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“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!</div>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jhSh3UikbtngEahmfkYzPXL_fmF8vwx-q88BYx6kj_FXqlgg7f0f8DYyY3o2tG-wQ_hZY0aOvnD4U8uYIQEID8x-efJISJPYklpE0k6hzQS6SI6bqQjlGAf17b4YE4BIYsN_tf2D1o8/s640/blogger-image-1400554384.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jhSh3UikbtngEahmfkYzPXL_fmF8vwx-q88BYx6kj_FXqlgg7f0f8DYyY3o2tG-wQ_hZY0aOvnD4U8uYIQEID8x-efJISJPYklpE0k6hzQS6SI6bqQjlGAf17b4YE4BIYsN_tf2D1o8/s640/blogger-image-1400554384.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fun! The three of us played often and shared a great deal of affection.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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!</div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The tiny little sugar pellets enabled me and my dogs to
enjoy life and each other better than I had thought possible. </div>
<h1>
Changes </h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2ptDWG3ciiVBhYZ0tXNwBSbqdHsC_3HpAox7d92oHnXgHfM2WYjeeKNpqMQfRBtopgMMewnLJAtbS0ie1tICVQOD0aF182ULjWR_XshyphenhyphenYNPYYMdqrvBQBH8hPoHYIKLv9dgtC7zDiT0/s640/blogger-image--1479539456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2ptDWG3ciiVBhYZ0tXNwBSbqdHsC_3HpAox7d92oHnXgHfM2WYjeeKNpqMQfRBtopgMMewnLJAtbS0ie1tICVQOD0aF182ULjWR_XshyphenhyphenYNPYYMdqrvBQBH8hPoHYIKLv9dgtC7zDiT0/s640/blogger-image--1479539456.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2ptDWG3ciiVBhYZ0tXNwBSbqdHsC_3HpAox7d92oHnXgHfM2WYjeeKNpqMQfRBtopgMMewnLJAtbS0ie1tICVQOD0aF182ULjWR_XshyphenhyphenYNPYYMdqrvBQBH8hPoHYIKLv9dgtC7zDiT0/s640/blogger-image--1479539456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYiC5GF22XCdjZDGaYAvrNHFIzm-y4JCN6VEA6fZ71cnuOMwAARBapBu8d69QOEOZVd09SALZKbCAtDJpUQ60KeA6eond86Dno8lsVxeNmvQcusnPHOjgtwQ35I-SqZHwCkMCNm6XZpM/s640/blogger-image--2078674700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYiC5GF22XCdjZDGaYAvrNHFIzm-y4JCN6VEA6fZ71cnuOMwAARBapBu8d69QOEOZVd09SALZKbCAtDJpUQ60KeA6eond86Dno8lsVxeNmvQcusnPHOjgtwQ35I-SqZHwCkMCNm6XZpM/s640/blogger-image--2078674700.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharing the love and affection with Vanda's Mother</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<h1>
Time to Say Goodbye</h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPFrcNo4Ac36_FoY2eK0JFY8bhC30DwR0b4AaZkCbamwbaZhsq9xLVoGSZpOZrppQfMdVI23rosKgfO1sgbg0V1KyYkT74BAe7LDtUaaqKcEgNeoWqqanGm2-ESFXlHylfoUO4NCdAJSk/s1600/Maia+si+Dubi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPFrcNo4Ac36_FoY2eK0JFY8bhC30DwR0b4AaZkCbamwbaZhsq9xLVoGSZpOZrppQfMdVI23rosKgfO1sgbg0V1KyYkT74BAe7LDtUaaqKcEgNeoWqqanGm2-ESFXlHylfoUO4NCdAJSk/s320/Maia+si+Dubi.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dubi with his young human, Tibi and Ramona's daughter Maia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-24391302591259825692016-05-31T15:46:00.001-04:002016-06-19T19:04:17.927-04:00Best in the World<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Kinook, my love, I write about the dogs that came before you, and I can't wait to get to write about you soon. </span><br />
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And as I write, I understand how much I've grown in my capacity to love and care. You are the best dog in the world for two reasons: one, you are bright, empathic, kind, polite, dignified, patient and a pleasant, undemanding, easy companion. You have never chewed things that weren't yours, I could trust a great deal with you, from objects, to guarding the house when I was gone, to your watching over my client sessions when I'm working from home. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">To those who might protest your title, let me explain: the Best Dog in the World is a poetic way to say that you, my adorable pup, are the most beloved dog, in my eyes the most beautiful, and in my heart, the brightest.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The second reason for you being my best pup is that while caring for you I have learned to love more, with more compassion, more empathy, more responsibility, more commitment, and most important of all, more presence. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and these eyes of mine opened wider than before to take in the love which appears as beauty.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You are so beautiful, and I can see it! You are so loveable, and I can feel it. You are an awesome dog, and I can appreciate it. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Ookie, did you feel loved? How much were you able to trust me? How close was I to being the best human in the world for you?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpEPq1_vAp6Xpm34oKeOcz2d-wsXmNMkbnl4hbn7uL9G5E7SZd8DcATQEYADOiWS_ZyBjqCAOV9RsKgMWBDNYBuvnxLmi5AZR9CNF_ZbJg8YtcUsZ-ZJ8mCYhcPMAmfFtT5QtNqJlQv6iY/s640/blogger-image-932329610.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="478" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kinook Sweet Sixteen<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-3912039832320242622016-05-30T13:37:00.001-04:002016-06-05T12:58:25.280-04:00The Dogs That Came Before, Part Four: Mocha<div style="border-bottom: solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 4.0pt 0cm;">
