tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47620164235389624912024-03-21T04:03:51.389-04:00A View From the GlenMy life in a little piece of heaven in western Virginia. Dogs, cats, horses and others that wander through my woods.kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-36469745567973711452019-01-03T10:15:00.000-05:002019-01-03T10:15:57.675-05:00<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6B8mW0Ucb4IzadMgTMoTuivTrEzRye63CNeu8sh9xqRrq76Jcy4l-CE4fulmQuah2p0QV3wHkMOICO7bSeesQvB3voGjPHfFL_nWRNUhHTPghRJqlpWqRGVqXEKDDz_QgOpr95qUQbBU/s1600/missing+in+conard+county.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="294" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6B8mW0Ucb4IzadMgTMoTuivTrEzRye63CNeu8sh9xqRrq76Jcy4l-CE4fulmQuah2p0QV3wHkMOICO7bSeesQvB3voGjPHfFL_nWRNUhHTPghRJqlpWqRGVqXEKDDz_QgOpr95qUQbBU/s400/missing+in+conard+county.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A Wyoming snowstorm races in bringing buried secrets to the surface.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A stray dog just dropped a bone at animal control officer Allan Carstair’s feet – a human bone. K9 cop Kelly Noveno is certain it’s connected to a recent disappearance, but with a snowstorm bearing down on Conard County, the two must hunker down in Allan’s cabin to continue the search. But their long held feeling are rushing to the surface, making this search more complicated than ever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For once I actually liked
the premise of the book (I’ve started and put down three other fiction books
relating to SAR dogs).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three missing
teenagers, a dedicated cop, a significant other that wasn’t an idiot and a
blizzard of epic proportions bearing down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Add to that mix a Belgian Malanois and it seems like a no miss.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Rachel Lee even held my
interest through the first third of the book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her writing was precise and effective,<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The gravel parking lot was clear of all but one vehicle, an aging pickup truck. Neon signs in the windows didn't yet shimmer with life and wouldn't until Rusty officially opened his doors".</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">No mistaking this establishment as anything but a road side honky tonk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And she developed the external conflict well, the storm and the grief of
the parents of the missing girls heightening the despair of the searchers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Been there, done that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When a young one is missing the toxic mixture
of grief, anger, anguish and hopelessness from the family descends upon us out
looking for them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">But, there wasn’t any real conflict between the hero and heroine. He had
the required PTSD from his military service.
Which supposedly made him able to help the heroine work through her
anxiety about not being able to find the teenagers. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the villain was just the village idiot,
plopped in the story because there was a villain needed. Any conflict with him just
felt forced.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The dog work…leaves a lot
to be desired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are required to train
at least 16 hours a month with our dogs. That’s industry standard, to keep both
the dog and handler sharp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story took place over 3 weeks, but there was never
a peep about training.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then the dog was able to
scent a glove from the suspect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a
moving car. Sigh, a dog’s nose is amazing, but really? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when at the suspect’s house, the dog had
no reaction?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then three weeks later was
able to track from the body to where the glove was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the middle of Wyoming, during winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog should be a member of the Avengers,
because he’s got some amazing super powers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then they had a dog
trainer that brought 4 cadaver dogs to search an area that a family pet found a
bone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t the fact that a family
pet found the bone that made me mad, that happens all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the fact that the AC was given a
trained HRD dog to work the scene. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WTH?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
crime scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t just waltz in
with a dog and search away. Any defense lawyer would have a field day with
that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then there were a couple
of other things that were so dangerously wrong, I wanted to directly email the
author.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The main one, the AC took a sick
raccoon to the veterinarian to be treated for rabies. Raccoons die from rabies
because there is no treatment. And people die from rabies when bitten by a
rabid raccoon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Argh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Oh and one more
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A body doesn’t decompose to bones
in less than 3 weeks, in Wyoming, in winter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I was reading back over my critique about the dog work, I had to laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
can suspend disbelief when I read about shapeshifters, angels, vampires and dragons, but
don’t you dare lie to me about search dogs!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So on a scale of:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">4- keep it on the shelf and re-read</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">3- it took a week to read </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2- give it away</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">1- burn it</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I give it a 2.5, because it took a week to read and I'll be sending it to the used book store. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-84360390259976807032018-12-26T19:35:00.000-05:002018-12-26T19:35:37.325-05:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Blackjack</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">A strong name for a strong dog. A dog that should have had his strength celebrated. But he wasn't. He was tied to a box at the back of the property. The only reason I was there was someone in the family had finally stood up to the owner and said enough was enough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">People tell me that putting a beloved pet down must be the hardest part of my job. It's not. It's the old dogs chained to a box at the back of the property, forgotten, except to have food thrown at him occasionally. Those are the ones that hurt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Last Friday was a miserable day. Cold, raining and he was my last appointment of the day. As I pulled up to a neatly kept double wide, I scanned the yard for the dog. Because I wasn't sure this was the right place. Then I saw the box. And the worn circle of dirt that was this dogs' existence for 16 years. A circle of flooded mud, with a heavy chain staked in the middle. The box a collapsing homemade affair of plywood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I stomped up the stairs cursing the rain, angry that I had to do this. The woman that opens the door tells me that her daughter, the one who finally made the appointment, wasn't here yet. I didn't care, I was starting no matter what. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The skies opened up as I was walking back to him. And I started grousing to myself about how wet I was getting. Suddenly, I realized it didn't matter. If he could endure years of this, I could honor him by staying with him during these last moments of his life. I could go home to dry off and get warm. He never could.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He should have been wary. He should have been suspicious. He should have been a resentful dog. But, he wasn't. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">He hobbled over to greet me in the typical Lab fashion, on legs that were riddled with arthritis. Backbone showing. Eyes cloudy with age. And bumped my hand for a pet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I loaded up my syringe and unclipped his chain, a chain big enough to tow a car with, because he needed to be free one last time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It didn't take long, releasing him from his hell. I stayed with him, whispering what a good dog he is, the best really. Then the rain stopped and I went home.</span></div>
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kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-28012659619402714712018-08-02T12:23:00.000-04:002018-08-02T12:31:22.043-04:00Ode to a Bear Dog...or not<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1F5NarJCvpKP9WTyxF5n7-S-kWgBLKYls7FCYfeiu_-bSK0DvOiazHLx4XZTicpbCPnsGwvyW_5j-QHoasnlvJ1w5VkitYheEuJJrQvlI4B4zOqkJTSwhmgSPSBCeuBd57XYZLM-oZks/s1600/pepsi+the+bear+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1F5NarJCvpKP9WTyxF5n7-S-kWgBLKYls7FCYfeiu_-bSK0DvOiazHLx4XZTicpbCPnsGwvyW_5j-QHoasnlvJ1w5VkitYheEuJJrQvlI4B4zOqkJTSwhmgSPSBCeuBd57XYZLM-oZks/s320/pepsi+the+bear+dog.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pepsi the Bear Dog</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> You never quite know what to expect
when you pull up to a search.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All you
know is there is someone lost in a vast expanse of forest, swamp, corn fields,
mountains and other assorted terrain that normal people would take a picture of
from their car.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While
training a SAR dog you’ve got to think outside the box when training so your
dog can handle all the weird stuff that is thrown at her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dogs coming into your territory, bears
chasing you out, deer running across her line of sight.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of evenings ago, training took an
interesting turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was heading into
the woods with Kell, my neighbor popped out to say that their bear dog slipped
her collar and was doing her thing in the National Forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog is a sweetheart, so I thought this
would be a good experience for Kell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
distraction of a bear dog hunting up a bear.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh,
did I say that just a week ago I had two adult bears ambling through the
pasture on an evening stroll, the neighbors have had their dumpster dumped and
they’ve caught several of them on their trail cams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there have been plenty of sign telling me
the bears are sticking around, torn open dead snags and bear poop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots and lots of bear poop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRlCEK_LLIZZMBxEQKCAgXdqcaCoiPYtCxaLrF2HXOecUm-z39QjSBWNSPp7-QpJdE1fdK41cthyphenhyphenJtJTEOobXWFnxtmqvSP7zRFHjxSEUiyJxJ5bPgaUHS_40OpEQjKQ4GgYyrOBeyqw/s1600/bear+log.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRlCEK_LLIZZMBxEQKCAgXdqcaCoiPYtCxaLrF2HXOecUm-z39QjSBWNSPp7-QpJdE1fdK41cthyphenhyphenJtJTEOobXWFnxtmqvSP7zRFHjxSEUiyJxJ5bPgaUHS_40OpEQjKQ4GgYyrOBeyqw/s320/bear+log.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hungry Bear</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So,
I was okay with another dog running interference for me and mine since there was
a very good chance we could run into Mr. Bruin.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Kell did
her thing, found her sock with no problem. Then Pepsi did hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She dropped a spell over the two of us as we
listened her baying on a scent high on the ridge to our south.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kell and I stopped for a minute to listen to
her and I think we both were a little in awe of the pure instinct that Pepsi
gave voice to. I did wonder a little what Kell was thinking when she heard
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wishing she could follow or
thankful she had a warm bed to sleep on every night? A little shiver of
excitement or dread, I’m not sure, traveled down my spine. But, we continued
down the trail back to the house.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Then Pepsi
popped up in front of us, and I almost added to the bear scat found on the trail. Because all I could think was she chased the bear back
around us and we were walking straight into a very pissed off momma bear and her cubs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Moral of
the story?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nice to have a bear dog
clear the way in front of you, but it’s not good for your heart or your underwear when they end up behind you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">PS:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When </span>out, later, on a ride on my horse, we scared up that momma bear and her twins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interesting
ride after that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU496aQ4r4_D9hIDILVpYtYslcEcSr-bUBdSn6wGVnKomZISqNasf-lBSxzt-Sg3rwDjD0-d7Bp8iRoXiuqm3UN4U-8fcZQFOkl3Dx9yjWcmiiYnU2nSebL9JZHXi1yuLeYGdh9B64fuA/s1600/ride+in+the+mist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU496aQ4r4_D9hIDILVpYtYslcEcSr-bUBdSn6wGVnKomZISqNasf-lBSxzt-Sg3rwDjD0-d7Bp8iRoXiuqm3UN4U-8fcZQFOkl3Dx9yjWcmiiYnU2nSebL9JZHXi1yuLeYGdh9B64fuA/s320/ride+in+the+mist.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No bears for me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-18005498313370815802017-06-01T00:01:00.000-04:002017-06-01T00:01:38.374-04:00Don't Be FooledIt was one of those spring evenings that you dream about. Cool breeze, low humidity and plenty of hours of day light after work.<br />
<br />
Kell is insanely active dog. Always busy and looking for things to get into. Whether it is rounding up all the shoes not guarded by doors and baby gates, running down marks a 100 yards out in the field, following the horse on trail rides or hunting down my team mate that always seems to get lost (I always wonder what she thinks every time she finds Dan).<br />
<br />
And this evening was scheduled for SAR training at a friend's farm. I wanted to try something different with her. Teach her to use her nose every way she can, whether it be air scenting or tracking. The hay field hadn't been mowed yet but there were paths knocked down that were only a third as high as the grass that was going to go to hay.<br />
<br />
My plan was to have her find the article the subject left then see if she would track the subject along the mowed path or air scent through the unmowed grass.<br />
<br />
She took the hard way. Air scenting through the waist high grass.<br />
<br />
That's were I was fooled.<br />
<br />
It was only a 20 minute problem, with a fit dog on a cool spring evening.<br />
<br />
She over heated. To the point that she wouldn't give me her indication. She had the classic "I'm too hot grimace", lips pulled back as far they could go, eyes squinting, thick tongue, the works.<br />
<br />
It took almost 15 minutes under the cedar trees with judicious amounts of water poured on the pads of her feet and turning the dirt under chest into mud.<br />
<br />
Kell needs to learn to pace herself. But, I, as her handler, need to know how to keep her safe from herself while she learns that pace.<br />
<br />
Lesson learned? Tall grass is hard to work through and carry twice as much water as you think you need. Even if it is only a 20 minute task, it could be the difference between life and death.<br />
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<br />kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-63637187067989771862017-05-18T23:15:00.000-04:002017-05-18T23:15:52.948-04:00Where upon a SAR dog handler got bored<div class="MsoNormal">
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I’ve been a canine search and rescue dog handler for close to 20 years now (good God!! Has it really been that long?). Six dogs through state certification, without a wash out. So, I’ve either been very, very lucky or had good dogs. Or maybe a little bit of both, with great team mates to train with.</div>
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I finished off Tally in HRD, she's my 3rd HRD dog, and thought, “Now what?” I was bored. Training became boring, throw some source out, feed the dogs when they find it. I felt like Fred, the Dunkin Donut baker, “time to make the doughnuts”: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2AGc70Eq9k" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2AGc70Eq9k</a><br />
<br />
Finn, my first real search dog, half of my heart, the dog that I did everything with and he always asked to do more, had also started his final decline during this time.<br />
<br />
A text would come through announcing a search. Live find, HRD whatever, I resented being called out. A sabbatical was becoming more and more promising.<br />
<br />
This past April 1st, I posted on Facebook that I was retiring from SAR. No one took me seriously, but most didn't know how close it was to being true. I was tired.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Then this thing happened:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjubg7hNg8kab94QEOFp9iKfZ1FW63aTnXEecxqWkKGGOCo9rfOzu_4OTaYEzOyfS9GDS7QBoqqFLzO9GbAA0RkPfTCly-IZwZPUlfmMc5XfxjvvUO_XaRIHG68Ptz1MmCnU6k1ifVvHM/s1600/IMG_0673a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjubg7hNg8kab94QEOFp9iKfZ1FW63aTnXEecxqWkKGGOCo9rfOzu_4OTaYEzOyfS9GDS7QBoqqFLzO9GbAA0RkPfTCly-IZwZPUlfmMc5XfxjvvUO_XaRIHG68Ptz1MmCnU6k1ifVvHM/s320/IMG_0673a.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glendair's Celtic Kestral, from my Tally</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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From the first she ran through life at mach speed. Nothing and no one got in her way. If there wasn't door to go through to get to the other side, she made her own. Or even if there was a door, she liked to make her own.<br />
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That's 1/4 inch reinforced glass, with pieces of glass that landed 3 feet out in front of where it was supposed to be. She didn't die, she didn't break her neck or fracture her skull. Just two small lacerations for her trouble. The local TV station was there that day, doing a story on us. Thank god, they weren't recording...I'm not sure I would want to hear what I actually yelled, after the sonic boom of her head shattering the glass cleared from my ears.<br />
<br />
The next week she considered jumping off of a 12 foot high concrete wall to a concrete slab below.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing the pile at 16 weeks</td></tr>
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<br />
I got health insurance on her the following week.<br />
<br />
She helped me rediscover why I started this obsession in the first place. The joy of getting into the forest, following her as she explores the scent on the air. With her help, feeling the direction of the wind current (no puffer bottle needed, just the nose twitch that says the current has changed). Learning to understand what her body language was telling me. The concentration in her face as she tries to figure out where that scent went when she dips into the drainage and it floats over her head. Following her as she quarters through the scent cone and watching that cone get smaller and smaller the closer she gets to the subject.<br />
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<br />
The shear joy as her body starts to wiggle from nose to tail when she's in the strongest scent pool and knows she's about pounce on her subject.<br />
<br />
Then trying to think of situations that might confuse her, so she learns how to problem solve. And watching that brain work as she conquers each goal. She keeps me on my toes, and figures things out before I even know what goal we are working for that day.<br />
<br />
I hope you never get lost. But if you do, this is what you might see just before your human rescuers get to you.<br />
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I hope I get to see this for many years to come:<br />
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kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-8958932461964243332015-09-20T19:24:00.000-04:002015-09-20T20:55:19.687-04:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Too Soon</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He was magnificent. Big, beautiful,
bold, and ball crazy. He answered the
call through cold and wet and muck and mountain laurel and dark. He was able to bring two people home in his
career. And he was only 8 years old when it all came to a crashing end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
was not the most social of dogs, Chessie’s rarely are. They like their person
and not much else. He liked to wreak havoc in his world. Stirring up trouble everywhere he could,
mainly because he was bored when he wasn’t searching. So when not searching, he
appointed himself the job title of “pot stirrer”. He had his job, and get out his way when he
was working. Self-appointed job or out in the search field.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
ended up with his handler (who was a pointy eared dog lover from way back)
after basically being dropped on her door step as a puppy.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He was suffering from puppy strangles and
looked like he was at deaths door. His face and muzzle swollen to two or three
times its normal size.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Gobs of green pus
rolling out of his eyes.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And skin
lesions everywhere. A little prednisone, some antibiotics, and a tincture of
time, viola, a Malinois in a floppy eared body.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
was a thing of beauty when he was in his search harness. He cleared logs with
wings on his feet; crashed through underbrush, ripping hide from his side with
nary a sound; climbed mountains with springs in his legs; and danced across
rubble like it was a ballroom. All the while not so patiently waiting for his
handler to catch up with him. But that’s the case for most of our search dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> His
career was cut short by a horrible disease called Degenerative Myopathy.
