The Harlan Chronicles 1

Harlan

I began 1993 as “The Year of Facing My Fears”. Come to think of it, the only real fear that I had was that of dogs. Actually, it was more of a phobia. At first sight of a bushy tail, I would cry a little on the inside and then finally, in a high-pitched squeal, desperately beg for someone to get it/he/she away from me.

You know the type.

So, I resolved that I would beat this screwy dog thing. My mind was made up. I decided to become a foster mother to a homeless dog – a dog something along the lines of small, blind and toothless, preferably small enough to fit into my handbag. The dog would get a nice place to stay and if it didn’t work out, I could bring it back. Win-win.

When I arrived at the no-kill animal shelter, I met with an “adoption counselor”. I didn’t dare confess my reason for fostering a dog as I was aware that those “dog-nuts” would never let me have one if they knew. So I confidently told them that I would be happy to foster the most un-adoptable, passive dog that they had.

Within seconds, I was introduced to Harlan. A 50 lb. black and white Border Collie mix who had been rescued six months prior from an abusive and neglectful owner. While all of the other dogs were barking and jumping up to the front of their cages, Harlan was pressed up far back into the corner of his kennel, a little larger than I had originally imagined, sitting square on his butt with his tummy facing me, jaw clenched and looking alot more afraid of me than I was of him. When I asked what was wrong with him, her response was "He's depressed".

He was perfect!

Despite the fact that it took two shelter employees to drag him out of his kennel and three to stuff him into my Pinto, I was determined that we would get along just fine. I had a doggie crate waiting for him in my den and I just knew that things would work out. Driving home with Harlan huddled on the floorboard of my back seat, I had time to think…“How would I get him out of my car?” “ Was he house broken?” “Is it too late to turn back?”

Part 2: Harlan's Stash

The Harlan Chronicles 2

Harlan's Stash
It took three neighborhood volunteers to stuff Harlan snug in his crate and I was quite content and proud of myself. After all, for someone who was as afraid of dogs as I was, we seemed to be getting along just fine. Harlan, cozy in his crate, looking every bit the pill bug and I, completely oblivious to all things canine.

It wasn’t long into this bliss that I detected a foul odor coming from the den. The question about him being housebroken was answered. The good news was that he didn’t relieve himself on my carpet, the bad news was that he wouldn’t come out of his crate. I tried coaxing, leashing, demanding him to come out. No Luck. He stayed in the crate. Refusing to eat or drink (who could blame him) and remaining in the crate was just not an option. With a little help from my friends, we picked up the crate with all 50 lbs of Harlan in it and brought him into the backyard.

After a moderate struggle we were able to get him out of the crate, hose him down and create a new home for him in the backyard garage. A quilt was placed in the corner of the garage and a side door was propped open so that Harlan could come and go as he pleased. Harlan was home.

Sometimes I would watch Harlan by peeking out of my kitchen window where I had an unobstructed view of him and would notice that he would only come out of his garage at night.

Although I would routinely give him treats, he would never take them from me nor would I see him eating them. He would not eat his food or drink water if I was around. He never made eye contact, in fact he would turn his head away from me when I approached. He didn’t bark or growl. Everyday was spent in silence, staring, jaw clenched. If I tried to pet him or scratch his ears, he would visibly tremble. Sure, friends and family would comment on my basket-case of a dog but I being the proud new parent, was unflappable.

A week had passed since I brought Harlan home and I decided that it was time for me to change his bedding. Bravely walking into his garage, I clipped the leash onto his collar and proceeded to drag him out of the garage and tie him to a tree.

When I picked up Harlan’s quilt, I was surprised to see that he had stashed all of his doggie treats under it. Interestingly, I remembered learning somewhere that neglected and abused children will hoard food for fear that they will not be fed again.

It was then and there that I realized Harlan was a soul that needed love, food and a safe place to live. So what if he wasn’t “normal”? Do parents with afflicted children return them? No. They deal with it. Harlan and I would be together for a long time.

Part 3 The Doggie Shrink

The Harlan Chronicles 3

The Doggie-Shrink
A few months into our “dog-parent” relationship and after wearing a friend out with Harlan stories and exploits, she gave me the name and number of a “Canine Psychiatrist”.

Who would have thought there were actual doggie-shrinks out there and what degree plan do you pursue in order to be one?

The doggie-shrink turned out to be a card carrying “Pet Behavioralist” named Linda who made house calls.

My suspicion was that "Linda" was really a dog trainer with an impressive title and fee structure.

Harlan's therapy would amount to one hundred and seventy dollars for three, one-hour sessions. The unanswerable question, “Have you lost your mind?” was a fairly common one from friends and relatives.

When Linda came into his life, Harlan had been living with me for about six months. His behavior had not changed with the exception of occasionally coming out into the daylight. When he did come out of his garage, he would literally skulk about. His head and tail down, his shoulders prominently raised. It was an odd sight. Remaining bark-less, he continued to hoard food and sit silently in his garage all day and night. Bathing Harlan was so traumatic that I had a sedative prescribed (for him). Anyone who knew Harlan could see clearly that he needed help.

Despite the fact that I had warned Linda that Harlan would be a tough nut to crack, she initiated his “therapy” with vigor and enthusiasm. Perhaps she considered him to be a professional challenge.

Unfortunately, typical dog enticements like dog treats, hamburger, steak and sweet talk did nothing for Harlan. He would not be coerced into coming out of his garage, sitting, shaking or lying down by these obvious ploys. He refused to walk on a leash or follow any command she would give him. In fact, one afternoon an obviously stressed Linda (bless her heart) put a piece of steak on Harlan’s nose. She was certain he would shake it off and eat it. He didn’t. Harlan sat motionless in his garage with steak on his nose until we left him alone.