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Mocha</div>
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Mocha literally came out of the blue and chose me. I was a
new immigrant to Israel, my boyfriend Victor whom I’d known since high school,
and who had immigrated to Israel a few years before me, was driving, showing me
around my new home country. Returning from a trip on a hot Israeli day (one of
the three hundred hot days a year in the area), we parked in the parking lot of
his apartment building, close to the street. As soon as I opened the passenger
door, a small black dog looking like a fluffy toy poodle mix came straight to
me, stood on her hind legs, placed her front paws on my thigh, and looked me in
the eye with a smiling face, wagging her tail. </div>
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“Can we keep her?” We and not “I” as Victor and I were
talking marriage. After a few initial ‘no’ answers and a few practicality
questions about where she was going to live and who would care for her, Victor
agreed and Mocha came upstairs with us. </div>
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Victor’s mother greeted us with contagious enthusiasm,
jumping of joy: “Yes! A dog! How happy I am!” Okay, this was the fairy tale
version. In reality, for some reason that escapes me, the enthusiasm declines
with age, and the reasonable adult response is, and was: “No! I don’t want a
dog in my house!” And Mocha went to live with me.</div>
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I lived in a Merkaz Klita, a centre for new immigrants, in a
room shared with Iudith Fleissig, a Romanian doctor from Transylvania who had
arrived to Israel on the same plane as I did. The immigrant centre had rooms
which led to an atrium inside the building, and Hebrew lessons classrooms at
the ground floor. My next door neighbours to the left were an adult son and his
elder mother from Russia, and to the right, a family from Morocco. Iudith was
not a dog enthusiast, but she did not protest my bringing one to our room. Her
personality was calm and easygoing, much unlike mine – I was anxious and
reactive – and after she moved to another, dog-free room, we became close
friends, and remained so to this day.</div>
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Mocha was gentle and easy, a sweet tempered pleasant dog
with very few demands of her own. She travelled well and kept me company in
bed. Like all poodles, she didn’t shed – she had wool, not fur, and her coat
needed grooming, which I did with a pair of household scissors and some common
sense.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTeCNJFLMh_oZHpSlEmYJIq8RCfSSR6kHoKdMxoQATPz5E6YrmlZF43sl1AVuLHXAvShhGAK7wnwKPcIA3YNS0fOsP-KajlDPzBLsovpVdSiebGP1ypWsjhTm4tvyfKZoGyitUWQF7sc/s640/blogger-image--255029759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTeCNJFLMh_oZHpSlEmYJIq8RCfSSR6kHoKdMxoQATPz5E6YrmlZF43sl1AVuLHXAvShhGAK7wnwKPcIA3YNS0fOsP-KajlDPzBLsovpVdSiebGP1ypWsjhTm4tvyfKZoGyitUWQF7sc/s640/blogger-image--255029759.jpg"></a></div><br></div>
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One sunny September day, Victor, Mocha and I drove to
Jerusalem for the weekend. Jerusalem is inland, on a mountain, and a few
degrees cooler than the Mediterranean coast where we lived. When we arrived,
Mocha emerged happily from the car, bouncing up and down with delight at the
cooler weather. I didn’t join her: I had anaemia, likely as a result of having
starved myself for months in order to become thin and, I was hoping, to feel
lovable. I didn’t know about the anaemia at the time, and the lowered red blood
cells were correlated with a deep-seated fatigue and a gloomy mood. Victor and
I had arguments; I was unhappy and impossible to please, and Victor tried his
best, and failed. We eventually broke up.</div>
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I was 24 years old, alone, penniless, and looking for
freedom to travel, date, dance and devour life with no commitments or
responsibilities. I gave Mocha away to Michelle, a young Moroccan neighbour who
liked the dog, but didn’t hesitate leaving her alone in the room for hours and
days at a time. There were nights when I could hear Mocha howl a heartbreaking
lament from Michelle’s room, and one time a teen cousin of mine and his friend
broke into Michelle’s room to rescue the dog. We found her alone, an uneaten,
dry piece of meat lying around in her food bowl. The next day, in the morning,
when she returned home, Michelle apologized profusely for leaving Mocha behind,
and took her back, promising that from now on she would take good care of her.