It is a disease that is as cruel as it is devastating. His mind still sharp,
but his rear end quit working. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He was
supposed to be able to retire when it was time and enjoy a well-earned
rest.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But, maybe, just maybe, that would
have been shear torture for him, not being able to work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> It
was a beautiful sunny and cool morning. We followed an easy path, one that
wouldn’t tie up his barely functioning rear legs in knots. Put his harness on, with the bell. And he
changed from an old tired dog that didn’t understand what was happening to his
body into one that we remembered from before.
His nose in the air seeking that scent, ranging far and an extra spring
in his step that we hadn’t seen in a long time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
found his last person, then left us in the arms of his handler, crunching on
his favorite ball and talking smack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> There will never be another one quite like
him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Uzi, you son of </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">a bitch, you will be missed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxO2Rb0V_acN7_g-orQNAHs3_mCXd1UoTQmmz2q9w6U_tWbwXlEky5hEFux8gDZOwkkij1bGeGgGq3pNwIdlWLy_-04FUWbIA62zBaujAqoMd4nlQNCgPUmTIzuM6KW4E8RWaOegOrUR0/s1600/IMG_5604a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxO2Rb0V_acN7_g-orQNAHs3_mCXd1UoTQmmz2q9w6U_tWbwXlEky5hEFux8gDZOwkkij1bGeGgGq3pNwIdlWLy_-04FUWbIA62zBaujAqoMd4nlQNCgPUmTIzuM6KW4E8RWaOegOrUR0/s400/IMG_5604a.jpg" width="326" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-84003635696104509032013-09-21T19:15:00.000-04:002013-09-21T19:24:16.715-04:00It's just a dog<div class="MsoNormal">
Except when he isn't. Just a dog. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiB4g3Xa3Esw6Csnje-tTtzTW-b6rlpwAx92f3VSHW7gRIAmJROpob2CExzKwT_4RiRUZ1BpxZvs0uVFsddRPuXOvBlUB80MXL_ZKp3U1uwh8mK9B_H3U2CdUlTO1wc189rAa5x-Lgmo/s1600/trapper+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiB4g3Xa3Esw6Csnje-tTtzTW-b6rlpwAx92f3VSHW7gRIAmJROpob2CExzKwT_4RiRUZ1BpxZvs0uVFsddRPuXOvBlUB80MXL_ZKp3U1uwh8mK9B_H3U2CdUlTO1wc189rAa5x-Lgmo/s1600/trapper+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trapper was an elkhound shepherd mix with a little West
Virginia Mountain Walkin’ dog mixed in. Nothing special, no titles earned, no
tricks learned, no search and rescue finds. Just loved and adored by his family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first year of his life was a horrible mixture of abuse (outright-
being kicked while chained) and neglect (no food or water or shelter). But, somehow, he kept a flame of self-respect
and pride burning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That flame was covertly and sometime not covertly fed by his
neighbors. During his first winter, the
son would sneak over before the school bus came, and tuck him under his coat to
warm him. The father started checking on
him to make sure he had food and water. And once stopped the owner during a “training
session” that seemed nothing more than a kick the dog festival. The family dog,
a Golden Retriever, would go and play with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the family moved away and left Trapper behind, tied to
his box. It was probably the best day of Trapper’s life, being left like that. The neighbors took Trapper in, not realizing
what was ahead of them. He was a difficult dog to get to know and a difficult
dog to accept. He growled at everyone.
He wouldn’t go in the beautiful dog house they got for him; he’d rather pee on
it and sit on top of it. And he wouldn’t come in their house. So rather than make him, they accommodated
him. They put a strong roof over his pen to keep the snow out in the winter,
rain out in the spring and the hot sun in the summer. During the winter, the walls were stacks of bales
of straw covered with ply wood. In the
summer, it was just plywood, used to keep the wind out. It took three years to teach him to accept a
dog house and they did it once piece at a time.
The floor first, a couple of walls at a time and finally the roof.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He couldn’t trust this wonderful family at first, he didn’t
know how to, he was never taught that humans can be more than a source of
pain. But, I am sure he remembered a
little of what they did for him. Because
with patience and kindness and a lot of time, they won him over. They allowed him to be the dog he wanted to
be, not a fenced, leash walked city dog.
But rather confident unconfined protector of his domain. He would have been euthanized long before now
for biting, or killing small pets, if someone tried to turn him into a city dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But his confidence shown through. He was never argumentative, or acted like he
had a chip on his shoulder. You just
couldn't make him do anything, unless he thought it was his idea first. Even to the end of his life, he didn't trust
humans to make any decisions for him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s why his owners called me. Cars were never going to be his idea of a good time, and he wasn't getting in one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I only got to meet Trapper three times, all within the last
10 days of his life. But, for some
reason, he struck a chord so very deep in me that I mourn for him almost as
much as one of my own. I don’t know why
he made such an impression on me but he did.
And I guess I just need to accept it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was hiding under a lilac bush the first time I came to
his house. His owner and I pulled the
big branches out of the way, and I politely asked if he would come out and let
me take a look at him. He laid there for
a moment, thinking that proposition, and me, over. And decided he would allow me to take a look
at him. I think that was the moment I
fell in love with him. The utter dignity
and strength, even as sick as he was, was evident.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, there wasn't anything we could do for
him. That’s wrong. There was a lot we could do for him, but he told me in no uncertain terms that it wasn't going to happen to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw him my third and last time last night, under the faint
glow of a flash light in the field of his choosing and lying next to his
devoted dad, asking as only he could, to be allowed to pass with the dignity he’s
earned. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I helped him the only way that was left.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good night, Trapper.
I feel lucky to have known you, even if it was only 10 short days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYs3sV_5zqNpkdRF4HwfIBhF9NO8uGCWPcp66JuFequjC6XV6Va5SAsMLIKbzasEu-5augx5ev6duaE1D-LC4Ra_VjK92Ov9s1cpyyBEh-VqxnO1H_mZw4wI6c3XSz9GsuVAO3XZHYvWo/s1600/trapper+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYs3sV_5zqNpkdRF4HwfIBhF9NO8uGCWPcp66JuFequjC6XV6Va5SAsMLIKbzasEu-5augx5ev6duaE1D-LC4Ra_VjK92Ov9s1cpyyBEh-VqxnO1H_mZw4wI6c3XSz9GsuVAO3XZHYvWo/s1600/trapper+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-17846625921394482982013-09-08T21:31:00.000-04:002013-09-08T21:31:03.688-04:00A Nightmare<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJdvBUNy6qAcGq0Nk-A4WkF3dasFW3taksWflCDjXwOB4HprZnJ5nZxly66hkfu2JhWb0mpNoO3zn-NLLQdznrli-jN_5ziXsYF_5UZW5BNPhw4gP4iVMkABRmuEs51eMH0FRTESMGpM/s1600/IMG_4336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJdvBUNy6qAcGq0Nk-A4WkF3dasFW3taksWflCDjXwOB4HprZnJ5nZxly66hkfu2JhWb0mpNoO3zn-NLLQdznrli-jN_5ziXsYF_5UZW5BNPhw4gP4iVMkABRmuEs51eMH0FRTESMGpM/s320/IMG_4336.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are
three things in my life that I am terrified of: </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">having my dogs hit by a car,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"> a </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 200%;">house fire with my pets in the house, and poisoning of my dogs . So far, none of my
dogs have been hit by a car. I’ve
already lived through a house fire. Then this past spring, I lived through one of the
worst experiences of my life with my dogs, antifreeze.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">I got home
late from a surprisingly dogless afternoon and let the crew out before dinner.
After a few minutes of stretching their legs I called them back for dinner,
which was inhaled in seconds. And as
Labs, they soon went into a food induced nap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">While I was
sitting in my recliner, reclined and half asleep, a loud crash startled me out
of my half slumber. Thinking that it was
just one of the dogs falling off the couch while they were asleep, which </span></span><span style="line-height: 32px;">they've</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> done before, I </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> think anything of it. Until Deacon crashed loudly into the crate
behind my chair. That had me leaping up to find out what the heck was going on.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Deacon was
standing there swaying as if he’d hit his head and had his bell rung. I tried to get him to walk it off, to see if
he could regain his balance. But he
didn’t, it just kept getting worse. He stumbled around the living room getting more
ataxic by the second. He was knuckling over, crossing his back legs and when he stood
in place, he just swayed like a tree in a high wind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I could feel the bile burning the back of my throat, the nausea was so overwhelming. This wasn’t a
seizure, which was bad enough. No, he had to have been poisoned. </span>And the only thing that makes a dog stumble
around like a sailor on a three day binge is antifreeze. <span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">I called
one of my team mates (she’s a licensed veterinary technician and she also
worked at an emergency clinic) because, while I can keep my cool and work on
anyone else’s dog in an emergency, I immediately turn into a quivering pile of
Jello if my own dog is in trouble.
Unable to string two coherent thoughts together, let alone think of what
I am supposed to do next, she, surprisingly, understood what I
was trying to say. Me, I </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> real
sure I was making any sense. All I could hear was my heart beating in my throat
and then the overwhelming urge to puke. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I finally
got myself together enough to get Deacon into the truck and headed down the
road to the Shenandoah Valley Emergency Veterinary Clinic.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span>
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifi4kP29EdT_7IPormtlXIET2neTsi0XaS2Wef_6coluJUwgTRAqIx7G9xXbstpVyhRFZoVeYdXq9otx0e15-1nfooQ_XP1pIb0KnE_1z-VUNnsAVF8Al_ug5D6OA-_RDO55Hwe8-_ZGU/s1600/Shenandoah+Valley+Regional+Veterinary+Emergency+Service.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifi4kP29EdT_7IPormtlXIET2neTsi0XaS2Wef_6coluJUwgTRAqIx7G9xXbstpVyhRFZoVeYdXq9otx0e15-1nfooQ_XP1pIb0KnE_1z-VUNnsAVF8Al_ug5D6OA-_RDO55Hwe8-_ZGU/s1600/Shenandoah+Valley+Regional+Veterinary+Emergency+Service.jpg" /></span></a><br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">Danielle met me there, I calmed immeasurably; something about
shared terror. We were the only ones in the waiting room so there was no
waiting. I told them to not even examine Deacon, just do the damn
antifreeze test. Because I knew in my</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">mind it was going to be
positive, even though my heart refused</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">to believe it was a
possibility. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">Five
minutes later, and I was right. They whisked him to the back to get him started on his
three day treatment. And I headed home to
come down from that incredibly stressful evening.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I settled
in to finish the rest of the “Big Bang Theory” dvd, when Darcy comes stumbling
into the living room. The first thought
that went through my mind was, “You have GOT to be kidding!”. And called Danielle on the way down to the
clinic. It seems that I was winning the unlucky lottery, because Darcy also
tested positive for antifreeze. At
first, I thought I was over reacting, taking her to get tested for antifreeze,
that she all she really did was get her toenails stuck in the carpet and that
was why she stumbled. Nope, that wasn’t the case, so she got to spend the rest
of the weekend as Deacon’s roommate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Two in a
row; that was too much of a coincidence.
I asked the DVM that was taking care of my two if I could take home the
rest of the antifreeze test strips test the remaining three dogs. Not really
believing that they would test positive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Danielle
followed me home to help me draw blood on the dogs left at home. By this time it was past midnight. Neither one of us were very coherent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every. Single.
One. Of them came up positive.</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv-v1-d5-fyNeCPCCc2B1L3lTzHcFd1VTtyCSeCZ166JKu0miBajs4014svQHxmrdSrxvOcOkTq8IGo35HC4jsfaWqR25npM8jCY0SIyhlv_je3V040d74N5q8ZTq-x3geooN_Vrxibgc/s1600/React-MS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv-v1-d5-fyNeCPCCc2B1L3lTzHcFd1VTtyCSeCZ166JKu0miBajs4014svQHxmrdSrxvOcOkTq8IGo35HC4jsfaWqR25npM8jCY0SIyhlv_je3V040d74N5q8ZTq-x3geooN_Vrxibgc/s1600/React-MS.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All I could do was sit there and stare at the
test results in despair. How could this happen, WHO could be so cruel to do this to my dogs? While I was paralyzed with disbelief, Danielle jumped
into action. She drove back to the EC and started grabbing things off the
shelf, the most important: a bottle of Everclear grain alcohol, I'll explain why later.</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mpE7OIOkf2NapoT5Rod_-LWvtbM7B4k3L9tuZ5TZDdygb8wImeJZO6TtqW7hlGvwiTHmKuUweN5y-GcsvRHpAkSCVEZxlWTwnj9Xe1HhuGbrfcr6mZtb8fZ4JPrQO-_8pPkDHkXrMKw/s1600/IMG_4374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mpE7OIOkf2NapoT5Rod_-LWvtbM7B4k3L9tuZ5TZDdygb8wImeJZO6TtqW7hlGvwiTHmKuUweN5y-GcsvRHpAkSCVEZxlWTwnj9Xe1HhuGbrfcr6mZtb8fZ4JPrQO-_8pPkDHkXrMKw/s320/IMG_4374.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 200%;">She may have been half asleep but she knew
what we needed to turn my dining room into an emergency clinic treatment room.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqvxURbS0bWxkre_IxyWq6dOqsEqaoQfbOO_3T7JxtxU30zna7Am-i0chBL8drNK6wjVLbJ2_EO1s5MJu_cYGBd8tovH1hDk6mtF1Rxh2eWpoKWXiF8cSwVqKfEWbHs_R_Dl3TKnH8oc/s1600/ec+ward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqvxURbS0bWxkre_IxyWq6dOqsEqaoQfbOO_3T7JxtxU30zna7Am-i0chBL8drNK6wjVLbJ2_EO1s5MJu_cYGBd8tovH1hDk6mtF1Rxh2eWpoKWXiF8cSwVqKfEWbHs_R_Dl3TKnH8oc/s320/ec+ward.jpg" width="180" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That began the 3 longest days of my life. Basically, it was either Danielle or I up the
entire time. Monitoring the IV lines,
switching bags back and forth, taking them out to pee, cleaning up after them
when they couldn’t make it out, replacing IV lines when they pulled them, cleaning up the
blood from the catheters when they pulled the administration sets out, cleaning up the vomit. Tally was the worst, even in her drunken haze, she still managed to rip not only the extension set from the catheter, but the entire catheter out of her vein. Blood went everywhere. I couldn’t have done this without Danielle! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are three stages to ethylene glycol (antifreeze) toxicity. The first stage is drunkeness. EG acts just like alcohol, so if the dog drinks enough to be poisoned by it, there is enough to make him drunk. The dog then appears to recover before heading into stage 2. At this point cardiac symptoms appear. Third stage is when we vets usually end up seeing them. This is when the kidneys have shut completely down and can't produce urine anymore. And there is nothing that can be done at this stage. Kidney failure is complete and irreversible. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To treat EG intoxication, you need to understand a little of how it works in the body. Because it isn't the antifreeze that is toxic, it's the metabolites that are deadly. In particular, the final metabolite called Calcium Oxalate. That nasty by-product settles out in the kidney and destroys them</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">EG is an alcohol, very similar to regular alcohol. In fact it is so similar, that several Austrian wine producers added it to their wines to make it sweeter and heavier. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Austrian_wine_scandal" target="_blank">Austrian wine scandal</a> When first ingested, ethylene glycol will cause the animal to appear drunk (first stage). It then latches on to the enzyme, alcohol dehydrogenase (ADH), which metabolizes regular alcohol into fairly </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">innocuous by products. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> But when EG attaches itself to ADH all kinds of badness ensues, by-products produced include metaldehyde (a cousin of formaldehyde) and worse, Calcium Oxalate crystals. The good news, though, is EG is basically harmless if it passes through the kidneys unmetabolized. And in order for that to happen, it can't get attached to ADH. That's the reason for the Everclear, 190 proof clear grain alcohol. Regular alcohol has a higher affinity for ADH than antifreeze, that means that the dogs have to go on a three day drunk to keep that enzyme occupied and let the antifreeze pass through unchanged.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">You can't make a dog drink enough alcohol to treat the antifreeze, so I had to make up an IV infusion, using a formula that gave me 20% alcohol in an IV bag. For all 5 dogs, I ended up using almost an entire liter of Everclear. It sounds simple, just get your dog drunk and let the antifreeze pass through. The problem is I could over dose the dogs and then I'd have to deal with alcohol poisoning. And having them drop into an alcohol induced coma that could kill them too. There is a safer way of treating, with a drug called Antizol. But just my luck, it was on indefinite back order.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">It was a harrowing three days, but we all made it. The dogs with an incredible hangover and Danielle and I with severe sleep deprivation. It took several days for my house to lose the moonshine stench, and I swear I could smell the grain alcohol on their breath for days. Even their poop smelled like grain alcohol. Two days after everyone woke up from their hangover, all their blood work was normal. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">It was kind of anti-climactic, but I am ok with that.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MhDY59diIh-J19Cy4bitvo5AUfeMnNKQ5LPoPbLcbp_mZCosBQFnNoQbhlPj1hv3mzojMuzxsfEscj_bHymqeJFm-OKnI3q6rgwmJzgs7icr0CE5mnk6QBwnmOuAHNSVS-d2N5E2I9c/s1600/IMG_1179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MhDY59diIh-J19Cy4bitvo5AUfeMnNKQ5LPoPbLcbp_mZCosBQFnNoQbhlPj1hv3mzojMuzxsfEscj_bHymqeJFm-OKnI3q6rgwmJzgs7icr0CE5mnk6QBwnmOuAHNSVS-d2N5E2I9c/s400/IMG_1179.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">Darcy, Tally,Cora, Finn, Deacon</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">I never did find out where the antifreeze came from.</span></div>
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kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-20284289676882477442012-12-27T07:05:00.001-05:002012-12-27T07:05:06.127-05:00Humility, or why I shouldn't believe I'm a god- even if my dog does.<br />
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The general public loves dogs and especially our search
dogs. The pedestal gets higher and
higher with each book and each newspaper article that writes about the daring
feats SAR dogs do. More than once I’ve
