This "wiki" is a space for others to tell their favorite pound hound stories, share their secrets to effective training, give advice, ask questions, and anything that might educate and/or entertain.

 

The password you need to add to this wiki is "dogs". (Select the Edit Button, then type in the requested password)

 

 

These true tales of twin tails are but only a few. How about sharing some of yours too!!

 

 

Lessons from Lupie

by Dr Ruth Simkin

www.ruthsimkin.ca

 

The tip of the newly-shed antler lying in the grass glinted in the sunlight. I bent down to retrieve it. It’s a sign, I thought, a sign from the earth telling me I am welcome on this land. I gently carried the velvety horn inside my new cabin and gave it a place of honour on the windowsill where it would always be treasured and remind me of my first few days in my new home on this island.

 

Lupie was a puppy when we first moved to the island, not yet four months old. Her sister, Wolfie, was fourteen months the elder. From a snowy white Arctic Wolf mother and a black Belgian Shepherd father, they were both striking animals. Wolfie was black with white forelegs and a small white patch on her back. Lupie was silver-grey, the kind of dog who is so multi-coloured it is difficult to describe her colours specifically. Wolfie had been the runt of her litter; Lupie, one of the largest.

 

Wolfie was one of those animals who needed little training, who seemed inherently to know what was expected of her and took great enjoyment out of surpassing those expectations. Lupie, on the other hand, had a decidedly feral streak and was difficult to domesticate.

 

There comes a time during the training of an animal companion when she is left alone in the house for the first time. Usually, I judge correctly and the animal is still happily sleeping upon my return.

 

However, the first time I left Lupie alone in the house unattended was a great misjudgment on my part. I returned to a domestic disaster: pillows were gutted, feathers everywhere; the living room looked as though a tornado had twisted through it. I gasped when I saw the small antler lying on the floor, and when I felt and saw the teeth marks in it, I burst into tears.

 

"Look what you’ve done.” I turned to Lupie, chewed antler in hand. “You’ve ruined this. This was a gift from the earth, and you ruined it.” I waved the antler in the air at her as she slunk off behind a chair, where she remained for the two and a half hours it took me to put the room back together.

 

The following morning, the house was clean but my heart was heavy. Once more I took hold of the gnawed antler, waved it in the air in front of Lupie, and shouted: “Look what you’ve done! You chewed my antler. How could you do such a thing?” The tears rolled down my face. “You ruined it”, I cried. “You ruined my beautiful antler!” Later, I realized how unreasonable my shouting was, but at the time, I was just upset.

 

Lupie took one look at me and my tears, and the antler, and ran out the door into the forest beside the cabin.

 

Not ten minutes later, with tears still moist on my cheeks, I heard her come up the front steps. I could not believe what I saw: in her mouth, gently cradled, was a large antler at least four times the size of the one she had chewed the night before. She timidly approached and proffered her prize.

 

To say I was humbled and ashamed is an understatement. My beautiful pup had understood everything, far better than I. Where she found this second antler, I have no idea. In fact, in ten years of living on that land, I never saw another antler. The lessons I learned from Lupie were considerable. I have never yelled at an animal again liked I shouted at Lupie that messy night. I came to understand that our animal companions know so much more than we give them credit for. They know things and can do things which we might not be able to anticipate. I now always give my animal friends the benefit of the doubt. After the antler incident, I began treating both dogs with a different kind of respect, and found that this new respect extended to people as well. Things seemed to fall into perspective. I was a better person after that day and I’m indebted to that magnificent wolf cross, Lupie.

 

 

 

Biffy the unfortunate pound-hound

 

When I was in first grade, my parents brought home a cute little black

dog from the pound. Biffy, my new little floppy eared pet, was

extremely friendly, but also extremely disobedient. We tried to train

him, but he would have none of it. He would nip at people while

playing with them, he would chew on anything he could find in the

house and most importantly, he would not come when called. This last

characteristic would unfortunately be his downfall.

As I was getting off the school bus, I watched as Biffy ignored the

repeated calls from my mother to "come" back to the house or even

"stay" where he was. He continued on toward me and ran right out into

the moving traffic. The driver of the work truck did not have a

chance to stop before Biffy darted in front of him. Despite this, I

had multiple other dogs after that and the next time I look for a dog,

the pound will be the first place I look.

 

Have a great day!

