We got to poking around (again) around the edges of this semi-permanent feature down the valley and around the bend from the house. We were told by an long-time resident of Goose Creek that this was once a tobacco barn; and by others that a man and his son lived here, the latter killing the former.
Whatever the story, there was once an old cast-iron stove there, that is now in pieces.
Maybe it was used to keep the cabin’s residents from freezing in the winters of the late 1800s. Maybe it was used to create more heat than our cold valley could muster, to dry tobacco.
Whatever its use, its end was by fire, paradoxically, indicated by the overheated distortions visible in pieces like the one on the right, that identifies the stove as a Woodland, No. 32.
We plan to do more extensive hunting in the fall, when an old blog friend brings a metal detector to the task.
Housekeeping the catacombs of my desk, I found a reflection from early on. It speaks to my hopes for myself, for my readers, for our world.
Now, more than 15 years later, some hopes are realized, some will never be. If anything, the American masses seem even more untethered from their responsibilities and connections to “the environment” than they were when my writing life began in 2002.
And so this reflection, in hindsight, is a kind of dream unrealized, but not entirely so.
It is too long for a blog reader’s attention, so it is posted at medium.com
When Gandy died on Valentines Day last year, we vowed we would not have another dog in our lives. At this point, any dog we get is likely to need a foster home before the end of its life and after the end of ours—or at least after we are able to house or care for a dog due to late-life circumstances. It just did not make practical or emotional sense to take on the future pain of losing another one at this point in life.
And this resolve was firm during the two-week fog of grief and loss, made more firm every time I looked out the kitchen window at Gandy’s grave, covered with new white quartz stones from the creek as we find them, even today.
But as the sadness dulled a bit, it became clear that this place and our lives would not be complete without a dog—whose short absence since Gandy left us with a missing tooth. You just can’t help being aware of it the loss of a 24/7 presence when it is gone from your life. And so we talked it out, and decided we would look for a female puppy of a breed (if not another Lab) that would be big enough to take care of itself, but not so big we couldn’t manage it in our mid-seventies or later.
And what we ended up with was nothing like that: a 13 month old male dog that weighs more than half Ann’s weight. So much for plans and intentions. It is what it is. The heart has reasons that reason does not know, Pascal said, and this confirmed the claim.
So on April 19, we brought home a late-stage puppy pre-wired with bad habits, almost too old to reprogram, and vastly stronger than the smaller of us could manage even on level ground and good footing—a dog determined to lead the pack and indifferent to bribes or rewards to conform to the rules on Goose Creek. The worst of it was, as I have told, that outdoors he was master of his own choices. He would pull us when and where he wanted.
A turning point came at the very last class of dog classes where I pulled the assistant aside. “We’re learning here how to reward desired behavior with positive reinforcement. How do we extinguish undesired behavior with treats?”
Seeing the problems we were having with Scout in the chest harness and how strong-willed and determined he was to not give up leader-dog control, she suggested we look at a prong collar. I was ignorant but did the homework. They look horrible, and can be misused, and of course, the Internet is well-populated with worst-case images and videos. But we were up against the wall. Scout stood in real jeopardy of being “rehomed” to younger humans with a large fenced yard.
And so this (Herm Sprenger) collar, from the first few days, worked not so much physically as psychologically to encourage Scout to take his lead from us. A gentle tap on the leash—not a violent painful yank—was all it took for him to look around as if to ask “What is it you want me to do?” Before a pull on the leash only produced a harder pull in whatever direction he had decided to go. And so like some training videos explain, the prong collar used correctly is a communication device, not a punishment.
The collar never caused Scout any pain, but it prevented pain and injury for Ann, whose back could not withstand the strain of holding a strong and strong-willed dog. She had not been able to walk the dog by herself with the chest harness or regular collar; she could do so with the prong collar. And by the way, we haven’t used it in a few months–because we no longer need it.
The second element in this success story—if not the half the book of Scout’s coming into the family—was the use of a retractable leash with the prong collar. This gave him 16 feet of choice, and more of a sense of walking near us but not in lock step. It gave him the chance to explore and range within limits.
And yet, after three months of this leash training with the prong collar, when we got to the back of the pasture, four hundred yards from the road, and unleashed him, he was off into the distance, disappeared into the autumn foliage. (I really wish I’d taken a BEFORE video of this heartbreaking pattern–especially now that I know the story has a happy ending.) We’d hear him bark from time to time, but in these deep pockets, it was impossible to tell just where he was.
