The Chihuahua Who Became Chucho

The name his rescuer gave him was Everest, because she found him in Montaña, a neighborhood in here in Curaçao, which translates to "Mountain"... Personally, I might have gone with Kilimanjaro, or even Blanc (you know, for Mont), but—well, naming is the rescuer's prerogative. Either way, this first name wasn't going to last, because a couple of months later, when a fabulous woman adopted him—only temporarily, as it turned out, but I'm getting ahead of myself here—she decided that, him being a (sort of) Chihuahua and all, he needed a more Mexican name. One of the most common appellatives in Mexico is Jesús (pronounced heh-SOOS), and every Jesús I know gets called, for unfathomable reasons, Chucho for short.

So Everest became Chucho.

Chucho (even before being called Everest) came to us on October 5th, 2016, and it was thanks to Facebook. I belong to several animal rescue groups (surprise, surprise), and on this particular fine afternoon a post popped up on my timeline from a fellow member asking for advice. She'd found this tiny dog on the side of the road, walking in tight, tight circles and acting disoriented. She didn't know what to do. I was probably the third person to reply, and echoed exactly what the other two people had said: Take him to the vet. ASAP. And I added that I'd be happy to do it myself, if she wanted. People not intimately familiar with rescue have no way of gauging what the veterinary 'damage' will be, so sometimes they hesitate to take an animal to the vet out of fear they won't be able to afford the bill. Plus, not everyone can drop their lives at a moment's notice in order to rush a strange dog to the ER. In this particular case, the rescuer said in her post that she knew next to nothing about dogs, that she'd always been more of a cat person; I felt she had done enough by picking up the dog to begin with, so it seemed only reasonable to step in and offer help.

At the home of his rescuer while they waited for me. All he wanted was to sleep. No water, no food, just... sleep. Yep, not a good sign.

I arrived at her door about a half hour later, after a few wrong turns but not nearly as many as I expected; it was Election Day here, and a voting location had been set up just a block from her house, so the crowd and the lines of parked cars were hard to miss. She helped me load the dog—who really was tiny; he'd looked rather larger in the photo she posted—into the car, and I promised to call as soon as I had some sort of diagnostic. I did warn her that, from the behavior she'd described—the walking in circles, the disorientation, the lack of appetite or energy—the prognosis would probably not be very good. "There's a chance he'll need to be put down," I told her, as kindly as I could. She nodded, reached a hand in through the open window to pet the tiny head again. "I understand."


But it was not to be; Everest would live. The vet that afternoon couldn't find any obvious injury or clear signs of disease that warranted ending his life. "Let's keep him in observation for 24 hours," she suggested—which, of course, meant I had to bring him home. That hadn't been the plan, especially since my pack at home is notoriously averse to newcomers (canine or human). But Everest's rescuer worked full-time, and had a small daughter; no way she was going to stay up all night to monitor the dog. We had no right to ask her to, even.

So Everest came home with me.

Chucho (aka Everest), on his first night with us, curled tight in the smallest dog basket I have. (And he still manages to make it look huge. He was so, so small...)

After an uneventful night (which I spent on the couch next to him, just in case), he began experimenting with leaving the basket. He didn't seem able to walk in anything other than circles, which was worrying (to put it mildly). I carried him out to the backyard and let him wander, hoping that in the open space he'd finally find his bearings... But no luck. He basically walked, always in tight circles, until he exhausted himself and laid down, where he stood.

Yeah. Not good.

For a good seven days, we—I mean the vets and I—were convinced the kindest thing would be to put him down. Sure, he had no obvious injuries or any signs of neural disease (such as, say, distemper), but—the circles. The disorientation. He had to be freakin' hand-fed. He wouldn't even drink water on his own for the first two or three days, and when he did it was basically by taking a swim in the water container.

But... how does one give up on this face?

So I got in touch with my dog network—behaviorists, vets, owners of multiple Chihuahuas, the most experienced rescuers, anyone I could think of, really—and told them about Chucho. The idea, initially, was to gather input from multiple, and independent, sources in order to work up the courage to put him down. This video was filmed on Oct. 13, eight days after Chucho was rescued, and the original, unedited version was meant for a behaviorist friend who lives in Germany and had asked to see him 'in action', so to speak.

Who was going to adopt this dog? Who has the time, or the inclination, to hand-feed a tiny Chihuahua twice a day, to give him even water by hand, too? No one, that's who. And, if you're any good at reading dog body language, you can see that this disorientation was causing him stress, too. Was he in pain? Was he suffering? All we could do was guess, but at the time this video was made, and shared with people equipped to judge, the consensus was that this was not a happy dog, or—more practically speaking—an adoptable one, either. Best to let him go.

