by
Amethyst
Copyright 2002

After my beloved St. Bernard died it was a year before I could think of getting another dog. No one could replace my gentle, droopy-eyed teddy bear, the natural born clown who stomped ants and then lost them between his toes, dug down three feet to find a piece of candy dropped in the snow and rested his huge head on the kitchen table with a melodramatic sigh when he wanted his dinner. The neighbor dogs came to visit and only reminded me how empty the house was without him.

When I ran across a newspaper ad offering a female Saint to a good home, I called and made an appointment. The dog's name was Rose. She was short-haired and a dry mouth. Her owner had abandoned her, moved away and called his girlfriend telling her to get rid of the dog, he didn't want her anymore. Apparently, Rose had been given away five times already and had been brought back within a week each time because of behavioral problems. Nobody could handle her.

While my husband talked to the lady, I went to get acquainted with Rose. She rolled over on the livingroom rug, clearly asking me to pet her. But when I reached for her she barked hysterically and rolled back onto her belly. She wagged her tail but watched me all the time. She gave such mixed signals, I knew she had been abused. Pet me, pet me....but don't touch me! I understood her message very well. I petted her head and she rolled over again. I moved slowly and touched her gently, talking to her all the time. The lady said she was surprised the dog let me near her. Her owner was a big man and thought it made him more macho to beat on a big dog.

I decided Rose would not be coming back to that house, no matter what.

We put Rose in the car and took her home. She curled up as tightly as possible on the back seat. When we stopped for gas, the service station attendant stuck his hand through the window to pet her. Rose freaked. With her frightened hysterical barking he quickly withdrew his hand. In that moment I felt her fear and aloneness. Here she was being given away again. What new form of abuse awaited her from these strangers.

When we got home, I took Rose into the house and turned her loose to look around. Almost immediately she found an escape and headed upstairs. I understood that she needed to be alone, to find a safe place that could be hers and that no one would violate. She found a large fluffy rug in one of the bedrooms and claimed it as her own. She hid upstairs for three days, only coming down to eat and go outside to do her thing.

When she discovered that nobody was going to make her come downstairs, she gained the courage to sneak down on her own and explore. The smell of supper cooking brought her out of hiding and she would sit by the table and "speak" for handouts. Then after supper, she vanished like a ghost.

During the day I went upstairs and worked around her. Sometimes I would pet her as I went by her rug but if I stopped and knelt down to pet her, she took this as a threatening gesture and barked at me. I backed off and walked away, sometimes in frustration. I came to understand that she had definite boundaries and I had to respect them.

She would not tolerate being touched on her back or hips. The exception was when we were out in the yard playing. If she knew it was play, that somehow made it OK. I grabbed her tail and then ran and she chased after me. I dropped to the ground and covered my head and she barked and mouthed my hands but never bit. It was a game, so it was safe. She loved to have her chest scratched. She allowed her head and ears to be petted. Sometimes she seemed almost normal.

One day after she had been with us a couple of weeks, my husband was sitting on the couch watching TV. Rose walked over, climbed onto the couch and plopped herself down in his lap. Naturally, he put an arm around her....and all hell broke loose. Rose erupted into hysterical barking inches from his face. She jumped off the couch and headed upstairs for her rug. My husband swore and threatened to shoot her.

That weekend was spent with the two of them in a stand-off. I tried to explain that, because of the abuse, she was not capable of reacting like a totally normal dog. She was six years old, she had probably been abused for most of her life. It was going to take time. He was still angry and pointedly ignored her. She watched him and knew he was not happy.

A couple of nights later he was on the couch watching TV when Rose tiptoed over, jumped up and settled in his lap again. He looked at me and said, "What do I do?" I told him she was trying to make up and let him know she still wanted to sit with him. Just let her be without trying to hug or pet her. Just let her sit there. It was a little awkward but in that moment they seemed to come to a kind of understanding.

It was five months before I felt Rose trusted me enough to let me take her to the vet for her shots. Even then, I had to hold her head so she wouldn't bite him while he worked around her rear end.

When friends from out of State came to visit, Rose retreated to her rug. She refused invitations to go for walks with them, clearly afraid someone was going to take her away.

I wondered what else I could do to make Rose feel at ease. The lady who gave her to me had mentioned that Rose grew up with a collie and they were great friends. The neighbors next door had collie pups and I asked if I could have one. Big mistake. When I brought home the little bundle of white and brown fur, Rose took one look and ran upstairs. Her eyes accused and asked me what the heck I was thinking.

As long as the pup was too little to climb the stairs, Rose was safe. But inevitably the day came when I had to put a barrier across the bottom step, and soon even that didn't work. Nishka invaded Rose's hideout. By then she had begun to get used to the fact that he lived there, but she didn't have to like him. She made it clear that the rug belonged to her. And he learned that at meal time he was to wait until Rose went to her bowl before he went to his.

When the pup was big enough to go for walks up the hill and into the woods, Rose sulked and refused to go with us. Until the day we encountered three maurading dogs who threatened Nishka and chased him home. What happened next was like something out of a cartoon. Picture three snarling predatory canines chasing a frightened puppy down the hill. Next panel. Three dogs with their tails tucked, running back up the hill with one silent but deadly St. Bernard on their heels. She didn't utter a bark or growl. She stalked them with her neck out straight and her tail out straight behind. The dogs never bothered us again.

When summer came we began getting ready to move and I started the long process of packing boxes. Rose observed the preparations and disappeared upstairs. Her muzzle broke out in a rash. She knew what moving meant--she was going to be abandoned or given away again. There was no way to tell her that wasn't going to happen. When we loaded up all the animals on the last day, I could feel her surprise. She was actually going with us. I think the day we arrived at our new place was the day Rose finally knew she had a home.

Rose was six years old when I got her and she lived six more years. It seemed that since she had finally found a home, she wanted to stay as long as she could. Eventually she and Nishka became friends, although she always let him know who was top dog. We went for long walks in the woods and she learned to come to the barn with me without barking and terrorizing the animals.

In her old age and infirmity, Nishka acted as her guardian, barking to let me know Rose wanted out or in when I was working around the barn. They even played together at times. When she became unable to walk and had to be put down, I buried her in the woods she loved. For two days afterward, Nishka went out all by himself to visit her grave. It took another couple of weeks for him to stop waiting by his bowl before eating his food.

Rose had learned to trust me as much as she was capable of trusting anyone. Still, it broke my heart every time I went to the wood box to get a stick for the fire, and she would hastily disappear into another room. I learned to turn my back and hide the wood while carrying it to the stove.

One of the things I missed the most was being able to hug her. When the vet left that day and Rose lay wrapped in a blanket by the woodshed awaiting burial, I uncovered her and gave her the embrace I could never give her in life.

~end~ ^