Scars of a Different Nature

By Suzy Barile

Fourth grade was a memorable school year – both a boy and a dog bit me, leaving two quite different scars.

Along the hairline on the left side of my forehead is a barely distinguishable spot that is compliments of my classmate Frank, who ran into me during a game of Red Rover on the playground of Cranston-Calvert Elementary School in Newport, RI. His two front teeth broke open my skin, leaving a small gash that required several stitches.

The other scar, from the dog who ran up behind me as I headed home from Rosie’s Corner Store with Popsicles for my siblings on the last day of school, was lasting: To this day, I am terrified of dogs.

All dogs fit in this category, including our own, which we adopted from the SPCA when she was 2-months-old. Even as a puppy, she could move me to tears with her growling, such as the morning I attempted to get her to come inside while leaving outside a nasty something-or-other she’d found on the ground.

Now 11-1/2-years-old and with arthritis in all four legs, Sandy hardly seems a threat, unless you try to take food away from her and elicit that ferocious growl, or you pull onto our street. Then she begins barking like there’s no tomorrow, warning us that “danger” is near. That danger includes our long-time neighbors arriving home from anywhere, delivery trucks with such loads as furniture, pizza and packages, fire and rescue vehicles, the town’s trash and recycling collectors, visitors, other dogs, and us.

Quite frankly, I think Sandy is near-sighted, for it isn’t until my husband or I get closer that her franticness turns into a yelp of recognition. And it’s clear to us that whoever first owned her wore a baseball cap, and abused her, for the approach of someone in one sends her over the edge.

When strangers reach our front door, they do a double-take at a scene reminiscent of a guard dog protecting its owners’ possessions, then back away while we put her safely upstairs behind a gate, where she continues barking. Once she is comfortable, she calms down to a whimper as if to say, “Ok, now I want to join in the fun.”

As the victim of a childhood bite, I fully understand how people passing by on the greenway behind our house are sometimes taken aback when a loudly barking dog runs towards them – until her 25-feet of leash stops her abruptly. If I am anywhere near, I tell her to quiet down and bring her inside. And when we are on her daily walk and someone approaches, whether with dog or without, I make certain her leash is reined in tightly so she won’t jump – her favorite greeting for those she doesn’t consider a threat.

What I do not comprehend, also because I am the victim of a childhood dog bite, is those folks who feel free to let their pets run loose on the greenway. A family with one small and three large dogs keeps only the small one on a leash. Whether the husband, the wife, or the son is with them, they stroll along with the smaller dog while the other three wander into nearby back yards or sniff along the edge of the creek that runs beside the path.

If Sandy and I are walking and see them coming, I take one of several tacts: I turn and head the other way, because I want nothing to do with loose dogs. Or I stop until the three large ones are hooked to leashes, then stay put until they pass. Only once have I remarked that there is a leash law in Cary. That was a big mistake. I was told in no uncertain terms that some dogs behave quite well when off a leash, and it obviously isn’t mine.

Such a response reminded me of the day a young woman who frequently runs with her dog trotting alongside suddenly noticed her pet gone, bounding across the creek. No matter which commanding entreaty she made, it was clear her obedient pet had no intention of returning until he had finished with whatever he was doing. At the training school Sandy attended but did not graduate from, the instructor reminded us that dogs are animals and they won’t always respond to a command.

Another time when I was chatting with our neighbor as Sandy pulled and tugged at the leash, signaling she was ready for us to go, I glimpsed a woman approaching out of the corner of my eye, then saw her dog several yards ahead, and off its leash.

“Will you please put your dog on the leash?” I asked.

She called me a b----, told me hers’ was well-behaved, and walked on.

I was as speechless then as the day Sandy and I encountered a large Labrador retriever barreling towards us. Stopping in my tracks, I hollered, “Call your dog, please call your dog.”

When the owner finally did so, he also called me a few unsavory names and continued on his way.

Perhaps I am too cautious. Perhaps I need to take the same chances with my dog that another neighbor did the afternoon she was talking on a cell phone as her pet tore across a large, grassy expanse towards us, then stopped, took one sniff of Sandy, and lunged at her.

“Call your dog! Call your dog!” I cried frantically as I tried to pull mine away from the biting teeth of hers.

She was speechless and motionless, taken aback by the scene taking place.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said, as she got her dog under control.

I merely nodded and reminded her, “That’s why there’s a leash law.”

Sometimes I wish it were the mark on my soul that is indistinguishable, not the one on my forehead that has faded with the years. But surely I am not the only one who wants dog owners to remember that the town’s leash law pertains to all of Cary, not just its public areas.

Though a greenway or play area might be owned and maintained by the subdivision it is part of, the town’s leash law applies: All dogs must be on a leash or lead if they are not on the owner’s property.

(Copyright 2000)

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Graduation Special For All

By Suzy Barile

I knew from the start Sandy wouldn't graduate.