I did not believe her, but lied to myself and acted like I did. I let Michelle
have Mocha again, and soon after that, Mocha died.</div>
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A wave of regrets and remorse came over me as I saw the
small body lying down near the building’s entrance, and then I did what I knew
best to do at that time: I tensed up my body, switched my mind to something
else, and numbed myself down from feeling any sadness, guilt or remorse at all.</div>
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I also made sure to not adopt any animals for a few good
years.</div>
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Of course, the day Dubi and Pupi crossed my threshold and
came to live with me was not at all planned. And that’s another story.</div>
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<br>
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(To be continued)</div>
Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-46490985797108722142016-05-29T13:07:00.002-04:002016-05-29T13:07:39.367-04:00The Dogs That Came Before, Part Three: Grizzly<div class="MsoNormal">
“Someone is likely looking for him, so don’t count on
keeping this dog, Tana!”</div>
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“Sure, Dad, but I couldn’t let him out there on the street
to be run by a car”</div>
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I could hear hope in my father’s words, who didn’t want
another dog, and having seen me heartbroken after Mushi’s death, reluctantly
accepted this new fluffy animal in his home. Three adults and a dog sharing a
one-bedroom apartment was a challenge and one had to find more room in his or
her heart than in their living space to accommodate another creature.</div>
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So Dad found a piece of rope, placed it around the neck of new
housemate, and took him for a walk. Mrs. Tudor, a lively old grandma’ who lived
two floors below, saw Dad and the dog walking together, and ran upstairs to my
stepmom, Eliza, folded in two with laughter: “What happened to Mr. Saler?” she
exclaimed between fits of laughter. “He has been captured by another dog, hasn’t
he?” (A couple of weeks later, Mrs. Tudor ended up at the other end of the
pointing finger, when her grandson brought a red Irish Setter to her home, a
dog who immediately proceeded to eat homemade French Crepes from her hand and steal
her heart)</div>
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The new dog was ill with respiratory problems, every now and
then stopping and coughing, his tiny body caught in convulsions fighting
something inside him, probably infection and mucus that bothered his breathing.
His nose was warm and dry, and never became the cold, wet nose that is the
staple of a vital dog. My father’s wish was half fulfilled: we discovered the
dog’s previous human, a woman who lived in a private home right across from our
building. When she saw my parents and I walk with our new canine companion down
the street, she stopped us to exclaim that this used to be her dog, and told us
how she had bathed him, then she left him outside in her fenced yard, to dry.
