Commitment

After more than nine months writing daily posts, neglecting the blog these past two months leaves me feeling vaguely irresponsible. Nicholai was my touchstone, my daily walking meditation; without his presence I find myself sucked into the swirling vortex of a busy life. I miss the solid ground provided by paying attention with my big black dog. Perhaps now, off work due to another eye surgery, I will find quiet time for reflection during the dark days of winter.

When last I checked in here, we were in the midst of a struggle with our female pitbull dogs. Nicholai died, leaving a hole in the canine chain of command. Seven year old Isabella should have ascended gracefully to the position of Queen Dog and young Kelley should have acquiesced with gracious deference. Instead, Isabella swirled into hyperactive mode, barking insanely about each of the day's activities. She barked to induce us to get up in the morning, to open the door, to serve biscuits before breakfast, to go to the park, to throw a ball, to feed her bites of our meals. Often, it seemed, she just barked on general principle. With ears laid back, Kelley crept surreptitiously onto laps where she watched Izzy spin in circles making her demands. When Isabella's high-pitched frenetic barking became too much to bear, Kelley lit into her canine 'sister' with teeth and claws blazing. After three of these episodes where neither of the girls gave an ounce of ground and blood was drawn, I felt a sense of dread. Pitbull fanciers recommend just one dog of each gender to a household. A bit cockily perhaps, we had presumed we could mandate a peaceful existence between the girls despite any genetic whispers to the contrary lingering in their DNA.

We struck out in search of solutions that would allow us to keep both dogs. Some changes were simple – taking each dog on her own walk for instance. Requiring a little self-control from Izzy – while not simple, per se – was straightforward. We insisted (sometimes with a water filled squirt bottle in hand) that Izzy sit without barking before we opened the door, handed out biscuits, or tossed a ball. Izzy's eyes were wide and she trembled with the effort of containing her manic energy, but she did it.

Our veterinarian prescribed a Chinese herbal formula to pacify Isabella's wild physiology and a pheromone dispenser still metes out molecules of a chemical substance normally produced by dogs to send a calming signal to other animals in the area. These measures garnered a tentative accord between the girls. Still, we felt on edge and wondered when the next melee would occur.

I contacted a specialist in dog training and behavior who connected me with an animal communicator. Skeptical at best about the merits of animal communication (who does it, with what training, certification, or credentials, and how in the heck does it really work?), I felt we had nothing to lose.

According to the communicator, Isabella sees herself as separate from any canine pack hierarchy; she does not wish to be an 'alpha' dog. Izzy is just a girl who wants to have fun, and when the fun is over, she wants a warm lap to snuggle on without competition. No surprise there. The communicator told us Kelley felt uncertain about her place in our family. Nicholai's sudden departure left her uneasy; she didn't know what role she was to fulfill – was it Guard dog, playmate, or little sister? Was she meant to bark at visitors, to keep Izzy in line, or to protect the perimeter? We chatted for a while about roles and expectations then the communicator suddenly said, "Kelley doesn't know if you want to keep her."

I don't know if an animal communicator really talks to animals at all; perhaps if skillful, she simply pulls insights and feelings from the person she communicates with – in this case, me. But I chuckled in spite of myself. The communicator certainly hit on a truth about me. I found Kelley one fateful morning at Kelley Point Park and brought her home without thinking. Since then, we just kept her day after day without making a real decision; it took months for us to simply get her spayed. In a way, she'd been on unspoken probation all this time.

When I hung up the phone, I sat by Kelley. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and I pictured the day she crept carefully across the parking lot toward me, just tossed out by her previous people. "I have loved you since that moment," I telegraphed to her with all my attention. I told her what a good dog she is and how much I value her. "I want you to stay forever. But to do that, you must find peace with Izzy."

Something is working: Izzy curtails – just barely – her frenzied behavior, perhaps she's helped by the herbs she takes or the pheromone signals. Kelley demonstrates numerous acts of gracious deference at the same time relaxing into her role as the much loved baby of the family. The girls are living side by side in peaceful harmony.

I don't know if the animal communicator nailed it for the dogs, but she sure nailed it for commitment-phobic me. Perhaps Kelley can relax now that she knows she's home for good. Without plan "B" which entails getting rid of Kelley, I am free to focus, not on if things work, but how they work. And for the first time since she moved in with us, both Kelley and I are free to love each other with abandon.

That may be the key to the peaceful kingdom.