overheard someone say at a search I’ve arrived at, “oh thank goodness, the dogs
are here.” I look around to see what
super dog they are looking at and it’s just my goofy dog, with his head hanging
out the window, tongue flapping in the wind, his drool sliming the window.</div>
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Our dogs are given superpowers by the general public, many times encouraged by news reports. They desperately want to believe the myth of Lassie and
Rin Tin Tin. Where week after week, TV
shows and films that star the four legged actors, extol the deeds of these furry super heros that put the needs of their humans
above their own, sometimes to their own detriment. <br />
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News reports like to ascribe supernatural
powers to their noses, their endurance, their undying devotion to us puny
stupid humans. That they can find lost
children in snowstorms, drowning victims in hundreds of feet of water, track
down the wandering dementia patient through wind and rain on a trail weeks old. Or they find the drop of blood, the finger
nail, the scrap of tissue that breaks open a cold case. And occasionally they can, which drives the
cult of dog even further.</div>
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Our dogs are well trained and can do amazing things, but they aren't supernatural. Their nose is only as good as the trainer at the other end of the leash. And that's what Hollywood never showed, the super hero dogs with their very failable humans at the other end of the leash like every other normal working dog does. This past fall several things happened to me and my boy Deacon that reinforced to me that I am just human and he is just a dog. Neither one of us have supernatural powers; that we are only as good as the training we do, and the trainers we use to help us. First, we were in Florida when Hurricane Sandy hit the north east, at cadaver dog seminar. The specific intent of this seminar was aged buried remains. We aren't as good on buried as I thought we were. We were only right on our blanks and about 30 yards off on the task areas with a source. Second lesson was at a search. I explored an area that I shouldn't have done. There was a lot of pressure from several agencies, and I should have known better than to give into that pressure and the rush to my ego that came with it.<br />
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90% or more SAR dog handlers are hard working team members. We, here in Virginia, take pride in the entire SAR community when a find is made, no matter who made it; ground pounders, dog teams, or civilian searchers. We just want that lost loved one to come home, and take very seriously the slogan "so others may live".<br />
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Then there are the 10% that aren't team players. They probably never were team players and don't recognize that a search is machine-like. Maybe not well oiled at times, and other times not firing on all cylinders, but still needing all the parts to mesh together to get forward motion. That 10% thinks because they are the front wheel, the car couldn't get anywhere with out them, and therefore they are indispensable. What they don't realize is that there is always a spare tire available....<br />
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So they move on to a reality of their own creation. The most blatant example of this is a dog handler from Michigan, Sandra Anderson and her dog Eagle:<br />
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She ended up being the darling of several law enforcement agencies, including the FBI. She and Eagle were hired the government of Panama to search for the mass graves of victims of Manuel Noreiga. They were even sent to Bosnia to look for more mass graves. With this fame, came the cult of personality. She surrounded herself with people that believed the religion she was preaching and never thought to question her. The inward spiral of the Ponzi scheme that she was trying to maintain became harder and harder to maintain and it was inevitable that she would fall.</div>
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Her downfall was swift and of her own doing. She started planting evidence at crime scenes and falsifying statements. She became careless in her planting of that evidence and got caught planting bones and a carpet sample at a possible crime scene. This very detailed paper by Liz Burne: <a href="http://www.searchdogsne.org/reference/Cadaver/No,%20Your%20Friend%20Cannot%20Do%20Magic.pdf" target="_blank">No Your Friend Cannot Do Magic</a> paints a very sordid picture of all of her crimes (it's long and has ALL the details).<br />
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Sande and Eagle are the most blatant example of what happens to a handler that believes what the press writes about them. They get sucked into the Lassie and Rin Tin Tin mythology and their dog becomes an extension of their ego. But, it's also the lesser known people that function in their own reality, that perpetuate the myth in a lot LEs minds that dogs and their handlers are clueless and useless. Those are the ones we need to guard against. <br />
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In Virginia, we aren't perfect, but a partnership has been fostered and developed over time by strict adherence to State Standards that was developed, refined and rewritten over many years of trial and error. The partnership between teams of all skills is maintained with quarterly meetings of the <a href="http://www.vasarco.org/" target="_blank">Virginia Search and Rescue Council</a>. With all of this, comes a checks and balance kind of environment, where nobody gets to be "the one". A dog handler on one team knows just about every other dog handler in the state and has probably trained with them at one time or another. By training and working with other dog handlers from other teams, we lose the single mindedness that our dog is the greatest, because we see how great other dogs and dog teams are.<br />
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Something to remember:<br />
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Anderson apologized to the court and law enforcement officials before sentencing, stating, “I lost track of why I was offering my services.” *<br />
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And we are not the god our dogs think we are.<br />
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*David Runk, Michigan dog-handler sentenced to 21 months for planting evidence, Associated Press, Sept. 28, 2004<br />
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kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-17109616292570400812012-12-10T13:51:00.001-05:002012-12-10T13:51:48.914-05:00The One<br />
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So how do you choose? How do you chose your next canine
partner? The one that will be sharing your adventures for the next 10
years? Especially when there is an
entire litter of extraordinarily cute, pick me pick me, pups in the whelping
box in front of you. <br />
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Deacon's Litter</div>
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Teagan's litter</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fvqOWJRL6Q-26G4PGwYewX2YyChB2wu-2xl5OaPVbtepu-ZOPYk5Qqhel8oLPLJZpMmimVN4iosMyJ14ezyn6V-OJL_XySpJ8N8B22o9P6Y-OAwdhPMocNnv8ClZYgJbnoKO-ybXqnA/s1600/IMG_1031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fvqOWJRL6Q-26G4PGwYewX2YyChB2wu-2xl5OaPVbtepu-ZOPYk5Qqhel8oLPLJZpMmimVN4iosMyJ14ezyn6V-OJL_XySpJ8N8B22o9P6Y-OAwdhPMocNnv8ClZYgJbnoKO-ybXqnA/s320/IMG_1031.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Tally's litter</div>
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I didn't pick my first two search dogs, they picked
me. Ben was found wandering the streets
of Harrisonburg. When he showed up in my
life, I just made him my search dog.
Never realizing in my neophyte naiveté, that rarely ever works out. My second dog, Finn was given to me by a team
mate, and he has done everything I ever asked of him. From cold cases in
Virginia to New Orleans after Katrina even to the jungles of South America. Luck out number 2, for I dog I didn’t pick.</div>
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Then I decided that I can breed a better search dog. I’ll have my pick of the litter and can take
the greatest one. But first I had to go
find the right bitch. Didn’t pick Cora
out either; she was just the last one left.
She made it too, as an HRD dog with several finds. So far I am three for three (can you find the
theme here?)</div>
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It’s up to me then to carefully pick the sire of these super
SAR dogs, to combine the best genes I can find in a package that I want to look
at. I tirelessly scrutinized the
pedigree of countless dogs, nag friends for their opinions and when I still
don’t like what I see, I bug them for more suggestions then finally settle on a
sire. </div>
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And agonize that I might have picked the wrong one and play the game of
what if.</div>
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The sire of Deacon's litter, I loved on sight. He was sweet, smart, gentle and a real
go-getter.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipU6BuqVoGJczOtxN1AkZdstEuthcUPygWy5tUdQPk_bAlGZfp8kalf8kvZ1zAoyNYGbn1cK9Pvrd3_yF264Ji2Qgt2RUvxrWl5bn8V_-1AIoxPp92ydbvVheUS2bjklPwj7Sr71NdXRY/s1600/shapeimage_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipU6BuqVoGJczOtxN1AkZdstEuthcUPygWy5tUdQPk_bAlGZfp8kalf8kvZ1zAoyNYGbn1cK9Pvrd3_yF264Ji2Qgt2RUvxrWl5bn8V_-1AIoxPp92ydbvVheUS2bjklPwj7Sr71NdXRY/s320/shapeimage_1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ch Ransom's Armbrook Indigo Hue, CD MH</div>
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Problem is, I kept a boy out of this litter, which really isn't conducive to keeping your line of dogs going! So on to the next litter.</div>
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For Teagan's litter I picked a show dog. Liked him because even in the make-out suite at the kennel where Cora was bred to him, he still wanted to play ball. Didn't hurt that he was yellow and gorgeous too.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxb4R4qVLznHvnAOjv-_nRMqGXgfRWqrjM5Ly1_fEQ2xjaRLKMsasX8bEqo2DzY8XbtqtHxrMywZOBTrIn-70cQLkItBCs-TVB4za1XoBLnWHuc9Y8zoENq9qFhjZOUGkK7cs0C7tb8M8/s1600/trouble6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxb4R4qVLznHvnAOjv-_nRMqGXgfRWqrjM5Ly1_fEQ2xjaRLKMsasX8bEqo2DzY8XbtqtHxrMywZOBTrIn-70cQLkItBCs-TVB4za1XoBLnWHuc9Y8zoENq9qFhjZOUGkK7cs0C7tb8M8/s320/trouble6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Am BISS GrCh and BISS Can Ch Gateway's Nothin' But Trouble</div>
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Then last year my heart was broken, when Teagan, the pup I kept from this litter, suddenly passed away. She was almost everything I wanted in a SAR dog, but her independent streak was bigger than she was. </div>
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For Tally's litter, I reached way back in time to a dog that had
been long dead, and the collection I used was 16 years old. Ed had an old fashioned pedigree that had everything I wanted. He was able to compete in the Field Trial arena, basically unheard of for a breed ring champion.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4yy53v1VmvykyR68XEs9gi53JdbzY4W0d9nAgQJ6dQGwSK-KjLtQfwGD3JXpZ6NvC6t-7eoncbAiopFdoAjJ6_UE24pc6-PL0wwH_r2BGiH2DpHIV9aHihPnGSzEZrrJPkF21vKWYRc/s1600/ed_stacked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4yy53v1VmvykyR68XEs9gi53JdbzY4W0d9nAgQJ6dQGwSK-KjLtQfwGD3JXpZ6NvC6t-7eoncbAiopFdoAjJ6_UE24pc6-PL0wwH_r2BGiH2DpHIV9aHihPnGSzEZrrJPkF21vKWYRc/s320/ed_stacked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ch Topform's Edward MH, QAA</div>
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Got the genetics down, wait for the puppies to be born and then the real fun starts. I try to do everything right, early neurological
stimulation the first 16 days of life. Keep careful notes on each pup, expose the
pups to as many different people, places and surfaces as possible. There is something called the rule of seven
developed by Pat Hastings, that I try to follow. The pups get
exposed to seven different surfaces, played with 7 objects, gone 7 different
locations, exposed to 7 challenges, eaten from 7 different containers in 7
different locations, and met and played with 7 different people. <br />
<br />
I put an incredible amount of work into each
of my litters. They start with baby
agility courses on my kitchen table. I
set up a tunnel for them to crawl through.
Little cones for them to cruise around.
I make them climb little “A” frames.
I think I am the only person that will wander through Bed Bath and
Beyond, looking at the bath mats or the shelving units or rugs and think “that
would be a cool thing for the pups to walk across”. Or under, or around, or
through… I even bought them a child’s play slide for them to climb up and slide
down. When they were weaned, the pups graduated to big dog stuff. I have modified weave pole I got them to cruise around and they learned to climb my wood pile.</div>
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And watch and worry over every single sniffle, loose stool
and stumble.</div>
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At 7-8 weeks, it is time for the temperament test. Here’s where you find out what your pups are
made of. This is where my evaluator picks the smartest, most out going, bidable
pup in the litter. There are many temperament tests that can be done, but the
most popular is the <a href="http://www.volhard.com/pages/pat.php">Volhard Puppy Apptitude Test</a>. I’ve done it with all of my litters,
the same evaluator each time. So she
knows what I like in my pups. There are other tests that SAR dog handlers that have different ways of testing, most will see about ball drive and comfort levels when walking across unusual or unsteady surfaces.<br />
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My friend spends hours testing my litters for me. She is usually exhausted by the end of
it. Especially this past litter since
testing took place in July. She’s usually dripping with sweat and legs cramping
from crawling around on the ground with the pups. She does an amazing job for me. We talk about each pup and I get a written report on all the pups both
good and bad.<br />
<br />
So alot of work goes into each litter and each pup. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">After all of that hard work, I promptly pick the pup that picked
me.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">They usually pick me long before I ever think about picking them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Glendair's Devil's Preacher JH VDEM HRD, he takes after his daddy, Digs. The sweetest, hard working dog I have. Born in snow bank behind my wood shed.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiNNfyk2KRg0IjYfSLj23fv3aio5LmYhscsDNjusi0ahMYurcaWgdwjHwkiiRpn20TNpO66Ws2E-QQdSk4IAzOOdOqZBsW-iJHgR1zhyphenhyphenSNtLe1flupPPmNQFaYmSBlpXVLl2ekbnT46k/s1600/IMG_1109a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiNNfyk2KRg0IjYfSLj23fv3aio5LmYhscsDNjusi0ahMYurcaWgdwjHwkiiRpn20TNpO66Ws2E-QQdSk4IAzOOdOqZBsW-iJHgR1zhyphenhyphenSNtLe1flupPPmNQFaYmSBlpXVLl2ekbnT46k/s320/IMG_1109a.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Glendair's Teagan, if she could do it her way, she would. And give me the paw while she's doing it.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8F_Bah-BQqwRDFEDFzXBV2DvFWLXHFt1BIesWFODNEUsP8qH223LHd-K4E2yvbqc0bIM0HjIYJGNmy0BC3sAmILEh8MD-GJTb-jP4SeYcOpgLceBEBHvYhwaFaCk3pEx8QK18zHKmBA/s1600/IMG_8375c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8F_Bah-BQqwRDFEDFzXBV2DvFWLXHFt1BIesWFODNEUsP8qH223LHd-K4E2yvbqc0bIM0HjIYJGNmy0BC3sAmILEh8MD-GJTb-jP4SeYcOpgLceBEBHvYhwaFaCk3pEx8QK18zHKmBA/s320/IMG_8375c.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 115%;">Glendair's Tullamore Dew, high hopes for her, I'll see how she turns out. But she was climbing storage bins to get to the cadaver source at 5 weeks old.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfPhluO5K8Z8zVMvANQlJC2qyUhk1f7OZqKm2PncM0-wA6d9neW1PyMqxxoaUfcKTskge-jf3EZrUKmDrnYP8XZZzH0-HsBBbvGFEiANyLqk4HCtWL5dGBnxICGqnHL1iftSyHrZLwm8/s1600/IMG_0926a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfPhluO5K8Z8zVMvANQlJC2qyUhk1f7OZqKm2PncM0-wA6d9neW1PyMqxxoaUfcKTskge-jf3EZrUKmDrnYP8XZZzH0-HsBBbvGFEiANyLqk4HCtWL5dGBnxICGqnHL1iftSyHrZLwm8/s320/IMG_0926a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-12670997693074234212011-12-30T14:32:00.003-05:002011-12-30T21:12:37.608-05:00Waiting in the Wings<br />
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I know mothers are supposed to love their children equally, but I also know in their heart of hearts they have their favorite. I have four Labradors that I love dearly, but it is not hidden by any stretch of the imagination that Finn is my heart dog. Sometimes I feel like he takes up one half of my heart.</div>
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There is little room for the others that want to show me in their uncomplaining way that they can love me as much as Finn does. That they will work just as hard, just as long, and just as completely as he does.<br />
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When I got Cora as a little 9 week old pup from her breeder, she was second to Finn because he was still in the prime of his working career. We still had our adventures in New Orleans after Rita and Katrina and the doomed trek through the jungles of Guyana in front of us.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-neFe8QtIUcM/Tv4Q8ZDj9FI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/kABwb1Jh3fE/s1600/corra10%252C14wks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-neFe8QtIUcM/Tv4Q8ZDj9FI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/kABwb1Jh3fE/s320/corra10%252C14wks.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Cora at 10 and 14 weeks</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She and I worked steadily through her training</span>. Taking Finn out when the calls came, and leaving her at home. We trained through her little idiosyncrasies that, only with consistent training, will I come to understand and become a partner to her. </div>
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She easily breezed through her certification process, with only one hiccup: at her first time for her above ground test, she ate one of the gauze pads a source was on. I was mortified, since she never gave me a clue she’d do something like that. The evaluator, on the other hand, was about to toss her cookies thinking that Cora was going need surgery from a blockage from the gauze. However, that too, shall pass! I was able to reassure the evaluator several days later that she didn’t need to worry any more. <br />
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Everything else was perfect, so we went home to work on that little problem (I believer it is genetic, because her son had the same problem with his first test!) She and I got some real life training before she finished her certification when, as an exercise, several cadaver dog handlers were called to help find the rest of a decomposed body in southside Virginia. The police already had all they needed and we were offered the chance to get some real work. Three weeks pregnant with her first litter she made her first find, a clavicle and part of a shoulder blade!</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ICaNRBh0hJA/Tv5kba-yivI/AAAAAAAAAco/b4jGDUNhp2Y/s1600/FOUNDBONES025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ICaNRBh0hJA/Tv5kba-yivI/AAAAAAAAAco/b4jGDUNhp2Y/s320/FOUNDBONES025.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>We finished up her certification when she was about to turn
three. </div>
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But, I still took Finn first when we got called. Cora was
always back up. Around 2008, Finn was
still recovering from several nasty shoulder injuries and wasn’t quite back up
to speed. So with Finn 8 years old, I
finally had reality give me a hard slap. My yellow dog wasn’t
indestructible. Time to give those
waiting patiently in the wings a chance to shine. </div>
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And shine she did.
