Weekend nights are the hardest to leave Marlo, and the hardest to find a sitter, too. So last night, when Mike and I both wanted to join our friends at a no-dogs-allowed BBQ, we took him to his new kennel across the Bay. We figured it would be a good trial run for Thanksgiving when we leave him for a week to go on our pseudo-honeymoon in Hawaii.
The report from the kennel was overall good: Marlo played eagerly during playtime, and rested appropriately afterward. He ate his meals, and settled down for the night with his roommate, Rufus, with whom he became fast friends. There were some areas for improvement offered, too: 1) he can be sneaky. Apparently Marlo slipped through an open gate when he wasn't supposed to. It didn't sound like a huge deal, but they kept a closer eye on him after that. 2) When Marlo meets a dog he likes, he licks his or her face incessantly. Dogs don't always tolerate this, so he needs to cut this out. 3) Marlo got very lonely after Rufus left. Rufus was picked up early this morning, and Marlo howled and barked when he was left on his own.
So, despite him being hoarse and subdued today, it's good to know that they kept such close tabs on him, and that they found him a perfect match for the night. Meanwhile, Mike and I had a great time out with friends, and even got to eat indoors at a restaurant together during his stay.
We'll add his areas for growth to the list...
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
R-E-L-I-E-F
Joy and celebration across the land!! With a little help from a second vet, Marlo barfed up the remains of the errant tennis ball late this morning.
We are absolutely overwhelmed with gratitude for this ending to the foreign-object adventure. Here's how the saga unfolded...
Saturday morning a vet from Friday called to check in on Marlo. He strongly urged that we bring Marlo back in for the surgery since nothing had passed yet.
But Marlo was in good spirits, he was still enthusiastically eating, and we wanted to give it more time.
We read all sorts of opinions on the internet, and decided to add some pureed pumpkin to his cottage cheese and rice diet as a rich source of fiber that might encourage poop. Then mid-day, Mike had a brilliant idea. We took Marlo to Ft. Funston - both his favorite place in the city to run around, and a place he simply can't resist poo-ing with gusto all over the Ice Plant groundcover. There, Marlo got a bit out, but it seemed painful, and certainly offered us nothing to celebrate.
Again at dinner, Marlo wolfed down his dish and was acting himself, if a little mellower than usual, for the rest of the night. But when Sunday morning did not elicit a poop, we agreed to take him in to a new vet for a second opinion.
This visit lacked the urgent, emergency nature of the first visit, and the veterinarian was much more comfortable offering an array of options. We could induce vomiting, scope the object out, or go to surgery.
Since Marlo hadn't vomited in 36 hours, that seemed like the easiest (and cheapest) step to try first.
As the nurse took him back for his opiate-based shot, Mike and I returned to the waiting room to worry about our finances and plan for the worst. Less than 10 minutes later, however, we were called back to the exam room, the relieved veterinarian proudly displaying 1/3 of a tennis ball covered in sticky vomit on a surgical sheet. Hoorays, high-fives and hugs for all!
Now the poor pup's a bit woozy and wobbly from the drug, but ultimately should be no worse for wear.
Thank you to all of our friends and loved ones who were rooting for a happy ending. We're so relieved we got one.
And to our tennis ball eating dog... never again, buddy. Never again.
We are absolutely overwhelmed with gratitude for this ending to the foreign-object adventure. Here's how the saga unfolded...
Saturday morning a vet from Friday called to check in on Marlo. He strongly urged that we bring Marlo back in for the surgery since nothing had passed yet.
But Marlo was in good spirits, he was still enthusiastically eating, and we wanted to give it more time.
We read all sorts of opinions on the internet, and decided to add some pureed pumpkin to his cottage cheese and rice diet as a rich source of fiber that might encourage poop. Then mid-day, Mike had a brilliant idea. We took Marlo to Ft. Funston - both his favorite place in the city to run around, and a place he simply can't resist poo-ing with gusto all over the Ice Plant groundcover. There, Marlo got a bit out, but it seemed painful, and certainly offered us nothing to celebrate.
Again at dinner, Marlo wolfed down his dish and was acting himself, if a little mellower than usual, for the rest of the night. But when Sunday morning did not elicit a poop, we agreed to take him in to a new vet for a second opinion.
This visit lacked the urgent, emergency nature of the first visit, and the veterinarian was much more comfortable offering an array of options. We could induce vomiting, scope the object out, or go to surgery.
Since Marlo hadn't vomited in 36 hours, that seemed like the easiest (and cheapest) step to try first.
As the nurse took him back for his opiate-based shot, Mike and I returned to the waiting room to worry about our finances and plan for the worst. Less than 10 minutes later, however, we were called back to the exam room, the relieved veterinarian proudly displaying 1/3 of a tennis ball covered in sticky vomit on a surgical sheet. Hoorays, high-fives and hugs for all!
