I felt so virtuous bringing home a large shelter dog after my darling Myla died. I had walked this dog—an Afghan hound mix–when I volunteered at the shelter—another thing I felt virtuous about. Too much dog for me? (I’m a little north of 70.) No way. Hah, said Harley.
I hired a trainer, and we were working on his issues, the worst of which we thought to be reactivity to other dogs. One day, as we were walking quietly up the hill, another dog came from behind a trailer barking and baring teeth. Harley responded in kind, but I had only a loose hold on him. Over I went—on my face in the middle of the street. I had broken my shoulder—badly.
When I got home from the hospital, I hired a dog walker. He used a choke chain, which I didn’t like but decided to allow. My problem, I thought, was that I hadn’t been holding the leash as I’d been taught, with both hands held tightly at my waist.
After a couple of months, I decided it was time for me to take over from the dog walker. Using a no-pull harness, I thought our excursions were going well–until another dog surprised us and I landed on all fours in the street—unhurt, thankfully. In quiet situations, we were working on time and attention. With our practice, we were doing so much better. We could pass leashed dogs across the street with a minimum of drama; he walked nicely most of the time. All that went out the window when a dog snuck up behind us and tried to sniff his butt. I landed on my butt. Three times.
Next, I decided that the problem was my neighborhood, which had a lot of loose dogs, as does virtually all of Mexico. So I moved to a gated community where I’m the only one who walks her dog. But, of course, I still needed to desensitize my dog to the things that trigger him such as meeting other dogs. To try to do that, I drove to a neighborhood with leash laws to try to continue Harley’s training. It did occur to me that I was being none too smart; Harley could still be unpredictable. Therefore, I set out to rehire my dog walker, but he was too busy and suggested day care. I thought that that was out of the question, but I tried it anyway, and with the trainer, he behaved perfectly and played well with others.
I was amazed. And humbled. Then I did something I thought I’d never do. The trainer suggested a choke chain. I nodded but thought no way. Until the day I tried one and it worked—only to control him if he reacted—not to jerk him all over the place. Once again, my thinking was wrong.
Inevitably, the next accident happened. Harley saw something I didn’t and went after it, pulling me down several stairs and into the street. This time is it was a broken hip. At that point, I knew I had to rehome Harley or return him to the shelter. After perhaps a week or two back at the shelter, Harley did find a new home.
Several friends pointed out that they had advised me to return Harley earlier, or to stop walking him myself. Others pointed out that there were other things I could have tried. You don’t know until you know, I thought; advice from people who hadn’t walked in my shoes was invalid. No, failing to follow sensible suggestions wasn’t my problem. My problem was arrogance. Of course I could handle and train this dog. Of course I was strong enough, a good enough handler. None of this turned out to be true.
Harley taught me to try to face and accept my physical limitations. This still rankles. However, history tells me denial doesn’t work. Past experience also tells me that facing the facts as I see them might work. All this is difficult for someone with an outmoded super-woman complex. Harley taught me that life is full of tough lessons—more so if I don’t learn from my mistakes.
Although I loved Harley, he wasn’t the right dog for me. I’m still sad and lonely and upset and teary without him. I hope he’s in a better place and happy there. I will never forget Harley and what he taught me.
