Oh no Bern!
After I quit the organization, I really needed to take a breather. Being constantly strong, fighting diseases, dealing with behavioral problems, enduring deaths, putting up with maniacs of this wretched rescue environment, witnessing so much irresponsability and abuse, dealing with that rollercoaster of emotions, it all tremendously wore me down. And well, I still had a few special cases to take care of, that I would never ever let down, and our own dogs were growing old as well. I felt it was fair they would not have to share my attention so much anymore, they also deserved a break and a more uneventful life, at least for a bit. Except this is when Gurky’s wrecked genetics played its joker card, the one that had been underhandedly concealed all these years, to reveal he was in fact a rescue in disguise, needing me more than ever. As if the universe was telling me I could not escape from my destiny: if I was to quit reaching out to needy rescues, even for a while, special needs were gonna find another way of taking place. So yeah, I still had a fair amount on my plate, it was not as if I had betrayed my vocation (although I felt guilty for quitting officially) and gave up on caring for dogs. I knew the next few years were not going to be a nice quiet stream with so many seniors aging… But deep down, I was frustrated, as if a screw was missing for the wheel to turn fully right. Or maybe I was so screwed-up after all that I needed trouble to function properly… Why not complicate things to spice up your life, right?
So after a while in New York City, almost four years after having broken all ties with the rescue world (but not rescue in itself, that’s another story and again, fate was there to make it clear there was no way out), I carefully looked at rescue organizations in order to volunteer. At first, it was just to offer my photography skills and help the adoptable dogs and cats get better exposure. But over time, it was itching, seeing especially the traumatized dogs not getting the right assistance to overcome their trauma, unable to adjust to their new life, although most fosters were doing to the best of their abilities. After all, it was the organization’s responsibility to provide better support. So, one day at an adoption event, I put my foot in a big turd… Literally, you’ll see.
There was this senior Pomeranian that I had photographed right when he arrived from a long trip. He was a puppy mill rescue and tranferred to the city to hopefully start a new chapter. He was one of the most frightened of all the other dogs that were part of the same journey. But his fosters were a kind couple that expressed the intention of adopting him. Fast forward a month later, at this particular event, he was still very scared and they were struggling, putting doubts to their desire of adopting him. They couldn’t touch him without him being petrified, he wouldn’t eat if they were in the room, couldn’t walk in the streets and was peeing and pooping inside, in short, he hadn’t made any kind of progress. I had already mentioned to the team that with my experience, I could potentially help rehabilitate the ones that had a hard time. So there he was, my new trouble offered on a plate! I was supposed to take him for rehab for two, three weeks tops, and guess what, he never left…
When I first photgraphed Bernie at his arrival, who’d gotten a quick bath since he was quite stinking.
Once with us, starting rehab. Finally making eye contact!
I don’t know why for some reason, things never trun out how they’re supposed to and I always end up stuck between two chairs. I was not looking for a new recruit, I just wanted to help a dog in need and give tips to the new parents for a better cohabiting. And Bernie (that’s the name we gave him), was in desperate need of assistance. So I slipped my hands into my special rehab gloves and let the magic begin. All of my little knacks worked, although he was some serious piece of work. Not letting him settle in his fear of people, I handled him from the get-go (grooming him was quite a feat) and at the beginning, each time, he dropped a poop. You probably guessed that the first time, I didn’t notice and stepped in it… Hence my often saying “oh no Bern!” Other times it slipped down my legs, or warmed my hand… Then I learned my lesson and protected his rear in case he was going to discharge a magma of turd (stress made it a little, er, goopy). Nope, rehab is no glamour! But each new “obstacle” he overcame built his confidence. I scrutinized his every move to readdress an unwanted behavior (lifting his paw on walls for a quick pee) and praize any good ones (making a move toward us or accepting a touch, relaxing). He had no choice, but dogs with trust issues need even more direction. He once surprised us suddenly licking my hubby’s hands. It was not to show him affection, but because he had sneakily eaten cheese and it turns out Bernie is a cheese aficionado! Funny detail, it was Swiss cheese! Is it the reason why he clicked with us, because we are Swiss too? Let’s hope it’s not because we unknowingly smell like gruyère or vacherin… Did he have some secret connexion to Switzerland? In another life perhaps? Sorry I digress… Anyway, two weeks later, I met with his foster parents and they were stunned! He was walking on a leash by my side, exploring the dog run while checking where we were - his squinting eyes made him search for us a little more :) -, even sniffed other people. He was a complete different dog. Well, not totally though, he still had unfathomable reactions and that required to be constantly on the lookout so that he would not freak out, especially outdoors. But they were hopeful, we were on the right track. I had agreed to keep him for another two weeks since they were going on holiday, but suggested they took him for the week-end to see if the progress he had acquired so far would be consistent once with them, together with a few pointers to make the transition smooth. Not sure what happened, but before the week-end was over, they contacted me, saying that although he had indeed improved and were thankful for my guidance, they said it was just a lot on their plates and felt he required much more attention than they could provide. It was fair in a way, they were aware their lifestyle didn’t match the needs of a traumatized dog. I guess the fact that he was not a youngster also played a role in their decision (they had been told he was a puppy when he was actually almost nine, his papers had been mixed up, hum). A decision that would mean the beginning of an upsetting series of events with the organization for me…
The cheese episode, first time he took food from us!
Scared of people, but not of freaky Halloween monster ;).
