February 23, 2025

What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 2

August 31, 2011 by

When my youngest dog, Alki, became deaf, I had to figure out how I could make him comfortable with his handicap. How to make us all comfortable: Alki, my nearly 10-year-old Cavalier; his 12-year-old Cavalier sister, Murphy; Grace the Cat; me; and friends, family, and visiting clients.

We’re familiar with handicaps at our house: of the four of us, only Grace the Cat is not dealing with some kind of disability (although, in the middle of the night, I sometimes think her touchy tummy qualifies).

The trick is to balance empathy and compassion, fairness and firmness, for all family members. Sure, the newly handicapped family member takes center stage. However, everyone is affected, so paying attention to everyone’s needs short-circuits jealousies and misunderstandings and provides space for healthy change for everyone.

My multi-species family did the practical things, as described in Part 1 of this article. It’s what we added to the mix that mattered: the socio-cultural things that define how we survive, and thrive, in adversity.  

Alki becoming deaf was a shock. Yes, like all living beings, he’d had some problems, but as we dealt with Alki’s deafness I was surprised how it pushed my buttons. Somehow I relied on Alki to be the ‘easy’ one, because he was so sunny and sturdy, Murphy had so many health problems, Grace the Cat had a rough start, and I’ve been handicapped for too many years to count.

I knew better, but I still never expected things to change for Alki. Once I got used to his Velcro personality it stuck to me so well that the physical and emotional teamwork that developed feels as natural as breathing. I didn’t want it to change. Or end.

I loved having his constant attendance. He loved always being there. Now we both mourned the loss of his hearing and had to work our way through it to both honor and deepen our human-animal bond. Sure, we did the practical things, but we also did the cultural ones.

Six Socio-cultural Comforts

  • Acceptance. I made it clear to Alki that his handicap didn’t change how I felt about him, only how we managed daily life. Then I proved it all day long.
  • Grace and humor. Meet everything, obstacle or otherwise, with grace and humor. I repeat: grace and humor.
  • Kindness and reassurance. Everybody has to adapt to a handicap. Alki and Murphy and Grace the Cat learned new ways of respecting and living with each other. So did I. Alki knows that I am physically handicapped and always in pain, and he worried about me having to get up and go to him. I simply made it clear that I would rather get up and walk to him than live without him.
  • Compassion. Everyone needs compassion, not just the handicapped animal. Take time to love and accept each other. Make sure everybody gets it.
  • Emotions. Put yourself in the animal’s place. How would you feel if you were suddenly handicapped? What would you need from your family? Act accordingly. Animals are emotional beings just as we are, so pay attention to their needs and concerns. So what could I do for Alki? This isn’t New Age pablum: a frightened, hurt animal can be dangerous, so you absolutely must know your animal’s personality. Is it shy, passive-aggressive, high strung, sensitive? Does the animal act as if it feels threatened or unsafe? Alki’s body language even at rest was clue enough: he was tense, on guard, curled in a scared tight ball. He was not himself. You see that a few times and you act. It’s dangerous and cruel to let unhappiness like that continue.
  • Love love love. Never stop telling every multi-species family member, including the handicapped ones, that you love them, and never stop proving it. Dealing with a handicap is time-consuming, frustrating, and upsetting, but if life were perfect, wouldn’t you be bored? You can choose a throwaway culture and abandon a handicapped animal, or you can help everyone adapt and grow.

We adapted to Alki’s handicap. I sighed away the sadness when it rose. Things happen in life, and this happened to all of us.

What really pained me was that Alki couldn’t fully adjust to his deafness. He adapted, but he was often uneasy, uncertain, and frightened. I knew I was missing something, but what?

The breakthrough was as ordinary as everyday life.

In our daily family rituals I have one-on-one morning and evening times with each animal. One night, I spent a long session with Alki. I hugged and petted him, and made sure he was looking at me as I told him how much I loved and respected him, that he would always be family, that we would deal with his deafness as best we could. That he was my son, we were family, and his deafness didn’t matter.

I assured him, over and over, that the only thing that changed was his ability to hear. Then I intuitively talked with him, showing him that we could still communicate even if he couldn’t hear me speak out loud. I gave him a long massage, something he loves. And I used a form of energy work, which I call dimensional healing, that arrived in our household about five years ago after I specifically asked for a form of energy that would work for my multi-species family.

That night I made my love and acceptance visible to Alki. He gradually relaxed. I felt better. Murphy and Grace the Cat fell asleep. I went for a drink of water and when I came back Alki was in an excited crouch on the bed. As our eyes met his sparkled and he thumped his tail hard, excited. The sad, perplexed dog was gone, and my beloved Alki was back. Breakthrough! Yes, a long time coming, but it did come!

Alki made huge progress after that—sure, he still needed extra care, but his sunny, optimistic, adventurous personality returned. He finally understood that, no matter what, he is my son and an equal family member, and that trumps everything.