Matt

 

Wolfie, the Therapy Dog

by Dr. Ruth Simkin

www.ruthsimkin.ca

 

Wolfie was a wonderful therapy dog. A cross between an Arctic Wolf and Belgian Shepherd, she was not huge, but large enough at 110 pounds. She was black with white highlights and possessed the deepest, most sensitive eyes I’ve ever seen. Without ever being taught, she seemed to know inherently what to do. I worked at the hospice where people with terminal diseases came so that their last days would be made more comfortable for both them and their families. Wolfie was about seven years old when we both started working there.

 

One day I was standing at the elevator with both my dogs, Wolfie and her younger sister Lupie, waiting to go home after a long, hard day’s work for all of us. A door slammed down the hall and a young woman ran toward me. She sat in a chair near the elevators, put her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.

 

I knew most family members on the floor, but I didn’t know her and was reluctant to intrude upon her sadness. Without my saying a word, Wolfie slowly approached the young woman and tentatively licked her hand. The woman lifted up her head and when Wolfie began licking the tears off her face she then threw her arms around the dog, crying ”Oh, you wonderful dog, you,” and buried her head in Wolfie’s shoulders, sobbing while Wolfie stood there quietly.

 

Ding. The elevator arrived. The woman sniffed, her crying over, and as Lupie and I walked onto the elevator, Wolfie fell into step behind us. I had not spoken a word, but I had tears in my eyes watching my wonderful animal companion do her work. I know that the young woman was comforted by Wolfie, and was now in a better space. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad envious at my dogs’ ability to comfort people. But that’s what made us such a good team, I guess; they, on the other hand, weren’t able to practice medicine. All together, the three of us went home to rest and prepare for another day.

 

Reenie, The Therapy Dog

by Dr. Ruth Simkin

www.ruthsimikin.ca

 

Reenie is a four year old wolf/husky cross and one of the happiest dogs I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. There is always a big smile on her face, her bright eyes querying what the activities of the day will bring. She was named after Irini, the Goddess of Peace. At first, I thought this was a misnomer, as Reenie was an extremely difficult dog to train. However, now a mature almost-five, she is living up to her namesake in spades.

 

Reenie and I started doing pet therapy together with PATS, Pacific Animal Therapy Society, when she was two years old.

 

On one of our first PATS outings, we joined a group visit for disabled youth. We walked into the community hall to discover we were among the first from PATS to arrive. Sitting in a large semicircle were perhaps twenty-five boys and girls, about half of them in wheel chairs. A very diverse group of kids, some were autistic, others severely physically disabled,

 

I asked Reenie to say hello, then watched with amazement as she started at one end of the circle and greeted each youngster in turn exactly how that person needed to be treated.

 

Reenie walked over to the first chair, where sat a very quiet young woman, thin blond hair to her shoulders, hands folded in her lap, head down and to the side, barely moving. She approached slowly, and gently touched her nose to the young woman’s hands. As the girl slowly put her hand on Reenie’s head, the dog licked her face, eliciting a smile.

 

Beside the girl was a very spastic and excited boy. Reenie came close but not too close to the flailing arms. She managed to coax a grin from the boy. With each young person, whatever their disability, whether they were in a wheelchair or not, she greeted them in a manner that was most appropriate – coming very close and touching some, keeping her distance with others, until she had made her way around the entire group and came back to me with that big smile on her face.

 

There were tears in my eyes as I watched her do this. I surely hadn’t taught her how to assess people; I wish that I could learn from her how to do that, as she certainly seemed to be an expert at it. The youngsters were delighted with her, and I was humbled and proud. That day, I learned far more from her than she from me.

 

Two years later found us at our regular “gig”, a seniors’ hospital which we visited weekly. Our favourite patient, Mrs. B, a wonderful Welsh woman, had just turned one hundred years old, and we loved visiting her. She often asked Reenie up on her bed so she could pet her more easily and of course, Reenie happily obliged. I laughed every time I saw the two of them like that – the dog weighed more than the woman!

 

One day, as Reenie was stretched out on the bed, Mrs. B happily stroking her lush golden/white fur, we began talking about cars. I was telling Mrs. B how much Reenie loved driving in cars, especially our brand new convertible.

 

“I have never driven in a convertible,” Mrs. B confessed.

“What?! You’re a hundred years old, and you’ve never been in a convertible?”

"Never in my life,” she shook her head.

“Well, we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we, Reenie? Mrs. B, would you like to come out for a ride with us next week?”

A slow smile crossed Mrs. B’s face. “Why yes, I would like that very much.”

When leaving the hospital that day, I arranged with the nursing staff to take Mrs. B out the following week.

 

A week later, I was sure that Mrs. B had forgotten about our ride. As I was readying Reenie to collect our passenger, the front door of the hospital burst open and there was Mrs. B, in her wheelchair, her son behind her. He delivered her right to the car.

