Seeing the Syndrome

Murphy had no clue yesterday was Halloween. 

He could feel it, though. He raced around the house, more so than usual, and barked at me as I moved back and forth, from room to room. I tried to ignore him. The decorations were relatively non-existent this year, though I did manage to find a few pumpkins to strategically place on the table, and vat of homemade butternut squash soup was simmering on the stove. Eventually, the rumbling, the sharp yips and yaps, the constant tripping over his newly shaved body became frustrating, and I gave up. I crawled on the floor with him; rubbed his belly and ran my fingers through his soft ears, and contemplated his costume.

I’m not the type who goes out and purchases a sixty-dollar jersey or a stupid, frilly uniform, but I can imagine what the dog would look like if I were: a bandit, a bear, a dinosaur. I can see Murphy waddling around the kitchen in a bright red lobster costume or begging for dinner as an over-sized, mustard-splashed hot-dog. When he was a puppy, I almost dressed him up as Yoda. Last year, when he went through his terrible two’s, I was a card swipe away from making him a devil.

If anything, it would have been accurate.

But all those are too expensive, and a form of cruel and unusual punishment. Murphy hates anything strapped, clipped, or harnessed to his body. He mopes, hangs his head in embarrassment, and curls up in a corner where he thinks no one will notice him. He looks sad and pathetic and it makes me feel bad. So, I pull out the headbands. He hardly notices them; I can get my pictures and have a good laugh, while he runs around the house, happy and oblivious. Last Halloween, instead of horns, he wore Martian eyeballs that bounced as he jumped around. The year before that, he showed his Irish pride in the form of green-glittered shamrocks that bobbed back and forth over his head.

I like going the headband route. Headbands make Murphy look cute. They emphasize his dopiness and his toothy dog grin. The glitter makes his eyes bigger and the bright colors are a great contrast to his black fur. He looks funny. Friendly. Absolutely approachable and like a great family dog.

To the kids, however, Murphy looks like a monster.

Big and black, with huge, fake alien eyeballs that move back and forth, he could be a demon, or maybe a werewolf, content to kill. Though he's neither, the kids are always afraid. Murphy will wag his tail and go to give a sloppy “hello” kiss, and the trick-or-treaters think he’s about to lunge, or worse, eat them or their candy. They scream or cower next to their parents. Some fathers give disapproving looks. Others, the dog lovers, comfort their kids and pet Murphy themselves. Mostly, the parents take their kids and leave and Murphy is kicked down to the lonely basement.

It happens all the time, this “frightened of the big, black dog” mentality. People are scared of Murphy, and I have no idea why.

Take this, for example: A few weeks after bringing him home, my stepfather took Murphy for a walk. The dog was clutzy back then, with too-big-paws and a tongue that seemed to roll unhindered between top jaw and bottom. Murphy looked harmless, and his uneven gait made it apparent that he was just a pup. Still, one woman took it upon herself to step off the sidewalk and into the busy road, as a way to give my bumbling dog a huge, wide berth. When my stepfather mentioned that Murphy was just a puppy, the woman shot back that he was big and black and looked “really mean.”

Mean? My dog looked mean?

Other people feel the same way. The first time I brought Murphy to the groomer’s, a man asked about my “Hollywood pooch,” but refused to come closer than ten feet, because he had a fear of “big, mean lookin’ dogs.” Two summers ago, I went hiking at Sky Meadows State Park, and more than one jogger went off the trail, half-way down a ditch, just to avoid a run-in with my hot and panting mongrel. And kids, who are probably the most accepting of animals, either love my dog or run screaming from him, as evident by past Halloweens, soccer games, and one or two doggy play dates.

The assumption that my dog is mean, or unfriendly, was and still is baffling. I could understand the hesitation about his size. Murphy is tall, only an inch or two shorter than his Bull Mastiff best friend, and can easily lick my face when he stands on his two back feet. Throw in his weight and fluffy winter coat, and I could be walking a small black bear. I don’t notice him anymore, and scoff when people tell me he’s big, but to someone who may not have a dog at home, Murphy’s a giant. I also understand the uncertainty people feel around a strange dog. I’d probably keep my kids close, too, or push them behind me when a big dog came lumbering our way. But what about my dog gives people the impression that he's somehow unfriendly or even malicious? There's not an unloving bone in his body. His face is as friendly as they get, with melts-your-heart, chocolate brown eyes and a black, wet nose. He likes to play and snuggle and is always happy to see a young child.

