“Oh, what did she have to say?” I asked. I knew Bubba counted the dog officer as one of his facebook friends. Ken liked to say he had the best-connected dog in Fitchburg.

“She got eight calls yesterday complaining about the pit bulls up here.”

 “But why? Nothing has happened.”

‘The caller told her Dolly was the problem. She also mentioned you by name.”

“Who was it? Did she say? Did she say anything about Bubba?”

Ken answered the most important query first. “The caller said Bubba was a good dog. It was just that Dolly and Anne.”

I groaned. “It must be that woman who Dolly took the glove from. She knows my name. Is that who it is?”

“She didn’t leave her name. Suzie said she left eight messages before work yesterday.” 

“It must be her. She’s whacked,” I said with all the aplomb of a frustrated social worker.

“Errr. Errr.” The dogs echoed my frustration. Of course they were just playing tug with no concern for larger social issues.

“She knows me too,” Ken said. 

“Yeah, but she said Bubba was okay,” I countered. “I’d better call Suzie today.”

 How could Suzie not be able to identify a caller? “Doesn’t the city have caller ID?” I wondered. “I would think so,” Ken said.

“As far as I’m concerned you are doing everything ight,” Suzie the dog officer told me the next day.

 “Your dog is licensed and vaccinated. You have her under control.”

 “Well, mostly,” I hedged. “She’s still learning.”

 “I might go walk somewhere else for a few days, let things calm down,” I thought out loud.

That’s a good idea, just for a few days,” Suzie said.

“Ken said you didn’t have the lady’s name. Don’t you have caller ID in the city?” I can be a little obsessive when I want.

 “She had a blocked number.”

“I think I know who it is,” I said. “That woman who works at the museum. She’s afraid of Doll. I don’t know her name though. She knows mine.”

 “Yeah, I know,” Suzie harumphed. “Try to get her license number. I’ll track her down.” Suzie instructed.

A week later Suzie showed up at Flat Rock in the animal control truck. The dogs were all happy to see her. She must give off good dog vibes.

 “She’s following me around,” Suzie said. “She called my supervisor to say I wasn’t doing my job.”

 “Is she threatening you? Are you afraid she’ll do something?”

 “Oh, no,” the five foot nothing dog officer declared. “I have police training.”

 “Her son had to take a restraining order out on her to keep her away from his kids. They won’t let her pick them at school,” Wendy told us.

 “Do we know it’s her?” I asked. The dour golem-like woman was starting to take on epic proportions.

 “I’m trying to get her license plate number,” Suzie said. “My supervisor told her unless she left her name and number we couldn’t do anything for her.”

 I marveled. When did the woman find time to make all these calls? She sounded in desperate need of a life.

 “I’ve been up here a few times. I know everyone will vouch for Dolly being a good dog,” Suzie said. “Everyone up here likes her. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

 Dolly was doing her hardest to charm. She hadn’t moved more than a few inches from Suzie’s leg since we started talking. Did she realize she was in the eye of a storm?

Thus, the cause for caution. A new dog, or more accurately, dog/person unit, may or may not integrate into the group. The butt sniffing and chest butt protocol entails growling, barking and snapping; behavior that can be alarming for anyone not expecting it. Fortunately it doesn’t usually mean trouble.

 Common knowledge at Flat Rock holds that a new pit bull can be an exception to the general dog way of fitting in. Some are just “dog aggressive” and must be avoided at all costs. You never know. Better safe than sorry.

“Here come some new dogs,” Wendy said. “Better leash Dolly. It’s a pit”

 Two goldens and a heavy black dog came bounding around the corner followed by two men. “No, no. It’s okay,” one of them called out. “He’s very friendly. Let them go”

 We were cautious. Dolly was still on the leash, Wendy, Peter and their dogs surrounded us.

 “Bubba, come here,” the man with the thick eyebrows called.

 “Wait a minute. I know them,” I said. “Ken? Ken Jones?”

 “I think they are okay,” I said to the others. “I’ve heard about Bubba. He’s a marshmallow.”

 Paul, that friend who said me and a pit bull bitch would be a perfect match, told me about this dog. He was very impressed with the black pit bull cross. The Bubbs spent lots of time sitting on the couch and snarfing cookies from guests. I’d known Bubba’s mother for years. We taught a class together at the local college and I teach in an after school program she runs.

