A Dog Among Us

Dog Owner's Etiquette

2014-03-06T02:08:00.000-08:00

Just because you love dogs doesn't mean everybody else does.

1. Good manners and right conduct begins at home. If you train your dog to behave at home they will do so when they are out in pubic.

2. Never criticize another person's pet. Do not ever say their pet is fat, looks old, has bad legs, has cataracts, or anything downgrading (even if true). Admire a pet, you please the owner. Hurt their pet, you put their owner on the defensive.

3. Not everybody likes being rushed by dogs when they come to visit your house. Confine your pets in a certain area of your house before you allow them to enter and inspect your guest.

4. Bar your kitchen from animals. Good standards in food preparation means no pet hairs in your food, dinnerware or glassware if you keep dogs or cats away from the kitchen.

5. Discourage begging at table at home. If you allow your dog to beg at the table, they will do the same in another house.

6. Not all dogs welcome a visiting dog to their territory. If you plan to visit a new house with your dog, inquire if there is a dog there first.

7. Teach your dogs not to jump on people.

8. It has never been advisable to let dogs sleep on beds with their owners. Should house guests come to stay for a few days, not all are immune to finding animal hair on their clothes, blankets and pillows.

9. Vacuum your house thoroughly before house guests arrive. If your dogs live in the house with you, pet hairs will be all over the carpet, furniture, bedding, pillows, curtains, everywhere your dogs are found.

10. Keep your knowledge about dog behavior to yourself unless asked. Judge the pet, you judge the owner.

The One Time Training Failed

2014-02-25T19:28:00.000-08:00

I thought I had everything under control. Then the stroke of midnight approached. My dogs flipped.

Last year a new and prosperous neighbor moved into our street. Upon moving in across our place, they spent three months remodeling the house they bought, built a high wall around their property and installed a close circuit television camera at the front gate. Their family business was a local chicken fastfood chain. Of Chinese origin, they kept to themselves.They always arrived at their house blasting the peace of the neighborhood with their horn at all hours of the day, to hustle their house help inside to get up and open the gate. It seemed they would never -- over their dead bodies -- ever alight from their cars or vans to open those gates themselves. They will persist in blowing their horns, ignoring the glaring looks of nearby neighbors, until those doors are opened by a team of house help.

A few posts back ("The Dogs Survive a Thunderstorm"), I discovered how to distract an upset dog when there's thunder. Spot, especially, would be distressed by this explosion in the skies and I used to try various tactics to deal with this. Until I noticed the power of a dog's focus.

Spot crawls under a seat during a mall tour before our agility demonstration. The music, played loudly to attract mallgoers, was obviously too loud for his ears.

The Mexican "dog whisperer" in the United States, Cesar Millan, used to teach dog owners walking their dogs to poke their pets at the ribs with a foot whenever their dog lost his cool in public -- such as aggressive behavior when it saw another dog, refused to obey because of distractions, etc. The poke (not a kick!) was to break the dog's concentration. It has nothing to do with your foot or that there was a special spot on the dog's ribs to make them obey. It's just meant to break the dog's focus. You can do anything else to replace that action.
Millan's technique was just for practical reasons. You're walking with a dog and your hands are busy when the dog fights the leash. Your feet are the only things free. The foot has proven handy because it's a disciplinary tool the dog won't see coming (if you use your hand your dog will see it).

If you have a can of coins you can throw it on the sidewalk to give the dog a jump. But you'll have to pick it up (worse, when it rolls away from you, you have to chase it). At home, we use a big metal cowbell I bought in Germany which the big cows there use to signal to their farmer-owners they're coming home. It makes an excellent banging sound when we drop it against cement. Scares our dogs and stops the misbehavior.

One night, I was awakened by a thunderstorm. I got up and sat at the kitchen counter to wait it out. Soon, I felt the presence of a dog against me. It was Spotty. His face was anxious. I had left my bedroom and him alone there.

I looked at those trusting eyes thinking what to do with the distress behind it. Then I remembered he was focused on the thunder and it upset him. I must snap him out of it.

Spot stares intently at temptation. He's easy to train because his food drive is intense.

I reached out across the counter to our ever-present biscuit jar, the doggy treat canister. The dog's eyes lit up as he saw me twist the top. Aha, the focus was beginning.

"Speak!" I commanded, using the familiar hand signal. Spot looked intently, gathered his thoughts, gathered his energy, then gave a sharp bark.

"Good boy!" I squealed, offering him a biscuit. The dog happily crunched it up.

I timed the next command to the next roll of thunder. "Speak!" I commanded again, as lightning flashed our walls. The dog barked obediently as the thunder erupted, unflinching. He did not seem to hear it. His eyes were on the biscuit I held in my hand.

So that's how you do it! I exulted in my mind, feeling victorious. Just have a jar full of treats and your dog will forget every else upsetting around him.

Before New Year's Eve, I filled the biscuit jar. There were spare packs of more biscuits on stand by. My only challenge, of course, was how to keep the training up while the fireworks erupted outside our house sporadically. I won't be able to time the commands simultaneously all the time. But I was willing to try.

As the night deepened, my method worked successfully. The fireworks distressed the dogs as they barked at the explosions, concern written on their faces. I'd call all four of them to a training session.

There would be long pauses before the next firecrackers out in the street are lit, of course, because the stroke of midnight was not yet approaching. So would our training sessions. I'd stop too.

Another technique I used to assure the dogs was to assign each of them to one of us. I had a house guest that night so we were also four people. Lourdes had Toby, Dominic had Packy, my guest Fe had Toto, while I had Spot. We did not cuddle them to avoid reinforcing the nervousness. We just let them lean against us, assuring them of our presence. That calmed them too -- until the eve of the festivities approached.

Spotty (left) and Toby (right) enjoy a doggy nap. My house guest Fe claimed she prayed fervently that Toby would not have a seizure during that stressful night of New Year's Eve. Thankfully enough, he did not. But that was Toby's last New Year with us.

Then a quarter to midnight came. Suddenly, a long string of fireworks burst loudly out in the street like machine gun fire, lit up by our Chinese neighbor. This is the notorious Judas Belt, a long belt of firecrackers strung together like a necklace, around a hundred or so of them. The sound reverberated throughout our house like a sensurround (or a 2D) movie. Toto jumped out of his skin and barked hysterically. Spotty, Toby, and Packy followed, barking noisily. I got up and called the dogs to me. But the rapid-fire explosions were so loud I could not hear my own voice as I spoke. The ear-splitting crackles, amplified within the walls of our house, got louder and louder. We tried to cover the dogs' ears as a last resort but they kept shaking our hands off. They were on alert mode and extremely anxious.

The explosions lasted a long and agonizing 45 seconds while the dogs yelled with all their might to try to make it go away. When it finally ended, they were exhausted, eyes glinting, worried that that the sounds might come again.
Now it was my turn to be concerned. New Year's Eve was less than 15 minutes away. It seemed my training session wasn't going to work against what we were up against.

Last year, when media bombarded us with advice on how to protect pets from the firecrackers of New Year, I tried gathering the dogs in an air conditioned room with the curtains drawn and a TV playing on the night of New Year's. But they stayed as long as I stayed there with them. Once I stepped out to watch the spectacle outside, they crowded the door to go out with me.

I was still trying to figure out what to do (and I didn't want to miss the New Year's Eve fireworks) when our Chinese neighbor lit the second Judas Belt. The loud machine gun fire filled our ears and drowned everything else. The dogs jumped up in fear and barked in agitation. I had all our doors closed to muffle the sound somewhat but it helped little. The explosions crackled loudly, filled the atmosphere with smoke and threw paper debris all over the street and into neighbors' yards and roofs. It seemed an eternity.

But soon as it ended and we were able to breathe a sigh of relief a third Judas Belt followed and the dogs flipped again.

Another eternity of nervous exhaustion. Outside, the sky lit up in all directions with all sorts of colorful explosions. It was New Year's Eve. It's a time nobody wants to miss.

When the third Judas Belt was finally spent, it was past the stroke of midnight. There followed pyrotechnic fountains and varied other small fireworks but no more Judas Belts. The dogs had survived another New Year's Eve but not without extreme distress. I looked around our house and it was smokey. So was our front garden with its shrapnel of paper debris and small tubes of cardboard from which the Judas Belt is strung of. I looked out into our street and saw a carpet of paper on the road -- and two house help of our Chinese neighbor sweeping them up into hills. The mess left behind covered the frontage of 6 neighbors' houses on both sides of the street.

I realize now we have no other way but to shut the dogs out next New Year's Eve -- with someone willing to sacrifice the spectacle of that night by staying with them at the stroke of 12. That someone might be me. I'm their leader, am I not?

I have to be with them next time. I will not let this happen again.

Remembering Toby

2014-02-05T22:12:00.000-08:00

He was one of us. I never realized how much until it was time to bury him.

Toby: January 26, 2007 - February 3, 2014. Thanks for the memories, boy.

This morning I woke up to the song of birds outside my window. But this was a new song. I've never heard it before. Like all bird songs it was happy and chirpy. I had to look out to see two or three cream-chested fat birds perched on a cable wire. Oh. I've seen those birds before. But they had a new song this morning.

Last night was a difficult night for us here at the house. Outside in our garden on a wrought iron table, the remains of our second Dalmatian, Toby, laid in a large dog food bag. I had made the decision last night to put the dog to sleep. When we got home from the vet clinic, it was too late to dig a hole in the backyard. So we had to wait for tomorrow.

Toby was a difficult dog to live with. In one of my past blogs ("The Lesson of Toby About Separation") I wrote about how he came to live with us. He was rehomed to me. I accepted him because I thought he could follow in Spot's footsteps as my next agility dog. I had come to love Dalmatians because of Spotty and I had wanted another one.

But the problem with adopting dogs that come from another home is that they come to you with issues if they were not happy in their first home (worse if they were maltreated). Toby did not do well with his first family because they could not understand him. He had a severe separation anxiety. They punished him for that. The dog was also hyperactive, excitable, and nervous.

I had a dog school that time at a local park so dogs was my business. At home life revolved around them too. When Toby came to live with us, he had three rowdy playmates he was happy to see. At his first home he had no playmates. He was alone and was often caged. At my house, he ran about freely. He could run in and out of the house. Every morning when I went to my dog school he would hop in the car for a day in the park. I'd teach him the obstacle course. He'd come home hot and exhausted. But happy.

On days I don't bring him to the park Lourdes or I walked him around the neighborhood twice a day. Oh yes, I know enough about Dalmatians. Toby was a young dog and this breed needed plenty of outlets for their bounding energy.

But on other matters, the dog was difficult to manage. He had fear aggressions. His attention span was seconds. He didn't like strong handling. He was very sensitive. When we run him on the obstacle course he must be leashed. A split-second distraction and the dog will stop and bark wildly at another dog. Or when he feels like it he will just stray away. He was difficult to command.

One day he latched himself to Lourdes and followed her around wherever she went. He refused to be separated from her. Lourdes was home all day. I used to leave the house everyday and come home at night. That's when I lost the dog from my control. He preferred Lourdes infinitely more.

Dog behaviorist Fred Alimusa helped a few times in my trying to understand Toby. He taught me how to introduce the dog to others. He explained that Toby's aggressive behavior around new dogs was simply based on fear.

Expert dog behaviorist Fred Alimusa shows how a fearful dog like Toby can be introduced to another dog.

As the years passed, Toby demonstrated his utmost loyalty and preference more to Lourdes. When we watch television in the evenings he loved to snuggle beside Lourdes, claiming her for the night. I would call it Toby's "bonding time" with his mama. This was when Lourdes could check his fur but to the dog it was his nightly body massage which would send him to blissful sleep.We had very few "bonding" moments. But when I plan a walk out to the fields with Spot, Toby gets to come along. It's always a visual delight to see two spotted dogs frolicking in the green. They stand out in the scenery.

Though caring for this dog was burdensome, he had his antics. He emerged as Packy's "back-up singer" whenever the church bells in our neighborhood rang everyday. He howled passionately and with all his heart. It was amusing to watch the dog stretch his neck to the high heavens as he delivered his best song for the day.
When I thought of training the dogs tricks, I started with what mannerism each dog tends to do naturally and Toby was the one who suggested the "High 5." I just had to refine it. It turned out to be his best trick. In public when I'd show his admirers what he can do, he'd look fittingly like a circus dog sitting on his hind legs delivering the High 5.
I also remember the struggles I had trying to teach the dog how to stand on his haunches. I was just learning how to teach and I remembered Fred telling me that there is no canned way for a dog to learn a trick. It's more to find a way how I can make Toby understand what I want him to do. Finally Toby understood and during one session he just sat up. He looked so cute that he'd sit on his haunches every time I would give him treats.

He was a gentleman too, whenever he'd get his treat: always carefully extracting the biscuit from my fingers -- unlike Spot's tendency to always grab that you sometimes feel you might lose a finger.

In 2009, when we had our first experience with a robber before dawn, it was Toby who chased the intruder, his low voice booming up the driveway as the frightened robber fled out our gate. He had the voice of a big dog. It was very effective.

Toby shows his enjoyment for chorus singing with Packy.

But late 2013, his health problems started. It started with a constant ear itch. We thought it was either a flea or dirty ear wax, thus our failure to have his complaint looked into by a vet at once. I don't know now if that ear infection had any connection with his seizures. One day the right ear flap bloated. We brought him to the vet that October.

It was during treatment of that ear he had his first seizure. We went back to the vet for tests. He received his first dose of phenobarbital where he remained seizure-free for the whole month of November.

But this was not to last. In December another vet that handled Toby's case pointed to the possibility of the ear infection triggering the seizures. So his approach was to treat the ear infection first. He took off the phenobarbital. This was before the holidays.

We had a horrible time during the holidays as Toby's seizures returned. Once, he had them 3 times in one day. Soon as the university vet hospital opened that January, I brought the dog back. The phenobarbital prescription was returned. It also revealed Toby had renal failure already.

After a week the dog started to have seizures again. It's heart rending to watch a dog in convulsion. The first time I saw him break up into spasms up close it was pitiful. My heart went out to him. He feels no pain but to see the whites of his eyes bulge as he foams at the mouth, urinates, and convulses uncontrollably is a clear sign of terror. He can't understand what is happening to him.

During this period, when he was visibly sick, I noticed Toby always coming to me. Any change of behavior I take note and for the dog to always want to be near me was somewhat disturbing. He never recognized me before as anybody special in his life. A friend of mine warned, "He wants to say good-bye."

The dog was seizure-free for a week. But he whined a lot. Lourdes demanded impatiently, "What do you want?" He was also restless and sometimes agitated. We could find no reason. I thought maybe the phenobarbital was affecting him somehow and planned to ask his vet about it. Then on the week before our follow-up visit the seizures started again. I called his vet at the university hospital and made an appointment for the following day.
But by afternoon, the dog was clearly in distress and I couldn't wait for tomorrow. The university vet hospital was already closed. So I paid a visit to a veteran vet, a by-word in the industry, who was Spot's puppy vet. I wanted to compare notes. It turned out Toby was under-dosed but I was advised to ask his vet why. Maybe there was a reason. She mentioned maybe Toby's kidneys could not process the phenobarbital anymore.

We never made it to that university vet hospital appointment. That night, Toby had more seizures. I called up the veteran vet asking if I could up his dose. She recommended two tablets at once. Lourdes gave them to Toby. But it seemed they didn't work anymore. The dog would try to relax under a table because every episode was exhausting. But we'd get surprised when suddenly we'd see him convulse an hour later. Then the next hour. And the next. And the next.

     Finally I got up from my chair in mid-dinner. I was noting down the hours in my smartphone and noticing the frequency was too much. His first was at 2:30pm, followed at 4:00pm, then 5:25pm, 6:30pm, 7:15, then at 8:30pm. The dog was visibly exhausted. How could he recuperate if he convulses every hour? He might not last the night. His strength was ebbing but the convulsions were violent. I cannot stand to see another seizure as it was heartbreaking. I knew it in my heart -- it was time. I made the call to a nearby vet.
As I was making the preparations for that trip to the vet, I saw Toby rise weakly from under the table and limp towards the front door. I thought he might want to pee, a behavior all my dogs do. But the door was closed because the other dogs we had shepherded to go outside when Toby started his seizures. Fearing they might pounce on him should that door open, I directed Toby to go out the garden and drew open the sliding door. But I suddenly closed it at the thought that he might crawl under some nook outside and we may not be able to pull him out. Toby stopped and wedged himself between the wall and a large military trunk near the entrance going outside.
      We were about to go already, the back of the SUV covered with a blanket. We had to get Toby in it for his last car ride. Lourdes reached down in that tight corner where the dog had inserted himself, coaxing him to come out. The dog refused to inch forward.
      "Come out now," I heard her say. "Time to say good-bye."
I realized now there was a significance in that last moment of the dog in our house. Toby had tried to go away, to die away from us. He too, knew it was time.

Toby during better days.

Toby made no resistance as we lifted his weakened body on a rug and Lourdes and I loaded him into my SUV. Riding in my car was always his favorite and much-awaited experience. He always rode it together with Spot. But this time he was going to ride it alone. I spoke to the dog cheerfully, as if we were going on a trip he always looked forward to. He raised his head when I shut the door then laid it back down again.

At the clinic, Toby rested on the table exhausted as the vet inquired on his health situation. Maybe our twice monthly visits to the university vet hospital helped because Toby was used to going to clinics. Though this was his first time at this particular clinic, he laid quietly. I talked to him encouragingly, stroked his head slowly, and praised him for what a good boy he was. Then the vet administered the sedation shot. The dog drifted off peacefully, relieved probably that now he could rest. Then the shots to the heart until it stopped.

Lourdes stayed outside the car because she couldn't bear to be there with Toby. We had brought an empty sack but when the remains were carried out, it was slid inside a big cheerful dog food bag. The vet assistant looked like we had just bought a big sack of dog food. It lightened our spirits for awhile.

When we got home, I let the other dogs see what had happened to Toby. Though I did not open the bag I let my boys sniff so they will understand that Toby will be no more. That's their closure to one of their pack members.

Summer fun: Spot (second from right, in blue backpack) and Toby (foreground, in orange harness) with Dominic on a day trek up Mount Makiling in Laguna with other dog owners with their pets.

The next day as my household prepared a hole in the back of our house, I realized I have to be there too. Though I was not close to him, he was one of us, a member of the family. I followed Lourdes and her son Dominic carry the bag of remains to the site where Dominic had painstakingly dug a hole. I stood as Lourdes first shoveled in the earth. Then Dominic, his dog walker, followed.

