Lothar's Letter

SNIFF, SNIFF, ARF! -- [Translation:] "Hello, my name is LOTHAR. I am a 4-5 month old, black lab puppy. I need a home where I will be cared for and loved. I love to run around, and play and tussle and paddle around in the water. Most of all I want to find a two-footed companion I can trust, look up to and be loyal to.

"My rescuers found me running about loose without tags. I was afraid of their hands, but they took me home gently and spent a lot of time hugging me and petting my head. They gave me really good chow to eat. They gave me chew and tug toys and play with me. Now I do bellies up for them and wag my tail when I see them. I know they will never hurt me, even when they make the "No" bark. They also have a little dachshund who is fun to chase and run around with. I like to steal his toys. He steals mine too. It's fun.

"But my rescuers look at me sadly. They say they can't keep me because they live an an apartment which is not a good place for a dog like me.

"Please, please, if you have or know of a home for me call Mark or Mike at 510 272 9077. I want to have a fun life. I need a good owner. I don't want to be put in a cage and, most of all, I don't ever want to be hit again."

Woof!

Lothar the Lab

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Lotar Meets Mountain

It was a mild day and so I decided to take the pups for a nice long outing. Since it was a weekday, I figured it would be a uncrowded time to show Lothar Fip’s Moun-tin.

Aus? -- It hasn’t taken Lothar long to learn DoxiDeutch.

Even though we haven’t found a home for Lothar yet, it is only a matter of time and so I took along my camera.

[click on photos to zoom]

Out the door, into the elevator, down to the ground floor and the doggies charged furiously to the front door, where they abruptly stopped and stood wagging their tails. How would they know where I was planning to go?

“No, no., doggies... truck!”

The “truck” word. Lothar has picked up on that too. It means speed, wind in the nostrils and ... who knows what doggie images they conjure up in their minds, but the memory of something fun for sure from the looks of it.

They charged back down the hallway and out to the parking area, where we all piled into the Ford.

Up to the moun-tin,
The moun-tin, the mou-ountin.
Up to the moun-tin
The moun-tin, tin!

The Mountin Song. Fips knew and Lothar could only guess that it must be something pretty good.

When we arrived, it was the perfect late afternoon -- sunny but not too hot and not too many people. The “mountin” regional park in the Oakland hills, now belongs to Fips but it was a new experience for Lothar. I took them on the long circuit, along the curvy south trail that snakes a long the crest and then, a mile on, onto the French trail which descends into the redwood canyon.

Along the ridge road, we met another fuzzy hiker (occasional, by the looks of it). Fips likes to sniff along the road, but Lothar was just bounding back and forth in a state approaching delirium.. He’d run up a ways, would stop look, and then run back to us before running forward again.

Lotar At French Trail Turnout

It makes perfect sense. He’s just a pupper and given the circumstances of his finding it is almost certainly the case that he’s never been to a place like this before. What must it be like for doggie eyes, ears and noses to be quickened with the this vast surrounding ambience of light, breeze, rustling, reflections, wafting smells and noises? We humans objectify too much; Lothar was just participating with his environment.

He got to the French Trail turn-off before we did, and I yelled for him to wait up. Then we turned left and down, on the narrow path through thick bushes, fallen tree trunks, and tall wild grass.

The French trail is great walk, especially for dachshunds. Except for one short, steep-ish spot, it slopes most of the way at a 15 degree incline which is not too difficult on the up-hike and is a a breezy trot on the hike-down. It undulates in a few spots and curves gently through the vegetation.

Like a river, it eventually disgorges at the bed of the canyon where the soil is moist, the air is damp and the light is always watery green. A creeklet runs off an adjacent ridge fills up shallow ponds here and there amidst the rocks, the ferns and the towering evergreens.

A little ways on, this grassy bed narrows again as it gets squeezed between two steep, rocky ridge formations. The creek runs through a narrow crevice as the path skirts along right as rises up the side of the ridge. It gets a little perilously narrow around here, and I keep my eyes fixed on the dogs, especially now since, in the late afternoon, the grove was darker than usual.