The first search I made the very difficult decision to run Cora first, was a publicity rodeo. We were briefed
that this was a search under the radar; that we should be able to get into and
out of this small construction site quickly.
It was just me and another dog handler.
She was going to run her dog in the half constructed buildings and Cora
and I were given the task of the mud pit outside of the half built frames. It was a half acre site surrounded by chain
link fencing, enormous earth moving equipment parked helter skelter, piles of
construction debris (lordy, do I hate rebar…), mounds of other scary stuff and
pools of water that could very easily cover deep pits. </div>
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Me and the other handler park at the site, and I get out
Cora to give her a potty break. I get no
more than three steps away from the truck and I’ve got a police officer stuck
to my side like glue. He informs me that
“this isn’t a very nice neighborhood” and I really shouldn’t wander off without
some assistance. Hm, this is turning out
a little more interesting than I thought.
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The two of us were standing on a large mound of dirt next to
the construction entrance, when we both look up at the sound of “whoop, whoop,
whoop”. What should we see, not one but
TWO news helicopters and then all the news vans start pulling up next to the
chain link fence surrounding the site. Not sure how that can be considered under the
radar anymore:</div>
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<a href="http://www.wsoctv.com/video/18870474/index.html">Charlotte search</a></div>
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Quite the scenario for her first solo search!</div>
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The other handler and I look at each other, and we
shrug. She gets her dog out first and
heads for the dwellings. And I get Cora
out, put her search collar on, shake the bell a little and “Go Find!”</div>
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Thirty seconds later, she plops her ass on the ground, WTH? and I throw her the ball to fill her mouth so
she can’t bark.</div>
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I don’t want any of the cameras pointed towards me until we
figured out what just happened. Me and my walker turn to each other open
mouthed. This was supposed to be a burial situation and she never made a move
to dig. Our minder is completely unfazed.
Cora’s a cadaver dog and she’s supposed
to find dead people, so what’s the big deal?</div>
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Come to find out that a man had been murdered on that spot,
knifed and bled out, 3 weeks prior. We
never found what we were looking for though. And the guy is still missing.</div>
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Falling down buildings, dark crawl spaces covered in
cobwebs, junk, debris, back firing cars, heavy equipment, crowds now that is
her element. The more noisy and
distracting the environment, the happier she is.</div>
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I trust Cora implicitly now.
And it started with that search in North Carolina. She has slowly, steadily and consistently
shown me that she is just as much a partner in this world of search and rescue as
Finn. I still miss having the yellow dog
along with me, but I don’t feel like I am “missing” anything when Cora gets out
of the truck.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qwSA48Yaw0k/Tv5sh_-VQrI/AAAAAAAAAdM/VipPTqGlts4/s1600/IMG_0530A_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qwSA48Yaw0k/Tv5sh_-VQrI/AAAAAAAAAdM/VipPTqGlts4/s400/IMG_0530A_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-34208948361985299732011-11-28T21:42:00.001-05:002011-11-28T22:50:28.656-05:00Daring Darcy<br />
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Darcy finally got completely certified in August. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05jkpZ8ybovQ7pyyCSYL1AN-PRaIxWCsGMW295BWDORIVp1CqaB9HagroQ8GcWRkHjtCmHOyAf01M8Eg-wkMpw3NDJBW6sa3MM_e96jrLbEn8d5nPEgaNov4c4BoJVX5_aQeiC5pm5t4/s1600/IMG_1596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05jkpZ8ybovQ7pyyCSYL1AN-PRaIxWCsGMW295BWDORIVp1CqaB9HagroQ8GcWRkHjtCmHOyAf01M8Eg-wkMpw3NDJBW6sa3MM_e96jrLbEn8d5nPEgaNov4c4BoJVX5_aQeiC5pm5t4/s320/IMG_1596.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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She’d finished all the big tests in May, but
we still had to jump through the rest of the hoops of obedience, agility and
temperament testing. I was dragging my
feet because once Darcy was certified, Finn would really be retired and I
wasn’t sure I could actually handle that.
Anyway, as Hurricane Irene was moving up the coast in August my team,
Blue and Gray SAR Dogs, were put on stand-by for possible deployment. I couldn’t go unless Darcy was certified;
that was all the incentive I needed. At
lunch, the Friday before Irene was scheduled to hit Virginia Beach, Darcy and I
were getting the last little check mark we needed to finish our obedience. The five minute stay. In the parking lot of Steven Toyota, in
Harrisonburg. </div>
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Darcy is not a patient dog.
Particularly not with cars buzzing here and there. People walking to and fro. And especially not with the bushes rustling
next to her. Thank God we didn’t have to
do the AKC sit stay. Because, she laid
down, sat up, laid down again. And sat
up again. But didn’t move from her
spot. The third time was the charm for
her (this was the third time we were trying to get that five minute stay check
mark), and she and I passed.</div>
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Then we waited and waited and waited for the word to get on
the road to the shore. Thankfully, Irene
was being the typical fickle woman, and only side swiped the Beach rather than
hitting it head on, so we weren’t needed.
So we waited more for that first call out.</div>
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On October 2<sup>nd</sup>, Deacon and his mom Cora where
with me at Hone Quarry doing some water training.</div>
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While we were training that Sunday, an unlucky private plane
was flying close by on a course from southern Virginia over the Allegheny
Mountains to its final stop in Pennsylvania.
It was raining that day and the trees in the higher elevations of the
mountains that ringed the quarry lake were rimmed in ice. Quite pretty to look. Deadly for the plane. It disappeared from the radar around the time
we were finishing up and loading the boat on to its trailer. </div>
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We got the call Tuesday evening to meet with the rest of the
team and other dogs and handlers from several other Virginia SAR teams at 7AM
Wednesday morning in the northwest corner of Rockingham County. There was only a skeleton crew available for
planning, and none of them were dog savy.
Then the head guy got a bright idea and snagged a few dog handlers from
each team, told us what we were going to be searching, then left it up to us to
plan the dog tasks. </div>
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Our search area was the entire Gobblebark Mountain. We split the mountain we were to search into
smaller areas, 8 task areas in all. The
easy task I’d devised first, was snatched up quickly by another dog team and I
was left with the task at the very other end of Gobblebark Mountain. According to the map we had, there should
have been a two track we could drive on that would get us close to the start of
our task. This little piece of short
lived joy just reinforced the lesson we were taught as young orienteer’s- maps lie. Especially about man-made stuff. There wasn’t a road, let alone a two track in
the area; there was just a path. A
boulder strewn, tree blocked path that not even an ATV could get through.</div>
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Do you see a trail through here?</div>
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We had to hike to the end of this “path” to even start the
task. Darcy was overjoyed that she got
to run free for the whole time. She
found the teams that started before us several times. She ran up the side of the mountain to find a
team that was already in their sector.
And she kept stealing one of my team mates gloves out of his back pocket
when he wasn’t paying attention. </div>
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We had no radio communication, even with Civil Air Patrol in
the sky to relay for us. We did our radio
check at our trucks, had one short communication a short distance in and then
nothing until we got back to the trucks seven hours later. However, we could hear what was going on over
the radio at certain points. Actually,
we mostly heard what was going on in West Virginia and their search operations
near Peru (pronounced PEE-rou <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>
). We even could hear the Hardy County
sheriffs office. But nothing from our own base. Twice during trek to just get to
the start of the task, a Medi-vac helicopter was needed to extract two
searchers on the West Virginia search teams.
One was heart problems and I think the other was a broken leg. Thank goodness we didn’t have any injuries on
any of our teams.</div>
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Two and half hours later we finally got to the GPS way point
that showed us the drainage we needed to start up. And up and up and up we
went. All the way to the top. Then all the way down to the bottom into
Hardy County, in West by God Virginia.</div>
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The trip to the top was breath taking. Literally.
I had to stop about 5 times to catch my breath. Darcy on the other hand, probably ran up and
down the mountain 3 or 4 times in the time it took me and my team to reach the
top. I had two skinny country guys from
our local ground pounding team and one VA State Police officer with me. The skinny guys ran circles around me and the
police officer. The police officer
didn’t have to stop as much as I did, but he wasn’t running up the side of the
mountain either.</div>
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Darcy having fun "finding" my walkers</div>
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This guy could run circles around me, while climbing the mountain</div>
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Even out in the middle of nowhere, there was always evidence
of a human presence. There was a broken
down cart with bicycle wheels, the ubiquitous glass liquor bottles </div>
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and even this little trail marker up on top of the mountain:</div>
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We ended up sliding down Gobblebark into Hardy County,
WV. </div>
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It is not easy walking a contour
line in that kind of elevation. As much
as I wanted to skirt around the back of the mountain to the other side, my
aching ankles and knees told me it was going to be easier leaf skiing down into
the hollow and find the right drainage to go back over the mountain. Darcy was still bouncing between me and my
team mates, just out of her skin excited she got to be the only dog out with
three humans to watch her strut her stuff.
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This search ended up being about 7 hours long. We travelled about 6-7 miles, had over 1000
foot changes in elevation, and only were active in our task area for about 2
hours.</div>
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The plane was eventually found near Peru, West Virginia. Ironically, the end of our sector was closer to the crash
site than it was to our trucks.</div>
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I was dead, but Darcy… she was ready for another 7 hours of
fun on the mountain. Not bad for her very
first search.</div>
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<br /></div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-67395480681748234512011-11-18T13:42:00.001-05:002011-11-18T21:07:32.477-05:00Hitting the Wall<br />
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I’ve been stepping up the pressure on Deacon as we get
closer to his certification tests. </div>
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Deacon has got many flashes of incredible brilliance,
interspersed with times of a southern California surfer dude attitude. That’s the attitude where “I’ve worked long
enough, it’s time to go home”. Not what
you want when you are in the middle of the woods, two hours into a five hour
task. </div>
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Just about every one of my dogs hits this stage in their
training. This is when training changes
from fun and games into a job that has to be done. I call it hitting the wall. The tasks move from being able to fall into a
scent pool to tricky scenting conditions like swirling breezes, overlapping
scent pools, buried sources and trying to extend the time between placement of source and the
actual running of the task. I do this to start making Deacon think. To make him start developing some problem
solving ability. I also move from just
one or two sources to many multiples because, contrary to popular thinking,
dogs know how to count. And Deacon
got to the point that after locating two sources, his brain went into neutral. </div>
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There is such a thing as mental endurance, or as I read
somewhere, nose time. It is the time a
dog is effectively using its nose to detect the target scent. This also plays into the “hitting the wall”
scenario.<br />
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To me, developing physical endurance is the easy part. It's the mental endurance that is difficult. Deacon has good physical
endurance, he can run beside a bike for two miles, can hike three to fours
hours or go on a fast trail ride with me on the horse for a couple of
hours. However, when I first started
pushing him, he was only effectively using his nose for about 30 minutes at a
time. The 30 minute timer went off and, boom, it was like a switch
got flipped off. To the uninitiated, he
continued to run around acting like he was actively searching. To my eye, though, he really wasn’t
working anymore. His whole demeanor changed.
He would work a bit manically, his nose was on the ground, snort like a
pig pretending he was working, but he just wasn’t getting anywhere. Just running around frantically, pushing his nose under this log or that clump of grass.<br />
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And that is what hitting the wall looks like. It is messy and ugly and sometimes you just want to throw your hands up, march your dog back to the truck and head home. The job was no longer fun or easy, it was WORK. Almost every dog gets to this point in their
career. And almost every dog comes
through the other side with a renewed devotion to the task, to the point that
finding that source is the be all, end all, of their life. It may not be “fun” anymore, but it becomes
an avocation, a passion that they would rather do with their human partner
under any kind of circumstance. </div>
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This change in attitude does not come quickly nor does it come easily. It
takes a dedication on the part of the human partner to remember the spark that
made them pick this particular canine partner.
To remember what their tired confused canine partner was like, to coach
them, and condition them. So the dog can come out the other side. During this time is when the true partnership develops. You see how your dog learns, and you develop training strategies that compliment his style. Your dog trusts you.</div>
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Ultimately, it is remembering how exciting this journey is
going to be with your canine partner at your side. That is what keeps you plugging away. Through the ups and especially through the
downs. It is tedious and it is boring, this training to set a work ethic. But, it will come. That excitement, that joy, that devotion to
the job. We will get a partner that
works WITH us, not FOR us.</div>
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By sticking with it, when it is work and not fun, showing to our dogs that we will stand with them no matter what, we get a
dog that will perform in the rain, the snow, disasters, the heat, brush so
thick a human couldn’t walk through it upright, all night, then all day the next
day. They want to do this with their human
partner because it is the reason they live, to find the source and show it to their partner. <br />
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And it is all the better because we are a
team.</div>
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<span id="goog_671388800"></span><span id="goog_671388801"></span></div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-90855435234505002732011-10-30T21:18:00.000-04:002011-10-30T21:24:50.635-04:00Mother Nature and Her Temper<br />
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I love fall. I love
the crispness that comes with the cooling temperatures. Such a relief from summer’s oppressive heat
and humidity. This year though, fall is
acting like a recalcitrant two year old that doesn’t want to go to bed. September 21<sup>st</sup> was the first day
of fall with equal amounts of daylight and night time. Once those nights get longer, though, Mother
Nature is by turns grumpy and glorious.</div>
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What I don’t like, especially for my horses, are the wild
swings we’ve had so many of this season.
From 80 degree days to 25 degree nights.
This time of fall they aren’t ready for that. Fall starts for the horses around the end of
August. Their coats lose the slick shine of their summer do and edges towards a
soft velvet plush that hints at the thick hairiness of their winter coat. Horses don’t grow their coats in response to temperature;
rather their coats thicken in reaction to the amount of daylight. </div>
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So in October, they don’t have their full coats and if it
starts raining or snowing when the temps dip below 30 degrees it can be brutal
for them. </div>
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Even more so because they won’t use the run in shed to stay
dry. That I will never understand. They’ve lived on pasture for the past 5 years
and haven’t seen the inside of a stall that entire time. You’d think they would have figured out by
now that: roof=dry and dry=not
freezing. But, nope, they’d rather
shiver standing under a pine tree.</div>
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I guess that’s what happens when a 1500 lbs body is paired
with a brain the size of a grapefruit.</div>
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This past weekend though, was just a little over the
top. Thursday it was in the mid to
upper 60’s, sunny and a sparkling fall day.
