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 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