Tag: Houston Dog Training

Dear Juno

I can’t believe it’s been a year.

Tim and I miss you deeply.  Still, I’m so grateful when you visit my dreams, even the ones in which you just pass through for a short cameo appearance.  Those are as precious as our memories of you.

So much has changed this past year, and so many of those changes have been inspired by your spirit.  Once again, I’m helping people full-time with their dogs.  All of them want what we had, a meaningful and abiding relationship, clear communication, love and affection.  Every time I succeed, I thank you.  You taught me so much.

Juno (1998-2009)

I wake up every day to your picture on my dresser, and your paw print on my nightstand.  Tim and I live with two dogs now who came from pretty bad situations.  Stella reminds me a lot of you, serious at times, an old soul.  You would like her, unless it turned out you were too much alike.  Stewie is small, flighty and impetuous.  He needs one of those scary “air bites” you reserved for your favorite puppies.  I think you might like him anyway, mostly because he means so much to Tim.

Auntie Gay looks after them both, and Stosh.  She also tends to your special place in the garden.  There’s a pretty bouquet of fresh fall flowers there today.  I know she misses you too.

I speak of you often, Juno.  Though, today it will be difficult.  Tears are still too near the surface.  Tonight I’ll teach a week-one Good Manners class, just as you and I did so many times.  Stella will play your part, admirably for a 16 month old puppy.  She won’t have your flare; she won’t get the laughs you did, but she’ll do fine.  I’ll teach the class, and take care not to call her by your name.  I’ll teach the class, and take care not to tell a story that would make me cry.  I’ll teach it the way we used to, and in my heart I will dedicate the class to you.

Love, Daddy Michael

Stella

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

Stella’s never played in the crisp dry leaves of Fall, never played in the season’s first snow.  She’s a Texas Dog from start to stop.  She’s equal part pant-in-the-sun and roll-in-the-mud.  This is her first full Summer with us, and it’s drawing to a close.

This time of year has always been about things ending, and new things beginning.  The lazy days get shorter.  School starts up again.  Dogs who used to romp with the kids now lounge at our feet.  Some things start; others stop.  It’s the natural way, transition.  Even if we miss the crisp leaves and the fresh snow, things change.

Last year at this time, we were saying goodbye to Juno.  We knew she was leaving us, but we didn’t know when.  We knew another dog would follow; but we didn’t know Stella.  Turns out she was out on her own, just a puppy, barely old enough to fend for herself.  She had a hurt foot (there’s still a scar) and a virus hiding in her blood (distemper).  She was a broken dog, on her way to mend our broken hearts.  Starts and stops.

There are songs and movies and poems and books, all about Summer and its end.  It is reflection and hope, sentimentality.  It is the romance gone and the work ahead.  It is the darkness that comes before the day is really done.  It is the fire we light at night, even if it isn’t really cold enough.  It’s that dog by our side, beautiful in the warm glow, the one we didn’t expect to have this year even though we love her just the same.

Photo Courtesy Robyn Arouty Photography

Things change.  Summer starts and stops.  Cool winds will blow from the panhandle towards the Gulf.  Our Texas Dogs, good and strong, see us through, into the winter and past it.  It’s the natural way of things, creatures steady and wise, bound to us for generations.    Last year it was Juno.  This year it’s Stella.  I love them the same.

Stella’s head seems to bob in time with a country song playing in the distance.  It’s what’s left from the distemper (neither of us cares for country music).  She’s been out in the September Sun, rolling in the mud.  Juno was golden, thick coated, built for crisp leaves and snow.  Stella is lean and long, thinly furred, giant-tongued for panting.  She’s a leggy blond, built for Summer.  Her first has passed.   Stop.

And start.

(originally published in Texas Cats & Dogs Magazine September 2010)

Stewie, A Small Tribute

 

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

Looks aren’t everything, but they count.  And, for the record, size does matter.

Stewie is cute, and Stewie is small.  If he were a beast of lesser aesthetic value or greater mass, he’d be in trouble, maybe dead, or worse.

Stewie the day he was found

He’d just dodged death when I met him.  Death might have been a Dodge, in fact, or a Chrysler.  Whatever it was, it had passed, and Stewie had made it across the street.  It was raining.  Stewie was pathetic, and helpless, and adorable.  What happened to you little guy, I said.  He looked up, wide-Chihuahua-eyed, soaked and trembling the length of his Dachshund body.  I’ll take you home.

He was good at first, good in a magical way, good in a too-good-to-be-true way.  He was cute too, and small, so small.  He took a bath that first night, ate a meal, and burrowed under the covers to pass the night with me.  What a find.

The jumping isn’t a big deal really.  It’s the claws, just shy of being garden rakes that are a big deal.  Trimming them is a big deal too, a big, ugly, dramatic deal.  The little puddle in the bathroom wasn’t a big deal either.  The pile in the entry way was (both times), and much bigger than you’d expect from such a dog, so cute and small.  Chewing a bone anywhere near our other dog is a big deal, too, a big nasty deal.  These are all problems you can manage with crate training.  The crate is a big deal, an ear-splitting, crying, like from the gates of hell big deal.  Baby gate?  Climbed it.  Pooped again.  What a find.

Another thunderstorm rolls in, and Stewie burrows under the pillows on the sofa next to me.  He shakes, and I stroke his back.  He’s so cute, so small.  What happened to you? I can only guess.  No one taught him how to survive humans, unseemly and uncaring, despite our clever large brains.  Eventually, the cuteness wore off.  The problems were too big.  He ended up on the street, wet and terrified in a storm, inches from death.  That’s how I imagine it.

Then, he found me, slunk into my car, burrowed beneath my covers and into my heart.  I wonder for a moment about the others, the under-bite dogs with dark faces, the ones not-so-small, the mud-pawed jumpers and the shedders.  What happens to them?  Who saves them from the storm?  Who teaches them that some of us are okay, clever but still kind?

Originally posted in October 2010. 2022 updates: Stewie’s behavior issues were resolved within his first year. He is now a delightful old dog, still so full of life. Though he appeared, at first, to be a Chihuahua – Dachshund mix, he is actually 50/50 Chihuahua – Cocker Spaniel.