Category: Site Original

For Juno

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

This is not a eulogy or an obituary. She is still alive. Under the desk, just inches away, Juno is sleeping deeply. If I called her she would still sleep. Her hearing’s not the same as it was. I’d have to go touch her gently to wake her. I’d signal in the way we learned when she was just a puppy and she would come to me. She’d sit by me and look up at me. Her eyes are cloudy and I don’t know how well she sees. But she’d look anyway right into my eyes. I’d pat her head even though I know it’s not her favorite thing. It’s habit. Then I’d softly take her snout in my hand and kiss her forehead. She’d sigh and settle down again, probably fall back asleep. We’ve done it like this countless times. It’s our way.

All that started in a puppy class 11 years ago. We were learning “stay.” We were just 6 feet apart and I looked at her and thought, don’t move. And she looked right back and I imagined her thinking, I won’t. Our eyes locked for the minute or two we were supposed to stay apart. But for that minute or two we were closer than if I were hugging her. We were communicating and I think we both knew it. I walked back to her and the instructor said well done. Well done? That was magic. I was hooked – on Juno, on training, on all of it. That’s all it took.

A couple months earlier my partner came to me at work and announced, “I’ve found the most perfect golden retriever puppy ever.” She was unremarkably cute in the way all golden puppies are, curled up in the front seat of the car, sleeping. We named her Juno because all our pets had the names of Greek and Roman deities. She was my first dog since childhood. I knew nothing.

Dogs chew, Juno especially. It’s their nature. It is also their nature to explore, to run, to pull on their leashes, to eat unimaginable things, to bite hard with their sharp puppy teeth. People don’t believe me now when I tell them how bad Juno was. It’s probably for the best. She forced me into training and then seduced me into becoming a trainer. I wrote about it the day she so miserably failed puppy class.

I tossed my puppy class bag in a corner, dropped to the couch, stretched out and stared through the window. My mind wandered to how things always seem to start one way and end a completely different way. Nothing had ended up how I planned. Juno was lapping up her water in the next room. Who are you and what have you done with my puppy, I thought. She padded into the living room as if she’d come to answer me. I looked at her and she was beautiful. There she stood, tail wagging, looking back with clam resolve. For the first time her face foreshadowed the noble dog she would become. And her eyes, for just a moment, showed the ancient wisdom of her kind.

Magic. My partner left and I moved to Cleveland. Juno and I opened North Coast Dogs (training and behavior). She learned agility and fly ball and heart stealing. I lie and tell people NCD grew because we were all so smart and talented. It was really all about hope, the hope that if you brought your dog to us you’d end up with a dog like Juno. I paid her in dried liver and trips to the lake. She was fine with that.

She made TV appearances to share the hope. Then she landed the role of Sandy in a local production of Annie and shared some more. She ran off stage into the audience to see me right in the middle of things on opening night. Otherwise she stole the show and some more hearts.

They came and went, lots of people, lots of dogs. Juno was always there, unremarkably wonderful in the way most goldens are, magical in the way most are not. People who never loved dogs before loved Juno. Some went on to get dogs of their own. She would be anyone’s friend who welcomed her, at times a final friend. There was a woman named Mary who had lived for years in the nursing home we visited. She was blind and deaf and never spoke. Juno made her giggle every time, and every time Mary would pet Juno on the neck and ears. Then one day after her laughter faded, Mary looked up with her blind eyes at no one in particular and announced to us, “She’s three!” I stared. Then I cried. The social worker with us calmed me so I could explain what had just happened. Even now I cry at the strange beauty of it.

It was Juno’s third birthday.

It’s a mast cell tumor. I’ve heard that twice now. The first time we got it all, good margins, simple and easy. This one, less than a year later, will be more difficult, perhaps impossible. After the news I took Juno for a swim. One day long ago she chased a goose out on to Lake Erie and I thought she’d swim to Canada. Now she chases a ball, and tries to corral a second one, just a few feet from me, still with so much heart. I laugh like we’re at the lake again. I laugh and then can’t help but cry.

It wasn’t that long ago, the lake, puppy class. I knew nothing then. Or maybe I knew all I needed to know.

Juno jumped up on the couch and cuddled up next to me with a big heavy sigh. It was one motion. Her breathing fell in with mine and soon puppy class faded away for both of us. There were no hand signals, just my arm around her chest. There were no commands, just comfort. No tests, just this. And true there were no gold medal stickers [on her diploma] , just a golden puppy kind enough to share a nap and claim me as her own.

Not today. But one day I will touch her and she will not wake. No call or signal will bring her. She won’t look up at me. I’ll wonder if my heart is broken. I’ll wonder but then I’ll know better. Perhaps I’ll close my eyes and Mary will tell me; maybe she’ll speak one last time the truth of the old and the sick and the dead. “Juno is off whereever it is unremarkable magical dogs go, swimming a wide lake after a Canada Goose, clutching a ball but still holding fast to your stolen heart.

(this essay was written in May 2009, four months before Juno’s death)

Calming Shelter Dogs

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

Sometimes the best thing you can do for a shelter dog’s emotional well being is nothing at all. But, please don’t misunderstand. “Nothing” in this case doesn’t mean neglect. If fact, this kind of “doing nothing” takes a great deal of attention and patience.