Now the poor pup's a bit woozy and wobbly from the drug, but ultimately should be no worse for wear.
Thank you to all of our friends and loved ones who were rooting for a happy ending. We're so relieved we got one.
And to our tennis ball eating dog... never again, buddy. Never again.
Friday, October 23, 2009
ER Visit
If it's not one thing, it's another.
We met with Kelley the trainer again on Wednesday, and decided to slow things waaaaay down. We have new, simpler homework and are exploring medications. Meanwhile, Marlo is supposed to eat all of his food from frozen kongs, so that he's expending as much mental energy as possible throughout the day.
So we're committed to the new plan, but Thursday things changed. Marlo threw up in the hallway in the late afternoon. Dog vomit is a pretty normal occasional occurence, so we didn't worry too much about it. At 3 a.m., however, he was up and vomiting again. At lunchtime Friday, our hallway was covered with Marlo's bile and barf, and I received a panicked call at school from Mike.
I sped home to drive Marlo to the doggie emergency room, where they took some x-rays (for which our poor sep-anx dog needed sedation) and found a foreign object in his stomach. Best guess? Tennis ball, or a large piece of one.
And now we've got a frustrating choice. Either we do a quick and easy and oh, $3000 surgery to remove the object, or we keep him comfortable and pray he passes it on his own.
We opted for 24 hours of the latter. The vet gave him IV fluids, a nausea suppressant, and some pepcid to coat his tummy, and we brought him home last night. We're now feeding him cottage cheese and white rice, and taking him out to see if he'll poo every few hours.
We're keeping a close eye on danger signs... lethargy, a return to vomiting, unwillingness to eat or drink, and lack of poop. So far he seems fine, save the pooping.
Never before have we rooted so hard for Marlo to take a crap.
We'll keep you posted...
We met with Kelley the trainer again on Wednesday, and decided to slow things waaaaay down. We have new, simpler homework and are exploring medications. Meanwhile, Marlo is supposed to eat all of his food from frozen kongs, so that he's expending as much mental energy as possible throughout the day.
So we're committed to the new plan, but Thursday things changed. Marlo threw up in the hallway in the late afternoon. Dog vomit is a pretty normal occasional occurence, so we didn't worry too much about it. At 3 a.m., however, he was up and vomiting again. At lunchtime Friday, our hallway was covered with Marlo's bile and barf, and I received a panicked call at school from Mike.
I sped home to drive Marlo to the doggie emergency room, where they took some x-rays (for which our poor sep-anx dog needed sedation) and found a foreign object in his stomach. Best guess? Tennis ball, or a large piece of one.
And now we've got a frustrating choice. Either we do a quick and easy and oh, $3000 surgery to remove the object, or we keep him comfortable and pray he passes it on his own.
We opted for 24 hours of the latter. The vet gave him IV fluids, a nausea suppressant, and some pepcid to coat his tummy, and we brought him home last night. We're now feeding him cottage cheese and white rice, and taking him out to see if he'll poo every few hours.
We're keeping a close eye on danger signs... lethargy, a return to vomiting, unwillingness to eat or drink, and lack of poop. So far he seems fine, save the pooping.
Never before have we rooted so hard for Marlo to take a crap.
We'll keep you posted...
Monday, October 12, 2009
Status Check
A week and a half ago our trainer left us with 3 homework assignments. To date, we've seen little change in Mr. Marlo's response to our "leaving stimuli."
So far, he still comes to find us immediately if he hears the jingle of keys or the rustle of a coat. He still bounds up eagerly from a sound sleep when we call out, "alright dog, we're out of here!" and races in front of us as we walk halfway down the hall.
We weren't expecting miracles, and we know we need to keep up the practice.
In the meantime, we continue our tightly choreographed dance with the dog.
Mike got to go out Friday evening for sushi and drinks with friends as Marlo and I stayed in watching bad TV (somehow my shows of choice this season are Drop Dead Diva, Glee and 90210. I'm certainly not proud of this line-up, but I'm mysteriously hooked on these ridiculous melodramas).
Saturday was my turn, so a friend and I enjoyed dinner at a new restaurant and watched a play downtown while Mike and Marlo chilled (with Top Chef and Project Runway... though he'd deny it all the way...)
Sunday all 3 of us made dinner at Dan and Khamara's house.
And today, a holiday from work, I got to go to yoga and get a haircut as Mike worked from home. Things got a bit iffy there for a moment when my stylist was 20 minutes late (I panicked when I arrived on time and noted the long, thick, soaking wet hair on her client that she was just beginning to blow dry). This meant I wouldn't be home in time to relieve Mike so that he could meet up for a planning dinner with the co-coach of his highschool baseball team. Luckily, the haircut was done at light-speed and the salon was on Mike's route to dinner. He showed up with Marlo for the hand-off just as I was writing my stylist a check. Phew.
