White Trash at Flat Rock

Start at the beginning of the story if you’re new to the scene. Just scroll down to CH.1

“Karen! Grab a tree. Dolly’s coming.” Goodnaturedly she grabbed hold of a convenient trunk with one hand and braced herself by the cane in her other hand. We waited for the hellion to streak by. I swear I could feel the vibrations set up by her thudding paws.

“Do you carry a cell phone or something?” I asked her. She would not be able to escape if she were threatened. Being alone in the woods can be risky. There are plenty of nutcases in our fair city, and the Flat Rock area is very accessible to the downtown area. Fitchburg is home to many of the disenfranchised. Like I told Peter, just because someone’s a whack job doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

“Oh, no,” she said, “I have a gun. I know how to use it.”

“Well, that’ll do the trick.” I might have blinked.

“Karen’s a master marksman,” Wendy told me. “She has awards.”

“Yeah, I have a license to carry,” Karen said. “You don’t have to worry about me.

“I was up here alone one day with Lulu and this guy came by and kicked her for no reason. She rolled down the hill and I couldn’t go down and get her.

“It was awful. I could hear her crying and she couldn’t get up the hill. It took her about 45 minutes before she made it. I carried her to the car. We went right to the vets. I had to call Chuck.

“That was really bad.” Karen shook her head.

“Call your dog!” we heard an imperious voice demand from further down the path.

“Oh, shit. DOLLY! DOLLY!” I took off at a run. “Dolly, come on. Don’t be a pill.”

Dolly and a large pale dog were barking and exchanging spit. I grabbed her by the collar and yanked her up and off her feet, away from the other dog.

“There are too many dogs up here,” the woman with the pale dog said to her friend who was similarly accompanied by her own large dog. “Let’s go. This used to be a nice place to go.”

She walked off in a huff.

I looked at Wendy. She knows all. “Huh?”

 “Oh, don’t worry about her. She just can’t control her dog,” Wendy reassured me.

The next chapter in the Life of Dolly 

“You’d never believe,” I said to Peter and Wendy one day. They’re always good for exchanging a little dirt.

“Ken sat beside that woman who hates me at a lecture. He said he talked with her for almost an hour about what good dogs pit bulls are. For an hour,” I emphasized.

“Leave it to Ken to be nice to Crazy Lady,” Wendy groused. “It won’t do any good, she’s nuts.” 

“I’m sure it did no good. She already said Bubba was not a problem. Why doesn’t she just walk in another area? It’s not like there’s a shortage of trails. What do we use, a mile and a half out of at least twelve?” I asked.

“She loves the thrill,” Wendy claimed. “Why else would she come up here if she’s afraid of dogs? No one should come here if they are afraid. She gets off on it.” 

Peter was quiet. He kept an eye on Kody and meandered along the trail. Kody doesn’t believe in excess movement. Dolly was plowing through the woods at top speed, periodically barging in front of Star to see if he would play. Star was trying desperately to preserve his standard poodle dignity. 

We humans were all in our summer dog walking finest; sloppy tee shirts, knee length shorts and scruffy sandals. Each person had a leash wrapped around his or her neck and each dog sported just a collar. No fancy bows or outfits on this crew. 

“Well,” Peter finally said, dragging out the “l” sound. “Ken should sleep with her. That’s what she wants.” 

“Peter!” Wendy reprimanded him. 

“I think Ken’s wife might put the kibosh on that,” I said. 

“No, I bet she wouldn’t mind,” Wendy chirped. 

We considered this in silence for a few steps. None of us were in a committed relationship. None of us particularly seemed to mind our single state. 

“I gave up men,” Peter said. “I’m celibate. It’s a lot easier.” 

“Sure,” I commiserated. “Who needs men if you have a dog?” 

Wendy didn’t weigh in on that discussion. She had other things on her mind. 

“Look. Those stupid people were up here again,” she said. 

“What stupid people?” I asked. 

“Those ones who come up with their kids and go swimming. They leave poopy diapers all around,” she said. “Right where we send the dogs in swimming. It’s posted. Henry gets really mad at them when they go in the water.” 

Wendy often uses the authority of Henry to prove her points. He’s a dog-loving employee of the city water department. His business card lists him as reservoir security. 

“They are idiots,” Peter agreed. “I was really mad at that guy. I told him. They have a pit too.”

 “That doesn’t mean they are bad,” I said, ever aware of slights against pit bulls in general.

 “Oh, the dog is fine,” Peter said. “It’s him.”

“I got a call from Suzie last night,” Ken said to me one morning as the pit bulls fought to the death over their stick. It was a good stick; it looked thick enough to last for at least 5 minutes.

“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?

A dog of leisure

The continuing story of Dolly and Bubba – next episode March 7

“Ken,” I gasped. “He can’t swim!”

“I  know.”

We looked at each other. We looked at Peter. We looked at the dark, empty space where the black dog used to be. His face was just visible, a white blaze floating beneath the surface.

After what seemed an eternity, but in fact about the time it took us to say all this, Bubba popped his head out of the water and skedaddled to the safety of dry land.