I didn't know how much Toby was a part of us until it was time to bury him. Even if he was a difficult dog to care for, his presence filled a place in our home life. Even if he was rowdy and noisy during meal times, hard to control when he's excited, refused to obey commands, peed at the wrong places (especially at the rim of my car!), hard to walk because he kept getting out of the "Heel" position, barked too much at times, and failed in my plans for him to be my next agility dog because of his emotional issues, even those irritating habits filled a place in our life at home with him.

Now the house is quieter. His big barking voice and high singing howls we will hear no more.

Run free now, Toby. Your seizures are over.

Toby frolicks in the meadow off leash.

Thanks for the Magic

2014-02-05T20:04:00.000-08:00

If he was a disappointment, it's because he had other things to contribute. He was not meant to be in competition sports.

Toby (right) inspects a newly picked basket of rambutan fruits while Spotty (behind) looks on.

I used to wake up in the early morning to the amusing sound of dogs howling at the cathedral bells ringing behind our house announcing the 6:00 A.M. Mass.

Packy would start the chorus, of course. He would give out a long doggy howl then break it into raps. Toby would pick it up soon after, stretching his neck to deliver a long and soul-satisfying howl. He would follow it with more whenever he'd pause to catch his breath. Spot would come in sporadically with low bass moans. Toto was a pleasant revelation. When I heard him yipping recently, it brought a smile to my face as I laid in my bed. Toto was learning to sing too, finally.

But it's three days since Toby left us for good and the dogs have been quiet. For three days whenever the church bells rang, Packy, the pack instigator, would not sing.

Okay, so I understand he's mourning. Yesterday, when I took Lourdes out to lunch (for a "debriefing") for her seven years of caring for Toby, she mentioned how Packy, during the night, would look at the vacant corner where his other packmate used to sleep. "He's looking for Toby," she observed.

This morning I was up when those bells started to ring and I thought of reviving the doggy chorus. I saw Toto and told him, "Sing," giving him the hand signal. Toto just stood up and danced around on his hind legs. No, he wasn't going to sing. I saw Spot and gave the same command. Spot looked at me, lowered his ears, then shifted his eyes. Nope, he wasn't going to do it either.
Finally Packy emerged from his corner. "Sing," I commanded, giving the signal of my four fingers closing against my thumb and opening them again. Packy looked, understood the command, and started to howl. But he didn't last. Toby used to pick it up. He used to be the back-up singer. But Toby was no more. Packy stopped.

I regretted doing it. It brought out strongly the missing presence.

The singing duo

We're all still in the mourning phase since Toby has gone and the passage of time seems long. Yes, I used to think he was annoying and a waste of money on my part. Seven years ago when I consented to adopt him I had hoped I could train him for agility so I could appear in trials again with a new Dalmatian. He had a great lean body, was quick, and could zip through the air effortlessly. He loved to run. But this dog had emotional issues and was too nervous. That was my major disappointment in him, making me feel it was a waste of money on my part to feed such a "useless" dog.

But it turned out he wasn't "useless." If he was a disappointment, it's because he had other things to contribute. Toby was an adopted dog and he taught me how to rehome his kind. Most dog owners think to fill a dog with hugs and kisses and clothe them in funny outfits would make a dog happy. If he was a child, yes, that would work. But he's a dog and his needs are not human.

It was Spot, four years earlier, who led the way. Spot introduced me to the world of dogs, of dog training, and of life with them. Dalmatians are high energy dogs and when he was young, we had to endure damage around the house whenever his twice daily walks were interrupted, especially during the rainy season.
One day I discovered a jogging trail at a local park along the river in the next town and the trek took 3 kilometers back and forth. That was a perfect place for me to practice my heeling position with him, plus other basic commands which I could now apply. When we got home after that first trek, Spot collapsed in his bed and fell into a deep sleep. Too exhausted to be a ball of energy. Ah, so that was the secret of satisfying a restless dog.

We had another maid that time, named Rose, who was an early riser. She would feed the dogs early in the morning. Spot, she reported, would rise when he'd hear the clatter of their bowls in the kitchen, have his breakfast, then collapse back into his bed to sleep some more.

All week I'd see a happy and well-behaved dog. When the restlessness starts to build up again, I'd pack Spot in the car and off we'd go to that jogging trail. I could see his needs were high. Spot was being walked twice a day already and after awhile the longer trek had to supplement. That brought me to the idea of bringing him around, to other parks, to long treks, and other physical activities to tire him out and satisfy his doggy soul.

When Toby came into my life he was seven months old. Oh-uh. Another young Dalmatian. I sought to fill this dog's life with plenty of activities like I did with Spot.

It wasn't hard, anyway. I had a dog school at a local park by that time.

Toby adjusted very well with us. His first owner, Roy, had offered him to me for rehoming because of personal troubles at his house. When I brought him home, the dog was very curious of everything happening around him. He'd walk around the house to peep into the rooms to check on everybody. He'd carry an expression as if to say, "Hey, what's going on there? Can I join in?" then he'd enter to be part of the activity. He had playmates. He had walks. He had many car trips. He loved looking out the car window at the passing scenery, eyes alert, head snapping in many directions. He was intensely interested in his new life with us.

Toby (left) and Spot (right) dressed as vampire dogs on their way to a Halloween event.

For a rehoming to be successful, it's vitally important that the dog find a life better than the last one he lived in. When Roy would visit us at the dog school with Toby as a puppy at four months old, I'd see the dog loved and cuddled like a little child. Toby loved that, of course, but it made him very dependent on his master. Three months later when he was rehomed to me, I had to plan an elaborate good-bye every time Roy had to leave after visiting him at the dog school (see my post, "The Lesson of Toby on Separation"). We had to distract Toby when Roy turned to go so the dog would not follow.

I didn't know just how dependent that dog was to his first master until an incident happened at the dog school. Toby was already living with me. But Roy still came to the school to visit him, bringing many gifts -- a red collar, bananas, treats, etc. He would take the dog around the park for a walk and afterwards they would return. This particular afternoon, Roy had come back with Toby and tied the dog to a rail. Then he announced he was leaving. But it was a busy Saturday afternoon and our marshals were busy. So Roy, unable to wait, turned to leave and the dog saw him go.

The dog barked furiously and tugged at his leash as he saw his former master walk away. He kept pulling until the leash loosened and made a beeline for Roy down the jogging lane. I saw a black-and-white blur gallop out the grounds and knew it was Toby. I saw the dog catch up on Roy, trembling with joy as he crouched ecstatically at his feet. He did not understand that Roy had already given him away. He thought Roy would bring him along to his old home. It was an emotional scene.

Roy patiently picked up his leash and brought him back to the dog school. One of the marshals got the dog and gave him a round around the agility course while Roy slipped out again. When Toby returned back to where he last saw Roy, his head turned in all directions looking for his former master who had disappeared.

But when the day ended and it was time to go home, Toby hopped inside my car along with the other dogs to go home with me. He didn't looked for Roy again.

My test to see if my rehoming effort was successful was when I planned a reunion with Toby and Roy a few years later at the park. The dog school was there no more but we still walked our pets there. I observed Toby while Roy talked to us about the new joy of his life, a new granddaughter. I feared the dog might lunge at Roy in ecstatic joy like he did that time. But Toby stayed cool, listening to Roy's voice, maybe trying to recall. By that time, between Roy and me, he had stayed with me longer. He was with Roy only for seven months.

Finally he gave a happy bark. He had identified Roy. But he did not move from his position beside Dominic who was holding him. Roy came to him and the two had a warm reunion. But Toby stayed where he was. He did not move towards Roy when Roy backed away.

Closure. Toby had decided. He was happier with us.

City dog Toby stretches his legs happily in a meadow at the state university.

So Toby preferred to be a part of our home. But he was hard to care for. He didn't like strong handling. He didn't bond with me. He preferred Lourdes, who spoiled him like a grandson and tolerated all his misbehavior. That would undo all of my attempts to tow him in line.

His separation anxiety was severe. That was the reason he got rehomed. His first family could not understand it and found him a destructive pest. I understood it but because Lourdes was flattered by it, it could not be corrected. All day as Lourdes puttered around the house I'd see him follow her around from room to room. Outside as she'd do the laundry, I'd see her "guarded" by two dogs -- Packy who watched her from the front, and Toby who settled in the back. I joked to Lourdes that nobody can sneak up on her.

But he could be manipulative. I taught him to go downstairs at midnight instead of peeing in the living room by giving him a biscuit every time he'd come up the house. It was successful the first few weeks. Then one night I noticed he went down twice. He went down the first time, disappeared for several seconds, then came up to get his biscuit. Then he made a U-turn and went down again. Maybe a second call? He appeared soon after to get his second biscuit. But one night, I got suspicious. His second return was too fast. The next time he went downstairs a second time I looked out the window. I saw the dog at the bottom of the stairs but suddenly he made a U-turn to go back up again. He made no bathroom call. He just wanted a second biscuit!

He was an aggravation. At mealtime he barked constantly, refusing to be commanded to be silent and to wait. He had a big voice so I'm sure he was a disturbance to the neighbors. When it comes to walking in the park, I loved bringing the two dogs out in public because they were a visual attraction. But Toby was not as obedient as Spot. He refused to follow his position as second dog. When I bring the two Dalmatians out for a ride, he always insisted on being out the car first (and in first). He constantly tugged at his leash because his attention was always scattered. He couldn't focus unlike Spot. As a consequence, when it comes to crowded places such as in dog events, I could not bring Toby along. Too much stimuli for his nerves, I guess.

My pride: Spotty (back) and Toby (foreground).

But regardless of how I looked at the dog as an annoyance, I saw how his presence enriched our lives here when he was gone. He was not cute and cuddly, or a constant delight unlike so many other dogs we hear about from their owners. Or read about in books. But no matter how they are, Toby taught that every dog is priceless for what they do to you once they become a part of your life.

Every dog is a magical being.

Toby's Packmates are Attacking Him

2014-02-03T23:35:00.002-08:00

Why were my dogs attacking Toby when he was in seizure?

     "I think Toby has epilepsy," Lourdes told me one afternoon. She described a scene I could not fathom: that of our second Dalmatian Toby convulsing on the floor then getting up groggily after the episode. Spot and Toby had been going to the vet at that time because of a persistent ear itch. Spot's ear scratching, it turned out, was due to a fungal infection. Toby's was bacterial.
      But at our next follow-up visit, I forgot to inform the vet about this new development of Toby. I hadn't seen whatever it was Lourdes was telling me about. How could I describe it to the vet?
      One afternoon, however, I saw it. We were downstairs when I suddenly heard Lourdes shouting and shooing off the dogs. I looked in her direction and saw Toby from afar, down on his side, eyes open, legs paddling. I called all the dogs to go upstairs.
      This was a new issue to bring up to the vet, of course, so the next day I loaded the two Dalmatians in my SUV for a trip to the vet hospital (Spot comes along for "moral support"). Toby's case was looked into.

Toby (left) nudges heads with Spot (right) while napping. I hope we find the solution to his ailment. It is heart rending to watch a dog in seizure.

It's more challenging to subject a sensitive dog, like Toby, to tests. During the blood sampling the timing is crucial. Before the whites of the dog's eyes show up (indicating fear), we have to distract him with a mouthwatering whiff of barbecued meats which we always bring along (our vet survival kit). Sometimes we cover his eyes so he does not see the bending of the vet and assistant around him. We try to keep his nose busy, his mind distracted. I stay apart, giving Dominic instructions, as I see the process from afar so I can gauge the timing of our "barbecue" intervention. Too many heads concerned around Toby could make the dog anxious. I remind Dominic to stay calm.

Finally, blood sampling, ecg, and x-ray later, we got some analysis. The dog's creatinine level was high. He also had water in the lungs. His heart was enlarged.

Toby got his first prescription medicine: phenobarbital. He also got some medicines for his heart and a diuretic to make him urinate more often, to get the fluids out of his body.
The phenobarbital worked well, the dog ceased to have any episodes for a whole month. But the vet had to reduce the dosage after a month because pheno can be addictive and its residues can damage the liver. On a reduced phenobarbital dosage, Toby's seizures returned and I saw one up close.

The dog was lounging under my worktable while I was at the computer beside it. Suddenly I heard him shake his head violently from side to side, the way dogs do when they shake themselves dry. I saw the dog on his elbows and flinging his head side to side with such intensity. That caught my attention. Ordinarily, a dog would shake his head 3 to 4 times. But Toby was doing it many times with no slowing down. Then the dog fell on his side and the convulsion started. I called Lourdes to lead the other dogs downstairs.

I stayed at Toby's side as I watched the seizure. The dog's eyes bulged open in fear. I had read enough about seizures to know he feels no pain. But his joints were locked and he foamed at the mouth as his body contracted with spasms. The convulsion lasted less than a minute. Then the dog drunkenly tried to get up. He was disoriented and his balance was shot. But he strove to find a corner where he could hide or rest, like go to his corner at the back of the house.
Before he got to the back of the house, Toby saw Lourdes and approached her for assurance, his balance more steady. Soon after that, he seemed alright, as if nothing happened.

Happy times. Spot (left) and Toby (right) chase each other at a friend's farm in Silang, Cavite.

      It was our problem with the other dogs that started my inquest. Lourdes claimed the other dogs attack Toby when he's convulsing. The first time he had an episode, according to her, the dogs were alone in the house and she was downstairs. When she heard the dogs barking in commotion, she went upstairs to see Toby writhing on the floor, the other dogs nipping at his legs. She immediately concluded Toby was having an epileptic seizure and that the other dogs were biting him. She shooed them all away.
   I went online to visit several sites about this. How do you manage other dogs when they see their packmate down with seizure? Toby's episodes were unpredictable. What would happen if the dog has a convulsion and none of us were around? Would the other dogs attack him? I was saddened at the loss of my best mentor, Fred Alimusa, the country's top dog behaviorist who had died two years earlier. I wanted a professional explanation of the dogs' behavior, not just speculation from dog owners.
    The sites I visited had many posts from dog owners claiming their other dogs had gone for the kill when one of their pack members had gone down with a seizure. I was sad to hear that. What will I do with Toby? Rehome him? The dog is attached to Lourdes.

One morning, I was taking a shower when I heard a commotion outside. I heard Lourdes yelling and yelling for her son, Dominic. I knew what was going on. Toby was having a seizure. I heard Lourdes screaming at the dogs. Later I heard a loud whacking sound as I heard her continue to yell. She was hitting one of the dogs. Then I heard Toby yelping. Oh my God. He's being attacked.

By the time I got out of the shower, Lourdes and Dominic were able to separate the dogs. I saw Toby sweaty and bloodied. He was still groggy. Dominic was keeping the other dogs outside.
Something was so wrong. Now the other dogs seemed to be getting into the kill.

For several days I thought about what happened and analyzed it carefully. Maybe something was here. I remembered the movie, Eight Below starring the late Paul Walker, about 8 sled dogs abandoned at the South Pole for several months until rescued. The movie featured the life of a pack of dogs left to themselves. There was no violence there. Whenever a packmate was injured one of his pack members stayed behind to keep him company until the former died.

Then why were my dogs attacking Toby when he was in seizure?

They didn't attack him the first time when none of us were around. Maybe they nipped his legs to try to make him get up?

What was the difference now? What made the dogs inflict injury to the downed dog?

The cause was Lourdes.

Lourdes was in hysteria. The other dogs had gotten excited because of her and had ganged up on Toby.

If I follow the oft-repeated teachings of the Mexican dog whisperer in the US, Cesar Millan, dogs reflect the sentiments of their owner. If the owner is emotional, dogs easily get excited under that influence. That's why in the face of a stressful situation, it's extremely important for the owner to stay calm. To show leadership, the owner must stay calm and be assertive of authority. Dogs naturally obey a calm and assertive person, identifying him to be their leader. That's how they are in their natural pack and that's wired in their genes.
Following that direction of thought, I theorized that the dogs, being highly protective, had gotten excited by Lourdes's hysterical behavior. They got into the kill because Toby's behavior had upset Lourdes and they wanted to "protect" her. Lourdes, meanwhile, in her highly emotional state, was in no position to display the leadership qualities of a calm and assertive authority. She could not control Spot, who had started to inflict serious injuries to Toby in his excitement.

During the Christmas break, Toby had more frequent seizures, much to my disappointment. The vet had decided to concentrate on the dog's ear infection, a suspect in triggering the seizures. He took the phenobarbital off. One afternoon, I had just arrived when I heard the familiar sound of Toby shaking his head violently a few meters away from me. I saw him fall on his side at the doorway a few meters away from where I was standing. This was my chance to test my theory. I cleared the space around the convulsing dog and kept calm. I called to Dolor to hold off the dogs who were at the back of the house with her waiting for meal time. But Toto came. He saw Toby writhing on the floor and a growl emanated from his throat. He was about to approach the downed dog when I immediately took my stand of authority. "Halt!" I commanded firmly, as I stood straight, holding my palm upwards at him, like a traffic cop.

Toto backed off.

Toby was able to pass his episode and later rested on the floor where he fell. I kept him under my watch as I spoke to him soothingly. Later, as he felt better, the dog strove to get up, struggled a bit with his balance, but recovered soon after.

I hope this theory is the solution. I've read way too many posts in many websites from dog owners claiming their convulsing dog got attacked by their other dogs. But I did read one post about how one owner sent his other dogs to their crates while their packmate was in seizure. The latter was able to pass his episode unharmed.

I told Lourdes NEVER to panic when she sees Toby in seizure and the other dogs happen to be nearby. But I don't know if she will be able to do this. I don't know if she will be able to command Spot to back off. I only hope until we find the solution to Toby's ailment, his episodes will occur under manageable circumstances, i.e. when I'm at home to command the dogs.

Toby during his younger days. He's a purebred, unlike Spot who has a small Labrador mix, but is also visually appealing. .

When a Dog Asks to be Adopted

2013-10-26T07:56:00.001-07:00

You’ll never forget that one special dog who asked to be adopted.

Especially if you turned him down.

Happy is the dog with a home and master. If only every dog could have one.

Christmas is a very long season in the Philippines. As soon as the “-ber” months start (September) I start hearing Christmas songs on the radio (worse, at the malls!). That’s marketing gimmickry, of course, a reminder for shoppers to start piling up their gift stock.

I watch the TV news regularly and they start a countdown to Christmas starting from 100 days away.

Highlight of the season starts two weeks before Christmas Day. December 16 is the start of what they call Misa de Gallo. This is a novena series of 9 days, a lineup of 9 Masses said at dawn until December 24. Foreigners are surprised to find all Catholic churches in the Philippines nationwide packed to overflowing at those early morning Masses.

These dawn Masses start the feeling of excitement upon the coming of the much-awaited Big Day. Amidst the glitter of twinkling Christmas lights small foodstalls surround the churches and it’s become a tradition for families to proceed to these stalls for the native cakes, hot chocolate, and other pre-breakfast treats after the Mass.

