Gibson has a postal worker thing. Not the usual doggie thing- where the canine wants to rip the nice- I'm just delivering your mail to your mailbox- worker to shreds.
No, Gibson has friendship. Because he's one of the most social dogs I have ever seen. The girls and I always tease him that he has a motto-
"Stalking 'til we're friends"
This started at the dog park because when he would see another dog, he goes into crouch mode, like he's a big, wild beast of Africa, sneaking up on the unsuspecting herbivore. The looks we have gotten from other dog owners, as they notice this huge Great Dane/Black Lab 'puppy' trying to quietly sneak up on their small, toaster box size pet has been hilarious- if perhaps they didn't pick up their dogs and start running away from us.
Then I start to feel bad that my extremely friendly lap dog has scared away yet another dog owner. And they simply do not believe me when I try to convince them that stalking is Gibson's way of making friends.
But lets not talk about Gibson's troubles with social graces- we're here to discuss his other troubles:
Gibson is a runner. We open the door and he tries to escape. We have now resorted to forming plays of action that we have to perform when we open the door. Sorta of like football- "Bean, here's the baby. Abu, grab the diaper bag. I'll throw the toy, when the dog intercepts it, make a run for the door before he crosses the living room."
Or sometimes it's a full tackle. "Girls, grab the baby. I'll tackle the dog and hold him down while you get out the door."
One day he made an escape and ran right for the pretty, blond mail lady. She realized that he wasn't the big, scary beast that most people think he is and recognized him for the overgrown puppy that he really is. She gave him puppy treats until I could run down the block and get him.
And since then, it's been love at first doggie treat. Now, he watches out the window for her and when she passes, he doesn't bark like he normally would, he whines in this pitiful, gargle in the back of the throat.
Last week, he rushes pass me as I check the mail. He thinks he sees her and runs right for the postal worker. Except it's not her. It's some guy he doesn't know. So he decides to run around the neighborhood, because for a huge oaf, being stuck in the house while it's in the negative temperatures is enough to drive one insane. And since he's free- he's going to take advantage of it.
I go outside, not chasing him - because that actually makes him run worse. The best method is to IGNORE him- because then he runs back to me- wondering why I'm not playing chase.
We end up in the backyard- I almost have him and then he decides to chase a car driving down the alley. The car is going somewhere between 10-15 miles an hour and he is so easily out running the vehicle.
I'm afraid he's going to get to hit when he makes the stupid decision to turn and run towards the busy road. Then I start running but I can't outrun him and by the time I make the corner to the busy road, I notice ALL of the cars in four lanes of traffic are stopped and he's limping back to me.
My chest tightens, the fear curling my gut and I hurry over to him and he's looking at me like a little kid would, 'I hurt Mommy and make it all better.'
I coax him down the alley to my parent's house and holler for my Dad. Around this time a vehicle that had been stopped on the road comes driving slowly down the alley.
"I saw what happened. He came out of nowhere. The truck tried to stop but he couldn't. I don't know how bad he got hit but he rolled under the truck a few times and then came out the side."
I thank her for taking the time to stop, especially since the person that actually hit my dog never even took the time to see if the puppy was okay.
My Dad feels all his bones, checking for broken ribs and legs and hips. He pokes and checks for tender spots on his belly and his torso. Gibson's tail is bleeding, road rash all up and down the sides of it. Missing chunks of fur and skin. The tail is swollen but it's not bent at odd angles or crushed.
Gibson is crying. His eyes full of moisture and he's presses his forehead up against me. I cry with him.
I take him back to my house, he slowly comes along, obviously sore but he's able to walk without yelping or whining.
I make him comfortable and clean up his wounds. I don't rush him to the vet, not because of any lack of caring, because for all the headache he can be- I wouldn't let him suffer in any way- (I do happen to like my pain in the neck puppy)- I have nothing financially right now. It would be using my kids' food money to take him to the vet. So, since his doesn't have any broken bones or signs of head trauma- we tend to him at home. We keep a careful eye on him, checking his urine and poop for blood. Checking for signs of head injury all night long. Checking to make sure the wounds on his tail start to heal quickly and there isn't a lack of circulation going on or broken tail bones.
In the photo above you can see the tail and he's obviously sore and stiff. He doesn't even want to chew on his shoe, which is a great treat for him because to him there's nothing better than someone's sweaty, smelly running shoe.
Over the next thirty hours we baby him and coddle him. He eats it up, sitting on our laps and getting the chance to be the lap dog he knows he is underneath all that puppy body.
We keep cleaning his tail and it scabs quickly. The potty stuff is going fine. Slowly he starts moving more, jumping over the baby gate, getting on the furniture.
Hero Hottie asks, "What's wrong with you, man? You look like you've been hit by a truck." And that's his sarcastic way of dealing with it.- As he pets Gibson behind the ears and actually shares fried ham from his dinner plate with him.