A typical weekend with our a-typical dog.
So far, he still comes to find us immediately if he hears the jingle of keys or the rustle of a coat. He still bounds up eagerly from a sound sleep when we call out, "alright dog, we're out of here!" and races in front of us as we walk halfway down the hall.
We weren't expecting miracles, and we know we need to keep up the practice.
In the meantime, we continue our tightly choreographed dance with the dog.
Mike got to go out Friday evening for sushi and drinks with friends as Marlo and I stayed in watching bad TV (somehow my shows of choice this season are Drop Dead Diva, Glee and 90210. I'm certainly not proud of this line-up, but I'm mysteriously hooked on these ridiculous melodramas).
Saturday was my turn, so a friend and I enjoyed dinner at a new restaurant and watched a play downtown while Mike and Marlo chilled (with Top Chef and Project Runway... though he'd deny it all the way...)
Sunday all 3 of us made dinner at Dan and Khamara's house.
And today, a holiday from work, I got to go to yoga and get a haircut as Mike worked from home. Things got a bit iffy there for a moment when my stylist was 20 minutes late (I panicked when I arrived on time and noted the long, thick, soaking wet hair on her client that she was just beginning to blow dry). This meant I wouldn't be home in time to relieve Mike so that he could meet up for a planning dinner with the co-coach of his highschool baseball team. Luckily, the haircut was done at light-speed and the salon was on Mike's route to dinner. He showed up with Marlo for the hand-off just as I was writing my stylist a check. Phew.
A typical weekend with our a-typical dog.
Friday, October 9, 2009
A dog's trial
Having a special-needs dog when working as an administrator at a school is not always the best reference point.
Too often, I find myself internally commiserating with a parent or teacher about a child's frustrating behavior. Not because I'm a parent myself, but because Marlo's issues are often so very toddler-like, and the expert guidance is often similar: be consistent; be loving but firm; be clear about your expectations; celebrate when they've done something good; overlook the little mistakes, and give them a time-out for the big ones.
I completely understand that these parallels between child and dog could be insulting to any reasonable parent, so I bite my tongue each time I hear about an energetic young person who just needs to "run it off" on the playground before the parents can get anything done on the weekends. I've never once suggested anyone buy a Chuck-It for child use, though sometimes I fantasize myself asking, "Have you ever filled one of those rubber Kongs with peanut butter and frozen it? That keeps Marlo occupied for hours...")
I work at a private school where families must apply for admission. They write essays, tour the school, and have individual interviews with the admissions team while their children are observed in a classroom setting. The anxiety of many of these families is palpable. They desperately want their son or daughter to behave well, to appear smart and to play well with others, so that our school is an option for them.
Mike and I recently learned firsthand how nervewrecking this is...
After Marlo came home hoarse and traumatized from his recent stay (during our wedding) at a mediocre kennel, we decided enough was enough. We were eager to plan a honeymoon, but refused to leave him there again. We'd heard great things about a kennel in the East Bay run by dog trainers who have a very "dog-centered" approach. And as soon as we called for an introduction appointment, we entered the equivalent of the admissions nightmare.
On our assigned trial visit day, we grabbed Marlo's file and the three of us headed across the Bay Bridge. When we turned onto the kennel's street, Marlo started whining hysterically. He could smell dogs in the air, and his excitement (anxiety?) raged out of control. I could feel my own heart racing. What if he behaves terribly? What if he won't stop barking? What if they won't take him!?!??
We sat down to fill out paperwork while Marlo's whimpers reached a crescendo. What type of food does he eat? Nature's Variety. Has he ever been boarded before? Yes, but we didn't think it was a good place for him. Is he on medication? No, but we're seriously considering Xanax...now. Is there anything special we should know? Er, that our dog is a completely lovable basketcase who has imprisoned us in our home and we desperately need you to accept him please, oh please, because otherwise we'll never get to go on a honeymoon...ever?!?!?
The kennel director kindly took Marlo's leash and handed him to a trainer for his assessment while Mike and I joined 6 other dog-parents in a cramped room to hear about the overview and approach of the kennel. The session was inspiring! It resonated with everything we wanted for our dog. We fell more and more in love with this kennel, and simultaneously more and more certain that Marlo was ruining his evaluation.We exchanged worried glances each time a high-pitched bark rang out. There were dozens of dogs in the building, but we were positive it was Marlo each time we heard a piercing woof.
A tour followed, and the facilities were fabulous. Clean (and clean smelling!), spacious and airy, with many different indoor and outdoor playfields where appropriately-grouped dogs played many hours each day. Our awe increased when we were told, "sometimes our sep-anx dogs stay with the person on the night shift if they don't want to sleep in their rooms. They'll walk with the counselor on rounds and hang out at the desk until morning." Hallelujah! A place that truly understands dogs individual needs, and supports each appropriately!