Alki was deaf, yes, but he could hear what mattered—that he was loved and accepted. Then came the day when he proved that he could take that understanding back out into community.

We were out alone together, a block from home, when a stray dog ran up to us. Now Alki had been uncertain with dogs since his mauling and the deafness, so I fended the other dog off, while thinking it might be one of the dogs in our neighborhood.

I was surprised that Alki stood quietly beside me, instead of barking or shying away. The dog moved a few feet away and stopped to stare at us. We stared back. Alki and I exchanged a long look, then he visibly braced himself, just like humans do when we suck up uncertainty and move on. Calmly stepping toward the dog, Alki cocked his head at it, clearly inviting it to join us.

The three of us slowly made it down the street. Each time the dog started to wander off, I’d call it or Alki would turn and cock his head, and the dog would follow us. Eventually the dog and its people were reunited.

By the time we got in our own door that day I was bursting with proud mama-ness. I hugged and praised Alki for his kindness and bravery. He had not only faced his fear but put it aside to help another dog get home again. He had learned to live with a disability and go back out into community.

Alki has been fine ever since. Deaf, yes. Reassured by his family’s love, adjusting to changed circumstances, yes, my boy is home. It’s not the same home it was before he became deaf: somehow, it’s better.

Why? Because on the deepest level that counts Alki can hear again. Deafness is a condition, a handicap, yes, but it’s also a choice. Do we withdraw, do we hide, or do we adjust and find a new pattern to life? Like all things in life, we choose fear or we choose love.

We were afraid for awhile, but ultimately we chose love in our multi-species family. Alki chose love.

Love is what made my deaf dog hear again. Love and what comes with love: patience, grumpiness, acceptance, compassion, hard work, common sense, frustration, grief, and an adventurous open spirit that may stagger but never gives up.

The mindset that comes from love is what we use to nurture our families, multi-species or not, in the traumas and triumphs of daily life. It’s what we use to create communities where we learn and grow from our difficulties and celebrate our triumphs. With animals we call it the human-animal bond; in truth, it’s community.

Love helped Alki adapt. It didn’t make it easier, but it did make it bearable. He’s still my little boy who shouldn’t suffer, whose sunny disposition should be rewarded by endless health and youth. Bodies fade, but love doesn’t give up for anything.

Love did it.

Love made my deaf dog hear again.

(c) 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

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How Mall Dogs Trump Wolves

August 31, 2011 by

Survival of the fittest isn’t what you think it is. It depends on who you are and what you’re up to.

I personally would not survive if I were a wolf and had to run down an elk or a rat. I wouldn’t even want to (either survive or hunt down anything but a cherry pie). It’s icky and it’s just not me.

Plus, I know there’s an easier way to make a living. I see my dogs do it every day.

The call of the wild wolf doesn’t appeal to my dogs. They’re Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. People make fun of Cavaliers, saying things like they’re too cute to be taken seriously and not smart enough to take care of themselves.

Truth is, my Cavaliers are evolved. They may be descended from wolves, but they take their lifestyle seriously, living well choreographed, strategically planned lives that get straight to what it takes to survive modern times.

They’re mall dogs.

It doesn’t just take breeding to be a mall dog. It takes class and moxie.

You don’t hunt down anything. You act so cool it comes to you.

You don’t actually work at anything. You just assume whatever it is you want will magically appear.

It never occurs to a mall dog that there are obstacles in life. They see everything as an opportunity, some better ones than others.

Mall dogs are extroverts. My dogs, Murphy and Alki, have made that an art form. They work every opportunity, even when it isn’t one. Their philosophy is to go for it boldly, where, possibly, other dogs have rarely gone before.

Like brand new, isolated hotels that really only cater to humans.

I learned that at Christmas last year. We’d driven north from Seattle to meet a good friend from Portland we rarely get to see. The dogs hadn’t exactly been invited, but that didn’t occur to me until all three of us were out of the car, staring at the brand spanking new hotel, with its sweeping driveway, wide plant-lined entrance, and a red carpet leading straight through two large sweeping doors. As Hollywoody as it gets in north Seattle.

I was suddenly intimidated. My mall dogs were not: they were surveying their new kingdom.

I gulped. “Ah, guys,” I said, “I’m not really sure dogs are allowed here.”

They looked at me like I was a Martian, then eyeballed the doors. I may not be sure we’re always welcome in certain places, but that thought never occurs to them, unless I bring it up, which I was then doing, but they didn’t believe me, so it was pointless.

They faced the doors, evaluating the situation. Then they threw their heads up and sashayed forward, tails swishing like capes. They were in charge as only mall dogs can be: they know how to make an entrance, and they flirt their way through obstacles.

I’m easily amused. I followed their lead.

As they pranced into the pristine, high-ceilinged hotel lobby, guests and hotel clerks looked up. Gasped.

