The Taming of the Shh..Roo

Centennial Park Bandshell, Randy Lancaster warms up the crowd.

We made it through intermission. Opening night. Shakespeare in the Park. I may not be able to move my arms tomorrow (for Stella's unrelenting attempts to make new friends) but at least we didn't get thrown out. In fact everyone was very understanding, her being "just a sweet little puppy and all" I'm told she was listed in attendance as Dog #1 for the season. Sweet.
She was really only interested in Dog #2 which came on a bun just before intermission. It was the thing that finally focused her attention on me - that anchor at the end of her leash. Poor thing. There were 562 people and ten dogs there and the wicked witch wouldn't let her play.

Once the performance started, she actually watched for a few minutes. I just knew she would start barking when the actors began running down the aisles screaming but thank God, that didn't happen. Prior to that it was a lot like wrestling a nine year old. She'd be fine for five minutes and someone with a dog the size of a Greyhound Bus would go jogging behind where we were sitting. Or a big picnic basket would sit close by and and she'd army crawl to the end of the leash while they cooed at her. She got a full rubdown by a number of different kind and tolerant dog people including prized Nashville actress/director, Denice Hicks.

We lasted about thirty minutes into the performance before I finally ducked us under the enclosure and went for the hot dog. After that we sat out by the rest rooms which turned out to be a better plan. That way people could come to her (many did) instead of just finding her rifling through their purses or batting those big eyelashes at their gourmet treats. All in all it was a really fun show and we may even try again next week, assuming they let us back in. We'll be the ones at the hot dog stand.


(Note: Follow The Nashville Shakespeare Festival on Twitter @nashvilleshakes Diva dog Stella shows off the freckles in their video (above) at around :56)

The Parthenon at Centennial Park

Is she or isn't she?

Redheaded older lady, in curlers and a house dress, leans out her door one morning on our way by and declares that Stella is a really pretty dog. "Thanks," I say and she asks "Is it a Beagle?" I hesitate for a second and say "No m'am. She's a Pit Bull."
"Oh," she says, her voice skating on disappointment. "Well she's really pretty anyway." "Thank you" I say, waving goodbye. She waits for us to pass before leaving her porch to collect the paper. I wonder as we're walking if I should've just answered in the affirmative and let Stella be a Beagle for the day. She's been mistaken for all manner of dogs over the last ten-and-a-half months, Blue Heeler, Boxer, Catahoula, Foxhound, Great Dane. Beagle was a new one, rather charming but still erroneous. It must have been the white socks and matching tail tip that from a distance cued her thought. A very authoritative-sounding man told his son once that she was a cross between a Boxer and an Australian Sheppard. I had to look away to keep from laughing or having to confirm this notion.

As many of you know, it's not the easiest thing, being a Pit Bull, out in the world anyway. Other, far more qualified people have written about it extensively but the thing I find surprising is that so many people have been conditioned to fear a dog they don't even recognize (beautiful example here ~ poor Otis). I'm torn sometimes between educating the person and protecting the dog. Often they love her until the exact moment they ask the question. The worst of it comes when they're already petting her and she's in the zone and then they ask what kind of dog she is. If I say the word, their sparkling eyes go flat and they immediately stop petting her. They back off. Most of the time it isn't so subtle either. I could I suppose, say she's an American Staffordshire Terrier. While it's true, most people don't know that translates to Pit Bull.

Although I've told a few children that she's an American Daffodil Digger, I've refused the semi-popular cute names (i.e. Pibble). I've found that changing a word doesn't change a perception, however ill-conceived. For example, not so long ago (and still) a population of carnies wanted to be called showmen, for some of the very same reasons. To accommodate them (out of respect) I used the term now and again and it only served to confuse people outside that circle. The general public has no idea what a showman is and they never will. They know carny. Carnival worker. Public relations gurus the world over would likely disagree but from a sociological perspective, (IMHO) the only option is to recondition the spirit of the word. Educate people. Suck it up. Tell the truth. Set a good example, be consistent and patient. That's pretty easy to say; not so easy to do. Would love to hear your experience and/or thoughts on the subject.

Yesterday morning we went walking down along the river. We met a beaver and a homeless man. The man said he'd been feeding a dog that looked a lot like Stella.

"Don't know who it belongs to", he said.

"I do." I answered. "Who?" he asked me.

"You."

Here's a great audio-interview from Fresh Air (NPR) on training service dogs in prison.