By the time the 45 minute tour ended, I was near sick with worry. We NEEDED this amazing kennel for Marlo (I could practically feel the warm Hawaiian sand beneath my toes) but what if he'd blown it?
The trainer came out with the first dog and began to give her glowing report in front of the entire tour group. Mike and I shrank back to the chairs by the door. We didn't want to hear our fate condemned in public, preferring to deal with our humiliation and disappointment at the impending "NO" verdict away from the superior stares of owners with perfectly well-adjusted dogs.
And then she approached. With a smile! "He passed," she told us. He barked a bit at first, but then settled down. He was FINE.
We'd made it through the gauntlet with true appreciation for this new opportunity, and for me, with a new compassion for the hundreds of prospective parents eager to find the right school (though I promise not to tell them where it came from).
Too often, I find myself internally commiserating with a parent or teacher about a child's frustrating behavior. Not because I'm a parent myself, but because Marlo's issues are often so very toddler-like, and the expert guidance is often similar: be consistent; be loving but firm; be clear about your expectations; celebrate when they've done something good; overlook the little mistakes, and give them a time-out for the big ones.
I completely understand that these parallels between child and dog could be insulting to any reasonable parent, so I bite my tongue each time I hear about an energetic young person who just needs to "run it off" on the playground before the parents can get anything done on the weekends. I've never once suggested anyone buy a Chuck-It for child use, though sometimes I fantasize myself asking, "Have you ever filled one of those rubber Kongs with peanut butter and frozen it? That keeps Marlo occupied for hours...")
I work at a private school where families must apply for admission. They write essays, tour the school, and have individual interviews with the admissions team while their children are observed in a classroom setting. The anxiety of many of these families is palpable. They desperately want their son or daughter to behave well, to appear smart and to play well with others, so that our school is an option for them.
Mike and I recently learned firsthand how nervewrecking this is...
After Marlo came home hoarse and traumatized from his recent stay (during our wedding) at a mediocre kennel, we decided enough was enough. We were eager to plan a honeymoon, but refused to leave him there again. We'd heard great things about a kennel in the East Bay run by dog trainers who have a very "dog-centered" approach. And as soon as we called for an introduction appointment, we entered the equivalent of the admissions nightmare.
On our assigned trial visit day, we grabbed Marlo's file and the three of us headed across the Bay Bridge. When we turned onto the kennel's street, Marlo started whining hysterically. He could smell dogs in the air, and his excitement (anxiety?) raged out of control. I could feel my own heart racing. What if he behaves terribly? What if he won't stop barking? What if they won't take him!?!??
We sat down to fill out paperwork while Marlo's whimpers reached a crescendo. What type of food does he eat? Nature's Variety. Has he ever been boarded before? Yes, but we didn't think it was a good place for him. Is he on medication? No, but we're seriously considering Xanax...now. Is there anything special we should know? Er, that our dog is a completely lovable basketcase who has imprisoned us in our home and we desperately need you to accept him please, oh please, because otherwise we'll never get to go on a honeymoon...ever?!?!?
The kennel director kindly took Marlo's leash and handed him to a trainer for his assessment while Mike and I joined 6 other dog-parents in a cramped room to hear about the overview and approach of the kennel. The session was inspiring! It resonated with everything we wanted for our dog. We fell more and more in love with this kennel, and simultaneously more and more certain that Marlo was ruining his evaluation.We exchanged worried glances each time a high-pitched bark rang out. There were dozens of dogs in the building, but we were positive it was Marlo each time we heard a piercing woof.
A tour followed, and the facilities were fabulous. Clean (and clean smelling!), spacious and airy, with many different indoor and outdoor playfields where appropriately-grouped dogs played many hours each day. Our awe increased when we were told, "sometimes our sep-anx dogs stay with the person on the night shift if they don't want to sleep in their rooms. They'll walk with the counselor on rounds and hang out at the desk until morning." Hallelujah! A place that truly understands dogs individual needs, and supports each appropriately!
By the time the 45 minute tour ended, I was near sick with worry. We NEEDED this amazing kennel for Marlo (I could practically feel the warm Hawaiian sand beneath my toes) but what if he'd blown it?
The trainer came out with the first dog and began to give her glowing report in front of the entire tour group. Mike and I shrank back to the chairs by the door. We didn't want to hear our fate condemned in public, preferring to deal with our humiliation and disappointment at the impending "NO" verdict away from the superior stares of owners with perfectly well-adjusted dogs.
And then she approached. With a smile! "He passed," she told us. He barked a bit at first, but then settled down. He was FINE.
We'd made it through the gauntlet with true appreciation for this new opportunity, and for me, with a new compassion for the hundreds of prospective parents eager to find the right school (though I promise not to tell them where it came from).