Just thirty hours after he is hit by a truck, rolled under the vehicle and managed to come out not only alive but without any serious injuries- he sneaks into the Baby's room and comes running out with a toy. And the chase is back on...
Monday, February 10, 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
I am the daughter of artists and dreamers and adventurers.
People braver than me.
People that comprehend the comings and goings of this world far better than I do.
I was raised poor. Renting poor. Working hard poor. But what my parents couldn't give me in money they gave in other things.
Ideas, memories, dreams. Treasures of the heart.
At times I was a pretty serious child. When I was in third grade I was in the newspaper for trying to teach people about the dangers dolphins faced from tuna nets.
I was eight or nine. In between making posters about Boycotting Tuna and recycling and reading articles about elephant poachers in Africa...I would have sleep overs, and play Barbie and ride my bicycle.
By middle school I was reading books upon books about how to save the world. I was still making posters and hanging them up in the school library. The local library.
Protesting. Protesting. Protesting.
Always demanding that systems could be ran better. That ideas could be bolder. That people could try harder.
I was an idealistic teenager.
Who turned into an idealistic adult and realized that this world is not made for the dreamer.
The believer. The idealistic.
Only the strong survive in this world. Or the greedy or the selfish. The takers. The dream breakers.
BUT ALSO those strong in FAITH.
In this last year I have learned many things.
Friendship is a strong support system. That we were never meant to live without true friends or a sense of community. Of belonging.
Change, real honest change,
is possible with small- not ideas because those are easy- but actions.
Big ideas can happen by faithfully putting small actions into place.
One has to remain passionate about dreams, ideas, and faith otherwise you go into this dark zone of drift where you allow despair and sadness to rule your life.
Faith and prayer are extremely important because we are spiritual beings.
LOVE holds this messy, chaotic life all together.
So this year I'm not making New Years Resolutions. Instead I'm going to focus on:
Big ideas can happen by faithfully putting small actions into place.
Remain Passionate and Change the World
Happy New Year. I pray for all my readers near and far and wish you a healthy, safe, and hope-FILLED 2014.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
If you don't receive any presents from Santa this year- it's probably Gibson's fault. The photo evidence is clear- Santa's hat in the mouth of a puppy that chews everything.
I'm pretty sure I saw a jolly happy fellow running for his life as Gibson chased down the reindeer.
Yep, I doubt Santa will be delivering in my neighborhood ever again. Sorry children. It was the puppy.
Gibson probably just wanted to be friends with the reindeer and he probably only wanted Santa to pet him and let him sit on his lap because no matter how big this dog grows, he literally thinks he's a lap dog and will smother you with affection. Or he's trying to prevent you from getting up, I'm not sure which yet.
But I know for sure what Gibson wanted from Santa's sleigh....the toys. He loves toys. He chews them and tears them apart and sometimes when he eats too many of them he pukes them back up too.
Today he has chewed and ate three jumbo crayons, the handle to my hairbrush, mini candy canes, and two gardening gloves- unfortunately not two gloves of the same pair, but two gloves from two different pairs, making both of them unusable.
I saw this photo posted to Facebook and had to share it. My problem with dealing with Gibson is because I'm not thinking like a puppy. Like duh!
So see, he wasn't trying to be mean to Santa. He was protecting us. Just like he barks at the squirrels that run around in the pine tree right above his leash and torment him. But if he stopped barking those murderous squirrels would surely descend from the trees, invade our house and eat us all alive. Gibson knows this.
So he keeps barking...everyday...all the time...because he's saving us.
Wow, I should appreciate him more.
Same reason he barks at the neighbors...they're obviously murderous. And the postman...and all of the girls' friends...
But I have to say the puppy and Baby Blueberry work well together. The other night, I turn around and she's dipping a calculator in the Christmas tree water.
Dip. Dunk. Dip. Shake it out. Dunk it some more...all of it.
I sighed and shook my head. Who needs a calculator?
We left for a couple of hours and when we returned there was electronic parts scattered around the room.
A circuit board. Rubber numbers. Wires.
The front of the destroyed calculator.
I had to laugh at that one. At least he had chewed apart something that had already been completely destroyed by the Baby just a few hours before.
They're such a great team.
So we finally got our tree decorated. It's only decorated from the top up. It's naked from the top down. We knew between the human baby and the canine baby we would lose ornaments by the dozen if we put them too close to small fingers and sharp teeth.
I also set up the Nativity way up high and the rest of the house is sadly lacking any Christmas decorations. Why risk it, all that shiny stuff surely looks delicious! ---for Baby Blueberry and Gibson.
We bought Gibson a huge ham bone and training treats for Christmas, but we had thought about getting him a new home.
Gibson doesn't know it yet but he has New Years Resolutions. Like no chewing, no biting, no jumping, better listening, no chasing Santa, and oh, just behaving in general.
Perhaps Santa will drop off a dog trainer!