I was at the local park when I saw the sign that there would be a Misa de Gallo there. It will be an open-air Mass, to be held in one of the gardens. This appealed to me since I will not be jostling with a crowd of churchgoers. I love that park in the early mornings. In 2007 when my dog school used to be there I would appear at the park every morning to see it come alive with activity.

Thus, that early morning of December 16, I arrived at the park to find it still lighted by street lamps because the sky was still black. The rays of the dawn had not yet appeared. I had awakened Spot to come with me because I looked forward to having a walk with him after the Mass at the crack of dawn, and enjoy a leisurely breakfast in one of the outdoor cafes with a newspaper and my dog beside me as I watch the joggers go by.

At the garden, I noticed a young stray dog befriending the Mass goers as they arrived. Still of juvenile age, he wagged his tail when he saw Spot and invited him to play. I remembered the park rules during my time with the dog school and wondered why the dog had no collar or leash. But I commanded Spot to stay with me.

The dog disappeared then re-appeared among the crowd, a charming guy and still very young. In the end, he elected to stay around Spot and me. Before the Mass was over the dog disappeared so I had my walk with Spot, had a leisurely breakfast afterwards, then I drove home.

The next dawn morning as I arrived with Spot at the park, the dog was there again at the garden. We were a loose crowd of Mass goers so I elected to sit apart because I had Spot. But that stray chose to stay with me again.

I could not forget that friendly fellow and wondered if anybody owned him. He was young, healthy and open to strangers. He was very adoptable. I even wondered if I could bring him home. Whenever he saw Spot and me, the dog would gravitate to us.

After my third dawn Mass and breakfast, I headed to my SUV and packed Spot in the back. I was getting ready to put the gear in reverse when I saw the dog try to reach for me from the passenger side of my vehicle and whine. Was he trying to follow me? I stopped the engine and got out of the car intending to coax the dog to enter the SUV. I was resolved to bring him home.

But the dog fled when he saw me approach him.

That set my thoughts into action. The dog wanted to go home with me. I decided I will get him if he tries to do that again.

Yet at the same time, my mind was in conflict. I had other dogs at home. How will they take this stranger? I remembered the ritual of introducing dogs to each other. I didn’t know enough about it because I’ve never done it. Theoretically, it would be best if I brought all the dogs to meet each other in a neutral place. What neutral place, I wondered. My dogs walk all over our neighborhood twice a day that they could stake as their territory several blocks of it. So where is that neutral territory? And who can I mobilize at home to help me -- to haul off all our dogs to that neutral territory to meet the new member of their specie who wants to live with them?

Regardless, on my fourth morning at the park, I had an extra leash with me. The friendly youngster was there again and I coaxed him to stay with Spot and me. He willingly obliged. After the Mass I had a short walk with Spot and the dog followed us off-leash. I chose a café where I could have breakfast and with Spot on my right side, I guided the dog to join me at my left outside a low railing. After we had all settled, I looped a leash around the dog’s neck. The dog accepted it.

But my inner tumult arose. Though the dog wanted to be with me I didn’t know if I was ready for him. I kept remembering my other dogs at home and how I will have to set up this elaborate canine ritual of getting-to-know-you.

By strange coincidence, I saw one of the park maintenance crew who still remembered me. I mentioned the stray dog that I kept seeing at the dawn Mass and pointed it to him. The man remarked that he knew the dog and that nobody owned him. He was just a stray that walked into the park from nowhere. I mentioned being not sure if I could bring him home. The man said he knew of another maintenance crew who would want him.

Good, I said. Are you sure he will take care of this dog well?

The man assured me the dog will be taken care of. He disappeared for awhile to look for some rope. A few minutes later, he returned with a length of straw which he looped around the dog. I slipped my leash off. When the man tugged at the rope to pull the dog away from me, the dog fought and protested. I had given him away.

My conscience gnawed at me terribly as I saw that youngster hauled away against his will. After breakfast, I made one last attempt to find that maintenance man just to assuage my guilt pangs. A fellow worker pointed me to the old skating rink which was now walled off for renovations. I went there. I pushed the gate open and in the distance I saw the dog, tied to a rail, fighting his leash and protesting loudly at what had befallen him.

I turned away quickly. I wish I had known what to do at that moment.

A happy Toby beside his caregiver. I adopted him from an abusive home.

I stopped going to the dawn Masses after that because the early morning chill had gotten to me and I got sick for several days. When I recovered, the Masses were no more. I never went back to the park. I never saw that dog again.

During my long talks with our local dog whisperer, Fred Alimusa, I once mentioned to him that dog that wanted to be adopted. Some 3 years had passed – and I still could not forget the incident. A dog had approached me asking me to adopt him.

But I had turned him down.

“I now know what to do if ever a dog — any dog — should come to me asking to be adopted,” I said. “Bring him home.”

Fred agreed and said he knew how I felt. He recalled a similar incident when he was still living in the United States. A German Shepherd had come to him while he was mowing the lawn. Busy with work, he could not be bothered. But that dog kept coming back to him every morning while he was fixing the garden. A week later, he realized what the German Shepherd was trying to say to him and decided the next time he sees that dog, he will take him in.

That next time never came because the dog stopped coming. The city pound had caught him.

Seldom do we get approached by a homeless stray asking to be adopted. I realize now as a lost dog tries to survive the streets looking for a place to stay he sees countless humans everyday and qualifies who among them he would like to live with. If he’s chosen you, it’s because he knows you have that touch that can give him a forever home.

Don’t turn him down.

Happy is the dog with a master and caregiver. He grows up healthy, secure, and fulfilled.

Dog Aggression – the Hard Way (Part I)

2013-10-08T23:16:00.001-07:00

As the two dogs rolled onto an even surface, Spot got to his senses. The Dalmatian managed to get on his feet and bravely faced the angry Boxer. I saw a desperate collision now, both dogs on equal footing

I never wrote about my experience with dog aggression. Dog aggression is the hardest lesson I ever encountered about taking care of dogs. But it has been the most pivotal because I learned it the hard way.

When my Dalmatian Spotty entered our lives as a 6-week-old pup, he was cute as a button. That was back in 2002. The dog had a friendly and curious face, was very lively, and always wanted to play. Meanwhile, our 2-year-old Boxer, Butchie Boy, was dour and morose. I used to be in a very stressful job then, and to come home to see a happy dog bouncing to greet me at the door was a delight. So when I saw our sullen-looking Boxer, it was no joy to see him. His Boxer face was nothing in comparison to the Dalmatian pup’s happy expression.

Spot was incredibly cute as a puppy. His flashy coat color, lively expression, and playful personality made him far more agreeable to see than the Boxer's sullen expression.

I ended up preferring the reception of Spot. I ignored the Boxer.

In the weeks to come, since I took on Spot as a personal responsibility, I took the role seriously. I did constant research online about his breed and kept my attention on his training and care. I sought out the right dog food for him, sought out a good collar and leash, bought different bowls, and studied methods on housebreak training. I’ve never handled a dog personally like this before.

At home, Spot quickly became the family favorite. The dog easily endeared himself to the rest of the household. He was always given attention first, given treats because it delighted us, walked first, fed first, petted first, and many others as first – totally displacing Butchie Boy who watched all this from the side quietly.

One day I discovered dog agility and wanted Spot trained for that. Two to three times a week I’d pack the youngster up for a dog school training (Spot started Basic Obedience at 6 months) and leave with him early in the morning. We’d be back in the late afternoon.

Spot consumed my attention at home. I had plans for him. I wanted him to be Manila’s first agility dog. I was learning too, along the way, in how to handle him. It was a fascinating time for me.

One night, when Spot was a year old, I brought him out of the house, put on his collar, attached a leash and walked him out into the street. Butchie Boy barked and protested at the gate as he watched us go. We even passed him twice as I walked Spot up and down our street before we turned into the next block. Butchie Boy protested every time we passed him.

Finally, Spot and I arrived back to the house. Butchie Boy awaited our arrival. I opened the gate and when Spot walked in, I unleashed him. That’s when the Boxer attacked Spotty.

The young teen-aged Dalmatian gave a squeak of surprise as a menacing Butchie Boy, by then 3 years older than he, grabbed him by the neck and pinned him down. The Boxer was clearly blinded with anger. There wasn’t much noise. Butchie Boy’s growls were muffled by his firm clamp on the Dalmatian’s neck while the young Dalmatian barely cried, surprised at the aggression upon him.

Taken aback myself, I could find nothing within sight I could use to separate the dogs. The driveway sloped down so the two dogs rolled down the incline in a cloud of dust, sweat, throaty growls and Spot’s legs flying in the air. I found a metal bucket and hurled it at the Boxer but the resulting clatter was not enough to cause a distraction. I must have thrown everything I could see in the yard – broom, garden spade, trash can, anything.

As the two dogs rolled onto an even surface, Spot got to his senses. The Dalmatian managed to get on his feet and bravely faced the angry Boxer. I saw a desperate one-on-one now, both dogs on equal footing. Sometimes Spot was on top of the Boxer, other times the Boxer pinned him down. But the fight continued with minimal noise and they rolled again until the two were at the end of the driveway, approaching the garage. Finally, Butchie Boy collapsed. Spot, tail high in the air and wagging, amazingly energized, grabbed the Boxer by the neck, and started to drag his fallen opponent towards the garage like a piece of carcass. I found my voice. “Spot, no!” I commanded sternly.

The dog let go.

That was a serious dog fight. But what caused it, was it over, what to do next, I didn’t know anything about it from Adam.

(to be continued)

Dog Aggression – The Hard Way (Part II)

2013-10-08T22:51:00.003-07:00

What happened to those happy times when our two dogs got along together?

I was thankful Spot had some basic training at that critical time so I was able to command him. The dog stepped back as I approached his fallen opponent. I saw the Boxer rise. He had fought till he collapsed of exhaustion. Both dogs were sweaty, panting and dirty. Spot’s colorful coat was stained with mud in many places. Butchie was spent. But he was alive.

All I could think of at that moment was to give the two a quick hosing because I will not let them indoors. Surprisingly, both dogs allowed me to hose them down and dry them up. They entered the house and settled into their respective corners for the night.

The next day, one of our househelp remarked that Butchie Boy’s coat was “full of holes.” He compared it to the kind of hole a nail sized “no.2” makes. But the Boxer’s skin had no tears. He asked me what had happened. I said the dogs had a fight last night.

We checked Spot. Amazingly the dog was alright.

That fight, however, was the start of things to come. Later that morning, as our househelp prepared Butchie Boy for his morning walk, I saw the Boxer attack Spot who was just passing by. Chairs tumbled to the floor as Butchie Boy lunged at the Dalmatian and Spot, who had earned his boxing gloves only last night, went into the defense. It took the rest of the household to pull the two dogs apart and restore some peace.

The incident was clearly worrisome. What was going on? I had no understanding what was going on in the two dogs’ heads. But for a vicious fight to occur inside a civilized home -– that’s not the place for it. Something was going very wrong.

I placed an SOS to Spot’s trainer, Jonathan, who arrived, assuring me that he could train the two dogs to behave themselves. We took the two to a neutral territory and the two dogs behaved, Butchie Boy trembling in obedience as Jonathan commanded them to lie down side by side. He walked the two dogs together and they followed him obediently.

But something was missing in the link. What was causing all this? Back home, the two dogs had to be separated now, an unhappy state of things. Both dogs were never tied before. We were now in a state of tension. What if they fought again? How do we stop this behavior?

Once, when I came home from work, my household help reported that the two dogs had a fight again. I found Spot with a bloodied ear that needed stitching at a nearby vet clinic.

As usual, my researches on dog aggression online and advice from a local dog “expert” (I hadn’t met Fred Alimusa yet) were varied and often clashing. Some gave suggestions on how to deal with a dog fight itself, while others advocated letting the dogs settle out the issue among themselves. The best may be the last one, but I couldn’t afford the vet bills in case it happened too often.

Confused, I could not find a solution that related to our situation. Until I found the cause, I would not be able to solve our dilemma.. Meanwhile, our two dogs lived tied in separate areas at home – and could not be friends at all. The tension was clearly affecting us too. We were always on our toes. What happened to those happy times?

One night, Jonathan arrived again, to repeat the training procedure he had done on the two dogs a few days earlier. The two performed as commanded, but as I watched the exercise a question rose in my mind. Sure, Jonathan could make them obey and they do. What about us? How sure are we they will obey us?

Jonathan's reply to this was that the training was still "on-going." I presumed he will teach us when the dogs have learned to obey? But I was not satisfied. We were on red alert. What do we do while the dogs were in the killing mode?

After the exercise, Jonathan tied the two dogs within viewing distance of each other (“to make them get used to seeing each other close”) but made sure their leashes prevented them from reaching each other. Then he left. In his absence, the dogs threw menacing glares at each other and exchanged growls. But they remained in their places.

Before turning in for the night, the dogs have to do their bathroom call. By now, some enlightenment had already entered my mind due to some reading I had been doing. Dr. Nicholas Dodman’s book, Dogs Behaving Badly (Bantam Books, 1999, USA) had talked of his client with dogs who kept fighting because the owner was unaware of their canine social hierarchy. I realized now Butchie Boy was the senior dog. He was entitled to be collared first and taken outside for a walk. I did so accordingly.

A few minutes later, I was back in the house, entering through the back door with Butchie Boy, and approached the grilled window where he was to be leashed for the night. Then I saw it happen.

I was in the process of coiling the Boxer’s leash around the grill when I saw Spot approach dangerously close to the Boxer. He was tied to a leg of the solid wood dining table but the leash had loosened. I saw the spotted dog launch a sneak attack on Butchie Boy from behind.

A young Spot playfully nips at Butchie Boy's hind legs while Butchie looks at the camera. The two dogs were not yet opponents at the time of this photo.

I yelled at Spot but he was focused on the Boxer. Now the aggressor, he pounced on Butchie Boy. I yelled for help while I held the Boxer by the collar tightly in my hands. Butchie yelped and fought to be released by me. I held firm because he was not yet tied to the window. Suddenly I felt the pang of a needle prick the base of my palm. Surprised at the sharp pain, I let go and the Boxer turned towards his attacker. Another doggy brawl ensued inches away from me.

Our househelp immediately rallied to the scene and in seconds, the dogs were separated. As the scene cleared, we saw on the white tiled floor bright red drops of glistening blood. They were mine. Butchie Boy had bitten me.

(to be continued)

Dog Aggression -- the Hard Way (Conclusion)

2013-10-08T20:27:00.000-07:00

The cause of their fights was our fault.

It took many weeks after that dog fight, during the process of healing and more researching that the truth finally dawned on me. I recalled the first doggy fight I saw at the driveway and compared it to that last one where I got bitten. There was a difference. In those initial first brawls, Butchie Boy was the aggressor. In the last brawl, it was Spot.

The cause of their fights, I discovered, was our fault.

Dogs follow a social hierarchy among themselves. There is a dominant leader, the Senior or Top Dog, and there are the followers. They are wired to observe this and a dog owner not aware of this will cause dogs to brawl among themselves as they fight for their positions.

I had brainwashed Spot to believe he was the Top Dog because he was the family favorite. Simultaneously, Butchie Boy, having been there first, believed he deserved respect as the Top Dog. I did not teach Spot that – neither did we observe it as his humans. We had totally ignored the Boxer and whatever he had felt were his rights. We had petted Spot first, walked him first, put him his collar first, fed him first, and given him priority over everything in their lives together. That’s why the Boxer despised the Dalmatian newcomer from the start.

Finally identifying the cause of the fight, I concentrated now on this phenomenon called their canine social hierarchy. We had a lot of un-doing to do.

We started to observe the Boxer’s seniority over Spot by respecting his position first. He was fed first, given his collar first, and walked first.

The brawls were reduced considerably but they were not completely eradicated. Upon my arrival from work, to my disappointment I would sometimes receive reports from our househelp that there was a dog fight that day. But the dog fights were always instigated, this time, by Spot. Spot was now the aggressor, Butchie Boy was the defender.

In the end, it was Butchie Boy that lost his home. I had plans for Spot and wanted him for further training as a career agility dog. We rehomed Butchie Boy as Spot persisted in asserting his belief he was the Top Dog. As long as those two dogs lived with us, there would be no peace.

As Butchie Boy left us, Spot was our only dog for several months until I slowly built up a new pack. But by then, I knew how to handle our multi-dog household. I taught the other dogs their respective positions while assuring Spot he remained Top Dog. Each dog had his position no. 1, no. 2 and no. 3 and this was firmly observed by all of us, a method I picked up from Dr. Dodson’s book. In later years, as I met our famous dog whisperer, Fred Alimusa, I learned that petting Spot in front of the other dogs do not bother them as long as they know their positions.

My spotted pack a few years ago. "J.R." (left, back) is Spot's son, an accidental mix with a border collie. In foreground (center) is Toby. Their hierarchical positions are (l-r): dog number 3, 2, then 1 (Spot). We followed this social order of theirs strictly to avoid doggy squabbles.

Dogs are not humans. They do not react as humans do. What we humans dub as “jealousy” is a dog just asserting his position over an upstart trying to bypass him.

Sounds like corporate culture huh?

Small Dog, Big Space

2013-10-05T21:03:00.002-07:00

If you believe in yourself, you will make it -- even in a world of giants.

At present, Packy, our lively and spirited Dachshund is on "vacation" visiting his girlfriend. He will be gone for a week. We're back to 3 dogs, all medium-sized -- 2 Dalmatians and 1 native dog with mixed German Shepherd blood (the adopted).

The Dachshund Packy came into our lives, a gift from my cousin Marie, 7 years ago. But Packy was not our first encounter with his breed. Earlier there was another Dachshund named Tootsie. But Tootsie wasn't ours. She was stationed with us for awhile for housebreaking until Marie could take her home to keep her elderly mother company.

When Tootsie came into our house as a 3-month old puppy she was small as a rat. But very lively. Her playmates towered above her -- a Boxer and a Dalmatian -- but the instigator to all those chases and wrestling matches was Tootsie. My elderly dad would watch the dogs at play, crossing and re-crossing the open doorway of his ground floor bedroom, wrestling and chasing each other until we could hear their breathless puffs. He would marvel at how that little pup could lead the pack from start to finish. Tootsie had no concept of size. "She doesn't know how small she is," my dad would remark.

Frankly, my own observation on life from that little dog's attitude was a marvel: if you believe in yourself, you will make it even in a world of giants!

Tootsie cozies herself up to Spot during naptime.

After a month, Tootsie's training period ended and my cousin Marie came to pick her up. But she saw the look in my dad's face. That little lively Dachshund pup who gave him so many days of amusement at her antics, would be with us no more. The result -- Marie sent my dad a new Dachshund pup a few weeks later. That was how Packy came to live with us.