Past this narrows, the ridges open up again, at the star-like center of the grove where four ridges meet around a soft-earth arena carpeted with leaves and needles. Here, the creeklet breaks apart into scattered shallow rivulets along canyon bed. The path, after one last rise, makes a sharp turn to the left and the declines into the canyon floor at 30-40 degree angle.


Fips loves this spot, and tears on down like some sort of fuzzy bobsled. Lothar lopes along merrily. Without doubt, this is the meaning of fun.

We poke around at the bottom of the canyon, puddling through waters, slurping a drink and sniffing the humus (yes--- I inhale it too) before completing the circuit and heading back along a fire trail to the picnic area and then back up to the crest and parking lot where we all pile into the truck for a breezy ride back down Shepherds Canyon road to “the Oakland flats,” the Lake and home where the fuzzy ones, big and small, konk out.

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What...No Paperz?

“ In short, he's a wonderful dog, and we'd like to keep him. Unfortunately we can't. We live an an apartment which is already at its limit with two cats and Fips (the dachshund). I'm sure we'd be evicted once the landlord found out we got another animal. Equally as important, Lothar needs or will need a place where he can be his true Lab self.”

"We've exhausted all possible placements we know of. Because of the ups and downs the puppy has already gone through we don't want to subject him to being caged in the pound. We've seen a lot of dogs being mishandled around here and also don't want him being given to some jerk... Because he was probably hit, he needs an owner who will reassure him that human hands are good things and who knows how to train him without violence...

"Your situation sounds ideal, and we suspect would be great for both you and Lothar. If you are interested, please give us a call. We'd be willing to drive him up if it looks like a go."

The Lab Rescue people turned out to be jerks. They were only interested in pure breds with papers, and li’l Lotar came with none. In addition, one prospective taker found two white hairs on his chest which “un-conformed” him. Others complained about his tail. Why don’t people focus on personality instead of dog-as-object?

Michael and I are annoyed in equal measure. This ain’t gonna be easy, and we’re going to have to do placement leg-work. Mike will broadcast on the internet and I will take charge of taking Lotar to interviews....

Interview of the prospective takers because we are determined that he will get the home and stewards he deserves.

Woof!

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Tusslin' and Splashin'

Lothar is making himself welcome and proving himself to be a wonderful dog. But we know we can't keep him and Michael has taken over the task of contacting lab-rescue sources so that we can find him a home. He's been in touch with some Swiss woman up in Washington State whose apparent mission in life is to save all labs and who is sending us de-worming pills, an application and a list of precise instructions which we must follow or be disqualified. Michael and I exchange a look, but decide to play along anyway.

In the DoggieSphere, oblivious to what is going on on planet-human, Fips and Lothar are tusseling eachother out.

"He is very playful and, in the several days we've had him, has struck up a tossling, running friendship with our wire-haired dachshund -- who apparently couldn't resist liking the 'intruder'. The lab, whom we've temporarily named 'Lothar', loves to run, roll around, and wrestle. "

I'm relieved and amazed at how Fips and Lothar have worked out their equilibrium. `They surely have to be conscious of the disparity in their sizes and strengths but there doesn't seem to be any jockeying for domi- nance. Instead their wrestling consists in a spontaneous choreography of playful positioning.

We've been very careful to be even-steven with both on everything, and almost immediately upon beginning our therapeutic stroking of Lothar we realized that we'd have to show equal attention to Mr. Fips. Once "security" was established the way was clear for puppy-friendship.

The cats want none of this and have reserved themselves into their own world.

-0O0-

“We took him to the Bay on Sunday, and he plunged in and started paddling about in total doggie-joy."

Sunday was perfect outing weather and so Mike and I took the dogs to the "Oh-shin"at Wiley Field by the bay. I ran my five miles while Mike and Lothar lolled on the grass and Fips ran to and fro between us . When I had finished, we all headed down to the water.



Michael held onto Lothar while we gave Fips a little "bal" time to himself and then released the water-pup into his element.

Here we did have to moderate the situation because the excitement of being in water so overwhelms Lothar that he nearly drowned Fips who, needless to say, was stunned and none too pleased.

But no grudges held and both got their fill of water-time.

What well-being to be able to run in the sun along water's edge and then splash about in the oh-shin with happy dogs.