The dogs stopped and surveyed the crowd, huge grins on their adorable Cavalier faces. The gasps dissolved into giggles. Just like that, any rules we may have broken didn’t matter. The celebrity mall dogs had arrived.

Unfortunately, our friend wasn’t there. We hung out in the lobby like we belonged, the dogs winking at guests, who continued to giggle when they weren’t playing with them. Murphy and Alki monitored the doors, but ignored everyone who came through. Until our friend finally walked in.

Now, what would a wolf do in that situation, or an elk? My mall dogs barked their heads off as they bounced down the lobby and threw themselves in our friend’s arms.

More human giggling ensued. No one yelled at us, but why would they? The dogs had enthralled them (much easier than hunting). We marched to our friend’s room, had a great visit, and left in the same high-falutin’ style that we’d entered. Except this time people waved cheerily at us and invited us back.

You don’t hear about elk or rats (or people) inviting wolves back to their territory.

That’s why you have to define things like survival of the fittest. Survival depends on who you are and what the circumstances are, a good thing, because my dogs wouldn’t survive on their hunting skills.

They don’t need to. They’ve trumped hunting skills with self-confidence. It’s survival of the fittest for mall dogs.

© 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , ,

What Made My Deaf Dog Hear Again, Part 1

August 29, 2011 by

My son is deaf. My youngest dog, my Velcro boy, my goofy sweet Alki, is stone cold deaf.

It happened when I wasn’t looking. Somehow, the years between puppyhood and senior dog warped and folded in on themselves, and my little boy aged.

It shocks me, really. Just yesterday he was an exuberant, mischievous puppy, glued to me and his dog and cat sisters, and suddenly he’s almost 10. Gray-eared. Occasionally creaky.

Deaf.

Looking back I saw the deafness happening. I just didn’t piece it together—the busy-ness of life is often overwhelmed by the details. Even when you’re vigilant, the subtleties can get lost in the mix. And when you have a multi-species family, there are the obvious things—in our case, meshing a human with two dogs and a cat. Human-animal bond, indeed.

Somewhere late last fall I noticed that Alki was reacting to street noises differently. Despite his training, he’d shy away from others on walks. Like humans are apt to do, I dismissed it as a ‘phase,’ and polished his manners while reassuring him that he was okay, especially important because he’d been mauled by another dog a year and a half ago.

Yes, life’s been complicated lately. Alki accidentally ripped off a toenail and nicked an artery, then his toe got infected and he had to wear a cone for a month, which gave him an ear infection apparently unrelated to the hearing loss. I was down with the flu and complications for two months. It was life. Age. Stuff.

Which is all to say, I had good reasons to stop looking for answers beyond the obvious. Good reasons. Just not good enough.

How Deafness Asserted Itself

One morning I went to make a cup of tea and my Velcro boy, always at my side, suddenly wasn’t. I called him. Nothing. I found him in my office, sound asleep. When I called him, he didn’t move. I gently touched him, and he leaped up, startled.

When the clues build up, you eventually notice. I started testing him. He’d fall asleep and not awaken when I left the room. When he was sound asleep, I’d have to shake him hard to wake him if I needed to. If I didn’t gently touch him when I left the room, so he knew what was going on, he’d sometimes awaken frightened, and come racing to find me. Sometimes he could hear me, sometimes not. Sometimes he’d look at me, confused, uncertain, hurt, cringing as if he’d done something wrong and would fix it if he could. Even in his usual safe spot in my office he couldn’t quite relax; he’d curl up in a defensive ball, drop off to sleep reluctantly, and startle awake easily.

Even though his sunny adventurous personality always won out, I felt bad for him, and for us. I also had to be careful about touching him if he was sleeping or not looking at me: startled dogs can be dangerous. We changed routines, for his safety and the family’s.

Still, I kept my eye on him. While physically healthy, Alki was also anxious and nervous, not surprising.

Since I am also a professional intuitive, I checked him on a gut level, too. His hearing was coming and going in waves, and at extremes, either quite loud or too soft. Easy to see why he was both confused and terrified. In talking with him, I learned he didn’t understand what was happening. He worried about what he’d done wrong, that someone might steal him, or he’d get lost, or we wouldn’t want him anymore.

I’d gently hold and pet him as I explained that deafness was something that happened, he’d done nothing wrong, I wouldn’t let anyone steal him or let him get lost, and we would never stop wanting him. Alki would always be part of the family.

Then he suddenly went completely deaf. No response. Nothing. I had to physically walk over to him and touch him if he wasn’t looking at me, because calling him no longer worked.

I had to be careful, yes, because it’s rude and dangerous to surprise someone, but I also had to give him space: I had to learn how to keep a deaf animal close without being overprotective and making him dependent. Emotionally, I had to find a way to restore his confidence and create a positive new family dynamic while dealing with my own sadness.

It’s a fine line we walk in families, made more difficult by disabilities.

