God must have had a special concern for Chang, letting him end up at our house. If he had shown up a few months earlier, before Julie died, we would have loaded him up in the pickup and taken him to the animal shelter right away. As it was, he showed up, acted really tacky to all of us, growling, stealing the hounds' food, barking at us in our own driveway, and generally making himself unwelcome, and we still let him stay.
He was a chow, who had thick golden fur that stood out around his neck like a fluted collar. His walk was more of a strut, but he ran if someone approached him, and you could tell then, by the way he put his head down, that someone had been mean to him. He had a secret he couldn't tell us in words, but his behavior spoke for him.
I had tried for several weeks to approach him. Eventually, he let me come closer, with dogfood. One day, as he ate, I moved near him and gently reached out, touching his fur. He kept eating. I stood quietly. When he finished, he didn't run away, just walked away regally with his fur neckring sticking out like a hedge of protection.
That was the beginning of an uneasy relationship that lasted several years. It also marked the first time that I became strongly aware of my tendencies toward obsessive - compulsive actions, especially as they related to germs.
Chang had only been hanging around the house two months or so when his lovely fur started dropping off in hunks. I first noticed it one day when I fed him, and within three days, he had lost most of the fur on the left side of his body.
"Mange," Daddy pronounced when he came home from Lubbock on the weekend.
"What do we do?" I asked, feeling like I wanted to cry.
"That dog is mean. I don't know how anyone is going to get to him to treat the mange. We probably need to get rid of him."
"No," I begged. "Let me keep him. I'll put the medicine on him. He'll let me." I acted more sure than I felt that the dog would let me touch him. He had let me pet him at times, but I had to approach him very carefully, and he stayed in control, not me.
Daddy got the medicine on the weekend, and I started the treatment on Monday after he'd left for Lubbock. Thank goodness he didn't see what it entailed.
First, I had to feed Chang, but not really let him have the feed in the usual spot out by the garage. I had to get the feed and lure him into the fenced yard, at the front of the house, through the gate, topped by two small gray metal lions, a small fancy decorative item on an otherwise plain chainlink fence. Once I got him in the yard, which was no small feat, I had to actually let him eat his food. Otherwise he'd never trust me again.
When he was nearly through, I slipped onto the high concrete porch and retrieved the "treatment" which was liquid thankfully and prepared in a used liquid dishwashing bottle. I edged near him and poured a little of the mixture on the raw skin. As soon as it hit his skin, he was off, running toward the gate, which I had smartly closed.
When he realized I had tricked him, he ran east until there was no more yard, only fence. When he turned north, I was there ready and shot a stream of medicine at his pitiful coatless body. He ran west then and I patiently waited until he had to come past me once more when I squirted the rest of the treatment toward him. Then I opened the gate and let him out. He ran, shaking as hard as he could, drops of medicine glistening in the sun like tiny diamonds.
I could hardly believe it, but each day we repeated the ritual. I felt he was wise to me, but he never let on, entering the gate skittishly each day just as he had the day before. Running from me every day like the day before. Eventually, his mange cleared up and his lovely thick coat was restored like new.
Only as his mange got better, my obsessive compulsiveness got worse. In treating him, I had become terrified that I would get mange. I envisioned clumps of hair falling out, my raw skin, rough and scaly, revealed at school to disgusted schoolmates who pointed and jeered.
To counteract the terror, I developed a very intense cleansing ritual for my hands and arms. After each time I put medicine on Chang, I washed my hands with soap, dried them carefully, washed them again, dried them, then applied pure alcohol to each hand numerous times. Sometimes, if I still "felt" the germs on there, I had to go through the whole process again. It could be burdensome.
Chang wasn't really any problem except when he got into a crisis where he needed help. Then no one could do anything with him at all, and it became an embarrassment. Thankfully, the one time we needed to take him to the vet after he got bitten on the nose by a copperhead or watermocassin, causing his nose to swell up, he was too sick to care as we loaded him up in the floorboard of the car and took him to Dr. Harper for a shot. Normally, though, no one could get him to do anything except what he wanted.
A few weeks after Chang had mange, my dad decided to ride Sugar, our horse, to church. I'm not sure what the impetus for that was, maybe the beautiful spring day, with its clear sun and cool breeze. He never did it before, and after what happened, he certainly never did it again, but he saddled up. And since Mother and we girls had gone earlier to Sunday School, we watched in consternation as he trotted up, riding high and proud in the saddle, his white cowboy hat bouncing up and down with every step.
