Maybe I should have named Bryn ‘Ghost,’ because she moves from here to there in the house in total silence. I’ll frequently call for her, only to find her sitting inches from my leg. It’s startling!
She never ‘speaks’ inside, and rarely outside. Her tail might wag once or twice when she and I communicate. But, watching me carefully, her head cocks sharply as she plucks out a familiar word from the river of sound that is my conversation with her. I tell her, “Bryn, you’ll be at Happy Tails today to play, as this rain means no dog park visit,” then wait about three seconds to watch her process the information. When she gets to the ‘Happy Tails’ part her head cocks and her eyes widen in a subtle expression of delight.
(Bryn loves Sam and Joan Jones’s Happy Tails Doggie Day Care in Traverse City. She visits it every two weeks or so, for a day. I use that time to clean the house, scrub her eating area, iron and grocery shop.)
She is a quiet, thoughtful dog, fond of studying her environment before moving along. The most striking demonstration of this behavior happens when we go outside every morning between 5 and 6 a.m. for her constitutional. Once outside she’ll move to the top of the steps to stand dead still. Moving only her eyes she’ll peer into the deep dark, working a pattern I’ve learned to predict very well as I sit on the top step to wait.
At first, she’ll gaze straight ahead for a general look-around: Three minutes might pass.
Then her head will rotate very slowly left... then right...in a meticulous scan that might take 4-5 minutes.
She’ll search the sky.
15 seconds will pass.
Finally, still standing, she’ll slowly stretch her neck to peer below the top step to the ground. Another minute or so will drift by.
Still as stone in the deep dark, leash-connected, I’ll watch her busy eyes and nose and note her minute body signals. When an anomaly –say, a rabbit’s movement across the street- is detected, her tail will rise ever so slightly as ears slide forward, and haunches and claws tighten. She might sl-ow-ly raise a paw up to full point.
During her scan-time I’ll look only at her. It took me days to discern and appreciate these microscopic postural changes.
Finally, long minutes later, she’ll glance up at me, signaling ‘done.’ Only then do we move at a reasonable speed down the five big steps to begin our rambling, interesting walk.
This behavior is an integral part of who Bryn is. When we first brought her home she stared at the intimidating back stairs- her first encounter with steps. With our encouragement she awkwardly hopped/climbed them, then looked back to savor her accomplishment.
She entered the house, only to stop and sit just inside the door (in that awkward puppy way, back legs splayed out) to simply look. Her busy nose, ears and eyes absorbed the myriad of alien scents, sounds and sights. She looked everywhere. Even up. The ceiling fan turned slowly. She peered up at it, fascinated. She studied the wooden floor. She’d experienced only tile and cement at her birthplace at Acme Creek Kennels. (Carol Finch, the personable owner who has bred labradoodles there for many years, commented that Bryn- or Spot, as they’d dubbed this curious pup, was very bright- and rather thoughtful. Oh, was she right!)
Joe and I had the good sense to chat quietly while watching our puppy sort out her new world.
It took nearly 30 minutes!
She was just 14 weeks old. We thought it astonishing that such a young dog could sit there for so long, just looking.
Bryn watches us carefully so as not to miss a possible invitation, order, request or comment directed at her. She loves being scratched and smoothed, and never resists being bathed, towel-dried, blown dry and then brushed out by yours truly. I love doing it. She walks into the shower to stand quietly while I scrub her clean. I always tell her where I’m going next- “Now your tail, Brynny- What a fine tail...” so now she knows the word ‘tail’- and ‘chin.’ She’ll raise her chin when I ask, so I can shampoo that grubby place. She’d been taught almost from birth to accept this sort of handling by the Acme Creek staff, and to consider baths a pleasant experience. She won’t shake herself until released to do so, once I’ve towel-dried her as best I can.
Bryn has shocked me, too.