Packy had a different temperament, however. He was not as playful as Tootsie. He was more serious. What was more important to him was his leadership in the pack -- and asserting it. By that time I had 2 Dalmatians (the Boxer died already) so his packmates were taller than he. In their canine hierarchy at home, he was Dog No.3. But to be No.3 -- he refused. He kept bullying our Dog No. 2, our Dalmatian named Toby. After careful thought and noticing Toby's submissive nature, I switched the 2 dogs' positions, moving Packy up as Dog No.2 and Toby down as Dog No.3. Toby accepted his new social assignment obediently.

Would Packy try to displace Spotty, my Dog No.1 too? I saw him trying. The Dachshund was more assertive; the Dalmatians were submissive. But to be sure, I defended Spot's social position. I knew Spot was accustomed to his position as the Top Dog.

In Packy's attempts to climb one more rung up the canine social ladder to displace Spot, there would be fights. I saw that Spot will not give way. For example, when it's walk time and the dogs get excited, my maids are instructed to follow the sequencing: Spot, Packy, then Toby. But because Packy is so noisy and assertive, sometimes the maid would be pressured to choose him first.

The brawls would be ear-splitting. I'd hear Packy's hysterical screams loud enough to raise the dead above Spot's throaty growls. We'd rush to the scene and find the little dog grabbed by the scruff of his neck by the bigger Dalmatian and shaken vigorously side to side like a little rat. My maid would pull Spot's hind legs to distract the angry older dog and this would cause Spot to release the struggling Packy. But do you think that would end it? As soon as I get Packy in my hands the dog would slip out of my grasp quickly and attack right back! Screaming his head off he'd leap back towards Spot to continue the brawl.

Packy crosses the 4-foot high dog walk agility equipment. Though the bar jumps are barred from Dachshunds because of their long spine, Packy does well on the contact equipment (seesaw, dog walk, and tunnels)

But Packy is not all tension and trouble. One of the most delightful experiences I have with him was when I tried to restore my childhood memories of dogs howling at the church bells located a block behind our house. I've lived here since I was born and the church behind us has grown bigger to one day have huge bells installed in their bell tower. When I was a kid we had 7 native dogs and we'd have an earful of howling and singing dogs every time the bells rang for Angelus, everyday for Mass, at Easter dawn Mass, or for midnight Christmas Mass. Life was simple then, and the problems of modern man and congested city life was yet unheard of. So when urbanization reached fever pitch level many years later, a "noise pollution" complaint was raised in the neighborhood. The priests ceased to use the bells. For the next several decades the church bells were silent. As a result our dogs had no chiming bells to howl to -- and nothing to pass on to next-generation pack members.

But by the next century, Packy revived it. One day the church, now a cathedral shrine, decided to revive the old customs. When the bells rang merrily in the air after a silence of 5 decades, Packy howled long and hard at it. Oh wait, he did not howl. It was more of a rap. It was a fast staccato kind of bark with rhythmic pauses, like he was rapping. A week after, Toby the Dalmatian picked it up, like a back-up singer. Toby howled like a real dog, his neck stretched to the sky, howling to his heart's content.

Our childhood "landmark" memory was restored by Packy.

Living with a Dachshund gives you stories to remember during his lifetime. The breed is feisty, lively, creative, independent, will try to outsmart you, and will always entertain you.

Packy emotes like a canine model at a Christmas greeting pictorial I did last year for an e-card to send to friends and family.

However, when Packy left us to live with his girlfriend for a week, this small little dog left a void in our lives. The house fell silent. I didn't know what "real gentlemen" my other dogs were. Dalmatians are known to bark sparingly and I finally saw that trait. I realized that little dog influenced the rest of the pack, making the rest noisy and rowdy as he was. But with Packy gone, the dogs were well behaved. Gone was the rivalry. When there was a visitor they came to inspect but there was no competition. They didn't jump, bark, and bump around.

The day after Packy left, the church bells rang that early morning at 6:00am. I was half-expecting to hear the usual racket. Our half-darkened house echoed with the sound of the bells but no dog howled. With no Packy to instigate it, no dog howled at the bells.

In our house, it's Packy who influences the pack. This little dog truly believes in himself that our bigger dogs have learned to follow him.

The Vet Survival Kit

2013-10-05T07:33:00.000-07:00

“That’s Spot’s favorite!” I exclaimed. “He’ll go crazy over that!” Fred gave me a knowing eye. “That’s the idea,” he said.

Today, at eleven years of age (or 60 years old in human terms), my star Dalmatian Spotty has gone through 6 vets. I first brought him to a famous vet when he was a puppy and everything would have stayed alright as he grew older. But the line of patients was often long in that clinic and our waiting period would take all morning. If Spotty just needed a regular check-up or a simple vaccination, sitting at that reception lounge all morning wasn’t worth it. I thought of trying the neighborhood vets next time.

I tried 2 vets nearby back home but with disastrous results. Though they did a good job giving Spot his stitches after the usual dog fights of his reckless youth, the dog always remembered his experience with them. He froze every time we were a few meters away from their clinics on our afternoon walks. We could not pass in front of them.

Clear signs of traumatic memories here.

The fourth vet I knew was familiar to Spot but the relationship between them wouldn’t work. Spot knew her from our agility practices because she was often there. When I took him to her clinic for the first time, the dog was about to alight from my SUV when he suddenly glimpsed the vet clinic outside (how he knew it was a clinic I didn't know it yet) and the glint of terror flashed in his eyes. His face broke into disappointment and he whirled back inside and froze. The vet had to enter the vehicle to give him his shots. I watched as she instructed Dominic, who was with me, to hug the trembling dog. We did not manage that situation well for the dog’s sake.

During one walk with Spot in my neighborhood one afternoon, the dog froze like a rock as we passed a bank office. I almost fell over my face when the leash suddenly strained with no warning. I tugged, not understanding what the dog was upset about. But he refused to budge. I looked at his locked forelegs and frozen stance, a dead weight. I recognized the reaction as identical to his fear whenever he saw his former vet clinics. Then I noticed that the bank had a glass façade, just like those vet clinics. He probably thought I was going to bring him to one of those places he dreaded so much. So I let the dog rest and collect himself, then a few moments later upon realizing we were not going to enter the building, he stood up and followed me.

Toby (left) and Spotty (right) all dressed for a Halloween event wait in anticipation inside my SUV. Drives are always exciting times for dogs but when they find themselves being delivered to a vet -- it's the ultimate spoiler of their trust.

Spot’s “puppy” vet’s clinic had no such glass façade it being a residence. We returned there the next time Spot needed a check-up. She was surely a familiar face (or smell) to the dog and I expected Spot would trust her.

But Spot didn’t trust her either. The dog froze as we approached the examination table and he refused to climb it even when it was lowered to its lowest. An aide had to lift him up, we had to muzzle him, and I had to distract him with a head massage (in my amateurish way) while he trembled, salivated nervously, and growled as the vet got blood samples.

In that visit, it turned out Spot had ehrlichiosis. This called for a round of checkups and blood samples. We were to return in 2 weeks. By then, I knew my dog enough. After that first visit – Spot will not want to go back there again.

I will have a problem in my hands.

That was when I touched base again with the country’s first dog whisperer, Fred Alimusa. Fred lived on a beautiful hillside property in Amadeo, Cavite. It would be a long drive away. But I had a traumatized dog in my hands and I needed his expertise.

At my one-on-one session, Fred explained that his aim was to condition Spot to like going to the vet. First, because every dog needs a pack leader to feel secure, I have to assure Spot that I was in charge of the situation. We performed the heel-and-sit exercise many times at the house. Next we got the dog to climb on top of a low table as if it was the examination table at the vet clinic. These exercises were to assert my authority as the dog obeyed my commands. I was to make Spot understand that I was his leader and that I will take care of him. “Don’t worry, sagot kita (I will answer for you)!” was Fred’s favorite expression so Spot will remember to trust me when he starts to feel anxious.

Next, we drove off to nearby Tagaytay to find an available vet clinic. Along the ridge, we stopped by a store selling freshly made pork cracklings. Fred chose the ones with a bit of meat attached to the skins. “That’s Spot’s favorite!” I exclaimed. “He’ll go crazy over that!”

Fred gave me a knowing eye. “That’s the idea,” he said.

Upon arriving at a vet clinic (another glass façade), we did not enter the premises right away. We were now in an actual situation. Fred made me do several heel-and-sit exercises at the parking lot. Under his instruction, I edged toward the clinic with every round we made. Once, we stopped right before the door, but we turned away and made another round of heel-and-sit. Finally we entered. Spot followed obediently.

Inside the clinic, I carried that bag of pork cracklings. It was my bait — and also my reward. At my command, the dog climbed the examination table obediently (mouth salivating, I bet) and after he had done so, I gave him a fresh crispy tidbit which Spot crunched happily.

After our dry run session at the clinic, Fred reminded me never to feed Spot his favorite snack food unless it’s at the vet clinic. “Only at the vet clinic,” he emphasized. “That way, every time he sees the vet clinic, he will salivate just thinking of his favorite treat. He knows that’s where he will taste it.”

Of course, the actual vet visit still had some differences and though I wished badly that Fred was there, he had his confidence in me. He knew I would be able to manage it. At Spot’s return visit to his “puppy” vet, I walked him up and down the road first, doing the heel-and-sit exercise, then I turned towards the gate leading to the clinic (no glass façade this time) — and Spot followed. I had with me a small container of barbecued meat (cracklings are high in salt and uric acid for dogs and although they love it so much I chose a safer treat for them. Besides, they don't eat barbecued meat often either).

When Spot’s turn came, the dog surprisingly entered the treatment room with me and climbed the examination table at my command. He had some anxieties but he was manageable. But I did not cuddle him. I fed him bits of meat sporadically while he was on the table to keep him distracted. The blood sampling was a little tricky because I knew if Spot saw that and I gave him enough time to react to it, he will be too upset to want a treat. This was a case of timing. So I moved first and distracted him at once with a treat. The vet got the samples. The dog did not prove to be difficult.

In subsequent months, as I brought the other dogs to the state university vet hospital, Spot would come along as “moral support,” as the student vets there described him in amusement. I noticed the university hospital seemed an ideal place for dogs. The open corridors and breezy rooms contained no smells that reeked of fear or medicines enough to scare any doggy patient. Noticing Spot showed no reaction whenever he entered the treatment room to accompany a pack member dog, I ended up registering him there as a patient. On weekdays, the waiting period is so short. I always carry our Vet Survival Kit — a small container of barbecued meat whenever we go to the vet hospital because it has worked so well.

“I do not know of any dog who will not work for a piece of barbecue,” Fred once told me.

Fred Alimusa shows how to rehabilitate dogs with aggression problems, in this case Toby (at right) who has trouble meeting new dogs. He left behind a legacy of invaluable learning that we can never never replace. We learned to understand our dogs because of him.

Now to our dogs, the vet clinic is a happy place where they get to taste barbecue!

The Dogs Survive a Thunderstorm

2013-10-05T06:47:00.000-07:00

Though I could see the dog’s anxiety in his eyes, I knew how to deal with it. Rule no. 1: DO NOT INDULGE HIS ANXIETIES.

It’s rainy season here now after a long hard summer. After a hot and muggy season, when the rains come Mother Nature compensates with a vengeance. The rains fall in torrents capable of causing flash floods throughout the city and snarling traffic till midnight.

Just a few nights ago, I was up late, reading at our kitchen counter when the rains fell again, accompanied by thunder and lightning. Toto barked nervously at the sudden explosions of noise and came close to me. Every time lightning cracked and the thunder blasted, he’d jump at the sound, clearly distressed and bark at the sound. Suddenly, I felt the gentle presence of a doe-eyed dog sitting and looking up at me near my lap. It was Spot. He had risen from his doggy bed in my bedroom and had walked to where I sat on a stool at the counter. He was quiet. He just wanted to be with me.

Spot in his doggy basket. He woke up during a thunderstorm, noticed I wasn't on my bed, rose and sought my company to assuage his fears.

I stayed calm and undisturbed. Dogs learn from their masters and my reaction to the thunder claps would reinforce their fears.

Though I could see Spot’s anxiety in his eyes, I knew how to deal with it. Rule no. 1: DO NOT INDULGE HIS ANXIETIES.

I held myself from cuddling or petting him. I didn’t want to reinforce his feelings at that moment by rewarding it. That's why I didn't want to "comfort" Toto as he jumped at the thunder. I remembered the power of a dog’s focus and the 2 dogs were focused on the thunder. My job was to divert it.

It had been quite awhile since we’ve done some training together but my learning hasn’t stopped. When I take Spot to the vet, I’ve learned not to cuddle and soothe the dog when he’s upset. That will reinforce it. But what do you do instead to calm his nervousness? I discovered the solution by accident with our fourth dog, Toto. During one of Toto’s visits to the vet, I held a small container of barbecued meat, a lesson I learned from dog behaviorist Fred Alimusa. The aroma was mouthwatering and it distracted the dog considerably. The first time I did this method, it was with Spot and I would feed Spot with bits of the meat while he was on the examination table.

But Toto showed me a better way. As he kept straining to reach the container, I kept pulling it away from him. That's when I noticed the dog was so focused on the container he didn't notice anything else. Eureka. So I kept the container, lid partially open, a tongue lick away. As Toto stretched with all his might sniffing and trying to get a tidbit, the vet behind him successfully delivered his vaccination and the dog never noticed it. He was so distracted with the temptation of the barbecue.

He got lots of barbecued tidbits in that container, of course, when his treatment was finished.

So as the thunder rumbled and rolled up in the night sky, Toto jumped nervously and Spot looked at me quietly but anxiously. I knew what to do. Rule no. 2: DISTRACTION DISPELLS THE STRESS.

I reached across the counter where the dogs’ biscuit jar was located. This was the best time to do a training session!

The 2 dogs immediately went on alert mode at the sight of the biscuit jar being unscrewed. I reviewed Spot’s common tricks: “Speak” and “Shake hands.” Spot used to take time to gather enough power to make a bark but this time — even with the explosions of thunder above him — but seeing the biscuit waiting at my fingers, he barked readily. “Good boy,” I practically squealed, rewarding him. Toto, meanwhile, had a natural tendency to stand on his hind legs, forelegs high in the air. I decided to work from there. “Dance!” I commanded, lifting a biscuit above his nose. Toto rose on his back legs, eyes burning brightly for the reward, totally focused on it. I let the dog stay in that position, letting him walk a bit, before lowering the biscuit to the floor and praising him when he got it. All this happened while the thunder rolled like a pile of bowling pins tumbling in the night sky.

The dogs didn’t notice it. All of a sudden, their attention was elsewhere. Spot’s anxieties disappeared as his mouth watered for a biscuit and waited for his turn. Toto’s nervousness was forgotten too. He was being rewarded for doing something and he wanted to keep doing it!

Next time thunder rolls in the sky, oh my. The dogs might come to me expecting a training session!

And Toto Makes 4

2013-10-05T05:59:00.000-07:00

This was my chance to test the truth of this breed’s usefulness.

It’s been two years since I last made an entry into this blog. A lot have happened since. Of course, my knowledge on the canine culture and their way of thinking has increased some more during that time. I learned how to train our 4-legged household members to conform to our ways of living in this house. I also learned how to teach them a few tricks.

But with my star Dalmatian Spotty growing too old now for agility — I had no other Dalmatian to follow in his footsteps. My other Dalmatian, Toby, had too many emotional issues to qualify for competition. So my mind shifted to our native mutts. Can I handle a native dog, I wondered.

The native dog first caught my attention when I visited the widow of my mentor, the late dog behaviorist Fred Alimusa (yes, he’s been training the dogs over at the Rainbow Bridge for over a year now). I once visited his farm a few weeks after he was taken by brain cancer. Fred used his farm as a location for his training segment in the weekly show, Dog TV. The house sat at the top of a slope and there were three cottages there – the main house on the top level, the dining area on the middle level, and a one-bedroom guest cottage on the lower level. The Alimusa property was a wonderful and windy place with a fabulous view of forests, hills, and the metropolis in the distance.

I knew Fred had left behind a handsome Rottweiller and a handful of Beagles housed in a row of kennels. But when I descended the stone steps to go to the dining cottage down the slope, I was greeted by a pack of native mutts who emerged from their dens and barked defensively, threatening to chase me. Huh? Fred has native dogs here? A yard boy shushed them away and the dogs retreated.

Later, when I returned to the main house, I asked Rina, Fred’s widow, why there were natives down the property. “Fred said they make good perimeter dogs,” she informed me.

Oh. So that’s what the native mutt is useful for. Weeks later, a friend offered me one of his native mutts for rehoming. I accepted readily. This was my chance to test the truth of this breed’s usefulness. Plus — to see if I can train one too.

That’s how Toto came into our household, assigned as Dog No. 4. Small-boned, light of feet and wavy haired, he had the coloring of a German Shepherd. But that’s as far as the similarity went.

On his first night with us, recalling Alimusa’s teaching that the native was a “perimeter dog,” I assigned Toto outdoors. I lured our newcomer with a biscuit to go out the door before we turned in for the night. Toto followed the bait and settled into a corner before our front door. “Guard duty,” was what I told him to do.

Our maid, Lourdes, however, reported an observation. During the night, she heard Toto’s occasional bark coming from the front yard, then later in the backyard. All that – while our purebreds were indoors, slumbering peacefully in their cushioned beds and pillows. In contrast, our native mutt was awake all night doing guard duty.

Toto poses shyly beside our Christmas tree last year where he was assigned the "a" of "...and a Happy New Year" greeting set I composed in an e-card.

A few days later, when the rains came, Toto resisted to spend the night outside, preferring to stay indoors. Unfortunately, he was not welcome in any of the bedrooms because our purebreds had a claim to them. So he settled in the front part of the house. I put out the light and left him in the dark to sleep with no company.

During the night, however, I heard Toto pacing. We have wooden floors and I could hear his soft padding around the house. He was patrolling! He was doing something none of our indulgent purebreds never did! I heard his footsteps linger outside my door (I leave the door ajar so Spot can go out when he wants to), felt him peer in, then heard him turn around and move on. All this he’d do in the shadowy darkness of the house.

So this is the behavior of a “perimeter dog.” This is our “Bantay” (guard) – the classic native dog found in local children’s stories. He is, indeed, our local guard dog, born to do patrol duty.

What to do at a Doggy Birthday Party

2011-06-20T02:00:00.000-07:00

A doggy birthday cake

      Isn’t that what dogs do to people? Bring them together and leave happy memories behind?