We attended literally a one -room church. No bathrooms, except some old ones outside that no one would use unless it was a dire emergency. No air conditioning. The front doors (which were at the back of the pews) were the only doors, and the wooden doors stood open, leaving the screened doors to let in the breeze.
Our friends giggled, and so did we, as Daddy tethered Sugar to the metal handrails by the steps. I looked toward Mother and saw her glance out the front door and have no reaction, like it was the most natural thing in the world. At the break between Sunday School and church, all the adults slapped Daddy on the back and acted like it was the greatest thing ever that he rode his horse to worship.
Brother Johnny led the singing on Sunday, and we sang a variety of songs, but almost every week, we sang "At Calvary." He stepped up behind the pulpit and after a brief piano intro, launched into the song. "Years I spent in vanity and pride," he sang, swinging his arm in time with the music.
"Aaaauuhrrrrr," a terrible high pitched sound came from the doorway. "Aaaauuhrrr, aaaauuhrr."
It seemed like slow motion as just about every head in that small congregation turned back toward the doors. There, with his nose pointed straight up, like a coyote howling at the moon, sat Chang, making weird and unusual noises, accompanying the hymn.
Daddy, realizing Chang had followed them like a private detective, keeping his distance so as not to be seen, got up and went back and tried to shush him, but of course he wasn't having any of it and seemed to get louder and more insistent. The sound was sad and mournful, but everyone was laughing. Finally, Brother Johnny finished two verses and said, with a dour look , that was all we'd sing for now. All we kids had hung our heads and were giggling, punching each other, and shaking with suppressed laughter.
Daddy slipped out and untied Sugar, and the entire congregation watched him through the south windows as he rode toward home. It was only a mile. I'm not sure, but it didn't seem like he was sitting as high in the saddle on the way back.
He never liked Chang, and that episode sure didn't endear him. A few weeks later, we arrived home early from church and found a friend of dad's with a rope around Chang trying to get him in a truck. We were never sure what that was about, but had a pretty good idea. Of course Jan and I staged a duet, a screaming, crying fit, and once more Chang avoided capital punishment.
He lived several more fairly happy years with us, teaching us lessons about dealing with difficult personalities. I was never sorry he experienced some years of kindness, which he did, with the exception of the rope incident. Even that day, he saw how we would stick up for him even if he was hard to deal with, though he never did anything to demonstrate he was grateful. We all cried the day he died, hit by a car he was trying to bluff into stopping, and though I didn't want to admit it, there was, with my shock and sorrow, also a sense of relief.
He was a chow, who had thick golden fur that stood out around his neck like a fluted collar. His walk was more of a strut, but he ran if someone approached him, and you could tell then, by the way he put his head down, that someone had been mean to him. He had a secret he couldn't tell us in words, but his behavior spoke for him.
I had tried for several weeks to approach him. Eventually, he let me come closer, with dogfood. One day, as he ate, I moved near him and gently reached out, touching his fur. He kept eating. I stood quietly. When he finished, he didn't run away, just walked away regally with his fur neckring sticking out like a hedge of protection.
That was the beginning of an uneasy relationship that lasted several years. It also marked the first time that I became strongly aware of my tendencies toward obsessive - compulsive actions, especially as they related to germs.
Chang had only been hanging around the house two months or so when his lovely fur started dropping off in hunks. I first noticed it one day when I fed him, and within three days, he had lost most of the fur on the left side of his body.
"Mange," Daddy pronounced when he came home from Lubbock on the weekend.
"What do we do?" I asked, feeling like I wanted to cry.
"That dog is mean. I don't know how anyone is going to get to him to treat the mange. We probably need to get rid of him."
"No," I begged. "Let me keep him. I'll put the medicine on him. He'll let me." I acted more sure than I felt that the dog would let me touch him. He had let me pet him at times, but I had to approach him very carefully, and he stayed in control, not me.
Daddy got the medicine on the weekend, and I started the treatment on Monday after he'd left for Lubbock. Thank goodness he didn't see what it entailed.
First, I had to feed Chang, but not really let him have the feed in the usual spot out by the garage. I had to get the feed and lure him into the fenced yard, at the front of the house, through the gate, topped by two small gray metal lions, a small fancy decorative item on an otherwise plain chainlink fence. Once I got him in the yard, which was no small feat, I had to actually let him eat his food. Otherwise he'd never trust me again.
When he was nearly through, I slipped onto the high concrete porch and retrieved the "treatment" which was liquid thankfully and prepared in a used liquid dishwashing bottle. I edged near him and poured a little of the mixture on the raw skin. As soon as it hit his skin, he was off, running toward the gate, which I had smartly closed.