Sitting in the classroom during orientation, listening as the instructor went over the goals of the course, the daily homework assignments and the different learning approaches to the material, I couldn't imagine how she'd make it successfully through the next eight weeks.

First there were the assignments: do them every day, build on what has been learned and don't be discouraged by setbacks, said the instructor.

Next, the class meetings. Seven o'clock on a Thursday night when everyone was cranky, ready for the day — and the week — to come to an end.

And finally, the instructor's prediction: only 80 percent of the students successfully complete the class. Well, there you have it, I thought, she'll be in that 20 percent that fails.

Sandy attended class unfailingly every week, though I watched as she often paid attention to everyone but the instructor. The slightest distraction was enough to bring her focus away from the exercises, and for other eyes — those of the other students, the instructor, and guests — to be upon her. She also had to contend with a broken leg at the start, something which also managed to get in the way of her concentration.

Each time she was distracted, I know I shuddered, wondering if the hour each week was being well-spent.

While Sandy's homework assignments weren't always completed — inevitably it was late in the day when she got started, and weariness already had set in — the intent was there. The instructor had said there would be setbacks, and she was right. There also were plateaus that were reached, and I wondered frequently if they could be overcome.

Midway into the eight weeks, I was heartened by the assistant instructor's remark that Sandy seemed to be showing some improvement. Although I couldn't see it as readily, others who saw her only once a week also were complimentary. I smiled my thanks.

As she came down to the wire, however, my original feelings crept back in. Going through the examination steps the sixth and seventh week, the instructor reminded everyone that repetition of the class wasn't unusual, and shouldn't be taken as failure.

"Failure," I thought. Would I consider Sandy a failure if she didn't pass?

The week before the final exam was crammed with everything but time for the homework assignment, and as we headed for the class that last night, I was resigned to Sandy being in the 20 percent unable to meet the requirements to move on.

That evening, two students failed to show up. Did they know, already, they were in that 20 percent? Were their families too embarrassed to attend the final class? Other students had family members there; I had brought my camera.

One by one the students went through the exercises they had practiced. Sandy was distracted frequently by the others, not used to the individual work being done — they had always practiced as a group. She wasn't good at sitting still, either, and that added to my nervousness.

I must say I was grateful when applause rang out as she finished the final assignment, the instructors and her colleagues letting her know they saw she had improved. As we shared refreshments and stories of the last eight weeks, I wondered what her certificate would say.

My curiosity was answered immediately; Sandy was first to receive her certificate.

Up to the front of the class she went, my daughter, Jennifer, in tow.

"We picked out something to say about each one of you," said the instructor. "Here is 'The Hardest Working Trainer."

Jennifer beamed. She had worked hard and earned that recognition. Sandy didn't seem to care. She was content to return to her seat — the spot on the floor beside Jennifer — and enjoy the crumbs left over from refreshment time.

As I looked over the certificate that acknowledged perfect attendance, I had to admit Sandy wasn't ready to be in that 80 percent of dogs that usually graduate from Puppy Training. In fact, the instructor had recommended she repeat the class.

But, there was pride as I watched the two of them — 13-year-old Jennifer and her young dog — for I knew the hard work that had gone into the last two months. It is Jennifer for whom Sandy sits, stays and lies down when prompted with a treat and praise. It is Jennifer who knows how to push her away with the "down" command and make it stick. And it was Jennifer who, on those hectic nights, worked to learn how to control a wild, wiry, eight-month-old puppy.

Now it's my turn. My turn to put away memories and long-standing fears from when I was 10-years-old and a dog ran up behind me and bit me. My turn to use the treats as enticements to sit, stay and lie down, so she knows she must learn to behave others, as well as Jennifer. My turn to work with this puppy that has eaten everything from Christmas elf salt and pepper shakers to a Graham Kerr cookbook, dinner candles, a bottle of Vitamin E and 12-inches of wall molding.

I didn't ever want a dog. My vote was a hesitant "OK" when the conversation about getting a dog came up. I'd never been around dogs and had found cats to be easy pets to care for. Alas, my husband is deathly allergic to cats. How convenient for him.

I laid down all the rules. Jennifer had to take the dog for a walk, feed her, clean up behind her. "I will, Mom," she promised.

The story is all too old. It is I who is first up, stooping down in the kitchen each morning to pet the dog, then let her outside and listening for when she is ready to come in.

I have cleaned up my share of messes, taken her for walks and tried to protect all of our belongings from this live wire who puts absolutely everything in her mouth. I bid her "night-night" as we turn out the lights, and give her that "quality" playtime in the evenings. She knows if I pull a chair out from the table and sit that it's time to play.

She knows the routine of going outside, of getting a treat, of a handful of cereal in her bowl each morning when I pour mine, of the hug she'll get once I hang up my coat.

Jennifer and my husband have their special times with her, as well, but for this fearful person who always cringed when any dog walked by or barked, I like to think our special times together are a tad more special.

In fact, with it being my turn to help with the homework assignments, the next time certificates are passed out, I hope they proclaim "Graduate."

(Copyright 1995)

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