White Trash at Flat Rock

Remember to scroll on down to the first chapter if you need to catch up with the adventures

“Jennifer and I taught a class together a few years ago. And didn’t you tape some of the bike race events for us last year?” I reminded Ken. The Fitchburg Longsjo race has been a major international cycling event for half a century.

 “Oh, of course. Didn’t you have a place downtown for a while?”

 “Yeah, the coffeehouse. We had some excellent performers.”

 “I remember that. My wife Jennifer and I used to go there.”

 We were good to go. Dolly and Bubba soon had regular play dates. Everyone in the group took to Bubba, seeing as he was such an amiable fellow. Most of the time we got together up at Flat Rock, sometimes, if we were feeling adventurous, we’d go on a field trip to a different park. The dogs let us go along for the treats we provided. Besides, we had the car keys.

 Flat Rock is a magical place for dog walking. The reservoir is ringed by piney New England woodlands. The “beach” is accessible through several narrow pathways most of the dogs loved to run down. Many of the dogs were most excellent swimmers, chasing sticks thrown way out into the water from the shore. Some went down to the water more reluctantly, not caring too greatly to get wet.

 It took Dolly awhile before she was willing to put her front paws in the water to get a drink. Bubba was pretty cautious also. As spring turned into summer, the dogs got hotter and thirstier and trips to the water happened more frequently. Kody did the water buffalo, submerging himself to slightly deeper than belly deep and standing still. Star swam around, just a bit. The goldens in the crowd became enthusiastic seals. Two chocolate labs, not yet in touch with their inner water dogs, took swimming lessons with their human father.

 Dolly and Bubba cautiously remained on the outskirts of this but each day became a bit bolder in their water explorations. Soon they were standing in the water up to their elbows. One day Dolly got her belly wet. Big news on the pit bull front.

 “Look,” I said to Peter and Ken, “Bubbs is almost over his head.”

 “Oh, good boy,” Peter encouraged him.

 As we watched, Bubba disappeared under the surface. There was a slight sucking sound as he disappeared a few feet from shore.

 “Oh, my god, oh, my god,” someone said. Maybe it was me or maybe one of the men. Most likely, all of us.

 “BUBBA!”

 I started hitting my pockets, searching for items that could be damaged in water, preparing to use my decades old lifesaving skills. Ken and Peter jumped around frantically, probably checking their pockets for valuables too.

 The two are remarkable similar in body type. Both men are tall and rangy. Peter is a yoga instructor, but absolutely exercise phobic. Ken is a former rugby player with two replaced hips to prove it. They were in their shorts, leashes wrapped around their necks and wearing caps. Neither was usually an excitable type. Except when it came to their dogs.

 “BUBBA! BUBBA!”

To be continued…

Note: Prevent this from happening to your dog. check out http://www.dogtrainersearch.com/blog/2009/12/dog-swimming-teach-your-dog-to-swim/

It’s blue moon Sunday here at Flat Rock and I promised a treat. So smile already.

Lately I’ve been noticing that if I smile at someone, they smile back. Amazing, huh? I remember a classmate in college whose natural expression was a sort-of grin. I always assumed we were more or less friends until one day, apropos of nothing, he walked up to me and said, “You are basically evil.” Who knows what I did. Frankly, I don’t really care, but the incident obviously lurks in the back of my mind.

Pit bulls have a wonderful smile. It stretches from ear to ear right across that giant jaw. I hadn’t seen Dolly’s smile and began to wonder if she had less pittie than we thought. Until, one day, she ran full-out at me. Her paws were sending out little puffs of dust, she roared past me with not an inch to spare. On her face was the biggest grin you could hope to see.

I’ve never been able to get a picture of this expression; my camera is just not up to the task. There are some lovely pit-smiles at a website I found. http://www.pbrc.net/ There’s lots of information on the site.

The smiling idea came to me as I drove past the Mazda dealership on my way to Townsend this morning. They park the cars facing the state road, and some of the models have a grill that imitates a smile. I always find myself smiling back. Good design. In the interest of full-discloser, I admit to having an RX7 habit. No longer made, but what a car. I’m enjoying my 1987.

 These are Miatas, not the venerable RX7, but still – a cheery sight on a bleary day.