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Slow Going
We're cautiously impressed with Marlo so far this week. I've been working until 8 or 8:30 each night, conducting group interviews for the next Head of School. Mike was in LA for his work, so Marlo had to manage solo from the time our dog-walker left him at lunch until well after dark.
All three days, Marlo went happily to his bed for a peanut-butter filled kong after his lunchtime run. And all three days he was sound asleep on our bed when one of us arrived home.
When the day and departures are routine, he's in a great groove.
All three days, Marlo went happily to his bed for a peanut-butter filled kong after his lunchtime run. And all three days he was sound asleep on our bed when one of us arrived home.
When the day and departures are routine, he's in a great groove.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Case in point
Here we have the perfect illustration of our problem...
It's Sunday, and our day looks nothing like the routine. We wake up at 8 a.m. (90 minutes later than normal) and Mike's out of bed before me. Mike has had plans to tailgate before the 49ers game for weeks. His excitement at grilling and playing poker with this best buds on a beautiful day in the Candlestick parking lot has escalated to near-Thanksgiving-like-proportions.
Before the coffee has finished brewing, Walt is here to pick up Mike and load the cooler, Webber, card table and folding chairs into his wagon.
This makes Marlo nuts. His anxiety about dad leaving is sky-high and he hasn't had his normal morning run. He gets a quick pee before the guys leave, then comes back inside with me so I can eat breakfast and shower for the day.
I've got 3 things on my agenda: The school where I work is having a book swap at noon and I need to put in an appearance; my friend Sara is having a baby shower at 2 p.m. across town; and I must buy a gift for said shower from her registry at Target.
So around 11:30 I take Marlo out to run. It's hot and he's not super interested in going fast. I spend a lot of time waiting for him to sniff palm fronds and mark his ownership on lampposts and trees. When he seems tired enough, I bring him inside, fill his water bowl, fix my hair, and head down the hallway. He's immediately on my heels, so I detour into the front office where I pretend to use the computer while he settles down. I stand up again and he zooms to the door. I tell him to, "wait!" and ease myself out, locking the door behind me. As soon as I remove the key, the barking begins. I walk down the stairs and through the main house door. I press it closed behind me and stand there listening. Sometimes the barks will stop quickly, and I pray they will today. Instead, they grow louder, more tortured and desperate. The dog can wail! And then I hear a crack, ending any hope of my departure. As soon as I open the bottom door he is silent, so I walk back upstairs and enter the apartment. I see paint chips on the ground and new claw-tears on the door jam.
I spend a few minutes taking deep breaths and reminding myself that he is not TRYING to ruin my life, and I decide to navigate my day with him instead of solo.
Dogs aren't allowed at school, though, so I bring him a peanut butter-filled bone and tie him up outside the gate. Three minutes later the peaceful book fair is interrupted by his piercing bark. And again, and again. He won't touch the peanutbutter bone, and stands at attention, staring fiercely in my direction. I make my apologies and leave, and the not-trying-to-ruin-my-life-dog eagerly starts licking the bone as soon as I untie his leash.
Apparently I am a complete glutton for punishment, because we then walk to the car and drive to Target. And then to Sara's house. The wailing and whining (despite a stop for water, bathroom and playtime) is insufferable. And so is the traffic. By the time we find a parking spot near the shower, he's inconsolable. I decide to run in the present (wrapped hastily in the car), make my second round of apologies, and run back out to take him home.
And here we sit, one of our hearts racing with frustration and anxiety, and the other happy and finally content, curled up on his armchair, asleep.
It's Sunday, and our day looks nothing like the routine. We wake up at 8 a.m. (90 minutes later than normal) and Mike's out of bed before me. Mike has had plans to tailgate before the 49ers game for weeks. His excitement at grilling and playing poker with this best buds on a beautiful day in the Candlestick parking lot has escalated to near-Thanksgiving-like-proportions.
Before the coffee has finished brewing, Walt is here to pick up Mike and load the cooler, Webber, card table and folding chairs into his wagon.
This makes Marlo nuts. His anxiety about dad leaving is sky-high and he hasn't had his normal morning run. He gets a quick pee before the guys leave, then comes back inside with me so I can eat breakfast and shower for the day.
I've got 3 things on my agenda: The school where I work is having a book swap at noon and I need to put in an appearance; my friend Sara is having a baby shower at 2 p.m. across town; and I must buy a gift for said shower from her registry at Target.