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Lothar

The second order of business was to....

The big pup followed with a trusting uncertainty as I led him down to hall and into the shower stall. No doubt he had been washed before and knew what it was all about; but everything else being unfamiliar he could not know what was going to be about until it started.

And then... it was the usual long suffering hang-dog looks, as his thick fur was copiously soaped up and rinsed with the warm water spray from the shower "massager". Once out, he impatiently let himself be dried before shaking his coat and rolling around the house crazy-like as the cats flew to places unseen.

"So what shall we call him?" I asked. Michael had no idea. "Big Boy?" he wondered. "Nahh..."

We had recently been paid a visit by one of Michael's friends from Germany - a good natured twenty something guy with an insouciance bordering on unawaredness that was enjoyable precisely on account of its inherent happiness.

How about "Lothar?" I asked. Michael looked at the dog for a moment. "Yeah..."

"Should we keep him?"

Of course, it depended in the first instance on Mr. Fips, who held the veto; and Mr. Fips was manifestly not enthusiastic. Lothar was obliviously making himself comfy, while Fips had a look that mixed hurt, annoyance and apprehension. ... a typical FipsMix of doggi-emotion.

[click to enlarge]

"We'll have to see how they get along," Mike said.

But deep down we both knew there was another veto. The dark force of the landlord. Two cats, a dog and now a rambunctious lab puppy was pushing the limits by any measure. And besides, even with all our daily walkings, an apartment is no place for a lab

But for the meanwhile, Lothar was here and this was his home. Michael also noticed that Lothar was a tad hand-shy. He was too galumphy to have been seriously abused, but he had been hit it was clear. So we undertook de-conditioning therapy, routinely holding his head in our lap petting and stroking it very ostensibly. We estimated he was not more than six months old (five as it turned out) and that we could rehab him of whatever negative reflex he had developed.

From the first, the thing that was most endearing about Lothar was his doggie faith -- a willingness to allow himself unto hands apprehended and purposes unknown. It was not fear because he never cowered; nor was it resignation because he was too galumphy to have given up on life. No, it was a trusting uncertainty that was as much an exercise of hope, in its doggie way, as our own.

He made the most of his luck and once the cats came out of hiding, the human was now definitely the lesser fraction of my bed.

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Guess What

This morning, at around ten, I looked out the window and noticed that the lake shore traffic was pretty light. It was sunny, but still moderately cool. "Good time for a quiet amble," I thought. "Aus, Fipsie?" When has he ever said no? So, keys and leash in hand we headed to the elevator, descended downstairs, scampered down the hallway and made it outside, where Fips chased across the street to check out the shrubs and stubby trees and see what news there was since yesterday.

I was standing around idly, giving Fips a long lead, when I noticed a big black lab walking down the gravel path around lake's edge. The dog looked up at me, hesitated and then continued on slowly and somewhat uncertainly. I looked up the path from whence he had come but did not see anyone. I looked back over to where Fips was sniffing and again did not see anyone. The lab was alone.

"Hey little doggie...."

The lab stopped, half turned around and uneasily let me approach him.

"What's up?"

He flinched as I held out my hand.

I slowed my motions and eased into patting him on the side on neck. The dog had a harness but no tags. He was not emaciated and looked fairly well groomed.

"You lost, little doggie?"

I stood back again and looked about as Fips stood by and gave me a stare that said, C'mon, lez go

More likely he had been abandoned.

What to do, I wondered. But, of course, there was really no alternative. I reached over and extended my hand to make friendlies with the dog. He flinched again but was otherwise amenable to my coooing and caressing. After a short while of these introductions, I wrapped my hand around his harness and led him back to the road, tugging a baffled and sulky Fips with the other hand.

"Okay!" and we all chased across the street back to the apartment, down the hallway, into the elevator and up to our floor. The lab followed easily and was obviously domesticated. Fips followed and was obviously not too happy by this turn around of events. A walk is supposed to be a walk and...

I opened the door. The dog ran into the living room, came to an abrupt halt in the middle and let loose a stream of doggie wasser onto the carpet.

"Noooooooooo!"

Michael came out of his room.

"Guess what?"

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