I know. We are familiar with handicaps at our house. I’ve been handicapped for years, and my oldest dog, Murphy, has arthritis and is slowing with age. But familiarity with handicaps only helps anticipate difficulties—it does not make them easier.

Making all of us, especially Alki, comfortable with his handicap took work. Here’s how we did it.

Eight Practical Comforts

  • Training. I reinforced the hand signals we’d learned in obedience class as we drilled on public and private manners, and practiced with friends and strangers. All of us, animals and humans, learned how to be around a deaf animal, and it deepened our bond because we mingled work and fun. Ironically, the one thing about Alki that I could do without did not depart with his hearing. He was deaf but he still barked, and yelling at him didn’t work. (Honestly, it never did. In my less rational moments I wondered if he went deaf so he could bark and not hear me bark back.)
  • Attitude. No coddling. Yes, I made allowances for Alki’s growing deafness: common sense, sympathy, support, and compassion are critical. But we all have to learn our limits in life, handicapped or not, and how to compensate for them with grace and humor. Ultimately, we all have to take care of ourselves: self-reliance is key.
  • Calmness and patience. Running screaming into the night doesn’t solve problems, it just sprains ankles. Be calm. Be patient. Teach that to other family members. Starting with yourself.
  •  Attention. Everybody needs extra attention. Those who aren’t handicapped will feel guilty about it and be jealous they aren’t getting as much attention. Still, the newly handicapped really do need special treatment. Spread the love. Take time with everyone. Focus on them when you do. Play hard.
  • Courtesy. Learn new ways of getting along. It takes time. Think: what would you need and want if you were suddenly handicapped? What does this animal need and want? How do you respectfully meet those needs? For us it included making more eye contact, waving, smiling, petting, hugging, and matter-of-fact living. In short, big open physical demonstrations of love and acceptance.
  • Education. Alki is a cute dog: he’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. People love to pet them and you don’t always see it coming. A woman petted Alki when I wasn’t looking and he whirled around in shocked surprise; we were all lucky he didn’t bite her. Make sure people approaching your handicapped dog know what the situation is, and stay vigilant.
  • Don’t say it. Saying stupid things like “It’s God’s will” or “It could be worse” are pointless and insulting. I caught myself telling Alki that “it could be worse, you could be blind.” The astonished look he gave me said it all. It didn’t make being deaf easier. It demeaned a real agonizing problem. I was an idiot. I’m only admitting it here so you don’t become an idiot, too.
  • Caretaking. Handicapped animals need specialized care. Make sure everyone who interacts with or cares for your animal, from family and friends to vets to groomers to sitters, understands its specific needs and is willing and able to meet them. Don’t leave a handicapped animal in the care of someone who doesn’t understand what the disability means or doesn’t think animals have feelings. You could come home to an injured, depressed animal.

Practical comforts help us get through our daily lives as easily as possible. They make it possible for us to choose to expand our lives even while kicking and screaming about the injustice of a handicap. Deep lasting cultural changes occur because of how we choose to live with change. In Part 2: taking it cultural.

(c) 2011 by Robyn M Fritz

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Why MY Dogs Aren’t Spoiled–MY Cat Ain’t, Either

August 3, 2011 by

Amazing the number of people who scowl and tell me I’m spoiling my animal family.

It flummoxes me. These people, ‘the complainers,’ don’t just turn up their noses at me and my kids. They’re rude about disapproving of people (like me) who treat our animal family as something more than discardable toys, and in public no less.

I’m spoiling my family? Huh. Actually, I’m taking care of them. Like equals.

My eldest dog is cold a lot, so she wears a fleece jacket, indoors and out, during the cool months (a lot of those in Seattle). My younger dog prefers to be cool. The dogs and cat are safely constrained on car trips. They all get quality food and pure water. Cool toys and treats. Clean groomed bodies and comfy beds (often mine). Love and attention. An interesting, stimulating environment. Consideration for their bodies, their minds, their souls.

‘The complainers’ act like ‘spoiling’ is a dirty word. Like the ‘spoilers’ are guilty of some horrible offense.

Like it’s any of their business. Like they have a clue about how to really behave in the world.

So let me tell you. And them.

Treating everyone, human or animal, respectfully as equals is how the world goes from okay to fabulous. It’s how we create a happy balanced planet.

Starting by really getting it that everyone, and everything, has feelings. We can make others, including animals, happy or fearful by how we treat them.

My animal family gets treated as family, as beings who deserve to be respected, made comfortable and pleased. As equals. So what that they’re not human? What matters is that compassion, consideration, attention, and just plain fun aren’t reserved for humans. That we all have space to be animals, and humans, together. Without judgment.

What matters is that we’ve created a family that works for us, that together we’re safe, nurtured, and loved. That we give each other the best chance to be our best, whatever that is. That we pay attention to each other’s needs and interests. Isn’t that common courtesy? Compassion in action? Respect?