The first time she showed alarm and fright/rage was at the Garfield Township dog park. She was happily being pursued or pursuing her friends round and about- when she abruptly left the group to turn slowly toward the fence. She stopped. Her 50-pound body stiffened and hunched. Legs spread and anchored, she lowered her head. Her fangs gleamed. Then, she roared at the man leaning against it from the outside- roared at him over and over. He remained unnaturally still, ignoring her fury and fright, and continued to stare at the people inside without blinking (there were kids playing catch, and dog minders chatting and laughing-) for a very long time. Long enough to catch the attention of all of us.
Everyone was baffled by my dog’s focused rage.
A lady beside me commented: “Bryn’s gone nuts! But there is something –‘off’ -about that guy...What’s he staring at so intensely? Why doesn’t he move, even a little?” I muttered about his total lack of reaction to the alarm Bryn was raising: she kept charging toward him over and over, only to stop dead ten feet away from the fence and spring backwards with a huge bounce- as though threatened by a snake.
Finally I called her to me. It took a while, as she didn’t want to turn her back to him. When she finally sat at my feet, she whined.
A few minutes later the man finally walked slowly away toward the distant road without once looking back. Bryn drooped then and wanted to go home, so we did. During the drive she couldn’t settle.
I thought the whole episode was exceptionally peculiar.
None of the other dogs showed any alarm, by the way. In fact, they ignored that man and my beast.
She continues to intrigue and delight us. I found her following a big moth’s flight path as it fluttered erratically just outside the big kitchen window. The insect’s quirky loops caused some hilarious head motions as she tracked its movements.
She found a very large, dead crow lying on its back in the neighbor’s lawn early one morning, wings folded neatly on each side of its sleek body as though it were sleeping. Such an oddly formal presentation! She sniffed the beautiful bird, sat, pondered, and would have stayed there if I’d allowed it.
Bryn helps my husband and me to see our smaller world more clearly. She appreciates bugs and flies, and tracked-in autumn leaves on carpet, which are carefully inspected, and then thoughtfully mouthed. She likes their dry crunch. With a mischievous look she’ll delicately strip one fat maple leaf down to its long stem.
Leashing her has become less necessary these days. Bryn, Joe and I are linked by respect, love and trust.
It’s a powerful bond.
She never ‘speaks’ inside, and rarely outside. Her tail might wag once or twice when she and I communicate. But, watching me carefully, her head cocks sharply as she plucks out a familiar word from the river of sound that is my conversation with her. I tell her, “Bryn, you’ll be at Happy Tails today to play, as this rain means no dog park visit,” then wait about three seconds to watch her process the information. When she gets to the ‘Happy Tails’ part her head cocks and her eyes widen in a subtle expression of delight.
(Bryn loves Sam and Joan Jones’s Happy Tails Doggie Day Care in Traverse City. She visits it every two weeks or so, for a day. I use that time to clean the house, scrub her eating area, iron and grocery shop.)
She is a quiet, thoughtful dog, fond of studying her environment before moving along. The most striking demonstration of this behavior happens when we go outside every morning between 5 and 6 a.m. for her constitutional. Once outside she’ll move to the top of the steps to stand dead still. Moving only her eyes she’ll peer into the deep dark, working a pattern I’ve learned to predict very well as I sit on the top step to wait.
At first, she’ll gaze straight ahead for a general look-around: Three minutes might pass.
Then her head will rotate very slowly left... then right...in a meticulous scan that might take 4-5 minutes.
She’ll search the sky.
15 seconds will pass.
Finally, still standing, she’ll slowly stretch her neck to peer below the top step to the ground. Another minute or so will drift by.
Still as stone in the deep dark, leash-connected, I’ll watch her busy eyes and nose and note her minute body signals. When an anomaly –say, a rabbit’s movement across the street- is detected, her tail will rise ever so slightly as ears slide forward, and haunches and claws tighten. She might sl-ow-ly raise a paw up to full point.
During her scan-time I’ll look only at her. It took me days to discern and appreciate these microscopic postural changes.
Finally, long minutes later, she’ll glance up at me, signaling ‘done.’ Only then do we move at a reasonable speed down the five big steps to begin our rambling, interesting walk.