So, where are people getting this "mean" impression?

The only thing I can think of is his color. Murphy's a salt-and-pepper black. Dark, blending in with the autumn shadows, and invisible when he's lying at the front window. He doesn't look scary, but people think he's scary, because black dogs like Murphy have been given an unfounded reputation.

Television and movies often place black or mostly black dogs into villain/evil-dog roles. The Resident Evil franchise has zombie Dobermans, entirely black with decay, repeatedly trying to tear the faces off the protagonists. Alpha, the evil dog in the children's movie Up, was also a Doberman. Literature, particularly folklore, also paints black dogs in an unforgiving light. Hellhounds are the most common, found in everything from The Hounds of Baskerville to Harry Potter and are often illustrated as large and black, with glowing red eyes, savagely long teeth, and a personality fit for the devil. In many cases, they are the bringers of death.

Whether in literature or the media, these dogs are all have one thing in common: very nasty personalities. The fictional idea that "black dogs mean trouble" translates to real life. When someone sees a big, black dog, they automatically think of aggression. Some link the color with bleakness, depression, or white-versus-dark, good-versus-evil. As a result, many dogs, such as Dobermans, Rotties, black Labs, and dark Great Danes, are overlooked in shelters. Thousands are killed ever year, and it's all because of a phenomenon known as Big Black Dog Syndrome.

This phenomenon affects me. When people look at my dog, they automatically assume he's aggressive, because of his color, or that he can't be gentle or calm, because of his size. Obviously, both are untrue, though it's difficult (and just plain exhausting) to try to tell that to the multitude of strangers who constantly and continually veer out of our way. There's very little I can do about how people perceive Murphy, though I've found one thing that seems to work: Halloween.

For us, Halloween isn't just once a year, but every day of the year. Every day, Murphy wears a fun, bright, collar, ID tag, and bandanna, that screams "I LOVE PEOPLE!" It's as close to dressing him up as I can get, without scaring the little kids.

To keep myself entertained, I frequently switch up his costume: during the summer, he runs around in Red Sox accessories; fall is meant for turkeys and the New England Patriots, and winter is a mix of jingle bells and Santa. I'm still searching for the perfect spring theme, and though I'd rather not emasculate my dog any more than I already have, I have a feeling once May rolls around, Murphy will be sporting a cute, hand-sewn flower collar and bandanna set.

People seem to react to it, to this type of costume, so Halloween has become our normal. I'd like to think that one day, Murphy will be able to walk around in a plain, nondescript collar, but I have to be realistic: people will always see color before personality. They see The Syndrome, instead of The Dog, and as a result, miss out on some of the best companions the canine world has to offer.

Behold, the power of cheese

Sit Pretty

Shake

 

 

 

Working Out

Life as Cheese

Murphy loves cheese.

Really, what dog doesn't? It's cheese. Processed and artery-clogging and downright American, Murphy is obsessed with the little florescent (or, in his case, grayish black) squares that come out of the refrigerator door. Granted, he only gets half a square, and I break it up into little pieces, but I don't really think he cares. He'll do anything I ask of him, like "sit" or "stay" or "leave it," so long as the end reward is a sliver of his favorite treat.

I find his behavior interesting. Before I got Murphy, I'd never seen a dog go gaga for cheese. Sandy, the still-kicking-at-14 family dog, loves it when we slip her a piece of our Kraft Single, but she's never turned into a bouncing, half-crazed mongrel with big, bulging eyes and spit-coated teeth. When I pulled out the cheese box--a broken-topped, square plastic container my mother bought sometime during the 90's--she would run to her food bowl, sit quietly, and wait. I'd take my time; break the cheese in half, walk over to her, and make eye contact before lowering my hand and offering her the treat. She'd refuse to look at the cheese, like she'd been trained, until I gave her the verbal okay. Then she'd reach out, daintily take the cheese, and chew it slowly, as if to savor the unnatural taste.

I was always impressed how she let her polite demeanor slip. Sandy never barked at me. She never begged. And though she probably wanted to employ the snatch-and-gobble approach, much like Murphy, she refrained. The mutt showed perfect manners, because she was a lady and part Lab and being such, was inherently well-behaved.