      What do you do at a doggy birthday party? When we put up a dog school at a local park, my dog Spotty’s birthday was 3 months away. Thus, we launched the dog school at our star mascot’s 5th birthday.
      We had a growing clientele because the school was a popular Saturday morning hangout of dog lovers. My associate Sally and I envisioned lots of ideas for them. The school was new, we were inspired, and we were pioneering dog agility sports in the metro. We were the newest attraction in the park.
      The trouble with party planning is that you initially brim with bright and witty ideas – some good others way off. But as time passes, the list shortens, or you adjust as you go along. But the big day is coming and time runs short. So from among our list of ideas the following (realistic) activities survived:
      1. School blessing of the grounds and facilities
      2. Fun Awarding ceremony
      3. Dog agility demo
      4. Snack time
      5. Birthday Cake blowing and group photo
      6. Mini competition in basic obedience
      7. Great Dog Games
      8. Awarding ceremonies of winners

      Pet companies are often eager to sponsor high-visibility events such as ours in a public park so we had prizes galore. But you have to send your proposals way ahead and follow them up diligently so they don’t end up informing you of your pickup time the afternoon before the party (or worse – the morning of the big day!). But since these sponsors may sometimes send a representative to attend, these officers may bring the goods over on that day.
      We had prizes for the games, prizes for the contests, and bags of giveaways for guests to bring home. Other sponsors we contacted were an events-party supplier that agreed to do our party décor and a popular restaurant in the park that agreed to handle a snack buffet table.

Spot had two birthday cakes that day. The chocolate cake (left) was given by a friend named Byron.

      On our side, Sally and I worked furiously. Sally designed the invitation cards which we gave to students and friends. She also designed the awarding certificates. We had two kinds: certificates to give to every student, and another for the winners in the competition. But I had to add a gift from the school: a promotional wall clock with every student’s dog printed on the face. Sally and I spent days on this as we purchased the wall clocks and photographic paper, worked on the layouts, edited endlessly, and disassembled each clock so we could paste the dog’s photo (we’ve never done this before so we had to have test samples first of the wall clocks at home).
      For weeks also we researched on doggy birthday cakes, studied various menus and debated if we will bake one – or just buy a regular cake for human consumption. The doggy cake I liked had yoghurt as icing but yoghurt icing will run in tropical weather. It might not even survive a photoshoot!
      In the end, we trashed the doggy cake. We were advocates of “Don’t feed your dog when he goes out,” policy so why feed him at a party? Why risk feeding him tidbits of food all because it’s a birthday occasion then have him poo around the premises? We decided to ignore the dog. A doggy party is for people with dogs, not the other way around.
      But the décor had to have a doggy theme and it was here I had the "great idea" (sarcastically expressed by me) of doing our famous cracker house. I hadn’t done this in decades. My friend Malu had volunteered to do this but on the afternoon before the big event, she called to complain that the sugar wouldn’t caramelize. That was alarming. If the sugar won’t caramelize, it won’t stick the crackers together.
      I rushed to her house all frazzled already by the approaching event. Good thing I called an SOS to a chemist friend of ours named Francis to assess what could have happened. Malu explained that the usual white sugar (I probably did a cracker house 20 years ago and used only white sugar), upon being cooked with a little water to high heat, refused to turn to that familiar brown gooey substance which would be the cracker house’s glue. Instead the sugar would stay white but dry up and become crumbly. That reaction of the sugar was new to me and it was bewildering. Francis remarked that our white sugar may be full of chemicals already. He suggested we buy the raw brown sugar (muscovado) instead.
      Francis and I waded through late afternoon rush hour traffic to go to three supermarkets just to look for that raw brown sugar. Though I still toyed with baking a carrot cake for the dogs, we were faced with a cracker house crisis. We bought a large chocolate cake with butter icing and had a birthday greeting to Spot lettered on top. That decided things. -- a cake for humans to eat but with a doggy decor. Then it was home where we had to struggle with that cracker house.
      We were still up at midnight working. Francis was right; the raw brown sugar was better (less chemicals, obviously). It caramelized and we built the house up by panels. Finally we decorated it with candies and carefully propped it on top of the chocolate cake. What a night. All for the love of a dog.

A sight for sore eyes: party decor! Especially one that matched the birthday dog.

      The following morning, the view of the party venue took all of my stresses away in a snap. Fluttering up in the air as festive buntings were Dalmatian-printed balloons and white curly ribbons over the dog agility playground. What a happy sight for sore eyes. We had specified a black-and-white color theme for the décor to the party specialist but I didn’t know they would go the extra mile by using Dalmatian prints. They also created a big black-and-white balloon arch over the entrance to the school. We walked under that arch our faces glowing with delight. The party venue never looked this good.
      Jonathan was there, dressed in a Dalmatian costume. This Dalmatian costume has gone far. I had this sewn two years earlier when I entered both Jonathan and Spot at a Lookalike contest (who else won but them!). The "Dalmatian Duo" made it on many newspapers after the contest. With Spot in a red party hat and his lookalike handler at the gate to receive our guests, I had two mascots. It was party time!
      The morning started with a blessing of the school and training grounds. Fr Ron started the blessing prayers then with him and his yellow Labrador named Scooby at the head of the line, we trooped around the playground while Fr Ron sprinkled the premises with holy water.
      As we all gathered back to the central area, Fr Ron said a group pet blessing prayer. But I didn’t know he was blessing the dogs until it was all over. I had expected a pet blessing like the one I attended sponsored by PAWS (Philippine Animal Welfare Society) a year ago. In that event, each owner and dog was given a special blessing by the priest (we were over 100!). Anyway, that was a detail I failed to tell Fr Ron so that oversight was my fault.
      After the prayers the spirit of the party took over and it was a Happy Birthday song to 5-year-old Spotty with his lookalike handler. Then it was time for a group picture taking at the table where the birthday cakes were and the Dalmatian Duo sitting in the center.
      First in our agenda was an Obedience Trial.We were a dog school and it was time for us to show what we’ve done the past 3 months and what we have to offer. There were enough students for this basic obedience trial with three categories: Long Sit, Long Stay, and Fast Recall. Within the categories were 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place winners so there were some students who collected more than one winning certificate (and its accompanying gift bag).
      After the trial and to give us time to prepare the certificates with the winners' names, a dog agility demonstration followed next. There were only 3 dogs who could do this and they were Scooby, Fr. Ron’s yellow Labrador; birthday boy Spotty; and a Belgian Malinois named Booger, a dog of our friend Byron (who sent the chocolate cake).

Fr Ron and Scooby

      The demo was successful because just in time, the president of the park decided to answer our invitation that morning and appeared at the school just as the demo was beginning.
      The agility demo seemed to be just a break because it went by so fast. Each dog would round the circuit in seconds and there were only 3 dogs. Booger obliged the audience with some tricks, also a Beagle named Kimchi owned by a friend Mariel for the enjoyment of the guests. Finally it was time for the Obedience Awards and the Fun Awards ceremony.
      The Fun Awards ceremony was our way of saying thanks to our students. We thought up of gifting each student with a comically worded certificate to describe their dog. This was paired with a wall clock with a photo of their pet on the face. We created such certificates as, “Sexiest Black Labrador,” “Fast Learner Award,” “I Love My Boss Award” (a mastiff with separation anxiety), “Karate Kid Award” (a Boston terrier that tended to fly in the air in a fit of aggression against the other dogs), “Most Promising Toy Dog Award” (a quick-learning Mini Pinscher), “Loyalty Award” (a student that enrolled her dog in Basic Obedience then Agility) “GRO Award” (or Guest Relations Officer, addressed to a friendly Beagle that was always accommodating to the male dogs) and “Good Behavior Award.” It was a time for laughs and amusement for everybody and plenty of picture taking. But because the awarding ceremony seemed long, we divided this into two parts to hold off boredom.
      The interactive portion of the party was what we called The Great Dog Games – parlor games designed for the participation of both owner and dog. The first game would have been Musical Chairs but after we saw that most of the dogs at the party were not yet trained for basic obedience, we scrapped that game out. We moved to the next two games called “Tail Wag Game,” and the “Come Here, I Say.” The Tail Wag was a challenge to each dog owner participant to try to make his/her dog’s tail wag by saying ridiculous words to the dog such as funny-sounding vegetables without saying the dog’s name. There was a secret trick to this but if I divulged it, everybody would win. (The secret was to say the vegetable in an excited tone so the dog would absorb the excitement and consequently wag his tail). The “Come Here, I Say” was a recall command with tempting treats along the way. The dog that came to its owner without stopping along the way to pick up a treat was the winner.

It is a source of much hilarity as dog owners try to coax their dogs to wag their tails spontaneously while saying an outrageous word.

      The Fun Awards resumed again, bringing the morning to the much-awaited portion of the party: the Snack Attack. Some of the students had contributed pastries and other food items to add to the buffet. The restaurant sponsor put up a nice long table complete with skirting and floral centerpiece. They served finger food, as per our specification (knowing every student had one hand connected to a dog leash). This was time for bonding and lots of talking, while some guests tried out the equipment with their dogs. Pet companies that sponsored the event had their representatives in attendance – a promise of more sponsorships up ahead for us.
      Finally the party came to a close. It was 3 hours of an eyeful of doggy fun and activities, bonding with friends, photos to take, and food to cap the event. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the day got warmer. It was time to go.
      For weeks after that, I kept receiving photos in the email of the party taken by others. Fr Ron even sent me a cd of Spot’s birthday celebration in powerpoint presentation.
      Now isn’t that what dogs do to people? Bring them together and leave behind happy memories?
      Happy Birthday to Spot!


Spot sits like a sphnix atop the dog walk near a string of his similarly printed balloon decor.


Fr Ron and Scooby lead the line in the blessing of the training grounds of the school as birthday boy Spot follows with his lookalike handler and the other guests. People thought Fr Ron was in "costume" like Jonathan who was in his Dalmatian getup until they found out he was a real priest -- and a student of the school!


Jonathan in his Dalmatian getup gives last-minute instructions to the Basic Obedience participants before the trial begins.


A mini pinscher named Hero (in arms of owner) was our "Most Promising Toy Dog" awardee. Note the computer printed wall clock which we did ourselves. At left is Marco, our emcee.


Spot demonstrates what he had been trained for since he was 10 months old.


Here are some of the party guests. The dog at extreme right is Toby with his master Roy. Three months later, Toby will lose Roy and the dog will go home to me (see my post, "The Lesson of Toby on Separation.").

This is Happy as he tries the dog walk for the first time.

The buffet table after the Snack Attack: cleaned! Kimchi displays typical Beagle behavior.

Kimchi is all smiles before the camera. We gave her the "GRO Award."

A doggy birthday party captured forever by the camera.

Birthday boy Spotty sits under his welcome arch for the last time after the guests have left.

The Story of Butchie Boy

2011-05-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

It is not enough to just love a dog. You have to learn to understand his kind so you will know how to take care of him.

The first time I encountered this issue about a dog being “given away” was when we were first taking care of Boxers. I was seeing a vet on a regular basis for all sorts of doggy reasons: yearly shots, mange, flea control, indigestion, and all those concerns that beset first-time dog owners.

That morning, I had brought in King Kong, my dad’s favorite tan-and-white Boxer for some minor ailment. Because I had work at the office and could not come back to pick him up that day, I asked if the dog could board at the clinic for a day or two.

My vet refused, saying she only allows sick dogs to stay over. “The dog might think you’ve given him away,” she said.

That was new to me. “Why?” I asked. “What will he do?”

The vet shrugged her shoulders, indicating the reaction could be any variety of behaviors. “He might get mad, might get depressed, I can’t say what he might do,” she replied.

In the background, I could hear the whine of her canine patients. If you’re familiar with the usual sounds dogs make every day, you should hear them cry when they’re separated from their loved ones and long to go home. Their voices are different. These are the heart-wrenching cries dog owners don’t hear.

A few years later, Butchie Boy came into the picture, another tan-and-white beauty from the second brood of puppies produced by Alfa. By that time, King Kong was not with us anymore. My dad had passed him to his physical therapist when he saw how much the young man wanted to own a magnificent Boxer like Kong.

Butchie was 2 years old when I brought in a Dalmatian pup called Spotty as his new playmate. Spot went under my personal care. Butchie belonged to my dad and was being taken care of by the maid.

But I wasn’t managing the dogs well, this being my first time. I didn’t know they had a canine hierarchy. Spot was clearly a favorite at home with his playful ways and cheerful expression. He was always petted first, fussed over first, fed first, and taken out on walks first. Butchie looked at all this with a sullen face.

Spotty was undeniably cuter and more pleasant to look at than Butchie Boy's perennially scowling Boxer face.

When Spot reached a year old, Butchie suddenly unleashed his anger on him one night when Spot just arrived from an after-dinner stroll with me. Pampered Spot, thinking the world was a pleasant place to live in, under some angry dog’s jaws locked on his neck, learned to fight back. Spot won first, of course, being younger (Butch fought until he collapsed of fatigue). But Butchie Boy did not leave it at that. In the following days, he persisted in enforcing their natural canine hierarchy, asserting himself as the top dog of the house. This is a culture among dogs I wasn’t aware of.

I surfed the internet frantically, consulted books, and talked to various dog trainers, seeking answers to why my dogs were suddenly fighting. As is common to this approach, you receive a wide range of advice. But most of these you feel you can’t apply because of insufficient understanding on your part. In my case, I want to know what I’m doing – not just obey the method from step 1 to 5. The most practical advice (which I felt I could handle) came from a local trainer who said, “Let the dogs settle it among themselves. Don’t try to stop their fights.” When I said Spot keeps winning but Butchie keeps challenging, the trainer said, “Let them fight some more. Your Boxer hasn’t accepted yet his new position.”

When fights occur inside our house chairs tumble off their feet and furniture is in disarray. This is one of the most important reasons why we should understand and train dogs before they start to live with us. Fierce animal fights do not belong in the home. We are left in constant tension, apprehensive when the next attack will occur.

Arrangements at home got affected. Both dogs, once free to walk in and out the house, were leashed all day in separate locations away from each other’s sight. Nobody was happy with the set-up.

The fights were getting expensive too. Surgical bills were in danger of piling up because of holes and tears.

Finally, I noticed Spot was not only fighting back whenever Butchie challenged. He was also starting the fights. He believed he was the top dog in the house. This aggressive behavior was due to our fault. We had ingrained that belief in him!

In the end, the issue unresolved, one dog had to go. That had to be Butchie Boy. I was preparing Spot for agility training and had plans for him.

Butchie Boy when he was with us. He lived with us for 3 years.

My dog trainer, Jonathan, was still with us that time (his solution to this tension is another story, another blog). I rehomed Butchie with his family. Jonathan had other dogs there and I knew Butchie would have playmates.

But Butchie didn’t do well there. One day, Spot was “vacationing” there (for a “refresher” course in his basic obedience) and the dogs were kept apart. Spot was leashed in the garage while Butchie was in the backyard. Jonathan’s son, Joseph, had just given Spot his morning walk (big mistake!), when he entered the backyard to fetch Butchie for his turn. An enraged Butch attacked Joseph.

Jonathan relocated Butchie to a woman who had a Boxer female. Butch did well there for awhile. Jonathan raved about how loved and spoiled Butch was by the woman when he’d visit them. I was promised a Boxer puppy from Butch’s line.

But a year or two later, it happened again. I received frantic phone calls from the woman to report to me Butch had suddenly attacked her. In stitches and bandages all over her arms and legs, she called me from the hospital where she was confined. The woman begged me to take the dog away.

I called for Jonathan, my mind busy on what to do next. I cannot bring Butchie back to us because Spotty was here. If Butchie was on aggression mode, I didn’t want to consider any of my friends. My only alternative was to get in touch with Anna, one of the directors of PAWS, the Philippine Animal Welfare Society.

Jonathan came to the house that afternoon after delivering Butchie Boy to the PAWS animal shelter. He had to sign a waiver for me, giving the dog up. I grieved about legally disowning Butchie Boy from us like that and felt his fate was due to our ignorance. During the months that passed after I had Butchie moved away from us, I had finally understood what had happened between him and Spot. But by the time I knew enough about their social phenomenon, Butchie was not living with us anymore.

Butchie stares at the camera while Spot, still a puppy, playfully nips at his hind legs. Boxers are ideal children's pets, being extremely patient to being poked and manhandled by young hands.

             Butchie seemed fated to lose those close to him. When he was over a year old, he lost his caregiver, a maid of ours named Ming, whom he was very devoted to. At first, when Ming's 9-year-old daughter, Jasmin, was temporarily confined to the hospital for fever, Ming would spent the night at her daughter's bedside. After she leaves, I'd see Butchie sit facing our front door in the living room. When I turn off the lights, I'd still see Butchie facing the front door.
               One night I awoke to hear a long, wailing howl in the living room. I snapped up in bed when I recognized it. That was Butchie. The dog was crying for Ming, wondering why she wasn't home yet.
               Butchie would have continued his wailing hadn't I not rushed to the living room to interrupt his sorrow. It was a terribly unhappy sound. The other dogs woke up to distract him too.
               A few months later, Ming and her daughter left us. Butchie's expression changed. I thought the dog had just gotten more mature and mellow. But not until our family friend named Fely brought it up. "Butchie looks different," she remarked. I agreed, then the realization hit. The dog was grieving. Ming will never come back to him.
               Boxers have such expression-filled faces.
               But I was never able to protect the dog from more losses in his life.

During the days Butchie was at the shelter, I steeled myself from visiting him. Should I see that familiar Boxer face, what might I do? My father had died a few months back and Butchie was a part of that sentimental past. But I had taken him away from his first home, had him relocated twice, and finally had him brought to a shelter because he could not go back to us, his first family.
A few days later, Anna called me up after visiting Butchie at the shelter. “Such a quiet, tight-lipped dog,” she commented. She inquired on the dog’s background and to collect information on his behavior. The following week, she called back. Butchie was 6 years old, suffering from a minor ailment (which I can’t remember anymore), but with his background of hostility and aggression, he cannot be re-adopted. The decision was to put him down.

For the next two weeks I tried to busy myself with other things while I tossed the issue about Butchie in my mind. I didn’t know what to do. At the time when Butchie and Spot were living together, I didn’t know about this canine hierarchy the dogs follow on instinct. More experienced dog owners or dog behaviorists could probably have settled this social issue of theirs. But though I later understood the culture, I didn’t think I had enough confidence to face the two dogs again. That’s why Butchie couldn’t go back home to us.

One day, I received a call from the shelter. Butchie was going to be put down in 15 minutes. I was deeply saddened and at the same time helpless. I still didn’t know what to do. WHAT DID THEY WANT ME TO DO??? They had given me the chance to do something but I could offer no other option to save Butchie’s life. In the end, I resigned to my dilemma. I told them I was letting the dog go.

