My Very Special Little People

By Ann Jenkins

Are you a frustrated dog owner? Do you find that your dog rules you? Have you tried formal dog training and found that the training has failed? Are you confused about all your options in choosing a dog that will compliment your lifestyle? In My Very Special Little People, motivational speaker Ann Jenkins takes you through her fifty years of dog ownership. She analyzes her successes and failures to help you: * Understand your dog better. * Make better choices for a breed that fits your lifestyle. * Train and communicate with your dog. Your dog will be a family member for many years, and it is important for both you and your dog to have a valued relationship. If you are not comfortable in the relationship you have with your dog and want to make improvements, or you are considering purchasing a dog and want to create a good relationship with a new dog that is appropriate for your lifestyle, this book is for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640820210

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My Very Special

Little People

Ann Pedreschi

Copyright © 2017 Ann Pedreschi

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-64082-020-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64082-021-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Foreword

I am very passionate about my dogs. I have spent fifty years with these wonderfully intelligent animals, and they still never cease to amaze me. Much of my inspiration came from people like Barbara Woodhouse who had tremendous knowledge about dogs. She had an amazing sympathy for misunderstood dogs and was incredibly astute in cause-and-effect issues with them. She certainly changed my opening page on dogs.

As a teenager, I was in awe of David Attenborough. He is one of my favorite people. He opened my eyes to the patience of studying animals and respecting them as the individual creatures they are. He inspired me to study a target, so to speak. Much later in my life, I was to be awed by yet another amazing man, Monty Roberts, who was blatant enough to tell us that we had been breaking in horses incorrectly for centuries and proved it to us with his demonstrations. He opened a door to allow us to realize that humans do not communicate well with different species because they do not understand them. Studying animals can give us a better understanding of how they communicate to one another and of how we can tap into this communication. We humans, the great game wardens of life, have made some devastating errors, most of which we can actually reverse if we have the will to do so.

I started my connection with dogs in Europe and have seldom been without a dog. As I turn my final chapter, retirement in the USA, I can reflect on the many situations I have shared with my dogs and can equate some parallels to human behavior also.

I could not write this book without mentioning my mother for she was very instrumental in creating my curiosity. As youngsters we had little money, and so we would walk for miles just enjoying nature. Mother knew much about our environment, and that made our walks incredibly interesting. I would learn to appreciate wild flowers and fauna and learn different bird songs, and if we were lucky enough, we would see a badger or a fox. It was my youth, a time to stimulate all senses. I wonder how many of today’s children will miss hands-on experiences because their child sitters in today’s world are mostly electronic.

This book is not only a tribute to my adopted mentors as such, but also to the dogs I have had the privilege to share time with. I have shared an understanding with them through thought and observation as David Attenborough and Monty Roberts have done with other life forms. I have realized how very naïve I was with my first dogs. I really never gave myself the time to understand them; I figured I was the superior animal and knew what I was doing. These are My Very Special Little People, not because I think of them as human but because I think of them as being every bit as individual and complex as we are. They have as much complexity in their thoughts, though different, and yet they are treated as lesser individuals. Far too many are owned for the wrong reasons and will go through a life of misunderstanding and often abuse or neglect.

As I progress through this book, I will make comments about my naïveté, and I will show ways to make life with your dog more fulfilling.

Olson

While my first love was horses, I also loved dogs as far back as I can remember. The first dog I remember belonged to our neighbor. The dog’s name was Buddy, and he was a fairly small golden short-haired dog. I had to be about three or four, and I always looked for Buddy through the fence when I went out into the backyard. If I did not see him I would ask my mother, Where is Buddy? I always wanted to hug Buddy, which he didn’t mind one bit. We moved from that house, and I never saw Buddy again but I often think about him.

I had a dear friend whose father had a Labrador retriever named Jessie. I had always wanted a black Labrador, but I would have been just as happy with a yellow or chocolate Labrador. Jessie enjoyed being with us and often came for walks with us. She had a calm disposition as a house dog, and I know my friend’s father adored her as a gun dog. She was a super gun dog and was often out hunting when I went to visit my friend on weekends. Unfortunately she had a problem with one of her hips. My friend’s father thought so highly of Jessie that she was given a hip replacement. Once she was fully recovered, it was impossible to tell that she had ever had a problem. Jessie was finally bred and gave birth to two black puppies. I was to get Sneaker, the second born. Unfortunately the inexperienced Jessie sat on Sneaker and suffocated him. I was heartbroken. I often look back and think how differently my life would have been had Sneaker lived.