We were coming to the end of our rope–er, leash. Physically and emotionally, we could not keep doing this, day after day. We only had one last possible thing to try.
name would be Scout. This dog just looked
like he should have that name. I think the notion came from some old 50s
cowboys and Indians TV show stored deep in childhood memory. Forget Coco—a name
he must have come with to the humane shelter. What a sissy name for a
studdly dog. Scout. Come Scout. Stay Scout. Scout, Go Find Timmy!
So we got him home,
well and good, save for having to lift a reluctant, fearful 55 pounds into the
back seat of the car. I do not want to lift this dog ever again. And once in
the house for the very first time, he seemed to have been indoors before. That
was a relief. (Dingo, not so much. He thought the dining room table was just
another place to lie down.) After marking his territory indoors the first three
nights, he “got it” that ALL THIS was his territory. Oh you lucky lucky dog!
We’ve always shared our home with the family dog. Not everyone does, but his previous owners must have. This dog had definitely been up and down steps before, like maybe he lived in the basement and went UP to eat or to go OUT. He disappeared to Ann’s room at the top of the stairs before we closed the back door behind us on Day One. We still keep a barrier across the foot of those steps; and Scout discovers every failure to put it back in place.
On that very first day, we discovered that this dog didn’t give a rat’s acetabulum about food; or about treats. He could not care less. He still goes full days without eating, kibble and table scraps on the floor in front of him.
And that single fact set him apart from every other dog we’ve had since the Regan administration; set him apart from every other dog who would do ANYTHING for a mere morsel of kibble. Zack, Buster, Tsuga or Gandy (and the transient Dingo for that matter) would crawl on their bellies from here to town for a bit of scrambled egg. Scout sniffed it and walked off. Gravy? Meh!
Scout yawned at all
that. And this set the stage for a long and unsatisfying struggle to train this
dog. If positive reinforcement didn’t mean squat, how would we reward and
assure future desired behavior when it really mattered? Sit, stay, come,
leave it! Forget all that.
Flash forward from
Scout’s first days here in April 2018 to October. We learned at (dis)obedience
school that some dogs respond well to microwaved hotdog bits, and (whoodaThunk)
string cheese. It worked sufficient (for a while) to reinforce basic commands.
He loved playing hide-and-seek, both of us hiding and calling COME! (He gets a
treat!) And back and forth he went.
And so by October,
some considerable training had happened—inside, at least, and in a
distraction-free setting. But when other dogs and people were around (June
dog-obedience classes in Christiansburg for instance) rules and patterns of
behavior in the house totally vanished. We got back home, he became Good Dog
Scout again. Indoors, he was affectionate, obedient, fun to be with, and
increasingly devoted, especially to me.
All the more
heartbreak outdoors then, where he was NOT a joy. But we confess, in hindsight,
to some early mistakes. We’d change this if we ever had it to do over again;
but we won’t.
From the start, we
wanted control over the dog on walks, where he was prone to take the lead. A
chest harness took the pressure off his throat and distributed it through his
chest. This seemed logical, but it was a mistake. His strength and drive to
lead the pack pulled us like a plowshare behind a draft horse on crack, in then
out of the creek and across the pasture. The harness gave him authority to be
pack leader. I watched Out the window, Ann in this dance, the water-skier
behind the powerboat. Land skiing is NOT a pretty sight.
So morphing Scout into the comfortable, reliable companion dog like each of his predecessors had been to us would mean that we could confidently and routinely have him with us, off-leash, for our walks around the pasture. Eventually, we hoped, he would stay with Ann when she went to gather twigs, go with me to haul wood up from Yucca Flats, be with us every time we went outdoors multiple times every day, good weather and bad.
Scout would be
responsible for keeping up with us, not us with him—and, most importantly, he
would sit-and-stay reflexively, calmly, a safe distance from passing trucks,
bicycles, horses and motorcycles on the one-lane gravel road, rare though those
passers-by might be.
November, it never happened the way we longed that it would. We’d walk a bit
down the New Road along the pasture margin, with the dog on leash. At some
point one of us would say “You think this is a good place?” And very subtly I’d
unhook the clasp from the leash to the harness ring, hoping he would get it
this time that he belonged along-side US. But the instant he was free, he was
gone. Outta sight. His off-leash breakouts averaged an hour and change.