When he realized I had tricked him, he ran east until there was no more yard, only fence. When he turned north, I was there ready and shot a stream of medicine at his pitiful coatless body. He ran west then and I patiently waited until he had to come past me once more when I squirted the rest of the treatment toward him. Then I opened the gate and let him out. He ran, shaking as hard as he could, drops of medicine glistening in the sun like tiny diamonds.
I could hardly believe it, but each day we repeated the ritual. I felt he was wise to me, but he never let on, entering the gate skittishly each day just as he had the day before. Running from me every day like the day before. Eventually, his mange cleared up and his lovely thick coat was restored like new.
Only as his mange got better, my obsessive compulsiveness got worse. In treating him, I had become terrified that I would get mange. I envisioned clumps of hair falling out, my raw skin, rough and scaly, revealed at school to disgusted schoolmates who pointed and jeered.
To counteract the terror, I developed a very intense cleansing ritual for my hands and arms. After each time I put medicine on Chang, I washed my hands with soap, dried them carefully, washed them again, dried them, then applied pure alcohol to each hand numerous times. Sometimes, if I still "felt" the germs on there, I had to go through the whole process again. It could be burdensome.
Chang wasn't really any problem except when he got into a crisis where he needed help. Then no one could do anything with him at all, and it became an embarrassment. Thankfully, the one time we needed to take him to the vet after he got bitten on the nose by a copperhead or watermocassin, causing his nose to swell up, he was too sick to care as we loaded him up in the floorboard of the car and took him to Dr. Harper for a shot. Normally, though, no one could get him to do anything except what he wanted.
A few weeks after Chang had mange, my dad decided to ride Sugar, our horse, to church. I'm not sure what the impetus for that was, maybe the beautiful spring day, with its clear sun and cool breeze. He never did it before, and after what happened, he certainly never did it again, but he saddled up. And since Mother and we girls had gone earlier to Sunday School, we watched in consternation as he trotted up, riding high and proud in the saddle, his white cowboy hat bouncing up and down with every step.
We attended literally a one -room church. No bathrooms, except some old ones outside that no one would use unless it was a dire emergency. No air conditioning. The front doors (which were at the back of the pews) were the only doors, and the wooden doors stood open, leaving the screened doors to let in the breeze.
Our friends giggled, and so did we, as Daddy tethered Sugar to the metal handrails by the steps. I looked toward Mother and saw her glance out the front door and have no reaction, like it was the most natural thing in the world. At the break between Sunday School and church, all the adults slapped Daddy on the back and acted like it was the greatest thing ever that he rode his horse to worship.
Brother Johnny led the singing on Sunday, and we sang a variety of songs, but almost every week, we sang "At Calvary." He stepped up behind the pulpit and after a brief piano intro, launched into the song. "Years I spent in vanity and pride," he sang, swinging his arm in time with the music.
"Aaaauuhrrrrr," a terrible high pitched sound came from the doorway. "Aaaauuhrrr, aaaauuhrr."
It seemed like slow motion as just about every head in that small congregation turned back toward the doors. There, with his nose pointed straight up, like a coyote howling at the moon, sat Chang, making weird and unusual noises, accompanying the hymn.
Daddy, realizing Chang had followed them like a private detective, keeping his distance so as not to be seen, got up and went back and tried to shush him, but of course he wasn't having any of it and seemed to get louder and more insistent. The sound was sad and mournful, but everyone was laughing. Finally, Brother Johnny finished two verses and said, with a dour look , that was all we'd sing for now. All we kids had hung our heads and were giggling, punching each other, and shaking with suppressed laughter.
Daddy slipped out and untied Sugar, and the entire congregation watched him through the south windows as he rode toward home. It was only a mile. I'm not sure, but it didn't seem like he was sitting as high in the saddle on the way back.
He never liked Chang, and that episode sure didn't endear him. A few weeks later, we arrived home early from church and found a friend of dad's with a rope around Chang trying to get him in a truck. We were never sure what that was about, but had a pretty good idea. Of course Jan and I staged a duet, a screaming, crying fit, and once more Chang avoided capital punishment.
He lived several more fairly happy years with us, teaching us lessons about dealing with difficult personalities. I was never sorry he experienced some years of kindness, which he did, with the exception of the rope incident. Even that day, he saw how we would stick up for him even if he was hard to deal with, though he never did anything to demonstrate he was grateful. We all cried the day he died, hit by a car he was trying to bluff into stopping, and though I didn't want to admit it, there was, with my shock and sorrow, also a sense of relief.
1 comment:
How many of us have had a pet that was less than cooperative. This blog captures that interaction beautifully.
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