August 8, 2010
The story of how Frankie came into our lives is a sad one. Suffice to say that when we got him at 3 months old, we were already his third family.
Hello, issues.
He is so cute. . .a shepherd/rottweiler mix, more shepherd with silky smooth floppy ears and brown eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts (provided he wasn't lunging at you with his death stare).
Lots of love and patience and more love and a whole lot more patience were enough to tackle some of the lesser issues.
Tikka, our almost 13 year old Belgian shepherd tackled some of the issues. She is no nonsense when it comes to Frankie. Plus she was the only being in the house who could put him in his place.
But, how much dog training can you realistically ask from your almost 13 year old dog. . .really.
A good friend recommended a dog trainer. The trainer was wonderful, however, she was more of a consultant, coming over when we needed help with something, but not a long haul kind of trainer.
If we could have afforded it, we would have flown in Cesar Milan and made him live with us for as long as it would take to make Frankie the dog we knew he could be. I mean, if Cesar could train Cartman, he could train anyone.
Walking him on leash was not worth the replacement of limbs.
The kids were fed up, embarrased and were at the point where they wanted nothing to do with him.
Em had it the worst. . .destroyed hair extensions, chewed shoes, clothes, her room was a veritable playground for Frankie.
Stephen and I suffered through the humiliation of underwear missing the crotches.
Nothing like crotchless panties to start off your day.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was the day Frankie was hit by a car.
Coming home from a long, unleased run, he bolted out of the back our station wagon when he caught sight of a crow in our across the street neighbour's driveway. The crow, obviously, flew off in terror when seeing the sleek brown bullet that was Frankie careening his way.
Did Frankie return home after his prey took off for greater heights?
No.
Our adrenaline amped pup saw this as an opportunity to have his way with neighbourhood. No crow, no problem. There was a whole world out there, filled with crows and squirrels, moving vehicles, blowing leaves, motorcycles, bicycles, people taking leisurely walks, innocent bystanders, and most importantly, other dogs, just waiting for him.
He made it to the end of the street, when he was hit by a car, driven by the elderly woman who lives in the next court.
And was contact with her plastic bumper, at 30 kms an hour, enough to stop our Frankie.
Not. Even. Close.
He just ran off, red leash trailing behind him, a metaphorical beacon of his freedom.
In the midst of all this, my never-really-calm husband is in a state of full blown panic. And for some cosmically unknown reason, I happened to call home.
My son answers the phone. We chat about how his day has been, does he have to work tonight, if not, what are his plans, etc, and then I ask if Stephen is there.
Keith says no, then, wait, here he is.
Stephen gets on the phone and he is speaking at the speed of sound. All I managed to hear was:
He was in no state to answer any of my calmly asked questions. So I did the only thing I could do. I came home from work.
And when I came into the house, Frankie is bounding down the hallway, tail wagging, ears flopping, waiting to tell me all about his exciting adventure.
Running down the hallway = no broken bones. Good.
I try to get the story from Stephen but he is just not in any state to talk.
And then I started to get angry. The question, how did Frankie manage to bolt out of the back of the car faster than greased lightening? was bouncing around my brain.
The answer: Stephen fully flung open the back of our car and he didn't have a hold on Frankie's leash when he did so.
Um.Hum.
I called the vet. He seemed fine, but I wanted to be sure.
I called the very shaken elderly woman whose car made contact with Frankie. She was devastated. "We love dogs here" she said.
And then she said that our beloved pup caused $1000.00 damage to her plastic bumper and would it be too much trouble for us to pay half?
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Half???? We should be so lucky.
Finally, I made the phone call I should have made months ago. I called Barkbusters. (http://www.barkbusters.ca/)
I spoke to our soon-to-be saviour Annette. The first time she came over to our house she was here 5 hours. She has come over every two weeks for the last two months, and progress has been made with our Frankie.
But he is still very much a work in progress.
Tikka is mellow, calm, a wee bit stubborn, but for the most part, easy to get along with. Frankie is high energy-I-must-be-in-control-of-all-that-is-around-me-all-of-the-time.
The multiple gigantic windows in our house, for me, are full of all of the beauty of summer.
For Frankie: mega-flat screen televisions. This week, we are working on trying to turn off the tv for him without having to board up all of our windows. He bark, jumps, and carries on like a lunatic at everything he sees: dogs, cats, people, cars, birds, leaves, squirrels . . . anything that moves.
And we won't even talk about the mailman.
This little adventure ended up costing us $1200.00. No painting the kitchen cupboards for me.
Title Lyric: Frankie by Sister Sledge
The story of how Frankie came into our lives is a sad one. Suffice to say that when we got him at 3 months old, we were already his third family.
Hello, issues.