Butchie left our world quietly that morning.

New dog owners make a lot of mistakes in the beginning and the price of that is always some dog’s life. No matter how much you love them.

The House of Popeye

2011-05-17T02:03:00.000-07:00

Young alugbati bushes. This plant is so prolific even our neighbors are finding them growing in their planter boxes.

Since our dogs eat only dry nuggets, you might as well compare them to a child growing up on any of today's snack foods touted to be "vitamin enriched."

My maid Lourdes loves to grow vegetables. When I decided to strip off a 10-year-old vine with hanging roots off our trellis for a change, I gave her permission to plant a prolific vegetable vine temporarily. This fast-growing vegetable, I noticed, has been lording it over our front garden for quite awhile.

But I didn’t know how fast it would grow.

The Malabar Vine or alugbati covers our trellis.

Before I knew it, this spinach vine has been providing a shade over our trellis, with black berries hanging over the grills like clusters of attractive grapes.

If only they were red so the birds could pick on it. But they’re black and dry to the taste so they’re useless.

This edible vegetable is a kind of spinach vine called Malabar Spinach, Ceylon Spinach, or the “red vine” because of its red purplish stems. Locally it’s called the “alugbati,” a kind of spinach with an earthy taste and slimy texture. A lot of people don’t like it because of its slippery texture. I don’t like it because it has a taste like soil (or sometimes called "earthy").

In other Asian countries, the spinach is eaten boiled (boil until cooked and discard water), used as a salad ingredient, or in dishes with noodles or other vegetables. Lourdes once invented a “vegetable burger” made of very young spinach leaves, carrots, turnips, and dipped in beaten egg. The alugbati is an excellent source of calcium, iron, Vitamin A, Vitamin C. and Vitamin B. It contains saponins that act as phytochemicals, fighting cancer and other diseases.

The plant is also popular for its medicinal properties. Here are what alugbati can do:

1. the roots can be used as a poultice to reduce local swellings;

2. the sap can be applied to acne areas to eliminate irritation;

3. the sap has a softening or soothing effect, especially to the skin;

4. it is a diuretic;

5. it is a mild laxative;

6. pulped leaves are applied to boils, ulcers and abscesses;

7. Leaf juice with sugar is effective for inflammation of the nose and throat with increased production of mucus. Also used to treat gonorrhea and balanitis

8. Leaf juice with butter has a soothing effect on burns and scalds.

9. Stem and leaf extract can cure habitual headache.

10. Fruits maybe used as cheeks and lips make-up and dye.

11. Good source of fibers.

But when you have a ton of that growing in your garden, what would you do? We feed it to the dogs.

Whenever I go out to buy a sack of dog food it would always bother me that our beloved pets are growing up on processed food. When I read about how dog food kibbles are made, it makes an informed dog owner look twice at his pet’s food bowl and ask: Is there anything fresh in that bowl? Where are the valuable enzymes?

Enzymes come from fresh food. In humans, enzymes are what help dissolve those metabolic wastes which pile up in our blood – cholesterol accumulations, uric acid formations, toxic wastes, and others. But because the modern man’s diet is now seldom fresh, the cancers and various other illnesses of today are found in younger and younger patients. Once a food passes through heat the enzymes die so you can imagine how sensitive these are. Modern man may eat well but he eats “dead food,” or food with no life.

Packy eats his morning meal with alugbati mixed with his kibbles. Seedlings sprout between stones around him.

Since our dog eats only dry nuggets all his life, you might as well compare him to a child growing up on any of today’s snack foods touted to be “vitamin enriched.” In other words, our dogs are growing up on purely manufactured food.

We have a lot of this spinach so we might as well add it mashed into the dog food kibbles to at least provide the dogs’ systems with something fresh, from where the much-needed enzymes will come from. Thus, every morning, Lourdes runs a harvest of this yucky spinach in the blender and adds it to their meal, mixed with a lot of water. Sometimes she also throws into the blender the skin of bananas and papayas (taken from my morning fruit shakes). The afternoon meal is pure dog food.

There hasn’t been any complaint so I guess the dogs can take it. But just as fast as Lourdes cuts their stems, the vine grows back quickly. Now, their black berry-like fruits have scattered all over the ground and there are seedlings everywhere. This is too much. Lourdes now is put to task to uproot those seedlings and add them to the blender every morning, aside from the regular harvest of leaves.


Alubgbati seedlings sprout behind the pots and the wall.

No, this is not grass growing between the stones. It's the alugbati seedlings.

Seedlings share space with potted plants. On the ground below seedlings grow like an invasion army.

Spot eats his daily kibbles with spinach. Dalmatians have a high uric acid level in their system so we feed Spot his food soaked in water. A well hydrated dog is not prone (hopefully) to kidney stone formation.

A young alugbati seedling struggles to emerge between the stones along the garden pathway.

The University of the Philippines in Summer

2011-05-14T20:21:00.000-07:00

Spot watches soccer practice on a Sunday morning at the Sunken Garden.

It’s beautiful at the UP during the summer. Now if you can only keep your dogs away from accidents. . .

I own Dalmatians. These dogs when they are young are like big Jack Russell terriers. They are like coiled springs that need to loosen up. Dalmatians were originally bred to accompany coaches and carriages as guard dogs before the arrival of the motor car. Because this horse-drawn vehicle often travel long distances, physical endurance is one of the major traits of Dalmatians. These guard dogs are built to run for miles and miles.

Spotty was the first Dalmatian I acquired and from him I learned about his kind. I’d take him out twice a day for long walks in the neighborhood. Twice a week it would be 3 kilometer walks along the Marikina River (Marcos Highway to Sumulong Highway then back). Daily I’d run with him at our dog agility circuit when we had the dog school at a park. Just about any place which would allow dogs I’d bring him. These tiring excursions would send Spotty to his bed that night snoozing away to canine dreamland and the following days I’d see a well-behaved pet.

Old-generation trainers used to remark that the Dalmatian was slow to learn, difficult to control, and hard to train. In my opinion, they don’t know the breed. They don’t know that you can’t train a Dalmatian right away. The dog is too restless in the beginning to pay attention. Tire this dog out first with a good run. When he comes back to you worked out and spent – he’s ready to listen.

So when I saw four-year-old Toby ripping green coconut shell halves with a vengeance and leaving husks scattered around the house, that was the sign. He has twice-daily walks around the neighborhood – isn’t that enough?

Clearly it wasn’t and now the dog was gnashing his teeth on things he could destroy. Maybe he missed his Sunday walk in the park because his other Dalmatian packmate, my dog Spotty, and I spent an overnight at my aunt’s house out of town. So I didn’t attend to him when I got home that weekend.

Now Toby is unleashing some nervous energy.

I decided to give my two Dalmatians a big open space to run freely the following Sunday.

At dawn that Sunday, I folded over the back seat of my SUV, spread an old blanket over the enlarged carpeted baggage compartment floor, packed in water and doggy emergency kit, and with Dominic and 2 excited Dalmatians in tow, we left the house very early and headed to the University of the Philippines. By 6:00am the acacia-lined academic oval of the college campus was busy with morning joggers. It was May and it was summertime. At that early hour, the sky was already brightly lit by a sun rising from the east.

Dogs are banned from the oval where the joggers are. But along the University Avenue on the right, before you reach the Main Administration Building, you will see a wide and grassy sloping field. I drove down the wide avenue, turned right along the academic oval, then turned right again after the detour sign which the campus security erect every Sunday morning. The oval is closed to vehicular traffic so the joggers can exercise freely. I parked at the Coral Building or the Office of the Campus Architect and opened my car door to the deafening whine of cicadas from the trees around us, a sound always associated with summer after a rain the afternoon before.

With Dominic walking Toby on leash and I with Spotty, we led the dogs down the sprawling meadow still in soft shade. A cool breeze was in the air. The newly cut grass was loaded with morning dew. I could hear a noisy bird cackling loudly up the tallest trees. Another bird kept hooting. Toby paused midway several times, listening attentively to the strange sounds, one foot folded in the air, bringing out the Pointer blood in him.

Down the slopes we set the dogs free.

This is doggy heaven on earth: wide open space, no leash, a playmate, and freedom to run.

This is heaven for dogs yearning to stretch their legs sans confining leashes. I watched Toby’s lean body zip through the air like a coiled spring unloaded. He ran around Spotty in wide circles but my eight-year-old Dalmatian refused to be intimidated. I saw my (early) senior challenge his younger packmate and together the two spotted dogs decorated the green landscape with their games.

A small creek snakes throughout the land. I headed there to give the gamboling dogs greater space with which to frolic. Toby’s sprints alone seemed to need a lot of space. Tall grasses line this break in the land a natural spring bubbles along. The creek yawns open at a certain portion where one can cross comfortably. I went down the rocky bank and with one step I was at the other side. Spot hopped over neatly and galloped up to join me. Dominic was behind calling Toby to follow.

The running water of the creek collected into a small pool before traveling onward. Toby descended to the bank of that pool, saw the expanse of water and looked around for a crossing. Then Dominic gave his Recall command at that very moment. Toby heard Dominic’s voice and with eyes focused on him took a step forward. The dog plunged into the pool with a splash. The waters were neck deep.

The fall surprised us. My Dalmatians are not water dogs. This is not a pleasant surprise for Toby.

The dog struggled to his feet on the pool’s muddy floor and climbed up the bank muddied and dripping wet.

But that didn’t spoil his day. At the other side of the creek Toby continued his frolic, the dogs chasing and challenging each other, enjoying the wind and open space. I watched Toby discover brown long-tailed birds hiding in the tall bushes and try to give chase as each bird flew away.

“Toby, now you’re a hunting dog,” Dominic quipped.

Several minutes later the sun started to cast its bright light slowly across the meadow and the long shadows shortened. We will have to go home soon. But Toby has to dry up. His nosing around and chasing the birds among the tall grasses had further dampened his fur.

I decided to go to the “ruins.” The “ruins” are located at the distant end of the meadow. It’s a good walk under the summer morning sun to help Toby dry up. What has always piqued my curiosity were the two large signs which forbid visitors to hang around the area. The two signs faced only the street on the northern side of the meadow, its backs turned to us. I’ve glimpsed them when driving out the campus in the past. What’s over there anyway?

The "ruins" with only one signboard by the time I shot this photo.

The strange concrete structures were nothing but the ruins of a group of small maybe two-story buildings. But only their foundations were visible which you approach by going down some steps. Dried leaves carpeted the floor as the silent markers, under the shade of wide-spreading trees, made the place almost romantic.

I saw a few big holes in the ground, old wells probably. I turned to go back to the open meadow and Spot turned too to follow me. I forgot that the dog was off his leash.

Then I saw it happen. Spot moved to be beside me and as he did he walked into an open well. Good thing the hole was full of water. The dog fell in with a small splash. We were surprised at the sudden accident, our second in one hour that morning. Spot submerged then rose up. He floundered at the edge, front paws hanging for life. Dominic helped pull him out of the hole because the dog couldn’t hoist himself over.

“Why didn’t you see that?” I demanded as Spot shook himself up.

There were a number of those uncovered wells here and there. Obviously, like Toby who plunged into the creek without looking, Spot also didn’t see where he was going.

Now I know what those signs are all about. Why the hell don’t they put an enclosure around those holes??? Or put signs on the opposite side, the southern side too?

I’m just thankful that hole wasn’t dry or the waters way down below.

Water dog Spot after we pulled him from the well.

Dogs – their vision isn’t as sharp as us humans. We must always look ahead (and if off leash -- think ahead), and keep an eye on them. It’s like having children with you. They need to be continuously monitored, especially if they’re unconfined.

But the trouble is, dogs remain like children all their lives.

By 7:30am, the heat of summer was beginning to be felt. Time to go. Spot had a slight limp because of the pull exerted on him when we hauled him out of the well. But he gamely continued to follow me back to the car.

I brought home two damp, dirty, tired but happy dogs that had a bath when they arrived. They had their mid-morning breakfast. Then a long relaxing nap.

The next day I was right. Toby lay about contentedly ignoring any of the items he loves to rip apart.

Amidst the busy chirping of birds at the trees overhead and the melodious music of the UP Carillon filling the air, morning joggers work up a sweat at the 2.2 km. Academic Oval.

The famous Oblation, an iconic symbol of the university. Its original version, made of concrete, was a naked man but to "promote morality and censorship" a later version added a fig leaf. . . The original statue, created by National Artist Guillermo E. Tolentino in 1935, can be found at the 3rd floor of the University Main Library. The Oblation statue stands 3.3 meters tall. It stands at the front of the Main Administration Building, greeting visitors entering the campus via the University Avenue.

The UP Carillon Tower along the Academic Oval fills the morning air with pleasant tinkling music. The bronze bells play from local folk songs and anthems to the Beatles.

The dogs inspect the creek. At the background above runs the tree-lined Academic Oval.

Looking for birds to chase -- or looking for trouble.

Toby enjoys his freedom as a city dog. Across the creek are the "ruins."

A dew-soaked Spot passes by a common weed locally called "Makahia" (Mimosa pudica) or Sensitive Plant. The plant's fern-like leaves fold before your eyes upon being touched. The leaves open again a few minutes later.
Spot wears a neon pink collar (Toby's is orange) with a small bag attached to it; inside are poop bags and some small change (for my use). The other collar in the photo is a flea collar. Under Spot's blue collar bag dangles his metal ID.

The dogs end their morning exercise under a Golden Shower (Cassia fistula). A summertime tree, the Golden Shower bears cylindrical dark-brown pods, one to two feet long, which furnish the ingredient of a purgative drug.

The Sunken Garden located behind the UP Main Library reportedly sinks 2 inches every year. This is due to either underground trenches connecting to the Marikina Fault line which passes a few miles outside the campus, or to empty streams that used to be there in the 1950s. The 5-hectare field is now a favorite venue for sports tournaments, fairs, and military drills.

No Trespassing! See My Teeth?

2011-05-11T00:42:00.000-07:00

I watched Tootsie, trying to understand why the dog was so hysterical. The dog wasn’t growling. She was screaming.

Last March, my auntie’s dog, a spunky mini Dachshund named Tootsie, left the Philippines to settle in her new home in the United States with my cousin Marie, her husband Bobby, and daughter Francine. I used to mention this dog in previous blogs because she was our first encounter with her breed. My elderly dad, when he was still alive, fell in love with this dog when she came to stay with us for basic training before going to my aunt.

Her first (and temporary) name was Tutti. The dog was plucky and high-spirited. She was a puppy when she came to live with us. Soon after settling down and noticing there were other dogs in the house, she drew up her own rules. Tutti took it upon herself to make it known before our male dogs that she was the boss. She would initiate all the chase games and the wrestling matches. She would lead and she would end.

Our male adult dogs immediately gave deference to this young pup. Adult dogs do not seem to consider a pup a threat to their hierarchy (yet). Until that pup is a year old, that is. I learned about dog aggression the hard way with Spot. But that’s another story (another blog in the future).

Doggy antics were what made my dad’s afternoons light and amusing during those days. He’d watch their wrestling competitions and their chase games. Led by a little black Dachshund puppy the size of a sewer rat, they’d scramble back and forth past his open bedroom door until they were breathless. I guess an independent-minded dog like the Dachshund makes an ideal pet for an elderly. Unlike our big dogs that lie around waiting for their master, the Dachshund can lead and entertain himself without any human prompting. They’re naturally assertive and creative. In Tutti’s case too, she had no concept of size. You can take a lesson about life when you see a small puppy dominate our larger (and older) dogs, supremely confident without a doubt in that little mind that they would follow her.

They did follow her.

After a month of basic training at my house, Tutti moved to live with my aunt for the next five years until my aunt died last February.

The puppy’s departure left a void with my dad. He realized he liked the Dachshund because of Tutti but Tutti was not meant for us. To replace Tutti, Marie sent my dad another Dachshund which we named Packy.

A year or two later, my aunt invited me to Christmas dinner. In keeping with the spirit of the season, I took along my Dalmatian Spot, wearing a red Santa cap. Besides, I told myself, Tutti (now Tootsie) once lived with us. She will remember Spot. They can play together and keep each other company that evening.

But it did not happen that way.

As soon as Spot entered my aunt’s house that Christmas eve, a shrill scream pierced the air. It was Tootsie. The dog glared, barking wildly at her spotted visitor.

We were all bewildered. “Don’t you remember Spotty?” I demanded at Tootsie. “You used to play together! You lived at my house for a month!”

Tootsie’s reply was still a hysterical scream at Spot.

The only way we could resolve this was to keep the dogs apart. Marie kept Tootsie close to her while I kept Spot a distance away. Tootsie was clearly very upset every time she’d see Spot.

Tootsie snuggles up to a larger-sized Spotty during nap time. How could I expect that she would not recognize Spot a few years later when they used to be sleeping buddies?

Some two years later, my aunt invited me to drop by her house when she found out I would be staying overnight at a farm in Cavite with my dogs. She suggested I pass by her house on my way home that Sunday morning. “Let’s introduce Tootsie to Packy,” she said. “Let’s introduce her to a boyfriend.”

That late morning, I arrived at her house. We kept the two Dalmatians outside beside the car, while I headed towards my aunt’s house across the street, Packy on leash. My friend Fely met me at the gate but I didn't want to enter, remembering what happened that Christmas eve with Spot. I stayed outside on the sidewalk.
“Bring Tootsie out,” I said, “Packy is here.”

Fely didn’t think my aunt would want Tootsie out in the street. So I had to enter the property. I stood a distance away from the front door. “Bring Tootsie out,” I repeated.

Fely led Tootsie out. As soon as Tootsie saw Packy it happened all over again. The little dog let out a high piercing scream, barking wildly at Packy. Packy, meanwhile, for a dog that walks with a chip on his shoulder back home, stood quietly beside me taking everything in.

I didn’t think this was working. Tootsie persisted with her noisy reception. But I’ve been learning more about dogs since. I watched Tootsie, trying to understand why the dog was so hysterical. I was confused because the dog wasn’t growling. She was screaming. She stayed before the screen door, backed against the front step but she wasn’t displaying the familiar dog aggression stance. Then I saw a fine row of white teeth in her small mouth.

My aunt walked out, amusement all over her face.”What’s going on?”she asked.”Why is Tootsie like that? She doesn’t like Packy?”

“She thinks Packy is trespassing,” I replied, finally understanding what I was seeing. “We shouldn’t have introduced the two dogs here. This is Tootsie’s territory.”

After awhile we gave up. Tootsie was clearly not in a social mood. My aunt led the dog back indoors while I looked down to lead Packy back to the car. I had felt him pull his leash to crawl among the bushes (to get away from that screaming female) so I pulled the leash hidden among the plants.

