I am one of those people.

I talk with my hands and most of the time I don't knock over stuff, but sometimes I do.  But when it comes to dogs, I have always talked with my hands in a very literal sense from their  Homecoming Day and onward using hand signals.

Thank Heavens.  

This week has been very long and not fun for my furry friends.  I've been sick and mostly in bed or on the couch with tea and Kleenex and one or more types of cough syrup/decongestant/nasal spray/homeopathic remedy.  I lost my voice three days ago.  However, I am still able to tell Ollie, Marshall and Gus (and to a lesser degree, Orange Cat) that I need them to move, be quiet, sit, wait, back up, relax, come here, or snuggle.

(Orange Cat knows my hand signals for 'snuggle' and 'come here', lately it's just a matter of if he *feels* like coming or snuggling.  For this, I blame the Egyptians.  Cats were once treated as royalty and we humans will never live that down.  Ever.)

Dogs understand hand signals well before they understand the verbal command or cue.  In part, this is because their eyes are designed to detect small movement.  While most dogs don't actually 'see' very well (about a human equivalent of 20/70), their eyes are able to detect slight changes in the way we walk or move even from great distance.   Their ears are designed to hear noises from great distances with incredible directional accuracy, evaluate pitch and volume at much greater frequencies than the human ear is capable of.  Unfortunately, that does not mean they are good at differentiating human noises.  Our words become a foreign language to them.

When teaching a foreign language, one of the best techniques is Total Physical Response method which is basically immersion with overstated, exaggerated movements to show what the word or phrase means.  (Note:  It does not help to just stand there and repeat the phrase louder over and over and hope the other person understands what you are saying.)  Essentially, since we are teaching dogs human language, that is what hand signals accomplish.  Dogs will never be able to replicate our vocalizations, but may learn correct responses to 30-200 verbal commands and gestures given the right training.

As the week goes by and I have to communicate what I want or need from my dogs without any verbal commands, I'm realizing how much we look at each other to make sure the message got across.  I had forgotten sometimes to look for the body language that is asking essentially, "This is what you want, right?" and reinforce the behavior.  I am realizing how much I talk.  

And how much I don't need to.

And how much I talk with my not-furry friends.

And how much I don't need to.

I think I'm learning why monks take a vow of silence-- not so much to learn a 'new' way of communicating with the earth and the beings here.   Rather to return to a very natural and basic way of communicating.   I'm thinking that some of my frustration the last few weeks is from talking too much and not listening-- not hearing-- what other's silences are saying.

tweet-tweet-tweet.

There are two birds outside arguing about who gets to own the pine tree by the garage.   But that isn't the type of tweeting I am talking about.

I just started on Twitter on the advice of the incomparable blogger Havi Brooks who-- along with her duck, Selma-- writes The Fluent Self Blog.  I adore her style and her motivations and it feels sometimes like she's in my head.   She helps me feel like I'm not The Crazy Dog Lady and instead that I am only one of the many crazy dog ladies out there who happens to like to write about critters and furry friends.

If you also are a Twittering person, you can find me there @furryfourpaws

I guess the right term would be 'follow me there'.... I'm still learning this stuff.

Wow.

In the middle of a week where I've lost my voice, I find I have a different type of voice here at Beliefnet.  

And let me tell you, with this virus-thingy that has taken over my vocal chords, I'm reminded the benefits of teaching my dogs hand signals every day!  (Which is the subject of tomorrow's entry.)

You can vote here!

I'm so thrilled to be a finalist and be included with all these other writers that are not only talented, but brave and honest and so undeniably REAL.  

Happy reading.  And happy voting!

It has been an unusually cool summer.  Unlike the Julys and Augusts of the last five years, I have only turned on the air conditioner once.   We've actually spent most of the days outside for a few hours.  It's been very... nice.