So around 11:30 I take Marlo out to run. It's hot and he's not super interested in going fast. I spend a lot of time waiting for him to sniff palm fronds and mark his ownership on lampposts and trees. When he seems tired enough, I bring him inside, fill his water bowl, fix my hair, and head down the hallway. He's immediately on my heels, so I detour into the front office where I pretend to use the computer while he settles down. I stand up again and he zooms to the door. I tell him to, "wait!" and ease myself out, locking the door behind me. As soon as I remove the key, the barking begins. I walk down the stairs and through the main house door. I press it closed behind me and stand there listening. Sometimes the barks will stop quickly, and I pray they will today. Instead, they grow louder, more tortured and desperate. The dog can wail! And then I hear a crack, ending any hope of my departure. As soon as I open the bottom door he is silent, so I walk back upstairs and enter the apartment. I see paint chips on the ground and new claw-tears on the door jam.
I spend a few minutes taking deep breaths and reminding myself that he is not TRYING to ruin my life, and I decide to navigate my day with him instead of solo.
Dogs aren't allowed at school, though, so I bring him a peanut butter-filled bone and tie him up outside the gate. Three minutes later the peaceful book fair is interrupted by his piercing bark. And again, and again. He won't touch the peanutbutter bone, and stands at attention, staring fiercely in my direction. I make my apologies and leave, and the not-trying-to-ruin-my-life-dog eagerly starts licking the bone as soon as I untie his leash.
Apparently I am a complete glutton for punishment, because we then walk to the car and drive to Target. And then to Sara's house. The wailing and whining (despite a stop for water, bathroom and playtime) is insufferable. And so is the traffic. By the time we find a parking spot near the shower, he's inconsolable. I decide to run in the present (wrapped hastily in the car), make my second round of apologies, and run back out to take him home.
And here we sit, one of our hearts racing with frustration and anxiety, and the other happy and finally content, curled up on his armchair, asleep.
First steps
Kelley gave us three homework assignments at her first visit. They each involve desensitizing Marlo to our behaviors that typically indicate that we're leaving the apartment.
1. Condition a "happy-time" phrase when Marlo is going to be 100% successful in a leaving situation.
We decided to use the phrase that our dog walker Alice says each time she leaves him: "OK, let's go to your bed!" This phrase is posted on our living room window.
For example, Mike will practice leaving on a "normal" morning when Marlo has historically done fine on his own.
Mike will say, "OK, let's go to your bed!"
Then he will gather his keys, phone and wallet and go out the door.
He then needs to come back in 5 minutes or less.
I get to do this when I leave for work each morning, because Mike and Marlo sleep sweetly together until I'm gone. So, despite the fact that Marlo is already IN bed, I still call out, "OK, let's go to your bed!" before picking up my bag and accouterments and walking to school.
2. Practice random-acts of absurdity with "trigger" items
We need to use 5 "trigger" items in strange ways as often as we can. We are supposed to space these out throughout each day and NOT look at Marlo or make a big deal of these random acts. This means performing such oddities as brushing our teeth with our jackets on or putting on our shoes in the middle of dinner.
Mike's items:
- shoes
- keys
- work bag
- jacket
- kong
Rebecca's items:
- shoes
- keys
- various bags
- brown vest
- kong
As I type this, I have my purse slung across my shoulder and have picked up and jangled my keys several times (all while still in my flannel pajamas and slippers).
3. Condition a,"nothing to worry about" phrase that gets Marlo comfortable with us walking toward the front door together.
This one is the most fun, and suggests a sort of wrinkle in the space-time continuum.
For this practice, our phrase is, "Alright dog, we're out of here!" (also posted on our living room window).
When we three are settled in watching tv or cooking or working, and there is no danger of us leaving, one of us looks at the other with arched eyebrows and a knowing nod and says, "Alright dog, we're out of here!" At this point, both of us stand up and walk halfway down the hallway toward the door. We then turn around and come right back to what we were doing as if nothing ever happened.
We are supposed to practice this 4-5 times a day, but not more than once within a 20 minute period.
We're going to take notes over the next 2 weeks, and email Kelley our observations about how Marlo is responding to these activities (and what Marlo was doing before and after).
After 5 days, there's not much to report. Marlo still responds to all of our wackiness with an eager curiosity, rather than the hoped-for calm apathy. We're sticking with it, though. The goal is for us to be consistent and frequent enough that eventually, when we demonstrate "leaving behaviors" he simply ignores us and continues to sleep.
1. Condition a "happy-time" phrase when Marlo is going to be 100% successful in a leaving situation.
We decided to use the phrase that our dog walker Alice says each time she leaves him: "OK, let's go to your bed!" This phrase is posted on our living room window.
For example, Mike will practice leaving on a "normal" morning when Marlo has historically done fine on his own.
Mike will say, "OK, let's go to your bed!"
Then he will gather his keys, phone and wallet and go out the door.
He then needs to come back in 5 minutes or less.
I get to do this when I leave for work each morning, because Mike and Marlo sleep sweetly together until I'm gone. So, despite the fact that Marlo is already IN bed, I still call out, "OK, let's go to your bed!" before picking up my bag and accouterments and walking to school.