It was too cold for him on that chilly October day, and he became ill. She then
left the gate open for him to leave if he wanted to, so he did. The woman
proceeded to assure us that she did not want the dog back, and we were welcome
to keep him. My father resigned to the news, and I was appalled at the woman’s
cruelty and complete lack of care and responsibility for the dog, and at the
same time, I was relieved to keep him.</div>
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The dog looked much like a Puli, the Hungarian sheep dog,
and since his coat was gray, the Romanian word for gray being ‘gri’ (pronounced
gree), our family’s collective dog naming brainstorming session produced the
name Grizzly. </div>
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He had a name, and he was ours. We bought the collar and the
leash, took him to the vet, nursed him back to health and we were again an
extended dog-blessed family. Dad proceeded to train him to walk leash off, and
Grizzly walked leisurely with either of us, but unlike Mushi, who was happy to
walk with anyone who invited him, Grizzly refused to walk with strangers, and
glued his behind to the ground until one of his own pack would take over the
leash. Also unlike Mushi, whose rage fits threatened his pack members, but he
was always sweet to strangers, Grizzly was never aggressive towards me, my
father or my stepmother, but territorial to strangers. He had earned a good home,
he was going to defend it, and he would take no prisoners! A young man I
briefly dated who played the violin came to our home to take me out on a date,
and the tiny bear-named and bear-hearted doggy sank his teeth in my friend’s
right hand, the one that holds the bow. Later I dated Cezar, a handsome,
well-dressed young man who sported expensive soft leather boots he had received
as a gift from his mother’s friend in Germany, a real treat in the scarcity-afflicted
place and times we lived in. Cezar was greeted promptly with a growl and a bite
straight into the glove-like leather of his rare boots, and, even though he
elected to continue dating me, as apparently I was well worth the small price
he had paid, during each subsequent date he proceeded to ring the door bell,
then hide in the elevator with the door barely cracked to safely peep through
until I came out alone to join him.</div>
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I was upset with Grizzly’s aggression, and lacked any
resources to take charge of his training. I don’t recall training services back
then, nor did I read any dog training books. When it came to dog training, we
were on our own, and we did a less than ideal job of it.</div>
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Grizzly travelled with us on our holidays, like Cici had
travelled too, to the seaside and the mountains, and he was an easy travelling
companion (when he wasn’t in his own home, guarding it!). My parents and I
stayed in a ‘zimmer’ – a private home’s room used as hotel – and for a few
coins we would gather meat leftovers for Grizzly from a diner’s helpful
waitress. Dad found it funny to hide away together with Eliza while the dog
walked a few meters ahead, and Grizzly panicked, turned back to look for them,
and when he found them he would bark at them and give them crap for their
behaviour. </div>
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Inside me burned a secret that I did not dare to share with
anyone until many years later: I did not, and could not love Grizzly as much as
I loved Mushi. I did not understand why, and had no understanding about grief
and trauma, and I was ashamed of this diminished ability to feel affection for
the dog whose life depended on me. When the time came for me to leave Romania
and immigrate to Israel, I had no difficulty leaving Grizzly behind, in my
parents’ care. I left and haven’t looked back.</div>
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Dad and Eliza took good care of the dog until the day they
both fell ill and had to be hospitalized at the same time. They found a loving
family, a mother, father, and a daughter about my age, who happily adopted
Grizzly and made him their own, giving him all the love he deserved until he
died of old age. The family kept in touch with my parents, calling every time the
doggy did something they found funny and remarkable, which was quite often; and
then my parents would tell me all about it in detailed letters, which made me
smile. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7yuxQYE4Z349wS1Wj0MmDZNK6z9OACqk553M6YOCecqw9FoPpsmMRcW2DF_NIW49Dy79H5lmGOEXaXdjmHhkg9Vxbhy7twgmgcjjwTPeFWB58VjGb_zR5HYbAXUYH2rkCmwZH8mhctA/s1600/01.GRIZZLY+CU+NOUA+STAPANA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7yuxQYE4Z349wS1Wj0MmDZNK6z9OACqk553M6YOCecqw9FoPpsmMRcW2DF_NIW49Dy79H5lmGOEXaXdjmHhkg9Vxbhy7twgmgcjjwTPeFWB58VjGb_zR5HYbAXUYH2rkCmwZH8mhctA/s400/01.GRIZZLY+CU+NOUA+STAPANA.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grizzly with his new guardian</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Six years after my immigration to Israel, I visited Romania,
in 1991, and I met with Grizzly and his new family. Nothing in his behaviour
indicated that he remembered me, and given the emotional numbness that I had
