Saturday of Martin Luther King Weekend
I thought yesterday marked the beginning of a new era in Beau's and my relationship. I had figured out that I had to walk him before feeding him in the morning, and to feed him in the late afternoon and walk him in the late evening to assure sleep at least until 5:30 a.m.. Indeed, yesterday, Beau did all that was expected of him at the allotted times in response to my prompts, and I was gratified.
I climbed into bed happily, the sheets freshly washed, the bed newly made, eagerly anticipating an evening with Morpheus. It was not to be, however. I seem to have made a crucial mistake the night before, for which I paid with my sleep last night. In an excess of affection, I decided to take Beau into my bed not at 5:30 a.m., as I have done to reward him, but at the night's start.
Probably on this account, Beau began to cry to be let out of his crate, not at 5:30 a.m., but at 1:30 a.m. Opening the crate to see what was what, I realized my folly immediately: Beau made strides towards my bed at once. I put him back in the crate with a blanket to calm him and went back to bed, but slumber was not to be mine. I spent the night back and forth between the crate, finally allowing Beau to share my bed --which did nothing to lessen his rambunctiousness.
Awoken I don't remember when, by Beau jumping off the bed to reach the "Wee-Wee" pad, ragged again, I followed in hot pursuit. Beau missed the target is all I will say, apart from admitting that in my bedraggled mind, the word "recidivist" reared its ugly head. By this time I was, for the first time in ten weeks, near tears and sensing defeat. I thumped Beau on the rump for his misdeed and considered my plans for the afternoon: I had a "partial view" matinee ticket in the balcony boxes for "Die Fledermaus". If I went, I'd have to walk Beau before I left, the sooner the better. So I fed Beau and dressed, then tried to get him ready to go outside.
As it was starting to snow, I pulled out the "Pawz", balloon-like disposable booties I'd used a week before. I tried to put them on Beau's paws. The problem was that the rubber had dried out and was now sticking to itself in places; Beau's paws may have grown some as well. I struggled to put the red balloons on, but Beau fought me every inch of the way. In the end, I only put three on. "Well, if your foot burns, don't blame me", I said impotently: Dogs only understand single word commands. Everything else we say is just "white noise".
On my way out of the building and crossing the streets towards Riverside Park, I ran into Stacy, a woman with a dog, Nico, a chihuahua mix. She had told me not too long ago that she had come to the conclusion that Nico had more energy than she had wanted in a dog and that she had miscalculated the demands he would make. I asked Stacy if I could join her on her walk with Nico. She generously suggested we walk together and that the dogs play together on the playing fields in Riverside Park, which would be deserted on account of the rain and snow flurries falling.
Observing Beau go head-to-head with Nico (who enjoys roughhousing), she said "I can see he's a handful --he's a hooligan! He's not looking at you for direction, he's doing whatever comes into his head. It would be a shame if you gave him up because the two of you couldn't accommodate to each other."
Hearing Beau described so scathingly, I found myself defending Beau to myself. "Hooligan!" Had Stacy ever seen Beau on all fours, shyly approaching another dog? Had she ever seen Beau snuggle up to strangers, let alone my friends and neighbors? I would have to give Beau another chance.
So, after returning to the building after our romp, I decided I would spend the day tiring Beau out. I called the opera box office and donated my ticket. Having turned my back on Beau while doing so, he took the opportunity to return to the bottom shelf of my kitchen bookshelf and set about chewing away at a limited print-run pamphlet I bought in London a few years ago --I ought never to have turned my back.
I put my coat back on and left the building with Beau again, heading, this time, for PETCO, to buy replacement booties in the next largest size. I talked with a trainer there about Beau's behavior of the night before:
"The thing is", Zafira, the dark-haired trainer told me, "by taking him into your bed last night, you gave him something better than being alone in his crate. Now you have to distract him from the idea the bed is a place he has a right to be. Try giving him something to chew on when you put him in the crate tonight, and see how it goes. And tire him out, make sure you tire him out." -- I thought that's what I was doing.
I came home to a phone call from the animal hospital in the neighborhood, which asked me to come by as pre-arranged to pick up heart worm medication for Beau. We walked there and back, too.
The thing is, I think I am doing everything I can to tire him out, but Beau still has energy. Yet he can be so tractable at times, I wonder whether Beau isn't bi-polar. Back from the trip to the vet's, I put Beau in the kitchen sink for his monthly bath. He struggled little, and even seemed to enjoy the lukewarm water, the shampoo and blow-dry. He closed his eyes and turned the corners of his maw up when I blew the air softly in front of his face to dry the fur there: you would have thought he was a tourist on a winter vacation in a sunny clime. And cleaned up, he looks lovely.
Whether I can actually bend Beau to my will in before my patience gives out, remains to be seen. In the case of dogs, unlike children, the decision to raise them can be reversed. It would be shameful to give up on such a beautiful animal, though. I'll try to get a good night's sleep tonight. As Scarlett O'Hara said,
"Tomorrow is another day."
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