Murphy is the complete opposite. When it comes to cheese, Murphy doesn't care if he gets yelled at. He doesn't care if he's being pushy or obnoxious. He runs in circles, he jumps at me. He barks, incessantly. If I don't give in to his demands (Mom, I'm not kidding, I want the cheese NOW), he becomes impatient and anxious. He whines. He'll mope. He turns into a single minded, annoying mess.

I ignore him. It's not easy, but I refuse to acknowledge his abhorrent cheese-induced behavior. Murphy can bark and drool and run his big, clumsy body into me as much as he wants, but he's not getting the cheese. He's not getting the cheese until I'm ready to give it to him, and I'm only ready to give it to him after he's settled down and shown me that he's willing to work for the treat.

And work for it, he will.

Mozzarella is the only reason why Murphy knows his commands. "Sit," "stay," "lie down," "wait"...they're all in Murphy's head because I exploited his love for string cheese. Sure, I've thrown in a Kraft Single every once in a while. Some days (like today) I don't have any Mozzarella handy, and I resort to the bright orange squares, but I stay away from them as much as I can. American cheese is expensive. String cheese, in comparison, costs less. It's Murphy's "you worked for it" reward, after he's shown me that yes, he actually does remember his basic obedience.

I don't remember the very first time I broke out the Mozz. I do remember I started using it somewhat frequently the summer I bought Murphy's E-collar, almost two years ago. He escaped from the house one evening and almost got hit by a car. Despite intensive and continual training, my dog hadn't really picked up any understanding of simple commands, like "sit." After discussing options with the vet, I opted for a traffic-cone orange E-collar, most often used in field training or hunting. The E-collar device was expensive, and I felt like a bad dog Mom for resorting to electricity to enforce the commands, but I knew Murphy. The dog means well, but he's really dumb. He runs into walls and trips over his feet and learns either through positive reinforcement or fright. The E-collar was a combination of both: it'd startle him enough to reinforce what he wasn't supposed to do, like leave the yard, while Milkbones reinforced his understanding and follow-through of commands.

Pretty much, Murphy would get a nick every time he bolted, and a cookie every time he listened.

In theory, it should have worked. The day the E-collar arrived, I put it around Murphy's neck, marched him down to the backyard, and presented him with tons of doggy cookies. He listened and followed commands and then, after five minutes, got bored and tuned me out. I nicked him with the hand-held E-collar remote control. He shook his head in annoyance, and then bolted.

It became readily apparent that the Milkbone dog biscuits weren't going to cut it.

After I caught the dog, who had raced into the woods and proceeded to eat God knows what, we went back into the house and sat in front of the fridge. I offered his nose a variety of enticing scents: celery and green beans, stale chicken and some cantaloupe. He was unenthusiastic. I was frustrated.

And then I thought of cheese.

Lie Down

There wasn't any American cheese in the cheese container, but I found a stick of string cheese. I offered it, still-wrapped, to Murphy, who tried to eat it, plastic and all. Finally, I'd found the trigger. I dragged myself off the kitchen floor and Murphy scrambled, jumping and barking and begging all the way back outside. The second we hit the back yard, I broke out the Mozzarella, stripped off a slice, and dangled it above his nose. The dog's butt was on the ground before I even finished the word "sit."


Now, Murphy knows his obedience. He knows tricks. He's still a monster, but at least he listens. Well...he listens some of the time. Only if there's cheese.

Scheduled Sundays

Sunday is my favorite day of the week. I love the relaxing atmosphere: open windows, coffee and an assortment of breakfast items that are leisurely made or eaten until around noon, football games, loose yoga clothes, and once evening hits, the ambiance of candles and oil burners. Murphy gets a break from the treadmill and spends his time sleeping or basking in the sun or watching me weave in and out of rooms, attempting to accomplish one task or another.

He hasn't always been so quiet. As a puppy, he had a list of bad habits: raiding the litter box for "cat truffles," stealing the can of wet cat food, stealing my socks, chewing holes into various undergarments, trying to lick any breakfast item on the kitchen table, tearing up any and all paperwork on the floor, escaping from the house and eating all pieces of animal crap that's on our neighbor's lawn...and so on, and so forth. The gross stuff was endless, and I have no doubt that they were the main reason Murphy was returned to the breeder. No one wants to put up with a problem puppy. No one can relax with a problem puppy unless, of course, you're me.