If that’s ‘spoiling,’ then let there be spoiling in a world that badly needs it! Starting with the people who don’t get it!

So you frowners and complainers, I hope you don’t have animals in your household. Or, maybe, other humans. Because when I hear you say ‘spoiled’ it sounds like you’re caught in that loop of wearing hair shirts with your perpetual frowns, of suffering through life instead of enjoying it, of making life miserable because it’s somehow supposed to be. Of disrespecting yourselves while you’re disrespecting others. Of not really caring about anything, or anyone, around you as much as you care about your narrow-minded viewpoint. It’s sad, and pointless.

Does minding my business for me make yours that much easier? I hope not!

At our house, everybody’s equal. We learn new things about each other every day. It isn’t always fun, but it’s always worth it. We try to model our respect and compassion in the world. Even for ‘the complainers.’

My dogs, my cat, they ain’t spoiled. They’re respected.

‘Spoiling’ is a dirty word, the way the complainers use it. So don’t. Try a little respect on yourself. You just might find that ‘spoiling’ is word, and a mindset, you’re better off without. The rest of us sure are.

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

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Grace the Cat’s Tail

July 30, 2011 by

We live in a small condo: just me, two Cavalier spaniels (Murphy and Alki), and Grace the Cat. Well, okay, let’s include my crystal partner, Fallon, and Raymond, a fifty-something jade tree who spreads out like an oak.

Yes, our condo is small. Still, it’s plenty of room for my head and Grace the Cat’s tail to be in two separate places at the same time.

So why aren’t they always?

Granted, my animal family and I are close. They all spend time in my lap, and we cuddle as often as we can. But there’s that peculiar cat tail.

Grace lounges on the back of my chair, defying both gravity and my opinion. She’s a small cat (her tail is long, 10 inches long), but she has a distinct knack for putting it in the exact spot of the chair where the back of my head hits. And she won’t move it.

There’s no other place for my head. It belongs in the center of the chair. If I sit straight it’s the only place my head goes. I know, I’ve tried to accommodate Grace’s tail, but I can’t. And won’t.

Yes, I move Grace’s tail out of the way so I can put my head in that spot. But the tail moves. A lot. Even when Grace doesn’t. Her tail will flop on my head, or whack my head, or poke my ear, all while Grace herself is busy pretending she’s busy doing something else. Grace simply doesn’t move, but, then, why should she? Her tail does all the work.

When I get tired of this, I move my head to turn around and complain. You guessed it. When I settle back in, Grace’s tail is back in the spot where my head belongs. We collide.

Is this a weird physics thing? Or plain dumb luck?

Oh, wait, I know! My cat has an attitude. Everybody knows that about cats.

It can’t be me.

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

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When Animal Communication Bites

July 23, 2011 by

Have you always wanted to talk with an animal? And hear it talk back?

It’s easy. Just do it. But be polite, or you’ll find out, like I did, that animal communication can bite.

Just like talking with any being out there, from a tree to a hurricane, animal communication is about respecting all life as equals. That means listening to what each being has to say. And being respectful in our interactions.

Sometimes you talk with other beings, like animals, to learn simple things, like what an animal thinks about airplane travel. Or what kind of outing it would like (chasing squirrels, sunbathing, eating pizza have all come up when I’ve asked my dogs what they’d like to do). Quite often my work is talking with other beings about their life’s work, which can be stunning, as it turns out there are jobs out there that most humans can’t even imagine, jobs that other beings, like our dogs and cats, take for granted.

Sometimes when you talk with animals you get what you really haven’t been looking for, like a lesson in good manners. That bites. And it should.

The other day I was looking at my eldest Cavalier, Murphy. She had just turned 13 and was happily munching a birthday blueberry pie. I noticed she was a bit heavy, which isn’t normal for her. She had been eating a lot lately. So had I.

I said, “Wow, Murphy, you’ve gotten a little chunky.”

She promptly shot back, “Well, I’m not as fat as you!” She was loud, annoyed, amused, honest: her usual straightforward self. Oh, and right.

Ouch! Okay then! A lesson in manners from my dog!

The truth is, we seldom treat other people as respectfully as we should. Despite our best intentions, we often offer even less respect to our animal companions. Sometimes we’re just not thinking about what we’re saying or about whose feelings we’re hurting. Sometimes it just doesn’t occur to us to treat our animals as equals who expect politeness, just like we do. Sometimes we just forget good manners between species.

I should know better. Actually, I do.

I apologized to Murphy for being rude and unthinking.

A few days later, I was bathing Grace the Cat, not our favorite household task. I was noticing that Grace had gained weight, and I said, “Grace, you’ve gotten chunky.”

Already annoyed because she was wet and soapy, Grace snarled back: “Didn’t you just learn that lesson from Murphy?”

Ouch again. “Yes,” I said, chagrined. “My apologies.”