The leash came up empty. Packy was wearing a harness and I realized his short Dachshund legs had easily slipped out the belts.

“Packy is loose!” I hissed at Fely in a panic whisper.

Fely immediately parted the bushes while I turned the other direction calling for the dog. My aunt had other dogs and they might pounce on the "trespasser." I wasn’t sure if they were confined. I knew Packy doesn't back away from fights. Finally Packy emerged around the corner coming from the back of the house. It seemed he had already scouted the property on his own and the other dogs hadn't spotted him.

Packy was never introduced to Tootsie as a future beau. We should have taken both dogs out to a neutral territory such as the basketball court across the street, introduced the two together and let them play for awhile. But because nobody could accompany Tootsie out into the street (my hands were full and Fely would rather chat with my aunt indoors) a second introduction was never arranged.

I learned that you can’t just walk your dog into another person’s house presuming the dog in residence there will receive the visitor amicably. Some dogs will greet the new dog sociably, others won’t. At my friend Malu's house, I've taken Spot there lots of times but her fluffy-haired terrier named Happy has never demonstrated any territorial behavior. It was a mistake for me to presume the same reception would exist in every other house we'd go to that had a dog living there.

Packy, meanwhile, after pulling his “Houdini” disappearance trick on me that morning, now wears both a collar and matching harness attached to a couplet leash when he's taken outdoors.

Packy with two new Dachshund friends named Lilo and Stitch. Packy wears a collar and harness on a couplet leash (it has 2 clips) to give us a good hold on him when walking him in public.

Preparing for the Big One (and Hoping it Won’t Come!)

2011-05-03T22:50:00.000-07:00

Disaster preparedness runs by the motto, “Expect the worst but hope for the best."

It took my sister living in far-off Germany to open the awareness. One night, she googled the “Marikina Valley Fault line” and came up with a wealth of fascinating – and at the same time alarming – information that she had to email me about it. Maybe us, urban Filipinos, living near and around that huge split in the earth’s crust, we’ve taken it for granted that it will stay just like that -- frozen in time -- forever.

So it had to take somebody far removed from our complacency and indifference to point out a new and fresh fact: that this Valley Fault’s long sleep is feared up. Reports at the website of the Philvolcs (Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology) at www.phivolcs.dost.gov.ph warn that the fault line is due for “movement” because it hasn’t shifted in 200 years. Its last movement was in the 17^th century. We are now in the 21^st.

We have a chandelier which I look at when I feel any earth movement. If it sways, there's an earthquake; if it doesn't maybe it was just the dog scratching under my seat!

In 2004, a study was done on the impact of an earthquake on the national capital region conducted by the Metropolitan Manila Development Authority (MMDA), Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology (Philvolcs), and the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA). In 2010 last year, urban planner and architect Felino Palafox Jr updated this and submitted it to Malacanang. Maybe the timing was not in “tune with the times” because Manila was relatively disaster-free that time. President Aquino’s spokesman took his proposal lightly and called Palafox an “alarmist.”

Palafox will have his day. History has always proven that forward-thinking leaders who were ridiculed for upsetting a people's comfort zone often ended up right.

There’s nothing wrong with disaster preparedness. It doesn’t mean you expect doom -- or that you will invite it. Military strategists are trained to think of the worst possible scenarios from the enemy and to prepare for them. Should the enemy attack, they’ve covered all the possible movement beforehand. Should the enemy not attack – well and good! Isn’t that what everybody hopes and wants?

I went through all the sites provided by the Google search engine about this Marikina Valley Fault line (or more correctly called the West Valley Fault line), searching for that one right map that would show up my neighborhood clear as day. Finally, www.nababaha.com/marikina_fault/marikina_valley_fault.htm; so I looked it up. The map was revealing. Two of my friends whose homes along the Blue Ridge subdivision which I suspected were at the edge of the fault (because a cliff was at the end of their properties) were actually a few miles away from the route of the Valley Fault line. You mean to tell me the land plunged several meters below the edge of their properties yet that didn’t mean they were on the fault line? Talk about their landscape being "redesigned"!

What about those streets in pricey subdivisions where the fault line clearly runs underneath their mansions? Oh my. I’d use my money to plan a getaway from there. Better to be safe than be sorry for being in the stupor of such denial.

My friend Fely left me these 3 wrought iron candle holders and they're beautiful to use during a candle lit night. But they can easily topple over. I secured them (discreetly) with nylon string.

Closeup of the strings.

One local television news report interviewed informal settlers living directly on top of land warned by Philvolcs authorities as headed for liquefaction in the event of a major tremor. The reporter asked a woman if she was aware of this and if she had any plans for addressing this hazard. The woman looked guiltily around her, said no she hasn’t any such preparation. Then she burst out fatalistically, “Kung oras mo na, oras mo na (If it’s your time, it’s your time!)!” referring to the inevitability of Death's call. Her female buddy, to silence the TV reporter, interjected loudly, “God is with us!”

This denial leaves one the excuse not to face the emergency. When I called our neighborhood handyman, Rudy, to drill some concrete nails in the wall because I wanted to bolt some tall cabinets there -- and why -- Rudy looked at me with wide eyes and said defiantly, "Hindi mangyayari yan (That will not happen)!" referring to the reason why I was doing this. I had to "readjust" his thinking.

I sought out my neighborhood. Hey, we’re pretty far (sort of). Our house sits on adobe rock typical of many Quezon City properties and is on rather high ground. When the famous Ondoy typhoon in 2009 swallowed most of Metro Manila underwater, neighbors remarked our area was like being surrounded by a “moat.” There were floods on all four corners of our neighborhood but we stayed on dry land.

But are we really that “far”? The 1990 earthquake of Luzon involved the Philippine Fault Zone, bigger than the West Valley Fault. One of its splays, the Digdig fault made a move. The movement was felt for 20,000 kms. from the Bicol region up to the Cordillera mountains. The Digdig starts at the eastern side of Luzon then crosses central Luzon north of Manila. It doesn't even pass anywhere near the metro. The diagonally running Digdig fault movement had an intensity of 7.8. (This earthquake's massive energy collected underground and exited the following year out a mountain top which people never suspected was a volcano because it didn't have a crater -- Mt Pinatubo). The epicenter of that 1990 earthquake was in a remote town called Rizal in Nueva Ecija. Thankfully, Manila was marginally damaged yet that tremor rolled the streets of Metro Manila as if the city was on top of a bobbing sea (I saw this unusual movement happen down Aurora Blvd when the quake struck at 4:26pm in July. It was like the street and buildings were on a water bed!). In faraway Baguio the famous Hyatt Terraces toppled like a stack of playing cards killing tourists, some just having an afternoon coffee with friends, and hotel guests.

I leave you to imagine what would be the worst case scenario in your respective areas. In general, there may be no electricity to open your TV so you can check the news, no water might pour out your faucets, no cellphone service to contact friends or relatives because the servers might be down, there may be no internet, no landline, flyovers and bridges are collapsed, and streets are blocked with debris. Traffic lights are down, the drugstores and food stores are closed, and gas stations can’t load your tank. The city will be cut off; provisions can’t come in because major roads are blocked with toppled buildings. You can’t go anywhere either to check on loved ones because even secondary streets are barricaded with obstructions. The 2004 JICA study mentioned above even predicts Manila could be cut into 4 parts, each part isolated from the other due to collapsed roadways, flyovers, and bridges.
What now, urban sophisticate?

Remember, disaster preparedness does not mean you expect the end of the world is sure to come upon you (and so it will happen). You’re just covering all the possible territories that could happen. You can go from simple preparations such as stocking up on grains and water, to the big budget plans such as installing solar energy to power your house (or moving to a less hazardous address). If it happens -- and it may be less worse than expected -- you’ll not be left totally devastated.
               I still have a lot to do, other than just bolting things around the house. I have to stock up on canned goods and bottled water, store grains such as beans and mongo, and if I can do this, collect rainwater in plastic drums and keep them around (covered). When we were growing up, my dad, a survivor of the Bataan Death March and a USAFFE war veteran, had the habit of collecting rainwater in big drums. It was a strange practice to us that time because nobody else that we knew did this. During the summer should any of the drums be depleted (for example, to water the plants or wash the car) he would fill it up at once with a hose from a nearby tap and cover the drum with a lid. He also installed a special tank for our drinking water.
             We kids used to make jokes about this. Why was our father storing so much water? Just turn on the faucet! We were too young to understand, not having experienced much about life yet. But we were under the wing of a man who had seen life -- and had seen a lot. This went on for some years. Then a massive typhoon hit Manila and the city had no water, electricity, or telephone (there were no cellphones yet) for days because of the destruction. Water service was the last to be restored many weeks later. But we had water all that time. My dad's disaster preparedness paid off.
               I still have to scan important documents (property titles, contracts, birth certificates, etc) and email them to my siblings abroad so they have a copy in case something happens to the original papers here. Even the combination numbers of the vaults which my dad left behind -- I have sent already.
               All computer files from the PC I copy to an external hard drive which the more portable laptop could open should there be no electricity.

Most homes keep a First Aid kit in their bathrooms. Is it because the family expects accidents and turbulence to fall upon their lives? No they don’t.

Disaster preparedness is like that. Just keep everything in place. Then go on with your daily life.


We have a pantry room and it would be disastrous if all those breakables slide out should the earth rock. We have unused jalousie blades from old windows from the past. They've been in the garage for years. I had them cut in half at a glass and aluminum shop and nailed them at the end of the shelves to act as a barricade.


A clock is another breakable. Hang them on hooks -- not on nails.

We developed our backyard to grow vegetables to add to our food. I even allowed Lourdes, who loves to grow them, to plant alugbati (a kind of spinach vine) on our front garden trellis. I hate the taste but thankfully, the dogs have no complaints (it's blended fresh into their dog food).

BOLT all your cabinets (you'll need two; a small size for the left door to hold it secure inside and a bigger one for both doors outside) so your precious dinnerware will not fall out when the ground rolls. I'm still thinking how to hold the china in, though, because a recycled jalousie blade is too low a barricade when we tend to stack the plates up. But I told Lourdes to make it a habit to always bolt the kitchen cabinets (above photo) during the day. The 1990 earthquake, I reminded her, struck in the middle of the afternoon. These things don't occur only in the early morning.

Toby expends restless energy by howling with Packy as the tooting melody of an ice cream cart passes by. In a joint study between scientists from the University of the Philippines and authorities from the Philvolcs entitled "Quantifying Spatial and Temporal Dimensions of Premonitory Animal Behavior of the July 18,1990 Luzon Earthquake," dogs in the town of Rizal, Nueva Ecija had bayed (a deep-throated howl, not the give-it-all-I've-got howl Toby is demonstrating above) that afternoon before the quake struck. What dogs howl in the afternoon? That would be all the more ominous. The dogs in Rizal had warned of a coming danger -- but who was listening?

My Dad and his Dogs (I)

2011-04-19T02:36:00.000-07:00

Observers noticed my dad's heart was in the grave. At that age, he had nothing to live for or to look forward to anymore.I was warned my dad might not live long.

The story of my elderly father first appeared in the Animal Scene magazine written by my college buddy Mona Sabalones Gonzales (copy paste her blog -- http://monasabalonesgonzalez.blogspot.com/2011/03/how-dog-gave-new-life-to-its-elderly.html on your address bar). It's the story of how a dog prolonged the life of a 79-year-old widower -- who thought he had nothing to look forward to anymore -- by an extra 15 years.

During my mom’s one-year hospitalization, friends and relatives warned me that my dad could just as soon follow after her. They had been together for 53 years. How can a man find a new life after all that? All my siblings were abroad and I was living on my own apart from them. So he was, indeed, doomed to live alone after my mom dies. On Christmas eve my mom died. I can imagine what must've gone in his head that day after the funeral. In two months he will be 80. Too late to start anything new.
That's why old people look back. They see nothing up ahead.
I have to give thanks to my cousin Marimi whose parents were also aging at the same time. She was the one who led me to the right direction. “Find something your dad loved to do when he was young,” she said, passing on the same advice her father’s geriatric doctor had told her. “That indicates his natural talent, a passion which he can do easily.”

My dad headed the legal dept of the military. Here he is shown reviewing arms surrendered by rebels. This was taken probably in the late 1950s or early 1960s, at the height of his career.

I looked at my dad and took stock of his “passions.” He was a military man, through and through. He loved military law. It was his life. He loved golf too. He also loved jazz music. He enjoyed tinkering around the house. He had a good hand with plants. He was also good with animals.

I decided a new dog would be easier for me to give.

But I didn’t address that until several months later. Soon after my mom died I packed my stuff and went home to keep him company. There, I saw the silence that surrounded his life. He read all day. TV in the evenings. Monday mornings we’d visit the cemetery. Once a week he’d trek to the market to replenish food supplies. At home, he’d read again.

When I found a new job in a magazine office I’d leave him alone until I come home in the evening. Observers noticed his heart was in the grave. At that age, it seemed my dad had nothing to live for or to look forward to anymore. I was warned he might not live long.

One day, I was sent to interview a dog owner who wanted his prized Boxer dog featured. It had just won the All-Breed Championship title the third time in a row at a nationwide dog show.

It turned out the dog owner named Joey, kept a lot of dogs too. I saw a long kennel of snub-nosed canines leap and bark excitedly when they saw me. They were the most attractive animals in the world. That smart military stance, that alert and intelligent look in their eyes, and that dignified hold of their heads – they were Boxers! Joey had a lot of them. He was a breeder.

During the interview I had many questions outside of the article I planned to put together. I told Joey about my dad. I told him stories of how my dad was good with dogs but I was not familiar with Boxers. Would that be a good breed for an elderly?

After the interview Joey walked me out but led me first to a cage where a tall 6-month old Boxer rose when it saw us. Joey took it out and presented it to me. “Give it to your father,” he said.

That Ugly Dog

The dog had a small head. But it was a purebred. “It won’t qualify for show,” Joey warned me, explaining that he breeds only show dogs. “Those that don’t qualify either I sell cheap or give away to friends.”

I looked down at that brindle pup with its black mask and miserable-looking wrinkled expression. It looked the ugliest dog in the world. It didn’t look as smart as those other Boxers in the kennel (especially the tan and white ones). My heart didn’t go out to it. But maybe my dad’s heart would. Maybe this dog was meant for him.

(next post below)

My Dad and his Dogs (II)

2011-04-19T02:17:00.000-07:00

Those were years of a new life for my dad: raising, training, and caring for the seven dogs. They had so taken over his life.

The love affair started slowly. Every morning as I’d leave for work I’d see my elderly dad sit at his favorite chair in the living room, his book for the day, and an ugly brown dog on the floor by his side. When I come home in the evening, he’d open the door for me and I’d see that same ugly brown dog with him.

But my dad was becoming enthusiastic. “The dog is beside me all day long,” he remarked. “When I go to the kitchen she follows me. When I go back to the living room she follows me too.” He reminisced a similar dog that stayed by his side when he was a little boy. Life was getting interesting.

It took many days before my dad named the dog. Finally he decided on “Alfa.”

One day I saw a new book by his seat. It was a book about Boxers. He had gone out that day to buy the book that would soon be his new Bible. He studied it all day and would tell me the new things he was learning.

When my dad had gone through the book, he announced to me what he wanted to do next: he wanted to breed Alfa.

I went back to Joey to tell him that Alfa was in good hands, my dad was interested in life again, and that he wanted to have the dog bred. We arranged for the stud date and on that day I brought Alfa back to Joey where she stayed a few days.

The Extended Years

Alfa gave birth to six tiny puppies. I brought them home from the vet in a laundry basin and my dad greeted me upon my arrival to see them. A few days later, I returned to the clinic with all six to have their tails docked. When I came home after the pups’ minor surgery, my dad gave a remark that indicated the new obsession he was developing: “So that is what was done. I couldn’t sleep all week thinking how the surgery was going to be like!”

All six pups grew robust and happy. In the beginning we relegated them to the den and my dad bought a pup crib upon the vet’s advice for them to stay until their booster shots were complete. Soon, all six pups were crowded in the crib. Every morning my dad would enter to feed his wards and the growing youngsters, waiting for breakfast, would raise an uproar soon as the door opened.The den was next to my room so the racket was my alarm clock!

But I was facing new challenges now. If my mom was still around, she would've never let dogs inside the house. But when she left, life at home evolved to a new personality. There were 7 new rambunctious members sharing the space. Everyday the dogs were full of antics that delighted my dad no end. The downside? The house was often dirtier! The problems of housecleaning and housebreaking became my territory. We consulted the book on Boxers often. In the end, I experimented on leaving the front door open so the pups could run in and out as they wished. I taught them to do their Nature's Call downstairs.

The dogs scramble for their master's attention. At right is Alfa.

We quickly became famous in the neighborhood. The canine youngsters were a beautiful sight. Joey had told me not to look down at Alfa critically because though she was ugly, she can produce a superb line of Boxers. She did. For blocks around our house was a fascination. People would purposely pass by our house just to get a glimpse of those seven snub-nosed Boxers lounging at our front gate watching the world go by. A charming sight.

Having the Boxers turned out to be the ideal breed for us. By then, we had a new maid with a six-year-old daughter. As I’d leave for work every morning, I knew my father would’ve been vulnerable. I was leaving behind one female househelp, one child, and an elderly. But vulnerable they were not. The seven Boxers, to the uninformed, looked fierce!

Those were years of a new life for my dad: raising, training, and caring for the seven dogs. They had so taken over his life that relatives and friends found amusing his rushing home in the afternoons to “feed the dogs." But nobody appreciated the big picture then. The dogs were my dad's second lease on life in his old age. They were what kept him alive.

(next post below)

My Dad and his Dogs (III)

2011-04-19T01:37:00.000-07:00

The departure of his lovable pets must’ve broken my dad’s heart. But he kept it to himself.

But as the puppies grew up, it looked like my dad had every intention of keeping all six. They were his pride and joy and the dogs scrambled over each other whenever they saw him. Housekeeping remained difficult and when they were teething we had to bear a lot of furniture damage. I shook my head at all these and remembered my mom. She would not be able to bear the way the dogs were turning her beautiful home into a doghouse.

My dad and King Kong

Finally, things came to a head. My dad had this habit of letting his dogs loose out in the street for their morning exercise and I’d see and hear neighbors scramble to their homes and shut their gates (and peer over the fence at the fascinating sight). At first I thought it was amusing. But when I saw the six siblings charge back to my dad from the end of the street shoulder-to-shoulder like a pack of wild horses, to the uninformed, to face that head-on was frightening! The youngsters were growing bigger and looking more scary because they were Boxers. Though the breed is known as non-aggressive and gentle, many people did not know that. Neighbors’ complaints repeatedly reached us. One day, after much discussion with me, my dad let me put out an ad and slowly, the dogs left us.

