Crazy Imperfection

On November 13, 2012, I put down my dog, Scout, after having him for 9 years. He was 11. I am very sad, but not sad for the same reasons I was when my other dogs died – the other dogs who hung out with me, who chased sticks and balls, who aimed to enjoy and to please. I am sad because, of course, I will miss Scout’s presence. He was a part of our day-to-day lives for many years.  I’m sad because he won’t enjoy his walks, one of the few things in life he really loved. I’m sad because he liked our new neighborhood and seemed calmer here, the place with less noise – no student pilots circling and circling overhead, no cars flying by, no neighbors with fireworks. I’m sad because I will miss Scout, and our younger dog Layla will miss him even more. He was her rock.

But I’m also sad because Scout didn’t live up to his abilities, and I take some of that blame. I didn’t learn until he was 7 that he would have made a great air scent or cadaver dog.  By accident, we learned this when he freaked out at least 200 yards away from the exact spot a woman’s body had been dumped. Scout dragged us to the location, luckily after the police had already found the body. When I looked into air scent training, I was told that they didn’t train dogs age 7 or older. So, I let that go. Another dog whose talents or special skills I didn’t recognize until it seemed too late.  You wish they could talk and tell you these things early in life. Then again, there is the time factor, always the factor of time. 

Scout wasn’t my best friend, but he was my friend and he was a family member. He was a distant observer unable to fully break out of his shell and trust. I tried luring him to me repeatedly when he was young, but he wasn’t ready and, unfortunately, food was of little concern to him, so I couldn’t bribe him with pieces of chicken or steak. I took him to dog obedience classes, hoping that would help us bond. I would sit in one room of the house and call him. At most, he'd dart by like a ghost.

I finally decided to step back and stop pushing, figuring he would come around when he was ready. But Scout would never be fully ready. He made progress through the years, progress so slow that others recognized it (and were sometimes in awe of it) when I barely did. I saw progress when I returned from a trip to Belize (I had left the dogs home with a pet sitter), and watched as Scout trailed behind the other dogs to greet me at the door, standing back, curious but too timid to fully approach. I thought I noticed a look of relief in his eyes when he saw me. Then there was the year of the hurricanes, in 2004, when we all packed up and went to my aunt’s house in Florida's Panhandle. At her rural property, Scout let down his guard. He ran off leash, came when called and even jumped in bed with me although the alpha dog, Morgan (“The General”), was present with her second in command, Jasmine. Even after The General died, Scout stayed in his shell.

At home, he was most comfortable in a closet – a place with the least visual and auditory stimuli. I finally gave in and put his bed in there. When he did want company, he was most comfortable entering the room when no one was looking, approaching from behind and finding a corner to settle into for a brief period. He normally didn’t approach to be petted, and never once rolled on his back for a tummy rub. Scout didn’t know what tummy rubs were about.  He didn’t understand play unless it was with the other dogs when he was pretty sure no humans were looking. He didn’t trust. My heart broke a little more when our dog Jasmine died, and I would return home, but no one would come greet me at the door – Scout remained in his closet. 

Scout’s story was that he was bred to be shown in conformation. He was truly gorgeous – a white German shepherd dog who looked like he was suspended in air when he trotted. His fearful behavior was attributed by various people to a variety of factors: his breeding, the treatment he received while being shown, “the white gene,” and to witnessing the mysterious death/murder of his sister, who he was very close to, when he was 2, before he became my dog. Whatever the reason, his breeder, being responsible, saw him at a show with the woman to whom she had sold him and some of his litter mates, didn’t feel he and the other dogs looked healthy, and took them back. She found me, or I found her, through a white German shepherd rescue group. And there began our 9 years of a less-than-ideal dog-human relationship.

When Scout was younger, he was so nervous he would bolt whenever he had the slightest opportunity. Luckily, he would run to the nearby woods rather than the heavily traveled road, and he would come home when he was ready, usually after I had spent a few hours frantically searching for him. Although he loved his walks, he loved them, like he loved anything, only on his terms – alone or with his dog-mates in areas where there were no other people or animals. Common dog walking places, even the beach, were not comfortable places for Scout, but I still felt cruel not taking him places due to his misery in public.  Scout seemed like he was on sensory overload all the time; there was just too much going on in the world.

I talked to my vet about him. We did the obedience classes. I tried various tranquilizers on him, particularly during thunderstorms or on the Fourth of July. Medications that would knock out the other dogs seemed to have absolutely no affect on Mr. Metabolism. Through the years, as I waited for Scout to decide to come to me and be my friend, I told him I would never hurt him, that I would never be mean to him, even when he would try to scramble past me so quickly (as if someone was chasing him) that he’d dig his claws into my bare feet or knock into my knee with his hard head. He wouldn’t come when called for the first seven years I had him – except that time at my aunt’s property; therefore, my other shepherds would herd him into the house for me. It was our daily, somewhat amusing, ritual.  

After Jasmine died, I decided to take a chance and let Scout off-leash in the woods. He did great. He was eight-years-old and mellowing. Finally, there was something he relished – just us in the woods. He could be trusted to come to me when I called him. He was more than gentle with other animals, once alerting us to a wounded baby raccoon. He still lived in a closet most of the time. But when he was in the back yard, he was still often pacing, pacing, pacing. Or standing at the door  longingly staring in (to get into his closet), unless I walked toward him, which would cause him to take off again. I often said that in the years I had him, I would have more successfully tamed a wild animal.  

