Some years back I accepted an English pointer with emotional problems. She was a gorgeous dog, lean like a greyhound, white with black markings. I ended up with her because I told a friend who raises dogs about a dog we rescued as a puppy.
It had been decades since I had a dog. When we picked up Jasmine, I was amazed at how beautiful she was and how shy. She had been traumatized behind the scenes at a dog show and was a nervous wreck. She wouldn’t eat or interact. Basically, she was petrified of the world
I got her in the back door into the laundry room and she stopped. I mean stopped as in would go no further. She wouldn’t make eye contact. I was eating a banana sandwich and I sat down on the floor near her. I ate my sandwich and read my book. However, I noticed her nostrils were twitching. I put some bread with mayonnaise beside her and she ate it. It was a beginning.
I started calling her Jazz, because I liked it and because jazz is a music not played by rules. Jasmine was definitely a dog who played by no rules at all. Each day was an adventure. A method of getting her to eat that worked one day wouldn’t the next.
If I let her out the back door, she would be scared to come back in and I had to go out the front to get her. Her nervousness included chewing anything in sight. After the loveseat had holes in it and the carpet and foam in one room was shredded, I decided to build a kennel.
I had never built a kennel before, but how hard could it be? I bought posts, fencing, 2 x 4s and tin. Other than my husband helping me to stretch the wire, I succeeded in building it by myself. My husband, though tolerant, considered Jazz to be my problem. Actually, he considered Jazz to be my mistake.
Jazz was a Houdini. That skinny little body followed that long nose through holes that seemed impossible. I was learning a lot about making a kennel escape proof. Jazz eagerly watched each improvement as if I was setting up a test for her benefit. She passed the tests with flying colors. If it was an intelligence test, she was winning.
Around this time, my friend who was responsible for my receiving Jazz contacted me again. The breeders had another English pointer who needed a home. He was five years old, had won shows and was perfect in every way. Darren, his kennel name, was supposed to be a comfort and inspiration to Jazz.
Darren was all he was said to be. His markings were similar to Jazz in black and white. However, he was sixty pounds of strong, male dog. He was gorgeous and had presence. He was also the sweetest male dog I had ever seen. He was my reward for helping Jazz. If I had not accepted her the breeders would have had her put down. I didn’t know that when I accepted her.
Also, since Jazz had been a kennel dog, Darren’s company was supposed to settle her down. Theoretically, this meant that she would have less desire to escape from the kennel all the time. My husband was happy about Darren in a way. Jazz was terribly frightened of men and Darren was a warm, friendly dog.
I had purchased leads that were retractable for both dogs. We lived in the country and our area has three kinds of poisonous snakes. Allowing the dogs to run free wasn’t an option. Plus, they were city dogs and clueless about the country.
I tried walking both dogs on leads. This led to my saying things I was embarrassed for the neighbors to hear. One dog would go around one tree and one the other. Had I not been the victim, it would have been funny. Darren was smart enough to untangle his lead. His cooperative attitude helped a lot.