2. Practice random-acts of absurdity with "trigger" items
We need to use 5 "trigger" items in strange ways as often as we can. We are supposed to space these out throughout each day and NOT look at Marlo or make a big deal of these random acts. This means performing such oddities as brushing our teeth with our jackets on or putting on our shoes in the middle of dinner.
Mike's items:
- shoes
- keys
- work bag
- jacket
- kong
Rebecca's items:
- shoes
- keys
- various bags
- brown vest
- kong
As I type this, I have my purse slung across my shoulder and have picked up and jangled my keys several times (all while still in my flannel pajamas and slippers).
3. Condition a,"nothing to worry about" phrase that gets Marlo comfortable with us walking toward the front door together.
This one is the most fun, and suggests a sort of wrinkle in the space-time continuum.
For this practice, our phrase is, "Alright dog, we're out of here!" (also posted on our living room window).
When we three are settled in watching tv or cooking or working, and there is no danger of us leaving, one of us looks at the other with arched eyebrows and a knowing nod and says, "Alright dog, we're out of here!" At this point, both of us stand up and walk halfway down the hallway toward the door. We then turn around and come right back to what we were doing as if nothing ever happened.
We are supposed to practice this 4-5 times a day, but not more than once within a 20 minute period.
We're going to take notes over the next 2 weeks, and email Kelley our observations about how Marlo is responding to these activities (and what Marlo was doing before and after).
After 5 days, there's not much to report. Marlo still responds to all of our wackiness with an eager curiosity, rather than the hoped-for calm apathy. We're sticking with it, though. The goal is for us to be consistent and frequent enough that eventually, when we demonstrate "leaving behaviors" he simply ignores us and continues to sleep.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A little history
Virtually every day of our then-5-year relationship, Mike asked me, "can we get a dog?" knowing full well that dogs have not been allowed in any apartment we'd lived in.
He made do by hanging out with our landlords' black lab, who quickly came to see Mike as one of her favorite people. He took her for walks and scratched behind her ears, and soon she jumped excitedly on her hind legs any time he walked by their glass door.
Eventually, the landlords gave in and told me, "Mike should have a dog." I kept this news secret while Mike finished his MBA, and upon graduation, wrapped up a purple chuck-it and various dog treats and toys, and told him that we'd go pick out our dog together.
The quest for our dog became an immediate obsession. Mike spent hours each week online looking at rescue organizations and craigslist. He sent me picture after picture of the newest dog who had melted his heart. On weeknights, he visited SPCAs around the Bay Area looking for "the one," and on weekends he'd bring me to see his favorites.
Mike's criteria:
- big, playful dog
- loves to fetch and run
- preferably all one color
Becky's criteria:
- No slobbering
- No humping
- No excess fur
Eventually, we found a puppy at the Milo Foundation we both loved... Parker. Parker, however, was much too much of a puppy for the still-cautious landlords, and we had to return him just shy of a week's stay.
After a short break spent nursing our broken hearts, Mike set out in earnest again. He found Matthew. Then Star. Then Speedo. We visited them all and talked to the trainers. We took them for walks and tossed them toys. None was quite right.
(Mike's favorite prospect, Speedo, was knocked out of the running when he exhibited all of my non-negotiables in spades. This giant yellow lab literally picked up his bed and humped it with a gusto rarely seen on the nature channel. Complete with slobber flying from his jowls and fur carpeting the ground...)
And then one night, Mike met Marlo (named Carmine by the SFSPCA). He'd been picked up as a stray in Merced and was transferred to the city to be adopted. I was excited to meet this handsome 9 month old chocolate lab/vizsla mix, and the evening I arrived at his window, he sat at attention: one skinny dog in a large, bare room, sitting near a neatly stacked pile of poo.
He met every one of our ridiculous criteria, and I loved him at first sight. Unfortunately, he was being held for another couple. I begged the prospective owner to take my phone number in case they changed their minds.
She called the next day, and that weekend, this goofy brown dog became ours.
He made do by hanging out with our landlords' black lab, who quickly came to see Mike as one of her favorite people. He took her for walks and scratched behind her ears, and soon she jumped excitedly on her hind legs any time he walked by their glass door.
Eventually, the landlords gave in and told me, "Mike should have a dog." I kept this news secret while Mike finished his MBA, and upon graduation, wrapped up a purple chuck-it and various dog treats and toys, and told him that we'd go pick out our dog together.
The quest for our dog became an immediate obsession. Mike spent hours each week online looking at rescue organizations and craigslist. He sent me picture after picture of the newest dog who had melted his heart. On weeknights, he visited SPCAs around the Bay Area looking for "the one," and on weekends he'd bring me to see his favorites.