But Chucho had other ideas. On the same day the video was filmed, I brought him to the vet for a check-up—and he surprised us all by walking more or less in a straight line in the examination room. We had thought he might be blind, but after multiple tests (the vet stood in his way, put obstacles in his path, changed items of furniture around) we were convinced that he could see perfectly well. We were still no closer to figuring out why the walking-in-circles or the disorientation (painfully evident in the video), but it was clear that a) he wasn't blind, and b) he was improving. No way to know how much he'd improve, or whether he'd ever be completely normal, but it was only logical to give him the chance to recover as much, and as far, as he could.

We all breathed a sigh of relief.

And then, two days later, this happened.

Did he sense, somehow, that we were on the verge of making the decision to let him go? Did that last visit to the vet work some kind of all-is-well spell? Could it have been blue-harness magic? He seemed to like that harness. Bottom line, your guess is as good as mine. The point, however, is that as of that day, he improved by leaps and bounds. Three days later (the day after video #2), he was eating from a normal dog bowl. Unassisted. And there was no more of that walking-in-circles spooky crap. When I called him, he turned toward me (instead of toward the wall, or the sofa, or the kenepa tree), and actually came to me—in a straight line.

And so we began to look for a home for him in earnest. Yes, he'd probably need special care all his life, but—well, a dog that can eat and drink without physical assistance has a much better chance of being adopted versus one that can't.

So it was. After a halfway stop at a pseudo-foster (who had every intention of keeping him), he met the (human) love of his life and now lives in the Netherlands. He is feisty and doesn't allow his miniature size to limit him in any way. He shows no signs of reverting to his circle-walking days, except when stressed; he did it a little bit after his castration surgery, but once the anesthetic wore off completely, he was back to his normal, straight-line self.

Chucho in the Netherlands, at his forever home. Yes, on the bed, heel graag ;)

All we need is love. A flurry of miracles that converge on a single point, and—tah-dah! The rescuer—who wasn't a rescuer at all, just a normal, non-dog-loving person who saw a dog in distress and simply couldn't drive on, couldn't turn a blind eye. The vets who saw him—who could very easily have recommended euthanasia on the first day. The foster-slash-adopter who gave him a chance. And the adopter in the Netherlands, who gave him a home to belong to, and a life worth living.

I love this story. Chucho, you make me believe in miracles.

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"My Dog Has A Job?" — Guest Post by Lynne Hinkey (@LMHinkey)

Lynne Hinkey is a marine scientist by training, a writer by passion, and a curmudgeon by nature. An Olympic-caliber procrastinator, she honed her skill through years of practice and dedication to life on island-time. She uses her experiences living in the Caribbean to infuse her novels with tropical magic, from the siren call of the islands to the terror and hysteria caused by the mysterious chupacabra. 

P.S. from Guilie: And she *loves* dogs.

"He really, really likes his job."

Huh? I wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe I was just skeptical of everything this woman said. I'd only come to the "Doggy Psychic" because it was a fundraiser for a dog rescue organization. I happily paid the $25 to sit in a room with this woman for 15 minutes to hear some broad generalizations that could apply to any dog since the money would help other dogs. But this didn't sound like a generalization. For starters, I was pretty sure Muggle didn't have a job.

I've had enough terriers and pit bulls to know it's important for some high-energy breeds to have enough physical and mental stimulation so they don't become destructive out of boredom or frustration. Those dogs need a job. Muggle is not that kind of dog. He came to us, a rescue from a kill shelter, with no training. He'd needed some obedience, but otherwise was perfectly content to lie on the sofa all day. 

"What job is that?" I asked. 

She sat quietly, eyes closed, one hand on my dog's head. "He really loves that you make him think and learn new things. He sees it as his job." Muggle had entered the room with me only minutes earlier, walked directly to her, and rested his chin in her lap. He'd sat there ever since. After a long moment, she opened her eyes. "You do agility with him, don't you? He's thinking about weave poles." 

We had just started learning the weave poles in our agility class. 

When we took our first obedience lesson at the local agility club, I had no intention of ever doing actual agility. Like most people, when I thought of agility I envisioned wild-fast, crazy-smart Border Collies, and brilliant handlers with years of experience who clearly needed infinite free time to train their dogs to do such amazing feats. That wasn't me! Yet here we were, ten months later, doing agility. How did that happen?

