If there’s anything I’ve learned as an imperfect person living an imperfect life, and as an imperfect mother raising my imperfect son in an imperfect world full of other imperfect people, is to try not to judge others.
Perfection in this physical dimension of linear time and space pretty much exists only as a concept. “Nobody’s perfect,” we’ve been told throughout childhood and well into adulthood to soften the blow of a letdown, and we have at times used it as an excuse of sorts when we fail, say the wrong thing, make the wrong move, or hurt someone else. It serves as a consolation or a reminder of the fact that we can and will often make wrong choices and face disappointing consequences.
Now, with all this understanding of the Tao of imperfection, what the hell was I thinking back in August during that phone conversation with the dog rescue agency in Texas as I described my vision of “the perfect dog” that I was looking to add to our imperfect family?
“My son, being on the autism spectrum, is sensitive to sound so the dog can’t be a ‘barker’,” I remember saying, and now thinking of how unrealistic that kind of sounds. “And he doesn’t like dogs that jump so it can’t be a ‘jumper’, either.” I went on to explain our lifestyle, the daily trail runs, the weekend mountain climbs, and what the perfect dog would look like in the grand scheme of things.
Without any pause, she offered up her suggestion and spoke his name to me for the first time.
“Ricky would be perfect,” she said.
One of a litter of four – named Ricky, Lucy, Fred, and Ethel – Ricky was considered a dog with great potential, possibly a candidate for future therapy dog training. “Intutitive” was an adjective used by his foster mom, whose own son was on the autism spectrum and Ricky allegedly possessed some intrinsic ability to understand the boy.
Yes, the part blue heeler, part German shorthaired pointer 10-month-old young rescue dog sounded like the perfect fit for us. It was decided. Ricky would be our family dog.
That being established, it was further into our conversation after hearing endearing descriptions of sister Ethel – the submissive one of the pack of ten or so rescue dogs at the foster house, the one everyone picked on and who suffered a number of cuts and wounds to her flesh – that I heard myself say in a vulnerable moment of compassion and impulsive benevolence, “It sounds like we need to take Ethel, too.”
The RV of rescue pooches arrived late one afternoon in Hartford, Connecticut. On the big day, I told the driver we were there for Rickey and Ethel, which prompted him to respond, “Oh. Ha! You sure?” I reckoned that I was in for an experience that perhaps might be a tad less-than-perfect.
Going from no dogs to two unruly rescue dogs is an incessant inundation of licks, squirms, snuggles, nuzzles, snuzzles, and kerfuffles. No complaints from me, since this new flavor of anarchy worked like cream and sugar to our existing cup of chaos in this cosmic café we call life in my house.
Ricky and Ethel were superstars on their first 4,000-footer hike in New Hampshire on their birthday weekend when they turned one-year-old back in October, and they were quick to learn the local trails I traverse regularly on my morning runs. It was all going steady in delightful disorder until the day Ricky went berserk and attacked another dog on the trail.
Ricky frequently expressed an unease and tension while passing other dogs, although he and Ethel are like those two cliché peas in the proverbial pod. (He even cuddles the kitten and spoons her at bedtime).
Out on walks, there was always a degree of barking, lunging on the leash, an intense need to sniff the dogs and then back off in a fit of barking and angsty acrobatics. But that morning in Myles Standish State Forest when Ricky seemingly unprovoked ran full force after an innocent dog rounding the bend, barking and nipping her and frightening the poor owners who stood helplessly by, I took it hard, I say understatedly.
Having seen Ricky’s response to other dogs in public, how could I have been so careless, so reckless, so … irresponsible to let the leash fall from my hand and let him wander and frolic freely with Ethel? Shocked and saddened, I looked to my boyfriend who simply stated, “Ricky is a problem. He can never ever be let off the leash. EVER.”
We called in a trainer and got straight to work. He determined that something must have happened to Ricky during his formative months – either attacks from the other dogs or some consistent exposure to violence that caused him to fear dogs unknown to him. I wish he could tell me what happened to him, what turned him into this ferocious beast, and quite likely the most beautiful, handsome creature I had ever beheld.
Fetching, fine, snuggly, glued-to-my-side, I-need-to-be-nuzzled-into-you-at-all-times loveable goofball Ricky was a mental case. Apparently, my “potential therapy dog” was actually the one who needed therapy. How can we cope with this?
Training was slow, yet our imperfect life kept on moving and I worried for Ricky. I worried about his safety, the safety of other dogs, Ricky’s happiness and his obvious angst, separation anxiety, and insecurity. I thought about how hiking up Mount Washington with a leash in my hand would imperfect the experience, and how with every passing dog along every trail there would be an embarrassing scene – Ricky would scream and flail as usual, thrust and lunge, and I would have to say that same line to everyone we pass, “Sorry, he’s a mental case. He’s traumatized.”
Pressure was mounting from friends and family about possibly getting rid of Ricky. He was officially a liability, a possible ticking time bomb, among other clichés. I tried gentle leaders, which failed to keep him from spazzing. We leash him, muzzle him every time we go out, and we keep treats on hand to try to distract him. Although we can keep him from harming another dog, none of these implements of ruction reduction truly penetrated the root of the problem.
I took Ricky to the veterinarian and flat out told her, “You need to help me. You are my last ditch effort to keep this dog.” It would kill me to have to give him up. Please, I begged her, “Help him.”
That’s when we took home our first bottle of doggie Prozac.
OK, I know what some of you are thinking. Your dog is on pharmaceuticals? What the hell is wrong with this country to even drug their dogs? I boldly exclaim that I am not ashamed to admit that my beloved mental case is a Prozac pill-popping pooch. It might not be the perfect solution to the problem, but there is something inherently imperfect about this dog’s brain and if there was even a slight chance of it improving all of our imperfect lives, it was worth a try.
You know, the Marion Board of Selectmen recently held a dog hearing for a pit bull on Rocky Knook Lane that had attacked and bitten a neighbor’s dog. When the owner referred to his rescue dog as a “lovebug,” “sweet,” and “gentle” at home, I felt a squeezing in my chest. And when the selectmen deemed the dog “a dangerous dog” to be confined, leashed, and muzzled at all times outdoors, my heart was an iPhone in a toilet bowl, sinking to the bottom of my chest.
That’s Ricky, I thought to myself. Ricky is “a dangerous dog.” I couldn’t judge this imperfect owner or his imperfect dog, for I was he and Ricky was his dog.
Ricky, now on Prozac for six weeks, has improved somewhat around the house. Some of his separation anxiety has subsided, and he seems more relaxed out and about – until he sees another dog, of course. Nothing has changed on that front, except the muzzling appears to have at least created a psychological castration of sorts, since Ricky is well aware that all he is now is just bark with no bite.
And I’ve had to let go of that perfect vision of the perfect dog behaving perfectly on perfect mountain climbs. He will never be able to run freely outside of the fenced-in backyard and for that I still feel sad for us both.
Only time and experience will tell what will become of Ricky’s “dangerousness” to other dogs. In the meantime, we march on “muzzled and kerduzzled” as we loving refer to Ricky.
Nonetheless, Ricky and Ethel, these two imperfect emissaries of anarchy fit in perfectly in our imperfect existence. Ricky could very well be the most imperfect dog for what we had in mind, but he’s my imperfect dog and, dammit, I love that crazy nutjob.
By Jean Perry