Scout wouldn’t play with the other dogs if he thought or knew anyone was watching, so it was especially fun peeking at the dogs carrying on in the yard. He wouldn’t eat if he thought anyone was looking. He'd poke his head out of his closet and wait until I was out of sight before beginning his meal. He had stomach issues his entire life, issues likely associated with his general nervousness, and he was usually on medication.  

At the age of 11, I thought Scout would have great difficulty with a move we made – new house, new neighborhood. We moved November 1. Something changed. He liked it. He loved his walks, even though his back legs wouldn’t always cooperate, and he would stumble and fall. He actually seemed happy to see us when we came home, and began to approach us head-on to be petted. I thought:  Finally! Old Scout is happy.  The difference was our new neighborhood was quiet.  There are no planes flying directly overhead, there is very little traffic. And there are fantastic woods to explore every day with the smells of many wild animals.  Scout died 13 days after we moved.  

There would probably be over a million words of advice for me, as there have been over another dog we have who has special needs and whose issues are on the other end of the spectrum – pure obnoxiousness rather than shyness. There probably are a million things I could have done differently or better with Scout to make him a happier dog and a “better” companion. But the fact of the matter is there are dogs that really aren’t the traditional tear-licking devoted companions we all know, love and expect.  There are dogs that are different, just like people. There are dogs with issues that some of us don’t have the time (because we work) or the resources to handle perfectly. There are dogs that perhaps nobody is able to cure.   

It’s wonderful that we live in a country that is learning to respect animals. And, just like America, so many of us seek absolute perfection in this area, too. I had two nearly perfect dogs before Scout, so I aimed for that experience with him, of course. But added to the pressure we put on ourselves to create the perfect animal companion is also the rigidity and judgment from others out there in the dog world who act as if you don’t do things a certain way when you have a "difficult "dog – that way often equating to feeding raw, constant obedience classes, hiring a behaviorist, paying an animal communicator, constantly exercising, or, better yet, engaging the dog in a regular activity like search-and-rescue, agility or dance – then you are doing a great disservice to the animal, and, well, you suck.

I felt actually run out of an online German shepherd forum when I asked for more input about a different rescue dog of ours -- the obnoxious one with genetic issues. He was not responding well to the usual exercise-them-like-crazy (over-exercise results in seizures with him); I attempted to see if herding might be what he needed to do, but was told I did that all wrong.  Then I made the mistake of commenting that we sometimes referred to this dog as "Corky" because he looks like he has Down syndrome. Most people realize, I think, that you have got to insert humor in difficult situations. Ohhh nooo. I was scolded to never call a dog names like that (I really wondered about the thought behind this, as do you think if I called a Farsi-speaking visitor to our country "Corky," he/she would get what I was saying?  Of course not, but somehow, in the Dog Perfect World, my dog would understand that I was referring to him as a long-gone TV character and he would get more of a complex because of it.) It soon became clear that because I work full-time and was not willing or able to invest an incredible number of hours a week with this dog, along with an incredible amount of money, I was, well, like those dog owners who don’t do the animal justice. Someone finally suggested with disdain that I take the dog to a rescue group and donate money to them so that they could find him a good home. Their view was clear: Do it my way (the perfect way) or don’t do it at all – a message I find astounding in a country where millions of dogs are euthanized in shelters each year.

Experiencing that, and knowing Scout, I began to realize what human moms must go through, with the expectations of doing it all, and doing it all perfectly and creating and forming this perfect, preferably gifted, child who is going to wow the world and make all of us proud. We’ve taken that into the world of animals as well. I witnessed it at a dog show when a German shepherd just didn’t perform the way he was expected to perform and was shoved back into his crate by an owner with a look of pure disgust on her face. We place the ideal of perfection on ourselves, and others feed into that by also expecting it of us.

What I see as we seek perfection in ourselves as parents – human parents or dog parents – is that we lose sight of something incredibly important in life: accepting things, people and animals, sometimes just as they are, seeing potential and striving for that, but knowing when to accept another living being as that being is. When we pretend that all dogs can be perfect companions, we lie to ourselves, and we set up people for discouragement and even shame as we set up dogs for pure failure, failure that too often results in being dumped at shelters.  Maybe the dog just couldn’t get to that perfect spot where the people expected him or her to be. Maybe the people really did try to get him there. Maybe they had jobs and other family activities. And maybe they shouldn’t judge themselves or be judged for that.  Maybe the judgment is in part what causes some people to just give up.

If we learn to accept that dogs, like people, are imperfect, learn to recognize and accept what they are capable of as companions, maybe our lowered or more realistic expectations could result in more dogs staying in homes rather than being given up on and placed in shelters, or maybe it could result in more shelter dogs being adopted and kept.  For life.  In their imperfection. Maybe our attention would be better focused on helping those dogs that have been dumped, and those millions of animals living on the other end of the spectrum, those being abused and neglected.

Scout's death, like most profound experiences in life, caused me to think again of the area where life is really lived, but the place we so often try to avoid:  that non-extreme area between the all-black and the all-white. Scout perfectly taught me that imperfection -- even being odd -- is really ok. I loved him anyway, and I miss him anyway. In fact, I realize, it is his crazy imperfection that I miss most about his blessed spirit.