We went to the local agility club because their obedience classes were at a convenient location. Since they are an agility club, all of their obedience classes include agility foundation skills. So, we learned some basic handling and even a few obstacles like jumps, tunnels, and the boggle board (the start of learning to go over a teeter). Then we kept on learning because we were having fun and becoming a team.

Muggle and his trusty biped teammate.
(Photo credit: Matt Drobnik)

Muggle learned obedience commands and how to navigate the obstacles. I learned all about positive reinforcement and the use of shaping. He learned to think and solve problems. I learned how to give him the information he needed and to trust he would do what I asked. He trusted me to reward him for doing what had evidently become his "job." 

Agility is a great way to go beyond just meeting a (rescue) dog's physical needs of food and shelter, and provide them with mental stimulation. The thinking part of an agility class can use up excess energy more effectively than a long run. It gives dogs a job to do—one that will satisfy them (and you), and leave them fulfilled and tired. Agility builds their confidence and trust in you, and minimizes the difficulties that can come with any new dog, especially rescues that may have unknown trauma in their past. 

Agility isn't only for Border Collies, Aussies, and herding dogs, and it isn't about winning ribbons and titles (not that those are bad things—we've earned a few ourselves!). First and foremost, it's about spending time with our dogs and the bond that forms and strengthens when we work as a team. 

Muggle and Lynne. Impossible not to feel the sheer joy here.
(Photo credit: Matt Drobnik)

It's about giving them a sense of achievement.

Whether you aspire to compete, or just have fun, agility is a great way to build a strong bond with your dog, rescue or not. It's easy to get started, even if you don't have a local agility or dog sport club. Any dog trainer who uses positive reinforcement, clicker-training, and/or shaping can help with the obedience portion (a simple sit, stay, and down). Then you do want to make sure to train your dog to safely perform the obstacles. There are also loads of helpful videos on YouTube to help get you started in your own house or yard. I guarantee, you'll have a lot of fun, and your dog will love his or her new job. 

Muggle, in absolute-focus mode
(Photo credit: Matt Drobnik)

Here are a few videos to get you and your agility teammate started: 

 ~ How to Make a Pet Agility Course ~ 

 ~ Shaping Behavior ~ 

 ~ Teaching Basic Jumping Skills ~ 

 ~ Teaching Left and Right to Your Agility Dog ~ 

~ * ~

Lynne's short stories and essays have appeared in a number of print and online publications. Her debut novel, Marina Melee, follows George Marshall as he trades in the corporate rat race for life on a tropical island only to find the easy life is hard work. In her second novel, Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons, Jack Halliman is looking for a cure to his writer's block but instead finds a dead body and becomes one of two suspects in a murder investigation. The other suspect is the chupacabra. The mythical monster returns in book two of the chupacabra trilogy, The Un-Familiar: A Tale of Cats and Gods. This time, he's brought along some friends—and a few enemies.

Casperian Books, 2016
Available in paperback at Amazon; e-book coming in September

When not busy writing or procrastinating, Lynne is an adjunct associate professor of biology. She lives in Charleston, SC with her husband, cat, and two dogs, where she is an avid—but not particularly accomplished—agility competitor. You can find all her books at her Amazon author page.

~ * ~

Lynne, it was lovely to get your outlook on agility and its benefits for our four-legged friends. I'm one of those who—until very recently—had an entirely wrong idea of what it actually was... But I've since become a convert. You say you're "not particularly accomplished" but, having seen the photos you post on Facebook, I'm your fan. And thank you also for the videos! I've already started working on the left and right one... Will post progress once we get it right (tee-hee).

I'd love to know if anyone else has any agility experiences or insights (or questions). Did you watch the videos? Does it look impossible? I know it did to me before we tried it... Let me tell you, it's way way easier than it looks.

And do yourself a favor: read Lynne's books. She not just writes exceptionally well in terms of craft and story construction—her latest, The Unfamiliar, had me reading all night and well into the next day until I finished it—but, especially in the chupacabra series, she does an excellent job of shining an incisive, although subtle (and non-preachy, which I love), spotlight on the issues of animal welfare. And she regularly donates proceeds from her books to rescue organizations. (You can follow her on Facebook for updates.)

Thanks again, Lynne! Always a pleasure to host you on the blog. And thanks to everyone who's visiting and commenting... I promise to post more often :)

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The Story of Little Leo (and How He Adopted Us) — Guest Post by Susan Brody @unpubYA

It all started when cancer took our beloved Murphy from us in February. He wasn't quite 11 years old.