when he was mine, I would not be surprised to know that he never cared too much
about me either. He was clearly happy and loved with his new family, and that
was that.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grizzly with Tana, Dad, Eliza and new guardian Mom<br /></td></tr>
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Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-36360803122930899992016-05-26T09:22:00.001-04:002016-05-26T09:24:37.291-04:00On Grief and Regrets<div>Grief, I find, is not a one thing. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsLiXAFDTBifi7aeiRJQyj4Z77J8mkpTA7a2DH-2zK2Xqo0coAL6XtW02eyMyEVCpUStWQy46w-cOmgYsC2TW0nQQRFHt9ajWpfBu-PcV8AewPPk9QvEXjyIMuIgTuklFxLYMWcwtOArE/s640/blogger-image-766874408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsLiXAFDTBifi7aeiRJQyj4Z77J8mkpTA7a2DH-2zK2Xqo0coAL6XtW02eyMyEVCpUStWQy46w-cOmgYsC2TW0nQQRFHt9ajWpfBu-PcV8AewPPk9QvEXjyIMuIgTuklFxLYMWcwtOArE/s640/blogger-image-766874408.jpg"></a></div><br></div></div><div><br></div><div>There is the pain of separation, then there are regrets about mistakes made, especially when it's too late to make any direct amends (amends can always be made towards the world at large).</div><div><br></div><div>And then there's habit: learning to live with a completely new reality, some of which is more difficult, and some of which is easier. </div><div><br></div><div>Regrets are painful, but potentially useful when resolving to learn from them and do things differently, so they can foster growth. Making mistakes calls for making amends, and the only way I can repair any damage done with the mistakes I made in caring for Kinook, now that she's gone, is by writing about them in the book. This way, other dog guardians may do things differently and more usefully than I did. At the same time, parents of human children and guardians of pets alike will make mistakes by the flawed and fallible nature of our humanity, and when amends are possible, they will replace regrets, and thus we, as individuals and as a species, grow kinder, stronger, and better skilled.</div><div><br></div><div>The pain of separation is pure, clean pain, sharp and precise like a cutting knife. When a wave of this pain washes over me, I have no stories to tell, no wishes to make, no hairs to split in analysis; the only words that come to mind are: 'I miss you so much!' and then, there are tears, and feelings</div>Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-39246014880019116092016-05-25T20:52:00.001-04:002016-05-25T20:52:52.627-04:00The Dogs that Came Before, Part Two: Mushi<div style="border-bottom: solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 4.0pt 0cm;">
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Mushi was a gorgeous English Cocker Spaniel with shiny, wavy
mirror-like fur, long ears and fluffy legs and feet. He was a playful little
fellow who adored rough play, and our favourite game was him biting strongly
into my long sleeve, and then flying around like a carousel while I was
spinning.</div>
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I would have readily invited Mushi to sleep in bed with me
and cuddle – as he was a cuddly pup, if Dad would not have decided to impose
some strict rules about him: the dog was to not be allowed in either Dad’s and
Eliza’s bedroom, nor in my room, but he was to sleep alone in the corridor,
both room doors closed. My heart felt heavy and sinking to what I considered a both
cruel and unnecessary rule which caused my new little friend to go to sleep
while crying for company, a young pack animal having to pass the night away
from his pack members. It was January in the cold Romanian winter, and Mushi
was sleeping in the cool air draft flowing from underneath both doors. </div>
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My father clearly did not want this dog, and acted with
resentments towards him and me, saying things like: “Of course we can’t afford
this or that item, because we just spent all these hundreds for a dog!”</div>
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It wasn’t long before Mushi fell ill, his appetite
diminished, and his coat turned from shiny and wavy to dull and frizzy. We took
him to the vet and discovered that he had been poisoned, licking pesticides off
the walls, which had been treated against cockroaches. The vet prescribed his
care and urged us to wash our walls with water and soap, and warned us that
Mushi’s development would be delayed due to the neurotoxin in the pesticide. I
was sad and mostly angry at my father as I regarded my dog’s misfortune as somehow
correlated with the hostile reception he received at home. “He was unwanted!” I
exclaimed, face red and wet with tears, “Look what became of him, he came to us
so well and healthy, and look at him now!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bedroom ban was lifted and Mushi got nursed to health in
bed and everywhere else. He conquered Eliza’s heart in no time, and maybe my
father’s heart too, as much as my Dad’s heart was up for takes. And then one
day his coat was wavy and shiny again, and his appetite returned. I celebrated!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I loved this dog so much, and was so connected to him, that