For Gus, he doesn't know any different.  This is his first summer of his life outside of a cage.  It's been a joy watching him discover cabbage moths and fireflies, happily investigating the yard and neighborhood.   Marshall is experiencing his first summer of long afternoon walks.  Last year it was so hot that walks usually only happened at night.  Even Ollie is experiencing a first of sorts as this is the first summer he is the gentle leader of their little pack.  He isn't just watching over his "little brother" and teaching him the basics of summer dog stuff.  Together, they are three adult dogs learning how to work together to enforce a very strict anti-squirrel policy.

 Each season is new.  

I find myself at a point where I am regularly comparing the present to the past:  the weather, how I react to things, how my political and social views have changed throughout different stages of my life.  While a certain amount of reflection is good, I am reminded of presence and purpose.   I am reminded to see energy as it ebbs and flows and time as equally as fluid.

Last week, I read a review of a book and wanted to go to a bookstore to get this book. As much as I love the ease of Amazon ordering, it is not the same as going to the bookstore. I find a great spiritual connection in the physical: fresh pages, unbroken bindings, coffee smells. So, I put Marshall in his service dog vest and we went to go see what we could find.

As I looked at the collection of titles, I thought about authors and other research I had read by them, about research that completely refutes most of the books on the shelves. I began to reminsce about how I started learning about dogs and how that learning has developed over time.

My father trained his dogs to hunt grouse. As bird dogs, they had to have pretty specific rules and the whole family had to be consistent with them. My father was a big fan of Barbara Woodhouse, a well-known dog trainer from the 1970s. If you know anything about her, it is probably her theories on dog vocalizations and human commands. Dog tips like naming your dog a two-syllable name come from her research, as well as certain emphasis on 't', 'sh', and 'ch' sounds in commands. My dad's stories and intuitive bits of wisdom about his dogs peppers my childhood memories.

When my husband and I first got married, I wanted a dog so much I couldn't stand it. A dog meant family. A real family. I started checking out every book at the library about dogs and puppies and dog training. Cesar Millan had just published his first book and although my father had been far more gentle with his dogs, I recognized so much of my dad's training methods in the Millan methods that I felt a special kind of connection to his dog interactions. I knew though that working as a financial consultant with sixty- to seventy-hour work weeks and my husband's work travel would not make a good environment for a new pup and put the dog idea on hold.  I was content for the time being to snuggle my bunny and befriend the stray cat who would become Orange Cat and read my library books on dogs.

As my job got more stressful, I decided I needed an outlet and started volunteering at the county dog shelter. My shifts started out with simply walking the dogs and giving them exercise. I started signing up to taking adoptable dogs to various events. Working with the shelter dogs was one of the only things that I looked forward to in my life at the time. When I quit my job (a story for another day), I started volunteering more and more, helping out with adoption counseling, education seminars, events, and day programs to socialize the pooches in the adoption wards. I think those dogs at the shelter helped save me as much as I helped them.

In order to communicate better with these furry creatures, I kept reading and found better science and methodology in the animal community. Essays and research by Patricia McConnell, Sophia Yin, Stanley Coren, Karen Pryor, and The Monks of New Skete kept me fairly busy. We adopted Ollie somewhere halfway through that stack of books and I was so glad I had researched so well. His fragile temperment would have broken if I had implemented some of the old training techniques my father had used.

We moved back to Michigan and I started volunteering for no-kill shelter that had lofty goals but unfortunately was also very poorly run. While I cleaned kennels and worked with Akitas, Staffordshire and American Terriers, and Rottweilers that had failed their Humane Society temperment tests, I tried out different techniques I had learned and over the next five months figured out that the strongest connections were made when I talked less, watched more, and focused more on my body language. Each of these interactions gave me more information about the nature of dog-human communication.