Whoever you talk with, but especially when you’re talking between species, mind your manners. If you’re talking, you should be listening. And thinking about what you’re saying before you say it.

Because animal communication can bite.

Have you said something rude to an animal lately? Did you apologize?

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

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When Good Toys Go Bad

July 14, 2011 by

Toys are a big part of the magical goofy fun side of family life. In our case, it’s a multi-species family life, which means we are a woman, two Cavaliers, and a goofy eight-pound cat.

At our house toys (practically) rule. We have every kind of toy, from bouncy tennis balls and rubber chews to plush stuffed creatures, velvety soft pull toys, and feathers on sticks, everything we could possibly want.

For good reason.

Toys mean play, and play helps humans and animals relate to each other, from learning what each of us likes to bonding. The family that plays together grows together, and has fun in the process.

My family plays all the time. The cat loves the dog toys, the dogs would love the cat toys if they dared, and the woman likes them all.

Or did.

Who knew there’d be a creepy toy?

This one was a hard plastic ball that talks. My boy dog, Alki, loved it. The ball would roll across the floor and yell and make noise, and Alki would give chase, barking and fetching. All cool, until you actually heard what the ball was saying.

“I’m gonna get you!” it yelled.

Just like that a good toy, or a good toy idea, went bad. From possibly annoying, like drum sets for kids, to creepy. Violent. Sadistic. Scary.

How hard is it to make a talking toy that says, “Hey there, buddy, let’s play!”

Especially when you wake in the middle of the night and hear a loud scratchy voice yelling, “I’m gonna get you!” Yes, creepy toy short-circuited and was yelling without being moved. While we were all trying to sleep.

There’s nothing fun or amusing about that.

I tossed the toy in the garbage and we all went back to bed. The next day I could hear it yelling, intermittently, as I carried the bag to the garbage. Right before I dropped it in, it yelled, “Oh, no! Arghh!”

Indeed.

Now I have one more thing to think about when I buy a toy for my family. Sure, always thinking about safe and durable. Now I also look at the creepy factor. Surprising what makes the list. Sad how few options there are out there.

What are yours?

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

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We’re Cat’s Eye Writer’s First Guest Writer

July 13, 2011 by

I was Cat’s Eye Writer’s first guest poster!

Judy Dunn is Cat’s Eye Writer. Back in June she ran a contest looking for her first guest poster. I decided to join in the fun and won, even though Judy writes about blogging (and she’s an expert, so check her out). It was a great experience for me, an opportunity to expand the reach of my emerging magazine, Bridging the Paradigms, and also to simply connect with people who value both their animal families and the possibilities of looking at the world in a slightly tweaked way.

It was also fun, and that’s something we go for as frequently as possible here at Alchemy West. Unfortunately, a lot of not so fun things interfered with me getting this post up: the little things like major computer failure followed by the domino effect (don’t ask how many things can go wrong at once, it might come your way, and you don’t want that). But we are at last back to work!

Bridging the Paradigms is about creating community with all life, from our animals to our homes, businesses, and the land around us.

As I continue to build community through my work, I am thrilled to meet people like Judy Dunn: smart, talented, honest, and community-minded. That makes Judy and her business one of “The Likables”: people and businesses who make a difference in the world by being the best they can be, and create community by example.

Judy Dunn is a blogger, content marketing specialist and author of “The Guide to Showing Up Online.” Her blog, Cat’s Eye Writer, is on the alltop.com list of best blogs and a winner of a 2011 Top 10 Blogs for Writers. She writes there about how people can attract more online visitors with compelling copy, a true voice and smart social media strategies. Follow her on Twitter at @CatsEyeWriter.

So check out my post at Judy’s blog on creating rituals with animals.

And then check out the following week, where Judy hosted three other writers. And then, well, keep up with what Judy’s writing about. It works.

Thank you, Judy!

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

 

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What Do Animal Communicators Really Do?

June 16, 2011 by

Cavaliers at the beachThere are so many people doing animal communication that they’ve begun to specialize. I don’t do animal communication exclusively. I communicate with all life, from animals to businesses, homes, and nature, including wild/domestic land and weather systems.

Essentially, animal communicators help us telepathically connect with animals, by hearing or seeing them or experiencing their feelings. I use whatever telepathic line works for a particular family or animal, including intuition.

Working with Families

I work with families to deepen their relationships with animals by creating multi-species families with them. And I work with wild animals as well, because two of the beings I work with at Alchemy West are deceased wild animals (Raymond the bear and Ralph the deer). Family conversations cover the gamut, from fun and inspiring family harmony sessions to easing transitions.

Looking at Medical and Behavior Issues
I’ve certainly learned a lot about animal health and behavioral issues over the years. I can help people look at these issues and give you some ideas to take to your vet for further exploration. I also recommend reading a lot and working closely with a trusted vet and animal behaviorist. I listen closely to both animals and people. Because we don’t always hear our animals as clearly as we would like, I tend to address what the animal would like its family to know.