“Oh, my,” Peter said. “That was scary.” 

“Bubba, are you alright?” I asked. Some dogs like to be addressed in complete sentences. Given Ken’s general formality, Bubba was probably used to being addressed like this.

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Ken reassured everyone particularly himself. “Come here, Bubba.”

“Oh, here. Here’s a treat.’

“DOLLY! Don’t jump.” Quickly things were back to normal although we now had new things to talk about.

“I don’t think pit bulls can swim.” Ken said. He postulated even further. “They don’t have enough fur to hold air and help them with buoyancy.”

“They can too swim. I saw them on youtube,” I responded. “Maybe some just don’t like to.”

The next day was Dolly’s big test. I took her up to the reservoir alone when no one else would be around to distract the social animal she had become.

I casually lured her down to the beach. Once there, I took off my sandals and walked into the water to just over my ankles. As nonchalantly as possible I called Dolly.

“Dolly, come here. Good girl, come on.”

Dolly, cookie! Cookie!”

Nope, no fooling that one. It was a nice spring day to go for a wade fortunately. I wandered around about a foot from the shore, scoping out rocks, holes and yucky spots I wouldn’t want to step in. Once I figured she had forgotten I called her, I went back to dry land. 

Dolly can be a trusting soul, and she bounded over to see what I was up to now. It was safe; I was no longer in the dog devouring water.

“Dolly, come on,” I pleaded. I tried reason. “I just want to see if you can swim. You don’t have to stay in.”

My pleas fell on deaf, or just uncomprehending, ears. Never one to be thwarted, I reached down and grabbed the ingrate by the collar. 

I harangued her a little just so she’d know who’s the boss. “You’re coming with me. Like it or not. I really don’t care.”

Walking cautiously because of the small rocks underfoot, I dragged her to the waterline. The front paws went out to brace against further forward motion.

Although she’s remarkably strong pound for pound, she’s no match for me and I accomplished my mission. By the time I hauled her to knee deep water she was in over her head. Recalling my childhood swimming lessons, I put a hand under her belly and swam her around me.

I released her and she was off like a shot, running to the land like trident-bristling Poseidon himself was after her. But I was happy; she could swim enough so she wouldn’t sink like her buddy.

Little did I know the dangers we were facing weren’t coming from anything nature could throw at us.

Dog life vests are available  like the ones here. http://www.kooldawgtees.com/fido_float_extreme_dog_life_vest.html

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.’

The saga of Dolly the pit bull continues. If you are new to the blog please read from the bottom up so you can follow the story. Enjoy!!

Doll- The Social Butterfly

As advertised there were dogs running free and their people were good with it. The pack welcomed Dolly on their own dog terms; butt-sniffing, running in circles, gratuitous barking and other expressions of general canine joy. Dolly sniffed, ran and barked with the best of them. She was a young and exuberant dog but the other dogs accepted this. After all, they were young once also. If she got too rambunctious somedog was sure to give her an “errr” and straighten her right out.

I was overwhelmed by the statements and advice being batted around.

 “Watch out, there is a woman who comes up here who is afraid of pits,” someone to my right said.

I turned to my left. “Well, Fiona is the alpha female, she’ll put Dolly in her place.” “NO! STAR BENNETT!” I stumbled in a startle reflex. Guess that was one of the dogs getting yelled at.

“Look, Dolly has a crush on Bruno. He’s awfully handsome but there’s nothing between his ears.”

The owners and dogs were a motley crew. A young family with a double stroller and three children gathered in the shade at the edge of the thick woods surrounding the reservoir.  Several women walked with leashes draped around their necks for easy access. One of them used a cane. A tall, thin man in a raggedy sweat suit kept watch over everybody. The dogs were just as diverse. A white standard poodle with an unfortunate haircut, several small dogs who stood their ground and didn’t say much. An older german shepherd mix was a slow-moving object. Large bounding dogs and some mid-sized models rounded out the canine mix.

The group gathered us in and took us for a walk around the pond. Sounds innocent, doesn’t it? Here was this pit bull, a dog with a “bad rap,” playing just like any other dog. The people broke into groups of two or three as the trail narrowed. The dogs cavorted and gamboled through the undergrowth, ran ahead on the path and came barreling back for treats. I kept a close eye on my dog, what if some other dog really annoyed her and something happened? What if she knocked over the woman with the cane?

As the group circled back to the parking area, the others took stock of us. We were the new kids on the block. The owners looked at each other, the dogs sniffed and butted. Nothing was said, but apparently we received the stamp of approval.

“We usually come up here around 10,” the man in the sweat suit said. “Every day.”

“Kody likes Dolly,” he continued. “She plays with him.”

“Um, who’s Kody?” I asked, still confused by the crowd. “Oh, him,” he replied pointing at the ambling shepherd mix.

“Oh, okay. We can come up sometimes then, but sometimes I have to work,” I said. “I know Dolly had a good time.”

I glanced at my watch. “Oh, my god. I’m going to be late for work! Dolly, get in the car, come on Dolly!”

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.)