By the time we adopted Marshall, I was a pretty good judge of temperment and learning ability. At seven weeks he was showing fabulous skills that would lend well to therapy dog work. New groups of books on therapy dog training and research about the benefit of therapy dogs in a variety of settings towered on the coffee table. As I began to work with Marshall on socialization and task training, I noticed Marshall's alerting and encouraged it. Hyperlink hopping through Delta Society and Therapy Dog Inc. website links, I found the Psychiatric Service Dog Society. I started working on Marshall's public access training and together we developed an incredible range of skills and tasks and a bond like I have never quite experienced with another animal.

A few months after Marshall's first public access training sessions, Gus came to live with us and my focus became educating myself on the problems faced in rehabilitating puppy mill dogs and dogs with little to no human interaction. I finally started researching alternative therapies and conditioning to overwrite the damage done from years in an overstimulating, undersocialized environment.

And that brings us to the day at the bookstore, with Marshall in his vest and me on tip-toe reaching for the book I came for. I feel like spending time around dogs gives me a type of intuition and experience in communicating with them.  However, learning about the biology and behavior of these amazing animals helps me undercover the more subtle lessons they are trying to impart.  

On Sunday night, just as I was starting my bedtime routine and shutting down my computer, I heard a commotion outside.  I wasn't sure if Ollie, Marshall, and Gus were just wrestling outside in the dark, chasing fireflies, or perhaps excitedly sniffing heavy scents that concentrate at dusk.  When I heard Ollie begin to growl, I was certain this was not an innocent Backyard At Night exploration.  I ran to the back door just in time to hear what sounded like a very large man walking through a very large pile of dried leaves.

There was a yelp.

Then there was a smell.

I called the dogs to me, helpless as the freshest of fresh skunk cloud wafted toward the house.  My friend began closing windows as I grabbed Ollie by the collar and sniffed.  My immediate gag reflex told me he had indeed been skunked.  Gus ran half-circles in my periphery and Marshall darted past me and through the dog door into the house.

Into my house!

My friend caught Marshall by the collar at the top of the stairs and he flopped around like a wet noodle, not wanting to be dragged back outside.  He wanted to hide, safe and sound in his bed.  I didn't blame him.  I didn't want to be outside either and my bed was sounding pretty darn good just a few minutes ago.

Once all the dogs were in the yard and the dog door secured and locked, I began making the de-skunking formula in a metal mixing bowl.  My friend turned on all the bathroom fans and started lighting every scented candle we owned.   My husband hooked up the hose to a spigot in the garage and set up the industrial flood lights I normally use when painting a room.   Somehow, Gus had managed to avoid getting sprayed and whined from inside as his friends were stripped of their collars and hosed down.  Two hours and two very sad, lonely, wet, scared, dogs later, the immediate concern was taken care of.   It's been three days and I've gone through four air neutralizing candles and an entire spray can of Oust.   The house is...  tolerable.

When dogs get skunked, the hardest part to clean is their faces.  Unfortunately, this is the part that gets most of the spray.  Try as you can, it takes several days and several applications of baby wipes to get rid of the smell.    Every time Marshall or Ollie drink from their water bowls, the newly moistened odor molecules permeate the air.   The last thing in the world I want to do is nuzzle their muzzles or give little good night nose kisses.

This is a problem.  One of the bonding routines in our house is jokingly referred to as 'Forced Snuggling'.   There is a method to the snuggles, using touch as a bonding tool and as a preparatory set for vet checks, emergency situations,and toddler-proofing.  There is lots of petting and belly rubs with a good amount of touching the in and outside of ears, mild tugging on tails, slight pressure on the ribcage, muzzle rubs and fingers by eyes, sticking fingers and hands in the mouth and touching teeth as well as brushing their soft puppy lips.  There is paw touching and paw holding and a little bit of pressure in between toes.   There is close-face talking and nose-kisses and chin nuzzling.  I feel very bonded.  They feel very bonded.  We become a tangled pig-pile of fuzzy love on the living room floor.  