For example, if you think your cat is peeing in the house, clean it up and consider things like cleanliness and medical issues that require veterinary care. You might want me to ask the cat about why it’s peeing, but your cat may really want to discuss something else. I will focus on what the cat has to say. Why? Because I can hear it, and that’s really why you came to me in the first place. Or to anyone who works as an animal communicator. Hearing what your animals really want to say to you can make a huge difference on family dynamics.

Helping Lost Animals Find Home

I also help find lost animals, which does not always mean they come home like we would wish. Sometimes they move on to other families, by choice or by accident. Sometimes they die. Sometimes we never find out.

One time it took me six days to get a lost dog to decide whether she was going to submit to animal control and come home. She had bitten an animal control officer and had run off. It was the officer’s fault, not hers, and it took me a long time to get her to understand, and believe, that she was not in trouble. But we had another complication: she was lost in deep snow and her life was at stake.

She wouldn’t talk with me but I knew she could hear me. So I told her how to stay safe while she decided whether to come home. I could also see and describe the place she was hiding, so I also told her I was telling the searchers where to look, because she was loved, wanted, and literally too upset to think straight. I don’t generally interfere in an animal’s choice like that; in this case, I knew she was listening and wanted to come home but wasn’t sure if she could, or would. So I pushed the issue a bit.

The searchers did find her hiding spot exactly as I saw it, but she ran when they saw her, even though she listened to me when I told her to show herself, and where.

By this time I had no doubts that we had a frightened dog who wanted to come home but was too afraid to go to the people who were trying to help her. What else could I do?

The weather made up my mind for me. Another snowstorm moved into the area, one I knew she had little chance of surviving. Even though it had been six days and she had not spoken to me, I told her it was “do or die,” she simply had to choose. Come home or die.

Her response? “I want chicken,” she declared. “Chicken McNuggets.”

When you hear something bizarre like that, you have to know you actually did hear it. What a unique idea for a McDonald’s’ ad!

“I don’t bargain,” I said, trying not to laugh. “But I will tell your people that you want Chicken McNuggets.”

Shortly after that she quietly surrendered to animal control. And, sure enough, there was a McDonald’s nearby. The lost dog was happily reunited with her family. And on the way home they loaded up on Chicken McNuggets.

The thing I take away from this is that we all need to be patient and persistent. And to listen to what our animals have to say. We compromise to be in families. That’s just how it is. In working with families and lost animals, the discussion about what is going on and why is often a part of it.

Whether you’re convinced that animal communication is real or not, what one question would you ask a favorite animal? And what do you think it would say?

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

Filed Under: Human-Animal Bond Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Gone to the Dogs … in New York

February 22, 2011 by

If you’re going to New York and have to leave your own dogs (and cat) at home, there’s one sure way to get your dog fix: arrange to be there in February, when New York goes doggy for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show at Madison Square Garden in Manhattan.

The 135th Westminster Dog Show was Monday and Tuesday, Feb. 14-15. The American equivalent of the crowning of canine royalty, this year it drew over 2,000 dogs from all over the world. Since I was already there, and love dogs, I leaped right into Manhattan’s doggy mania.

For most of us dogs are cookie monsters, couch potatoes, stick fetchers, bed hogs, cat barker atters, and companions. Those into dog sports can pursue agility, tracking, herding, dancing, and therapy dog training. But dog shows? What do they have to do with me? I decided to find out.

First up, the Friday before Westminster, was the Big City Little Dog Fashion Show, sponsored by the New Yorkie pet fashion line to benefit the Angel on a Leash program. Begun by the Westminster Kennel Club in 2004, Angel on a Leash is a charitable program that promotes the human-animal bond through public appearances and training programs working with therapy dogs in such places as schools; health care, rehabilitation, and hospice facilities; and crisis intervention programs. It has a close tie to Seattle because it is championed by former Seattleite and current Westminster Director of Communications and Westminster television host, David Frei, and his wife, Cheri Frei. At the fashion show local New York celebrities paraded the runway with their canine partners, from pocket-sized Yorkies in frilly duds to a Great Dane in a crystal collar with an evening hat rakishly tipped over one ear.

Dogs were everywhere that weekend (unfortunately, also in the neighboring hotel room, where a Yorkie thought it was a rooster and yapped from 5-7 a.m. for three straight days). Taking refuge outside my room, I spotted Yorkies in pockets and hand bags. The big guys, from rottweilers to strapping redbone coonhounds, Scottish deerhounds (the eventual winner), and low-slung German shepherds. Dogs watered the sidewalk, pranced down the street, peered out from crates stacked on luggage carts, and calmly rode the elevator as their handlers cheerfully responded to queries like: what is that? One answer: a Norwegian Buhund.