Mike's criteria:
- big, playful dog
- loves to fetch and run
- preferably all one color
Becky's criteria:
- No slobbering
- No humping
- No excess fur
Eventually, we found a puppy at the Milo Foundation we both loved... Parker. Parker, however, was much too much of a puppy for the still-cautious landlords, and we had to return him just shy of a week's stay.
After a short break spent nursing our broken hearts, Mike set out in earnest again. He found Matthew. Then Star. Then Speedo. We visited them all and talked to the trainers. We took them for walks and tossed them toys. None was quite right.
(Mike's favorite prospect, Speedo, was knocked out of the running when he exhibited all of my non-negotiables in spades. This giant yellow lab literally picked up his bed and humped it with a gusto rarely seen on the nature channel. Complete with slobber flying from his jowls and fur carpeting the ground...)
And then one night, Mike met Marlo (named Carmine by the SFSPCA). He'd been picked up as a stray in Merced and was transferred to the city to be adopted. I was excited to meet this handsome 9 month old chocolate lab/vizsla mix, and the evening I arrived at his window, he sat at attention: one skinny dog in a large, bare room, sitting near a neatly stacked pile of poo.
He met every one of our ridiculous criteria, and I loved him at first sight. Unfortunately, he was being held for another couple. I begged the prospective owner to take my phone number in case they changed their minds.
She called the next day, and that weekend, this goofy brown dog became ours.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The time has come...
...to hire a dog trainer.
We've lived the past two years in tacit acceptance of our homebound fate. We're workaholics (i.e. it's no big deal to spend a night in, typing away at our laptops), we work from home (or 2 blocks from it), and we have incredibly understanding friends and family (who haven't yet stopped hanging out with us despite our furry brown appendage). So somehow we've made do living with a dog who won't let us leave him alone.
There are rules that developed that have enabled us to lead this sort of lifestyle:
1. Make sure one of us is always home. Since Mike is a consultant and works out of our front room, this is easy most weekdays. On weekends, and evenings, we take turns minding Marlo if the other has plans.
2. Visit only friends who welcome our mutt. Luckily, Marlo has endeared himself to our San Francisco family. His soulful brown eyes and belief that he really is a 65 lb lapdog has earned him a standing invitation to dinner parties at a handful of homes around the city.
3. For rare date nights, eat only at restaurants with outdoor patios. This is lovely throughout San Francisco's Indian Summer months, not so fun in the freezing fog. Liberties and the Slow Club are our most often go-tos. Walkable, and they bring water bowls out for Marlo.
4. Ingratiate ourselves to friends and relatives who will help out. We've made it to weddings and to welcome new babies by leaving Marlo with a good friend or brother. Our dog walker comes twice a week and we can sneak out for an afternoon when she's here. We couldn't have made it this long without them.
Despite the relative smoothness of life with these rules, enough is enough. We can't be spontaneous, or whimsical, or wild. We are under house arrest, and Marlo has buried the keys. We're ready to travel, visit museums or go to plays, see the inside of a fine dining establishment!
And so it is with enthusiastic, but cautious optimism that we embark on our training program with Kelley Filson, dog anxiety expert. She believes Marlo can do it. Now Mike and I need to believe we can, too.
We've lived the past two years in tacit acceptance of our homebound fate. We're workaholics (i.e. it's no big deal to spend a night in, typing away at our laptops), we work from home (or 2 blocks from it), and we have incredibly understanding friends and family (who haven't yet stopped hanging out with us despite our furry brown appendage). So somehow we've made do living with a dog who won't let us leave him alone.
There are rules that developed that have enabled us to lead this sort of lifestyle:
1. Make sure one of us is always home. Since Mike is a consultant and works out of our front room, this is easy most weekdays. On weekends, and evenings, we take turns minding Marlo if the other has plans.
2. Visit only friends who welcome our mutt. Luckily, Marlo has endeared himself to our San Francisco family. His soulful brown eyes and belief that he really is a 65 lb lapdog has earned him a standing invitation to dinner parties at a handful of homes around the city.
3. For rare date nights, eat only at restaurants with outdoor patios. This is lovely throughout San Francisco's Indian Summer months, not so fun in the freezing fog. Liberties and the Slow Club are our most often go-tos. Walkable, and they bring water bowls out for Marlo.
4. Ingratiate ourselves to friends and relatives who will help out. We've made it to weddings and to welcome new babies by leaving Marlo with a good friend or brother. Our dog walker comes twice a week and we can sneak out for an afternoon when she's here. We couldn't have made it this long without them.
Despite the relative smoothness of life with these rules, enough is enough. We can't be spontaneous, or whimsical, or wild. We are under house arrest, and Marlo has buried the keys. We're ready to travel, visit museums or go to plays, see the inside of a fine dining establishment!
And so it is with enthusiastic, but cautious optimism that we embark on our training program with Kelley Filson, dog anxiety expert. She believes Marlo can do it. Now Mike and I need to believe we can, too.
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