On Friday, Mom Nature got a little grumpy and on Friday night she had a
full blown temper tantrum. In the 30’s,
6 inches of snow and to top it off, no electricity. And by Sunday, back into the 60’s and snow
almost completely melted.</div>
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Saturday during Mom Nature's temper tantrum</div>
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Sunday, after she smiled again:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgInQnIHedTpJd9nj8AYQ3pF35GCrQO3-nX84Iv_BLKxlEK7kZDr89wLkoPpASogeunhBnoGAw-zuZtyrkbeYQJXcHNQt1fJD3KxCgjuXd2JzLUiZJvwsF6EQbOx5ksJjhTgbWx8IyBSM4/s1600/IMG_1705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgInQnIHedTpJd9nj8AYQ3pF35GCrQO3-nX84Iv_BLKxlEK7kZDr89wLkoPpASogeunhBnoGAw-zuZtyrkbeYQJXcHNQt1fJD3KxCgjuXd2JzLUiZJvwsF6EQbOx5ksJjhTgbWx8IyBSM4/s320/IMG_1705.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I really, really, REALLY hope this is not a harbinger of things to come. It would almost make me want to move back into town. </div>
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Almost.</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-70458484185829018742011-10-16T22:52:00.001-04:002011-10-16T23:00:19.237-04:00Head and Heart<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">There comes a point in your working partners career when it is time to hang up the collar, put away the bell and let the youngin’s take the lead. Sounds easy. But it is a soul wrenching decision for me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://pic80.picturetrail.com/VOL844/4413140/9333027/282311584.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://pic80.picturetrail.com:80/VOL844/4413140/9333027/282311584.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Finn came into my life, as a bouncing, rambunctious and annoying 9 week old puppy, after my old boy, Ben, destroyed his suspensory ligament in a back leg. I didn’t want Finn, didn’t need Finn and certainly didn’t think Finn could take Ben’s place. Finn didn’t take Ben’s place, because nobody could, he just squeezed himself into another part of my heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Matter of fact, I think he took over most of it. He and I have been through so much together, starting young. He was less than a year old when very early one morning, too early for the sun to be up, he crash landed on me while I was in bed. I was about to yell at him to get off of me, when I looked at my bedroom window and saw something my sleep befuddled mind couldn’t make sense of. The sun shouldn’t have been up and it certainly shouldn’t have been shining thorough that window… No, those were flames from the other side of my duplex that had made their way up the vinyl siding of my neighbor’s side. Good Morning!!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He got me up in time for me to get dressed, call 911 and make it out of the house with all the dogs. The house was completely destroyed, lost both of my cats and all because of a mentally deranged wanna be rent-a-cop. He poured a can of gas on my neighbors side of the duplex and lit it on fire.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Finn always worked WITH me, never FOR me and certainly never for himself. I trust him with my life, if I couldn’t quite make out a trail at night while it was raining and the fog moved in, I could follow his glowing collar and he always got me home. If I was cold he always curled up on my right side to keep me warm. If I was nervous, he leaned against me in comfort. When he is in the truck he’s got an unblinking stare that could put off the most determined of car jackers. He is bomb proof and nothing put him off his game.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He is a very serious dog. Not given to the normal rowdiness and silliness that marks the behavior of most Labs. However, he does have a game he likes to play with people that are afraid of dogs. When they aren’t looking, he’ll rush up behind them barking like a hound of hell, tail wagging and one ear cocked back at me. He wants to see how high he can make them jump. He can’t do it often, because they obviously don’t get the humor like he and I do, but when he does it is quite spectacular.<br />
<br />
He did this to one of the porters that was carrying my gear in the jungles of Guyana, when he and I were down there looking for a lost plane. I finally had to yell some pretty explicit obscenities at him to make him stop after he made the poor man jump for the third time. It would have been completely in that porter’s rights to just dump my pack and make me carry it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">His first find was drowning that the police had been looking for more than three days. He found him in less than 10 minutes. His last task was in April, when he was just about to turn 11 years old, looking for a despondent in Goshen, VA.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, now he slides a little too much coming down an embankment, and he is less sure of himself when working the pile. It is hard for my heart to agree with what my mind sees when he still goes on two mile bike rides, likes to go on trail rides and can still find cadaver sources quicker than my young ones.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">So when the calls come, Darcy and Cora get in the truck with me</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaFHoAZPA4tvbVkmU2SNMl1RE0WjEJvtxlexVxRRcZFben5hGKewBIShL0bZKzI-kCdfcpB71eJgxr-H6PY1aPSRUMywAx7oCm4azbQMeABXZcWFIhLzgKLafzG4ptujiFfnyQeZWeWU4/s1600/IMG_5234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaFHoAZPA4tvbVkmU2SNMl1RE0WjEJvtxlexVxRRcZFben5hGKewBIShL0bZKzI-kCdfcpB71eJgxr-H6PY1aPSRUMywAx7oCm4azbQMeABXZcWFIhLzgKLafzG4ptujiFfnyQeZWeWU4/s320/IMG_5234.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cora</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaj48gOOEyJB9YIxxwi_1W70rqe6LcrS113RFI0jHRm5VlJEXdNFeFGcZk7b-SqVMDtpNlW9t71bpBOE8zKwTaJerko_QwymUDuC4O6DRxfWg8ZYsL86lwPC-SKJWALGtWlIe1Be1uOg/s1600/IMG_9339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaj48gOOEyJB9YIxxwi_1W70rqe6LcrS113RFI0jHRm5VlJEXdNFeFGcZk7b-SqVMDtpNlW9t71bpBOE8zKwTaJerko_QwymUDuC4O6DRxfWg8ZYsL86lwPC-SKJWALGtWlIe1Be1uOg/s320/IMG_9339.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darcy<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">and the old man has to stay home, breaking my heart and his.<br />
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</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-76943779960486971192011-10-13T19:13:00.000-04:002011-10-13T19:13:30.096-04:00Labrador RETRIEVER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJcHGE-Mmqe49-bLnPju5e9piGRUca8VV4tktQGUPlbr1JIr9xZXaUbqmK4IWj0LKBt0KJBX3obyTT3fnqCXXJ_xzcAWlGV_QXEzoCA70O-l2_5aMRSUAjF42q35kOwnE_6aWo0a-93A/s1600/IMG_9226a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJcHGE-Mmqe49-bLnPju5e9piGRUca8VV4tktQGUPlbr1JIr9xZXaUbqmK4IWj0LKBt0KJBX3obyTT3fnqCXXJ_xzcAWlGV_QXEzoCA70O-l2_5aMRSUAjF42q35kOwnE_6aWo0a-93A/s320/IMG_9226a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve tried I don’t how many different times to write another entry for this blog after posting the one about Teagan.<span> </span>All have gone in the virtual circular file.<span> </span>It’s been 3 ½ months since she passed away and so much has happened here at Glendair, but I just haven’t had the heart to write about them.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I still miss her dearly and keep expecting her to come home from the trainers anyday, but my heart breaks just a little more each time when I remember she can’t come home again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In August, the Deacon man got his chance to become a certified HRD (Human Remains Detection) dog for VDEM (Virginia Department of Emergency Management).<span> </span>He was amazing.<span> </span>He was spectacular.<span> </span><span> </span>He was confident.<span> </span>And he was fast.<span> </span>He found the first source in a two acre task area in less than 3 minutes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then promptly brought back to me.<span> </span>That is an epic FAIL.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One thing we have drilled in our heads, is crime scene preservation.<span> </span>It does no good to find the remains and then move them around so the police officers can’t tell what happened.<span> </span>And it really doesn’t help if your dog does that and you then have to answer to the defense attorney.<span> </span>Yikes!<span> </span>I’d hate to see that dog handler.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Deacon is almost ready.<span> </span>Actually, after all the work I’ve put into him for the past 6 weeks I think he is ready.<span> </span>He hasn’t picked up a source in over a month.<span> </span>But, if I really think he is over that little problem and I feel over confident that he will NEVER do that again, Murphy will hit me smack in the face and undoubtedly, it will be another epic fail.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">There is a reason Deacon is a Labrador RETRIEVER… and if he can he will.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3UesSsDduLfO_OlAzsLKLNqRi2SbZT6IYYgYsDgDJpV906KVo6GS3k_DpkvPB56gp9F6yYYxCZg5saWja0BFXlSCqbkve8f0tROJ7n3caDiM5ovJfVV-mZAFWoGj06zORZBFDeU7MvHM/s1600/IMG_5672a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3UesSsDduLfO_OlAzsLKLNqRi2SbZT6IYYgYsDgDJpV906KVo6GS3k_DpkvPB56gp9F6yYYxCZg5saWja0BFXlSCqbkve8f0tROJ7n3caDiM5ovJfVV-mZAFWoGj06zORZBFDeU7MvHM/s320/IMG_5672a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-25403020211480289822011-07-23T23:17:00.000-04:002011-07-23T23:17:30.603-04:00Moving onOn June 27th, 2011, my heart was split in two. My diva, my hard headed, independent beautiful little girl, Teagan, passed away in the night. She was 15 months old. The most probable cause was mesenteric torsion.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEPwEezdzg-1aqePhFA-YlvI57nP3NscCYMYGEiUso6BEDO8pn-wy68pWbaacUNtypQU68nVhDHIA3jbKne1cc5FWpzyolWdLYZKT5VVbh8aaVWSWmT2eePOjh4N2uB5RxOjMtTbqZw4/s1600/IMG_8375c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEPwEezdzg-1aqePhFA-YlvI57nP3NscCYMYGEiUso6BEDO8pn-wy68pWbaacUNtypQU68nVhDHIA3jbKne1cc5FWpzyolWdLYZKT5VVbh8aaVWSWmT2eePOjh4N2uB5RxOjMtTbqZw4/s640/IMG_8375c.jpg" width="505" /></a></div><br />
She was opinoniated, bossy, independent. She could do a mean alligator death roll when she didn't want to do what you asked her to do. And had an ego that knew no bounds.<br />
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She was only 15months old, but I remember more stories about her than all my other dogs combined, the trouble she would get herself into. As a young pup, maybe 10-12 weeks old, she decided that she didn't want to be walking over the creek on the bridge, she'd rather be in the creek. Problem was the bridge was about 4 feet above the creek bed. And there was no water in the creek. Not only did she jump, she leaped exuberantly high up in the air. The look on her face on the way down was priceless: Oh s**t, this is gonna hurt. Splat she landed, got a mouth full of rocks, shook it off and race off into the pasture to chase the big dogs.<br />
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She could play stick like none of my other dogs. Darcy is world class, but Teagan ran circles around her.<br />
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She and Deacon got real good at reducing reusing and recycling socks. He'd eat one, throw it up and she'd swallow it back down. <a href="http://glendairlabradors.blogspot.com/2010/11/reduce-reuse-recycle.html">Socks...mm, mm, good</a><br />
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She was fearless when it came to the retrieving games. The only problem was, she thought that since she worked so hard to get the bumper that it was her's. Unless there was a long line on her, you weren't getting it back. So she was sent off to big girl camp to learn that there are consequences for ignoring momma...<br />
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The first report I got from the trainer was all good. The second, kind of funny and glad I wasn't the one having to deal with her. She thought she could get a way with the crap I put up with. Unfortunately for her, the trainer is a former Marine Drill Master. At one point he told his wife to shut doors, close the windows and ignore what she heard coming from the kennel.<br />
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Remember her alligator death roll ability? The second day she was there, the trainer gave a leash correction, a little pop on the leash and collar. She threw herself on the ground and pitched a hissy fit that would have done a New York City fashionista wannabe proud. She rolled around and around and around on the end of the leash, until the trainer told her in no uncertain terms she was being stupid and that wasn't going to fly with him. <br />
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She still tested him though. One of the first things a retriever is taught is the "hold" command. The trainer opens the dog's mouth, places a wooden dowel in her mouth, closes her mouth and repeats "hold". Sounds simple, right? Try opening a dogs mouth when she is gritting her teeth together as hard as she can.<br />
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They got through the rough start and when I went to visit her, she most eager to stay with the trainer because she got to do a lot of fun things with him.<br />
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She was an awesome cadaver dog-in-training. More methodical and patient when trying to find the source than her older brother and her mother. I still remember at one training, only being able to see her butt as she tried to wiggle her way down into a pile of rocks to touch the source.<br />
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I will miss her. I will miss the incredible journey she and I were about to embark on. I'll miss seeing her get her first orange hunt test ribbon. I'll miss the satisfaction of her find some poor lost soul and give at least some peace of mind to a victims family.<br />
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Most of all I will miss her in the quiet of the evening when she falls asleep in my lap, belly up, feet stuck straight up in the air, and her head hanging over the arm of my chair, snoring gently as she recharges for her next adventure.<br />
<br />
Good bye my fireball. You burned bright, hot and way too fast.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyPi9CEEK8Hx9QRUlUSJKyc-h-HWHQevBrSBAwE-eajmIoHRNuzk5UQtZqYHFjaqAuoXODapE33ViwLFiA_qw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-79805967699980437052011-06-20T12:04:00.000-04:002011-06-20T12:04:21.375-04:00Evil Wee Woodland Beasties<div class="MsoNormal">When out searching, I am always on the lookout for all the big beasties that can harm me and my canine partners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lions, tigers and bears, oh my!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cora has the habit of finding bear dens, and once found one that was occupied!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My teammates won’t let me live down what I looked like running away from the den.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all the occupant was doing was snoozing peacefully, its humungous head resting on its crossed paws.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ve run into a few snakes, and saw a few bobcats on the way to tasks. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, it’s the wee beasties that drive me insane, especially in the summer time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s gnats, yellow jackets, black flies, deer flies, big black horse flies, little green horse flies, spiders, centipedes, millipedes just to name a few.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All laughing at my attempts to prevent them from invading my eyes, my nose, biting my flesh, and drinking my blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the weekend, as I was hiding for a team mate, I put my hand down as I was sitting next to a tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And immediately felt like I’d stuck my hand in a flame. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulled my hand back and it was already starting to swell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, it didn’t go much beyond my thumb and now I have a pretty rash!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My team mate and I think it was this that got me:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1A8hxq3LZhb3kN7Gpe7KHK083-RSZcZ5heevf9VgZhyphenhyphen1cEZzIilHABJKOWfkkdwQwVKwEAp2wsD0TCnZOrAXR74K2XdgX6Qvs9_A1bcA6zKFwOnRAJ1v96i396VfS8LGD35RCsyrfGo/s1600/milipede.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO1A8hxq3LZhb3kN7Gpe7KHK083-RSZcZ5heevf9VgZhyphenhyphen1cEZzIilHABJKOWfkkdwQwVKwEAp2wsD0TCnZOrAXR74K2XdgX6Qvs9_A1bcA6zKFwOnRAJ1v96i396VfS8LGD35RCsyrfGo/s320/milipede.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve had one search where I couldn’t search a major portion of my sector because we kept running into yellow jacket nests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On that same search, one of the walkers had to be transported to the hospital after getting into a nest of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just last week, I moved my portable mounting block to get on my horse and started running as fast as my fat little legs would carry me down the driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appears that a nest had taken up residence under the block and didn’t appreciate the move to a new locale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole nest seemed to come boiling out in a black cloud of anger, just looking for a victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of us were fortunate and didn’t get stung, much.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiravy4KLXtVMJ2-t-bXB3-iYaNxDlG7O1WOMMrhvtxf8KWBItJv9EBOfjAuOA5am9JEBugxce-USjrP_fcWhczVR8Q4WTScnf5DfIaH3VQqiT-zSJYFZAvqJX5BqZcKhNHlbWRvCQ-tZk/s1600/250px-European_wasp_white_bg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiravy4KLXtVMJ2-t-bXB3-iYaNxDlG7O1WOMMrhvtxf8KWBItJv9EBOfjAuOA5am9JEBugxce-USjrP_fcWhczVR8Q4WTScnf5DfIaH3VQqiT-zSJYFZAvqJX5BqZcKhNHlbWRvCQ-tZk/s1600/250px-European_wasp_white_bg.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Right now though, my least favorite wee beastie is the gnat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could be swimming in a vat of 100 proof insect repellant, and they’d still figure out a way to get in my eyes, up my nose or inhaled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are just wretched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing that works for me is a branch snapped off of the nearest tree that I can wave around like a mad woman. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve often wondered what my dogs are thinking when they are coming back to me to indicate and find me furiously waving round this leafy frond over my head. