CHAPTER EIGHT

Leaf at Home

OUR HOME LIFE HAD CHANGED FROM PEACEFUL ROUTINE TO BEDLAM UPON Leaf’s four-pawed entry into it. Only seven months after our troubled dog’s arrival, my future had now become uncertain. Simultaneously, we were boxers dodging flailing fists that threatened to knock us both down for the count.

One of the few routine pleasures Linda and I continued was to take occasional breaks and visit our favorite coffee shop. Before Leaf (BL) we often went there to write, plan, and reflect on our projects. A little caffeine made us feel as if we could accomplish any goal. While sipping lattés and watching local residents walk their dogs past the shop, we relaxed by discussing books we were reading, movies we wanted to see, and other creative endeavors.

Our discussion topics dramatically changed after Leaf (AL). These conversations usually went something like this, with comments neither of us could believe we were making in public:

Linda: “Did he poop?”

Me: “Uh?”

Linda: “Did he poop? We have to get him house-trained.”

Me: “ Yes, yes, he did go.”

Linda: “Both ways?”

Me: “Pooped and peed. He is empty.”

Linda: “Was it firm?”

Me: “Uh-hum.”

Linda: “How firm?”

Me: “Real hard!”

Our concerns over Leaf’s bowel movements dominated our conversations during those days. Leaf’s initial constipation had turned into bouts of diarrhea. We’d have to take him to the veterinarian if we couldn’t figure out how to make him regular, and another vet visit was not something I wanted to put Leaf or us through. The first time we took him to the Westgate Pet Clinic office, only a few days after adopting him, we were worried to see kindly Dr. Bennett Porter muzzle him and write “aggressive” in our new dog’s medical record. At the end of the exam, Leaf wagged his tail and took treats from Dr. Porter’s hand. He said, “That’s a good sign. He’s not a mean dog.” I felt relieved.

Leaf had been terrified when Dr. Porter administered shots and patted him up and down his body. He seemed to believe he was alone and had to fend for himself again. Even though we were with him in the room, where he could see us, we hadn’t proven to him yet that we were trustworthy protectors.

Leaf’s multitude of issues also changed the way we did media interviews. As featured guests on radio shows for our new book, we had to convey deep feelings around the heartfelt topic of animal rescue. The true stories we told often moved hosts, listeners, and guests alike.

The media interviews were successful and painless if we were prepared, focused, and ready to field unexpected questions. We usually did what is called a “phoner”—an interview that isn’t at a studio or in person with a journalist but happens over the telephone. During phoners it’s important that the environment be free of distractions and noise. Linda and I would sit at separate tables and signal to each other about who should answer the host’s or reporter’s questions. At least, that’s how phoners worked BL. AL it was a different story.

“I don’t know if Leaf will stay quiet,” I said while I set up the two phones for one interview.

“He’ll sleep,” Linda said hopefully.

“There are five more interviews in the next week. We have to figure out how to do them with Leaf here.”

If we isolated Leaf where he couldn’t see us in the house, his howls would unnerve us and wreck the interview. The radio host and station engineers, plus listeners, would hear our poor suffering dog yelling for help. From experience, we knew that once Leaf’s crying started, it didn’t stop until he assured himself that he wasn’t alone. Sometimes it took a few minutes for him to calm down. On air that amount of time would seem like an eternity.

“OK,” I said, “we’ll keep him in the room with us. We’ll give him a toy and a bone to chew.” Secretly I was remembering how Taylor quietly slept under the table while we did phoners. She didn’t even snore, as Leaf did with his doggy sleep apnea.

We settled Leaf with a toy just as the phone rang. I answered, and Linda picked up the extension. The host introduced us to her audience. We were on the air live. This was Leaf’s cue to transform into a whirlwind of activity.

Like a toddler whose parents have averted their attention and given him free reign to open kitchen cabinets or empty wastebaskets, Leaf seized his opportunity. I answered questions with one hand while trying to hold him in place. My voice rose from normal to high pitch and then to a level only dogs could hear. Leaf slipped out of my grasp.