I am a strict dog owner. I owe a lot of my A-type personality to my no-nonsense upbringing, and although I've mellowed over the years, when it comes to the dog, I like the idea of keeping a very short leash. Since the first few months I brought him home, Murphy has followed the same routine: potty, treadmill, food, sleep. With age comes more freedom, so there are times, like today, when he's allowed to skip his exercise and head straight to breakfast. Other Sundays I've brought him to the dog park, or to a friend's house, or let him lounge beneath my chair at the local Starbucks.

We relax. Me with my Pumpkin Spice latte, and Murphy with his bowl of water, because the strict routine is enforced with intense training. Murphy knows his basic obedience commands (as well as others, like "Go potty" and "bedtime") because I've drilled them into his somewhat non-existent brain. It wasn't exactly the easiest process; Murphy is extremely impulsive. His attention span only lasts a few seconds, and then he's off doing whatever he'd like to do, instead of everything I want him to do. My life as a dog owner has, at times, been frustrating and stressful and overwhelming. But Murphy is food motivated.  Over time, the repetitive nature of "sit" and "stay" have evolved primarily from slipped pieces of cheese, and become permanently ingrained in his head. We've curbed the less desirable behaviors, though they haven't been entirely eliminated. It's been three years and Murphy still eats shit. He still chews on paperwork, and he steals the cat food whenever the opportunity arises.

But he does it less.

He's less prone to push his way out of the house. He doesn't chase the cats as much anymore. Only some of my clothes have holes, and I can guilt trip him out of the kitchen, instead of physically having to remove him. Sometimes, he'll watch out the window, instead of constantly bark. Mostly, he just sleeps.

And while he's sleeping, I drink the last of my Starbucks coffee. I write my blog and listen to the game and soon, I'll light some candles. Dinner will come and Murphy may or may not go on the treadmill. He'll go out and then go to bed and once again, I'll think about how far he's come since he first came home.

It's become routine.

Creating the Dog

Creating the Dog
Katie Walsh

I. Labradoodles, like all purebreds, were created for a reason.

The first Labradoodle was intentionally bred in 1988, by Wally Conron, after he received a call from a visually blind woman in Hawaii, who needed a hypoallergenic service dog. Intrigued by the idea, Conron crossed one of his Labrador Retrievers with a Standard Poodle, and successfully created Sultan, the world’s first allergy friendly “Doodle."

Instantly, Labradoodles became an overnight sensation. Energetic, willing to please, and incredibly smart, the dogs have become popular family additions. They’re versatile in size, ranging from Standard to Miniature, and come in two specific types: the Australian Labradoodle and the American Labradoodle.

Australian Labradoodles are the dogs continuing the work begun by Conron, and are a mix of Poodle, Irish Water Spaniel, Cocker Spaniel, and Labrador Retriever. They aren’t seen as frequently as the American Labradoodle, because these dogs are bred specifically with the hopes of eventually becoming an AKC registered breed. In 2007, the Australian Labradoodle Association of American (ALAA) created a breed standard, which determines that Australian Labradoodles should be between 14 and 24 inches tall (no taller than 25 inches) and weigh between 15 and 65 pounds. Each dog should have a proportionate head, a square, compact body, round eyes, flat ears, and large, square, fleshy nose.*

The American Labradoodle, which is the most common and therefore referred to as just the “Labradoodle,” is a combination of Labrador Retriever and Poodle. They adhere to the same breed standards as the Australian Labradoodle, but are differentiated by a pedigree descriptor scheme. Any Labradoodle puppy that is fifty percent Labrador and fifty percent Poodle is called a First Generation Labradoodle. A Labradoodle who is seventy-five percent poodle and twenty-five percent Labrador (achieved by breeding a First Generation Labradoodle back to a Poodle) is called a Second Generation Labradoodle, and so on, and so forth.

There are few differences between the two types of Doodles—Australian Labradoodles are a mix of more breeds, and thus have a tendency to be smaller than the Labradoodle—but the most noticeable is their coat. All Doodles, Labradoodle or otherwise, can sport three different coat types: Flat (also known as Hair), Fleece, or Wool. In Australian Labradoodles, Fleece coats, distinguishable by its loose, wavy appearance and incredibly soft texture, and Wool coats, which look exactly like the tight curls common to Poodles, are the most common and desirable. Both are allergy and asthma friendly, and are part of the ALAA breed standard. 

Flat coats are less frequent in Australian Labradoodles—in fact, any coat besides Fleece or Wool is considered a fault—but are the most common coat in First Generation Labradoodles. These coats are more wiry in appearance, are not allergy friendly and, unlike the Fleece and Wool coats, do shed.

