In the beginning... "Duke"

I first met Darcy (known then at the THS as Duke) on a spring day. The air was soft and the sweet smell of earth and life stirring wafted across the still barren earth.  A constant trickling of water was a constant promise in the back of your thoughts, a clear sign that winter was sighing to a close.  Those were hard days in the THS.  A small, core group of volunteers and staff labored mightily to keep up minimal care of the canine unit – whose environs were bursting at the seams with surrendered, abandoned and needy dogs.  When I first started dog walking at the THS (around 2.5 years earlier)- Tim had in place an incredibly efficient and workable process which identified for staff and volunteers exactly what they would deal with when they came, leash in hand, to a cage door.  Dogs were assessed within 24 hours, issues identified and then each dog was assigned a colour dictating the level of expertise needed to deal with them.  That however, was long in the past. The latest dictate, in place for some months then, was Tim’s directive that dogs were not to be assessed nor assigned a colour.  He held that both staff and the public would somehow pre-judge or label the dog if these safety measures were in place.  As such, life as a dog walker had taken on a new dimension. 

When approaching the constant stream of new dogs that were entering daily, you simply had no idea what you were going to deal with. Was the dog unpredictable?  Was he fearful? Had she a history of abuse which would result in protective behavior?  Did this dog have any concept of training? Did that dog have a history of biting?  You simply took your chances.

n hindsight, I was remarkably fortunate – in my almost 5 years there, only one dog (North, a rottie) actually almost overwhelmed me (pure luck, not my skill which is not particularly honed – and that is a story for another day).

There was a limited pool of volunteers at that time, as you had to have a tough hide and implacable sense of purpose to survive the Trow years in those days.  The staff that was there was incredible, tireless and determined, stressed and abused and with hearts that made them hang in despite a poisoned workplace atmosphere.  They were also very few of them. In the three years I was there before the horrible OSPCA raid, it was not uncommon to walk in and find that literally almost the entire canine staff had been arbitrarily fired.  Trow et al. blithely ignored the fact that to give the dogs the three walks a day he claimed they got would have required a much larger staff than was ever there.  Those of us in the volunteer pool that remained put our heads down and grimly went about trying to do what we could to alleviate the situation in which these poor dogs found themselves.  Horribly over-crowded, filthy pens and dogs driven almost made by inactivity and lack of care were common. 

I came every day after work in those days, arriving just after 3 and staying to around 6 or 6:30 Monday to Thursday. Friday mornings I was down at 7 a.m. for first walks.  There were others who put in far more time me – some putting in 6 or 7 hours daily, even up to 7 days a week (hello Rosanna, Beatrice and others!).

Everyone has their own level of comfort with walking dogs.  Each of us has a strength or skill that makes us naturally gravitate towards a certain kind of animal.  For me, fearful dogs were my forte – why, I’m not sure but time and experience had shown me that in that area, I had an empathy that I was usually able to impart to the dog.  I also had strength- something often vastly under-rated. But walking a 75 lb shepherd with no training or a 90 lb rottie with aggressive tendencies requires pure brute strength which I had in abundance.

Simply because of this, together with my designation of white walker (for the most difficult dogs)- given to me when the system was in place, I tended to walk the larger dogs – german shepherds, rotties, Dobermans, mixes or all of the above.  The smaller dogs I left to others as the need was great, the hands few and there were always too many dogs and not enough walkers.

In the sign-in sheet, I began to notice one name that consistently had fewer ticks indicating walks had been given.  Once noticed, I became aware that the pattern was clear – this dog named Duke often had had just the morning airing and nothing since. So, one day, taking my leash I made my way to C, where in pen at the back in a corridor not open to the general public, a small caramel coloured dog ran tight, nervous circles on my appearing at the front of his pen. Darcy was a terrier mix – probably Jack with Chihuahua thrown in and apparent in his huge, somewhat bulging brown eyes, pricked fox ears and a plume of a tail which was pulled tight between his legs.

Speaking gently to him, I opened the cage door and slipped in, making sure by rote that he couldn’t escape.  I could see how frightened he was and didn’t even attempt to approach him. Rather, I moved to the corner of the large pen and sat on the floor.  I think that first day (and for many subsequent ones)- I sat quietly for at least half an hour, perhaps longer.  Every little while I would talk gently to the small terrier, throwing a small treat in his direction. Eventually, Darcy began to calm; his small body still vibrated with that intensity that only terriers seem to emit, and his large eyes were still fearful.  Slowly, coaxing him gently with treats he came closer and closer, until finally, carefully and being careful not to startle, I was able to leash him.

Getting to my feet slowly, we headed out. Once committed, Darcy loved his walk.  His little nose quivered as he smelled the spring air. Trees were just starting to bud; looked at directly they were still gray and stark from the winter which had just passed, but like a dream, from the side of the eye you saw that trembling, delicate hint of green that is only found when Spring is on the way.

Nature’s first green is gold,Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost (couldn’t resist- he captures it so well)

My Darcyman trotted stiffly in the sweet hush of a spring day, still tense, still flinching at an unwary movement yet found in that moment a touch of joy. His tail slowly loosened and untucked from his hindquarters, and his little muzzle was raised smelling the promise of rain and new growth.

From that day forward, Darcy became my final walk.  For weeks on end, I would have to follow the same pattern as that very first day – slip into the pen, sit and wait him out. Once out, however, he began to emerge from the small, tightly held compact ball of fur he displayed inside and as the Spring began to unfold, so too did my Darcy.

As the leaves began to unfurl and thicken, so too came Darcy’s delight in all the scents and sounds and moments of being outside in a world which had to this point, clearly been hostile and cruel to this little terrier.  As the Spring waned and summer heat began to settle, as the grass blushed first pale and sparse, then thick and green, Darcy began to find his confidence.  I learned that he loved best for me to sit in the small park around the corner from the THS on River with a loose leash. He would throw himself on his back and writhe with an abandon that made me laugh.  I had now been walking Darcy for around three months.  He was much easier to leash now, often barking demandingly at me when I walked by with another dog as if to say, how dare you!! Here I am! Here I am!!  On our walks he would allow me a quick occasional caress but still pulled away, still cowered and stiffened (what indeed had happened to this little dog? What sort of abuse had been vested on him to make him so sure he was going to be beaten?).  During the long, lazy days of summer, with the sun spilling down between the leafy canopy of the trees, I would sit with this little dog while he scratched his back with abandon on the soft grass.  After a good cathartic wiggle, he would lie down in that boneless way that terriers can, front legs spread out front and the back legs straight out back.  His little button nose would wiggle with the cacophony of scents and sounds and he would, after a bit, start to relax slightly the tense terrier muscles.

It was a late August afternoon, the heat implacable and demanding, the air still and heavy and the promise of a storm grumbling in the distance when Darcy finally came to me of his own volition.  I was sitting cross-legged as I always did, the leash clutched firmly but loose in my hand when after sniffing at the trunk of the tree to see who had visited, he came towards me hesitating. I sat still, quiet, undemanding.  Sighing, his big eyes watching me with a desperate hope in them that made my heart squeeze, he came to my lap.  Curling up, he lay his little head on my knee and gave a sigh, as if to say that finally, maybe, perhaps this person will not hurt me… carefully, quietly, I gently scratched his ears and below the little muzzle.  The warm little body pressed close, then as I lay my hand on my knee near his head, a small tongue licked quickly across my fingers … and just like that he took my heart.