At the Affinia Hotel I followed the sign to the dog exercise room. That’s where the people from Jog a Dog had set up two of their dog treadmills. Established 40 years ago by an inventor who trained German Shepherds for rigorous police and protection work (called schutzhund), today it’s a thriving business catering to canine athletes, from conformation specialists (show dogs) to agility or tracking experts.

I met Jack, a 5-year-old yellow labrador from Miami, accompanied by his breeder and owner, Rosy Harkow. She uses the treadmill on the show circuit to avoid exercising Jack on the street, and also has one at her Florida kennel. Jack’s mom, 10-year-old Maddie, is fit and healthy and still competing in agility because of the muscle toning and endurance she gets on the treadmill. Show handlers also use it as a gaiting tool, to improve the dog’s pace and top line in the show ring. Both Jack and the dalmatian Gabe, trotted hard, stopping only to pose for photographs.

The Westminster Dog Show started early Monday morning. Most of the day’s dogs and their entourages were already on site by 7 a.m. Since Westminster is a benched show, all the dogs for the groups showing that day had to be onsite all day and available to the public. I was relieved to see that I’m not the only one who fails to travel light: these dogs and their people had crates, blankets, toys, food, grooming tools, cooling fans … everything you’d need to greet your public in style, two or three times over.

One intriguing breed is the beauceron. A rare breed that originated in northern France, this is a large black and tan herding dog that belongs in the American Kennel Club’s working dog group. I met Gideon, who was being groomed by his owner, Marlene Palmer.

The show circuit for these two was an afterthought. Marlene purchased Gideon when he was 11 weeks old, to train as a search and rescue dog. Together they work for Klamath Search and Rescue in Klamath Falls, Oregon. When people suggested his conformation might make him a show dog, Marlene decided to go for it, which is how Gideon became a champion and was at Westminster (he did not win this year).

Marlene and Gideon started their search and rescue training early. While it normally takes two years to certify one of these dogs, Gideon was certified in 14 months. He works as a wilderness air scent dog, searching for lost people. The search team grids an area, and the dogs clear it by searching for the smell of a human, and if necessary can track by clothing. They can cover a lot of territory quickly, which is critical in finding lost and possibly injured people.

All morning long I snapped photos of dogs being primped for their big moment, their hair wrapped or snipped, while others snoozed or greeted visitors. Their humans educated people about their breed, whether they herded sheep or held down a lap in style. Their emphasis? While showing dogs is a sport they enjoy, the dogs are family first and foremost.

That’s certainly what I understand, as I live with Murphy and Alki, two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, members of the toy group, who were shown in their breed group at 8 a.m. Monday. As the Cavaliers pranced into the ring, and stopped before me, I glanced down at the dog in front of me. The handler turned to us and smiled poignantly. This was her dog’s last show. He would be 13 in a month, and was enjoying the spotlight as he gamely trotted along. It brought tears to my eyes, as he was only a few months older than my beloved Cavalier, Murphy.

Glancing around, I recognized one of the handlers, a Cavalier breeder from the Seattle area. Wow! Three thousand miles from home and somebody I sorta kinda knew!

I had met Patrick and Tamara Kelly in Seattle years ago when I was involved with the local Cavalier club. They fall into a rare category in the dog world: they are breeders, owners, and handlers. That’s right, in a sport where owners buy top dogs and hire professional handlers to show them, these owners breed and show their own dogs.

And they won, with their champion boy, three-year-old Miles.

Backstage I waited for the hoopla to settle so I could congratulate them. Patrick is a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, and he was so excited he was bouncing. While they’d been showing for 15 years, this was their first win at Westminster­—something only a few people ever accomplish.

He told me how they got started with their beloved first Cavalier, Maggie May, and how the old ones have a special place in our hearts.

I said, “Yes, that’s true, my oldest is 12-1/2.” I grinned as our eyes met, because the best was coming. “And heart clear.” That’s a rarity in Cavaliers, and is, in fact, what breeding and living with dogs is all about: enjoying long happy lives together.

Patrick’s eyes went wide in surprise. “Murphy?” he asked, holding his breath in anticipation, clearly remembering my little dog with the daunting health challenges.

I laughed, saying, “Yes, my Murphy.”

And Patrick leaped sky high, pumping his arms in the air.

That’s really what dog shows are all about, even the grand old ones like Westminster. It’s people and dogs having fun together, whether they’re in the show ring or tussling over the remote at home.

And it’s people like Patrick Kelly, who’ve just reached the top of their sport, and ten minutes later are leaping high in the air to celebrate the life and health of a dog they hadn’t seen in 10 years, but knew in their hearts. And remembered.

Because our dogs are family.

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

Note: a slightly shorter version of this article appeared 2-21-11 in the West Seattle Herald, courtesy of Robinson Newspapers, Seattle. Catch it here: http://www.westseattleherald.com/2011/02/21/features/gone-dogs-%E2%80%A6-new-york

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