The departure of his lovable pets must’ve broken my dad’s heart. But he kept it to himself. The last dog that left us was “Negro,” a big and beautiful Boxer that almost looked like a Mastiff. I remember before Negro left, my dad cupped the dog's large head in his hands, looked at his wrinkled face and said, "Be a good dog," as his farewell blessing and admonition. But in his new home, the neighbors feared this gentle dog because of its looks so one night some idiot tossed a piece of bread laced with poison over the fence...

There was one dog which my dad kept behind, the only tan-and-white pup in the litter, a lookalike of his stud father who was one of Joey's champions. His name was King Kong. But with the other pups gone, the house was lonely and quiet again. Some days my dad would ask me to find those new owners and just inquire if he could visit his former dogs. I could see that they were a part of his heart and he missed them. But I never got around to doing this for him.
Finally my dad announced he wanted to raise a new brood so off Alfa went to Joey. But by that time Joey was slowly phasing off his kennel hobby and didn't have an available stud so he referred us to one of his Boxer friends. We took Alfa to another Boxer owner but we had waited too long. Her critical heat period had already elapsed. Since female dogs go in heat every six months, we waited another half a year.

Alfa's second litter didn’t do so well; they were born during the summer and one very warm night my dad made the mistake of positioning an electric fan steady on them while they were in the whelping box. All the pups died except for one: another tan-and-white youngster we named Butchie Boy.

Butchie Boy grew to be a beautiful Boxer. But by then my dad was older. The maid was taking care of it more often. When Butch was three years of age, Alfa was in her sunset years. I wanted to get the playful Butch a new playmate and at the same time inject a new breed into our household. I brought in a Dalmatian puppy.

Alfa was twelve years old when she developed a growth in her uterus. Her vet diagnosed it as a tumor and warned it may spread. As it grew larger, my dad suggested we put her to sleep. Alfa was very old and very sick. As the months passed the maid reported pus was coming out the dog’s ears. It was proof that the tumor had already spread. My dad made his request. The dog was beginning to get smelly too.

A few weeks before we were to have visitors flying in from abroad, I made the decision to finally put the dog to sleep. The vet came. After it was all over, I told my dad in his room. I had Alfa buried at the side of our house. The dog that had opened an amazing new door in my dad’s life had fulfilled her purpose successfully. Now it was her turn to go.

The Last Years

A Dachshund followed – a lively self-assured little pup that initiated chase games with Butch and the Dalmatian named Spotty. My dad watched at the antics, fascinated with the spunky newcomer. But the Dachshund was not ours; it was to go to my cousin Marie a month later. When Marie came to pick it up, she read my dad's expression. A few weeks later she sent a new Dachshund to replace the first. We named the newcomer Packy.

My dad at his 90th birthday party. With him are Butchie Boy (left) and Alfa (right).

When Packy joined us my dad was 93 years old. My mom’s death which had left him empty and abandoned was 14 years ago. People had thought he was going to follow her but he didn’t. A new adventure had opened in his life and he had enjoyed it thoroughly. It was full of new experiences, challenges, and knowledge. He had discovered a new life after widowhood in his late sunset years. But by the time Packy came around, he had become an observer. I know he would've wanted to live on but he was burdened by his physical disabilities denying him further enjoyment of life. He was too old to move around, osteoarthritis had confined him to his chair. He couldn't go out and buy the dogs their food anymore, or wash the bowls and prepare their meals. Macular degeneration wouldn't let him enjoy a book and learn more about them; he couldn’t even see them well enough to enjoy their antics which were his daily delight.
Life was closing in on him.

Packy was not as spunky as the first Dachshund. But he spent his puppyhood napping at my dad’s feet and spending his days in his room. In the mornings whenever my dad would be in the front yard neighbors would remember him as sitting in his chair to catch the early morning sun with a Dachshund puppy sunbathing along with him on his lap. That was Packy's role for him in his very advanced age.

My dad died at the age of 94 in his sleep a few months later.

Maybe it’s good my dad left before Packy became an adult. This is one dog that gives us a very challenging life at home. He keeps trying to train us. Packy would've had his little furry paw around my dad (which would clash with me as I learned more about dog training).

So is there more to life when it seems empty and feels like there's nothing further up ahead? Definitely. Sometimes it will come up to you and bark.

How to Win Over Fireworks

2011-03-09T01:40:00.000-08:00

Over at my neighborhood the explosion of fireworks on New Year’s Eve can get pretty lunatic. This is a hard time for dogs.

Spot hides under a chair

The fireworks over at my area are fierce. At the countdown of New Year’s Eve, the explosions increase in crescendo and frequency and neighbors would bravely step out amidst the cloud of smoke to wave at other neighbors and greet each other. I remember in years past my sister and I would peep timidly out our gate our ears blocked with cotton to muffle the sound but as the paper shrapnel and grains of soil caused by an exploding firecracker blasts at us we’d squeak and close the gate to shield ourselves from it.

I used to push my bed away from the wall on that night because my dog Spot tries to crawl under it and the only way to get under the bed is to enter it from under the headboard. I don’t know what my other dogs do but they’re all not in sight while we’re up and about on that boisterous night.

But I’ve seen the agony dogs go through. When my bed is flushed to the wall and Spot can't crawl under it, I see my dog desperately trying to dig through the floor just so he could get under anything.

The Search for the Right Method

      This need to finally address my dog's fear of explosions started a few months before the New Year. One day, between our agility training sessions at the park, I visited Bobbit, president of the Mondio Ring club. Their area is adjacent ours. I had Spot in tow. It so happened they were having a session where they fire a cap pistol in the air as part of a protection dog’s training. Soon as the occasional pistol shot cracked in the air, Spot dove under the table trembling in fear.
      Bobbit noticed it at once. He remarked, ”Gun shy? Your dog is gun shy?”
      I replied in the affirmative. “How do you remove that fear?” I asked him.“That’s a problem at our place especially on New Year’s Eve.”
      Bobbit said, “Distract the dog. Give him a training lesson when there are fireworks.”

Easier said than done, of course. But it wouldn’t work with Spot. As the year approached its end and occasional fireworks would explode during the day, I'd call the dog and try to review him his tricks but the dog would be in no mood to listen to me.

So I wasn’t getting it right.

Next, a friend of mine at the agility club named Mariel brought up the idea of a binding vest (called a "thunder shirt") which a dog wears as a way to deal with fireworks. It follows the same principle used by farm owners to console cows distressed at sudden loud sounds such as thunder, according to her. The cows are each backed into a very tight pen, so tight the cow cannot turn around at all. Some websites sell these tight elastic vests. A friend of ours who bought one for her firecracker-shy Retriever, according to Mariel, said that it worked on her dog.

I tried to see what I could do (short of buy the darn vest online). Spot had an old Superman t-shirt which he wore when he was younger. I was sure it would be several sizes smaller on him by now.

The t-shirt was a very tight fit. But it wasn’t working. As the occasional firecracker blasted away in the streets (maybe the neighborhood kids on a dry run?) the dog was still visibly upset.
Since I’ve long known the dog does not react when I hold his ears shut against his head, I thought of finding a way to keep those ears closed. The elastic bandage came to my mind.

The dog made quite an amusing sight. Wearing a tight Superman t-shirt, his head bandaged by several layers to keep his ears covered, I led the dog into our sitting room where the firecrackers out in the street could be heard.

Again, it didn’t work. Aside from the dog’s wide-eyed look of fear at the strange binding around his head, soon as a series of explosions wracked the stillness in the air, Spot, visibly distressed, scrambled on the wicker seat where I was on and struggled to insert himself between my back and the wicker chair. Ah, I thought, he wants that snugness. So I leaned back hard on the dog while he squeezed behind me, his bandaged head sticking out above my shoulders.

But was the dog relaxed? He wasn’t. I could feel his heart palpitating, almost as if his whole body was vibrating with it, against my back. This wasn’t working.

I undid the bandages and peeled off his t-shirt when the peace returned in our street.

What now? Short of relaxant pills (the dogs each get an anti-stress pill on that night), elastic vests, and “distracting lessons” during firecracker explosions?

Your Silent Canine Observer

Last year, I heard of a game played by owners with their dogs at a summer camp at Mt Makiling. Participants were asked to form two lines facing inwards and to leave a small pathway for a dog and owner to pass through. Taking turns, each owner, blindfolded, would walk down that pathway while leading his dog.

In that game, it was observed that some dogs followed obediently beside their blindfolded owners while there were others who didn’t.

Why did the other dogs not follow their masters in that situation? Their behavior was explained by the moderator. He explained that dogs reflect the attitude (and personality) of their owners. If the owner was fearful of walking blindly down that straight pathway, the dog would learn to be just as fearful and as a consequence, refuse to follow. But if the owner, regardless of the situation, showed a confident attitude, the dog, looking at his master as his leader, would follow.

It's a further demonstration of how the canine, being a pack animal, is wired to look for a leader in his life. So where the hell did my dog get that fearful reaction of firecracker explosions?

I didn’t have to look far. He got it from us. As a young dog, when he saw us squeak and cringe when we’d peep out the gate every New Year’s Eve, Spot concluded the explosions were to be feared.

Now I have to show this dog that firecrackers (and pistol shots) aren’t scary.

How to Show That Fireworks are Exciting

When Christmas finally came, the nearby mall put up its yearly 70 foot giant Christmas tree. At 7 o’clock every night, there would be a brief sky rocket display. The fireworks would light up the sky in brilliant lights and we would see it from our front garden.

Again, I’d see the distressed reaction from Spot. He’d go to my room and I’d hear the desperate gouging and scratching on the floor as he’d try to dig a hole to hide in. I remembered the game at that summer camp. Why not show to the dog that fireworks are exciting instead?

The following night, I waited for the 7 o’clock fireworks. As the booming sounds started reverberating in the distance, I saw Spot beginning to collect his fears. But he was in for a surprise this time. I went out into the garden and as usual, the dogs followed. At the first exploding sky rocket display, I clapped my hands in glee and began to shout, “Yehey! Wooh wooh! Wow! Look at that!”

Bewildered, Spot looked at me and barked. I kept clapping at every sky explosion. Spot didn’t see that, of course, and faced me instead. But as Lourdes (I called her to join me) and I clapped our hands and shouted in excitement, Spot kept barking at our reaction. His fear response didn’t show one bit.

Training to Distract

We kept this for several nights until I remembered Bobbit’s advice to distract the dog with a training session. This was how I was able to teach Spot to “Speak.”

Soon as the nightly fireworks started to light up the sky and we’d teach the dogs to get excited at our clapping and shouting, I decided to throw in a training session to distract Spot. The dog was barking already. I have to get a hold of that behavior to make him bark upon command. One night, as the dog barked at our clapping, I turned to the dog and gave him the command,“Speak!” Bewildered, Spot looked at my hand signal and heard my command but, seeing us excited about the sky rockets, raised a bark. “Good boy!” I exclaimed, and gave the dog a biscuit.
We'd practice this three times every night.

Finally, New Year’s Eve 2011 finally arrived and the fireworks were intense. Two neighbors were showing off their stock and the explosions were so loud we decided not to peek out our gate that eve (worse, they were lighting it in front of our house because it faced the street light).

What was my dog doing?

He was out with us in the living room (which opened into the garden) barking at the explosions. At least this time he wasn't hiding. But we're not finished yet. This is still a work in progress. My dog behaviorist consultant, Fred Alimusa, said, "The dogs are barking to make it go away." There's still desensitization work to do. I'll get there one of these days. . . maybe before the next New Year.

Trick Training Part I

2011-03-09T01:29:00.000-08:00

I learned a lot about a dog’s mind when I tried trick training. I don’t know who has learned more – the dog or me!

It’s been several months since I’ve appeared in this blog. My computer went kaput. But it’s fixed now.

During the months I’ve been away, we haven’t been just sitting around at home doing nothing. I’m still training the dogs – and this time I’m getting better at it. Or wiser at it.

Trick training has expanded my bonding with my boys at home. In agility, it’s only Spot that I bond with. So training the other 2 dogs some tricks helped me reach out to Packy and Toby.

I’m not very good at repetitive and consistent efforts because when I get bored, I stop doing it. Trick training is just that – repetitive and consistent! So I thought of a way to get around this – by arranging a “mini training” session after my lunch and dinner. With biscuit jar ready at the kitchen counter, when I stand up after meals I reach for the jar and call the dogs one by one for their lesson.

The dogs do one trick three times only. That’s all they do. Even if it’s not perfectly done (especially if it’s a new trick), as long as they get close to the goal desired that’s good enough. They get a treat afterward. It’s to give them the idea what they’re doing is right. After the third practice, it’s over.
But this session is after my lunch and dinner so they practice their trick 6 times a day. Not bad. Keeps the training fresh. We finish before they tire of it. I find them looking forward for the next session.

Lessons in Patience

Spot’s first tricks were to learn to shake hands upon command and to carry a basket.” Of course, the dog didn’t know what I wanted him to do when I’d say, “Shake hands.” So when I’d say “Shake hands,” I’d get his right paw up and shake it. “Good boy!” I’d exclaim, followed by a biscuit in his mouth. Soon, Spot caught on. On the third day after lunch, when I called him and he sat before me, I said, “Shake hands,” his paw went up for a handshake! What a great feeling. I was getting through to the dog.

“Hold the basket” took a long time. I almost gave up on it. He’d push out with his tongue anything I'd put in his mouth. Oh boy, that meant there were more commands BEFORE the "Hold" command.
So I have to get manual about this. I’d command, “Open,” pry his mouth apart and put a rolled newspaper in. “Hold,” would be the next command as I’d clamp his snout shut (in the beginning the dog would struggle to push it out). When I feel his mouth relax, it’s the “Good boy!” praise. I ready the biscuit and let him spit the paper out so he can get his reward.

If the praise comes in at the wrong time I might reinforce the wrong action. I’d console myself that it’s just 3 repeats after meals. But those 3 have to be done right.
Finally, Spot started to hold the newspaper in. He was beginning to understand. We moved from rolled newspaper to rubber ball to empty plastic bottle then finally a small basket.

The next step was to work on his holding the basket a few seconds longer each time. Spot knew how to “Stay” so I’d leave the dog in the Sit/Stay position and let some time pass to build his endurance with that foreign object in his mouth.

A camera conscious Spot practices the Long Hold.

As the dog got adept at holding the basket longer, it was time for the next step: the “heel” command. But alas, the dog would drop the basket before he takes any step forward. I must have lost my patience a few times because I thought the dog was uncoordinated. But the learning curve was on my side. Should Spot skulk away upset, I’d brace myself to call him back in a cheerful tone, to erase any bad memories.

      A dog should have fun while training. If he muddles through a lesson it means the training is going too fast. You have to backtrack. Maybe some steps are being skipped.
      I broke the heeling action into smaller pieces. How 'bout one step at a time?
      Next time, I told the dog to “Heel” while he was holding the basket, I helped him take one step forward only. Then I quickly got the basket. Praise and reward at once. Three repetitions only. Then I ended the session.

As the dog became more comfortable with his one step forward, next session it was two steps. Three times only. Then we ended the training.

After a few sessions the dog understood that I wanted him to follow me around. He followed me round the dining table but when we got to the counter where the biscuit jar was, he dropped the basket at my feet. I added the "Give" command to cap the action: I'd give the command and quickly get the basket before he drops it. Then a reward.

One morning, I took the basket to the park during our agility training to practice the dog in a new environment. After Spot took the basket from me he turned and walked through the ribbed tunnel as I followed him on the outside. He emerged with the basket still in his mouth. He accompanied me back to the table where the treats were, sat in front of me and upon my command, gave me the basket. This simple trick is composed of 6 commands (“Open,” “Hold,” “Stay,” “Heel,” “Sit,” and “Give”), each command worked on individually, then finally merged together to form one smooth action.

Trick Training 2

2011-03-09T01:15:00.000-08:00

Dog training methods are not canned. There is no one way to communicate your message to your dog. “Think creative,” Fred used to say.

By comparison, Packy was a fast learner. I don’t know if it’s because he’s younger – or if it's his breed. Dachshunds are always known to be smart, intelligent, and independent. The first trick I wanted Packy to learn was how to play dead. When we had the dog school at the park years ago, I used to see Jonathan teach Toby how to play dead by saying, “Bang!” and aim his forefinger at the dog as if it were a pistol. His son would push Toby down.

But Toby didn’t seem to learn it. Maybe it was because there was no praise or reward at the end. The training structure was not complete.

So I thought I’d apply it to Packy. But done in a complete way. Now how do you get the “dead” message across to a dog? I thought of pushing the dog down.

I called Packy to me and said, “Bang!” complete with the pistol action of my hand. Packy looked up at me bewildered. I pushed the dog down on the floor and turned him over. “Good boy!” I exclaimed, and when Packy rolled over and got up I gave a treat. We did that three times that lunchtime.

Again, we did it three times again after dinner.

The next day after my lunch, I called Packy to me and said, “Bang!” complete with hand gesture. Packy dropped on the floor and turned on his back.

I was surprised. He learned the command by the next day!

The next succeeding days were spent “polishing” his form (which I'm still working on).

My other problem with Packy was his frequent barking, being a small hunting dog. His yappy behavior was beginning to rub on my otherwise quiet Dalmatians, making the latter more noisy than usual. Packy knew how to “Speak” but making him quiet was a challenge that racked my mind. How do you bring that message across to a dog?

All is quiet when the world's yappiest dog is asleep...

I used to have occasional chats with Fred Alimusa, the country’s first dog behaviorist, over coffee (or his Scotch and chicharon) and in one of my talks with him, I got the impression dog training methods are not canned. There is no one way to communicate your message to your dog. “Think creative,” Fred used to say. “Think of how you can get your message across for the dog to understand.”

Freed from misconceptions, I thought of reviving Packy’s “Speak” complete with the accompanying hand gesture. Packy would deliver his sharp Dachshund bark or two with gusto. But suddenly he will hear the “Quiet!” command complete with another hand gesture. Packy would look at me in bewilderment but the sudden silence is the response I want. “Good boy!” A treat follows.

We’d do it three times after my lunch then three times more after my dinner.

Packy got it immediately. The next day when I said, “Quiet!” with my index finger up at him after a round of raucous barking, the dog silenced.

The “Quiet” command helped us a lot in our daily life with this dog. Whenever the doorbell rings, a vendor passes by, a cat is seen on the roof, or there are birds at the trellis, Packy would fill the air with his loud and sharp barking. We’d let the dog release its tensions for awhile but we can’t let him do it to his heart’s content. Soon it’s the “Quiet!” command and the dog knows what it means.

I’m still thinking what other commands I can teach this very intelligent dog.