When it was Linda’s turn to answer a serious question about how many animals had been rescued after Hurricane Katrina, Leaf jumped on the couch. He ran across the end table and unsettled a large lamp. I put my phone down as quietly as possible and managed to catch the lamp before it crashed to the floor.

As I precariously held the lamp with my left hand and grabbed for the phone receiver with my right hand to hear the host’s next question, Leaf sprinted over to Linda. Then he loped back around to me. My phone cord wasn’t long enough for me to place the lamp back on the end table.

Attempting to do a serious interview about the state of animal rescue in our country with a rescued cocker spaniel destroying our living room struck me as funny. I stifled a laugh.

At this point the host asked me a specific question. My heart rate increased. I found myself out of breath. I blurted out an answer, which needed more detail. My voice sounded like it came from our cockatiel Sunshine. Linda watched, unfazed by the pandemonium. She remained professional while we were on the verge of ruin.

Leaf’s reactions to being thrust into a home with people and animals who were all strangers to him caused his anxieties to multiply. But with one innocent purchase, we were able to at last see how sweet he could be when he felt safe.

We had picked up some throw-balls and chew bones for Leaf right after adopting him. A couple of weeks later, Linda bought a stuffed toy dog at the pet store. It was a replica of a long-bodied dog with little feet and made a squeaking sound when its bulbous black nose was squeezed. The middle part of the toy made a noise that sounded like a hungry tummy in need of more dog food.

After Linda presented the toy dog to Leaf, he sniffed it and then grabbed its body in his teeth, which made it squeak. From that moment on, Leaf was in love. He took his toy everywhere with him, from room to room, to his bed, on to the couch, to the kitchen, and to his potty outside.

Watching this lonely little boy hold on to what appeared to be the first toy to which he felt an attachment touched my heart. At night and during day naps, Leaf would have his foot-long stuffed toy snuggled tightly next to his body. He’d go to sleep with his legs wrapped around it. It was as if he had never had anything so wonderful that belonged only to him.

One afternoon we noticed the toy dog propped upright against the window with its nose and eyes peering outside, while Leaf napped on the couch. It was placed in the spot where he regularly sat and watched the world go by.

As I sat on the couch later that day, drinking a cup of tea, Leaf did it again. He carefully placed his toy upright, with its nose and eyes pointing toward the sidewalk. He leaned the toy against the windowpane in such a position that if it were a living creature, it could watch the neighborhood dogs walking past our house. Then Leaf jumped on the couch and immediately went to sleep.

I was amazed at how he had placed the stuffed animal in exactly the right position. It was as if Leaf had decided to make the toy dog stand guard while he snoozed. Or perhaps he had assigned it the task of keeping watch for possible visits from neighbor dogs. I wondered if Leaf was telegraphing the message, “Won’t you come in to my house? I have this great toy we could play with,” to the neighborhood.

Our home, as a war zone, subsided when the cats got better at handling Leaf’s incessant chasing. One afternoon Linda and I witnessed a tussle between Speedy and his canine nemesis. Speedy was stretched out on the living room sofa’s backrest. He looked like a true Lion King with his gray coat and whiskers.

Leaf usually liked to settle on the same high perch, but today Speedy had claimed the territory as his. Leaf decided to hunker down on the lower seat section, ignoring Speedy’s turf only inches above him. Deliberately, yet relaxed, Speedy fully extended and embedded his claws into Leaf’s backside. Leaf froze and made a low yelp and dared not move without the risk of being gouged. After weeks of what Speedy must have considered as “this obnoxious dog” chasing him, he was taking his revenge. “Speedy, you made your point,” I said, as Leaf waited for me to save him.

Linda got up and examined Leaf’s back. “I think Speedy’s claws are stuck,” she said.

Speedy lifted his paw, yawned, and moved himself into an even more comfortable position. Leaf quickly sped away to take his nap elsewhere.

We wondered what we should do to control the behavior of this small dog the vet had called “a troubled teenager,” which is essentially what he was. And so we eventually enrolled him in a beginning class we called Training 101. With time, patience, and more knowledge about how to handle a dog like Leaf, we hoped to help him trust us, adjust to being around other people, and heal.