A row of smiling Miatas

“Dolly jumped up and tried to take my glove,” the dour woman with a gang banger’s watch cap declared. Somehow, this woman knew my name. I didn’t ever remember meeting her before. She was large; tall and bulky. Her moves were awkward, like a golem come to life or a small child wrapped in too many outside clothes. Any conversation was stilted; seemingly she had to remember how it was reasonable and appropriate to talk to someone else. Always she was alone when she went on her walk. The sounds her car made as she pulled out of the lot indicated new ball joints were severely overdue.

“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.

Scroll down to chapter one to read the adventures in order!

Over the next few months we met up with the walkers several times a week. The blurry group gradually became a collection of individuals, each with an interesting take on life, each just a tad odd. Some came up more often than others.

Wendy was known as the dog-yeller. She kept tabs on everyone and everyone’s dogs. She was also the resident expert on all things Fitchburg and all things dog. Sometimes though, it was difficult to figure out what she was talking about.

“I’ve been coming up to these woods since I was little. I know every trail. My brother told me not to walk around alone up here. He’s a state cop. That’s ridiculous. I know these woods better than anyone.

“My father used to raise Brittanies. We always had Brittanies. The girl at the vet’s just got a pit. You don’t know if they are any good until they are two. They can turn any time, but if they reach two and they’re still good they’ll be okay.

“There’s a lawyer who lives over there, he has a mean dog and he wants us all to put our dogs on a leash. He just can’t control his dog, you know. Henry said we don’t have to leash our dogs.

“Oh, look at Dolly. DOLLY, DOLLY! What a good girl; go play with Star. STAR! Star doesn’t like to play. He only plays with his ball. Ruby thinks she’s a poodle too.”

“Who’s Ruby?” I finally got a word in edgewise. I didn’t remember seeing any dog named Ruby but that doesn’t always mean much.

“Oh, she’s a pit who only plays with poodles. She lives with Star’s sister. She’s always cold.”

“Yeah, Dolly hates the cold too. She shivers a lot,” I confided. “Her feet used to bleed in the snow until she toughened up.”

“Well, you have to let her sleep all the way under the covers with you,” Wendy advised.

“No way.” I was adamant. “She snores. No dogs in the bed.”

“Ruby sleeps under the covers.” It seemed like Wendy was becoming Dolly’s strongest advocate.

“Well, goody for Ruby. The Doll will just have to adapt. I’ll get her a fleece blanket.”

“They had some good ones at the Salvation Army,” Wendy recommended.

It would be some time before I got the complete cast of characters straightened out. As the weeks went by, it became increasingly obvious there was a group of us and a group of them.

Doll and I were one of ‘us.’

So, he sent his picture. Notice the fierceness (not!) of the pit bull expression.

Bubba stopping to smell the flowers

Even before I left the shelter I knew it was a done deal. “Anne and a pit bull bitch would make a wonderful match,” my friend Paul happily informed the dog officer. I always used Paul for a reference. You can depend on him to say just the right thing. I called Laurie at the shelter. “Okay, she’s coming with me. Can you call her Dolly until she gets home?” It turns out Dorothy was really too long of a name to call a dog, but Dottie was out of the question. My cousin’s wife was named Dottie. So Dolly the Dog she became and a good thing too, because people could sing “Hello Dolly” to her if they ran out of things to say.

As it turns out the list of rules for a newly adopted pit bull is endless.

1. No heavy duty playing for a few days. She just had her operation.
2. The dog enters the house behind the person.
3. The dog cannot go on the furniture until she earns the privilege.
4. The dog walks beside or behind the person, not in front.
5. Never leave the dog loose in the house.
6. No tug of war.

I did my best. Dolly came home, followed me inside and checked the joint out. Dolly went on walks around the neighborhood. Dolly chewed through three leashes, five dog toys and one chair arm the first week. Dolly chewed through the wiring for the tow hitch in the back of the Jeep the next. At some point she gnawed a bit of molding into oblivion.

Then she learned to sit and to come. She learned to walk on a loose leash on the sidewalks and snowy paths. In just a short time she learned to walk without the leash on the trails. She lost two pounds of pound excess during her first few months home. She met her grandparents and tried to chase their cat. She charmed Cathy and John downstairs into waiting for her to come home so they could give her a cookie. Their cat chased her.

I kept a close eye on things. Dolly never was allowed to play with more than one dog at a time at the shelter and never with another pittie. She became nervous if people loomed up at her out of the dark. That quirk was okay with me. Iignored the fact if I didn’t have to walk the dog each night I wouldn’t be out in the dark in the first place.