“You remembered!” I beamed at her.

“She’s very excited about this,” her son said. “She’s been talking about it all week.”

 

Reenie was also excited to have her favourite patient sharing her new car. She sat proudly, watching over Mrs. B, who was so tiny, she could barely be seen over the top of the door.

 

“Goodbye” waved her son. “Have fun.”

 

“Oh we will, we will, won’t we?” I smiled at the two passengers. Off we drove, Mrs. B in the front passenger seat, Reenie in the back seat carefully watching her patient, and me, driving though the most picturesque parts of our magnificent city.

The three of us made quite a sight – a driver in a multi-coloured sun hat, one very petite grey-haired passenger, barely visible above the door, and a very large dog sitting straight up in the back seat, fur blowing in the wind, being very attentive to the passenger.

 

We stopped at the top of a mountain look-out so I could take a photo of Mrs B with the city in the background. Reenie would not leave the car – she was staying with her charge, watching over her carefully. They were both having the time of their lives.

 

After several hours, it was time to return, although Mrs. B assured me she could stay out longer. We pulled back into the hospital parking lot, and Reenie and I walked her back in her wheelchair, Reenie never leaving the side of the wheelchair until Mrs. B was safely in her bed, happily chatting about her adventure. A small cookie was the ideal reward for this perfect dog on this perfect day.

 

Pet therapy is a most rewarding activity; everyone benefits, and feels good about the encounter. What a privilege it is to be able to share my wonderful animal companion in the quest of comforting others!

 

Cherry the Wonder-Dog

by Joni Devlin

 

Cherry came into my life in April of 2006. She had been in a puppy mill for 6 years before she and two other dogs from the mill made an escape. They were picked up by the pound and then given to a lady who specializes in rescuing King Charles Cavaliers. Cherry is a cross between a King Charles and a Cocker Spaniel and if I do say so myself has the best parts of both breeds.

 

I went to pick her up in Vancouver and she was in a dog crate scared to death. There wasn't an aggressive bone in her body but she wouldn't let me take her out of the crate. I convinced the ferry people to let her stay in the luggage van with a cover over the crate to make the trip easier for her and they were very kind and accommodating. I got her home and opened the door of the crate and within 5 minutes she'd left the crate, never to return to it and found her way to my bedroom and under the bed where she stayed for months. I would have to climb under and drag her out to take her outside. She would have to be carried outside and wouldn't walk. Finally I started gently dragging her down the driveway; she would take a couple of steps and freeze again. After a few months she would walk on her own but would cower at every noise or sight of any person.

 

Then a friend gave me a retractable lead convincing me Cherry would love it. So, off we went; Cherry tripped me up and I dropped the retractable lead while catching my balance; the handle made a loud noise hitting the ground and off Cherry went to the field behind my house into the four foot high hay in the pouring rain. Friends and I scoured the field for three solid days and nights in the rain and she was nowhere to be found. Of course she was so timid that she would just hide more if she sensed anyone near. I put up signs but had no picture of her as I hadn't had her long enough and an aquaintance saw the poster, phoned another friend and asked if she could bring her Mountain Burmese to help. Well, Mo and Jasper were in the field for about 5 minutes before Jasper has sussed out Cherry. Cherry lifted her head for just a second and Mo caught sight and the drama was over. I at this time was on my way to Vancouver to pick up my grandchildren. When I got the call I was just approaching Nanaimo and just turned around and came home. Really I shouldn't have been driving I was crying so hard with relief.

 

That was the end of the retractable leads. Cherry bonded even more to me after that and a few months later started coming out of the bedroom to a spot behind the couch, then she would even sit with me on the couch. It was wonderful to see her improvement on a weekly basis.

 

Now a year has passed and she barely is ever on a lead except when we go walking in town or on any roads and she is wonderful to watch running and wagging her tail in the field having a great time. She comes to the door when I say "let's go to work" and very rarely do I have to dig her out from under the bed. She freely barks at anyone who comes to the door and often anyone she sees on the street but only when she's off lead. She has become quite used to the treats received from the ferry workers and bounds over to my side of the car and has her head out waiting where before she would be hiding on the floor trying to get under the seat.

Jasper is the real hero of this story because without his incredible nose Cherry would have reached a very sad end; caught in the brambles in the field - so close to my house but so far away. The sad end is that shortly after Jasper who was only 6 years old became very ill with a disease common to his breed and didn't make it. A very sad loss to everyone who knew him.