I counted him in my activities, my plans and my daydreaming fantasies. I took
Mushi with me to visit the rehearsals of the choir I sang in, and friends came
to my home purposefully to visit him. And he would proceed to steal everyone’s
heart, one after the other, so when I’d meet a friend, they’d first ask me:
“How is Mushi doing?” before asking about me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mushi was friendly to everybody, and he was the sweetest pup
indeed, with an unusual exception: when offered a treat, his eyes would lose
focus, become glazed, and he would jump over his cookie with his front legs,
cover it, and guard it with loud and aggressive growls. He would go on and on
in this crazy trans, and I could only snap him out of it by showing him the
leash and mentioning a walk. Then he would come back to his sweet puppy self,
as if nothing has happened, and life went on. Later I found that male Cocker
Spaniels have this genetic disease referred to as Rage Syndrome, apparently
with no known cure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took Mushi for walks to a small patch of grass at the
intersection of four narrow streets, right across a busy road from our
apartment building. When other dogs joined us, I would remove his leash so he
could play and run, and it would take me quite some effort getting the leash
back on him. One man who walked with his brown-patched German Pointer used to
laugh at me, imitating my ineffective attempts at getting Mushi to respond to
my commands. He’d make a high pitched voice and say: “Oh, Mushi, would you
consider the possibility of maybe coming to me if it’s not too much trouble,
whenever you have a moment?” I laughed along with this man, as he did capture
the essence of my approach.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until the day I didn’t laugh again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A German Shepherd was released to the grass park and I let
go of Mushi’s leash to encourage him to play. Mushi was now ten months old, and
the big dog was too much for him, so he ran away. He headed home, with me
running after him and screaming, calling his name; he did not make it to the
other side of the road. A truck hit him and killed him on the spot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a shock and after an intense feeling of terror
gripping my insides like a cold claw, I bled what looked like menstrual
bleeding, but was not, it was my body’s response to the traumatic death of my
dog. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnOLNmsAZCjcKQ10yrFF6HRcMHt5uDA9-xj8sEzJExGgwsHT3uopGRceIX9CnK9vsA7jA3vTy7PK7ByFBIg6ftPd02ElX_Ef4r4VrnZlUsdfIz0i0A63nUeh6YFE4xIp9WYvWhxXVIAI/s1600/Mushi+like+dog+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnOLNmsAZCjcKQ10yrFF6HRcMHt5uDA9-xj8sEzJExGgwsHT3uopGRceIX9CnK9vsA7jA3vTy7PK7ByFBIg6ftPd02ElX_Ef4r4VrnZlUsdfIz0i0A63nUeh6YFE4xIp9WYvWhxXVIAI/s320/Mushi+like+dog+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grieved Mushi and cried with Eliza in each other’s arms,
her confessing me that she had not imagined that a dog’s death could hurt so
much. Wherever I went the streets were filled with Cocker Spaniels, and I
missed my little Mushi so much, and the guilt and regrets haunted me for a long
time. I then began to value the importance of leadership and training in dog
care, and teaching your dog to come to you when called as if his life depends
on it, because it does. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One cloudy day in October 1984 a small grey dog with long,
wavy hair was roaming the street, the same street where Mushi was killed,
looking for food, sniffing and licking an ice-cream wrapping that somebody had
dropped on the ground. He had no collar but he didn’t look like a stray dog, he
looked clean and groomed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seeing this little dog on the street, something snapped in
my head and I told myself: “Oh my god, this dog will be killed by a car!”. I
took him away from his ice-cream wrapper, well aware that he might bite me for
it, and in spite of his growling protests, I took him in my arms, went home to
my parents, and presented the dog to them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We named the dog Grizzly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
(To be continued)</div>
Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-33156402034685210152016-05-23T11:02:00.001-04:002016-06-05T12:24:30.998-04:00The Dogs That Came Before - Part One: Lily and Cici<div class="MsoNormal">
When I grew up, most all of the neighbour’s children had
brothers and sisters except me. When sun was setting down behind the buildings,
and darker shades of pastels colored the skies above the grass and sand
playground, my pals retreated to their homes to interact with siblings, while I
would talk to plastic dolls and feel lonely. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My repeated requests to my parents to produce more children
for my own companionship and entertainment were met with inflexible refusal. My
arguments were rational: “Mom, my children will be deprived of aunts and
uncles, not like me, who has so many of them thanks to you having siblings!”