Murphy & me

We'd had three months of warning that this was coming. In November, he had collapsed. I was the only one home. I scooped him up and drove like a lunatic to the vet. The vet did a sonogram and showed me the unmistakable outline of the large tumor on his spleen. He could probably save him this time, the vet told me, but it would only be a matter of weeks or months until the tumor ruptured and no one would be able to save him. Every day from here on in would be a gift.

The vet did save him that time, and then performed the same miracle once again in December. But in January Murphy began steadily losing weight and becoming weaker, despite his six daily medications. When he collapsed again on February 6th, we knew it was the end. Despite all the time we'd had to prepare, once he was gone no one in my family could imagine what we would do without him.

But we still had another dog at home that we had to take care of: 8-year-old Finney, our younger Goldendoodle, who from the age of 8 weeks had never known life without Murphy. And, unlike us, he didn't understand what had happened.

Finney (left) and Murphy

The month of February passed in a blur of tears. But at some point along the way, my 19-year-old daughter began campaigning for us to get another dog. It wasn't that she imagined we could ever replace Murphy; it was that she was very worried about Finney not having a companion. Gradually, my husband and I began to think about it, and we both came up with the same idea: that the best way to honor Murphy's generous spirit would be to save a life by adopting a shelter dog.

By the end of March we felt ready to begin our search. My daughter insisted that we look for a dog close to Finney's age, so that they would have roughly similar life expectancies. My husband and daughter both have pet allergies, so we tried to look for poodle mixes, but they were few and far between. And possibly the hardest part of all this would be that Finney has always been very selective about other dogs, and not in the least shy about making his preferences known.

We hit our fair share of bumps along this journey. Then, on April 12th, my husband emailed me at work: "Is this Cockapoo worth inquiring about?" It was a little guy, about 7 years old, who when rescued had been so neglected, his hair so hopelessly filthy and matted, that he had to be shaved down to the skin.

Leo, when he was rescued...

But he was described as friendly and affectionate, and we decided it was worth the hour-long trip to the shelter to see whether he and Finney could get along.

The two of them seemed perfectly comfortable together right from the start of our meet-and-greet, and the three of us humans all fell in love with the little guy, who had recently been given a name at the shelter but who clearly didn't recognize it. When we signed the adoption agreement that day, the woman at the shelter urged us to give him yet another name, and we came up with Leo.

At our meet-and-greet. (The white furry cutie in the back is Finney.)

We didn't bring Leo home that day because the following weekend we were going to take a long-planned trip to Washington, D.C., visiting our adult son and his girlfriend. We weren't staying at a pet-friendly hotel, and we couldn't leave little Leo in a kennel his first weekend with us, so we arranged to pick him up the following Sunday on our way back from Washington.

Everything went smoothly that day. Leo didn't display any recognizable emotion—not fear, not excitement, nothing. He sat straight up on my daughter's lap in the back seat the whole way home, looking out the window. He didn't make a sound during the hour-long drive, and it was impossible to tell what was going on in his mind.

When we got home and out of the car, my daughter and I immediately attached his leash and took him for a walk around the block. That seemed to go fine. Meanwhile, my husband left to go pick up Finney from the kennel where he had spent the weekend.

We finished our walk and brought Leo into the back yard, and that was when I realized how freaked out he was. He wouldn't go farther than a small corner of the yard, no matter how much we encouraged him to explore. And when I brought him inside the house and put him down on the floor to sniff around, he went right back out to the yard again. I finally put his leash back on him, which he seemed to find comforting, and walked him around the house a little before bringing him back outside.

Leo in the backyard, the day we brought him home.

And that was when my husband pulled up in the driveway with Finney in the car. I panicked. If Leo was so traumatized by his new surroundings without another dog there, what would happen when he encountered Finney, who is three times his size? I instinctively scooped Leo up in my arms and braced myself for Finney to come bursting into the yard and finding the little intruder. A few seconds later, Finney did burst in, but the strangest thing happened. He walked right past me and Leo as if we weren't there. No reaction whatsoever. Had all the dogs in my life suddenly turned into zombies?

I figured that the two of them were going to have to meet sooner or later, so I put Leo down on the ground. Finney continued to act as if Leo were invisible, and Leo didn't show a whole lot of interest in Finney, either. I couldn't believe how nonchalant they were both acting. In fact, Finney's arrival seemed to make Leo feel more comfortable; he willingly followed into the house and started checking the place out.

That night, and the next day, I kept waiting for the shit to hit the fan between them, but it never did. And it still hasn't. Finney has been a saint about this attention-grabbing little interloper, and Leo quickly started acting as if he'd known Finney his whole life.