Although I am usually the one who instigates these sessions, Marshall and Ollie both have their own ways of saying they are ready for Forced Snuggling.  Marshall lays on the futon and lifts his front right paw as if he is opening up his little arms to give a hug.  Ollie comes to wherever I am sitting or standing and sits on my feet with his back to me and looks over his shoulder at me like a seal.  In the past few days, there have been lots of hug-offers and seal-smiles.  There has been a lot of attention-seeking behavior and Are-We-Still-Friends? looks.   "Of course we're still friends,"  I say in happy-happy voice.  "I just don't want to nuzzle your gross nose."

Instead of snuggle sessions, we've played a lot more ball and done some new games, played chase and hide-and-seek.   I've had to do a lot of thinking about how I show my affection to my dogs and reinforcing their want to bond and socialize in both human and dog ways like play.   And in the midst of all of this, I've been thinking about the ways I show my human friends how much I appreciate them when distance (thank goodness not smell!) makes hugs and body language obsolete.   I've noticed I have sent a lot more emails this week and left voicemails "just to say hi."   I've been glad to reconnect and catch up with a few folks I hadn't talked to in a very long time.

I guess every skunk cloud does have a silver lining.

I was woken up by a certain very happy Silky Terrier.  For those of you who have never had the pleasure of owning a terrier, you may not be aware of how they share their happiness.  

Barking.  High pitched, two-toned, ear-piercing barking.

The behavior was a desirable trait in the past 600 years of terrier breeding.  Often used to hunt rats and other varmints living in grain silos, barns, factories, and farms, terriers were bred to have a loud bark.  Rodents move fast and the barking allowed for owners to locate the dog, even if it had followed it's prey into burrows or warrens underground.   This is one reason why Yorkies, Jack Russells, Silkies, Westies, and Schnauzers have earned the reputation of 'yippy dogs'.

Gus is no different.  

Gus has made great strides in his development since he came home in December.  He socializes well, meets new dog friends regularly,  is interested in play and people.  The first toy he played with was a tennis ball.  He would pick it up by the fuzz and toss it in the air, run, and pounce.  His aim was exacting.  Two years of being cooped in a puppy mill pen had not re-wired his prey drive.  

Over the next few weeks, Gus began to bring home more evidence of his ancestry.  The summer body count has risen to five chimpunks, eight field mice, two voles, and a cardinal.  (Though I suspect Orange Cat had some role in the bird catching itself...)  

I am rather accepting of predatory instincts, 'circle of life', animal nature stuff.  I'm not a fan of watching scenes on nature programs where animals get killed and eaten, but I understand how the animal kingdom works.  My dogs and cat, however, get fed twice a day.  They are not starving.  They are not even hungry.   They are merely acting on instinct, but that instinct could cause an infestation of parasites, fleas, and viruses.  It is not safe.

Each time I scooped up a teensy carcass, I wished peace to the little energy that once resided there.  I tried not to be angry at Gus for doing something natural for him.  I have learned the difference between 'cheerleading from the sidelines as Ollie and Marshall wrestle' barking from "YAY!  CHASE THE RODENT!  GET 'EM!" barking.  I finally broke down and got Orange Cat a quick-release collar with a bell and affixed a bell to Gus's collar as well.

I didn't realize how angry I was getting until this morning when I was jolted out of a fairly sound sleep by "Get 'em!  Get 'em!" barks.  I cussed loudly as I came down the stairs.  The thoughts that went through my head were, 

"He is so selfish!  He doesn't even eat the damn things."

"He is a serial killer.  He is cruel and unmerciful."

"The damn barking!  He's doing this on purpose!  Just to piss me off!"

I stomped through the kitchen and opened the sliding glass door with a little too much force as I yelled, "Gus, get your ass over here!"

And there he was, standing in the middle of the yard, looking at me quizzically.

In the moment that followed, I immediately felt ashamed.  I had just broken so many of my own rules.  I called a dog to come in anger.  I had given Gus human motivations and expectations.  I had let my grief over senseless death and secret expectations of rehabilitating generations of instinct overwhelm me.