In 1966 my brother, Tristan, and I worked for a research facility that bred beagles and cats for research. Although we were not in love with the idea of using animals, it was impossible to find humans that would be the guinea pigs for research and many drugs that were manufactured would help not just humans, but also animals. It was a living and one could branch out to all kinds of interesting fields within that company. Why beagles? Beagles are pack animals, and they get along with each other with very little squabbling. They are short coated and they have long ears with great veins and they are reasonably small.

As I reflect on these beagles, they were so much better kept than so many dogs in today’s world. They had warm kennels, beagle companionship, correct nutrition, clean water, and they were healthy: free from fleas, ticks, and worms. They were adored by all the kennel staff. If I could say that anything was missing, it would be freedom to run, and yet from birth they only knew kennel life. I never saw one of these beagles moping or shivering in fear or even angry. When I walked in the kennels I remember the pungent odor of beagles, their baying, and their happy wagging tails. This was a far cry from walking through a Humane Society kennel, which I did much later in life.

One day quite out of the blue, Tristan brought a beagle home. He said his boss had told him he could have this neutered nine-month-old male beagle. We named him Olson. Olson was big for a beagle, about sixteen inches, more harrier sized than beagle sized. He was an extremely handsome dog with a solid bone structure. His coloration was rich tan with a very distinct black saddle, and he had solid white markings. His crown was fairly wide, and his long velvety ears dropped evenly each side of his cheeks. He had plenty of loose skin around his jowls and on his forehead. When asked a question he would wrinkle his forehead into furrows and cock his head to one side. He had a deep barrel of a chest and strong, well-formed legs. He was built, as we were about to find out, for stamina and endurance.

Tristan seldom took care of Olson. My other brother, Sebastian, and I would take him over to the woods to let him run. Olson had an easy lope that he could keep up all day and possibly half the night if need be. He had that dreadful hound yodel, and you could usually hear him even when you couldn’t see him. Olson knew exactly where the car was parked and would keep us waiting until he had exhausted his resources. We often walked about ten miles and then had to wait an hour or so for Olson to finally call it quits. This was his weekend treat and our weekend ritual. We often wondered how many miles Olson had actually traveled on one walk.

We lived a few doors down from a colonel who had two Jack Russell terriers. We lived on a cul-de-sac, and the colonel would walk his terriers past our hedge, and around the cul-de-sac, and then back to his house. He always allowed his dogs to poop at the foot of our garden gate, and he never cleaned up after his dogs. This infuriated me, and one day I grabbed a shovel, picked up his dogs’ poop, and threw it over his fence.

One of the following weekends we took Olson to the woods for his usual marathon. There were long wide treeless hundred-foot-wide riders through the woods, used as fire breaks. It was a great place to ride horses or to let your dogs to run. Olson for some reason uncharacteristically stayed with us on this day. Across the rider was the colonel with his two Jacks on leash. Olson ran across the rider to the Jacks, and much to our embarrassment he raised his leg on one of the dogs then took off for his hunting expedition. I often wondered if Olson felt the dislike that we had for the colonel. There were other times I had a feeling that we were transmitting signals to Olson.

We walked Olson a mile to where we shopped since in those days we drove as little as possible. He was part of our family and was with us wherever we were allowed to take him. Thinking about those days, we never formally trained him. Other than the folk that were showing or working their dogs, no one ever trained their dogs. There were no official dog-training centers like we have now other than police–dog training centers. Life was somewhat peaceful with dogs, and I cannot recall ever having had a problem with dogs other than the German shepherd down the street. He would always rush out and nip my ankles. He never hurt me; I thought he was just playing a game, and it wasn’t until much later that I realized his herding instincts were very much present. I cannot recall any dog fights. It was common to see dogs in pubs or in restaurants, and they were as peaceful as the paintings on the walls. There was a code of ethics for the owners to adhere to with their animals, and the dogs were always quite content. It was quite common to see a dog drink beer in a public house. These dogs were used to the routine and seemed to really enjoy the attention.

I believe the only time I was actually nipped and bruised by a dog was when my friend and I were walking on a public walkway through some fields. My mother had always told me if I met a strange dog, never to show my fear, and I would not get bitten. My friend while living in a household with Jessie was actually afraid of dogs. Up ahead there was a man with a toy poodle at the end of a very long leash. My friend grabbed my arm in alarm, and the poodle nipped me. There was no blood just a bruise. That was the extent of aggression in dogs that I experienced in those days.