and if you would have heard me when I was a little school girl pleading for my
cause, I promise you, you would have run to the bedroom with your partner to
fulfill my request! However, Mom was better at debates than I was, and
suggested I go marry a man who has brothers and sister, to solve my future
children’s predicament.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s when I changed my strategy, and re-negotiated for
siblings, or a dog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So dog it was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first dog-sister was Lily, a small multi-colored mutt
with black and grey, and a snow-white tip of the tail. Lily had a bright
disposition, and loved chasing neighbourhood kids in circles, barking joyfully,
joined by their screams of delight. I was as happy as she was with this whole
playground arrangement, the chasing, the barking and the screams, but our
happiness was cut short: we had a car accident when Mom was driving, and she
decided that Lily brought her bad luck, and gave her away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am, back to square one, no brothers, no sisters,
no dog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One night, while my father was out of town with work, mom
was sitting on the sofa, and I was reading Jack London’s stories at the kitchen
table. White Fang, Call of the Wild, stories of snow and dogsleds and wolves
and friendships like no other, images were dancing in front of my mind’s eye,
my imagination replacing the author with my own self touching the dogs, talking
to them, racing the sleds to victory. When the story I was reading ended, tears
flowed down my cheeks with longing for such a special connection with a furry
friend. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why are you crying?” asked Mom, with a concerned face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want a dog!” I exclaimed between tears.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is it? I thought it was something serious!” Mom, usually
attuned to me, missed my feelings and motives this time. But then the phone
rang. It was Dad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dad! I want a dog!” I yelled into the receiver, and cried
some more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There must be something about being a father away from your
family, hearing your child crying on the phone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, there came Cici.<br>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cici was a brown Dachsund, a shy cuddly sausage dog who
slept with me, starting at the feet at the beginning of the night, then ending
up on my pillow, nose to nose with me. She was always cold and wore a coat in
the winter, and at night she crawled under the covers and against my body for
warmth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was in my early teens when Cici joined my family, and I
loved her to bits. She was an easy dog to be with, and funny to play with. She
chased and battled with garlic heads, chewed on raw carrots and corn on a cob,
and ate polenta. One day I worried she had tooth abscess, half her face swollen
suddenly. It was a piece of polenta that stuck between her teeth and her cheek,
and she couldn’t move it on her own. When she was sick, I carried her in my
arms, through trams and busses, to take her to the vet, until she was well.
When she got in trouble, chasing birds only to land in a dirty rain water pool,
I wrapped her in my arms, ran home with her, and bathed her.<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I treated Cici like my parents treated me: with love and
care, and also with the clumsiness and cruelty of traumatized, unskilled
parents: I beat her when I disagreed with her behaviour, like my father did
with me. That was the norm in my family, and I lived up to it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father was the responsible person for Cici’s care –
buying and preparing her food, making sure she had her walks, taking care of
all dog care practicalities. “I feed her, walk her, take care of her, and she
goes to you all the time!” Dad would exclaim with clear jealousy. “And what do
you do for her? Play with her, that’s all that you do!” Cici preferred me, came
to me when everyone would call her at the same time, and trusted me. She did
not protest the veterinarian’s injections if I held her, she’d hide her face
and long nose beneath my bent elbow, and be at peace. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8HbljipQRnIf4c2mYSLwosly0QQLAl0e3TID-QoKMNxoQvC4fW5JaZswURX8DmsMlXiiyqrNIJS3xah_iyl-P-xAGLfCC_KA_X30-xK6G1S9puQhgTN7HKt0MdXQuHrsZAYIvZPYzL0/s640/blogger-image--1923981581.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8HbljipQRnIf4c2mYSLwosly0QQLAl0e3TID-QoKMNxoQvC4fW5JaZswURX8DmsMlXiiyqrNIJS3xah_iyl-P-xAGLfCC_KA_X30-xK6G1S9puQhgTN7HKt0MdXQuHrsZAYIvZPYzL0/s640/blogger-image--1923981581.jpg"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></a></div><br></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Mom died of leukemia, I was seventeen, and shut down
emotionally. Mom had suffered with mental illness for a few years, she
disconnected emotionally from the world, from herself and from me, and after a
few years of intense suffering, she faded away and passed on January 23 1978,
one day after my seventeenth birthday. I did not shed a tear, and thinking that
was something utterly wrong about losing your mother and not cry, I tried: I
spent hours alone in my room thinking of something sad, so I could cry, and all
my efforts were in vain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad had a nervous breakdown, and went away for two months at
a sanatorium in the Carpathian mountains, where he swallowed pills and took leisurely
walks through the woods. And I did what I found fit with this unprecedented