Gus trotted over to me, tipped his head to the side, then sniffed my toe.  I bent down to pick him up and he playfully hopped backward and play bowed.   Then in a fantastic burst of energy, he began running circles in giant graceful leaps, barking his happiness for the world to hear.   The bark I had assumed was foreshadowing another rodent's demise was actually a celebration of life and body and movement.

Gus was dancing in the rain.

I am not walking today.

One of my favorite dog scenes from a movie is a scene in Steve Martin's "The Jerk".   Martin plays the role of simpleton Navin Johnson.  While staying at a motel, a dog starts barking at him frantically, urgently, as if trying to convey a message.  Navin is convinced the dog is trying to warn him of a fire  and runs out of his room in a bathrobe and bangs on every door to wake up the guests and evacuate the motel.  While waiting as the fire department clears the building, Navin proclaims that he is going to name the dog "Lifesaver".   When the firefighters determine there is no fire and it was a false alarm, one of the motel guests turns and informs Navin that he should call the dog Shithead... and Navin takes his advice.  As it turns out, the dog is kind of a shithead.  He isn't loyal.  He ruins stuff.  But he's cute and scruffy and knows that there is food for him in tagging along.   

I think it is interesting how much we think about names, what they mean, how they will be used.  We develop nick-names for each other to show a special bond.  A name says quite a bit about your heritage, perhaps even where you are from.  A name can make you stand out or blend in.  A change in name can change the way we view ourselves and how others view us.  Anyone who has ever changed last names or has left behind a childhood nickname for the more adult version can relate to the power and identity behind a name.

When it comes to choosing a name for a dog, cat, or other animal,  everyone has their own technique.  I think every family who had animals has had their share of names from physical characteristics.  In my family's past, Mittens, Blackie, Sandy, Rusty, Whiskers, and Boots are all fondly remembered.   

Some animals are named according to a theme. I tend to name my animals after literary characters or authors. Ollie, my ridgeback, is properly 'Oliver' the orphan from Oliver Twist.  My cats from my high school years were named Dante after writer and father of the Italian language Dante Alighieri, and Murphy after Edward Murphy the supposed originator of Murphy's Law. Some animal's names are family names or people names.   I've known animals named after favorite composers, musicians, actors--even products.  Marshall is named after the company that makes electric guitar amplifiers.  

These names are often badges of honor that rarely have to do with the attitude of the animal itself and say more about us and our interests as namers than the namees.  Where I think we run into trouble in the naming process is when some animals get their name from a predominant personality trait. 

When we name an animal after a personality trait (or a name we associate with that trait), we are doing two things that get in the way of our connection with out animals.   The first is we are highlighting a trait that may limit our understanding of our furry friend. The second risk we take in naming an animal after a personality trait is the danger in reinforcing bad behavior without realizing it. 

Take Angel for example.  As a emaciated stray, she peacefully slept and eagerly ate for almost a week in her new home.   Her docile behavior earned her the name 'angel'. Once she regained her energy (and a little body mass),  her personality became that of the energetic adolescent hound she was.   What one would normally associate with exuberance and some behaviors that need managing and training, her actions weren't exactly 'angelic'. Calling the dog 'Angel' constantly brought back to mind and expectation of the peaceful (sickly and malnourished) pup that showed up on the back stoop weeks before.   This dog needed a set of rules and consistency from her owners early on and didn't get it for months, simply because they were waiting for their 'little angel' to return. 

Pogo, a Jack Russell terrier, was named for hopping about with excitement when greeting family and strangers alike.  Smiles and petting constantly rewarded his jumping for years before the novelty wore off.  Once the family and friends weren't entertained with Pogo's behavior, the dog looked for other antics to elicit petting and attention.   Destructive chewing and incessant barking got attention at first, but then was written off along with the jumping.  The irritating combination of jumping, barking, and chewing earned the Jack Russell hours of confinement when guests were in the house.  His owners just assumed his behavior went along with the jumping and nothing could be done.