This behavior is an integral part of who Bryn is. When we first brought her home she stared at the intimidating back stairs- her first encounter with steps. With our encouragement she awkwardly hopped/climbed them, then looked back to savor her accomplishment.
She entered the house, only to stop and sit just inside the door (in that awkward puppy way, back legs splayed out) to simply look. Her busy nose, ears and eyes absorbed the myriad of alien scents, sounds and sights. She looked everywhere. Even up. The ceiling fan turned slowly. She peered up at it, fascinated. She studied the wooden floor. She’d experienced only tile and cement at her birthplace at Acme Creek Kennels. (Carol Finch, the personable owner who has bred labradoodles there for many years, commented that Bryn- or Spot, as they’d dubbed this curious pup, was very bright- and rather thoughtful. Oh, was she right!)
Joe and I had the good sense to chat quietly while watching our puppy sort out her new world.
It took nearly 30 minutes!
She was just 14 weeks old. We thought it astonishing that such a young dog could sit there for so long, just looking.
Bryn watches us carefully so as not to miss a possible invitation, order, request or comment directed at her. She loves being scratched and smoothed, and never resists being bathed, towel-dried, blown dry and then brushed out by yours truly. I love doing it. She walks into the shower to stand quietly while I scrub her clean. I always tell her where I’m going next- “Now your tail, Brynny- What a fine tail...” so now she knows the word ‘tail’- and ‘chin.’ She’ll raise her chin when I ask, so I can shampoo that grubby place. She’d been taught almost from birth to accept this sort of handling by the Acme Creek staff, and to consider baths a pleasant experience. She won’t shake herself until released to do so, once I’ve towel-dried her as best I can.
Bryn has shocked me, too.
The first time she showed alarm and fright/rage was at the Garfield Township dog park. She was happily being pursued or pursuing her friends round and about- when she abruptly left the group to turn slowly toward the fence. She stopped. Her 50-pound body stiffened and hunched. Legs spread and anchored, she lowered her head. Her fangs gleamed. Then, she roared at the man leaning against it from the outside- roared at him over and over. He remained unnaturally still, ignoring her fury and fright, and continued to stare at the people inside without blinking (there were kids playing catch, and dog minders chatting and laughing-) for a very long time. Long enough to catch the attention of all of us.
Everyone was baffled by my dog’s focused rage.
A lady beside me commented: “Bryn’s gone nuts! But there is something –‘off’ -about that guy...What’s he staring at so intensely? Why doesn’t he move, even a little?” I muttered about his total lack of reaction to the alarm Bryn was raising: she kept charging toward him over and over, only to stop dead ten feet away from the fence and spring backwards with a huge bounce- as though threatened by a snake.
Finally I called her to me. It took a while, as she didn’t want to turn her back to him. When she finally sat at my feet, she whined.
A few minutes later the man finally walked slowly away toward the distant road without once looking back. Bryn drooped then and wanted to go home, so we did. During the drive she couldn’t settle.
I thought the whole episode was exceptionally peculiar.
None of the other dogs showed any alarm, by the way. In fact, they ignored that man and my beast.
She continues to intrigue and delight us. I found her following a big moth’s flight path as it fluttered erratically just outside the big kitchen window. The insect’s quirky loops caused some hilarious head motions as she tracked its movements.
She found a very large, dead crow lying on its back in the neighbor’s lawn early one morning, wings folded neatly on each side of its sleek body as though it were sleeping. Such an oddly formal presentation! She sniffed the beautiful bird, sat, pondered, and would have stayed there if I’d allowed it.
Bryn helps my husband and me to see our smaller world more clearly. She appreciates bugs and flies, and tracked-in autumn leaves on carpet, which are carefully inspected, and then thoughtfully mouthed. She likes their dry crunch. With a mischievous look she’ll delicately strip one fat maple leaf down to its long stem.
Leashing her has become less necessary these days. Bryn, Joe and I are linked by respect, love and trust.
It’s a powerful bond.