One fateful day we went to a different entrance to walk the trails. Several cars were parked at the end of the road near Flat Rock Reservoir but I decided to walk there anyway. There really wasn’t enough time to drive somewhere else that morning. A bit leery, we leashed up and headed out. Immediately we met up with a group of three large dogs and their person. Off leash. Uh-oh.

“It’s okay, let her go,” the woman urged. “Was this a ‘try it, you’ll like it’ tactic, would these big dogs maul my now-slimmed down pittie?” I wondered. If one of those mammoth dogs was injured would there be another “pit bull attacks innocents” story in the local rag? Needless to say I was cautious but didn’t want to cheat Dolly out of any play time.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes, there’s lots of us up here. We meet at 10.”

“But I’ve never had her loose with other dogs,” Lucy countered.

A pitiful whine came from down below. The leash was stretched taut and the dog was quivering.

“Alright, if you’re sure.”

Life was never the same.

So, what’s a white middle-aged woman doing with a pit bull anyway? The arrival of the dog was a long time coming. I had been dogless for years and was finally had come to a place in life where I could once take on the duties and responsibilities of dog-ownership. Once again, I was working for myself and had the flexibility to schedule for the time demands a well-behaved dog must have.

 Petfinder.com and the local shelters were bookmarked in my browser. I spent hours pouring over the photos and stories of all the little unwanted dogs. My requirements were many and I was determined not to loose my heart to a dog I shouldn’t have. Most importantly, the dog should be a female. Girl dogs rule. Next, the dog could not be anything like my last dog, a gentle retriever mutt. Then, there were all the other things. No dogs from far away locations, she had to be young, big enough to run outside but small enough to pick up in an emergency. Fortunately I lift weights, so anything smaller than a Newfie was in the running.

For months I wandered around in the homeless dog sites. I browsed a lovely little beagle mix in nearby Orange. Nope, too likely to run away. I lurked in the boxer rescue site. They had a 12 page application and wanted to do two home visits. Maybe they wanted my blood type also and planned to do a CORI check. I searched and searched. Too many puppies, too many males, too many older dogs. There was hope, after all look at all the dogs with people and people with dogs out there. They all got together somehow.

 I even had the name picked out. Dorothy. After all, Dorothy was one of my first female heroes, right up there with Nancy Drew. Dorothy organized the others and got the Wizard of Oz to try and fax her home. And while Dorothy had to wear ruby slippers to get home to Kansas, you couldn’t really picture her in heels. Nancy tended to be a little more concerned with appearances, but she did have that hot convertible. I already had a sports car of my very own. 

Then one day I made the trip to a shelter in Gardner to meet J***. (see footnote) The shelter women had told me wonderful things about this dog. She was just the right age, a little past a year old. She was good with cats and children and very affectionate. One lady wanted to keep her but couldn’t have dogs where she lived. The animal had been in the cage nearly six months.

Six months!! What’s wrong with that statement? Well, J*** was a pit bull. We all know they have a bad rap. They don’t shed much though. This dog was the perfect size too, just under 60 pounds. She needed a little slimming down, but then I usually do also.

I sat on an overturned food bucket while Laurie the dog officer went to get J*** from the cage out back. J*** bounced into the room and careened from one person to another, jumping up for licks and treats. She ran up to a woman holding a cat and scuttled away when the cat hissed. Laurie gave her a can of soft food – oh, boy, oh, boy – and then took it away a few times while J*** was busy gobbling it down. No problemo.

 Meantime, Laurie and her volunteers were elbowing each other. “Looks like we have a live one,” the receptionist murmured behind her hand.  They were all smiles as they gave me a form to fill out. Paperwork completed, I said I’d call in a few a days with my decision. 

 (Footnote- In an effort to help the dog adjust to her new name and her new way of life, I forbid the use of her birth-name.)

Almost daily, I meet up with a group of people to walk our dogs at a lovely reservoir called Flat Rock. The dogs and people are quite a cast of characters. “Someone just has to write about this,” one of the walkers keeps saying.

So, here we are. The people, dogs and some events are based on real life. The story morphs into fiction along the way. I have an artist on board who plans to do illustrations. Chapters are short and sweet, since we are so used to reading bits and pieces of things through all this new media.

I’ll post a chapter here and there. Enjoy and let me know what you think.

Anne