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then my least favorite wee beastie of them all, the tick. There are so many different kinds, the dog tick, the lone star tick, the deer tick and on and on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate them for a myriad of reasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are useless blood sucking disease carrying parasites that serve no useful purpose in the grand scheme of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might be a little biased in my thinking after having to deal with many a dog dying of Lyme induced kidney failure or the fact that my Finn almost died from Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, still is there really any use for a tick?</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-65675373830079125822011-06-17T13:09:00.000-04:002011-06-17T13:09:02.934-04:00Mountain Laurel<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">Mountain Laurel in its full glory is beautiful to behold. You can turn a corner on a hiking trail and be stopped in your tracks by the sight of acres and acres of it </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">tumbling down the mountain side like white water river rapids.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLauaqn5QMrEP8rZgkJWCbltn4Dwfg0JTyRXoSqOpuLjUTAP87tntvJvIQbk8bu_J_KjMl44fOmFY-6jJy6piL5hEmfbPPGBZXunBK8QMAiP2IzbSgHaf6MhMM0xvK4RMTCfnXD6wKeI/s1600/IMG_0857a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLauaqn5QMrEP8rZgkJWCbltn4Dwfg0JTyRXoSqOpuLjUTAP87tntvJvIQbk8bu_J_KjMl44fOmFY-6jJy6piL5hEmfbPPGBZXunBK8QMAiP2IzbSgHaf6MhMM0xvK4RMTCfnXD6wKeI/s320/IMG_0857a.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 20px;">rushing towards you</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0NBabvftb2ZQe6mQNvc_NS9OErhLpZpWSpLGAXS2ooko5U94AKjDruB6l1ZPy15pNCknRHjtdaoZLAukXb6Mc0_K-bnk0M5JhY4W6OovYZTGgYl-WYWOWKvt_nDND-UyenINsJDyxDk/s1600/IMG_0860a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0NBabvftb2ZQe6mQNvc_NS9OErhLpZpWSpLGAXS2ooko5U94AKjDruB6l1ZPy15pNCknRHjtdaoZLAukXb6Mc0_K-bnk0M5JhY4W6OovYZTGgYl-WYWOWKvt_nDND-UyenINsJDyxDk/s320/IMG_0860a.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 20px;">and tumbling down hill</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 20px;">As you get closer the subtle fragrance tickles your nose.<span> </span>The buzzing bees, attracted by the flowers, are industriously collecting their nectar.<span> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 20px;">The bell shaped flowers, delicately veined in pink, are beautiful in their simplicity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVl5CQ3LbXwgcbLo-EZ-qdXlGOsGX1dZXtoekVXeGRA5qr2SYstMep3qVBpZ_omzM8DeWszZKKf5lGO5JkC1sCUGjOS_NV_19xM6XKBE6DP-9R7rFbQwxqimmG-vZ-5rzQEyDOFo2Uxk/s1600/IMG_0862b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVl5CQ3LbXwgcbLo-EZ-qdXlGOsGX1dZXtoekVXeGRA5qr2SYstMep3qVBpZ_omzM8DeWszZKKf5lGO5JkC1sCUGjOS_NV_19xM6XKBE6DP-9R7rFbQwxqimmG-vZ-5rzQEyDOFo2Uxk/s320/IMG_0862b.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="298" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">However, I rank Mountain Laurel and her cousin, Rhododendron, right up there with ticks.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">My very first search EVER, after certifying my first dog Ben, was looking for a lost 9 year old girl in a vast tract of harvested timber.<span> </span>Pine trees planted so close together I could barely walk through them. I was able to walk the top of my sector along a two track. Then plunged into the woven thicket of pine branches and Virginia green wire. <span> </span>After spending, what I thought was most of the night bushing wacking through that, I was never so happy to see the far boundary.<span> </span>We broke out of the mess and breathed a sigh of relief (ha!) at the open ground under the set of electrical transmission towers that marked the boundary of my sector.<span> </span>They were set on a slope so steep most of the way down Ben and I were skiing on old leaf litter.<span> </span>We were spit out at the bottom of the sector into a creek bottom.<span> </span>Whew, I thought, we can do some real searching, since it was night time and the scent should be dropping into the drainage.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">Oh what a naïve newbie I was.<span> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">For in front of me was this vast mat of tangled branches of old growth Mt Laurel.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2q_FGvftg5LsQ8hwymgJjDgKK_SHjKoKC3sJCfRzdgmO9dY0vCRb1knA9hTWNPOSrXESbn38lUM1g2TNJGUKn5phi8_qvwXNph0-3Q1YtHD44hflks3vIOIsjgzLrQK31ZaeSOu7eTkk/s1600/IMG_0861a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2q_FGvftg5LsQ8hwymgJjDgKK_SHjKoKC3sJCfRzdgmO9dY0vCRb1knA9hTWNPOSrXESbn38lUM1g2TNJGUKn5phi8_qvwXNph0-3Q1YtHD44hflks3vIOIsjgzLrQK31ZaeSOu7eTkk/s320/IMG_0861a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">a small smattering of mt laurel</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">I stopped my team for a moment.<span> </span>Gave Ben some water and a little food.<span> </span>Readjusted my pack, made sure my head lamp was on straight, and had my clippers ready.<span> </span>The Gods of Fate were probably having a good laugh at my expense, because I really had no clue of what I was getting into.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">I boldly strode into the Mt Laurel and was stopped short no more than 10 feet in. Head check right, head check left. Headlamp just showed more Laurel, no path, no nothing. Even the stream was clogged with its branches. Got my trusty pruning shears out. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;">The Gods of Fate laughed again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 18px;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;">When I say old growth laurel, there are branches as thick as my wrist and trunks as big around as my leg. All the pruning shears were good for that night was to scratch an itch. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;">The end of my sector was supposed to be 3 drainages in or about 300 meters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no navigating skill I could use to find the end of the sector.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The laurel blocked my ability to see the drainages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in order to pace count 300 meters I had to be able to pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;">I am not exactly sure what my pace count is when I am belly crawling under, over and through this crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;">I had to sling my pack underneath me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I’d kept it on my back, I would have been so tangled it would have taken a bulldozer to get me out of there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even had to take Ben’s vest off because he kept getting trapped by the snarl of branches and trunks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once he was free of the vest, he was able to slip and slither through with no problems. Especially when he was in the creek bed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;">When I and the rest of the team could finally stand upright, I made the executive decision to head up hill and back to the truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We weren’t accomplishing anything and could realistically become part of the problem.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;">That hike back to the truck was a whole ‘nother mess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of us were having hallucinations from lack of sleep (I was working on 60 hours of searching with only 5 hours of sleep).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My own special hallucination was</span></span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;"> some weird floating head that looked like it could belong to some long ago mountain man, following me just on the edge of my peripheral vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Book Antiqua', serif; line-height: 115%;">From that very first search, I learned to hate mountain laurel and rhododendrons with a passion. And, yep, a lot of my searches end up in patches of those evil plants. At night. In the rain. And sometimes with fog. <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-37614176168215870002011-06-08T12:00:00.000-04:002011-06-08T12:00:13.736-04:00The End of an EraLast night I went on my first search mission with out the alpha dog. And I only lasted through one task, before I was too overwhelmed to go on.<br />
<br />
Since Finn is 11 years old and is still recuperating from major thoracic surgery, I've been forced to retire him. Finn is actually my second air scent dog, the first one being Ben. He was found wandering the streets of my home town. I am not sure how much he counts, since he was only operational for about 2 years before he suffered a career ending injury to his suspensory ligament in one of his rear legs.<br />
<br />
Finn has been my do everything, go every dog. The places we have traveled to and people we have helped are uncountable. Everything I asked him to do, he's done. But my favorite thing is his attitude: "Come on! Let's go see whats around this corner". If I was turned around, which happened more than once when we were out searching in the dark, fog and rain, all I had to do was follow his glowing collar and there was the trail. He is my partner, my protector; he is a part of me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sbXBBXXsl6m9nL2uDUUVijT7PaR3at30NuIEF-9WXe4DeAWiOe7EPegZMtKxjpgeiz3gM5YeS8tWaL2XtCFi6hc7X_0jfjNssoTzAynqC87Dunt7-OUPu02Zw-kIH8JDXVcYRiNkZNk/s1600/Copy+%25281%2529+of+IMG_5122a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sbXBBXXsl6m9nL2uDUUVijT7PaR3at30NuIEF-9WXe4DeAWiOe7EPegZMtKxjpgeiz3gM5YeS8tWaL2XtCFi6hc7X_0jfjNssoTzAynqC87Dunt7-OUPu02Zw-kIH8JDXVcYRiNkZNk/s400/Copy+%25281%2529+of+IMG_5122a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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So leaving him at home brought forth an amazing array of emotions. A part of me is missing and I was unsure in the woods with out him there to guide me. I don't trust another dog as much as I trust him. There was heart aching sadness and with that came the irrational feeling of wanting to quit everything. That I couldn't do this without him.<br />
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I wonder how long I will feel like this. Darcy, my new dog, shouldn't have to labor under the unfair load of trying to live up to Finn. She is her own dog and needs to have the chance to write her own story. Just as Finn wrote his own incredible epic. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTmTpv3mDMp6hE_nVVmJLIeYricJPvhvM_frG4QxOJWJhECtD03xA53YjixhMnfY2miIkDPronLxNvdTFLxtEyNThAaVGvlnVLuSN5q-QGSojUWR9CeQSIzEUngnUcA3WfCUoY_AUelM/s1600/Guyana_Jane_8_2009+341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTmTpv3mDMp6hE_nVVmJLIeYricJPvhvM_frG4QxOJWJhECtD03xA53YjixhMnfY2miIkDPronLxNvdTFLxtEyNThAaVGvlnVLuSN5q-QGSojUWR9CeQSIzEUngnUcA3WfCUoY_AUelM/s320/Guyana_Jane_8_2009+341.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On his way home from Guyana in 2009 after thoroughly pissing off a fashionista-wanna be by jumping up on her plane seat and leaving his beautiful golden Lab hair all over it. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-76794116869275098252011-06-02T21:45:00.000-04:002011-06-02T21:45:31.632-04:00The Call<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I know my alpha dog, Finn, is getting old. I see him slowing down. I even have a young dog coming up quickly through the ranks to take his place. In my mind though, he is immortal. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKi2w0uSH8SixD1DIgWC5vbEYMWyH4IlE8WBtP8UrMvhvBOFWUowQf7kzovUIcysiuBE0wdGH5JiJ59Sgz92vLh1QglYtGWI-SOOzhhn16D0ttf-UjL12DftZC3I4KUiWRWRaPdm3L3rI/s1600/IMG_8268a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKi2w0uSH8SixD1DIgWC5vbEYMWyH4IlE8WBtP8UrMvhvBOFWUowQf7kzovUIcysiuBE0wdGH5JiJ59Sgz92vLh1QglYtGWI-SOOzhhn16D0ttf-UjL12DftZC3I4KUiWRWRaPdm3L3rI/s320/IMG_8268a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Just two weeks prior to what I am about to describe, he’d spent several hours in the mountains near Lexingtion, Va on a cadaver search. And was sounder, both mentally and physically, at 11, than my younger cadaver dog was when the search was over. This was all in the back of my mind when my search team, Blue and Gray Search and Rescue Dogs, were called out to assist in the search, rescue and recovery mission after the devastating tornadoes that flattened Glade Springs, Virginia at the end of April. Finn is an old hand at disaster work. He’s spent time in New Orleans after Katrina and knows how to navigate jungles, both the green ones and the steel ones. So he was the first one I got out of the truck.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAO1aZb8xu9F7wkqmxOr00n23neFQbzrqXYPAUlHp53w6SIicf-Cl2sVfWIQRA-3r5OOJAKOjDBcEZEsQK8-BxOuKIB06O9fySSVCTzMLwQZg6Cg9dVC8g0s0OmcankWFHrRsrklGKQAM/s1600/IMG_0680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAO1aZb8xu9F7wkqmxOr00n23neFQbzrqXYPAUlHp53w6SIicf-Cl2sVfWIQRA-3r5OOJAKOjDBcEZEsQK8-BxOuKIB06O9fySSVCTzMLwQZg6Cg9dVC8g0s0OmcankWFHrRsrklGKQAM/s320/IMG_0680.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"> He and I were walking down to the first rubble pile we were assigned, and he stumbled on smooth ground, doing a face plant. That had me a little worried. Then when he didn’t want get on the pile; this from a dog that climbed 30’ piles hour after hour in the 9<sup>th</sup> Ward, I wasn’t just worried, I knew there was something very wrong.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The following Monday, Finn got up on my picnic table, reluctantly let me hold off a vein and I got two tubes of blood to send into Antech. I don’t remember what I was expecting to see, maybe elevated BUN and Creatinine. Indicators of failing kidneys. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see a blood calcium level of 17.3. When the normal high is only 12.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Calcium is delicately held in balance by two pairs of parathyroid glands on either side of the thyroid glands in the neck: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzjmN-AG1rDM4bJRq8cb14syaVagkaYEPYJY4xgY3s4OW7bAr_9ErNjA3bcN4QEkeyJ22pXmFGGDli9meGQJGyB76mMSVyaHeVpFBaKY_W9C4b0Av3NBj34lAH8uBf3dkbjEVkaIDgBc/s1600/parathyroid_glands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzjmN-AG1rDM4bJRq8cb14syaVagkaYEPYJY4xgY3s4OW7bAr_9ErNjA3bcN4QEkeyJ22pXmFGGDli9meGQJGyB76mMSVyaHeVpFBaKY_W9C4b0Av3NBj34lAH8uBf3dkbjEVkaIDgBc/s320/parathyroid_glands.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Too high, cardiac arrhythmias occur. Too low, seizures and tetany occur. Both easily lead to death. Low calcium is something most dog breeders are very aware of. Bitches can develop low blood calcium when they are nursing a large litter and develop eclampsia. However, there are very few things that cause the blood calcium to go high, all of them devastating. In school I was taught when there is a high calcium level it is time to search for the tumor that is causing it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I can deal with mayhem, destruction, broken bones, HBC’s and other assortments of catastrophes as long as it isn’t my dog. When one of my dogs ends up with even the most minor of problems, I become the veterinary client from hell. Irrational, illogical and very emotional. However, a small rational part of my brain was still working and it pushed me to start researching how to figure out what was happening to my heart dog.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"> As a veterinarian, I belong to a wonderful resource called Veterinary Information Network. With the click of a button, I can get questions answered, research obscure clinical signs, and get help putting all the pieces together. So that is where I started. First, I had to determine if the elevated calcium was a true number and not lab error. That required an ionized calcium level. If that was elevated then it truly was an accurate number and I need to continue to find the source of the elevation. This test requires a lot of special handling of the blood, the most important being the blood has to arrive at the lab frozen. Luckily, I have a lot of ice packs to use for my vaccine cooler and several were sacrificed to the cause. It only took a day to get those results back, and unfortunately it confirmed the levels as being a real number and not lab error.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Back to VIN I went. The next step is determining if the elevation is due to the parathyroids having a fit or if there was a tumor inducing the calcium levels to elevate. There is an interesting test from Michigan State University vet lab called the hypercalcemia of Malignancy Profile. It measures two specific hormones, the Parathyroid Hormone (PTH) and the Parathyroid Hormone related protein (PTHrP). PTH is the hormone that keeps the calcium levels, well, level. PTHrP mimics PTH causing the calcium levels to elevate. If the PTH is elevated, then the parathyroid glands are working over time. If the PTHrP is elevated that means a tumor is producing it making the calcium to go up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Finn’s results were difficult to understand because not only was his PTH zero, so was his PTHrP. His parathyroids weren’t working and the tumor wasn’t producing PTHrP so what was making his calcium go so high? I’ll probably never know for sure, but all the specialists said to continue looking for a tumor.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> In intact male dogs there are two places malignant tumors are most commonly found: in the prostate and in anal sacs. I couldn’t palpate a mass in either one of these places. And none of his external lymph nodes were enlarged (the first place lymphoma likes to pop up). But there are lymph nodes internally that aren’t readily palpable. The next step in this dance was chest radiographs and an abdominal ultrasound.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> While I was doing office calls, my two technicians were able to get 3 views of his chest (which is standard when looking for tumors in the thorax). My heart almost literally stopped when I looked at the first radiograph. Sitting right in front of his heart was the tumor. An ugly malevolent mass taking up the first 1/3 of his chest. The first thought that went through my head was he had lymphoma and I only had my boy for another 2-3 months. The next thought was how in the hell can he still feel good enough to continue working? I mean he was just on a difficult mountain search not 2-3 weeks prior to this. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He still needed the abdominal ultrasound done, but I couldn’t stand to be around when it was done. I don’t think I could have held it together in front of all my co-workers if nastiness was found in Finn’s abdomen. So I left.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> While Finn had his ultrasound done, I took his rads to the internal medicine DVM at <a href="http://www.vimpva.com/">Veterinary Internal Medicine Practice of Northern Virginia</a> for an unbiased evaluation of what was in his chest. By the time I got back to the clinic the u/s was done. I asked them to just fax the results to me, because I was sure all his abdominal lymph nodes were enlarged and I wanted a few more hours of ignorance. Finn snored in the back of the truck on the way home, oblivious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I got a call from the wonderful Dr. Deppe at VIMP before I even got home. He confirmed that it was a mass. But he gave me some hope when I told him that none of his external lymph nodes were enlarged, that we need to consider a thymoma. A benign tumor of the thymus. He opened up an appointment for my boy the next afternoon to try and get a fine needle aspirate of the mass. There was even better news sitting on the fax machine at home: his abdominal ultrasound was clean, even his spleen looked normal.