 I decided to let Dolly go when everyone arrived and the dogs were starting to calm down. After all, Bubba came from a good family. It turned out to be a most excellent decision.

Immediately Dolly recognized Bubba as one of her own kind. She growled and snapped and jumped all over him. Bubba growled and snapped and sat right down. He already knew to take advantage of his superior size in the never ending games of strength the two dogs would come to play. Dolly, younger by a year and a half and much more svelte, overcame his weight advantage with energy and enthusiasm.

“Oh, boy,” I warned. “Stand back.”

Dolly raced to the edge of the woods and grabbed a stick. It was as if none of the other dogs or people existed. She ran straight to Bubba and stopped. Front feet extended and tail up in the air. The budding coquette looked up under her eyelashes at her new conquest and said, “Errr.”

Well, that was it for Bubba. He was completely enchanted by the pit bull temptress. He grabbed the other end of that stick and the rest, as they say, was history. For the next 20 minutes they tugged and growled, periodically racing keeping to catch up with the others. The other dogs ignored them; the owners seemed enthralled by the single-mindedness of the two pits. By the end of the walk the stick was history and Dolly and Bubba firm friends.

 “We’ll have to do this again,” Ken said. “But how do you know me?”

 Turns out the humans still needed to do some sniffing and butting.

For a more serious look at dog socialization vist: http://site.bigpawdesigns.com/blog/?p=508

“Did she get it?” I wanted to know.

“No.”

“Well, that’s good.”

I thought no more about the incident. I was preoccupied with more the more demanding issues in life. My parents were showing the effects of over a combined 150 years of good living. Since I’m the only kid in the area, I’m the one getting those scary “Your father fell down and can’t get up” calls in the middle of the night.

Other than that things in general weren’t too bad, just busy. Work was interesting and absorbing for the most part and even better, didn’t usually require suits, silly shoes and a pair of nylons. Getting everything squeezed into the day was a challenge, between work, parents, my new duties in dog care, working out and keeping two old cars running. I need the extra one for when the other is in the shop. Besides, I have a thing for Mazda RX7s. Perhaps it was a good thing I had no significant other hanging around asking for another bit of my time. Of course having someone with a sizable income would be an entirely negative thing. A freelancer’s income is never steady.

I thought things were going well overall in the dog department. Not one “accident” in the house. Nothing had been chewed up and annihilated in months. Dolly had met all kinds of dogs and lots of different people and seemed to like everybody. Then one day at Flat Rock the man with two Bassett Hounds said, “There’s a woman over there who’s afraid of Dolly. Don’t worry, she turned around and went the other way.”

“Huh?” First of all, Dolly was friendly to all. In the second place, if someone was afraid of dogs, they could go walk somewhere else. The dog walking all happened on a single mile-long trail. There were at least 12 miles of trails in the conservation area. I knew. I’d mountain biked almost all of them at one time or another.

“It’s not all nice people up here,” Wendy said. “Sometimes they try to get rid of us. Have you met mean man? You have to be careful of him.”

“He’s a homophobe,” Peter said. I had figured out that Peter was the tall thin man in the raggedy sweat suit and Kody, the ambling shepherd mix. “You should have heard what he said to Eric.”

“Who’s Eric?” I asked, once again confused. “Is he gay?” Peter would know, being unabashedly gay himself.

“No, but he’s odd,” Peter clarified.

I decided to steer clear of these troublemakers as much as possible. The last thing I needed was an altercation with some whack-job in the woods. After all, I was trying to raise Dolly to be as non-confrontational as it was possible for a dog to be. Instead of cursing loudly and inventively at one of the myriads of idiots on the road I tried to grit my teeth so Dolly wouldn’t learn to get aggressive in the car. Did dogs understand “the finger?” Maybe non-verbal venting might work.

Most of the dogs Dolly played with were happy-go-lucky and well-behaved. They set good examples for her. Jumping was rare, and most of the animals stuck close to their people without too much calling. What was missing was a dog who would play rough with Dolly. I was still adhering to Pit Bull Commandment #6, no tug of war.