By his third therapy session, it was apparent that Linda’s enthusiasm had waned. She explained that Harlan was un-socialized and because of that, he was un-trainable.

Puhleeeeese, what kind of a Canine Psychiatrist was she anyway? Give up on Harlan? I don’t think so. I never heard from her again.

All was not lost on Harlan’s therapy, however. I did learn that dragging Harlan out of his garage by the leash might be too aggressive for him. Instead, Linda taught me to position myself at Harlan’s exit door, then toss pennies behind Harlan until he would stand up and come to me. The sound of the pennies falling would be bothersome to him. It worked!

Part 4  He Speaks!

The Harlan Chronicles 4

He Speaks!
A year had passed and Harlan and I had come to a comfortable arrangement. Adopting Harlan was just a matter of paperwork and $75.00. I fed him, provided fresh water and a safe environment for him, ensured that he would get his annual shots and medicines (finding a Vet who made house calls wasn’t a problem – just pricey) and he would silently hang out in his house/garage and backyard. We were getting along famously.

Friends didn’t really ‘get’ Harlan's quirks so I felt a need to advocate for him by posting a sign outside his house that nicely informed visitors to allow him privacy - I think it said something to the effect of "GO AWAY".

Harlan occasionally came out of his house whenever he felt the need and seemed to live a life of restful solitude.

One afternoon, I had invited a few friends over for a cookout in the backyard. Everyone seemed to be having a nice time. A couple of people were playing basketball, two or three were about ten feet away from the grill and I was doing my thing by passing out burgers, drinks etc.

Suddenly, Harlan came sneakily skulking (head and tail down, shoulders raised) out of his house. Then, much to our collective surprise - he barked. Harlan speaks? I was thrilled. Good boy!!! Harlan continued to bark but then began to pace in a semi circular fashion, back and forth, all the while surrounding my guests. The semi circle became smaller and smaller as my guests and I became physically closer to one another. As we all stood together, Harlan continued to bark at us. I guess it was time to sit down. We all took our seats at the table. Harlan stopped barking, turned his back to us, sat down and kept an eye out for wolves.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but Harlan was “herding” us. Later that year, I attended a Border Collie exhibit at The State Fair of Texas. It was then that I realized Harlan was demonstrating innate Border Collie traits and wasn’t so screwy after all... I'm thinking that by now you're just dying to learn more about Border Collie behaviour so check out Animal Planet's video - http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pORF_PVW8Q

Part 5:  Betsy 

The Harlan Chronicles 5

Harlan's Friend, Betsy
Harlan was ‘special’ and caring for him was a breeze. He refused the leash, therefore he didn’t go on walks. Despite the fact that he didn’t exercise, he had the run of a big backyard if he should feel the need to use it. He didn’t like to be disturbed and did not require my attention. It was like having a plant that ate. I had learned to accept and love Harlan for who he was and we were quite comfortable with our relationship.

As time went on, I became aware that people were talking. I understood that the word on the street had me made out as a sucker for weird dogs. That wasn’t entirely true. Yes, Harlan was a little weird and yes, I sought out a “different” type of dog - but that was yesterday. I really didn’t care to have a “normal” dog. Never the less, I would frequently receive calls from both friends and strangers telling me about “a starving-stray-sort-of-Lab-mix”, "a blind-in-one-eye-abused-Rhodesian Ridgeback” or "a pitiful Bulldog with-the-mange-I-think”. I was quick to let these callers know that “I really don’t know squat about dogs and I wouldn’t be doing them any favors should I take them in.” Enough said.

But then I got a call from a friend of a friend who described the "coolest, most playful, healthy, stray" but “obviously lost because she was well cared for” Austalian Shepherd. This lady already had four dogs and couldn’t take another in. No one had responded to her flyers about finding the dog and she was afraid to give it up to an animal shelter which would spell certain d-e-a-t-h. She also mentioned that she understood Harlan might benefit if he had a friend. That was where she got me. Maybe Harlan did need a friend.

Betsy was a blast. She was everything that had been described and before you knew it, she and Harlan were simpatico. Following a short 'getting to know you' period, Betsy moved into Harlan’s garage/house. I purchased matching doggie beds for them. Actually, the doggie beds were large plastic bins with sleeping bags in them – the reason for the plastic bins? In the event of flooding, I imagined that the doggie beds would rise with the water level and thereby giving Harlan and Betsy their own ‘boats’ per se - as Dallas is famous for its heavy rainstorms and flooding. Seriously. What can I say?

Every day, Harlan and Betsy would come out of their house and into the sunshine. Although Harlan would not participate, he seemed to tolerate watching Betsy play. She would run rampant in the backyard chasing squirrels. Tugging on Harlan’s ears, jumping and pouncing on him trying to get his attention and showing him that she wanted to play did not phase him.

One afternoon, while watching Betsy's antics from my kitchen window, I saw Betsy lying on her back, suddenly she began wriggling in an apparent frenzy on the grass. Seizure activity!? I ran, calling out to her - "Betsy!" Betsy immediately flipped over, stood up with her tail wagging. She apparently recuperated quickly. I called my friend JoBeth who was experienced with dogs and was assured that ‘normal’ dogs do this sort of thing. Nothing to panic about. Although it was a long while before Harlan showed any signs of improvement, I knew everything would be alright the day I saw both Harlan and Betsy lying on their backs, wriggling on the grass.

Sadly, Betsy passed away only three years after she came into our lives. In that short time she was a dear and devoted friend to both Harlan and I. Through Betsy, Harlan learned how to play, chase squirrels, dig holes, ride properly in a car, take food from a person’s hand, walk on a leash, respond to “sit/shake/come/lie down” and receive a hug from me without peeing all over himself and for that, I will always remain grateful to her.

Part 6 The Grand-Dog