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Turns out Finn is a grumpy drunk! He needed to be sedated for the ultrasound guided fine needle aspirate of the mass. Not that I am complaining, though. I didn’t want him moving while they were sticking a needle into his chest so close to his heart. But boy was he rumbly grumbly when I picked him up. I soon had the samples winging their way via FedEx air to Colorado State University lab for cytology and also to have a PARR test done. PARR is a test that helps to determine if the lymphocytes are reactive and come from many different lines or if they are neoplastic and all come from the clone of one lymph cell. It’s not cheap but helps with treatment options.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> More good news when the cytology and PARR results came back. Cytology was suggestive of a thymoma and the PARR results also pointed in the direction of a thymoma. If you want an explaination of the PARR test click here: <a href="http://www.cvmbs.colostate.edu/ns/departments/mip/cilab/parr_explained.aspx">CSU PARR test</a></div><div class="MsoNormal">. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was ecstatic, Finn just wanted breakfast. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The results showed up on Monday morning. By Monday evening, Finn was scheduled for surgery Wednesday morning with Dr. Bradley at <a href="http://vsrp.org/">Veterinary Surgical Referral Practice of Northern Virginia</a>. His clinic is in the same building as Dr. Deppe’s clinic, and I’ve referred many of my own clients to him. He is a surgeon with an unbelievable work ethic and astounding talent. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was 95% sure I wanted to do this. But there was a small part of me that questioned my motives for doing such a massive, invasive surgery on an elderly dog. But he was healthy otherwise and there was an excellent chance that the tumor was benign. Combine all that with the fact that Finn has given me his all every time I asked him, quieted those doubts.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I had to be at Dr. Bradley’s by 7AM, so in the pre dawn light of Wednesday morning I loaded up Finn in the truck for the 2 hour drive to the clinic. I won’t lie and say I didn’t shed any tears on the way up there. My mind going to the worst case scenarios, all ending in death. And the little doubts that I thought I’d come to grips with were rising up and throwing themselves at me, making me so very conflicted. He just looked so healthy that the irrational part of my brain made me doubt there was really anything wrong with him. I couldn’t stop from trying to touch him the entire way up there. Finn on the other hand, got impatient with me, hurmphed at me and moved to the back of the truck to continue his snooze like he normal does when we are on a road trip.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmTTbEc1XCYIP7e1vvgGsrKzDG0g7RwYnTp2QpsjfWopcj-jxIZXF6VnmF_zljXfWlaWCpwyakNmcDh_xfDOQr3mBeHI4TurvxVNdBY-OMxgqRvbFFL5MJmPXxzwdA2vqp4mPdXA09Lw/s1600/IMG_0580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmTTbEc1XCYIP7e1vvgGsrKzDG0g7RwYnTp2QpsjfWopcj-jxIZXF6VnmF_zljXfWlaWCpwyakNmcDh_xfDOQr3mBeHI4TurvxVNdBY-OMxgqRvbFFL5MJmPXxzwdA2vqp4mPdXA09Lw/s320/IMG_0580.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Dr. Bradley explained how the surgery was going to go. He does his thorocotomies from the left side, and not through the sternum, because he feels they recover more quickly. The difficulty of this surgery was the mass was so far forward, he was going to need to make the incision farther forward than he normally does. That meant that the muscles of his shoulder were going to be involved, not just the intercostals muscles. But, I trusted him when he said that he’d get better exposure to the tumor and was more likely to get it all. As I was walking Finn back to his surgery cage, in the cage next to his was a dog that was going home that morning after her own thorocotomy for a lung lobe abscess. Seeing her made me more comfortable with my own decision to go ahead with Finn’s surgery.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">His surgery was scheduled for 10AM and was supposed to be done by 12 noon. Dr. Bradley called me at 12:05 to tell me that it was a text book surgery and Finn was in recovery. I start letting everyone know my boy is doing well, and I am over the moon! My heart heads back to where it is supposed to be and not in my throat. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Everything comes to a crashing halt when I get another call from Dr. Bradley too soon after the first call. And the nightmare begins. Dr. Bradley is very specific when he says he’s going to call, and is never more than a couple of minutes off. If he calls at another time, he really doesn’t need say much, I already know Finn is either dead or dying.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He’d gone into respiratory arrest.<br />
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For some reason his lung stopped working and started filling with fluid. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs were so filled with fluid no oxygen could pass. They tried to pull off some of the fluid with Lasix, but it didn’t work well or quickly enough. So they put him on a ventilator. Later, both he and Dr. Deppe came up with a few reasons why it happened: re-expansion injury or neurogenic pulmonary edema. His radiographs really didn’t match up with either one, but there is not a lot of data on those conditions in dogs because they usually die. All we could hope for was that it was a solitary event and that the ventilator would keep him alive long enough for his lungs to repair themselves.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I called back shortly after Dr. Bradley's first call because I really couldn’t process what he told me during that phone call. Not surprising, after going from a high of him coming through surgery to having him put on a ventilator. Dr. Bradley didn’t give much different information from the first call, but at least now my brain had a better chance of trying to understand what was happening. Didn’t make it any easier though. My precious Finn, my heart dog, my partner, was dying and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I went around to the rest of my house calls, but I am not quite sure how much sense I made. I think I helped the vomiting dog and the diabetic cat, but I don’t remember. I was just waiting for the call. <b><i>“The call”</i></b>. I never wanted that call. I’ve had to make that call to my own clients, but it was shear torture being on the other side. My phone was now enemy number one, but also a life line. I didn’t know whether I should just throw it out the window or just sit and stare at it.<br />
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I finished my housecalls around 5PM, but I couldn't go home. He wasn’t there, might never be back there and I wasn’t prepared for empty hole that was there in his place. I tried distracting myself at Barnes and Noble, but kept getting strange looks as I wandered aimlessly around, picking up books, putting them down and the occasional tear. I finally left. There were 4 hungry dogs at home that needed to pee.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I almost made it home before I broke down. Driving and texting can’t hold a candle to how dangerous it is to drive when you can’t see the road for the tears. I don’t recommend it. Dr. Bradley had asked me earlier if I wanted to come up and visit with him. I just couldn’t do it. I wanted to remember him as I walked him back to his cage, tail wagging, talking smack to the dogs in the cages as he walked by (he’s good at that), not with tubes in him. That wasn’t him, just a facsimile of him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Thunderstorms start rolling through as I was sitting at the computer in my office, aimlessly wandering around the internet, when Dr. Bradley’s number pops up on my phone. He was not supposed to call until 10PM when he went into check on Finn, and it is only 9:15PM. I didn’t want to pick it up, just stared at it and it wouldn't stop ringing. Surprisingly, my voice was actually half way normal when I finally answered the ring, when all I wanted to do is throw up. Nor did I drop the phone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The thunderstorms that had rolled through my town, ended up in Manassass, where the clinic is located, knocking out power to the clinic. Two very quick thinking LVTs ran a power converter from a pick up truck in the parking lot into the clinic, plugged in an extension cord to it and attached the ventilator to the extension cord. Good Lord! A power failure, just makes the whole thing so much easier. Dr. Bradley was just calling after the fact to let me know what happened. His blood oxygen saturation never went below 85% and one of the LVTs hand bagged him until they got the extension cord set up. Ironically, the week before the clinics started a search for a generator large enough to power both clinics in case something like this happened. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was told not to call before 7:30AM on Thursday. The fact that I got no further calls from Dr. Bradley was a little comforting. Again, I was surprised that I could hold the phone when I called, my hands were sweating and shaking so much. An interesting sensation, to be sitting a chair and feel like you've run a hundred yard sprint there is so much damned adrenaline pumping your body. My heart felt like it was about to explode. <br />
Dr. Bradley calmly told me he’d taken Finn off the ventilator at 6:15 that morning and continued to breathe on his own, maintaining normal blood oxygen levels on room air. And that he continues to recover normally from anesthesia. Normally! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When I went to visit him on Thursday evening, he was weak and unsteady, but who wouldn’t be? He ate like the Lab he is when I was there. While laying on the floor next to him, the LVTs and I talked a little about what happened. More light was shed on what happened, especially the detail about the power converter and the extra tidbit that Finn had turned an ugly shade of purple before he got on the ventilator. No one there really expected him to make it, including Dr. Bradley. Me either. Of all the dogs I know of that ended up on a ventilator, Finn is the only one that lived.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbR-m-sv3JuK6Elo-hzurQ-mnd9dWqY0xL0SIPRSH-p7vIp8Y7sHknQTkqhfwT8R1OS5jochDU4l_UxP_A0djrdXoiaC4DHqJqyE_G_47hZ9fGILRfZm2p__cVgiitPIFKe6jSVDdHJcs/s1600/OMG+incision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbR-m-sv3JuK6Elo-hzurQ-mnd9dWqY0xL0SIPRSH-p7vIp8Y7sHknQTkqhfwT8R1OS5jochDU4l_UxP_A0djrdXoiaC4DHqJqyE_G_47hZ9fGILRfZm2p__cVgiitPIFKe6jSVDdHJcs/s320/OMG+incision.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>He never looked back. He came home on Saturday with an OMG huge incision on the left side of his chest. And other than a too fast drop in his blood calcium that I am supplementing right now, the biggest issue he’s got is pain from the cut muscles. The anti-climactic news was the biopsy confirmed it was a benign thymoma.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He is sleeping at my feet right now, and nothing is better than that.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">My team mate Misty Sampson made this video of Finn working the 9th Ward after Katrina. It is one of my favorites:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div></div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-74247640961770573612010-11-30T21:17:00.000-05:002010-11-30T21:17:35.055-05:00Reduce Reuse Recycle<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I’ve been off pretending to be a writer and was participating in <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">NaNowrimo</a>, however, I didn’t make the 50,000 word count in 30 days goal. When I first started I didn’t have any concept of how difficult it would be to pull close to 2,000 words a day out of my imagination that actually made sense when read all in a row. After reading the last thing I wrote one evening, the next morning, I had to wonder who actually wrote it, because I certainly didn’t remember ever striking those keys. And, no, they didn’t make any sense.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But that doesn’t mean I and my horde hasn’t been active. Finn, the old man, is still able to put in a four hour middle of the night search on Massanutten Mountain, or as I like to call it, Mass-a-rock Mountain. We were looking for a mentally handicapped person that decided that he really wanted to go for a hike, forgetting that he couldn’t remember how to get home. A lot of people and dogs put in quite a few hours and covered many miles looking for him and the three dogs that went with him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like searching at night, because if I could see what I was actually trying to search through, I’d probably turn around and go home. Much of what was in my search sector that night consisted of rock. Big rocks, little rocks, boulders, rocks that like to rock, rocks that hide under leaves, slippery rocks, moss covered rocks and holes that hide. All of them just waiting to break an ankle. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0obHi71pbw30cBPlM8F2CdwmbI-94ILmiqxWLjNi13bzI6Saq3x8BYxD1AyCp8GRw8hfGqFbluxeiQzUF7vdx4cbJhX7NrhAgtxPJln3-Bbe88-15d-nPmT7ZzBVmG2N8EId_Agcz_LY/s1600/IMG_1394_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0obHi71pbw30cBPlM8F2CdwmbI-94ILmiqxWLjNi13bzI6Saq3x8BYxD1AyCp8GRw8hfGqFbluxeiQzUF7vdx4cbJhX7NrhAgtxPJln3-Bbe88-15d-nPmT7ZzBVmG2N8EId_Agcz_LY/s320/IMG_1394_1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">That looks like a field of ferns, but the ferns are covering field of rocks</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32iQTGKwJAHPdNhHip6j4sMhLpbdP69XgJQj3EU4rms7UkhtO0yddesxSLdSngMAzGziOcD64WVjd8ZTYWGQxMXx-eH8UXCkLtcpnOmVb0DmZZY4BdzPHMQL9V49KvLxjp7QT4K_YMTI/s1600/IMG_1393_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32iQTGKwJAHPdNhHip6j4sMhLpbdP69XgJQj3EU4rms7UkhtO0yddesxSLdSngMAzGziOcD64WVjd8ZTYWGQxMXx-eH8UXCkLtcpnOmVb0DmZZY4BdzPHMQL9V49KvLxjp7QT4K_YMTI/s320/IMG_1393_1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The beginning of a laurel thicket</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VZnJrEsRNgjAg9w9IIqH2BKbst1dY1HWHP9MkA2Hy3ebjy9BjsFAqQf2fo4Uwrr51EWVVneJ3Sa8QTlgAFU8Vz8nPdsrGoBZXv4MFrIKKa80uOSKSCV1FgI68O7i-Zy6tDLGQZX7Ors/s1600/IMG_1355_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0VZnJrEsRNgjAg9w9IIqH2BKbst1dY1HWHP9MkA2Hy3ebjy9BjsFAqQf2fo4Uwrr51EWVVneJ3Sa8QTlgAFU8Vz8nPdsrGoBZXv4MFrIKKa80uOSKSCV1FgI68O7i-Zy6tDLGQZX7Ors/s320/IMG_1355_1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">One of many rock slides Finn and I encounter on our searches</div><br />
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And then down at the bottom of the rock slide Finn and I were searching was the mountain laurel. After walking across rocks, the thing I hate the most is trying to find a decent path through the woven branches that make up a mountain laurel thicket. <br />
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But, if everyone got lost in a city park with walk ways, they wouldn’t need us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The gentleman was eventually found safe after he set the forest on fire. Literally. He set a fire that ended up eating 10 acres of forest. But he was found and so were his dogs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">However, Teagan and Deacon where feeling a little neglected and hatched a plan to make me pay more attention to them. It consisted of some tag team vomiting and eating of said residue. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyL88vJU_nPH12p5ld9gbXAy1PYVW9BDN9Svb3vqn8VnXZ07i28pbWtI6k3lkjlspb8L07Op0fht6ydo5LroTYEjCHzOKdDx2FTlQJvC9k_OzKG2eRbK2cAkbETcl0kvFO0eMPmpwJFI/s1600/IMG_0002a_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyL88vJU_nPH12p5ld9gbXAy1PYVW9BDN9Svb3vqn8VnXZ07i28pbWtI6k3lkjlspb8L07Op0fht6ydo5LroTYEjCHzOKdDx2FTlQJvC9k_OzKG2eRbK2cAkbETcl0kvFO0eMPmpwJFI/s320/IMG_0002a_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Deacon is a dog with a severe sock fetish. The first hint that this was going to be a lifelong problem and that maybe he needs some therapy for this mental illness, was Christmas 2009. He stole the nearly naked carcass of the Christmas turkey from the counter at Mom’s house. Pissed off was the least of what I felt, because I had warned Mom what a counter surfer he was. I thought she knew what I was talking about, but obviously didn’t because she wasn’t watching him while he was in the kitchen with her and I was out with the other dogs. My dad, who is normally very unflappable, comes rushing out the house with an extremely worried look on his face, to tell me that Deacon had inhaled the ENTIRE carcass in about two bites. Fortunately, hydrogen peroxide works well on him, and urrppp up comes the carcass in its entirety. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then 20 minutes later, a sock. A beautiful yellow tinged, sewer smelling athletic sock. As of this writing, he’s puked up close to 5 socks. Several in my truck coming home from hunt tests and SAR training. I know when he’s got a sock percolating in that stomach of his. He gets tucked up, his ribs start to show a little and he has a couple of days of throwing up small amounts of food. And then it appears, always yellow stained, stinking like something dead that’s been rotting in the sun for a couple of days.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I do nightly patrols to pick up socks, make sure the door is closed to the room that has my socks in it, and make sure the laundry is put away as it is done. All for naught… Because he is a mission driven, sock seeking machine. Nothing and nobody will stand in his eternal quest to find that holy grail of his life, THE PERFECT SOCK. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMmMXx-1D_h8B-6YBqQolc-tHQnLSAx8hjQUnfUjP_-eFQZDhGU-ZAKGeNnyS4Syhpe582WUJBmpW24XhkRVRLOEyOEwOc4Q4NunrjVC74hSqhwxgDdT6PP3imMXzy5TIVmFaCvk78BU/s1600/IMG_0080a_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMmMXx-1D_h8B-6YBqQolc-tHQnLSAx8hjQUnfUjP_-eFQZDhGU-ZAKGeNnyS4Syhpe582WUJBmpW24XhkRVRLOEyOEwOc4Q4NunrjVC74hSqhwxgDdT6PP3imMXzy5TIVmFaCvk78BU/s320/IMG_0080a_1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple of weeks ago, while I was upstairs plunking away on the computer, he disappears for a few minutes taking Teagan with him. I get down stairs just in time to see him licking his lips and a large area of fluid on the laundry room floor. My suspicion, that he’d just re-eaten what he’d just regurgitated (canines-giving real meaning to reduce/reuse/recycle). I didn’t think much of it and left to go do my morning rounds. However, when I got back home for lunch, he’d continued to vomit in his crate. So I called the clinic I worked for, in only a mildly panicked state, and advised them to prepare for what is probably going to be the first of many surgical sock retrievals I foresee in Deacon’s life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I get to the clinic early the next morning and get started on his radiographs. I make all the other veterinarians at the practice look at them and tell me there is nothing stuck. And had to be persuaded not to send the rads off for a radiologist to put their mark on them signifying that there wasn’t a foreign body trapped in his small intestine. But, both of them did feel a mass in there. As I was leaving, one of the docs made me promise to call her and tell her what he craps out. In my crazed Munchausen by Proxy fugue state, I was still trying to figure out how I was going to get him back up there for the surgery I sure he needed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We get home safely and when I open the door to the laundry room, I nearly pass out from the stench that greets me. It appears that Teagan had pushed Deacon away from the magnificent mass of vomit that he regurgitated for her and ate it, sock and all. For in her crate was a beautiful yellow sewer smelling athletic sock, that she’d very carefully re-eaten everything around it but left that splendid sock for me to see.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the middle of that night, Deacon leaves me a present of a sock on the dining room floor. Wrapped very prettily in poop.</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-27654854527292899092010-09-10T07:29:00.000-04:002010-09-10T07:29:14.760-04:00Training tips for search and rescue dogsTraining Tip #39: when leaving the house to set up your evenings training, make sure you put the puppy in her crate.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSer2XuNiqGJXwXLhtlwBY4fvfUbFwueC6gtlgyTfWhaC56GeUwiPcn41JPqF95junMeiJedp5aFJtdH1BrTVXEPADLuVBgBe2Dfet6ocNXT2-q1aaYV36CbNvlBrd8t9vIHGVH8UujNs/s1600/IMG_7178a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSer2XuNiqGJXwXLhtlwBY4fvfUbFwueC6gtlgyTfWhaC56GeUwiPcn41JPqF95junMeiJedp5aFJtdH1BrTVXEPADLuVBgBe2Dfet6ocNXT2-q1aaYV36CbNvlBrd8t9vIHGVH8UujNs/s320/IMG_7178a.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSNmd2Fs6fSoSoU8BzVZF0s-WQwBlw1t2TWHqUrEbEpIrS9wos_1xDkuLLL7XReSrRlD3FY-K8X4DP0YqL_f4JT-RGcy8S2DgEjaK_kmsIGulMnFz_P_BLTNSsxPsh7bgUrvTRQDJs_I/s1600/IMG_7195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSNmd2Fs6fSoSoU8BzVZF0s-WQwBlw1t2TWHqUrEbEpIrS9wos_1xDkuLLL7XReSrRlD3FY-K8X4DP0YqL_f4JT-RGcy8S2DgEjaK_kmsIGulMnFz_P_BLTNSsxPsh7bgUrvTRQDJs_I/s320/IMG_7195.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Addendum to Training Tip #39: latch the crate door.</div><div><br />