freedom: went to bed in my day clothes, smoking with the ash tray close to the
pillow; hosted parties for my high school class mates, and hung out with them
for hours after school. I would leave home early morning and come back late at
night. Cici was left alone at home, with me and Dad away for all the daylight
hours, and little by little she became depressed: she stopped greeting me at
the door, shoe in her mouth, crying of delight, like she used to do. She
stopped eating, and spent her days and nights curled in a pretzel, without a
sound.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have pity on her!” my father pleaded with me, “Let’s give
Cici away to someone who can care for her. Don’t you see she suffers?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t see she suffered. I paid no attention, and had no
empathy. I wanted her for myself, for my own pleasure, a cute toy I didn’t want
to part with. My father’s daily pleas fell on deaf ears for a while, until one
day when I gave up and agreed. Cici went to live with one of the secretaries in
my father’s office, a woman who lived in a home with a garden with hens and a
cat. I felt some sadness, a hint of emotion glimmering through the thick, dense
clouds of repressed emotion, and went on to live my life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to visit Cici once, and found her thin, having shed
the extra fat of her little body, running around chasing mice in the garden,
losing the mice to the cat, living the outdoors life, a different life, without
pillow cuddles, with less food, and more movement and interaction with other
animals. Cici was happy to see me, and happy to jump in my lap. I left her
behind with a heavy heart, the sadness of thinking that she maybe was less
happy in her new home, not being allowed in bed, the guilt of abandoning her
like my mother had abandoned me, my suffering muffled through walls of
ignorance, not really knowing whether it was Cici who suffered or myself,
taking that muffled, dulled out pain with me on the bus as I left my old friend
behind to her new life, and headed to my own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know to tell you how many years I have spent feeling
unloved and unlovable before discovering that I also was unloving. How many
times I prayed and hoped that one day I’d be loved and understood, before I
realized the need to learn to understand and love. I had an underlying longing
to connect in ways most adults in my life did not know how, and I had no role
model to learn from, with one exception, a private English teacher who
listened, asked questions, and cared: Cornelia Popescu, a childless children
lover, and dog lover, who always had a black Dachshund girl around. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxtZ_B2N3H0ZEightPYYln_jb-5-KHyw7MhPYaIh7r2ogbl0HM80GLMFHFxXq3PyL5bunTLr63IOo5tPrX50CcRR-ZD83-jrmLvewCZ_NFAvkJtaC3CYLqc_BmeK5YTCvOgMl81Y8Fg8/s640/blogger-image--695706719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxtZ_B2N3H0ZEightPYYln_jb-5-KHyw7MhPYaIh7r2ogbl0HM80GLMFHFxXq3PyL5bunTLr63IOo5tPrX50CcRR-ZD83-jrmLvewCZ_NFAvkJtaC3CYLqc_BmeK5YTCvOgMl81Y8Fg8/s640/blogger-image--695706719.jpg"></a></div><br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had boyfriends and sex, and still didn’t know how to
emotionally connect with another, but the longing burned me from the inside.
When I broke up with my college sweetheart, I longed to be seen, sought and
loved like only a dog can when you are oblivious, and won my arguments to a dog
versus my father and his second wife, Eliza, whom we were now living with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And along came Mushi.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mushi was a black male Cocker Spaniel with all his
pure-breed traits and papers, a two-months old adorable puppy with ears so long
that we’d clip them up with clothes pins when he ate and drank, otherwise he
would get food and water on his ears and shake it all on us. I don’t know how
much I owed it to Mushi, and how much to Eliza, my warm, wise and loving new
stepmother, that my heart softened up and I started feeling emotions again. And
I fell deeply and irrevocably in love with Mushi.</div>
<br>
-To be continued -<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921048948062138979.post-16423260376799909352016-05-15T17:24:00.001-04:002016-05-15T17:27:50.546-04:00One More Promise to Keep My friend, my fur baby, my sweet puppy: when I said good bye to you as you drifted away, I was relieved to know that all my promises to you were kept.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLwVWUZnLUwZ-tT-zR6d5HuVc3eWmsvL-OEQZlvMtUil0RDWi9ZMzrov2vl1E9yCmMHhLEx6KoJ6mCbgWSYpyrojIwoxEx0toroIhGRAQel15hj-ntCfLgt3ilCz-vaqvaTTapV0W588/s640/blogger-image-116187295.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLwVWUZnLUwZ-tT-zR6d5HuVc3eWmsvL-OEQZlvMtUil0RDWi9ZMzrov2vl1E9yCmMHhLEx6KoJ6mCbgWSYpyrojIwoxEx0toroIhGRAQel15hj-ntCfLgt3ilCz-vaqvaTTapV0W588/s640/blogger-image-116187295.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When I adopted you, fifteen years ago, I promised to care for you to my best ability, to the very end. I told you I'd never leave you, and if I went away, I'd return to you. I promised that I'd always love you, be there for you, support and comfort you in your old age, and I did.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As you closed your eyes, and your body left me, this huge love remained. I made you one last promise: that I would write a book about you, my love, about our life together, the happy times, the dark times, the funny times, and pour this tremendous love in it. A book about us.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This blog is it, my pup, the book unfolding - my last promise to you for me to keep.</div>Tana Salerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15959154444907839215noreply@blogger.com3