I’ll spare you all the details, but it all made me kick myself for having mingled with rescue people again… Nope, it was not different here either. The top dog of the organization (who obviously established dominance over the team) was pissed he was not going to be adopted as planned and ordered he should go back to their headquarter in another State, a kind of sanctuary with dozens of dogs, where they would most definitely find better takers, convinced we were dimwits unable to train a dog. Yep, they knew better. Although I offered to foster Bern long-term and continue to make him come out of his shell, confident he could still improve, my opinion didn’t matter. Long story short, his departure was delayed (without keeping me informed, no to mention none of them ever inquired about him and he’d been with us for another month) and it was suddenly decided that he should stay in the city and get adopted here. Talk about incoherence when they had highlighted the fact that a city life was maybe too much for him, saying he hadn’t shown that scared behavior in their sanctuary! Of course, in a kennel-like environment with free range and not having the “constraint” of being handled by a human for a walk for instance, it was quite similar to what he had experienced before, although the atmosphere was most likely not as toxic as a puppy mill’s, don’t get me wrong. Anyway, I obliged and went to an adoption event with him. And there, I just had to face the facts: his chances of getting adopted were pretty slim. People thought he was cute, but when they saw he was so skittish and not as friendly as the other dogs, they felt bad for him and quickly looked at another one. Bernie was like so many other rescues we had welcomed: he gave us his trust but it was not expandable to many others. And many people would not be as understanding and accomodating as us. But something else struck me: for the first time, he showed his bond to us, sitting on my feet and constantly looking at me when he avoided eye contact most of the time. He was playing hard to get but he loved us! As if he suddenly felt something was afoot and didn’t want anything to change. You only appreciate what you have when there’s a risk you may lose it! My hubby was there too, we looked at each other and just knew. Bernie was more clever than we thought and managed to pull on our heartstrings, we couldn’t let him down. He ended up with us for a reason and was here to stay. Damn it, we had fallen into this trap again!
Bernie in schizo mode.
Pulling on our heartstrings.
We were not out of the woods though, and I’m not just making a reference to living with Bernie’s weirdness. When we mentioned our willingness to adopt him, as a gesture for my help with fostering and taking pictures, the organization’s team mentioned the fees would be reduced, even potentially waived since he was a senior and not the most adoptable due to his trauma. That was again before the top dog gave her veto! No special treatment! OK, it didn’t really make a difference, we were told an amount and sent to money via paypal. To see it refused almost instantly, it was not enough! What the heck?! A team member apologized, there had been a misunderstanding, the price tag given by the president was actually higher. My husband went berserk, not because of the money, but because he couldn’t stand the disrespect and deceit these jaded people showed toward those who helped them in all good faith. As if they felt like abusing people in order to make up for the abuse their rescued dogs went through. Or was it just pure crookedness, just like the people they despise in the breeding business? I was brought back those years when I had to reluctantly play by the rules of arrogant rescue people in order to get a dog out of their claws. I knew these kinds of people too well, they were so priggish and devious, poking right in their weak spot would incur their wrath! My other half tried to play the pressure card, but as I expected, it didn’t work, we could bring Bernie back if we wanted to, not caring about his well-being at all. Finally, after a devoted member of the organization stepped up, saying this is not how rescue was supposed to be (a sudden spark of common sense!), obviously very sorry for the ridiculous turn this situation took, we paid the initial amount and that was it. Needless to say it made me once more reluctant to get involved with so-called rescue advocates ever again. Why was I so desperately hopeful? As if I hadn’t already had my fair share of disenchantment before. Maybe I was secretly hoping it would be different on another continent, silly girl…
At least, Bernie was spared of all that crap; just as well, he had enough to deal with his own that he still lets slip out of his butt when he freaks out from time to time. Because well, even if he made great progress, he still remains a weirdo. I do believe his years of confinement left too many scars for him to be “normal”. We had other puppy mill rescues, but none were as psychologically damaged, even Cookie has truly bonded with me and doesn’t act like a fruitcake. Bernie still turns in circles (what has been his routine for years in a cage), has moments when he comes begging for attention and suddenly switches for no apparent reason, flees and doesn’t want any contact anymore. When we have people over, someone can be petting him, he looks like he’s in heaven and then one moment later, he can ignore that same person, or worse, act as if he’d been hurt and cringe… Quite unsettling for those who don’t understand how he works. He’s a bit of a schizo, with mood swings and incoherent reactions. As if a wire was loose in his brain, connecting at times and then unplugging, leaving him in a maze. And he’s also quite the psycho. I sometimes catch him staring at me from afar and when he realizes I’m looking at him, he quickly looks elsewhere. He still cowers at times when I grab him, especially to put his harness on, although once outside, he struts his stuff and you wouldn’t guess he once was scared like hell of the streets. He is mostly housetrained, but if I’m not in the vicinity, he won’t make any effort. He really loves his daddy, snuggles with him on the couch while watching tv, lies next to him in bed, and yet, when he walks him, he keeps on searching for me. There are times when he taps his paws on me, demanding affection with gleaming eyes and other times when he’ll run to avoid me, even bumping into doors or other dogs in the process, overwhelmed by panic… When I’m not there, he is axious and whines. He’s in constant confusion. He doesn’t really know how to play with our pack, he is awkward and rough, and not very attentive or respectful, stepping on them or pushing them, trying to steal their food. They’re all very kind and patient, but some just prefer to ignore him, sensing something’s not quite turning right… The only one who really plays with him is Booba, not the smartest one, but definitely the most easy-going.
In short, Bernie is the little touch of trouble bringing us back to where we were at the time of the organization. The kind of dog most people would not put up with, but we do and love him. Why? The only reasonable answer I can come with is that we are probably some weirdos as well!
Snuggling with his daddy and Gurky.
Not willing to move without me once outdoors, even when his beloved daddy holds the leash.