</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-48861552630301760182010-09-06T19:40:00.000-04:002010-09-06T19:40:00.069-04:00Paths Unkown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEYHKaTjc5Kd5XG18eSWi4-zany9CJpjHaCjx-t0g-Z7Krgqh4JyPQk8iZeE4RyQIX0x9YtGzHoRysTfyPNhPeVHMAIlKwjpERe3-p7qYhQAKUJ89k04MSxoiowD7IuKU4EoiaNvWxac/s1600/IMG_7519a_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEYHKaTjc5Kd5XG18eSWi4-zany9CJpjHaCjx-t0g-Z7Krgqh4JyPQk8iZeE4RyQIX0x9YtGzHoRysTfyPNhPeVHMAIlKwjpERe3-p7qYhQAKUJ89k04MSxoiowD7IuKU4EoiaNvWxac/s400/IMG_7519a_1.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple of weeks ago a beautiful silver balloon drifted into my yard, having lost all its helium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Made me wonder who lost it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was there a child somewhere that cried when it floated off?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whose birthday party did it drift away from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did a young man give it to his first love, and she lost it?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEHdCpJFf2AH80tB87ZLF1zSWn0wo0I_LbLI1OU-uZ5GYA1hyphenhyphenS-mc8EYslN6PhG00-gwSCULmLcH_qdCKEfEH0IY98fkZhyphenhyphenPviCK88fsKvsxdllUbkyNggti-zLeB67lKBtDfQGn5XTEs/s1600/IMG_1359_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEHdCpJFf2AH80tB87ZLF1zSWn0wo0I_LbLI1OU-uZ5GYA1hyphenhyphenS-mc8EYslN6PhG00-gwSCULmLcH_qdCKEfEH0IY98fkZhyphenhyphenPviCK88fsKvsxdllUbkyNggti-zLeB67lKBtDfQGn5XTEs/s320/IMG_1359_1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It also made me think of other things that wander into my life that I wasn’t aware I was looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those things that make us travel a path we weren’t expecting or planning on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is only one thing that wandered into my life I can remember that definitely pointed me down a trail that I had never planned on, and that would be my first search dog, Ben. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18WnqT1zLCKwstKgzGR0NmFx0fX1OG6uaF_1E04uWYfRg8qFcNojMAgtVrSoQUodbqiXs8JtSeuAotrBvErBI3vm_GR5zdeNNvCz-HWOKTPdHLw00U8VE_n9wylDY3Ygb5sKAyzo-gpo/s1600/ben+head+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18WnqT1zLCKwstKgzGR0NmFx0fX1OG6uaF_1E04uWYfRg8qFcNojMAgtVrSoQUodbqiXs8JtSeuAotrBvErBI3vm_GR5zdeNNvCz-HWOKTPdHLw00U8VE_n9wylDY3Ygb5sKAyzo-gpo/s320/ben+head+front.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I’d been with my search group, Blue and Gray, for about 6 months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d come to realize the time commitment needed and the monetary commitment as well, so it was time for me to look for a dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in love with my college dog, Jack and wanted another one just like him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a big dog, with long luxurious golden hair that paid homage to his mixed heritage; he was ¾ Golden Retriever and ¼ Great Pyrenees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was as beautiful as he was tough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I went looking at <a href="http://www.bmdca.org/">Bernese Mountain Dogs</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are stunning to look at, and in my neophyte enthusiasm, thought they were working dogs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the dogs I saw were beautiful and exactly what I thought I was looking for, but something kept holding me back from committing to a puppy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this time in my life I was boarding my horse at my friend’s farm, Mountain Run Farm, where she also had a small boarding kennel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was out finishing up a ride, when Kari comes rushing down to the barn to tell me that I needed to stick around. She has the perfect search dog for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some clients of hers were boarding their dog at her kennel until their house was finished being built as the place they were renting didn’t allow pets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They frantically called Kari one afternoon, they had just picked up a Labrador on the road near their apartment building that they thought had been hit by a car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could she help them take care of it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why they didn’t call the emergency clinic, I’ll never know, but in karma of the universe, they weren’t supposed to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kari actually told them to go directly to the emergency clinic, but they wanted her to look at him first.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was expecting what I call a cur Lab, to step out of their car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A cur lab is a dog that nobody can tell what breed it really is but kind of looks like a Lab so that is what they call it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They usually are whippet thin, with a whip like tail and a pointy snout, with a vague wave to a distant relative that may have been a Labrador.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The SPCA is notorious for calling everything a Lab, because that is the easiest to adopt out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially if they are a <a href="http://www.blackdogrescueproject.com/black-dog-syndrome.html">black dog</a>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, from this tiny car, out steps this big beautiful yellow Lab, with a gorgeous block head.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7oLyHTRigjLOGvyvgGE7jFPKyssH7dA9Bkt17k-p6APYBHnWeRGsnkoqk58bvGLTXKePcyphonVAJEC6wa-j9ftmiD9fJ97QNEb1w8YUDmiipxecU6LGXMaSGqAgr4_Ei8N2U0SveGs/s1600/ben+head+leftside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7oLyHTRigjLOGvyvgGE7jFPKyssH7dA9Bkt17k-p6APYBHnWeRGsnkoqk58bvGLTXKePcyphonVAJEC6wa-j9ftmiD9fJ97QNEb1w8YUDmiipxecU6LGXMaSGqAgr4_Ei8N2U0SveGs/s320/ben+head+leftside.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was love at first sight, both ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was completely and absolutely in love, the kind where music should be playing and little hearts floating around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all that was wrong with him was a raging ear infection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">He was not the most gifted of search dogs, but he was patience personified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patience to deal with my mistakes as a novice trainer and the patience to not get frustrated with me when he couldn’t understand what I wanted from him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a teacher, that was his gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was lucky to have such a dog such as him, it made training the rest of my dogs that much easier. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Most SAR dogs are trained using toys, and for months I tried to get him to play tug, but it was beneath him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent 6 frustrating months trying to get him to work for a toy, because that’s what everybody said I had to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This dog, though, was incredibly motivated by food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day he got out of my house when my pet sitter came to let them out to do his business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She called me frantically, knowing how much he meant to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remembered it was trash day and told her to just follow the trail of turned over trash cans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, she found him at the fourth trash can happily munching on what, I don’t know, but content.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">So I switched to training him with hot dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was certified in 6 months.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">His only find was a suicide in the Blue Ridge Mountains, before he suffered a career ending injury to a suspensory ligament in his rear leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He led me down this path I am on right now and he was the first step.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second step of which was getting Finn, my current search dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then my second HRD dog Cora, and have bred two litters of Labs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am training director for my team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And with Finn, I’ve been deployed to New Orleans after Katrina and to the jungles of Guyana, South America on HRD missions as well as numerous local missions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">In 2005, I lost him to cancer and still think about him almost every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw his ghost in my bedroom doorway, right after I put him to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t want to leave me, but I told him I’d be ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did good with me and it was time for him to go and help someone else.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Little did I know what was in front of me that first day I saw him step out of that car.</div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4762016423538962491.post-7525889913962871362010-08-19T22:42:00.001-04:002010-08-19T23:03:05.189-04:00Princess Prissy versus the Tomboy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-G1-UBScsX2XjmxfiXwChE00urjnAfXQfzRKW_IXbvQsjHFoDUa0p4MuUTtIgIXXbekkNVQ5Xc8Hl2MmH3aTHHWOJlUrnb5DewoydAG-mI25MtzkmLa6-6cHnFtCiBGPZ4l2KAugjhw/s1600/IMG_7254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-G1-UBScsX2XjmxfiXwChE00urjnAfXQfzRKW_IXbvQsjHFoDUa0p4MuUTtIgIXXbekkNVQ5Xc8Hl2MmH3aTHHWOJlUrnb5DewoydAG-mI25MtzkmLa6-6cHnFtCiBGPZ4l2KAugjhw/s400/IMG_7254.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>When Cora was younger, I never knew which one was going to come out and play. During training it was ok if Princess Prissy was out. Not so good when we are on an actual task. In the past, when we were at a cadaver search, I always brought out Finn first, because the Prissy vs Tomboy issue with Cora. Even though, strictly speaking, Finn is cross trained for live and deceased and Cora is HRD only.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple of years ago I made the conscious decision to use Cora first on a mission in Charlotte, NC. In this particular situation, we were surrounded by multiple news trucks and two news helicopters were hovering over head. We (me and another canine handler), talked over how we wanted to attack the site. Then we had to review it with representatives from the local LE and a couple of agents from the Justice Department. And this was the time I decided it was Cora’s turn to go first. No pressure! The plan was for Cora and me to take the grounds with its accompanying construction site hazards: equipment, debris, and pits dug for no reason that I could tell. And the other dog team took the half built apartment complexes, with the idea the subject may have been buried and the murderer hoping to have the grave site covered in concrete.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I get Cora out, hoping and praying Tomboy is here and not Princess Prissy. I break her (“hurry up”, her cue to pee), get her costume on (collar with the bells on it) and tell her to “go find”. And boom, she’s off like a shot. She’s ranging around, nose stuck to the ground. I figure she’s getting her ya ya’s out and turn to say something to my walker. I don’t think I get more than a couple of words out when my walker points to something over my shoulder. I turn around, and there is Cora the TOMBOY, sitting, just barely, with her butt doing a wiggle dance and tail slapping the ground madly. She opens her mouth to bark and I throw the ball to her to fill it. I don’t want her barking to bring every single camera pointing at her and broadcasting that we found something until I figure out what she’s trying to tell me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It turns out that what she found wasn’t what we were looking for. She marked the area where 3 weeks previously a homeless man had been attacked and bled out. From that point on I trusted her, and her confidence in herself because I believed in her skyrocketed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So over the past couple of years I saw Princess Prissy less and less and Tomboy became the norm. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until this weekend.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I also do hunt test competition with my dogs. It is a great way for the dogs to have fun and I don’t have to be in charge of training. So I get up at 5 AM on Sunday morning to be able to leave for field training by 6AM, since we have to on the field early to beat the heat. I work her son, Deacon, first. He’s a monster in the field and he had a great time picking up the bumpers. Go to get Cora out of the truck, warm her up and then walk to the line to send her for a bird. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“whaaa???? You want ME to RUN across thistle, and briar's and cut cedars to pick up a stinkin’ bumper?? I believe you didn’t talk that over with me, Princess Prissy, ruler of all things prissy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Talk to the paw.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had to handle her to on a stinking single. Arrrghhh! I made her do it and then do it again. And then a blind through the same crap. She looked like haven’t trained her in a year. Then we had the walk of shame back to the truck. I should say, I had the walk of shame. Cora could have cared less.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That evening, I took her out to do some HRD (cadaver) work. I had the problem set up from the evening before, so the area was saturated with scent and made for a little bit of difficulty. But nothing she couldn’t handle, and has handled before.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finn got to work first because he had been left at home a lot. He did well. Got Cora dressed in her costume, a pretty collar with Buddhist prayer bells that tinkle with a pleasing sound. Got her to “hurry up” and then sent her to work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She promptly peed near the source to show her displeasure (at what, only she knows), so back into the truck she went.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Princess Prissy showed herself to remind me that Cora does not like being second fiddle to anyone or anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I planned her next training with Princess Prissy in mind, to remind her that even though PP doesn’t like to work in tough terrain, that makes no never mind to me, Head Alpha Bitch, ruler of ALL THINGS DOG.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I set up her problems is a field of this:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">And then made Princess Prissy work through it all:</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PN9a_lpI9n7WiJnQUJS135VyJuyzBk4PJkPft-7c4IPj1iwD5B12LRDi67CnijrX7VyiMsIeeBfX1O4oyKTu3P5LSzQNVnutsj_Oy6oPq8ewYCmuY_Df5gYA8_Qs-ZPaThQLXrC5OQ0/s1600/IMG_7221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PN9a_lpI9n7WiJnQUJS135VyJuyzBk4PJkPft-7c4IPj1iwD5B12LRDi67CnijrX7VyiMsIeeBfX1O4oyKTu3P5LSzQNVnutsj_Oy6oPq8ewYCmuY_Df5gYA8_Qs-ZPaThQLXrC5OQ0/s320/IMG_7221.JPG" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And she was perfect, even if she did dance the dance of sissy feet through this ground cover:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih2IIVGivmwwzelMFHdEKLm9c6dRhboTaFw17A_enSXTRj0Pu-JgyPa0Sil8gsSaeZTCKEznoqs0_AwD9y-pZL9OH1EjEygcT3I3uscDenAc4W4JhbxFEHyOKPFSMT8kVfTNF82jFDt9k/s1600/IMG_7243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih2IIVGivmwwzelMFHdEKLm9c6dRhboTaFw17A_enSXTRj0Pu-JgyPa0Sil8gsSaeZTCKEznoqs0_AwD9y-pZL9OH1EjEygcT3I3uscDenAc4W4JhbxFEHyOKPFSMT8kVfTNF82jFDt9k/s320/IMG_7243.JPG" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Even better, on our search today in Giles County near Blacksburg VA, in the rain and the acres of impassable thickets of mountain laurel, she did her work well and with enthusiasm. While I shivered in the rain and thanked which ever deity in charge of dogs for giving me back my Tomboy. </div>kathleenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07821854380904239629noreply@blogger.com2