Dogs in shelters live under a great deal of stress and constant stimulation. People are coming and going. The lights are on for long hours. Dogs are barking and jumping and pacing. It’s a heartbreaking cacophony to those of us who work and volunteer in shelters. For the dogs it’s nightmarish. And it leads to progressive behavioral deterioration.

It’s no wonder so many of these dogs are frenetic when we take them out of their runs. They jump on us with apparent glee. They wiggle and wag and pant. Their excitement is over-the-top. We’ve all seen this before. They are filled with joy to be out of there and interacting with us. That much is true. The trouble is they are so aroused by their environment that they have no idea how to control themselves around people. They look crazy. It’s no wonder. They live crazy lives.

Because we care and because we love them, many of us reflect their joy and excitement right back at them. We pet them; tussle their ears and talk our sweetest most energetic baby talk. Then we trot them out for potty time and exercise. There’s no real harm in that. We’re only human after all. But are we doing any good? Is this dog learning how to live in a home with a family? Or is he just learning to freak out and jump with exuberance on every new person he meets?

I know. Those are hard questions to ask ourselves.

Let’s try this instead and see how it works. Behave the way you want the dog to behave. It turns out that dogs are very good at reading our body language, facial expressions and overall emotional tone. Be calm and project that calm onto the dog. Take him out of his run quietly, with a gentle hello. Walk outside at a normal pace. It’s okay if he’s jumping and pulling. This is new and he’s been living the bad version of la vida loca. Patience. Once he’s gone potty find a nice place to sit and quietly give him focused attention. Exercise is a good thing, but shelter dogs need quiet “down time” more than anything. And if it’s with a human being (you) all the better. Just sit quietly and observe. Breathe. Loosen your shoulders. Wait for the dog to calm with you. This may take a while. Say nothing.

If the dog looks at you, smile and in a gentle cooing voice say “good.” When you pet him, do so gently and slowly. You’ll find it’s very easy to accidentally get him wound up again. That’s okay. Start over. Once he starts to calm again, whisper “good boy” or “very nice.” The words are less important than the sound of them, soft and relaxing. Imagine the dog laying down at your feet, drifting into the first relaxing moment he’s had all week. Pet with long gentle strokes, no scratching or tussling. Good. Treats for eye contact, sitting or laying down are fine. But you might notice food is arousing to the dog as well.

This calming technique is great for dogs in foster care or ones freshly adopted from shelters. It’s a perfect way to just chill out with a dog who’s otherwise been wound up all day. I do it with my own dog. And I recommend it for every dog you visit at the shelter. If you’re lucky enough to interact with the same dog more than once, see if you notice a change in his reaction to you. Most adopting families want a dog who can settle down and do nothing with them. And sure enough, that’s exactly what you’re teaching your shelter dogs. Do nothing. And enjoy.

Lifetime Dogs

Michael Baugh CPDT-KA, CDBC

I hear them all the time, stories about that one dog that changed a person’s life. Sometimes the dog is right there. More often than not the dog is already gone, dead, maybe a year, maybe decades ago. But one thing is always the same. The dog in the story is or was the dog. And the person I’m listening to is moved to speak of magic and mystery.

Folks who know dogs well call them “Lifetime Dogs.” There won’t be another one like her, they’ll say. And then the stories come. She was the dog who saw me though my divorce, or the death of my mother, or the time I was laid off. When everyone else turned their back on me, she was the dog who stood by my side. When she looked at me I just knew she understood. She was the best dog I ever had and I still miss her.

I understand. I have a Lifetime Dog. She inspired my first dog training business. She’s traveled the country with me and moved city to city. She’s seen me through loss and disappointment. She’s made me smile and laugh, just about daily. She’s one of my best friends. And though I prattle at her all the time she has never spoken a word to me. Her loyalty is silent and steady. Her name is Juno and I could tell you stories about our life together for days. And I find I want to tell those stories even more these days because Juno is near the end of her life.

So, what is it about her and all these other dogs? How do they pull us through life’s struggles? How do they charm and change our lives so? Or are we asking the right questions?

My belief in the true nature of dogs leads me back to observation. I’ve seen dogs do amazing things: run weave poles at top speed, perform in obedience competition with precision, take down criminals with stealth and strength, and find survivors in rubble when all hope was lost. But the new work of dogs as author Jon Katz calls it, is much harder to see. I’ve never seen a dog talk anyone through divorce or death. I’ve never really seen a dog start a business or find someone a job. In truth, I’ve never seen a dog do anything other than be a dog, just be herself.

The sad truth is I see humans being less than their greatest selves all the time. We struggle and persevere and rarely give ourselves the credit. When we suffer and mourn we are the ones who emerge on the other side standing strong and alive and better than before. We raise families and build lives. And on our best days we embrace the glory of our own lives with laughter and joy. That’s us. That’s you. And yes, if we are lucky we do it with a dog by our side.

And what about these dogs? What about Juno in the waning days of our life together? Is she any less special for having done nothing at all? Is she no longer a “Lifetime Dog” for having been just an ordinary dog? Or maybe ordinary is enough. Maybe her magic is just simply in her being and not at all in her doing. And perhaps the best counselor or friend really is the one who stays by your side without a word while you struggle and heal. And maybe she’s the one who steps aside while you grow and create and emerge anew. She’s always there to play and watch you laugh. And that’s enough. She’s the clear simple reflection of your greatest self. Can’t you see how wonderful you are in her eyes?