We often tied Olson to a lamppost when we went in a shop. People at that time did not steal dogs and resell them to research facilities or other homes. Dogs were not considered financial assets. Any passing dogs would pretty much ignore Olson tied to the lamppost since it was not uncommon to see dogs tied up outside shops. The only problem we had with Olson and other dogs was that Olson had a fetish for Great Danes. If he ever got the chance he would mount a Great Dane and so we tried to steer him away from Great Danes.

Another fetish of Olson’s was his love of chicken. We were not a wealthy family. In fact we were often on the brink of financial disaster. However, we would have a Sunday roast when all the family would be together for perhaps our most major meal of the week. This particular Sunday we had put the roast chicken on the dining table. We had all gone out to the kitchen to collect various utensils and vegetables and when we got back to the dining room, the chicken was gone. Olson was seen tearing off down the garden with something in his mouth—the chicken. We all laughed hysterically but Mother was livid. Despite this episode, Olson and Mother had the best relationship, Olson had certainly decided Mother was his human, and despite all her complaining, she really loved Olson.

It was quite a sight to see Mother sitting close to our little coal fire with Olson pushing ever closer to the fire. Since this was our only source of heat, it was a case of who could absorb the most heat. That was until Olson got a little too close, and Mother in her sleepy tone said, I smell something burning!

Olson had singed his shoulder. This would be the last time he was allowed so close to the fire.

My father’s brother, Grant, visited us once. Mother hated him. He was not an honest man and had stolen from his own mother, my grandmother. Olson had a perch—he would sit on a dining-room chair, push his back into the chair back, and cross his back legs. He sort of slouched in the chair as a human might. When Grant came, Olson was in this position, and he never stopped growling while Grant was there. I believe this was another incident where Olson picked up bad vibes.

When I consider the Olson days, he had come from nine months in a concrete kennel with a litter of beagles. He had never been alone in the outside world. His kennel was in the country, and I am sure that certain noises and odors would have made their way into the unit, but I cannot wonder at his composure when brought to our suburban house. The sights, sounds, and odors must have been quite overwhelming, yet he was ever calm and accepting.

He had only one bathroom mistake, but it was almost as though he had been with us from birth. I believe he tapped our emotions from the beginning and only got alarmed when we got alarmed. One time when walking on a public footpath through some fields, a hunter with a rifle was off in the distance. Olson came back to me and stayed with me until the hunter had passed. There was another time when I was walking through a park where there was a man with a rifle. Olson stayed in front of me on the leash with an almost inaudible low growl. At that time I thought that Olson had sensed his danger and not mine, but later years with dogs and certain behaviors I now believe he was protecting me.

Heidi

I had been given charge of a female beagle where I worked. She had been through a cesarean to remove her one rather large puppy. She had gone through a terrible time, and my manager said he did not think she would live as she was so dehydrated. I gave her fluid injections every two hours and went back at night to check on her and give her more fluids. It was a very emotional time for me because she would never be used for breeding again, and that would mean she would be used for experimentation. I felt this poor dog had been through so much already, and besides feeling sorry for her, I was getting attached to her. Three weeks later she was looking normal again. My manager stopped by to congratulate me on a wonderful job in keeping her alive. He reminded me that she would go for research, but if I wanted to take her home he would not mind at all. He must have known I loved this poor little beagle.

Heidi came home with me. She was not a good-looking beagle like Olson. She was rather small and did not have the deep broad chest of a beagle. Her coloring was more mottled than distinct patches of color. Her ears flopped out as though the wind was holding them away from her cheeks. Her bone structure was not substantial like Olson’s. It was quite a sight to see them together; it was like looking at a mansion next to a trailer. The amazing thing was that Olson loved Heidi from the very first meeting. When out on walks, he never ventured away as he had done previously. He happily trotted alongside Heidi and we called them Mr. and Mrs. Olson. In three weeks Heidi had melted our hearts. She was a very sweet-natured little beagle, and she fit in extremely well with our family.

One day when I arrived home from work, mother was standing outside waiting for me. This was extremely unusual, and I had a sense of dread when I saw her expression. She told me that Dad had left the garden gate open, and Heidi had gone down the road and was killed by a car on the main road. I was devastated. Losing Heidi after all we had been through seemed so unfair. Heidi had been in our family for such a short time, and she was finally healthy and happy, and she and Olson were inseparable. Poor Olson would