Things weren't perfect. Leo pooped in the house twice. It's been very had to convince him that whatever food is in Finney's bowl is the same as what's in his own bowl, not some magical elixir. But, overall, it's been a smoother ride than we ever imagined it could be. When we took them for a hike the following weekend, Leo just followed Finney around like an old pro.

Leo's first hike

Leo's hair is growing back, and he's a healthy little boy who would be happy to sit on his new people's laps 24/7. I would have to say that, after 10 days of living together, we've all really adopted each other.

The family

And I feel sure that, somewhere, Murphy is watching and smiling.

 ~ * ~ 

Thank you so much, Susan! Yes, I agree; wherever Murphy is, he must be so happy that you opened your home, and your hearts, to little Leo. There's so many positive things about this experience... You did a fine, fine job at all sorts of levels. I'd love to get into the details of how this magic happened—Finney's reaction, for instance, is a lesson in itself—so here's the plan: I'd like to invite this little community to join me in assimilating the learning here, and in a few days, once people have had a chance to read, comment, ask questions, mull it all over, I'll put up a follow-up post on bringing rescue dogs home using your story as illustration. Sound like a good idea? Oh, I hope so!

Thanks again for sharing this here. Much love and light to your beautiful family!


Susan Brody blogs at TheArtofNotGettingPublished, tweets as @unpubYA, and can also be found on G+. 

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A-Z of #Dog Rescue: Youth vs Age — #AtoZChallenge

What are the pros and cons of rescuing older vs. younger dogs? Is it really easier to rescue a puppy than a senior? 

Puppies can be easier. They tend to follow Mom’s example, and if Mom is approachable, chances are the puppies will be, too. Even if she isn’t, though, if the puppies are young enough (under 12 weeks), their natural curiosity might still work in your favor. A good rescuer can take advantage of it, and turn the whole rescue into a game. 

In a puppy, also, the natural affinity dogs have for humans might still be unchecked by negative experiences (which produce fear), so although they might be wary at first (they’ve never seen one of us), the domestication gene may be a good rescue ally.

But—you knew there was a but coming, didn’t you?—not all is peaches and cream with those cuddly balls of fur (i.e., they’re not always quite as willing as we’d like to be cuddled). Some of those fear-producing negative experiences seem to be passed on genetically; we fostered a dog once who turned out to be pregnant, probably had just become so a couple of days before we picked her up, and although her puppies were born at home and never knew a bad experience (trust me, we kept three of them and they’ve been as spoiled as any dog ever could be), they’re still fearful. 

If Mom isn’t around, and especially if the puppies are under 8 weeks, their instinct is to hide… Which makes them incredibly hard to find. (Remember the Botched post?) Also, they rarely come singly—there’s usually a litter—so you’re going to have to deal with several of them at once. Pick carefully which one you’ll get first: if that intrepid explorer gets spooked, cries out or fights you as you pick him/her up, chances are the rest of the litter will run and—yep, hide. 

And you also have the mom to contend with. Even the most docile of dogs will become a lioness when her babies are in (what they perceive as) danger. 

Adult dogs, on the other hand, may seem like a tougher job for rescue—but they don’t have to be. If they’ve survived on their own for however long, it means they’re street-smart, which may mean they’ll be warier of humans, but may also mean they have the necessary experience to make judgment calls: is this a good human, or a bad human? 

Don’t misunderstand me; these judgment calls don’t happen overnight, certainly not in a few minutes. What I mean is that these dogs will be willing to give you the chance—they’ll stay at a safe distance, and watch you from there—to show your true colors. But that is one chance, and one chance only. Squander it at your own, and the dog’s, peril.

Because of these street-smarts, adult dogs may also fall easier into a feeding routine than puppies, and, through it, into a relationship with you. Adult dog brains (just like adult human brains) are already wired to look for the pattern, to understand cause and effect, to analyze possible outcomes. If you are constant and consistent, if you follow the Trust Quadre, you have a good chance of establishing yourself in their good graces. 

The truth is that, like with everything else concerning rescuing, the issue of age cannot be taken as hard and fast. The only rule, when it comes to dog rescue, is that every dog is an individual. Every situation is unique. 

As they’re so fond of saying in investment disclaimers, past behavior is no indication of future results. No truer words…

 ~ * ~ 

My apologies on the late posting, guys... I'm about ready to drop, haha. The Z post will go up soon... well, soon-ish. Sometime before midnight :D And, once again, thank you so, so much for all the love you've showered this blog with all month. You've been an amazing crowd, and I'm beyond grateful for your readership. And to celebrate you—and the end of the Challenge—I leave you with this... (No, no Kleenex needed. Unless you're the type that cry when you laugh too hard ;) )

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