Mt. Olivet Cemetery

The first time we went walking in Mt. Olivet Cemetery, Stella stopped on the road and tried to drag me off into the grass at one point. I'm careful about this sort of behavior since I don't want her tooling around people's graves in an undignified manner, but she was insistent. It was only a few feet before she stopped in front of the headstones of two couples, side by side. Carved in the granite large enough to see from a distance, were the names: Barker and Doggett. Of course I didn't have a camera at the time but rest assured, if we ever manage to find them again, dignified or not, you'll be the first to know.

Mosquito hunting 101

Once back in the driver's seat, she looked at me in the rear-view mirror like maybe I was the one who was out of control.

Mosquitoes and flies make her completely crazy. Like crazy enough to slam her own head into a piece of furniture or the wall. There was one in the car with us two days ago and I thought she would flip us over. Me and her and a Chevy Malibu - murals of dog slobber painted on both back windows.

Officer:"Ms. Adcock, what made you run over the fireplug anyway? How many fingers do you see now?"

Finally I pulled into a parking lot and calmly, climbed in the backseat with her to kill the mosquito. I think my exact words were:

"Now, sit your ass down or I'm gonna' beat it with that flip-flop right there until it swells up like a beach ball."

It's hard to believe sometimes that I was raised in Ohio.

Smiley

This is Smiley. He's one of the first dogs Stella met after she came to live with me. He isn't a carny dog but it's clear he could've been. For an unknown number of years, he was a savvy street dog in Houston, Texas. Thanks to my friend Beverly, Smiley now lives on a huge farm in Kentucky with his long time girlfriend, Pepper. He didn't have much use for Stella when they met. Of course, she was a rude puppy back then and he let her know right off that he wasn't about to tolerate any of her foolishness.

Some of you may have seen this either in the paper or in the Twitter feed early in the week but I couldn't pass up another chance to post it here. It's a beautifully written story about trying to find a street dog named Ahu, in Pakistan.. LINK


(The Late Edition) Pepper

The Final Countdown

I didn't get nervous until the girl reached for Stella's leash. She completely locked her legs and gave me a terrified look I hadn't seen before. The one that said:

"Aren't you going to do something? I thought you were my friend."

I don't mind saying, it rattled me a little. I didn't blame her. Fifty percent of the times we've been in this room, Stella's woken up the next day with staples in her leg. Reluctantly, she gave up and went on for what would hopefully be her final x-ray. I meanwhile, stared a hole through that framed poster on the wall. You know the one. It's a long raggedy couch with nine golden retriever puppies sitting on it. Almost all of them are looking into the camera. Some variation of it is in every doctor's office. Had I been to see my own doctor, it would've been a row of babies sitting in goofy-ass flower pots with sunflowers on their heads. Same picture.

The longer I sat there the less cute they got. My eyes moved to a different wall where there was a poster of internal details of the canine skeleton. I tried to see the dog's kneecaps without getting up. I could hear Stella's surgeon talking to a woman in the next room about the exact same operation. The clock ticked on and I began to wonder if they were having trouble getting her to hold still, if they'd eventually come back to tell me she had to be sedated, or if the pins escaped without my knowing it. Finally, as I was deep off into the daymare of lost pins, bone fragments, and eight to twelve more weeks of recovery, the door opened. Her doctor entered the room and happily announced that her x-ray was perfect. It had taken a few minutes longer because it looked so good he'd shown it off to his other patient who was about to undergo the whole experience with her own big dog.

While we were talking, Stella was delivered (with treats) back into the exam room, a different look on her face this time. She laid down comfortably on the floor, totally relaxed. He said there wouldn't be any reason for us to return, unless we had a problem. Walk, play, live. No horse racing off-leash for four more weeks :)
We'll take it.

On the way out the door I made her sit on the scale one last time. Sixty one pounds, two ounces.

"We better get walking right now, Stella," I said.

You know that noise that's somewhere between a howl and a growl? I don't know if she knew she was free or what but she sang that tune all the way to the car. It was hilarious. Half an hour later, after four long months, we headed off around the block in the hot rain without an umbrella.
It was grand.

The Babysitter

Stella won a rope bone last fall for being the most social dog in her puppy class. It's long gone but one of the big chain stores sent us a coupon for her birthday and she got to get a replacement. I wasn't sure what to choose and then as we were walking down the aisle she just reached out and took it off the hook herself. I have to watch her when we go in those places because she does that with bully sticks also. And rawhide chews. And squeak balls.. I always read her that sign on the door before we go in too. You know the one that says: We welcome your well-behaved pet. One of these days we'll show up and they'll have added a line that reads: Please leave your delinquent, shoplifting pit bull at home.