I see this October morning that Santa Fe now prohibits keeping dogs on chains. I’m sure we’ve all heard of or actually seen the gruesome cases of collars grown into the flesh. But the mental/emotional damage can be just as great. I had such a rescue years ago who was really a challenge, and from whom I learned more than I ever expected–about myself. I’m reposting my blog about Theodore this morning to honor the suffering he experienced in his lifetime and to celebrate the passing of this ordinance.
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Countless summers ago, when I was new and not very good at animal communication, a dog showed up on my property dragging a 10-ft. chain that was wound around his neck and secured with a plumbing device. It was over 100 degrees, and this poor boy had hair that was so long and matted it reached the ground. He hid out under a heavy draping of ivy in the back for a couple of days, and I would hear him run away dragging the chain whenever I went out the back door. Finally the heat got the better of him and he could drag that chain no longer, so he just sat down and let me approach him.
Thus began a whole different kind of adventure in my life as a dog person and, truth be told, I didn’t know how to plug in animal communication well enough at that time for it to be of much help.
I was afraid of this formidable boy, but gave him food and water, cut the chain off from around his neck, and replaced it with an old collar to which I affixed a note — to whom I had no idea. I talked to him through animal communication, and told him I would help him. But secretly, I hoped he would leave. He scared me.
He did leave. And came back a couple of days later. The note was still there but had obviously been removed and then reattached. Its contents fulfilled my worst fears. In wobbly red pen it read: “His name is Bubba. Keep him.”
“Bubba” didn’t even know his name, and HE WAS FEROCIOUS. I had no idea what to do with him. He obviously had never been inside a house before but became so attached to mine and to me that he bit and drew blood from the first visitor I had within two days — an unsuspecting t.v. repairman who the dog obviously thought was there to cause me harm.
Alas! I hadn’t even figured out what I could do with him yet. No shelter I called would take him because he was, obviously, part chow. AND he was unneutered and very mature. Besides, they were all “full.”
After the mandatory visit from the County Sheriff (while the “bitee” was still on the premises), I collapsed. I had to decide to either have this boy’s head cut off for lab testing for rabies OR have him quarantined at a vet’s for observation for a couple of weeks.
You can guess the outcome. No way could I cut off his or any other animal’s head! So I visited him daily at a distant vet’s, began basic training with him there, and dubbed him “Thor,” after the god of thunder, because of his ferocious bark. I also tried using my animal communication skills again and told him I was going to stand by him and help him, and that he had a safe, secure, loving home for life now. I think he got that part.
This dog had so much pent up fury from having been chained and apparently taunted all his life that he just plain wanted to kill something, namely my other large breed male dog who was just coming into adulthood.
Thor was a lesson for me in dealing with anger. AND my introduction to dealing with aggressive dogs. Both were life changing and invaluable. I grew up with not just a few angry people, so still had much to learn about what to do with that emotion. No wonder a big, angry, wolf-like dog entered my life.
I had this dog for many years, and he was a pussycat. He became everyone’s favorite and over time became the biggest lover you could ever imagine.
But back to the story. One day, early on, when a fellow was at my place working on some trees, he asked me why I had named the dog Thor. I told him the whole history, and said I did have misgivings about that name because it connoted such loud, violent energy and I was desperately trying to soften that in this dog, and he said, simply: “You should name him Theodore. It means gift from God in Greek.”
Boy did that feel right. So that was that. Theodore was truly a gift from God if there ever was one, and he helped me immeasurably not only in understanding the emotion of anger, but in using animal communication effectively. He and I had many loving and lovely conversations in our life together, and I will always miss him.
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