We have 3 dogs. When people ask, What breed are they? we answer, the We Need a Home breed.
Our girls Mariah and Coco are 11-year old sisters. My wife brought them home as puppies after finding them neglected in an outdoor pig pen across from her place of work. They’re supposedly a cross between Great Pyrenees, Bull Mastiff, Chow, and English Setter.
Huck is our 7-year old boy. He’s potentially part lab, part pointer, part whatever. We adopted him when he was being paraded around on our street on his way back to the shelter because he was too much trouble. He was 7 months old, confused, unable to bond. We named him Huckleberry Finn the Wanderer. The vet said he was probably done growing. He weighed 55 pounds. Huck attempted to eat our house but after hideously expensive and useless pet therapy, intensive training, Prozac, pheromone collars, pinch collars, shock collars, and a variety of baby gates and crates he has calmed down and is a lovable and loving, funny, smart, loyal 115-pound giant. The only remaining vestiges of the old Huck are his fierce dislike of 2-wheeled vehicles, people who raise their arms in our direction, and animals other than his canine and feline sisters and his feline brother whom he fears as though Grizz were a monstrous Attila the Hun instead of a cat a fraction of his size.
Our first project on the first day we moved to the forest was to install a dog run. Of course our dogs could not roam free in the wildlife-inhabited backwoods. We hired Clifford, a fencing guy from a neighboring state who was just establishing himself locally, to fence in a 20’x50′ area off the back porch. That was about the same size as our back yard in the suburbs, plenty of room for the dogs to play, run around, do their business. I envisioned them frolicking happily in the great outdoors.
Clifford arrived with an assistant, tools, a roll of chain link fence, connectors, latches, 2 chain link gates, and an invoice for $1500. A few hours later, he was done.
Chain link did not align with my vision of rolling hills behind rustic wood farm fence but it’s strong and durable, good protection for the dogs. Well, almost. Can alligators jump over fences? I asked. Clifford laughed. Of course! So can bobcats and coyotes. And snakes can slither in along the bottom or over the top. What?? His suggestion was to throw mothballs around the periphery of the run.
Alligators, bobcats, coyotes, and cottonmouths aside, we loved the run, proud of our responsible doggie parenthood. We opened the back door, beckoned to the dogs, and waved our arms around the enclosed area like Vanna White demonstrating the magnificence of the Wheel of Fortune. The dogs stepped gingerly onto the grass, sniffed with disdain, and lay down on the porch. These are the same dogs that leapt frenetically at the front door like inmates leading a prison break.
Go pee! I commanded. Reluctantly Mariah wandered out a ways and squatted. Huck lifted his leg in the same spot. Coco refused to budge. I dragged her out on a leash and after several minutes of energetic coaxing she finally squatted, 3 for 3 in the same square foot of grass. They then ran back to the door and gazed longingly through the glass at the living room couches.
No way ladies and gentleman, you’re staying out here and enjoying the beautiful countryside. I tried throwing a variety of toys and sticks, only to be met by incredulous contempt. Fine. I went inside and closed the door.
Ten minutes later we peeked out the back door to ensure that they had not been devoured by something with murderous teeth or fangs. They had moved from the porch to lie in large holes that they dug in the earth. Gone were substantial patches of grass. The porch was covered in dirt. They panted, glared at me with accusing doggie eyes, stood up, dug some more, lay down. Growling, I let them inside.
After the first month or so, in the wake of several bear, deer, sandhill crane, and wild turkey sightings, I told my wife, we finally have acres of land where the dogs can explore and get some exercise. We can’t confine them to 20 feet by 50 feet. We’ve got to let them out front. She protested but I prevailed. I promised to make sure the surroundings were free of wildlife before I opened the front door.
I examined the tree line, cracked the door open, and read the dogs the riot act about running out without permission. The girls danced around my feet. Huck sat and quivered, waiting for a release word. Ok, I said. They raced to the woods with my wife and I sprinting and shrieking close behind. Fortunately, they stopped before entering the forest proper, sniffed, peed in 1000 spots, ran around the front yard. Huck even chased a stick. Success. No one was mauled or escaped into the perilous jungle. I snickered a wordless “I told you so”.
Not much has changed in the past two years. The dogs still hate the run and I still let them out front once or twice a day despite my wife’s objections, especially on mornings when I know we will both be gone for hours and I want to be sure they’ll do their business. If I let them into the run they attach themselves to the door, lie down in their dirt craters, or stand rooted to the ground while I pick my way over the treacherous, pockmarked terrain in my business shoes, begging them to pee.
I should say not much has changed until recently. One morning as I was preparing to leave for work, I scanned the tree line and seeing nothing, let the trio out front. I knew immediately that I had made a mistake. I heard terrified and terrifying scrambling up a nearby tree and watched in horror as the dogs tore into the woods to leap and howl at that same tree.
“NOOOO” I bellowed repeatedly and to no avail. Throwing all caution to the wind I raced after them and saw the weaned or orphaned black bear cub that had been a regular for the past few weeks attempting to gain purchase up the trunk of a tall pine. He would make some headway and then slide back down while the frenzied dogs threw themselves at the tree, snarling and ripping at the bark. “COME HERE” I screamed while attempting to grab the girls by the scruff. They weigh about 60 pounds and are ordinarily more laid back so are easier to contain than 115-pound Huck but I nonetheless failed. I finally ran in the house to grab leashes, which I managed to slip around the girls’ necks. While I was busy with this entertaining task, the bear fell to the ground and boxed with Huck, both up on their haunches.
I dragged the girls into the house and ran back to make a futile attempt to seize Huck. The bear took off into the forest with Huck on his heels. No voice left, I gasped “COME BACK!” with my last remaining breath like like Kate Winslet calling to the rescue boat in Titanic. I then doubled over heaving and sobbing, wondering whether Huck was dead or shredded but savable, whether I was having a massive heart attack, and how I would tell my wife that Huck was lying eviscerated at the emergency clinic or pet morgue.
They say God takes care of drunks and fools, Huck returned 5 minutes later unharmed except for a bit of blood on the top of his paw and a torn dewclaw, likely the result of either clawing at the tree or chasing the bear across some downed metal fence left by the previous owner.
I managed to slip a leash over his neck and to hang onto his ruff when he freed himself. Leash secured for the 2nd time, I hauled both of us into the house. For the next 10 minutes I wheezed and tried not to pass out. My pulse was in the 150’s, dangerous for a person my age who has not been to the gym since we left the suburbs.
Once I could breathe again I set the alarm, locked up the house, and went to work. Only my racing pulse and some suspicious-looking marks on my business attire attested to the near disaster of a few minutes before.
We have since located the girls’ retractable leashes and Huck’s pinch collar. No, it does not hurt him. The prongs are rounded and dig in just enough to encourage him to listen. Once the worst of the trauma that still steals my breath and drives up my hart rate has passed, I plan to take the dogs out front on their leashes. We’re brainstorming outdoor containment systems that don’t involve traditional fencing and that will give them as much freedom as possible without access to the woods where bear and potentially coyotes and bobcats hide from even our high-powered binoculars.
Moving to the forest has been a learning process, one that has fortunately not entailed any grievous injury or loss of life. All of us, dogs, cats, humans, are acclimating. After all, this is our forever home.