He is so cute. . .a shepherd/rottweiler mix, more shepherd with silky smooth floppy ears and brown eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts (provided he wasn't lunging at you with his death stare).
Lots of love and patience and more love and a whole lot more patience were enough to tackle some of the lesser issues.
Tikka, our almost 13 year old Belgian shepherd tackled some of the issues. She is no nonsense when it comes to Frankie. Plus she was the only being in the house who could put him in his place.
But, how much dog training can you realistically ask from your almost 13 year old dog. . .really.
A good friend recommended a dog trainer. The trainer was wonderful, however, she was more of a consultant, coming over when we needed help with something, but not a long haul kind of trainer.
If we could have afforded it, we would have flown in Cesar Milan and made him live with us for as long as it would take to make Frankie the dog we knew he could be. I mean, if Cesar could train Cartman, he could train anyone.
But our budget this month just didn't seem to cover flying in Cesar Milan for a month.
We muddled along, making changes in our lives to manage Frankie's beahviours. We realized at one point that we had pretty much become prisoners in the house. . . at least in the sense that we couldn't have anyone over, so entertaining was out, and the only places we could walk Frankie were places where he could run off leash.Walking him on leash was not worth the replacement of limbs.
The kids were fed up, embarrased and were at the point where they wanted nothing to do with him.
Em had it the worst. . .destroyed hair extensions, chewed shoes, clothes, her room was a veritable playground for Frankie.
Stephen and I suffered through the humiliation of underwear missing the crotches.
Nothing like crotchless panties to start off your day.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was the day Frankie was hit by a car.
Coming home from a long, unleased run, he bolted out of the back our station wagon when he caught sight of a crow in our across the street neighbour's driveway. The crow, obviously, flew off in terror when seeing the sleek brown bullet that was Frankie careening his way.
Did Frankie return home after his prey took off for greater heights?
No.
Our adrenaline amped pup saw this as an opportunity to have his way with neighbourhood. No crow, no problem. There was a whole world out there, filled with crows and squirrels, moving vehicles, blowing leaves, motorcycles, bicycles, people taking leisurely walks, innocent bystanders, and most importantly, other dogs, just waiting for him.
He made it to the end of the street, when he was hit by a car, driven by the elderly woman who lives in the next court.
And was contact with her plastic bumper, at 30 kms an hour, enough to stop our Frankie.
Not. Even. Close.
He just ran off, red leash trailing behind him, a metaphorical beacon of his freedom.
In the midst of all this, my never-really-calm husband is in a state of full blown panic. And for some cosmically unknown reason, I happened to call home.
My son answers the phone. We chat about how his day has been, does he have to work tonight, if not, what are his plans, etc, and then I ask if Stephen is there.
Keith says no, then, wait, here he is.
Stephen gets on the phone and he is speaking at the speed of sound. All I managed to hear was:
Frankie was hit by a car !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He was in no state to answer any of my calmly asked questions. So I did the only thing I could do. I came home from work.
And when I came into the house, Frankie is bounding down the hallway, tail wagging, ears flopping, waiting to tell me all about his exciting adventure.
Running down the hallway = no broken bones. Good.
I try to get the story from Stephen but he is just not in any state to talk.
And then I started to get angry. The question, how did Frankie manage to bolt out of the back of the car faster than greased lightening? was bouncing around my brain.
The answer: Stephen fully flung open the back of our car and he didn't have a hold on Frankie's leash when he did so.
Um.Hum.
I called the vet. He seemed fine, but I wanted to be sure.
I called the very shaken elderly woman whose car made contact with Frankie. She was devastated. "We love dogs here" she said.
And then she said that our beloved pup caused $1000.00 damage to her plastic bumper and would it be too much trouble for us to pay half?
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Half???? We should be so lucky.
Finally, I made the phone call I should have made months ago. I called Barkbusters. (http://www.barkbusters.ca/)
I spoke to our soon-to-be saviour Annette. The first time she came over to our house she was here 5 hours. She has come over every two weeks for the last two months, and progress has been made with our Frankie.
But he is still very much a work in progress.
Tikka is mellow, calm, a wee bit stubborn, but for the most part, easy to get along with. Frankie is high energy-I-must-be-in-control-of-all-that-is-around-me-all-of-the-time.
The multiple gigantic windows in our house, for me, are full of all of the beauty of summer.
For Frankie: mega-flat screen televisions. This week, we are working on trying to turn off the tv for him without having to board up all of our windows. He bark, jumps, and carries on like a lunatic at everything he sees: dogs, cats, people, cars, birds, leaves, squirrels . . . anything that moves.
And we won't even talk about the mailman.
This little adventure ended up costing us $1200.00. No painting the kitchen cupboards for me.
Title Lyric: Frankie by Sister Sledge
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