And so we loved him under a roof and loathed him under the sky. Scout was disturbing my peace, having become canine non grata. And yet, Ann “just knew” that some day, he’d morph into a devoted, intelligent, obedient dog. And when we told him to, he’d go find Timmy.
Gandy, a week before she died on Valentines Day last year, was able to jump into the back of my truck while we unloaded wood. She always helped by selecting her own piece to turn into wood chips. Then she lost ground rapidly. When the vet left the house after putting her gently to her final sleep, we vowed the pain was too much to think of having another dog in this life. A week later, we were less sure of that, and began browsing the animal adoption sites. We found Scout in April.
Months later, we were stalled mid-way between love and something else, so far as this wild-card rescue dog was concerned. He was not fitting in. We couldn’t get allegiance into his head. He certainly didn’t see us as the leaders of his pack. What would it take to make that happen? I frankly despaired, and will tell more about that in the third installment.
Who was this dog? What would it take to reach him, to keep him, to welcome him fully into our lives and love him like all his predecessors?
It was during this ambivalent wondering that Google lens spit back at me an image that was Scout. The caption: Carolina Dog. Wait. What? I never heard of the breed. But maybe if it helped us better know his pre-ordained disposition, habits, preferences and genetic tendencies, we could do better at winning him over. Or maybe not.
And so I spent a couple of entire days reading everything I could find on Carolina Dogs–also called the American Dingo; or Pariah dog (a catch-all for barely or non-domesticated breeds in ancient times that have persisted in a semi-wild state.)
I compared pictures of other supposed Carolina Dogs (Yellow Dogs or Yeller Dogs) to Scout, and read about their temperaments and habits. More often than not, what I read described the mutt sitting next to me on the loveseat as I scrolled page after page on my iPad.
► Curved tail when alert, drooping horizontal when at rest: CHECK
► Snout Pits: CHECK (yet it seems it is usually females who do this.)
► Champion mouser: CHECK
► Coat soft, with dense undercoat. Immaculately clean, little shedding: CHECK
► Wary of Strangers at first: CHECK (especially MEN)
► Buries poop with the nose: Nope. He is inclined to bury any treat we give him with his nose in the snow or grass or soft dirt. He isn’t much for treats. More, anon.
► Fiercely local to the pack, once bonded: Well the jury was still very much out on that one when we first began exploring Scout’s possible parentage.
And I’m not claiming that discovering his ancestry sealed the bond, but it helped us be patient with whatever legacy of biology or tolerant of prior abuse or failure of training he might have known, and give him space to BELONG to our pack. We despaired for months that this would happen. Spoiler: it DID!
So: Carolina Dog. Most have erect ears, while Scout’s flop most of the time. Most are smaller frame, but some are stouter. Scout was 55 pounds when we got him, and has gained a bit since, but still covers the ground just like the videos of American Dingos all over the Internet.
This is indeed a DIFFERENT dog from most other breeds, because it did not come over with the European settlers like most early American dog varieties. The American dingo accompanied the post-ice-age immigrants across the Bering land bridge from Asia some eight to 10 thousand years ago or before.
If you’re interested, rather than me reposting the wealth of information out there about Carolina Dogs, I’ll offer some of the links I’ve collected for your perusal. This was engaging, relevant and helpful reading for me, longing to make known as much as possible about this dog whose history was otherwise hidden from the other side of his crate at Angels of Assisi in Roanoke where we found him and fetched him home on April 19 of lsat year.
Seven months later, Scout was a dear soul inside the house, but still wanted nothing more than to escape if he accidentally got out the door or we let him off-leash outdoors, thinking every time, “this time he’ll want to stay with us.”
This dog needed to run—a lot, and every day. Maybe he doesn’t need to be the responsibility of two old codgers. There was no yard to be fenced, invisible or otherwise. He began to run down the road and bother the neighbors who have small children. This was making our lives miserable. The dog was to blame, even though it wasn’t his fault the Gum Ball Machine of life dropped him here on Goose Creek.
It was a long, grievous half year, I suppose for him as well as for us. At wits end, I wrote a couple of letters to humane shelters, asking if it were possible to “rehome” this dog, a creature that would never fit into our lives here. I never sent those letters.