It’s common for Labradoodles to come in a wide variety of colors and patterns. Breed standards state that both types of Labradoodle can be solid, such as black, chocolate, or gold, as well as any diluted solid color, such as silver, café, or caramel. ALAA permits the dogs to appear like their Poodle ancestors, whose coats often come in a handful of patterns. Labradoodles and Australian Labradoodles can be Parti, or white with patches of solid colors, Phantom, which appears similar to the markings on a Doberman Pinscher or Rottweiler, Brindle, Sable, or Multi.

Besides their coats, Labradoodles are known for their personable, happy temperaments. Both types should exhibit a keen intelligence, an intuition of an individual's emotional state, and display an eagerness to learn and perform for their family or handler.

II. Labradoodles, like most purebreds, come with their fair share of controversy.

They’ve been labeled “Designer Dogs” by the purebred community and are seen as the latest trend; a hot commodity; the newest fad. Many claim that Labradoodles are in high demand due, in part, to a phenomenon known as “hybrid vigor,” or the idea that puppies will be healthier and less prone to purebred diseases than their Labrador and Poodle parents. While it’s true that some dogs, like the First Generation Labradoodles, are sometimes healthier than their purebred parents, hybrid vigor doesn’t always occur in the crossbred offspring. Labradoodles suffer from the same hip dysplasia common in both Labs and Poodles, as well as eye disorders such as Progressive retinal atrophy. Australian Labradoodle can suffer from the occasionally fatal Addison’s disease, which affects the dog’s adrenal glands.

Of course hybrid vigor is only a small part of the Labradoodle controversies. Others include: the belief that Labradoodles don't shed; they're nothing more than popular mutts; they’re too expensive; they perpetuate backyard breeding; and buying a Labradoodle—any Designer Dog—means condemning a dog in a shelter to death.

All of it’s true. Labradoodles, Poodle-mixes, and other “hybrid breeds,” are currently crowding shelters all over the United States. Most often, the Doodles’ initial popularity and good looks are forgotten once an owner realizes the extent of their dog’s training and grooming. Labrador Retrievers are a high-energy breed, who need frequent and continual exercise, and Poodles are one of the most intelligent breeds of dog, second only to the to the Border Collie. The combination results in an extremely smart, happily energetic dog, who may or may not shed. Coupled with grooming expenses (Doodles require regular grooming every six weeks or so), most Labradoodle puppies are too much for their owner or family to handle, and end up suddenly abandoned. Many never find homes and must be humanely euthanized.

In an effort to dissuade the continuation of these glorified "hybrids," AKC clubs, such as the Labrador Retriever Club or the Poodle Club of America, don’t recognize the Labradoodle and don’t want to see it turn into an official purebred breed. Breeders and dog lovers alike are fervently protesting the mix of genes, and instead directing potential adopters towards shelters, rescues, or their own purebred breed. It’s done little to stop the Doodle craze, however, and backyard breeders are popping up everywhere, eager to cash in on the latest dog trend.

The best thing you can do is research the crossbreed before adding it to your home. Ask about reputable breeders who are working towards establishing the Labradoodle breed, or check out rescues, such as the International Doodle Owners Group, Inc. (IDOG), Poo-Mix Rescue, and Petfinder. Currently, there are hundreds of abandoned or surrendered Doodles still waiting patiently for a loving forever home.


*Australian Labradoodle and Labradoodle breed standards, as of 2007.


Images courtesy of: 
Doodle Rescue Collective, Inc. 
Wikipedia
Sunset Hills Australian Labradoodles

Busted. Again.

Ten minutes ago, I was working on an essay for this blog. A bird, a little brown wren, flew in through an open window. I heard it flying around the kitchen and immediately panicked. I have cats. They like to catch and kill little animals.

I quickly corralled them downstairs, then somehow corralled the frightened bird outside.

In the meantime, Murphy quietly pushed past the baby gate (yes, even though he's three, I still rely on baby gates) that was propped on the front stairs and took it upon himself to "clean out" one of the litterboxes. He would have gotten away with it, too, if not for the tell-tale pieces of litter clinging to his chin.

Needless to say, I wasn't very thankful for his "help." He's currently serving time in the pokey, also known as the back deck. I hope he uses the next half-hour to reflect on his poor choices, though, knowing him, he'll just pass the time by licking himself.

Oops.

Once upon a time, the owl had a face. And feet. And a longer ribbon.