An adult black and orange cat earned the name 'Damien' after the evil child in the horror classic 'The Omen'.   The way his eyes glowed from under the bed where he hid the first three days he was home was rather evil-looking.  Cats are normally loathe to soil their sleeping space, but the cat repeatedly chose his new owner's bed to relieve himself during those first weeks.  Misunderstanding this as bad (rather than a cat's attempt to mingle scents and bond) the owner's doubt about naming the cat Damien was erased.  Although affectionate with his owner, the cat hissed, bit, and hid or raced up the curtains when strangers entered the house.  The real issue was the cat's actions signaled stress and uncertainty. The name directly resulted in the owner accepting some pretty bad behavior with the assumption that the destruction was simply a part of the cat's nature.    After years of escalating destruction, Damien's stress responses went unaswered and eventually the cat had developed neurotic and violent behavior that made him unfit to be around children or anyone other than his owner.

I'd like you to think about the names of the animals in your life.  These stories are extreme cases to highlight what can happen if we don't think about the ways our human need to 'name' interferes with inter-species communication.  Are they symbolic of a behavior or a person that you admire for a shared personality trait?  Can you think of ways that the name might be holding back your understanding and responding to animal communication?

It is another partly cloudy day.  The last one I expect to see this week.  I could base my prediction on the local weatherman's forecast of lower than normal temperatures and thunderstorms.  Instead, I look at the trees for conformation.  The breeze grows stronger throughout the day and the silver undersides of the leaves are exposed.  The silver maple sparkles for a moment.  This is how I know tomorrow will bring rain.

We are walking, Marshall and I.  He is a good walker.  His toenails tap the pavement as he bounces next to me.  I call his happy walk "tip-tip-tip".  His head is up, his whippy tail reminds me of the Wacky-Waving-Inflatable-Flailing-Arm-Tube-Man outside the local Chevy dealership.

Marshall is a happy puppy.  I'm realizing as I write this that he only has a few short months until he is no longer a puppy.  He will be two in November.      People always think he is much younger and mistake him for a sixteen-week old Rottweiler.  The truth is we don't know what he is, a Heinz 57 mutt that most closely resembles a German Pinscher, the dogs that are the ancestors of Doberman Pinschers, Schnauzers, and Affenpinschers.

His prance has been passed down from three hundred years of working dogs.  Marshall walks with pride.  He has a job and he does it well.  I am currently working with him to be a service dog.  My service dog.

I am one of the thousands of people with an invisible disability.  People with Epilepsy, Autism, Diabetes, Alzheimer's, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and other serious psychiatric disorders fall into this category. Marshall is being trained in medical alert and response, certain tasks to help me in my daily life, as well as all of his public access standards.  

He is off-duty right now and enjoying the scents coming to him in the pre-rain breeze.  We stand for a moment in the shade of an oak tree, close our eyes and smell.   Someone is burning leaves and yard waste and from far away someone is grilling.  The scent of sun-ripened blackberries down the path beckons me.  I start to walk ahead, but Marshall is not moving.  He has firmly planted himself next to the tree.  

When I move closer, he nudges my knee.  It is one of his gentle alerts.  I take my pulse and realize I do, in fact, need to sit down and continue the deep breathing we were doing before.   The tightness in my chest builds then subsides and I breathe through it.  A few minutes later, I feel a tug on the leash.  Marshall is standing on the path with his happy wagging tail.  He tap-dances at me to tell me it's time to get going and I'm ok again.  It is time to finish our walk, side-by-side.

I am reminded at this point of a quote by Thich Nhat Hanh's "Faith as a Living Thing".  

Faith is nourished by understanding.  The practice of looking deeply helps you understand better.  As you understand better, your faith grows.  

My faith has been fed today.   And I think Marshall's has, too.